A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers

by Laura Trentham

  “Sir Harold Hawkins.” The man performed a small, perfunctory bow. He didn’t seem the type to waste words or gestures. “I serve the Crown and have an interest in what transpired here last night.”

  The spymaster’s name had hovered over everything that had happened since she bore witness to Quinton’s murder.

  Marcus gently took her hand and urged her to sit in Hawkins’s vacated seat. “You shouldn’t be out of bed, love. Your arm—”

  “Isn’t going to fall off. We have more pressing matters to attend.” She gingerly sat, and Marcus followed suit. The man who had announced her shrank back into the shadowy corner to bear witness. Sir Hawkins’s hawk.

  Hawkins’s expression didn’t waver while she sized him up. A marble-like hardness emanated from him, which stoked her melee of anger and worry. This man held their future in his hands.

  “Why exactly are you here, Sir Hawkins?” she asked briskly.

  “The death of a peer will always warrant scrutiny, and Lord Whitmire is of particular interest to the Crown.” Sir Hawkins remained calm and cool in tone and manner even as his sharp eyes searched hers for truth and lies.

  Marcus remained silent, rubbing his bristled jaw, his focus on the ashes in the hearth. Was he merely exhausted, or had he resigned himself to his fate? Delilah wasn’t giving up. She refused to give Marcus up.

  Agitation had her scooting to the edge of the chair. “I was a witness, you know.”

  “It’s my understanding you were more than witness.” Sir Hawkins made a slight gesture toward her wound.

  “I am referring to Mr. Quinton’s murder. It was Lord Whitmire who drove a knife through his heart.” It was a slight stretch of the truth, for she hadn’t exactly seen the deed.

  A spark cracked the stony facade of Sir Hawkins’s expression. “Indeed. What else did you bear witness to?”

  “Whitmire tried to kill me at a ball. I only escaped thanks to a few handy turnips.” At Hawkins’s continued silence, her tongue began to run away. “Then after Marcus and I managed to abscond with the blasted book everyone is so interested in, Whitmire comes here and almost kills Marcus and would have killed me if I hadn’t grabbed the sword from the wall and jammed it in his—”

  “Stop.” Sir Hawkins held up a hand, opening then closing his mouth before asking, “Turnips, you say?”

  “Yes, turnips.” Delilah popped up and stepped toward Hawkins, ignoring the twinge in her arm and weakness in her legs. “My husband did nothing but defend our lives, and if you think you can pin murder on him and ruin him like you did his father, then you can… you can… stuff it!”

  The thump of her heart and her quickened breaths filled the resulting silence in her head. Sir Hawkins’s eyebrows had bounced higher, but his face was otherwise impassive. Instead of responding to her tirade, he rubbed a finger over his lips almost as if he were stemming a smile.

  She glared at him for a moment before turning to Marcus. A tender smile had banished a portion of his worry and exhaustion. He stood and folded her gently in his arms, lightly rubbing his chin against her temple. “While I appreciate your defense of my honor more than you can imagine, Sir Hawkins is aware of the circumstances surrounding Lord Whitmire’s death.”

  Feeling dizzy with relief, Delilah shuffled out of his arms to collapse back into the chair, but she kept her fingers tangled with Marcus’s. He remained standing, his thigh warm and hard against her shoulder. She tightened her grip on him.

  “Indeed, my lady, I have been attempting to ferret out the traitor in our midst for some time. Lord Whitmire was one of our most trusted agents for many years, but it seems several ill-advised investments left him vulnerable. He needed coin, and the only thing he had left to sell was his honor.”

  “What about Marcus’s father? How was he involved?” Delilah asked.

  “Ah, that is a bit more complicated, I’m afraid.” Hawkins paced in front of the hearth.

  “How so?” Delilah had the feeling Marcus and Sir Hawkins had already discussed the complications.

  “After the first accidental deaths were reported due to powder accidents, my men uncovered a scheme headed by a man with the codename W who had bilked the Crown by selling subpar cheap powder at elevated prices. As the late Lord Wyndam had indeed formed a consortium to do just that, we had him watched. He grew paranoid and rarely left Wyndam Castle. His death was unexpected but convenient.”

