A Secret in Her Kiss (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

M
ari rubbed her pulsing temples as she climbed from the coach. She’d managed to extricate Nathan from Fatima’s clutches but then had to endure Nathan’s jests about changing professions the entire way home.

Bennett’s large frame filled her doorway, his stance tense. She resented the way her heart skipped at the sight of him. He wasn’t even happy to see her.

Surveying her through narrowed eyes, he tossed an envelope to Nathan as they approached. “Additional orders.”

Nathan caught it with one hand. “You failed to capture him then?”

“I caught him.”

Nathan froze, the paper half into his pocket. “Why didn’t you send word?”

“It’s all in your orders. Go home, Abington.”

Nathan raked him with a suspicious glace, but didn’t try to enter. He caught Mari’s hands. “Remember my offer to get you out if you choose.”

Bennett frowned at the contact. “We have things to discuss, Mari.”

Mari nodded at Nathan, then slipped past Bennett. She wandered to her rooms without even checking to see if he followed. Of course he would. Orders, orders, orders. Once inside the harem, she slumped on one of the couches.

Bennett braced in front of her. “Dismiss your maid.”

Her headache worsened. “If you’re angry again, could it wait until morning?” Yet she complied, and Achilla left the room with a worried backward glance.

Bennett waited for the maid to be out of earshot. “There’s been a change of plans. We leave tonight.”

She sat up. “What? What about the man you captured?”

“I said we leave now.”

In her current state of confused exhaustion, his curt orders made her blood race hotly through her veins. She was the one essential to this mission. She would have her answers first. “Why? What has happened?”

“Earlier this evening I captured the man who’d been following you.”

Mari clenched the silk of her caftan robe with her fists. “So you said. Do you know who is behind it then?”

“No. The man killed himself rather than talking.”

Horrified, she stared at Bennett’s emotionless face. “What did you do to him?”

For an instant, the wall around him cracked. Hurt echoed in his gaze, but disappeared just as quickly. Mari dropped her head. That had been unfair. Even if she’d never read his poetry, she would’ve known that he wasn’t cruel. Tough and unyielding, yes, but he didn’t enjoy causing pain.

The thought crystallized in her mind.

He didn’t enjoy causing pain, so if he refused to tell her why he’d attacked her father, he must have good reason.

But she couldn’t trust him based on the hope that he had a good excuse. She’d tried that with her father and never gotten anything but disappointment. She sighed. “I’m sorry, my comment was inexcusable. How did it happen?”

Bennett focused on a point over her shoulder. “I ordered him detained until we could question him in the morning. He hung himself with the bedsheet.”

Her stomach lurched at the image. The Greek rebel had died by hanging as well. Mari hadn’t seen the actual hanging, but she’d seen the body when it was displayed two days later. She’d vomited right there on the street.

She stood and placed her hand on Bennett’s cheek. His skin was cool under her fingers. When he didn’t respond, she let her arm fall back to her side. “Did you find out anything before . . . before . . .”

“No, when the ambassador questioned him, he claimed he didn’t know how to get in touch with the man who hired him, although he seemed frightened. Once his employer discovers he’s missing, he may fear his identity’s compromised and attempt something rash.”

Mari shuddered.

Bennett’s hand brushed back her hair in a ghost of a caress. She held perfectly still, hoping his hand would move next to her cheek. But it didn’t.

“We leave now.”

“But I haven’t packed.”

“Good, no one will suspect our departure. Gather your art supplies. I have the rest.”

“Don’t I need clothes?”

“No.” Bennett cleared his throat. “I have some for you.” He coughed again. “But you might want to bring a change of underthings. I didn’t purchase those for you.”

Oh heavens, the last thing she needed was to imagine Bennett picking out lacy drawers and shifts for her. “I’ll send for the coach.”

“No need. I’ve hired one. It’s awaiting us around the corner.”

Mari fled to her room and traded her slippers for a sturdy pair of half boots. She also packed a change of underthings and rechecked her box of art supplies. Pausing by her door, she dashed off a quick note to Achilla, explaining that she’d gone off with Bennett and would return in a few days.

