Too Wicked to Marry (29 page)

"So you didn't actually hear anything useful?"

His weight lifted from her shoulders as he stood straighter. He rubbed his head. "That's about it."

"Did you recognize their voices?"

"It was all muffled, far-off sounding." Harriet rubbed sharply aching temples. She wanted to howl with frustration. Even the best of experienced agents lost a round occasionally, but losing this round might mean their brother's life. Christopher knew that; she had no need to throw it in his face. Not that it wasn't tempting, she was no saint, and the events of the past days had her nerves strung pretty sharply. But what they had to do now was salvage the situation.

"We can forget about the courier; the Russians have his documents. So we have to follow them."

"Aye," Christopher answered. "I doubt they'll be spending the night at Strake House."

"The trouble is, people are in and out of Strake House as if it's a resort hotel. We'll need to trace half a dozen people or more to find the ones we're looking for." They conferred as they made their way from the grove and up the path to the gardens.

"If we hurry, we can catch them in the stables or on the road," Christopher offered.

"Are you in any condition for that?" she countered.

"I'll do what I have to, Harry."

"Admirable." Martin Kestrel came around a bend in the path as Christopher spoke. He looked Christopher over in the dim light. "You are a bit worse for wear, I take it? Does he need a physician?" he asked Harriet.

"We don't have time to find out," she answered. "Did you see anyone come this way?"

He shook his head. "Did you notice anyone follow me?"

He shook his head again. "So your brother lost them." It was not a question. "You idiot," he told Christopher. "After all Harriet's done to salvage this operation, you let the Russian agent slip through your fingers?" His outrage was palpable, his voice dripped with contempt.

"Stay out of this." Christopher was equally outraged. "It is no longer any of your affair. It never was. You only aided Harriet to get into her drawers."

"Christopher!"

"True enough," Martin answered. "But I didn't show up at the last minute and wreck her plan, now did I?"

Harriet stepped between them to keep them from coming to blows. "Stop it! We have to find Michael. The longer we spend bickering, the more time they have to get away. We have no idea who they are, we have to—"

"I know exactly who you're looking for," Martin cut her off. "I know the name, and I know where the agent is heading. Don't fear; you can catch them up easily enough. If I choose to help," he shot at Christopher.

"Do you want me to beat it out of you?" Christopher flared back.

Martin only laughed.

Harriet wanted to beat them both. "What do you mean, 'if you choose to help'? What do you know? And how do you know it? Help me, Martin. Please."

"What I know is for sale," he answered, no room for argument in his tone. "How do I know it? I am a diplomat," he reminded her. "I listen. I watch. I ask the right questions at the right time. When I am amiable, people like to talk to me, and I have been very amiable this evening. That is how I came to find out the information all your covert sneaking about could not discern."

"Superior bastard, aren't you?" Christopher asked him. "Tell the woman what she asked for and stop showing off."

Martin's attention stayed steadily on Harriet. She could sense his gaze burning into her, hard and uncompromising. Her response was visceral, instinctively female, kindling a dark burning deep inside her. A wild pang of desire shot through her, and she had to sternly tell herself to keep her mind on business.

She grasped his wrist. "What do you want?" she asked. "Name your price."

She saw a gleam of white teeth as he smiled in triumph. His laugh was low, thoroughly arrogant. "I'll name the price in private," he said. "All you have to do right now is unconditionally agree to pay it."

"Carte blanche?" she asked.

"Precisely. What I want, when I ask for itùand I'll name your brother's abductors."

"This is outrageous," Christopher interjected. "Harriet, don't you dare agree to this seducer's demands! We can do this on our own."

"How much time do you have?" Martin asked softly.

Blast him! Once again he held all the cards. He was good at that. "Fine," she sealed the bargain. "What you want, when you want it."

"Done." He kissed her swiftly to seal the pact.

"I'll kill you for this," Christopher declared.

"Later," she said. "We have to go now."

I had better be right.

This was not the first time the thought crossed Martin's mind on the journey from Strake House. It repeated as steadily in his head as the sound of the horses' hooves and the repetitious rattle of carriage and train wheels as they swiftly made their way south. A young man's life and state secrets both hung in the balance on his guess that Lady Ellen was actually an agent of the Russian government.

He knew full well that if Harriet had called his bluff, he would have unhesitatingly told her what she needed to know. Had she not been distracted by one injured brother and fear for the other, she would not have been fooled for a moment. Or so he hoped. Could she really think he held life so cheap?

