Naughty or Nice? Page 22

  The only thing that had kept them both from being killed on the spot was that the French found proof of his identity. A peer of the English realm was a good bargaining chip, but only if they kept him alive. Instinctively, his fingers went to his head, to the thick scab underneath his hair. Blood, grease, and dirt made his scalp itch. At least he hoped it was just blood and dirt.

  “You Maxwell?”

  Garrett turned toward the door. He hadn’t even heard it open. Someone dressed like a guard stood barely visible in the shadows, but unless he’d lost his hearing along with his other senses, this was no ordinary guard. It was a woman.

  “Who the hell are you?” He wasn’t about to introduce himself just because she had a nice voice.

  She stepped just inside the door, as though she were afraid to get too close to him. “I’m from the Home Office,” she whispered. “Are you Maxwell?”

  The agreement he’d made with the Home Office was that as few people as possible know his true identity. He didn’t want special treatment because of his title, and it made it difficult for any double agents to use him to their advantage. The only way his captors had determined his identity was through the personal correspondence in the lining of his jacket. He knew he should have burnt those letters from his sister.

  “I’m Maxwell,” he replied. “Do you have a message for me?”

  She sighed, as though she thought the whole situation a waste of her time, but Garrett wasn’t about to trust her until he knew she was the real thing. For all he knew, she could be a delectable-smelling diversion cooked up by the French to ferret information out of him.

  “I’m supposed to mention the draperies, not that there are any here to comment upon.”

  Close enough. “Drape” was the code word he and the Office had agreed upon. It was a simple anagram for his title, but could be worked into most conversations if one had a little imagination. Obviously, his rescuer had little of that.

  Or maybe not. As she stepped farther into the cell, Garrett got a look at her face. She was wearing a faux beard and moustache. The disguise did nothing to hide her sex, at least he didn’t think so, as his gaze raked over the barely concealed curves of her body. Apparently it had been good enough to get her inside the prison. Obviously the guards hadn’t gone without a woman as long as Garrett had. Just the smell of her—clean and fresh—was enough to heat his blood, bad disguise or not.

  “We don’t have much time,” she whispered. “Follow me.”

  He pointed at Willis, still shivering on his cot. “He’s coming with me.”

  She shot him an annoyed glance. It made her moustache twitch. “My orders are for you and you alone.”

  Folding his arms across his chest, Garrett stared at her. The woman’s jaw tightened. “Fine, but you’ll have to carry him.”

  As if Garrett had any other choice.

  “Maxwell?” came Willis’s groggy voice as Garrett shook him awake. “What’s going on?”

  Garrett smiled, not sure if his friend could even see his expression through his fever. “We’re going home, Willis. Can you stand?”

  “I’d dance a jig if I thought it would get us home.” Leaning heavily on Garrett’s arm, the soldier struggled to his feet.

  They barely made it to the door before Willis’s limbs gave out and he sagged to the floor, almost taking Garrett with him.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. Leave me. Save yourself.”

  Garrett crouched before him. “Willis, you gallant idiot, you know that’s not an option.” He grabbed Willis’s arm in his left hand and scooped his right shoulder under the other man’s belly. Grunting, he lifted and rose to his feet with a strength he didn’t know he had.

  Adjusting Willis’s weight on his shoulder, he turned to the woman. “Let’s go.”

  Slowly, they crept out into the dark corridor. Each step seemed louder and heavier than the last to Garrett as he struggled to remain upright on his trembling legs. His shoulder and back were beginning to ache mercilessly under Willis’s weight, and his lungs ached from the effort to keep his labored breathing quiet. If the guards caught them now, they’d surely kill them. His knees were shaking so badly Garrett wouldn’t even be able to run.

  “We’re almost there,” the woman whispered as if reading his thoughts. “This tunnel leads out onto the docks. I have a boat waiting there to take us to England.”

  England! The very sound of the word gave him the strength to go on.

