A Secret in Her Kiss (6 page)

“He’s not my—” She coughed. “He’s not been too nervous, has he? I told him you’d approve.”

“No, he’s bearded the lion in its own den, so to speak.”

Mari’s eyes narrowed slightly at the pronouncement. “The major has a way of getting what he wants.” She jerked her hand away under the guise of straightening her skirt.

Bennett watched her annoyed gestures. True, she might dislike his interference, but her dislike of him seemed a trifle excessive. He’d come to protect her after all.

He shook off a pinch of regret. As intriguing as he found her, her opinion of him didn’t matter. He’d follow his orders whether she approved of him or not. He stood and bowed to both Sinclairs. “I regret I have business I must attend to.”

By the time he reached the street, the crowds had cleared, driven inside by the afternoon heat. Instead, veiled women leaned out of second-story windows and called to one another across the alleys. Doves crooned their incessantly gentle notes from the tops of lush green cypress trees. Through gaps between the houses, an occasional glimpse of the waters of the Bosporus beckoned. Bennett withdrew his book from his pocket and the stub that was left of his pencil. He jotted down notes on what he saw. None of the phrases could be called poetry, but a few of them held a hint of promise.

When he arrived at the embassy, the butler intercepted him and led him to the ambassador’s study. Bennett expected to find comfort in the English architecture, but instead the walls crowded the narrow corridors, suffocating him in the heat.

Bennett tugged at his collar before entering. Abington, still dressed in his filthy clothes, looked up from a chair across from the ambassador. Excellent, he could question both men at once. Daller motioned for him to sit. “Perfect timing, Major. Abington has just finished his report.”

Prestwood lowered himself into a chair.

Daller stroked his chin and smiled. Bennett had the distinct impression that he enjoyed his position of superiority over two noblemen who outranked him. Daller handed him a sealed letter. “Additional orders.”

Bennett broke the seal and scanned the contents. Miss Sinclair was to sketch military fortifications in Vourth. He was to ensure she complied using whatever tactics he deemed necessary.

His hand tightened on the paper. This was it, his key home. He placed the paper in his pocket.

Daller tapped a map on his desk. He looked as though he knew the contents of the orders. His next words confirmed it. “While the other drawings Miss Sinclair produced have been useful, this one is essential.”

Abington straightened in his chair. “Where do they want her to draw?”

Daller frowned. “Vourth.”

Abington surged to his feet. “She will not!”

The ambassador’s face remained impassive except for a new crease dividing his brows. “This no longer concerns you.”

Abington spun toward Bennett. “The last two agents we’ve sent into that area haven’t returned. The place is a death trap. She will be killed.”

The paper turned to lead in Bennett’s pocket.

Daller interrupted before Bennett had a chance to respond. “I am sure Major Prestwood is more than capable of protecting Miss Sinclair.”

Abington glared pointedly at the bruise Bennett knew was on his jaw. “That is not the point. It’s wrong to ask it of her. The trip alone is treacherous. The sultan himself has lost regiments of soldiers to the brigands in those mountains.”

The ambassador held out a calming hand. “It is a risk. But it is the final thing we’ll ask of her.”

The assurance failed to placate Abington. “Yes, because she’ll be dead. Prestwood, you cannot possibly encourage her to do this.”

Unease churned in Bennett’s stomach, but he didn’t allow it to show. “I have my orders.” He wouldn’t disobey them. If British soldiers balked at every command they didn’t personally agree with, Napoleon would be sitting on the throne in London. This particular order might be more uncomfortable than the rest, but that didn’t make it any less necessary.

Besides, he could protect Mari. It would take intense planning, but when it was over, he and Mari could return to their own lives.

“Disobey your orders.”

Abington lacked the military background to understand the enormity of what he had just proposed, but some of Bennett’s shock must have shown on his face.

Abington stalked to the door. “I expected better of you, Prestwood.”

Bennett’s hand fisted at his side, but he wouldn’t rise to the schoolboy taunt. “She chose this.”

“The risk to her so far has been minimal. If it hadn’t, I would have stopped her months ago.”

The last few words hung in the air. “Months ago? How long have you known Miss Sinclair was the artist responsible for the drawings? I thought her identity was a recent discovery.”

Abington stilled. “I misspoke.”

No, he hadn’t. Bennett rose to his feet. “You knew who she was all along and you let her become involved.”

Guilt flashed across the other man’s face.

