The Lady Who Came in from the Cold Read online

  Penny had arrived at that moment, witnessing everything. That shattered look on her face… His chest tightened, the knot so tight and painful he could hardly breathe.

  He was a bastard through and through.

  The footman arrived with his outerwear, and Marcus donned it, exiting into the wintry night. Snow was lightly falling, fat flakes that melted on his woolen greatcoat. He headed for his carriage just up the street, his thoughts whirling.

  How am I going to fix this? He’d bungled things up so badly that he didn’t even know where to begin. Last night, after the guests had left, he’d tried to talk to Penny, but she’d barred the door between them. The quiet, deadly steel in her voice as she told him to leave her be had been like nothing he’d ever heard from her—not in twelve years of marriage.

  His head pounding with self-hatred, with too much champagne, he’d stumbled away, passing out in his bed. When he’d come to in the morning, he’d gone straight to Penny’s chamber… only to find her already out. She hadn’t left word where she was going or when she’d be back. He’d questioned her maid up and down until the woman looked on the verge of tears.

  He’d waited all day at home for Penny to return but when dusk came, there was still no sign of her. Seeing the concern on his son’s faces—probably because he’d worn a path into the Aubusson with his pacing—he’d read them a bedtime story and then took off himself to the club for a drink, unable to bear the agony of waiting any longer.

  Of knowing how much he’d hurt Penny, the woman he loved more than his next breath, his cherished wife… whom he now realized he’d been punishing mercilessly. She might have betrayed him—but he’d more than returned the favor with his treatment of her. His throat thickened at the thought of her heartbroken, weeping alone somewhere; her pain was more than he could bear. He could only hope that he’d find her at home so that he could beg her forgiveness and ask her to truly start afresh with him.

  He was prepared to let bygones be bygones and prayed that she felt the same.

  Though the snow had stopped, the walk was slippery beneath his boots as he neared his carriage. The groom hopped down, hat pulled low and collar high against the falling snow, and opened the door for him.

  “Cold night, eh, Harvey…” Marcus began.

  He trailed off as he looked fully at the groom. Froze. It wasn’t Harvey. Same mustache and brown hair but different eyes, glittering and long-lashed… At that instant, white powder clouded Marcus’ vision. It filled his nose, his lungs, and, choking, he tumbled headlong into darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  1817

  “What do you mean you’re quitting? You can’t quit,” Octavian spat. “Spies don’t quit.”

  “This one does.” Pandora placed her palms on the spymaster’s desk. Leaning forward, she looked him in the eyes. “I’m done, Octavian.”

  His beetled brows drew together—an expression that she’d learned meant a battle ahead. But it didn’t matter. For the first time in her entire existence, she had something truly worth fighting for.

  Octavian sat forward in his chair. “What about the others? Marius, Trajan, Cicero, and Tiberius are already on their way to the Spectre’s lair in Normandy. They’ll need your help to capture the villain once and for all: you cannot let your colleagues down. ”

  After all these years, did he really think that he could guilt her into doing his bidding?

  “We all joined this spy ring of our own volition. What the others choose to do is not my concern.” She straightened from the desk but didn’t break eye contact. “The only control I have is over my own destiny, and I choose to walk a different path.”

  Octavian shot to his feet, his wiry frame vibrating with suppressed hostility. He jabbed his index finger accusingly at her. “You do not get to choose. I made you, Pompeia. If I hadn’t rescued you from the gutter, you’d be there still. Powerless. Broken. Have you forgotten what I did for you—how I gave you the weapons and will to survive?”