Bennett was fastening the buttons on a coarse wool shirt as she emerged. Her pack dropped to the floor, betrayed by her suddenly nerveless fingers. She stood arrested by the glimpse of his muscled chest, unable to determine if she’d arrived a moment too soon or too late. Awareness tingled between her legs. She had to touch him again. Grasping her only valid excuse, she picked up the rough brown laborer’s jacket he’d set beside him and held it open. Her hands insisted on lingering as she smoothed the jacket across his broad shoulders and down the hard lines of his back. His muscles bunched under her fingers like some large jungle cat, but by no other action did he betray that he was aware of her silliness. He stepped away from her and folded his uniform with crisp precision. He then retrieved her bag from where it had fallen on the polished tile, and removed the clothing she’d packed.

Mari squeaked as he unfolded her white linen drawers. “I didn’t overpack if that’s what you fear.” He’d seen her undergarments before. She closed her eyes briefly. In fact, he’d seen her
in
her undergarments. But still it was unnerving to see his large, sun-browned hands displaying her unmentionables.

Bennett ignored her and refolded them so they filled a quarter of their previous space, then tucked them into her art box. “No one who sees us will have reason to suspect you’re going on a trip.”

They walked silently from the house, favoring the darkened shadows until they reached the hired coach. He helped her in and settled across from her.

“Try to sleep,” Bennett ordered. “You will need it.”

Mari tried, but the lumps that disfigured the cheap, worn seat dug into her thighs when she tried to get comfortable. She shifted to the other side of the bench. She slouched down. She straightened and leaned her head on the wall.

The coach hit a bump. Pain thumped through the back of her skull, adding to her already aching head. She groaned.

“Are you unwell?”

Miserable, she slid to the middle of the seat. “A headache.”

Bennett grunted and moved from his bench to hers. He lifted her onto his lap and tucked her head on his chest as if she were a child. “You’ll be of no use if you’re too exhausted to function.”

His words were harsh, but the arm wrapped around her waist was gentle. His other hand trailed over her forehead in soft strokes.

As her eyes drifted shut, his heart beat loudly under her ear. She inhaled. He still smelled of sandalwood leaves.

If she no longer trusted him, why did she feel so secure in his arms?

M
ari sighed in her sleep and nuzzled closer to Bennett. He rested his cheek on her hair.

Duty. Duty. Duty
.

He repeated the word in his head every time guilt cut through him. He’d given her the opportunity to back out from this mission and she’d refused.

Duty
.

Half of his poetry praised duty. Duty to his men. Duty to his country. It was how he dealt with the horror of war. Duty sent him to the army to protect his family from Napoleon. Duty held him firm every time he’d fired his rifle. Duty steadied his hand during each letter he wrote to newly grieving parents.

But now with Mari sleeping in his arms and the coach lumbering to Vourth, duty seemed damned hollow.

Was it an excuse? Did he cling to the ideal so fiercely because it was morally right or because he didn’t want to bear responsibility for the atrocities he’d committed in its name?

Every moment he spent in Mari’s company, the less he wanted her involved in this mission. And he hadn’t wanted her involved from the start.

Two men were already dead on this mission. Despite his assurances of protection, anything might happen once they reached Vourth. His adherence to duty was the only reason she was here; was that good enough?

Yes.

Despite the way she tied him in knots, duty was essential. Without it, life would be chaos.

The coach swayed dangerously. “I wish you weren’t still angry with me,” Mari mumbled. Her words were slurred with sleep and he suspected she wasn’t fully awake.

“I’m not.”

Her face scrunched in an adorable manner that she never would’ve allowed if she were aware of her expression. “Are, too. You’ve done nothing but sit all stiff and silent.”

No, his stiffness didn’t result from anger. He’d kept his distance because he couldn’t trust himself to keep his hands from sliding into that glorious hair and sealing his mouth to hers. Holding her in his lap right now was equal parts torture and bliss.

“Go back to sleep.”

“See, overbearing.”

“Please, go to sleep.”

“Better,” she mumbled as her eyes closed.

Bennett turned his attention to the window. The cluttered buildings of the city gave way to the shrubs and rocks of the country. The roads deteriorated with the passing miles until he had to keep his teeth clenched shut to stop them from rattling. He tightened his hold on Mari to keep her from bouncing to the floor.

What would he do with her once they finished with Vourth? He was no closer to finding the person responsible for hiring Abdullah. How long could he justify staying in Constantinople?