“If you didn’t want her exposed to danger, you should never have let her play at being a spy.” Fury flashed through him. If Abington had been truthful from the onset, Mari would never have been allowed to involve herself in this, at least not to the degree in which she was now embroiled.

Abington gripped the door handle so tightly his knuckles whitened. “As if I could have stopped her.” His lips pursed. “At least promise me you’ll inform her of the risks when you tell her of the assignment.”

The ambassador spoke. “I hardly think—”

Bennett cut in. “You have my word. She will go into this with both eyes open or not at all.”

Abington nodded once, then stalked out.

Bennett stared at the open door. During the war, he’d ordered men to take assignments he knew they would not survive. Carter. Johnson. Potter. Davis. Blarney. He knew the name of every one of his men he’d sentenced to death. He saw each of their faces in his mind before he fell asleep and in his nightmares each night.

Their deaths hung like weights on his soul, but he didn’t question the correctness of his actions. He had done what needed to be done to win the war, to keep his family safe, and to keep the bloody, sickening horror of battle far from England’s shores.

His current orders were no different. England’s safety took precedence over the life a single man.

Or woman.

B
ennett shrugged into his dress uniform jacket. The prominently displayed medals clanked together in an embarrassing cacophony. He frowned and tugged on one. Damned gaudy things. But the ambassador made it quite clear he looked forward to presenting Bennett to his dinner guests tonight in full military glory, a sort of foretaste of Friday’s party.

Bennett fastened the jacket slowly, trying to delay the upcoming monotony. Perhaps Mari—

Bennett dropped to the ground and rolled behind the bed.

He was no longer alone.

He pulled his knife from his boot. Its weight balanced with cool familiarity in his hand as he listened to the silence in the room. What alerted him? Where had it come from? Awareness that had kept him alive on the battlefields hummed in his veins.

There. A soft scuff on the floor.

The noise did not come from the bedroom. That left the dressing room. A cool, damp breeze, from a room where the windows had been left closed, confirmed his suspicion.

Bennett rose to his feet and pressed back against the wall. He approached the adjoining room. His steps fell noiselessly on the wood floor.

“I would prefer not to be gulleted if I have a choice,” the cultured voice stated in a soft undertone.

“You could use a door.” Bennett lowered his knife. “If you are going to be sneaking into private rooms in the future, Abington, I would recommend further work on stealth.”

Abington stepped through the doorway. He was still dressed in dirty native garb. “I am glad to see you noticed me before I tackled you this time.”

Bennett grimaced at the rebuke.

“With people arriving for dinner, too many might recognize me if I knocked on the front door.” He grinned. “I found your note in my shutter. I must admit to being flattered.”

Bennett ignored his taunt and sheathed his knife. Leaving the note had been the most expedient course of action. Bennett knew of no other way to find him after the man had stormed out of the ambassador’s study. “I have a few questions regarding Mari.”

The smile dropped from Abington’s face. “Are you taking her to Vourth?”

Bennett nodded once.

“Then I don’t feel all that inclined to help you.” Abington turned to the open window behind him.

“How long has she been followed?”

Abington halted abruptly. “Bloody hell.”

Bennett studied him. “You didn’t know?”

Abington’s fingers gripped the windowsill. “As I said, I looked out for her when I could, but I was hardly a constant companion.”

“A man followed her this morning when she left you that note.”

Abington swore. “Did he see her leave it?”

Bennett shook his head. “She lost him first, but she was definitely being watched.”

Abington tugged off his dirt-smeared turban and ran a hand through his dark hair. “I knew someone had taken a shot at her, but I didn’t realize her enemy was so dedicated. I assumed she’d be safe surrounded by her people. Damn.”

“Do you have any idea who’s following her?”

Abington’s brows drew together. “It makes no sense. If the person is working for the sultan, why haven’t they simply arrested her? I have heard nothing through my usual channels that suggests the intelligence network here in Constantinople is even aware of her presence. If it were the Russians, she’d be dead. If the person wants money in exchange for their silence, why haven’t they asked for it?”

So much for an easy answer. “Does Mari have any personal enemies?”

Abington helped himself to a glass of brandy from the nearby table. “Nothing to warrant this level of interest. She generally keeps to herself. The women don’t pay her much heed and she is generally of little interest to the men.”

It took Bennett a moment to realize the grinding he heard came from his own teeth.

“Except perhaps those who wish to curry favor with the pasha.” Abington tipped back his drink with a single swallow. “Now, the pasha is a man with powerful enemies, but if they wish to discredit him through association with Mari’s actions, why haven’t they done so?”

