Sweet Treason (Entangled Ignite) (4 page)

“Three and twenty. Nearly ’pon the shelf. Can’t understand why some intelligent young man hasn’t snapped her up. Of course, she hasn’t been to town.”

A spinster. Probably horse-faced, large-boned, and countrified. He stood and stretched, realizing that there was nothing he could do to deter his uncle’s matchmaking this time. “It cannot have escaped your notice that I haven’t been seeking wedded bliss. Until this absurd rebellion is over, I’m in no position to take a wife. My fortunes and home are hostage in the colonies.”

“Mayhap you should consider leaving Virginia in the past and making your residence here permanent. With a well-set wife, you’d have as good a life here as there—better, I warrant. Why, we’d be neighbors, lad!”

“I am not desperate, sir. Put the notion of marriage out of your mind. I shall meet your little friend as a courtesy to you, but it will end there.” Ryan went to scan the liquor bottles lining Samuel’s shelves in search of a good brandy. Instead, his mind went back to the night before, and the excellent French brandy his sultry Rose had provided.

“Mark me well, lad, I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

“As opposed to my usual boorish behavior? I shall try to manage if it is just for a short time.”

“Good…good. Now, what are your plans for this evening?”

“I have an errand.” Ryan gave his uncle an evasive smile. Samuel was, no doubt, cooking up some scheme to maneuver him into escorting the Spinster Nevins home. Before he consented to that, perhaps his uncle could enlighten him on the subject that had plagued his mind all day. “Tell me, Uncle Samuel, since you know all that goes on hereabouts, what can you tell me about one of your neighbors whose given name is Rose?”

“Rose?” His uncle pondered the question a moment before answering. “I cannot think of anyone named Rose between Romney and Hastings. I know of a Rosemary or two, and a Rosalie—I believe there is a Rosemund in Winchelsea. Are you certain you have the right of it?”

Ryan suppressed a grin. He should have known the minx would lie to him. “She lives not two farms distant, toward the bluffs, at Oak Hill Farm.”

Samuel grinned. “I must hear this story, lad. I—”

Laughter and good-natured greetings interrupted their discussion, echoing down the long corridor from the foyer. “That will be Emily. Mark me, Ryan. Behave.”

…

Emily waved at the squire’s son and daughter-in-law in the sitting room as she passed by. “’Lo, Brock. Audrey, so nice to see you again. You made good time down from London, did you not?”

“One very long day,” Brock nodded. “The turnpike is in good repair.”

“Is your father in his study?”

“Aye, waiting for you,” Brock called. “Bring them back here, will you? Audrey is waiting to pour tea. She’s been shuffling the whist deck all afternoon just hoping for a game.”

Bring
them
back? Oh, pray Samuel was not up to his matchmaking! In his own sweet, misguided way, he could be as bad as Mr. Dodge. She braced herself for another hardy country squire or the new vicar in town. She would make quick work of him and try to enjoy the rest of the day.

Early afternoon sun slanted through the study windows at Samuel’s back, blinding her and making her squint. “Samuel? Goodness, have you no draperies?”

“Ah, Emily! There you are, child. I began to doubt your ultimate arrival. So good to see you.” He came around his desk and helped her out of her green woolen jacket. “Ryan, be a help, lad. Close the drapes, will you?”

In the glare, Emily could only discern the movement of someone nearby. A moment later, the room was plunged into sudden darkness, blinding her as effectively as the sun had done. Samuel led her to a chair, and she busied herself with the ribbons of her bonnet while she blinked and waited for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

“Emily, may I present my nephew, Ryan Sutton? He is visiting from town. Came down yesterday with Brock and Audrey. You remember that I told you my sister—Ryan’s mother—emigrated to Virginia with her husband after they married? Ryan and his two sisters were born there. Ryan, this is my dear little friend, Miss Emily Nevins.”

A nephew? Oh dear. This might take some finesse. Emily stood again and offered her hand, still blinking to focus, and smiled brightly. The dark forms were just beginning to take on features. “Mr. Sutton? How nice to meet you. Samuel neglected to mention that he had a nephew visiting.”

“Miss Nevins, the pleasure is all mine,” the nephew bowed over her hand.

The fine hair on the back of her neck stood up. She recognized the soft drawl at once. When his face came into focus, there could be no mistake. She struggled to mask her horror.

“Names are an odd thing, are they not, Miss Nevins?” he filled her awkward pause conversationally.

“I…” She could feel a hot blush stealing up her cheeks. Her wanton behavior of the night before came back to her with humiliating clarity, and Mr. Sutton’s smile told her he shared those memories.