Mari needed him, but so did Sophia. He’d sworn to protect them both. He loved his sister, and Mari . . . He wasn’t sure how to describe his feelings for Mari yet. The intensity of the emotions he so pointedly ignored unnerved him. He suspected if he were honest with himself about her . . . Well, he’d deal with that when he had the leisure to do so.

The coach lurched as it hit a rut, and Mari wriggled against him, her hip brushing him in a far too distracting manner.

“Shh. Just another hole in the road.”

She settled at the sound of his voice.

Time was of the essence. He needed to find a way to keep Mari safe while not sacrificing his sister.

He’d bring Mari to England.

He grinned at the idea. They could leave as soon as they returned to Constantinople. He wouldn’t lose any time returning to Sophia, and Mari would be safe from whoever threatened her.

The plan was perfect.

His smile faded as he stared down at her. Perfect, except she’d sworn to never return there. He brushed his thumb gently over her lips, and she sighed in her sleep. Once he pointed out the logic in his reasoning, surely, she’d change her mind.

But even if she didn’t, he would keep her safe even if it earned her hatred.

Chapter Twenty-two

J
ust enough dawn light found its way through the filthy windows of the coach that she could discern the steely blue of Bennett’s eyes and the faint shadow on his chin. She smiled slightly, warm and cocooned in his arms. Her fingers rasping along the stubble awakened her fully. She scrambled off Bennett’s lap and winced; she’d forgotten the poor quality of the seat.

It took Mari a moment to ascertain what had awakened her. The coach no longer bounced so badly that she feared for her teeth.

Ah, that was it. They’d stopped.

“We’re here?”

Bennett nodded.

He helped her from the coach. The coachman held out his hand and Bennett deposited a few coins in it. The man grunted and tossed down Bennett’s pack. She winced as her art supplies followed it on a long journey to the dirt road. Without a word, the coachman cracked his whip and the weary horses retuned the way they had come.

She flung open her box. Nothing broken. “He certainly had no qualms about leaving us in the middle of nowhere.”

Bennett glanced briefly at the departing vehicle. “That’s the main reason I selected him. That, and he was willing to take us farther into this area than anyone else.”

“Don’t you fear he’ll give away our location if anyone questions him?”

“He will in an instant, no doubt,” Bennett confirmed. “But he’ll need to rest his horses before returning to Constantinople, which means at least several hours in an inn. And once he returns, whoever is pursuing you will have to question several coachmen before he finds the correct one. Assuming you’re correct, and there isn’t a traitor among your servants, he won’t even know to look for a day or two. But either way, by the time whoever it is tries to follow us, we should be finished and on our way back.”

“You’ve thought through this quite thoroughly.” It occurred to her that she’d not thought enough about some of the practicalities of this venture. She’d simply relied on him. The thought disturbed her. “How are we returning?”

Bennett picked up his bag and secured it on his back. “Abington has orders to rendezvous with us at the town we passed a few miles back, in two days.”

She shouldn’t have allowed herself to sleep so long. She’d robbed herself of the chance to survey the area, including the aforementioned town.

She did so now. She’d had no reason to venture to this area before, and it was no wonder. There was hardly any life to be seen. Only an occasional shrub broke the flat gold canvas painted by the rocks and sand. In the distance, a few monolithic rocks jutted out of the ground like houseless chimneys.

Bennett bent to collect her art supplies but then stopped. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She smiled grimly. “I think it’s a bit late to change my mind.”

He tucked his finger under her chin. His eyes were intent. “No. I’ll walk you back to the town and arrange a way for you to return to Constantinople.”

She wasn’t about to leave him out here on his own. “I haven’t changed my mind. Have you?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled at her challenge. “No.” He picked up her art supplies and gestured toward the rocks. “Shall we?”

A few hundred yards from the road, Bennett called them to a halt and removed his pack. “I’ve brought you another set of clothes.” He pulled out a pair of trousers and white linen shirt.

“Those are men’s clothes.”

He frowned. “My sisters were forever sneaking out dressed as boys, but if you’re uncomfortable—”

Oh, she’d done her share of sneaking as a young girl. “No, I’m just surprised the plan was yours and not mine.”

He handed her the clothing. “We need to travel quickly through rocky terrain. While native garb is better than an English dress, it’ll slow us.”

She glanced around. None of the rocks were tall enough to duck behind and the brush was too sparse to offer effective cover. She stood awkwardly with the clothing piled in her hand. Perhaps she could just ask him to avert his eyes. She could hardly change— The absurdity of the situation got the better of her and she grinned. “I was going to ask you to turn around but it’s a rather moot point, is it not?”