“Perhaps they want solid proof before facing him.”

Abington nodded thoughtfully. “Not a bad theory. All the more reason to keep Mari from drawing Vourth. There could only be one reason for her to be in that region. It takes two days of treacherous hiking through barren hellish terrain to get there. Her flighty Englishwoman ruse wouldn’t work. No one would question her guilt if she is discovered.”

Bennett folded his arms. He wouldn’t risk Mari’s life by rushing into the new assignment, but he would not avoid it. He had things to take care of back in England. “I have my orders.”

The glass clunked heavily as Abington set it back on the table. “Do you wish her dead?”

“I have every intention of keeping her alive. Can you give me any information on the area?”

Abington spun toward the window, sighing. “If I don’t, I’ll be just as responsible for her death. I’ll give you a report on the last known bandit encampments as well as the safest routes I know of. It might take me a few days to gather the information.” He placed his turban back on his head.

Good. That would give Bennett time to track down the person following her. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Abington strode to the window and slipped out with a single noiseless movement. His voice whipped though the opening. “If she dies while under your care, Prestwood, you had better hope the bandits kill you, too.”

Chapter Seven

M
ari paced on a smooth outcropping of rock until Bennett reached her. He struggled with the two oversized baskets, a large easel, and wooden box of ink jars. Guilt nipped at her as he paused without complaint, despite the fact that the heat of the afternoon radiated from the rock so intensely she had to shift from side to side to keep her feet from blistering through the leather soles of her shoes.

He raised an eyebrow. She hadn’t let him rest since they set out from the inn where she’d left Achilla. The cumbersome items he carried had to be wearing blisters onto his palms, yet he bore it with stoic acceptance.

The British officers she’d previously known were focused on their own comfort and glory. Apparently, she had been assigned the exception.

She pointed to a copse of trees clinging to the side of the hill. “Let’s rest a moment until some of this heat passes.”

A glint of humor entered his eyes. “I think we’ve already walked though the worst of it.”

She tilted her silk parasol so he couldn’t see her face. “We’ll eat and then continue.”

She moved into the shade of the small grove. The waxy green leaves provided only a few degrees of relief, but after the long hike, it seemed an incredible luxury. Mari tipped back her head and inhaled. The pungent, sweet smell of the leaves dripped from the trees and tingled over her. Her tired muscles eased. She caressed a smooth, gray trunk. Strange, sandalwood trees grew all over Constantinople and the scent had never affected her so.

Bennett had smelled of sandalwood when she’d kissed him.

She jerked away from the tree as if it had burned her.

Bennett placed the hamper of food next to her. She sat, smoothing the sage green muslin of her dress around her legs. Her hand slid to cover the small ink stain Achilla had been unable to wash out. She ground her teeth and moved her hand to her side. She hadn’t cared about the spot the last time she wore this dress.

With an agitated flick of her wrist, she flipped off the basket’s cover and sighed as she surveyed the contents.

The final thrust of a campaign destined for failure.

Her plan was rather silly and juvenile. Fine. This was completely silly and juvenile. She grimaced. Perhaps “doomed from its inception” would be a more apt description.

She’d packed twice as many supplies as she usually did. She’d picked the worst inn to house them. She’d started the hike to her drawing site at the worst part of the day.

And she arranged a meal carefully designed to terrify any Englishman.

She pulled out the first crock of food and opened it. Aubergine and cucumber salad, seasoned with garlic, yogurt, green onions, and pepper. Lots of black pepper. Despite her father’s general acceptance of Ottoman cuisine, he refused to let this dish be served at his table, calling it an assault to the palate. Bennett’s nostrils flared as the scent pummeled him.

She set out the cabbage dolma, the hard, raw sausage, and flat
pide
bread. All perfectly edible, yet all things it had taken her years to grow accustomed to. She really should apologize for this.

Bennett surveyed the grove before sitting, seeing to her safety first.

What had she been thinking? She wasn’t a schoolgirl trying to oust her governess. “I—”

“I hope this means you’ve finally realized the futility of your childish plan.”

Ah, yes. That was why she’d thought of this.

After a quick sip, she offered him the canteen and smiled sweetly as he choked on a mouthful of the fresh turnip juice. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”

His eyes narrowed and he drank from his own canteen strapped over his shoulder. “This plan is beneath you. You could have done better.” His hand twitched as he tightened the lid of his canteen.

