Linda Needham (25 page)

“Spies and informers.” Her mouth, well loved from their long night together, was fixed in a line. “Yes, I know. It’s what they do, Charles. But it’s what I do too. This part of me that you don’t condone.”

“It isn’t a matter of condoning, Hollie. This is your very life at stake.”

“Then so be it. I have a mission.” She yanked out of his grip and started away, trailing the tail of the cloak and then the hat. She saw it fall and stopped, but Charles got to it first and held it for ransom.

“Please, Charles. I have to go. I’m expected.”

“I can’t allow you to go to him, Hollie.”

“There’s no him, Charles.”

There was something about the hat. It was all wrong. The essence of Captain Spindleshanks, exactly as he’d been described. But Charles had expected the hat to reek of the stale must of sweat and poverty. Just as he had expected the enormous greatcoat, with its broad, cotton-batted shoulders, would. But it was another scent that struck him with a costly shock. Peaches and pears, familiar and lovely and completely out of place here among the tatters of Captain Spindleshanks’s disguise.

Pears and peaches and Hollie.

The scent was hers, woven through every strand of hair, every fibre of the wool.

As was the passion.

And the foolhardy recklessness.

Bloody hell! A rattling sense of dread shook him as he looked up at her.

Spindleshanks wasn’t some broad-shouldered radical Scotsman or a renegade from the House of Lords or her lover or her husband.

“Hollie!”

He knows!
Hollie swallowed, and her heart stumbled, then thudded around inside her chest. It was too soon. Needing to make it to the grange, she yanked the hat out of his hands and started running.

He knew, and now he would truly throw her to the lions if he caught her. And yet she couldn’t outrace him. He caught her at the edge of the churchyard when she slipped on the dewy grass and lost her stride.

He lifted her off the ground and pulled her close. “The game is up, madam.”

“What game?”

He sat her on a stubby stone wall. “This is your costume, isn’t it? Your bloody hat, the cloak, the scarf”—he tossed them onto the ground, one piece at a time—“and it was your bloody sedition, my dear Captain Spindleshanks.”

She couldn’t let him believe that, couldn’t let him be a party to the danger. This was her secret, not his. No one else’s.

“Are you completely mad, Charles?” Hollie fought the flush that was rising in her chest. She felt as though she had suddenly been tossed into a raging river, fighting a strong current with the man she loved trying to take them both under. Another few yards, and she’d have safely made the meeting. She could have spoken her piece and taken her punishment if they’d caught her. “You can’t be serious, my lord.”

Oh, but he looked altogether serious. She wondered how far she could get if she broke from him again and ran into the misty morning. Her last taste of freedom.

“I was a bloody fool, madam, for not noticing immediately. But you were such a distraction.”

A distraction. He’d said that before. Now his mouth was so close, she’d have thought it a kiss only an hour ago.

“Your father was killed on St. Peter’s Fields. You have no brother to protect, no cowardly uncle, husband, or lover. I find a cartload of seditious material in your printing office—I couldn’t have been more blind.”

“You really think I’m Captain Spindleshanks.”

“There’s only been one thing in the world that I’ve ever been more sure of.” Hollie was certain that he was about to close his mouth over hers. But he went on, holding fast to her arms, his accusations as breathtaking as his kiss. “You are my nemesis, Hollie Finch, in so many ways. No wonder I couldn’t catch you, Captain: you were too close by. Too busy rousing the weavers—and me—too busy spreading sedition and wild rumors that I’d tainted my commission of inquiry. Too busy teaching me how to love my own son.”

Hollie hung her head. “I’m not your captain.”

“Rennick believes that you are nearly seven feet tall, that you ride a steed out of hell and can disappear at will.”

“Lord Rennick employs young children as
piecers and scavengers in his bloody mill. Have you ever watched them, Charles? The children? They walk twenty miles every day in their endless bending and collecting, picking gobs of loose cotton from under the looms—while the machinery is still working! Can you imagine Chip working there? He might have become one of them if you hadn’t rescued him.”

Charles stilled; his eyes clouded over as he looked skyward in his silence.

“That’s why I do this, Charles. The mill owners purchase their members of parliament with bloodstained money. The children have no voice—”

“None but yours, Captain?” She’d never seen his mouth so pale with fury.

“Yes.” Defeated, too weak to fight him any longer, Hollie stuck her hands out, bared her wrists to him. “So go ahead and arrest me, Charles. I’m not guilty of sedition or libel or any other crime you might come up with. You have no proof it’s me you want.”

“But I do, Hollie.”

“What proof?”

She thought at first that he wasn’t going to answer, watched a muscle move in the strong line of his jaw, as though the admission would cost him dearly. Then he narrowed his eyes and said the most unbelievable thing she’d ever heard.

“The costume, Hollie—it smells like you.”

“It…what?”

But she had no chance to ask more. Her splendid beast laced his fingers through her hair and kissed her deeply, sent her heart spinning out of control. Put dreams in her head, and hopes.

“Oh, no, no, Charles! I can’t.” She had a crucially important job to do. Peterloo and her father. The children. She pulled away from him and tried to run, but he caught her and swung her back into his arms, held her improperly close for a churchyard but splendidly for a man who used to love her.

“Where the devil do you think you’re going?”

“To make my appearance at the meeting, Charles. You can’t stop me.”

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? You’ll be arrested and out of my reach. Christ, Hollie, I have sheriffs waiting at the doors for you—for your bloody captain!”

“Then I’ll be arrested. Yes.”