His gaze seared her. “Perhaps it’s for the best if I do turn my back.”

She should have let it go at that, but she was still warm and relaxed from being held in his arms. “But what if I’m ambushed by bandits while your back is turned?”

The side of his mouth quirked up. “I can hardly leave you at the mercy of bandits. What sort of protector would I be?”

“Hold these.” She handed him back the clothing.

The cool dawn wind raised gooseflesh along her arms and brought with it a touch of her former sanity. It was one thing to be bold in the privacy of her own home; stripping in the middle of the Turkish desert was entirely different. She hurriedly stripped down to her shift, keeping her eyes trained firmly on the ground.

Bennett made a strangled sound across from her. She jerked her head up, fearing bandits or worse. Instead, Bennett stared at her arms.

The henna.

Her sleeveless shift clearly displayed the patterns she’d traced on her arms. “I had to practice. To get the timing and concentration—” The words died in her throat as Bennett stepped toward her. If his gaze had seared her before, it now reduced her to a burnt cinder. She swallowed.

“Why can you never be what I expect?” He traced the petals of a lotus blossom with his index finger, then trailed a vine down to the inside of her elbow. She trembled even under the near innocent caress. Thank heavens her stockings covered the designs on her legs.

She inhaled deeply, the desert air dry in her lungs. “I can’t change who I am.” But for the first time she wished she could. But it wasn’t possible for her to be meek and compliant. She had to do what she thought was right and take the consequences.

No matter how much they hurt.

His finger skimmed up her shoulder to the shallow hint of cleavage above the neckline of her shift. “I don’t want you to change.”

She shifted restlessly under his caress. “But I aggravate you.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Sometimes.” His fingers twisted a curl resting on her shoulder, his gaze lowering to her mouth. “You look like a wild, untamed creature.”

A shiver raced through her that had nothing to do with the chill. If he kissed her, her heart would be lost. And she wasn’t ready to surrender it.

Not yet.

Mari took a half step away from him. “You mean my hair looks like a ferret that ran through a rosebush?” She tossed the tumbled mass of curls.

Although he still stared at her far too intensely, he chuckled, lessening the heat between them. A glimmer of their old friendship filled the void. “I think it’s quite charming, but . . .” He pulled out a disreputable, floppy man’s hat from his pack. “Here. To keep you out of the sun and hide your hair. It isn’t as foul as it looks, I swear.”

“My hair or the hat?”

He gave her a mock frown. “The hat.”

She twisted up her hair and squeezed the hat on. She glanced down. She was standing in her shift, wearing nothing else but a horrendous excuse for a hat and her half boots. She lifted her hand to her mouth to stop her laugh but it was too late. A snort escaped and then a whole river of mirth.

Bennett grinned and then he laughed as well, his head tossed back and his chest shaking.

Her heart lurched.

She should’ve let him kiss her. This was far more dangerous than lust.

She snatched the clothes from his fingers and pulled them on.

Bennett surveyed her newly covered form, his eyes lingering on her hips. “No one will mistake you for a boy if they see you close up. Let’s finish and get you away from all this.” He handed her a dry biscuit and strode toward the rocks.

Hours later, Mari huddled in the feeble shade offered by a shrub so dry and denuded she didn’t even recognize its type. She sipped the three mouthfuls of water Bennett rationed. If he’d been a different sort of man, Mari would’ve suspected he sought revenge for her treatment of him on their excursion to Midia.

Their journey so far had been beyond grueling, and she was no stranger to the wilderness. When she’d been actively researching and not merely making a pretense of it, she’d often hiked long distances to find the specimens she needed. She’d also camped with her father at his digs, dozens of miles from the nearest town.

Except for the heightened color in his cheeks, Bennett appeared remarkably unfazed. He offered her a handkerchief to wipe her face. “You would’ve done well on campaign.”

From what he’d written in his poetry—which he still didn’t know she’d read—that was high praise. She should tell him she had his book.

But they’d just renewed a friendship of sorts. He even seemed to like her again. If she told him she’d rescued his book, she’d have to tell him that she’d read it as well. Would he be angry? She would be if someone had taken her drawings and rifled through them, and they were just pictures of plants and bugs, not the inner workings of her soul.