  Marcus sagged against the chair and gripped her hand until it bordered on painful. “You might have stopped him if only you’d acted.”

  Sir Hawkins faced them, his face flickering with a regret she suspected was rare. This was a man not used to examining past decisions. “At the time, his death seemed to wrap up the incident rather neatly. It was only afterward when someone came forward with rumors of coded books your father had acquired that I became suspicious. When Lord Gilmore approached the Crown with another shipment of powder for sale, I realized your father was not the mastermind, but a pawn.”

  “Can you help clear his name in Society’s eyes, Sir Hawkins?” Marcus’s desperation tore at her heart.

  To his credit, Sir Hawkins didn’t avoid Marcus’s stare. “I’m afraid I don’t have that sort of power. Once the rumors circulated, probably stoked by Lord Whitmire, they were unstoppable. You will have to be satisfied your father did his best to restore the family’s honor after he learned the truth.”

  Marcus extricated his hand from hers and stalked to the window, presenting his back. Delilah shifted back to Sir Hawkins. “What happens now? I assume there will be an inquest, and we will be called upon to provide evidence.”

  “That will not be necessary, my lady. The truth of Whitmire’s death will only be known to a select group. The rest of the world will be told he met an untimely end by unknown assailants on a road outside London. A tragedy, considering his prospects. The countryside can be dangerous, after all.” The twist of his lips landed short of a smile and made the hairs on her nape stand at attention. Hawkins wielded incredible power, and she could only hope to remain in his good graces.

  “And what of myself and Marcus?” Delilah’s grip turned strangling on the arms of the chair.

  “You will continue on with your lives here at Wyndam Castle. I believe His Lordship has plans to breed quality horses, yes?” Sir Hawkins’s eyes narrowed as they flashed from Delilah to Marcus and back again. “After granting the Crown one last favor, of course.”

  Marcus ever so slowly spun around, his face carved from granite. “And what favor would you ask of me?” he said mockingly.

  “I will need the book you pinched from Gilmore.”

  Marcus ran a hand through his hair, his exasperation blunting his caustic edge. “I suppose it does little good in my possession considering I haven’t the faintest idea how to decipher it. Will you fare any better?”

  “I have access to some of the greatest minds in England, although even then, nothing is guaranteed.” Hawkins nodded once to the silent man in the corner. The man approached Marcus and waited.

  “Considering you had one snake in your garden, do you trust this man not to abscond with the book?” Marcus raised a brow at Hawkins.

  “You don’t know me, so I won’t take offense at your insinuation, my lord. This time.” The man’s silky voice held a warning Delilah hoped Marcus heeded.

  “I trust Garrick with my life, Lord Wyndam, which is no small thing in the dangerous world I inhabit. He will see the book safely into the hands of our best cryptographer.”

  Marcus hesitated before reaching into his jacket and handing over the book. “May I ask a favor of you?”

  Hawkins’s expression never changed, but Delilah sensed impatience now he had the book. “If it’s in my power to grant, I shall try. What do you want?”

  “If what you discover in the books clears my father of suspicion, will you share it with me?”

  Hawkins regarded Marcus for a long moment. “My men will need time to ferret out Lord Whitmire’s network of connections. Ho
wever, I don’t relish leaving your father’s reputation in tatters. I will share what I can when I am able.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Marcus and Hawkins shook hands, but Delilah had doubts Sir Hawkins would honor any such gentlemanly agreement.

  Hawkins moved toward the door, Garrick at his side more like a hound on guard than a hawk. “I must take my leave to see the magistrate.”

  Delilah braced her hands on the chair to stand, wincing at the shooting pain in her arm. “Won’t the magistrate have questions you can’t adequately answer?”

  “It’s shocking what a bit of coin crossing the right palms can accomplish. Both for good and evil.” Sir Hawkins sounded almost sincere when he said, “I wish you a speedy recovery, my lady, and hope you can put this grisly situation out of your mind.”