  The dark alleyway swamped her. Sickly cologne mingling with sweat, weight pressing her down, vermin scuttling through the piles of rubbish. The flood of helpless terror: a lifetime of being careful, yet she’d fallen into a trap. No one to blame but herself. No one to help. No one to care. Her basket of blooms scattered and crushed over cobblestone, her screams muffled by leather, pain tearing into her…

  When it was over, she lay there, curled on her side. A cool white wall sprung up in her mind, blocking out the fading footsteps. Her face smeared with wetness, her body numb, she reached toward a fallen violet, one that hadn’t been trampled, her fingertips brushing petals that had somehow survived…

  “I gave you power.” Octavian’s pale blue eyes pierced her through the fading memory. “Taught you how to avenge your honor and mete out justice. You owe me.”

  His words sliced but with the dullness of a blade much used. Her skin crawled but didn’t break. Instead of blood, bitterness welled.

  “I’ve repaid your kindness a hundred times over. I owe you nothing. I don’t even owe you the courtesy of my resignation—but I’m giving it to you anyway.” And because loyalty was difficult to die, even between spies, she said in low tones, “Call off the mission. Send word to Marius and the others. They’ll need time to regroup and recalibrate their plan seeing as I won’t be there.”

  “I’m not calling anything off,” Octavian snarled, his fist pounding the desk.

  His obstinacy shouldn’t have surprised her. It had taken years, but she’d finally realized the truth: Octavian didn’t care about her. He never had. Any pride or approval he’d expressed over the years had been that of a master praising a well-trained beast. The spymaster was ruled by ambition, by his obsessive need to hunt down enemy spies, and everything and everyone else—including the agents he’d trained­—were just pawns in the game.

  A game she refused to play any longer.

  “Their blood’s on your hands, then.” She turned to leave.

  “You think I don’t know what this is about? You think I don’t know about your little escapades at Toulouse and Quatre Bras?”

  She froze, her heart thumping.

  Octavian wasn’t done. “You think I don’t know about your pathetic attachment to Lieutenant- Colonel Marcus Harrington?”

  Schooling her features, she faced the spymaster once more. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It’s my business when some damned army man takes away my best spy.” His pale eyes narrowed, Octavian said, “Never thought you for a fool, girl.”

  “I’m not a fool,” she said, her hands clenching at her sides.

  “You are if you think a man like that will have anything to do with you. He’s a blue blood and, what’s more, a military man through and through. You and I both know that sort look down their noses at us, sneer at our methods even when they have us to thank for keeping their high and mighty selves alive. Risk your neck for his all you want, but he’ll never thank you for it. And even if he could overlook the fact that you’re an agent,”—Octavian’s upper lip curled—“he won’t overlook the fact that you’re no genteel virgin. Men like him demand an expensive vintage, and they want to be the ones popping the cork.”

  The crude words made her swallow, but she forced herself to shut out the pain.

  You have a plan. Marcus need never know the truth. You’ll leave Pompeia behind—become the woman of his dreams. You’ll make him a husband and a father and give him everything he’s ever wanted.

  “I thank you for your insights on gentlemen,” she said sardonically, “although, given the source, forgive me if I don’t take them to heart.”

  “Damnit, Pompeia, you were born to this life.” Like the master chess player he was, Octavian switched tactics with lightning speed. “Your place is here, not in blighted Society. I want happiness for you—and I can guarantee you will not find it with that sod Harrington.”

  “You think I’m happy here? With what I’ve done?” A harsh laugh scraped from her throat. �
��God, Octavian, you really have no idea, do you?”

  Because he’d never given a damn about her—about anything other than his own ambition.

  She turned and started walking.

  Octavian’s words followed her. “Marriage and love aren’t for you, Pompeia. You’re going to lose everything if you walk out that door.”

  “It’s worth the risk.” Marcus is worth any risk.

  Yanking open the door, she walked out of the study and toward her future which, God willing, would include the love of a good man.

  Chapter Eighteen

  November 1829

  Awakening, Marcus blinked into the dark canopy above his bed. His first thought was that he had the devil of a head. His temples throbbed, and his mouth was drier than sandpaper. Remnants of some horror-ridden dream frayed the edges of his consciousness.

  A nightmare.