Perhaps she wouldn’t tell him. If she waited a few days, he’d be gone forever and then the point would be blissfully moot.

But the suspicion that he might regret losing the book gnawed at her. How could he not? The book contained the crux of all the heartache and triumph he’d experienced during the war.

She’d tell him. She refused to be ruled by cowardice. She opened her mouth to prove it to herself. “What was it like on campaign?”

Coward.

Bennett rose to his feet and motioned that they should continue. Mari stifled a sigh and complied. The coarse sand crunched under her feet as she carefully picked her way over a pile of crumbling stone, remnants of the volcano that had once covered the area.

“Unbearably hot or unbearably cold.”

She started at Bennett’s voice. She’d almost forgotten her question.

“Spain and Portugal were as unbearable as this in the summer.”

It was the first indication she’d had that he felt any discomfort from his surroundings. The revelation made her feel slightly better about the sweat dripping between her shoulder blades. “What did you do?”

“We walked until our lips swelled so badly from the sun that they split open and blood ran down our chins.”

Her hand flew to her floppy hat.

He grimaced. “All we had were our brimless shakos, which didn’t do a bloody thing in the heat. Finally, someone figured if you held a leaf in your mouth, it would shade your bottom lip.” He shook his head. “We must have been a sight—and not the heroic one described in the papers.”

The insight she’d stolen from his poetry had tantalized her, but the revelations from his own mouth felled her. Her heart ached for what he must have suffered. Why did he have to become so open and human now? Her tenuous hold on her feelings spiraled further from her grasp.

Not yet
. Not until he was willing to explain why he’d attacked her father. If he would, if he thought her opinion of him mattered more than whatever was keeping him silent, she could trust him, and if she trusted him, she could free herself to love him.

“We no longer resembled anything you might see on the parade ground. Clothing fell apart and we replaced it with what we could find from towns we passed and even dead comrades. You know when an officer dies, they send his sword home to his widow, but the rest of his belongings are auctioned to the highest bidder? Bought a fine coat that way once, had deep pockets. It was either that or lose fingers to the cold.”

She reached for him, trailing her fingers down his arm. He stared at her hand as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Our guns never wore out though, just the soldiers behind them.”

“ ‘A ragged band of peddlers forever selling wares of steel,’ ” she recited. “ ‘With the—’ ” She choked on the next word. She was quoting him his own poem.

T
he memories blanked from Bennett’s mind. He whirled and faced Mari. “What did you say?”

Her face paled in the crescent of shade provided by her hat. “I—”

“Those were my words. I wrote them after Corunna.”

She laced her fingers in front of her. “I picked up your book when you left it at Midia.”

“And you read it?” Rage warred with humiliation. Those words were private. Even when he’d allowed himself the fantasy of publishing a poem someday, he’d never considered those poems. There was no rhyme or meter to them. He hadn’t labored to find the right word; he’d fought to disgorge the emotions from his thoughts.

Had she laughed over the sentimentality smeared over the pages? Or worse, did she pity him as some poor sap who fancied himself a poet?

There was no doubt she was an artist. His sad attempts to write must seem comical. He turned his back and continued walking. He knew she followed by the sound of her steps behind him. She knew nothing of stealth. “You had no right.” He sounded like a petulant child to his own ears.

“I know.” Her whisper barely reached him.

But if she’d read his work, that meant his book wasn’t lost. A new urgency pounded in his chest. He drew in a deep breath. He wouldn’t betray himself by pleading to get it back. “I expect you to return it.”

A pebble bounced next to him that she must have kicked. “I will. I was planning to tell you I had it.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them, far removed from the companionable pauses of earlier in the day. What had she thought of his poems? Although he’d never intended for anyone to see his words, now that Mari had, he found himself craving her opinion. Why hadn’t she offered one? Why had she been so hesitant to tell him she had the book?

The answer was obvious.

He tugged on the straps of his pack. “Don’t worry. I don’t delude myself into believing I’m a poet. It was simply a way to pass the long hours between battles.”

Hell, now he sounded like a child trying to avoid punishment. No more babbling.

“I’m well aware of my lack of expertise. Once at Eton, I submitted a poem for a competition and the English master scolded me for making a mockery of the time-honored tradition.”

Rather than laughing as he intended, she inhaled sharply. “Surely not.”