  She sank back in the chair, closed her eyes, and allowed Marcus to see the men out the door. She ought to be thankful he was on England’s side, but she could only think how easily he could ruin and discard them like rubbish if it suited his needs.

  Marcus returned. Weariness lined his face.

  “You look exhausted. Have you slept at all?” Delilah reached for his sturdy hand, savoring the now-familiar calluses.

  He shook his head. “How can you possibly be worried about me after your ordeal? You’re the one who should be in bed resting.”

  Her arm was stiff and sore, but she wasn’t dying. In fact, a burgeoning sense of relief lightened her mood. Whitmire would never bother them again. Marcus wouldn’t be dragged to Newgate and charged with his murder. She wanted nothing more than to get on with their lives as Sir Hawkins had instructed.

  “I feel remarkably well considering the events of last night. My arm will heal, and I have exhibited no signs of fever.” She managed a slight laugh. “My mother would be shocked at my hardiness.”

  “Your mother almost lost you once and lived in fear of losing you once more. She did her utmost to protect you in every way. Finally, I can commiserate with her.” Marcus stretched his long, lean legs out and crossed his boots at the ankle.

  “She’ll be thrilled to discover the two of you have something in common.” The tease in her words gave way to real trepidation. “I hope you understand I don’t need coddling.”

  “If I hadn’t already understood, your point was driven home—literally—last night when you ran Whitmire through with the sword.” His huff was humorless, and a bleakness colored his voice. “I would have died at his hands without your intervention.”

  Delilah couldn’t stand it a moment longer. She rose to sit on his lap and snuggle into his hard, warm, very alive body. “Yes. And I would have died several times over without your intervention. We are partners.”

  He tucked her head on his shoulder and held her close, taking care with her wounded arm. “Indeed, we are.”

  Delilah tried to imagine what her life would have been like had she spurned Marcus and traveled the expected path. If she had married Sir Wallace, she would have her parent’s approval, a comfortable town house, and invitations to all the best functions in town. She would also have a husband who didn’t love or respect her, passionless sex, and a marriage empty of any affection.

  She lifted her head and cupped his cheek, smiling in the face of his somberness. “I love you, Marcus.”

  “Even with the dark cloud over my honor, a ramshackle castle, and a dream I’m not sure will succeed?”

  “Your honor is golden and gleaming in my eyes. It may take some time, but we’ll turn Wyndam Castle into a home. I have faith you’ll be the most respected horse breeder in England. Nay, in all Britain.” As if she were a diviner, she knew without a doubt her predictions would come to fruition someday.

  “I don’t deserve you, lass, but you’re mine now, and I’m never letting you go.” His brief, hard kiss was the seal on his promise.

  Epilogue

  Eighteen months later…

  Tossing her head, Starlight shuffled around her stall, her distended belly rippling with the force of her birthing pains. The foal’s delivery was imminent. Marcus left O’Connell with Starlight to pace outside the stable doors. He took a deep breath of crisp autumn air and tried not to dwell on everything that could go wrong, from a stillbirth to maternal death. If he did, his worries would transfer to Delilah and he would go stark raving mad.

  As if summoning her with the force of his fears, Delilah stepped out of the castle with a basket hooked over her arm, peering around her rounded belly at the uneven cobblestones as she picked her way to the stables. She was heavy with child, and Marcus hadn’t been sure whether she or Starlight would labor first.

  He strode across the yard to offer her a steadying arm and to take the burden of the basket from her. “You should be resting, love.”

  “I’m tired of resting,” she said with a bright grin that never failed to fill him with warmth. “I brought you and O’Connell something to eat. How is the sweet girl doing?”

  “Her labor is progressing satisfactorily.” Marcus only just stopped himself from mumbling a prayer. While he wasn’t a particularly spiritual man, he wanted all the good luck the universe could muster focused on his growing family.

  They stepped into the shadows of the stables. She halted at the stall door and watched Starlight while Marcus watched Delilah. Being with child had only enhanced Delilah’s natural beauty and inherent strength. She glowed with life, and he hung on to that fact. She had survived more harrowing adventures than childbirth, but even as he reassured himself, he understood firsthand how quickly a healthy mare could be brought to death’s door during a difficult birth.

