The Highland Secret Agent Page 15

  His hand was at the neck of her dress and the buttons slowly came undone. The first, then the second, then the third...then all the way down to her mid-back as he rolled her gently onto her side.

  He sat back as he rolled her over, pulling dress and petticoat down as he kissed his way down her neck and to her breasts. Then he stopped abruptly.

  “No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No. If I do this, then...”

  He sat up, shaking his head. His face was ash-pale. He was shaking. His hands were tight. Balled into fists. She sat up, feeling the flush of embarrassment fill her.

  “Henry, I...”

  “It's not you,” he said gently. He turned to face her. His eyes were dark, tortured. “It's me.”

  “No, Henry,” she said gently. She was fastening her gown and he stared at her skin, and then closed his eyes. “It's not you,” she insisted.

  “It is me, though.” He laughed. He moved then, when she had finished fastening her dress. He knelt on the floor, gazing up. “I'm wicked, I know.”

  She smiled. Reached out a hand and, very gently, stroked his cheek. She sighed.

  “Henry, you are not wicked. No more than I.”

  He laughed, his face disbelieving. “No. No you're not.”

  “I am, though,” Amice said gently. “I...” she shook her head. “Henry, I like how you make me feel. I don't know anything about it, but I don't want to stop. I also know how wrong it is.”

  Henry laughed. “Then you know exactly how I feel.”

  She felt her heart melt. He looked so longingly and so guiltily at her. She kissed him. He tensed and kissed her back. Their lips met and parted in a kiss that was chaste and gentle and said no less of love than their earlier kiss had done, despite its innocence.

  “Now,” he said raggedly, “I should move.” He stood and walked to where their saddle packs were lined up against the one wall, rummaging through one. “If I sit too near you, I'll never stop.”

  She smiled. “Oh, Henry. Me too.”

  She surprised herself by how shaky her voice was. She really did long for him, she realized. It was going to be so hard not to touch him, not to allow the natural end to their longings.

  Not that I even know where all this ends. Not really. I want to, though.

  She flushed. She couldn't quite believe that she, her mother's youngest, the gentle family baby, was thinking of such things.

  “Now,” Henry was saying as he fidgeted with their luggage, “I think the best thing we can do is have some lunch.”

  Amice chuckled. “A good idea.” At the thought, her stomach twitched alarmingly and she realized that, for an active day, they'd really eaten very little. She was ravenous.

  They settled down in the dining-room together. The place was quite rustic, the other clients farmers or farriers, and over the stew with fresh baked rolls, they discussed their plans.

  They spoke French, which attracted some angry glances until the innkeeper told the customers, in no uncertain terms, that they were local gentry and not to be bothered. Amice flashed him a smile and he blushed, nodding.

  “What did he say?” Henry murmured.

  “He said to leave us be.”

  He smiled. “Good.”

  Under the table, his foot brushed her ankle. She jumped. He smiled and she wasn't altogether sure the contact had been accidental. Her pulse raced.

  “Henry,” she said firmly.

  “What?”

  She blushed. “Nothing.”

  He laughed. He broke bread and they shared it, Amice savoring the delicious yeast-filled taste.

  As they ate, Henry told her a story about when he was a boy, riding through the woods near his father's manor. When she looked at him, she noticed something.

  No. It cannot be. But it was. She was sure of it.

  The man by the door – he was one of the servants from the duke's holdings. She was almost completely sure of it. She kept an eye on him. Henry frowned. She jerked her head. He raised a brow but didn't look at once. He finished the tale, broke bread, and then surreptitiously turned.

  “Oh.” He nodded. “Him?”

  “Mm.” Amice nodded. She held the bread in her stew, soaking up the gravy. “He's been watching.” She ate the bread and then continued. “I'm sure he's listening.”

  “Oh?” Henry frowned. “In that case, did I tell you about the time I had a hunting accident? There was a fellow just like that poor spavined dolt by the door then, too.”

  Amice stared at him. Across the room, the man frowned and scraped back his chair. Henry tensed. He nodded at her.

