Too Wicked to Marry (27 page)

"I did not mean to get involved in a confrontation," she told him. "Truly, I didn't. I discovered someone was on the grounds who did not belong there. I meant only to sound a warning, not get into a skirmish. Really, I'm not brave."

She always carried a derringer in her reticule when she went for the walk around the grounds, but she'd never thought she'd have to use it. She was not as pragmatic as a good spy should be, and prayed she'd never have to use a weapon again.

"But you were attacked. You were gravely injured. You saved my life."

"Actually, you saved
my
life. I wouldn't have lasted out there for long if I hadn't been found."

"You still haven't told me what really happened. Who would want to kill me? That meeting in Austria was a favor for a friend, who was trying to get back some family treasures that had ended up with an Austrian art collector. There was nothing to do with any government."

"The collector was a half-mad prince," she reminded him. "There was touchy national pride to consider, a great deal of money involved, and delicate matters that could have led to family scandals."

"It seemed like a lovely holiday."

"You complained constantly that you were dealing with fools."

"I was enjoying the scenery and the cuisine, until you were hurt."

"There was too much cream in everything, you said. I remember."

He drew her closer. "Tell me what happened, Harriet. Everything. We won't be leaving this room until you do." He led her across the room and drew her down to sit beside him on the bed. A slight smile eased his serious expression when he noticed her glance anxiously toward the door. "Tell me."

"Oh—bother!"

He lifted her chin with a finger, making her look at him. To her surprise he touched his lips to hers, the kiss ever so gentle and fleeting. It sent emotions she did not want to feel through her. Emotions that threatened to soften her heart and weaken her determination. It infuriated her to know how her heart tried to rule her head over this man no matter what he did, and had since he'd opened that door four years ago and snapped at her to come inside and make herself useful. How she wished being useful to him could be enough for her.

"Who, what, why, Harriet," he urged. "I have a right to know."

She supposed he did. Perhaps she would have told him long ago—if she hadn't been wrestling with her own conscience and desperately running from the vivid memories. "It is sordid," she told him, "and you will be angry with yourself when I tell you."

"What?" he asked, only half-serious, "was it the husband of one of my mistresses?"

"It was your wife."

That rocked him back on his heels. "Sabine tried to kill me?"

He certainly didn't look as if he believed it. She didn't blame him; assassination was no way for civilized people to settle marital differences. At least in his world. The safe, secure, civilized world where Martin Kestrel was a paragon, and where Harriet MacLeod, with her bloodied hands, did not belong.

"Sabine entered my world," she told him. "Her lover was a member of a band of spies and assassins headed by a man with many unsavory resources to call upon. Sabine's lover was in trouble with this group for having brought her home rather than the information he was sent to obtain. None of that really touches on what happened in Austria, except that he and Sabine had access to the services of professional killers. Don't look so shocked, Martin. Have you never suspected such people exist?"

He slowly shook his head, and she sighed. She was glad of his innocence, but it was evidence that their worlds were so far apart that she and he could never truly touch.

"Sabine wanted a divorce," she reminded him. "You refused."

"Of course." His indignation was as strong now as it had been when Sabine sent a solicitor to bring up the subject. "I would not put Patricia through the scandal of her mother being publicly declared an adulteress. Sabine had no thought for the child's welfare."

"She did, however, strike upon a more permanent solution. She hired an assassin to end her marriage for her."

Though Martin's head spun with shock, it made horrible sense. Of course fiery, thoughtless, selfish Sabine would seek the easiest answer.
Dear God! I'm even more to blame for Harriet's injuries than I realized. If she had protected me in the line of duty I could almost
ù
almost
—
have forgiven myself for my stupidity in not seeing her for her true, valiant self. But this… this was a curse that fell on her because I married unwisely
. It seemed that he made a habit of falling in love with the wrong women. Or so he'd been thinking for the last several days. He was sure of nothing right now, except—"This was all my fault."

"I knew you'd see it that way." Harriet shook her head.

"Is that why you never told me?"

"Yes. No. The truth is, when I first woke up, I was so befuddled that when you told me I'd fallen from a cliff, I believed you. I didn't recall anything for a few days. When the memories started to surface…" She shrugged and looked away. She was faintly trembling, and it twisted his heart. "It was awful, and… no…" She bit her lip, and a look of annoyance crossed her face.

He knew instantly that she was annoyed with herself for having admitted to fear and horror. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her in a close, protective embrace. He wanted to tell her how he would never let anything or anyone harm her again. But she would not welcome any emotional advances from the man whose life she'd saved—who was the same man who'd blackmailed her into a sexual liaison and humiliated her in front of a crowd of profligate scum.