  It had been a long time since he’d had one. After the war, they’d plagued him, but they’d gradually gotten better with Penny sleeping by his side.

  Penny. It all returned to him. What he’d done to her.

  His stomach lurched, and this time it had nothing to do with the ungodly amount he’d imbibed and everything to do with the look of devastation on his wife’s face. The look that would be branded upon his idiot brain until his dying day.

  How could he have been such a bloody moron?

  He lifted a hand to rub his face—and froze at the unexpected clinking. When he moved his arm, he heard it again. Metal against metal, like the links of a…

  What the devil?

  His eyes adjusting to the dimness, he saw with shock that a metal cuff circled his right wrist. Bolting upright, he yanked his arm, and shock gave way to disbelief when he discovered that a length of chain held him captive, securing him to one of the posters of his bed. Hold up, this wasn’t his bed. What in the blazes…?

  Shoving aside the thick bed hangings, he stumbled to his feet. Made it two steps before the chain pulled back, stopping him from getting any farther. Heart hammering, he scanned the dim room—a bedchamber. The hearth was lit, the flames giving off enough light to see the shape of a door at the far end of the room, shuttered windows along another wall. The place was oddly familiar, like a dream or a nightmare…

  Fragments exploded in his brain. Shrapnel of what he’d thought had been dreams but which now took on the shape of… memories? White powder tasting of oblivion. A jolting carriage ride, his swaying consciousness, a hand brushing across his brow. Sleep a while longer, my love. More powder. Darkness.

  “What in the devil is going on?” he snarled.

  The door opened. The concentrated light of a single taper momentarily dazzled his pupils, but no way in hell could he mistake the woman holding it. Her raven tresses tumbled wild and free over her red satin dressing robe, and her eyes, glinting violet, locked with his.

  “I see you’re awake,” his wife said.

  ~~~

  Taking advantage of her husband’s surprise, Penny set the tray down on the table between them. As she did so, the candle upon it flickered, chasing shadows over the room and Marcus’ stern features. Her pulse raced. For once, he was unkempt: his hair was disheveled, a scruff emphasizing the hollows and hard edges of his face. His shirt was untucked and open at the collar, revealing the hard-carved ridges of his chest.

  God, he was beautiful.

  And furious.

  Which was to be expected.

  She stepped back, beyond his reach, and gestured to the tray. “I’ve brought you some refreshment. You must be hungry and thirsty.”

  “What the hell is going on?” His eyes blazed, his anger filling the room.

  She wouldn’t let herself get intimidated. She was beyond fear and, in truth, as angry as he was. The image of him kissing Cora Ashley scorched through her, bolstering her resolve.

  Meeting his gaze squarely, she said, “What is going on is that I’m done with you steering our marriage. I agreed to let you take the lead because I’d wronged you and because you said it would help rebuild trust between us. Well, at the ball, your method of reestablishing trust,”—her voice quivered with emotion—“left much to be desired.”

  “That wasn’t what it seemed,” he said curtly.

  “No? So I didn’t witness you cozied up with Cora Ashley? You didn’t have your arms around her? You weren’t bleeding kissing her?”

  “If you’ll calm down—”

  Oh no, he did not just say that to her. Her fury bubbled over. “I will not calm down. I may have betrayed your trust, Marcus, but I never betrayed our marriage vows. I’ve been faithful to you from the day we met. Which is more than you can say apparently.”

  “Goddamnit, woman, will you just listen?” He planted his hands on his lean hips, scowling when the movement caused the chain to clank. “She threw herself at me, all right? Took me off guard. I only agreed to meet her on the balcony because she said she needed someone to talk to. About her marriage.”

  Relief spread through Penny, but she said scornfully, “And clearly you’re an expert on the topic.”

  “Pot calling the kettle black, is it? Seeing as your solution to our marital problems appears to be kidnapping.”

  “You’re my husband. You belong with me.” She said it as she felt it: unequivocally and with no apologies. “Not with some high-kick trollop who’s no better than she ought to be.”

  Something flared in his eyes—and it wasn’t just anger. She was suddenly aware of the tension sizzling between them, of the blood rushing hot beneath her skin. Her nipples were stiff and tingling beneath her robe.

  “Yes, I’m your husband, Pandora. So bloody unchain me.”

  The command, the growl in his voice, aroused her even further. Her heart thumped when she saw that he was similarly affected: his erection butted the front of his shirt. But she couldn’t give into desire—look at where that had got them in the bathing room. No, sex wasn’t the answer to their problems… not all of them anyway. What they needed most was to talk, and, to do that, she had to keep a cool head. Which meant she needed to get away from her dangerous, bristling, irresistibly masculine husband.

  She put more distance between them. Gestured to the tray on the table. “Refresh yourself. You’ll need the energy for our talk. The talk we ought to have had in the first place instead of your asinine moratorium on communication.”

  “Wait one damned minute. Where are you going?”

  “I’ll be back after you eat and wash up.” At the doorway, she paused, looking back at him. “You’ll want to be comfortable while I tell you about my past.”