He seemed terribly cocky all of a sudden. “And then what, madam?”

He released her slightly, as a cat releases a mouse, blocking her way and the coming daylight with his shoulder.

“Then I’ll go to prison, rats and all, until my trial. Isn’t that how it works?”

He folded his arms and peered down at her as though he had an answer for all this tangle, and was waiting for her to notice. But there were no answers that didn’t mean losing too much.

Dear God, if their lives had been otherwise…Oh, the children they would have had together.

“And your defense will be, my dear Captain?”

“I’ll tell them exactly what happened on St. Peter’s Fields, and I’ll be damned proud to be telling them. I’ll tell them what I’ve tried to do to right the wrongs. And then I’ll take my punishment.”

He shook his head. “No, you won’t.”

“Charles, you can’t talk me out of this.” She tried to scoot around him, but he caught her around the waist and held her fast.

“How can I make you understand, my love, that sacrificing yourself won’t make a damned bit of difference to anyone? There’s no truth that will satisfy your sense of justice or the Privy Council’s ability to prosecute or Henry Hunt’s outrage at his arrest.”

“It doesn’t matter, Charles; I have to warn them all about what’s coming. I’m going to the meeting.”

“Then so am I.” He grabbed her hand and started rushing her along, the remains of Captain Spindleshanks tucked under his arm and a terrifying light in his eyes.

“Why, Charles?” Hollie stumbled after him, her nerves spent, still jangling from the night in his arms and now this monstrous morning. “What are you going to do there, Charles?”

He bolted through the churchyard gate. “I plan to stand beside you and defend myself
against your accusations as best I can. To confess my sins.”

“What do you mean?” Had he lost his mind? “Do you mean us to debate?”

He pulled her from the brink of the lane and back into the churchyard. “I mean that you’ve finally made your point, Hollie.”

“Which is?” Because the man had a devilish way of twisting up the truth.

“You’ve censured me in the press, madam. You’ve questioned my integrity, my readiness to oversee the Peterloo commission, the commission itself, and made me realize that…you’re right.”

“I am?” No—he was toying with her. “Why?”

Because I’m a damned fool for not understanding sooner
.

“Because this damned costume smells like you, Hollie.” He dropped it at his feet, his hands itching to hold her.

“It’s you, Hollie. Every thread of you, woven together into this godforsaken thing. You’re Captain Spindleshanks. And you’re the editor of the
Tuppenny Press
and the beautiful reporter in the press gallery. You’re my conscience and my patience. You’re the ink stains here on my fingertips. And the breath in my lungs. Chip’s favorite teacher, his friend—his mother, Hollie.”

“Charles, don’t.” She was sobbing freely, her arms crossed against her chest.

“Hollie Finch, you’re the woman I love more than my life. I’m thick-headed and illiterate—”

“No, Charles, you’re—”

“And happier than I ever knew was possible. And if I want you, Hollie, that means everything of you. The scent of you that’s caught in this hat, your inks and your linseed, and the chalk dust. All the inseparable, priceless parts of you.”

“But it won’t work. It can’t.” She shook her head, and her hair tumbled out of its loose knot, a sobbing panic in her eyes. “You’re not a radical, Charles.”

“You’re not either, Hollie. You’re sensible and just and determined. And I adore you for it. Marry me.”

“I can’t.”

Bull-headed woman—he’d just have to show her how. He took her hand and started away. “Come, then, sweet.”

“No.” She stayed rooted to the ground, holding onto his hand with both of hers. “Why, Charles?”

“Because I would like to ask your colleagues a few questions.”

“Why? So that you can put them in jail? Charles, don’t make me do this.”

Oh, what a soulless bastard she must believe him to be.

He got down on his knee, cupped her face between his hands. “My solemn pledge to you, Hollie—on the lives of all our children. I may
not be a reformer, but, sweet love, you have reformed me.”

Her chest shook with her sobs, her tears streaking her shirt. “But I have to tell them, Charles. About Liverpool’s terrible plans—the acts of suppression. And as soon as I tell, then I’m committing treason. And you have to arrest me for it. And I can’t put you into that position—”

“Then
I’ll
tell them, Hollie. I doubt I’ll be sent to the gallows for it.”

“The gallows!” Hollie smothered the cry from the deepest part of her heart, the unimaginable loss of him. “No, Charles, I can’t let you do that.”

“Ah, then, Miss Finch, you
are
a snob.” He looked damned pleased with himself as he stood. “Saving martyrdom for yourself, are you?”

“No, Charles, I’m afraid for you.”

“And I’m utterly terrified for you, my love.” He reached out his hand for her, so gentle, so capable. “Come, let’s try to make it better together. That’s all we can do.”

Make it better.

Patience, Daughter.

Oh, Papa, he’s just so wonderfully wise.

She’d always suspected it—but she’d never suspected that his heart was so very grand.

“You’re absolutely sure that Liverpool won’t hang you, Charles? Because if there’s even the slightest chance of that, then I’m not letting you anywhere near that meeting.”

His dark eyes glistened beneath his lashes, lifting her pulse and gathering up her dreams. “I assure you, my love, Lord Liverpool is no threat to me at all.”

Hollie was about to protest his certainty, but her marvelous hero slipped his arms around her and lifted her off her feet right there in the churchyard.

“And we burn that damned costume, Hollie, as soon as we get home.”

Hollie would happily have agreed if she hadn’t been so busy collecting his glorious kisses.

And wondering just when her wicked earl had become so extraordinarily fine.