  “Yes. He does understand French.”

  She almost laughed, but the seriousness of the situation was too great. They thought they had escaped, but now she wasn't certain. If only she knew for sure it was the same man!

  “What should we..?” she began. Henry coughed.

  “I fancy a walk when we've finished this meal. What say you?”

  Amice swallowed, and then nodded. “Good. Yes.”

  In the inn yard, Henry drew her aside. “Well spotted!” he nodded. “You were right.”

  They were in the shadow of a wall near the stables. In the main body of the yard, a serving man carried flour into the kitchen and a carter checked his team. A groom raked hay and the cook was singing to herself as she washed the pots. It was a pastoral, peaceful place. Even so, she shivered.

  “Henry, I think I know him.”

  He stared at her. “What? How can you...” he trailed off as she interrupted gently.

  “Henry, I think I recognize him from the duke's household. He was at the banquet, and also in the solar, during breakfast. He works for him.”

  “Oh.” Henry tensed. “Well. That's bad.”

  “Yes.”

  They stood silent a while. Amice looked at him, feeling so worried for him. He was already wounded. Why couldn't these people leave him alone? She squeezed his arm.

  “We'll find a way out,” she said reassuringly. He nodded.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, we should probably do that now. Actually...” he frowned. “I have an idea.”

  “You do?” Amice looked up at him, curious. “What should we do?”

  “This.”

  He told her his plan. It was simple but brilliant. He looked at her afterward with worried eyes.

  “Amice. Do you think...no.” He shook his head. “We can't do this. It's too risky.”

  “No,” Amice shook her head. “I have a better idea.”

  She told him. He looked outraged.

  “No!” He shook his head. “No, Amice. I cannot allow...”

  “Shush,” she said firmly. “I know you think it's a bad idea. Nevertheless, it might just work. Moreover, I trust you. Could you at least consider..?”

  He sighed. “Very well.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes. “But if you're hurt...if anything happens to you. If so much as a hair on your head is harmed, I'll never forgive myself.”

  Amice smiled. Surprised by her own boldness, she kissed him. He kissed her back. He held her against him as if he thought it was their last moment. As if she might vanish into air. As if he drowned and she was his survival. Then he moved away.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let's go inside.”

  They had a plan to follow.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  NEW BEGINNING

  NEW BEGINNING

  They went back to the market and spent a few hours there. When night started to fall, dusk creeping through the woods quick and early, they retired back to the inn.

  They ordered dinner and sat to eat it. It was gammon and dumplings, fine gravy in a tureen between them.

  “Could you pass me the gravy?” Henry asked.

  Amice nodded. She passed it and spilled some on his hand.

  He yelled. “You slattern!” he said loudly, in French. “You clumsy, doltish oaf!”

  Amice stared at him. She stood up, face outraged. She slapped him.

>   He jumped up from his chair and went for her. She shrieked and stumbled backwards. The other customers either ignored it or stood up themselves. Someone shouted at them to keep it quiet and someone else agreed. Amice cowered on the floor as the innkeeper strode briskly up.

  “That's enough, sir,” he said to Henry. A big man, with a big presence, he didn't need to do much to be threatening. He just stood between her and Henry.

  Henry's eyes narrowed. He raised a hand, and then thought better of it. Cursing, he turned on his heel and stalked into the hallway. Amice heard his boots on the flooring, then saw the light catch his pale cloak as he swirled it across himself. She heard him walk to the door and go out.

  “I...” she stammered as the innkeeper bent to help her up.

  “Are you well, lassie?” he asked gently. “How dare that foreign monster...” he shook his head. “I'm sorry, lass. I shouldn't say such things. But are you well?”

  “I'm fine,” she said shakily. “I think I'll lie down. He's not been himself lately,” she added quietly. “So worried. I think it's because of that letter he has. In his saddle pack. I don't know what he read in it. But he's been agitated ever since.”

  The inn-keeper patted her shoulder thoughtfully. “There, there. Are you well? Or can I call the missus? She can give you a drink to let you sleep.”