  They broke out into the darkness. The chill night air struck Garrett full in the face and he sucked it greedily into his lungs. The smell of sea and fish were sweet when compared to the fetid air of the prison.

  “This way,” the woman hissed, quickening her pace. “Hurry!”

  Somehow Garrett found the strength to run. Willis jostled heavily against his shoulder and moaned.

  “Apologies, old man,” Garrett huffed. “We’re almost to the boat.”

  And then they were running up a gangplank, Garrett’s lungs bursting and his muscles shaking. Suddenly, they were surrounded, and for one split second he thought it was a trap and he hadn’t the strength to fight.

  Two men tried to take Willis from him and Garrett raised his fist, even as his knees began to buckle beneath him.

  The woman laid a hand on his arm. “It’s all right, Mr. Maxwell, these men work for me. They’re going to take your friend inside and care for him. Trust me, he’ll be in good hands.”

  The odd thing was that Garrett did trust her. After all, she had saved them, hadn’t she? Warily, he allowed her men to take Willis, who had passed out again. He watched them take his friend away before turning to the woman who had saved them.

  “What happens now?”

  She smiled at his bluntness—a bizarre sight given her false facial hair. He couldn’t really see her lips, but her amber-colored eyes crinkled and her moustache pulled up at the corners. “We set sail for England. There’s a hot bath and an excellent meal waiting for you below. You might want to take advantage of both.”

  Garrett followed her as she picked her way down a set of steps into the ship. The ship left the docks shortly after he lowered himself into the hot bath. Sighing in pleasure, he scrubbed himself pink and washed his hair, taking care with his wound. A razor, soap, and mirror had been set on the side for him to shave with and he scraped off the heavy growth of beard with long, satisfied strokes. He wanted nothing more than to soak in the water until it cooled, but it was so dirty from his body he couldn’t bring himself to sit in it any longer.

  He toweled off quickly, the chill in the air dancing along his bare skin. A stack of clothes had been placed nearby and he grabbed a pair of trousers and shoved his leg in. Whoever had sent her had underestimated his size. He wasn’t huge by any stretch, but he was tall and used to physical activity. The man who owned these clothes was much smaller.

  The trousers were a bit snug through the thighs and the crotch, but at least they went on. The shirt was another matter altogether—it wouldn’t even go down over his shoulders. Sighing, he tossed it aside and picked up his discarded one. The smell hit him like a hammer and he tossed it into the bath.

  He hoped his hostess wasn’t too modest, because he was about to walk out into the dining area in nothing but a pair of trousers!

  Oh, Garrett had long ago given up any false perception of his looks. His was a fierce countenance, one that had made the girls giggle nervously in his youth and made ladies’ eyes widen in trepidation as he became older. He attributed the brunt of the problem to his low, straight brows that made him look as if he were always scowling, and to a mouth that was a tad too wide and too thin to give the illusion of good humor. However, his intimidating appearance had served him well during his career as a soldier and spy.

  Stepping out into the corridor in his bare feet, Garrett moved toward the warmth and light of the outer cabin. The smell of food, hot and savory, tantalized his nostrils, drawing a low growl of anticipation from his stomach. His mouth watered.

&nbs
p; A female he assumed to be their savior stood at the table, her back to him. She too had recently bathed because a cascade of damp, ebony hair fell over her shoulders almost to her waist. Gone was the grimy uniform, replaced by a gown of soft plum.

  “Smells good,” he spoke, announcing his presence.

  She turned, and if her golden eyes widened at his appearance, Garrett didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at her.

  She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her skin glowed in the lamplight, all ivory and pink and gold. Her eyes shone like newly minted coins fringed by thick black lashes. Her lips parted at the sight of him. Was that a good thing or a bad? One could never tell with women. bj10Her gaze dropped to his chest and then to his pelvis. Judging from the flush creeping up her chest and neck, he’d wager it was a good thing.