"It is not weakness to show frail mortal emotions," was as much as he dared to point out. "Depending on the time and place," he added when she gave him a stern look.

She nodded to this statement. "If word had not reached you about Sabine's death soon afterward, you would have learned about the threat. It seemed… kinder… not to let you know how despicable she was. She'd hurt you enough," Harriet lifted her chin and declared.

Trying to protect my heart as well as my person, my dear? And protecting Patricia as well, I think, from her mother's folly
. Was he starting to think of Harriet as a guardian angel watching over him rather than as a sinister conspirator who used him as her cover?

"The assassin," Martin asked. "What happened to him?"

He could guess, from the way her gaze flicked everywhere but to his. He waited for long, painful seconds for her to answer, but she only shook her head. That would not do. This was a time for truth, painful, ugly truth.

"Dead?" he asked.

"I fell down a mountain," she answered, her voice low and full of anguish. "He fell further."

"There's more, isn't there?"

He stroked the back of his hand across her cheek, trying to gentle her, to coax with his touch. Though she hid it very well, he thought she was more upset now than she had been earlier. Was knowing the truth worth putting her through such distress? Yes, he decided. For without complete truth between them, they could not move on and:—

Move on to what?

"I can't—won't—say anymore about the incident right now," she finally answered. "This is not the time to dwell on it." She put a hand imploringly on his. "Please, I need a clear head tonight, Martin."

Perhaps he was being selfish in forcing the issue. She'd given him plenty to think about for now, and much to regret. "We're not through yet," he told her and rose to his feet. He held his hand out to her. "For now, I look forward to watching you dazzle the masses."

We're not through yet.

What did he mean by that?

Nothing, Harriet told herself as they proceeded down the hall with her gloved hand delicately resting on his arm. Nothing at all—at least nothing that could be interpreted as meaning that there could be any future for them after tonight.
I do not and will not want it to mean anything
, she thought sternly.

All her confusion faded the moment they met a leering couple as they approached the staircase. The man swept Martin a flamboyant bow, while the woman gave Harriet a look she could only interpret as envious amusement, and fury overtook Harriet at the realization that these people interpreted Martin's behavior as masterful and romantic.

She could imagine very well what they all imagined—that the triumphant Martin had flung his prize down on the bed and claimed the body he'd won with masculine arrogance. If she closed her eyes, her imagination would have supplied all the sensations of the masterful coupling. In fact, for a moment she felt his hands and mouth on her, and more. Worse, excitement flickered deep inside her, stirring a perverse longing for the ravishment to actually have happened. Her knees went weak with combined shame and desire.

This would not do, not at all. Though her lips managed to lift in a parody of a smile, the look she gave Martin was full of venom. Or so she thought. He obviously saw something else, for he laughed and took her in his arms for a long, deep, searing kiss right there on the staircase.

After a few stiff moments her body melted against his and her arms came around his neck. "All the better to strangle you with," she whispered when his lips parted from hers.

His eyes glittered with fierce humor, and equally fierce desire. "
I
could take you on the stairs right now," he whispered back. He traced her lips, his touch making her head spin. "You don't kiss like a woman who would mind." Then he got himself under control and added, "But that is not in the evening's plans, is it?"

She should have shot back that it was not in the plans ever, but the words would not come, her heart would not let her head rule. "You are a wicked rogue," she said instead, and gently bit his finger when he touched her lips again. "And wrinkling my gown, besides."

"Forgive me," he said, moving to take her by the arm again.

It seemed to her that he put several meanings into those two words, but her analytical abilities were not functioning well where Martin was concerned. She tried to put thoughts of him out of her head, but not thinking about him put her on edge about facing the crowd. She'd been prepared for the ordeal when she first came out of the dressing room. If they'd come down right then everything would have been fine. Now the guilt and dark memories that had been stirred up left her rattled and unsure. This would not do, not at all.

"This is all your fault," she whispered.

"Act like a woman in love," Martin advised as they came arm in arm down the sweeping grand staircase to the main floor. "Smile like a woman who has spent long hours making love. Don't listen to a word they say."

"Be Cora Bell, in other words," she snapped back.

"Precisely." He smiled upon her with a sort of pride that only aggravated Harriet's irritation with him. There had been something particularly gentle in Martin's look. "Just because I'm a rogue doesn't mean I can't give good advice," he added.

"Sometimes rogues give the best advice," she agreed. "Of course, because they are rogues they don't follow it themselves."

"You speak like a woman who knows."