Sweet Treason (Entangled Ignite) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Terrified, Emily whirled in her seat, her attention riveted on the barrel of cold steel aimed at her temple.
This was what she reaped from trafficking with smugglers!
A nastier, more treacherous group there never was!

The pounding of hooves penetrated her numbed consciousness. A moment later, sharp rapping at the door broke the hypnotic hold of the stranger’s gun. She stood and spun to look in the direction of the front foyer, the forgotten copy of
Shakespeare’s Sonnets
sliding from her lap and landing with a dull thump on the carpet.

“Open for the King’s men!” came the call beyond the door.

The barrel of the intruder’s pistol pressed into the small of her back. His breath was warm against her cheek as he leaned over to whisper in a slow, soft tone. “Do not turn around. You’ve seen nothing—heard nothing. Do you understand?”

His voice calmed her, but the pressure against her spine told her he meant every word. She swallowed hard, fought back her fear, and took a deep fortifying breath. Thus braced, she nodded. A firm hand on her shoulder guided her to the front entry.

“You know the price of betrayal?”

She could guess. She turned the knob, her mind working to form a plan. First, survival. Using the door to shield the fact that she was clad only in a robe, she peeked around the panel and feigned confusion. Soldiers stood outside, pistols drawn and swords unsheathed.

A captain stepped forward. “Sorry to disturb you, miss. We’ve been chasing a spy. He disappeared a few miles back. Have you heard or seen anything unusual?”

A spy! Not one of the smuggler’s crew out to thieve back my goods!
Relief mingled with trepidation. This cast a different light on matters, but she was not safe yet. Matters could, in fact, be worse. “A spy? La! Nothing like that here, sir.”

She did not recognize these soldiers as being from the garrison at Hastings. Their uniforms were unfamiliar. Their pursuit must have taken them far afield. She could use this to her advantage. She blinked and continued. “I hoped you were the physician. We sent for him hours past.”

“Miss.” The captain bowed. “I offer my apologies in advance. I fear I must search your house. The man we are chasing is a murderer. He left the body of one of our own men in the mud alongside the road. Did you know a man named Erickson, miss? Leon Erickson?”

“N-no, sir,” Emily shivered. The barrel pressing into the small of her back was suddenly more sinister than a moment before. He was a traitor—and now she knew he was a killer, too.

Risking death at the hand of a spy, or hanging when the captain discovered her muddy clothes in the cloak room, she nodded. “But of course you must search. A man has his duty, after all.” She made a move to swing the door open to admit him, then stopped when the pressure against her spine increased and the hand moved to her waist to draw her closer. The spy’s cold, rain-sodden cloak pressed against her back, and she shivered. She wedged the door with one foot to keep it from opening wider. “Oh, one small matter, Captain.”

“What would that be, miss?”

“My housekeeper. I think it is the pox. That’s why I thought you were the physician, you see. We sent for him hours ago. Still, if you must search, you must do so now, as we may be under quarantine once the doctor arrives.”

“The pox? Are you certain?” The captain took several steps backward.

“I assure you most earnestly, sir, there is something pernicious present in this house. Pox would aptly describe it.” The spy’s arm tightened almost painfully around her. “It could be a rather nasty rash. In all, though, I’ve never seen poison oak make such marks or cause such fever. Have you ever seen pox before, Captain? Would you know it if you saw it now?”

“No! I’ve not seen anything like it.” The captain backed away, drawing his soldiers with him. “I…did you say you had heard nothing, miss?”

“Just poor Mary’s crying.”

“I see,” he muttered, looking baffled by the odd set of circumstances.

“I hate to hurry you, sir, but the physician will surely arrive soon. ’Twill be best to have a search done by then, should he choose to quarantine Oak Hill. Else you’ll be stuck here for heaven only knows how long, and we haven’t enough to feed and shelter you all.”

“Perhaps, if you assured me there is naught amiss?”

“Assure you? But of course. Have I not? There is no one here of consequence, Captain—only servants and the like.”

“Very well, then,” the captain conceded. “Send to us if you hear aught of interest.”

“I shall, Captain. Are you going to look about the grounds? I fear we are out of oil for the lanterns. Did you bring your own?”

