They could be allies—if she divulged the truth sparsely and carefully. If she revealed no secrets that would see her deemed a traitor, nothing that would result in her standing upon a scaffold.
“I followed him that night, keeping to the shadows. He went to an empty and derelict tavern at the edge of Spitalfields. I was as surprised as hewas that he was arrested. It appeared Scotland Yard was waiting. They knew he’d be there.”
“Someone betrayed him?”
“It would seem.”
“Did you lie about being arrested?”
“No.”
“I find it hard to believe an agent of the Crown would be interrogated and sent to Newgate to rot for a while.”
“The success I achieve in my endeavors is dependent upon people not knowing what my position is. I shouldn’t have told you.”
“Why did you?”
She pulled the last stitch taut, knotted it, snipped the needle free. “I couldn’t think of a lie that would make what you witnessed of my actions tonight believable.”
Using a damp cloth, she gently wiped away the blood lingering around the angry, red, swollen flesh. He’d been incredibly stoic, not flinching, not moving as she’d worked. He was no stranger to pain, she was certain of it, wondered what other scars she might uncover if she gave his body a thorough going-over. Then cursed herself for wanting to do exactly that, especially when what she truly wanted to discover had little to do with marred skin and more to do with muscle, sinew, and brawn. It had been a good long while since she’d been drawn to a man, had yearned to explore every facet of him. Inside and out. Top to bottom. She never should have allowed his mouth to meld with hers, but having done so, shewas struggling not to become lost once more in the forbidden temptation that was Marcus Stanwick. Yet the tenseness in his shoulders told her he was still in pain, and there was little she could do about that. She had no laudanum on hand. The amount of rum needed to dull the pain would leave his head with regrets come morning.
Before she could think better of it, could convince herself of the stupidity of it, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to the stitched wound, acutely aware of his sharp intake of breath, his muscles bunching and flexing before holding remarkably still. She was relatively certain she hadn’t caused him further pain. No, his response had more to do with awareness. A wolf that had caught scent of its mate. Lord help her, but she was having fanciful thoughts. Perhaps because the realization of how close they’d come to losing their lives in that alleyway was finally striking home. Or maybe because she’d tended to him. It had been far too long since she’d given care to anyone other than herself.
Feeling her cheeks scalding with embarrassment, she pulled back and forced her traitorous eyes that enjoyed the sight of him far too much to meet his suspicious gaze. “My mother always swore that a kiss would hurry the healing along.” As a child, Esme had intentionally scraped her knees, elbows, limbs, and hands just for that brief moment of tenderness from a woman who had always made Esme feel as though she’d ruined her mother’s life, having been conceived before herparents were married, forcing the unwed youth to marry a soldier who couldn’t give her the glamorous existence she’d craved. “I apologize. My action was merely habit.” Even though she’d never once done such a thing before.
He narrowed those incredibly blue eyes, and she knew a cutting comment was hovering on the edge of his tongue, one that revolved around her promiscuity, no doubt centering on her interactions with his father. “My parting words to you at the Mermaid... they were uncalled-for.”
His admission, the very last thing she’d expected, took her aback. He was thinking of the harsh sentiment that had stung her, that had somehow managed to slip into the cracks in her heart to wound her in a more devastating manner than a knife to the flesh. She arched a brow. “Are you attempting to apologize because you’ve just realized that I have the power to call for the Queen’s guards and have you carted off in chains to some dark and dank dungeon, perhaps to never again be seen or heard from?”
She thought she might have detected a glimmer of amusement, perhaps even admiration, in his eyes before they went flat, effectively concealing whatever emotion might have been struggling to break free. “When I suggested earlier that we go to a pub, I did so with the intention of apologizing there. But I got distracted with striving to survive. I regretted the words as soon as they were uttered. You were undeserving of them... as well as many of the ones that preceded them.”
She considered tormenting him by insisting he reveal which ones precisely but some that he considered insult she did not want to have to acknowledge as being true. Far too often, she’d imagined the glory to be found in having him in her bed. Not that she was going to admit that weakness to him because he could use it as a weapon against her and he had quite enough in his arsenal to do her damage if she let him. Still, she did have the means to disarm him a fraction, to move a weapon from his armory to hers. They may have been comrades in arms a couple of hours earlier, but she needed to be prepared in case they didn’t remain that way. She’d learned long ago to never underestimate the ability for friend or foe to annihilate her. “I fully comprehend why you harbor such a low opinion of me. Just as I formed an opinion regarding you based upon what I read in gossip sheets, so you’ve relied on rumor to weave a tapestry of my character. I doubt it will change your view of me, but it might assist you in your quest to know that the relationship I established with your father never extended to the bedchamber.” Holding up a hand speckled with his blood, she shook her head. “You’ll probably interpret that to mean we swived in the parlor, so let me be perfectly clear: we never ever engaged in any sort of fornication.”
The relief that swept through Marcus was unnerving. He had no reason to believe her, and yet, he did.
Maybe it was because his shoulder ached like the very devil. Perhaps it was the gentleness of her fingers when it had been so very long since anyone had shown him any tenderness. Perhaps it was the press of her heated mouth to his warm flesh and the yearning it had awoken in him, the desire to have her never pull away. Perhaps it was because if he didn’t hate her, if his father had never been intimate with her, Marcus was going to be bloody well tempted to kiss her again—this woman who was nothing at all what he’d presumed. “He told me and others that you were his mistress.”
She arched a brow. “Are you insinuating he wasn’t one to lie? That he was an honorable man?”
“That first night you told me he fucked you.”
“No, I said he didn’t visit me for conversation, and he didn’t, but you assumed—as most men do when it comes to women—that I had only one other thing to offer.”
“Then what did he gain by being with you?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? I’ve asked it myself often enough. He brought me gifts, but he never made any overtures about wanting more from me than occasional company. I encouraged him to spend time with me, but I never had to ward off any unwanted advances. As a matter of fact, I sometimes wondered if I wasn’t merely easing his loneliness. However, because he made our affiliation so public, I finally came to the conclusion that he used me as a decoy. If he wasn’t in residence or at the club or at a society affair, well, he was with his mistress, with me.”
“He never told you what he was up to?”
She shook her head. “Whenever he showed up at my door, he seldom stayed long. He’d have a scotch and then leave, for a rendezvous elsewhere, I think. Brewster or I would follow, but we never saw him meet with anyone. If he went into a pub, he would sit at a corner table alone. If he was communicating with someone, it wasn’t apparent. On occasion he took me to the theater or to dinner. If he was passing off messages while I was with him, he was incredibly clever at it. I never detected anything suspicious.”
“What else have you not been quite honest about?”
She got up, went to the sink, washed and dried her hands. Returning to the table, she picked up some fresh linens and began wrapping them around his chest, over his shoulder. “I never lied to you about anything of significance.”
“But you left out certain details that led me to draw incorrect conclusions.”
“It’s what a good spy does: lead with as much truth as possible so you don’t have to recall a false narrative.” She quickly finished dressing his wound and released a slow sigh. “I’m rather certain you have many more questions, but the answers must wait. You’re hurt and I’m dreadfully weary.”