She grabbed his hand and flipped it over. Two puffy blisters bisected his palm. She winced as shame quenched her recent spurt of indignation. She’d meant to annoy him, not maim him. “Why didn’t you say something?”

His steely eyes studied her. “I dealt with worse on campaign.”

She drew out her own flask of water from the bottom of the basket and poured some on his hand. His hand flinched in hers as the liquid flowed over his abused skin. As she tied her handkerchief across his palm, her fingers grazed the old calluses that underlined his fingers. This wasn’t the hand of an officer who left the labor to his subordinates. A clean, white scar ran across the middle of his fingers. It must have been deep and bloody at one point, nearly severing his fingers. A saber cut, perhaps?

She turned his hand over. How could she have forgotten these? She touched the proof of his past wounds.

Because when she thought of his hands, she thought of pleasure, not scars.

“How long have you been in the army?”

His eyes followed her finger as she traced a scar. “Since I was seventeen.”

Mari considered the fine lines on his face. Most, she suspected, were from a hard life rather than age, but he appeared to be in his early thirties. That would mean he’d been at war for more than twelve years.

And she’d thought to drive him off with her pranks.

She traced a different scar, this one a mottled discoloration caused by repeated powder burns. Her finger halted midway and she wrenched her hand away. Her face burned. “I’m sorry about the blisters.” She ducked her head and busied herself with filling her plate.

He made no move to join her. “So what would you recommend I try?” Amusement rang clearly in his words.

A bubble of laughter escaped before she could stop it. She lifted her head and met his eyes. A mistake. A definite mistake. They crinkled around the corners with good humor. His mouth curved into a roguish grin.

He was much safer when he looked at her like a disapproving chaperone. This new Bennett was all too engaging.

“Believe it or not, I like all the things here.”

He picked up a plate and held it out to her. “I leave it in your hands then.”

She served him a small amount of all the different foods. She held her breath as he raised his fork to try the spicy salad.

His face betrayed nothing. He chewed and swallowed.

Three breaths passed.

He gave a choked chuckle and took a long swig of his water. “Mischief I anticipated, but not murder.”

She grinned and ate a large bite of the offending dish. “It isn’t my fault the British have weak stomachs.”

He scooped another forkful of the salad. “You had to go and insult England. Now I’m forced to eat all of it to uphold her honor. Besides, you’re British as well, remember.”

She ripped her flat bread into small pieces. Technically, she might be British, but at heart  . . . She faltered. She didn’t belong to any land.

Bennett chewed thoughtfully across from her. “You know, this isn’t half bad after one overcomes the shock of it.”

Her heart performed a curious twist in her chest at his appreciation of the dish. True, his attention stemmed from direct orders from the British government, but if she leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes, it was easy to let the steamy afternoon lull her into believing he wanted to be there. Perhaps she could even pretend that he wanted to close the space between them and claim her lips once again, then lay her back on the fragrant bed of leaves and ravish her. Delicious patterns of sensation swirled through her veins as images drifted over her closed eyelids.

He would prowl closer, drawn by the same helpless attraction that ate at her. His arms would enfold her and his lips claim hers, gently at first but then deeper, fiercer. This time she wouldn’t be focused on proving anything to him, but rather enjoying the sensations, storing them away for after he was gone. His callused fingers on her soft skin, discarding the clothing that interfered. The rasp of stubble on his chin scraping her neck. The smooth linen of his cravat as she removed it from his neck. The taste of his skin. Then she would, she would . . . She sighed. There were distinct disadvantages to having badgered Achilla into locating that copy of the
Kama Sutra
.

She opened her eyes to find his gaze on her. A banked intensity simmered in his expression.

He reached for her and she couldn’t have moved if the sultan himself had ordered it. Slowly, his fingers tugged the ribbons tying her bonnet. “If you’re going to sleep, I don’t want you to crush your hat. Why the English clothing today?”

Desire roughened her throat and she swallowed several times to ensure the words emerged in a proper tone. “It depends on my plans. If I’m in a city, I dress to blend in, but out in the country like this, there is no chance of being inconspicuous if spotted, so I find it best to try to stand out as much as possible. The Turks think all the English mad and are quick to believe I’d gallivant about the countryside searching for butterflies. It’s better not to be caught in a lie about who I am.”

“You’ve been stopped before?”

“Twice. But I simply must find the last specimen I need to finish my book.” She batted her eyelashes and gave him her best featherbrained expression. “Surely, you understand?”