  “She’s in terrible pain.” Commiseration and dread threaded through her voice. She lay a hand over her belly, her thoughts clear.

  Marcus put a bracing arm around Delilah’s shoulder and nuzzled the wispy hair at her temple. “Yes, but once the foal is born, a mare recovers with astonishing speed.”

  “You and O’Connell have overseen many successful births, haven’t you?”

  Marcus let out a sigh. He and Delilah had been going round and round who would attend to her during her confinement and labor for the past month. Marcus wanted to send for a physician. Delilah had insisted Marcus and O’Connell could see to her as well, if not better, than a blood-letting, tonic-giving physician.

  “Of horses. Not gently bred ladies. O’Connell would probably have an apoplectic fit if he had to attend you in such a manner.”

  Hearing his name, O’Connell glanced over from the corner where he stood with a casualness that bespoke his comfort with the proceedings. Marcus took it as a good sign.

  “Eh? I don’t need to sit. I’m not that old, laddie.” The indignation in his voice made both Marcus and Delilah laugh softly.

  Marcus raised his voice. “Not sit. I told Delilah you would have a fit if you had to attend the birth of our child.”

  O’Connell shambled over to them, all the while keeping a professional, practiced eye on Starlight. “Course I wouldn’t. I helped birth you, after all.”

  Marcus blinked at the older man. “You what?”

  O’Connell’s smile held a bittersweet sadness. “Aye. Your dear mama’s labor was hard. The midwife had all but given up on you both. Your mama was dear to us all, as you know. Your father burst into the stables, grabbed me up by the collar, and dragged me straight into the birthing room.”

  “What did the midwife do?” Delilah’s eyes were wide, and Marcus felt the same astonishment. He had never heard this story. Of course, his mother’s death had cast a pall on any happy reminiscences.

  “The midwife screamed at me to get out, but His Lordship—your father—pushed her aside, told me to wash my hands, and see what I could do. So I did.”

  “And?” Delilah tucked her arm around Marcus’s waist for a squeeze. “Marcus is here because of your experience and skill.”

  “Aye.” O’Connell gave Marcus a twinkly smile, his eyes crinkled under his bushy red eyebrows. “He came out backward. It took some doing to find his fe
et, but once I had hold, I gave a gentle pull, and out he slid, wailing and ugly as sin.”

  Marcus swallowed past a lump of emotion. Perhaps it was fitting. O’Connell had seen Marcus into the world and would bear witness to the birth of Marcus’s son or daughter as well. The old stable master had been more a father to him than the old earl.

  But… it wouldn’t hurt to have at least a midwife present as well. If only to yell at O’Connell to heave to.

  Starlight let out a guttural chuff and lay down on her side.

  “It’s time, lad.” O’Connell squatted at Starlight’s back end.

  Marcus joined O’Connell. No directions or explanations were necessary. Marcus’s first foaling at O’Connell’s side had been at age ten, and since then, the two of them had watched numerous mares labor. Most had been successful. The ones that weren’t still haunted Marcus.

  Starlight was a first-time mother, which increased the risk for complications. She was strong though, and her instincts were good. It took another quarter hour of pain and pushing for the foal to slip out in a mess of fluid.

  Marcus cut the sac around the foal and rubbed the newborn with a square of burlap. The foal was jet black like its sire, Aries, except for a symmetrical white diamond on its face. He checked the sex. “A colt.”

  O’Connell heaved himself to standing and wiped his hands on a length of cloth. “He’s strong and fine-looking.”

  Marcus joined O’Connell on the periphery, letting nature take its course now mother and foal were out of danger. Starlight rose and nosed her colt, who was already attempting to stand on spindly, shaky legs.

  Delilah let out a soft exclamation from where she watched at the entrance to the stall. Relief and pleasure melded as he watched the colt climb to his feet. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but… Marcus.”

  The strain in her voice had him whirling. Her face was pale, her eyes wide. A streak of alarm had him rushing over. “What’s wrong?”

  Her hands were pressed tight around her belly, and the ground at her feet was wet. “It’s my turn.”