  ~~~

  To Marcus’ disgust, he found he was ravenous. He polished off the meat pie and potato soup (favorites of his, although he probably should have checked for poison) and drank the entire pitcher of lemon-flavored water. After that, he took care of basic necessities behind the dressing screen and washed his face and brushed his teeth at the washstand. He couldn’t remove his shirt with the manacle on, so he simply tore off the grubby linen and threw the soft woolen blanket (that Pandora had so thoughtfully left for him) around his shoulders. When all was said and done and he felt human once more, he found himself reassessing his situation.

  And came to a rather startling conclusion.

  His fury was fading, edged out by simmering, undeniable arousal. He didn’t know if he wanted to throttle or make love to his wife—both, probably, and in equal measure. Mayhap at the same time.

  Her shenanigans were beyond the pale—and he would make that clear in no uncertain terms when they had their little discussion. But he couldn’t deny that her spirit and feminine fire aroused him to the point of madness. Truth be told, they always had. The way her violet eyes had flashed when she’d said that he was her husband and belonged here with her and the lengths she’d gone to carry out this crazed rendezvous at their cottage in the Cotswolds—oh yes, he’d recognized the place and the significance of it—made heat swell in his groin.

  It was his Penny all over ag
ain.

  Passionate, reckless, and seductive as hell, she’d captured his senses and his heart from the start—and nothing had changed that. Nothing could change that. Not her past, not his stupidity… not anything.

  The realization broke over him like the first rays of dawn, shattering the darkness.

  It had taken her abducting him to make him realize that he was already hers. As she was his. They belonged together, and the simplicity of that fact suddenly made the present tangled mess seem a hell of a lot less daunting. With his fog of anger and wounded pride finally burning away, he saw with crystal clarity: what she’d done before their marriage didn’t matter anymore. What did matter, however, was that she’d felt the need to lie to him all these years, and that was something they most definitely needed to address.

  As her footsteps sounded in the hallway, anticipation licked up his spine. Damn, but he’d missed his Penny. His lips curved slowly. He didn’t know what games she had in mind next, but whatever they were, he was more than willing to play.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Carrying a large box under her arm, Penny approached the door. She didn’t know what to expect, and it didn’t matter either way—because she was going to tell Marcus what he needed to know about her past. There was no putting it off, and doing so before had only worsened the state of affairs between them.

  Taking a breath, she entered and saw Marcus sitting in the chair by the table. He’d eaten and washed up, thrown the blanket she’d left for him over his broad shoulders. Beneath the blanket, his chest was bare, the firelight flickering over the virile, hair-dusted ridges. He looked every inch the master of the house despite the fact that he was chained to the bed. She supposed she ought to unlock the cuff… then again, mayhap it was better to get matters off of her chest before freeing him.