“I’d have wagered your name was Rose. You look so like one,” he continued with an edge to his voice. “All fresh and dewy. Prithee, do you have thorns?”

She cast a glance in Samuel’s direction. Lord! How could she ever explain her shameless conduct to him—the only man, aside from her father, who’d always thought the best of her? “A r-rose by any other name..,” she stammered.

“Is still a rose. Precisely. And would smell as sweet, I warrant,” Mr. Sutton agreed, still holding her hand.

The squire gave them a benevolent smile. “I knew you two would take a liking to one another, did I not, nephew?”

“You did, indeed, Uncle. Emily Nevins, is it? Such a lovely name. Easy to remember.” His gaze swept her with curiosity.

The half-formed thought in the back of her mind took awful shape and substance.
…my only safety—and yours—lies in the fact that you do not know who I am.
Realization hit her with a breathless thud.
She knew his name! Who he was and how to find him! She could betray him!

And
he
knew it.

And now he would come for her.

Samuel gave her a puzzled glance. “Emily?”

She took a deep calming breath. “M-myself, I am always poor with names, sir,” she finally managed. “I never remember them.”

“Never?” Mr. Sutton arched an eyebrow. “How very inconvenient.”

“Very,” she nodded.

“Do not belabor my name, Miss Nevins. I will remind you of it when need be.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mutton.”

“Sutton.” He gave her the lazy lopsided grin she remembered so vividly.

Did she dare blurt out everything she knew to Samuel and beg his protection?
Your nephew is a spy! He hid in my house last night and nearly ravished me! Now he will kill me because I know who he is.

But what if Samuel was a traitor, too? What if he and his nephew were cohorts? Dear Lord! Who was her enemy and who was her ally?

She glanced toward the door, her hat in one hand. “Samuel, I regret that I cannot stay for supper or cards. I rode over to tell you so.”

“Is something amiss, Emily?”

“I…I am expecting company.”

“Can it not wait?”

“No, Samuel. ’Twas quite unexpected, you see.” She glanced at Mr. Sutton for confirmation. “I…I must attend to it at once.”

Mr. Sutton’s gaze slid toward his uncle and then back to her. A tiny shake of his head was his only indication, but she caught his meaning. If the squire was a party to his nephew’s nefarious activities, at least Mr. Sutton had not told him about their meeting. Still, Mr. Sutton was Samuel’s family. Samuel would do anything for his family. Even murder?

“Another time, perhaps?” the squire asked.

“Another time,” she agreed. “My oath upon it, Samuel.”

She retrieved her jacket and fastened the ribbons of her bonnet as they walked past the sitting room. She paused to wave at her friends. “Sorry, Audrey…Brock. Duty calls, and I cannot stay. But I shall call on you in London next week. We really must arrange to have a game of whist.” She turned to the spy and inclined her head in what she hoped would pass for politeness. “Mr. Dutton, so nice to have met you.”

“Sutton,” he said firmly. “Ryan Sutton.”

“Yes, of course,” she gave him a nonchalant little shrug to convey how little his name mattered to her. “Squire, will you see me out?”

Samuel took her arm and stayed by her side all the way to the stables, chatting about the crops he planned and the bull he was about to breed. Though she was usually amused by the squire’s frank observations of farm life, she was more concerned with another matter at the moment. Her life.

Her only defense for what was sure to follow was her pistol, safely shut in the desk drawer in her library. She had to get there quickly, and first. “I’m sorry that I ruined your whist party, Squire, but you must make up the fourth for me.” A stable boy led her mare, Sprite, forward. “Politics and war do not make for good conversation. I believe I have quite alienated your nephew.”

“Little chit!” he patted her hand on his arm, taking the sting out of his words. “’Twas Ryan’s fault, too. He could have been more diplomatic, you know. In his defense, the lad is somewhat distraught. A good friend of his by the name of Leon Erickson was found dead last night—face down in the mud alongside the road. Some sort of skullduggery, I warrant. As for you, Emily, I think you provoked him deliberately. I suspect you took an instant dislike to the lad, though I cannot for the life of me think why.”

Erickson! A friend—face down in the mud! Mr. Sutton had killed a
friend
for the sake of his cause! What might he do to her? Her stomach tightened with fear. Oh! To think what she’d allowed him to do to her! How could she have been so rash? “I was thrown off-balance, Samuel. Did you suspect I wouldn’t come if you warned me that you had a nephew visiting?”