  “I...thank you,” Amice murmured. Then she frowned. “He'd be ever so angry with me,” she said, hiccupping nervously. “I shouldn't have told you. That letter's a secret. He'd go wild!”

  “There, there,” the inn-keeper said. “It's all well. I'll no' tell. You have a lie down now. You'll feel better in the morning. Cruel fiend,” he muttered under his breath.

  Amice let him lead her to the stairs, leaning on his arm. Then, when he'd gone, she ran quickly up the stairs to their bedroom. Slammed the door shut behind her and leaned against it for a moment. Then she sat on the bed, head whirling.

  Right. That was the easy bit. Now's the hard part.

  She heard a knock at the door. It was the inn-keeper's wife. “There, there, lassie,” she said gently. She was carrying a tray on which a big clay pitcher rested. “Here. Brought you some milk with some special herbs in. That'll help you rest. Always works, it does. Bit of rest, you'll feel much better in the morning.”

  “Thank you,” Amice murmured. “You're very kind.”

  As the woman looked at her searchingly and left the drink, she did her best to calm down, despite the fact that her heart was thumping and she wanted to stand up and run.

  When the woman had gone, she lifted the pitcher and threw out the contents. Then she shrugged out of her clothes and into her nightgown and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes and lay still.

  Wait, she told herself. Don't fall asleep. I know you're tired. One, two, three, four, five, six...

  When she had counted ten lots of ten, she heard something. The latch rattled. She stayed where she was. Don't move. You are sleeping. Don't twitch.

  She counted again. The latch rattled, then was still. Then, quietly, regularly, the door inched open. Amice, with her eyes closed, only knew it because of the slightly brighter light out in the hall, and the whisper of a breeze over her hair.

  The floor creaked. Stopped. Creaked. The bright light faded and went out. The door clicked shut.

  Now it was her, the room lit only by the fitful red glow of the fire, and someone.

  A someone who walked with silent feet across the floor. The only reason she knew he moved was because a shadow rippled and touched her face as he stood before the fire. She made her breathing slow. In. out. Don't move. You're asleep.

  The shadow disappeared. She heard a sound. A rustle. Whoever it was, they were searching in her saddle pack. She heard the sound of the clasp being unfastened, the almost-inaudible thud as the cover flap fell and whoever it was opened it. Breathe. Don't twitch.

  She lay still as the person finished with her saddle pack. Then she heard them move again. The floor creaked. Then stopped. Then the same sounds again as whoever it was opened the other pack, this time the one belonging to Henry. She heard furtive rustles as they felt about in the luggage.

  She heard an in-drawn breath. Then the person stood and the floor creaked as they moved. She saw the shadow grow and cover her face, and then she heard a step. Whoever it was, they were at the bedside. They were looking down at her. She tensed.

  Don't move. Lie still. Breathe. You're not awake. You're asleep. Still.

  Her heart was making such a noise she was sure whoever this was must hear it. She felt as if things crawled on her skin as she thought of them staring down at her. She heard a breath and felt a hand reach out.

  When whoever it was touched her hair, she couldn't lie still any longer. She tensed. The person hissed in a breath. She felt their hand move, covering her mouth.

  She opened her eyes and tried to scream.

  The man – it was the thin-faced, red-haired man they had seen earlier – swore and hit her on the side of the head. He held her down. He was trying to cover her nose, force her head into the pillow.

  He is going to try and suffocate me. I could die. I will die.

  She had no idea what to do. There was only one thing she could do. She fought.

  She bit his hand and he yelped, and then raised a hand to strike her. Then the door swung open so violently that it hit the wall with its force.

  “You!” a voice roared. Someone sprang at her attacker. He turned round in time to meet the onslaught.

  Henry was there. Henry, who wore only his shirt and trews and was unarmed save for his fists. Henry, whose hair shone in the firelight and whose face was twisted in rage. Henry, who was white with anger and who pushed the man so violently he fell against the wall then hit his head, systematically, into the oaken-beams.