  It was also a little uncomfortable. It had been months since he’d enjoyed the physical company of a woman, and his savior’s knowing stare was a painful, stirring reminder. “I apologize for my state of dress, but the clothes you provided were too small.”

  That brought her gaze up to his face. “I’m sorry. The Home Office didn’t provide any of your clothing. I brought you some of my late husband’s.”

  A widow, then. That would explain her blush. It would also explain why she looked in the first place. Had her husband been smaller than him in other areas, as well? He pushed the crude thought aside with a rush of shame. He shouldn’t think such things. The woman had lost her husband—recently for all he knew—and she had saved his life. She deserved more respect than that.

  “Why don’t you come eat?” she suggested, gesturing to the table. “You must be famished.”

  He was hungry—hungrier than he had originally thought. But as he watched the gentle swish of her skirts about her hips as she walked toward the table, Garrett wasn’t entirely certain food was what he hungered for.

  “You have me at a disadvantage,” he remarked as he held her chair for her. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”

  “Vail,” she replied, staring at her plate. “Mrs. Vail.”

  “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Mrs. Vail.” Moving around to the other side, Garrett seated himself across from her.

  She draped a napkin over her lap. “You’re welcome, but I was just doing my duty.”

  Her duty? What a strange way of putting it, especially since her tone was so distasteful.

  They made small talk as they ate. Well, actually Mrs. Vail talked. Garrett savored every bit of the delicious meal in virtual silence. He was content to listen to the low, throaty pitch of her voice as he filled his belly with as much food as he dared. It wouldn’t be much, but he was determined to memorize every savory bite.

  Mrs. Vail told him how her husband, Thomas, had been a spy and that she had sometimes worked with him—that was how she knew the layout of the prison he and Willis had been held in. She told him how Thomas had died when the boat he was on was sunk by the French, and that he had died the way he would have wanted, serving his country.

  “He sounds like an incredible man,” Garrett commented, uncorking another bottle of wine. In fact Thomas Vail sounded like a bloody saint.

  She stared at his hands as he filled their glasses. “He loved his work.”

  Garrett sipped his wine. “And you didn’t.” The alcohol loosened his tongue, and coupled with his diet over the last few months, succeeded in making him more light-headed than he normally would be after one bottle.

  Her face was pale as she jerked her gaze up to his. “What gives you that idea?”

  He shrugged. “The way you said it, as though he loved being a spy more than anything else in the world.”

  He didn’t have to define “anything else.”

  “No woman likes to feel she comes second, Mr. Maxwell, not even to a man’s country.”

  He shook his head and rose out of his chair. “I can’t imagine anyone thinking you second to anything.” He picked up the bottle and his glass, ignoring the fact that she was staring at him in shock.

  He’d said too much—much more than was proper—but it was true. He couldn’t imagine any man making this woman feel as though she weren’t loved. She was brave, intelligent, and beautiful. What kind of man could ignore that? He certainly couldn’t. He’d been in her company not even an hour and already he wanted her. Wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman before. Perhaps it was the wine, or the fact that he’d never thought he’d make it out of that damn French prison. Maybe it was just her.

  “Come sit over here,” he said, walking across the cabin to where two chairs sat. It was warmer there, near the large overhead lamp that lit most of the room.

  She rose from the table to join him. As she moved across the gently swaying floor with the kind of grace only someone used to sea travel possessed, Garrett realized that it wasn’t the wine, and it wasn’t the prison.

  It was the raw vulnerability in her golden eyes, the emptiness he knew his own gaze reflected. It was the way she made him feel as though she understood him. She’d seen too much death and destruction, as well.

  It was all of that and more that made him want to feel her lips—her body—beneath his. He hadn’t felt such a startling, uncontrollable need since he was an eager boy. It was she who brought out these feelings.

  And he wasn’t certain if he could control them or not.

  Sweet heavens, what a man!