“The thought occurred to me,” he admitted, ignoring the mounting box to give her a hand up to her saddle. “Is it Ryan you dislike, or the fact that I arranged the meeting? You really should not avoid all social gatherings where you might find a husband.”

“I do not want one, Samuel. I’ve told you that before. They do not make men like you anymore, and I’d marry a monkey before I’d marry a society fop.”

Samuel looked very pleased at her flattery. “You were a little hard on the lad, though. He’s no fop. He is hard working and conscientious. His family means a great deal to him. ’Tis difficult for him being separated from them for so long.”

Family! Could she shoot him if she knew she would be making innocent children fatherless—as she and Lucy had been? “Does he have children?”

“Not married or I’d not have introduced you. Not likely he has children, though it’s hard to say with a rascal like Ryan.”

Emily feigned outrage. “And you threw me at him? Is that a recommendation?”

“Lads must sow their wild oats, Emily. They make better husbands for that.”

“Even in the colonies, eh?”

The squire nodded. “Do you think you could learn to like him, Emily?”

“I have my own wild oats to sow.” She patted him on the head from her vantage in Sprite’s saddle. “Keep well until I see you again, Samuel.”

She loosened the reins and gave Sprite her head, knowing Mr. Sutton would not be far behind. He’d promised her last night that her only safety lay in the fact that she did not know who he was. But now she knew and she’d have to get to Oak Hill before he got there if she was to have any chance at all.

Chapter Four

Ryan joined his uncle to watch Emily Nevins ride away at breakneck speed, the hem of her green velvet riding habit fluttering in the wind. She really was quite magnificent.

“Bloody damned dangerous.” Samuel’s brow furrowed with concern.

“Bloody rude, mayhap, but I didn’t think her particularly dangerous.”

“Not her, you dolt. The mare. She’s a wild thing. Throws little Emily at will, especially when she’s ridden hard.”

“Miss Nevins is in danger?”

“Horsemanship is not one of her strengths. I’ve tried to warn her, but she insists on keeping that hellish mare.”

Ryan turned to the stall where his horse was stabled. He’d intended to go after her anyway, but his uncle’s concern made that easier. “I’m on my way, sir.”

“Hurry, lad. She’ll be thrown for certain. I’ve found her in the dust many a time.”

Miss Nevins might be a poor horsewoman, but she was fearless. She pushed her mount to reckless speed. Ryan did not take the time to saddle his horse. Heart racing, his stallion’s chest heaving, he finally caught her scarcely a mile from Oak Hill. “Hold up there!” he shouted.

She ignored him and urged her mount faster. In the end, her mare revolted at having his stallion so close on her heels. Her front legs went stiff, and her saddle emptied as Miss Nevins left it abruptly. He watched in helpless frustration as she sailed through the air and landed on a grassy bank beside the road with a sickening thud. He dismounted and ran to her side. “Miss Nevins! Emily! Good God! Say something!”

“Go away,” she replied weakly.

At least she hadn’t lost her spirit. “Can you move?”

“I think so.” She sat up, wincing and holding her left arm. Mud smudged her left cheek, and her dark hair, freed from the confines of her bonnet, tumbled over her shoulders. Her face was pale, and there was a rip in the skirt of her gown.

Ryan noted the way she bit her lower lip in an effort to hide her pain. Some nameless emotion welled in his chest. He reached for her, intending to reassure himself that she was unhurt.

She slapped at his hand and scrambled away, a mixture of fear and anger written on her face. “Mr. Dutton—

He suspected her misuse of his name was deliberate, and it brought him back to his purpose. He could not recollect ever being so thoroughly and determinedly snubbed. Nevertheless, he stood and offered his hand to help her up. “The name is Sutton, Miss Nevins. And you’d be well advised to pasture that mare until she has been taught manners. Your next accident may not end so happily.”

She stumbled to her feet, ignoring his offer of assistance. “Sprite was fine until your stallion crowded her. She does not like anything so close to her heels. Nor do I. Stay back, sir, and there will be no more accidents.” She went to the mare and scratched her nose. “Sorry, old girl.”

The mare whickered and pushed her nose against Miss Nevins’s shoulder but danced sideways as Ryan ran his hands over her legs and checked her hooves to determine if her behavior was a result of injury.

“Your mare is half wild, Miss Nevins, and could use a trainer,” he concluded. “And, from what I’ve seen, you could use lessons on keeping your seat. If the whole world stayed back, you’d still have a problem remaining mounted.”

She glared at him, slapped the dust from her skirts, retrieved her bonnet from the grassy bank, and turned to gather the mare’s reins. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Button. I am quite well. You may return to Larkspur now.”