Why shouldn't she? he answered himself. He'd already blackmailed her into his bed, why shouldn't she think him capable of even more heinous behavior? Well, if she'd told him about this Michael MacLeod to begin with, perhaps—

No, he'd acted like a cad. She had every right to think him capable of anything. All he'd been trying for with his desperate gamble was to have more time with Harriet. If he'd given her the information then and there the MacLeods would have hared off to the rescue immediately, and Martin's chance to make her his would have been gone.

I had better be right about Lady Ellen's involvement.

He had steadfastly refused to tell them anything but that they needed to head toward London, ensuring that he came with them as guide. Christopher protested, but there was nothing he could do but grudgingly yield to Martin's rules for this engagement. The siblings then swung into action, providing the necessary transport for the quickest possible journey with efficient alacrity. First they stole the three best horses from Sir Anthony's stable, and the chase was on.

Many hours later Martin was tired, grubby, in need of a shave, and sleep even more—but here he was in what the MacLeods called a safe house in a quiet, middle-class enclave on the outskirts of London. He'd asked why they could not simply return to his town house or to their aunt's establishment, but had been told that a neutral base of operations cut down the risk of being compromised. This was all so much jabberwocky to Martin, but he didn't put up any argument.

There had been little conversation on the breakneck journey. Christopher MacLeod as a glaring chaperone was even more daunting than Mrs. Swift. Martin could only be grateful that she had not come along for the ride as well. She and Cadwell had been left to make a more decorous exit from Strake House with their masters' belongings, and Martin fervently hoped never to lay eyes on Harriet's viper-tongued maid again.

He wiped a hand across his face as he looked out a window in the kitchen where Harriet had hastily prepared breakfast for them. Even spies out to mount a daring rescue needed sustenance and some rest, Martin supposed, and he welcomed the hot, strong mug of tea he held in his hands. He must truly be at the end of his energy if his thoughts had turned to Mrs. Swift. He must be dreaming on his feet.

"Nightmares, more likely."

"What did you say?" Harriet asked from where she sat with an empty plate in front of her.

Christopher had wolfed down a hasty meal and then taken himself and his raging headache off for a short nap, giving Martin a hard, warning look before leaving his sister alone with him.

"I said," Martin answered, turning from the window and the view of the gray day, "that I think your sibling expects me to ravish you on the kitchen table."

"Nonsense," she answered. "You are far too tired to ravish anyone at the moment."

"Precisely," he agreed, and yawned to punctuate the truth of it. He noticed that she blushed faintly at mention of ravishment, but didn't tease her about it. He let her fiddle nervously with her teacup and settled for watching while silence drew out between them. She was a tired, bedraggled, anxious woman, but she'd never been more beautiful to him. He wondered if his longing for her was as palpable to her as it was to him. What was she thinking about him? Did she hate him for all the things he'd done, and the threat of more indignities he held over her? Or had she put aside her feelings to concentrate on the job ahead of them?

Before he could ask, she lifted her head and said, "We have to go soon."

"Do we?"

"Christopher and I," she amended. "As soon as you tell us where."

Martin set his cup down on the table and ran a hand though his disheveled hair. "There is no need for you to be involved in anything dangerous." He wanted to slam a fist on the wooden surface and forbid her to put herself in danger, but that would only get him an arch look and a sarcastic comment. "Let Christopher handle whatever needs to be done."

"That's what Christopher will say." Her smile was only slightly sarcastic and arch. "But his arguments will do no more good than yours would."

"I'll save them, then," he agreed. "You are a very difficult woman. I like you that way," he added, "but I wish you'd be reasonable and let me take my information to the authorities who are trained to handle such matters."

"They aren't," she said.

"A young constable named MacQuarrie was assisting me in tracking you down. I could contact him."

"Did he find me?"

"No. But—"

"He wouldn't have. Aunt Phoebe
let
you find me, and only because she decided you were trustworthy enough to deliver the message that set us hunting for Michael."

He frowned. "I delivered a secret message?"

"Yes."

"I see." He concentrated for a few moments, then shook his head. "I'm trying to work up a fit of outrage at being used, but I seem to be too tired to manage it."

"Or you've gotten used to us."

"That might be it. Why don't I call MacQuarrie?"

She shook her head. "Because things aren't done that way."

"A week ago that would not have made sense to me."

"It still doesn't, but instead of discussing police work versus espionage work, why don't you tell me where I'm going and who I have to confront?"

"Are you sure your brother is really in danger?" he persisted. "Perhaps—"

"He's being tortured," she answered. Her jaw tightened with anger and her green eyes flashed. "He knows a great deal, and is handing them information a bit at a time. The longer it takes to find out what he knows, the longer he survives. He's counting on his family finding him from the information that the other side acts upon. That's why knowing who contacted the courier is so important." She stood. "That's why you have to tell me now."

He nodded. "You are right. However, if you are going along on this rescue, so am I."