  “You evil, wicked, cruel, filthy...” he was snarling, each word punctuated with a blow. “How dare you touch her! How dare you...” He continued in his onslaught as Amice rolled from under the blanket and stood beside him.

  “Henry, stop,” she whispered as the man fought and tried to get away. “Henry? Henry!” she pounded on his shoulder with her fist. She was afraid. She had never seen someone so angry before and she knew it would be all too easy for him to kill the man in this current state. “Henry...”

  “Huh?” he whipped round as she hit his shoulder with all her force. Somehow, that got through the haze of madness that had overwhelmed him, at least for a moment. He stared at her.

  “Henry, I am well. Let him go. Henry, you don't want to be a murderer.”

  “Huh? Oh...” Henry sighed. Her words cut into the wild rage and he opened his hand, letting the man go. The man stayed where he was, against the wall. He was dazed, evidently. As Amice and Henry stepped back, it seemed to dawn on him that he was released. He looked at Henry, his vision clearing finally and he stood up. Then, stumbling, he hurried from the room. Henry waited until they heard booted feet clatter on the stairs. Then he shut the door. Locked it. Sat down.

  He leaned forward, knees on elbows. Covered his face with his hands. He was shivering.

  “Henry?” Amice said. Now she was worried about him. He looked exhausted. His face was white, his whole body shuddering. “Henry, I'm fine,” she said gently, coming to sit beside him on the chest for storing clothes. “Henry. I'm fine...I am well. He's gone. Nothing bad happened. It's well. You can stop worrying now.”

  Henry went still. He sat up. His eyes met hers. As she watched, his eyes filled with tears and he held her to him, rocking her and holding her.

  “My dear love,” he said. “My dear, dear love.” He kissed her brow, then her hair, then her eyes. “I am so, so sorry. I can't believe that happened. I nearly let him kill you. Oh, my dear.”

  Amice let him speak, and then sat up. She put her hands on either side of his face.

  “Henry, my love,” she said gently. “It's well. He didn't, did he? I'm not harmed. You saved me. You saved my life, again. Nothing happened. You can relax.”


  Henry sighed. He rested a hand on her knee and then put his hands over hers, where they were clasped on her knee. “I'm sorry, my dear.” He chuckled. His voice was dry and scratchy. “I didn't mean to...to go that mad.” He shook his head. Dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief. He gave a shaky laugh. “I almost finished him.”

  Amice nodded. “I'm glad you saw sense. We don't want to be arrested for murder.”

  Henry laughed. “Quite so, dear.” He nodded. “Thank you, for, um, what you did back there.”

  Amice let out a shaky breath. “Well, thank you, too.” She nodded. “Now. What have we learned?”

  Henry laughed. “You sound like Father Baldwin, my tutor. I learned how bad my temper can be. And that I shouldn't get carried away. Oh, and not to kill people.”

  Amice giggled. “Henry, you know I didn't mean that. I meant, did we find out something useful?”

  Henry sighed. “As always, you make me see reason. Yes, we did. First, we know that man was a spy. Second, we know he knows I am, too. Thirdly, you were right about who he was – he served us at dinner. He was in the duke's staff. Well-spotted, my dear.” He paused. “I should have held him. Got more information out of him. I let him go.”

  Amice shook her head. “You have the right of it, Henry,” she said slowly. “We know all we needed to know. No need to make the fellow suffer any further.”

  Henry chuckled. “My dear, you teach me a lot. Observation, rationality. Kindness.”

  Amice smiled. “You teach me a lot, too, Henry. Courage. Trust. Love.”

  Henry looked down at her with immense tenderness. He held her in his arms and when he kissed her, it felt like nothing had ever felt before. Completely right and entirely wonderful. She looked up at him, blinking back tears.

  They opened the cheese they had bought and made a dinner out of what they had in their packs. Chestnuts, cheese. A few bread rolls from the castle kitchen.

  Henry laughed. “We put on a fine show this evening, didn't we?”

  “I almost believed you,” Amice said. “You looked so cruel!” she shook her head.