Ryan closed his hands around her waist and turned her back to face him. “Oh, no, Miss Nevins. I’d be negligent if I made that mistake again. I shall have to be more careful this time, eh?”

“I do not take your meaning, sir.”

He admired her feigned innocence even as he prepared to counter it. “We need to talk, Miss Nevins. I have no intention of letting you out of my sight until we have matters settled.”

“And I have no intention of going anywhere with you to make it easier for you to kill me.”

“Is that what you think? Believe me when I say that never entered my mind.”

“Yet that is what you threatened last night.”

Damn, she was right. He’d thought to insure her silence with that veiled threat. But then he’d also thought he’d never see her again. “I shall grant you reprieve for the day. Regardless, you will humor me in this.”

He took the mare’s reins from her and looped them through one hand before he lifted Miss Nevins to sit across his stallion’s bare back. When he mounted behind her, she stiffened her spine and lifted her chin in an oddly dignified show of defiance. Miss Nevins certainly had a presence. He had to give her that.

He reached around her to take the reins and breathed deeply of the lilac scent of her skin. Little tendrils of dark hair lifted on a light breeze and tickled his cheek. He’d never been more aware of the subtle allure of natural womanhood in his life. He tightened one arm around her and her delicate hand, resting on his, trembled as she caught her breath.

He set his stallion in motion and gave an amused chuckle. “You seem a little shaken, Miss Nevins. We’d best get you home.”

…

The ride, though short, left Emily on edge. His nearness, the scent of his shaving cream, the uncompromising strength of his arms all left her head in a muddle. She feared this man, of what he would do to her to keep his secret, and yet another part of her was dangerously attracted to him. She must be mad.

When they arrived at the stables, Mr. Sutton lifted her down and held her around the waist a moment too long to be accidental. “Do you have a groom, Miss Nevins? Is there anyone around to look after the horses?”

There didn’t seem to be much point in lying. He was bound to find out if he searched, as he was certain to do. “I have a handyman, but he has gone to town this afternoon.”

Mr. Sutton nodded and led the horses to neighboring stalls. It only took him a moment to unsaddle the mare, then turn his attention back to her. “What of your house servants? How many are there, and where are they now?”

She sighed with resignation. “My housekeeper has gone to town with her husband, the handyman. My maid has accompanied them.”

“Then we are alone again? Good. This should not take long.”

A prickle of misgiving traveled up her spine. How long, precisely, would it take him to kill her? But would he? Instinct told her she should rely on his promise of a reprieve. But what if they couldn’t reach agreement?

With a firm grip on her wrist, he pulled her along toward the kitchen door. One by one, he led her through the house, verifying that it was empty but for them.

Within minutes they were finished, and the spy led her to the library. “Sorry for the search, Miss Nevins, but it would never do to have our conversation overheard, would it?”

She glanced toward the desk. If she could just get within reach of her pistol, she might yet gain the upper hand. “No, Mr. Sutton, it would not.”

He released her wrist and locked the library door behind them. “Shall we make this easy, Miss Nevins?”

“I am at your…mercy, sir. Proceed.”

“D’you have any more of that excellent French brandy? I’ve worked up the devil of a thirst.” He turned his attention to the banked fire, stirring the coals and laying another log.

Brandy? “Yes, of course.” She went to the cupboard and retrieved the half-finished bottle of brandy from the night before and two glasses, along with a small vial of the laudanum she dispensed to her tenants when they had trouble with digestion or sleeping. A glance over her shoulder told her that he was still occupied with the fire. Dumping as much laudanum as she dared into the bottom of the glass, she added the brandy and swirled the glass to mix the concoction.

There was a French captain she’d like him to meet.

When he stood from the fire, he claimed his glass and sat opposite her. “Emily, eh? May I take the liberty of calling you by your first name, Miss Nevins?”

“Mr. Sutton—

“I prefer Ryan.”

“Ryan, then.” She would call him anything if it would put him at ease and make him drink his brandy.

“Has it occurred to you yet that we have a serious problem?”

“I am not simple, sir.”

“Have you any suggestions regarding a solution?”

“You could take my word when I tell you I will not betray you. Believe me, Mr. Sutton—Ryan—I’ve no interest in the war, nor in whether the colonies gain their independence.”

“What a pity that you care nothing for the rights of men. But then I suppose you are too troubled over what to wear to the next
fête
and how few servants you have to fetch your tea, scrub your floors, and wash your clothes to worry much about injustice to others. But let me assure you, Miss Nevins, I do care.” He raised his glass and then paused.