“That will not be necessary, miss. I can see that you have the situation well in hand and have quite enough trouble already. We must be on our way. The spy escapes even as we dawdle.”

Emily nodded and waited while they disappeared into the rain. She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it. Her knees were weak, and her heart was racing. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved to have the soldiers gone or afraid now that she was at the mercy of a murderous spy. She threw the bolt, listening to the departing hoof beats.

The spy’s breath tickled as he whispered in her ear. “Very nice, miss. You were quite remarkable with those soldiers. I’ve seldom met a man or woman who can think as quickly as you. Nevertheless, it would be best if I allowed them a good lead in the event they decide to search the grounds after all. I shall pass ten minutes here, no more. You have my word that I shall leave promptly and never return.”

Her back still to him, she asked, “Is the word of a traitor and a murderer to be trusted?”

There was a long, tense pause before the spy replied, “The man I killed was about to betray me. He was responsible for the deaths of several of my comrades. I do not kill for sport, miss, but I will kill for the cause if I must.

“Come,” he urged. “I only require ten minutes. I will try to keep you amused. Did I glimpse wine in the library and a bowl of fruit? I am famished. All I ask, miss, is that you not turn around. I cannot risk that you could recognize me.”

Never mind that from this day forward, she’d recognize that deep, honeyed voice with its colonial accent anywhere. There was something quite distinctive about the soft slow speech—though there was nothing soft or slow about the man—and she knew she would not soon forget either.

She turned away from the door, heading back to the library with the spy still behind her. “Wine, did you say?”

“If you have it.” He paused, and his voice lowered an octave. “And tell me your name, that I may know of whom I dream, and where to place my fondest hopes.”

Remembering a line from her Shakespeare, she answered, “Rose. My name is Rose, sir.” Her hand clenched so tight that her mother’s forgotten brooch pressed its pattern into her palm. She placed it on the desk before stooping to reach into the back of the cupboard and bring forth a nearly empty bottle of brandy. “All I have is brandy.”

“’Twill do,” he said, and she thought she detected a smile in that slow velvet voice.

She heard the scrape of a tinder box, and a moment later, the light of a single candle, together with a renewed fire, infused the room with a warm glow. She continued to work the cork from the bottle, blinking to focus as she did.

She heard him stirring behind her, then the ruffle of pages—her beloved sonnets, no doubt. “Shakespeare?” the spy inquired. “Who is the scholar here, Rose? Your father?”

“The book is mine.” She poured the deep golden liquid into a glass. “I read, sir, but I do not indulge.”

A softly amused laugh sent a shiver up her spine. “Indulge in what, miss?”

She whirled to confront the impudent intruder and realized her mistake too late. She had surprised the spy in the act of untying the cord of his black hooded cloak.

His hair, as dark as her own, was pulled back in a club and tied with a green velvet ribbon. His surprised eyes were the precise color of her chestnut mare, and his skin was unfashionably tan and healthy.

Forgotten, the brandy bottle slipped from her nerveless fingers. Only the shatter of the glass broke her fascination. When she could think again, she turned away, a sinking feeling twisting her stomach.

She heard him take several steps toward her before stopping close enough to feel the heat of his breath on her neck. “Too late, Rose,” he murmured. “The damage is done. You’ve seen me. No use to pretend otherwise.”

She swallowed, trying to find her voice as she made a slow turn to face him again. He was not dressed in the pastels so popular at the moment, but in a gray coat and breeches, a white ruffled shirt, and a green waistcoat. His narrow hips fell into long, powerful legs that were encased in black riding boots, muddied to mid-calf. He was taller than she by a good ten inches, and the width of his shoulders seemed to block out the world.

But his smile! Slightly lopsided, exposing two rows of white, even teeth and a boyish dimple in his left cheek, the effect of that smile on her pulse was devastating.

And here, at her feet, lay an example of her idiocy—shards of broken glass and a puddle of brandy.

“What a pity,” the spy said, following her gaze to the floor. “That looked to be good brandy. Is there more?”

She nodded before she stooped to pick up the larger pieces of glass, put them on the desk, and roll up the braided rug that held the puddle and glass shards. She needed a moment to collect her wits.