  Elizabeth could do little more than stare as Mr. Maxwell sauntered across the dining area clad in nothing but trousers that left little to the imagination. Despite weeks in a French prison, he was far from thin, as most men would have been. The entire cabin seemed to shrink around him as his presence filled every corner.

  It had been too long. Too long since she’d seen a man wearing so little clothes and looking so good as he did it. Her husband, Thomas, God rest his soul, had been in fine physical form, but had been much slighter, and not as tall as Mr. Maxwell. And not as strong, either. She’d almost gasped aloud when he slung Willis over his shoulder as though the man were no more than a sack of potatoes.

  He’d shaved during his bath, revealing the arresting features the beard had hidden. The lines of his face were fierce and strong, but there was a vulnerability around his eyes. The sweetness of a kitten inside the body of a lion.

  Staring at his body was one thing, but romanticizing about his character was just plain foolish. She knew better than to think such girlish thoughts.

  A widow who’d spent the last two years mourning a man who’d loved his work more than he loved her. A widow who’d been in close quarters with a stranger before but never been attracted to him. Until now.

  He watched her as she moved toward where he stood. She shook off the feeling that this—rugged—stranger could see far, far too deep inside her. It was silly to think that he might actually understand her, not when no one else, not even her husband, had ever seemed capable of it.

  She seated herself in one of the heavy, comfortable chairs. Instead of taking the other, he dropped to the floor near her feet, curling his knees up to his chest and crossing his bare ankles. Her eyes took in the curve of his spine, the lines of his ribs showing through the skin of his sides. Even before his capture she doubted there had been an extra ounce of fat on that frame. He was all sinew and muscle.

  “You really should have put some shoes on, Mr. Maxwell,” she admonished, trying to take her mind off his body. Instead her gaze went to his feet.

  His big, slender feet.

  “I’ve been wearing those shoes for at least a month straight, Mrs. Vail,” he replied in the same tone. “It feels good to have them off.”

  She laughed at that and sipped her wine. She was beginning to feel very relaxed and mellow. Whether it was him, or the wine, or a combination of the two, she didn’t know.

  Tucking her feet beneath her, she snuggled into the chair and gazed down at him. “So, I’ve told you all about me, now tell me all about you.”

  He looked up, his haz
el eyes dark and warm in the firelight. “What would you like to know?”

  “Where you’re from, why you left, and how you came to end up in a French prison. And perhaps why you risked so much to rescue a man who might not live to see his family again.” Yes, she was very curious as to why he’d risked the success of his mission, on getting the information he had back to England, for one man. Thomas wouldn’t have. And she’d been told by the Home Office herself not to allow her “sensibilities” to interfere with getting the job done.

  He smiled. “You don’t want to know much, do you?”

  Elizabeth blushed and shook her head.

  He took a drink of wine. “I’m from the south of Devonshire, a little village not far from Exeter. It’s the most beautiful spot in all of England. Don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. From my family’s house all you can see is beach and sea and green rolling hills.”

  “It does sound beautiful,” she agreed. “I’ve never been to Devonshire.”

  “Oh, you should go.” He took another drink. “You’ll never want to leave.”

  She drank from her glass as well, admiring the way the lamplight picked up the red in his hair. In this light it was the color of rich tobacco, darker where it was still damp. It curled around the edges, the tips just brushing his shoulders. “Why did you leave?”

  His expression shuttered. “I left because I wanted to prove myself.”

  Another drink. Her glass was almost empty. “To whom?”

  He met her gaze and winked. “To myself.”

  And that was the end of that subject.

  Elizabeth reached down to grab the wine bottle. Her hair fell like a heavy curtain between them, and the next thing she knew, his fingers were in it, pushing it back over her shoulder like a mother might. Except that his touch was anything but maternal. He stroked her hair as though he’d never felt a woman’s hair before. And the heated expression in his eyes as he did it made Elizabeth’s heart pound.