A touch of surprised admiration flashed in his eyes.

Perhaps he realized she wasn’t a complete nodcock. The thought warmed her more than it should. After all, it meant he’d thought she was an idiot until now.

Although perhaps he wasn’t too far from the truth. The news that someone had trailed her yesterday had shaken her more than she cared to admit. For the week after Chorlu, she’d been constantly on edge, jumping at every noise and keeping to her rooms, but when another month passed and no new incidents occurred, she’d grown lax. Almost allowing herself to believe it was an accident. Now that wasn’t an option. She rubbed the goose bumps that pebbled the skin on her arms despite the heat.

Someone knew. Someone knew when she arrived and departed from her home. Most likely the same person who wanted her dead. If she was found with an incriminating paper and linked to the other rebels, they would all be tortured and hanged.

She had to end this. If she halted her work for the British, no one would have reason to pay her any further attention. She would call the ambassador’s bluff and refuse to draw anything further. It would rid her of danger and of Bennett in one fell swoop.

The simplicity of the plan made sense. It was what she should have done from the onset.

She’d find other ways to help the Greeks. Her mother had been a slave and she’d managed to build a group to foment revolution, for pity’s sake. She could find a way to help that didn’t involve endangering the others and despising herself every night for giving in to a blackmailer’s demands.

Bennett removed her bonnet with a gentle tug, distracting her. “If we’re in the shade, you might as well enjoy the slight breeze.”

Her hair, released from its tightly bound prison, rioted around her shoulders. She smoothed it back with two hands, desperately searching for traitorous pins.

“Leave it. It is a sight to behold.”

There was no way he could know how sensitive she was about her hair. Witch’s hair, her aunt Larvinia had called it.
My mother had the same hair
, Mari had said proudly.
Well, your mother is dying, struck down by the hand of God
.

Mari banished the thoughts. But for some reason she still couldn’t meet his gaze to discover if he was making sport of her. She’d locked his silly comment about her hair yesterday in a safe corner of her heart. She didn’t want it to have been meaningless.

He smoothed a tendril from her face. “If we weren’t courting, this would be terribly forward of me.”

The reverence of his hand on that strand of hair eased her fear slightly.

“I definitely couldn’t do this, either,” he said, rubbing it between his fingers. “And if I ran my hand down to this intriguing hollow in your throat, like this, you might otherwise take offense.”

Her skin burned from where his hand had traced down her neck. “It might warrant a ringing slap.” She placed her hand on the rough stubble beginning to gild his chin. Its rough texture as unexpected as Bennett’s lighthearted play.

“A slap, truly? For that paltry offense? I didn’t suspect I was courting a prude.”

Arranging her face into an expression of outrage, she tapped his lips with her finger. “A prude? Certainly not.”

A slow, lazy grin widened under her finger and she wanted to trap it there so she could memorize every curve. Her fingers had drifted to the seductive arch of his upper lip when his tongue flicked over to the pad of her index finger, surprising a gasp from her.

“Did that shock you then?” His lips, then teeth grazed the inside of her wrist, sending shivers dancing over the delicate skin. “Or this?”

“What if you discovered you were courting a wanton?” She didn’t care how breathy the words sounded, that she’d even managed to speak at all was a miracle. She untangled the simple knot in the cravat at his throat.

“That might have its advantages.” The words rumbled from his chest.

Trembling, she unfastened the top button of his shirt. His heart hammered under her fingers, and she pressed her palm against the spot, the intimacy as erotic as the heat darkening his eyes.

She swayed forward, pulled by some force she was helpless to resist, and kissed his neck. He shuddered, and she felt the movement to the tips of her toes. This time it wasn’t simply the power she had to provoke the reaction that thrilled her, but it was because this was Bennett and he received pleasure from her touch. Suddenly desperate to give him more, her tongue darted out over his slightly salty flesh.

He swallowed roughly. “Prude or wanton, you would undoubtedly slap me when I lowered my lips to your breasts.” His finger traced the edge of her bodice but he made no move to follow through with his threat.

“What if I begged you instead?”

He withdrew his hand with a curse and a rueful grimace. “No, slapping is definitely the correct course of action here.”

She was tempted, not because he went too far. “Nonsense. We’re courting after all.”

His eyebrow twitched upward. “Yes, if our relationship were only a ruse this could have been quite scandalous.” He rose to his feet and began collecting their things.