The sting of those words cut Emily clear to her heart. She could not imagine why it mattered to her what this man—this
traitor
—thought, but it did. “I do not attend
fêtes
, sir, nor do I pine for more servants.”

“That will, no doubt, change once you are in London.” He cocked one eyebrow. “Be that as it may, our destinies are now inextricably linked for the duration of the war. I
will
be clear on a few things before I leave you.
If
I leave you.”

Emily had never thought she could be so thoroughly intimidated. She felt a fleeting moment of sympathy for Jacques Reynard and Henry Dodge.

“If I hang, Miss Nevins, I shall not go to the gallows alone.” He finally took a sip from his glass as he gave her a meaningful glance.

More! He must drink more. She lifted her own glass to take a drink, hoping it would encourage him to finish his. “Is that a threat, Mr. Sutton?”

“It is a fact, Miss Nevins.” He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Have you ever seen a hanging or a drawing and quartering? Have you any idea how ’tis done? Do you know how long a man—or woman—can live whilst they are being disemboweled?”

The image was enough to make nausea churn her stomach. “I have done nothing, sir. What does this have to do with me?”

“You are my accomplice. A co-conspirator, as it were.”

“I would never conspire against the crown!”

“Not only would you—you did. I was here last night when the soldiers came. I stood behind you while you lied for me.”

“You held a pistol to my back—”

“My word against yours, Miss Nevins. Once I was gone last night, did you send for the soldiers? Have you done so today?”

“I…”

“That you have not would suggest complicity. Emotions are running high at the moment. The crown is anxious to root out colonial sympathizers. I believe they would give credence to a spy’s confession—especially if I allowed them to torture me enough to extract your name. No, Emily Nevins, your fate is bound to mine now, and you will keep your silence to save your own skin, no matter how you feel about me or my cause. I shall be your shadow until this cursed war is over.”

Agitated, Emily stood and paced between the window and the fire, then back to Mr. Sutton, her mind working for an answer. “There must be another solution,” she muttered, more to herself than to the spy.

“I fear not,” he said with that slow inflection. “At least none I consider acceptable. I can think of no other way to insure your silence. I suspect only the threat of death would persuade you to put your scruples aside.”

Scruples? The irony was not lost on her that, in the eyes of the crown, she was as guilty of treason as he due to her trafficking with the Frenchman. She stopped before the fireplace and gripped the mantle as she looked down into the flames, pondering his words. There was a truth in them that he could not know. She would have to keep his secret if she was to protect her own.

She went back to her chair behind the desk and sat before she lifted her glass, needing the fortification. The face of her sister swam in her head. Sweet Lucy. What would happen to her if Emily was arrested? Would she fall under suspicion and be imprisoned, too? Guilt by association? She was barely twenty. Would the crown seize Oak Hill and any assets? Would her protestations of innocence be credible? Most likely not, since she hadn’t raised a hue and cry. And there was yet another person to consider. She gulped her brandy.

Ryan nodded as if reading her mind. “Uncle Samuel, too, would be arrested. The taint could even extend as far as Brock and Audrey.”

Ah, the squire was innocent. Her pistol, then. Sending him away was the only solution. Oh, but could she do it? Could she betray the man who had made her forget, if only for a moment, that she was destined to spinsterhood? Kill him because he was as committed to his goal as she was to hers—securing Oak Hill and Lucy’s future? She slid her hand closer to the drawer, wondering vaguely at her lethargy.

Mr. Sutton’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she glanced around. “You have already become my accomplice, Emily. There is no turning back. And, now that I think of it, we have some other unfinished business.”

“What business?” The drawer was inches away. She could almost touch the knob. He leaned closer, a smoldering heat in his eyes. “Mr. Sutton, what are you doing?”

“Finishing what we started last night. I want that kiss, Emily.” He turned her chair and leaned closer still, his mouth grazing hers.

“No.” A note of uncertainty made a mockery of the single word. So sweet, the soft brush of his lips—not quite a kiss. So seductive. Just enough to leave her wanting more.

His voice was a whisper as he gazed at her. “You take my breath away, Emily. I’ve never seen such promise in a woman’s eyes before.” He straightened, lifting her with him, and panic began to build in her chest. If he kissed her, she would be lost.

Yes, hopelessly and forever lost.

She pushed him away and spun around to open the desk drawer wide. Grasping the primed and ready pistol, she turned back to face him, holding it in both hands. “Put your hands up, Mr. Sutton.”

He had retreated no more than three feet. When he saw the pistol, he raised his hands. “Easy, Miss Nevins.”