He placed her book on the desk beside her mother’s brooch and lifted the piece to inspect it. Emily held her breath and cursed herself for being so careless. Was he a thief as well as a spy? If she lost the brooch, too, she’d never be able to make the payment tomorrow. But he placed the brooch on top of the book and went to the cupboard to withdraw another bottle of brandy.

“French!” he exclaimed when he saw the seal. “Excellent! I’ve worked up the very devil of a thirst on this interminable ride. Lucky for me you’ve been hoarding.” He rubbed the layer of dust off the neck of the bottle and worked the cork free. That done, he took a long drink straight from the bottle. “Is your mother sleeping?”

“My mother is…in Scotland.” That much, at least, was the truth.

“Then we are alone?”

“No! M-my uncle is abed. He will come to check on me soon. He—”

The spy shook his head as he sat in her abandoned chair and made himself comfortable. “Between the soldiers and the brandy bottle, we’ve made enough noise to wake the dead. If there were someone to rescue you, they’d have come by now. We are quite alone here, are we not?”

She ignored his question, wishing like fury that she had someone to rescue her now. She had never anticipated such extraordinary circumstances before giving Simon and Mary Bart their own cottage, and Bridey, too. She turned away from him and went to the fire to rub her hands together and bring warmth back to her body.

When she glanced back, the dimple deepened in his cheek as he grinned. “Do I pass muster, Rose?” he asked. “No need to be embarrassed. ’Tis only natural. I took your measure earlier, as you dealt with the soldiers. ‘Very nice,’ I told myself. ‘When did I last hold a waist so small? When did I ever see eyes the color of elm leaves or hair as sleek and glossy as a blackbird’s wing?’”

A spy! A traitor! A murderer! She took another deep breath, bracing for trouble. This man was a different breed from the sort who long ago paid her court. He had none of the ridiculous effeminate ways so in vogue these days—no sacrifice of the strong in favor of the genteel. And he had stolen her wits in a matter of seconds.

His pistol lay across one knee, ready should he need it, and he watched her every move. Her knees were weak, and she perched on the edge of her desk for support. She dared not provoke him to use the pistol until she formed some plan of escape or a ruse to distract him long enough to seize her own pistol in the top drawer.

While he studied her, he bit into one of the apples from the bowl and took another swig from the bottle. Wayward thoughts passed through her mind that those lips would be intoxicating now, flavored with mingled fruit and brandy.

Perdition!
How addled was she? She’d never suspected she could be so susceptible to a handsome face.

“You are blushing, Rose. What are you thinking?”

She cleared her throat and glanced away. Grasping at the first decent thought that came to her mind, she said, “I’m wondering why you are a traitor, sir.”

The spy’s smiled faded, and his dark eyes narrowed. “What
is
treason, Rose? Would that not depend upon which side of the conflict you are standing?”

“If I am wrong, please tell me how I’ve erred.”

“Is it treason to bring about change?”

“Yes, if it is at the expense of your king and country.”

“Nay, Rose. If it were, we’d still be living in mud huts, worshipping trees and rivers. Is it treason to act upon one’s conscience or to seek the betterment of yourself and your fellow man? To quote one of my countrymen, ‘
If this be treason, then make the most of it.
’”

She knew little of the issues that had sparked the conflict, only that it had made her efforts to survive more difficult—dodging the constant coastal patrols, coping with delays when Captain Reynard hadn’t been able to get through the lines. Paying higher taxes to cover the war expense. How often had she cursed the war for the inconvenience without once stopping to think what was at stake for others?

But the fire of conviction burned in this man’s dark eyes. He was a zealot—not a man paid for his loyalty and treasons. His passion was so obvious that she knew argument was a waste of time—the same as when Bridey got one of her fanciful notions about the fairies or leprechauns.

He took another swig from the bottle. “If you examine history, Rose, you will find that ‘traitor’ is nothing more than a word used to describe the losers of a particular struggle. Were the lords who forced King John to sign the Magna Carta named as traitors? Nay. Because they prevailed. Those who prevail—whether kings or insurgents—are named patriots, and those who lose the struggle—whether rulers or rebels—are branded traitors.