Against the Wind (Agents of the Crown #2)

Chapter 13

“Ahhh,” Kit sighed, letting out a long breath as the heat from the bath permeated her weary bones and soothed away the knots in her muscles. The entire journey had been cold and, though they’d made frequent stops to change horses, no stop brought the relief she now felt. For the last leg of the trip, even with Martin’s warm body beside her, she had felt iced over. The air blowing through the blast holes was almost intolerable. When she’d seen the name of the public house Martin chose for the night, the Sun Inn, she thought it might be a good omen. As it turned out, she was right.

Wiggling her toes, she sank contentedly into the hot water in front of a fire in a clean if sparely decorated upstairs room. Martin had gone to see the local magistrate about the highwaymen, and John was making arrangements for the horses. Because of that, Kit’s mind wandered to the man she’d married. How mysterious he sometimes appeared, like she was only seeing a costume he chose to wear. He could be very British, with a gentleman’s manners and speech, then in an instant change into the seductive Frenchman. She liked both, but which was the real Martin?

When the highwaymen attacked, he had taken control in a way that surprised her. She could still see the dead men lying on the side of the road, their blood glistening in the light of the moon. The memory caused her to shudder. Their faces were not ones she would be sketching. Three men dead because of their own avarice? What wasted lives. Did the men have families? She wondered.

Her new husband was obviously comfortable with violence. There had been no panic in his voice, only calm words and well-laid plans when the highwaymen stopped the carriage. And then it struck her: He had been prepared for the highwaymen, prepared to fight. Surely he had some military training, and yet she continued to believe he had never worn a uniform. She had never met a soldier who did not mention his regiment.

John followed his lead as if they’d fought together before as a team. Martin had called the younger man his assistant, but surely John Spencer was more than that. The calm both men displayed was unlike other men. Her father had told Kit of the composure some had before battle, a control others did not share. Not for the first time, she wondered at her husband with his almost beautiful face and indigo eyes, the charm of an English rake, the sensuality of a French lover, and the skills of a trained warrior.

What were they doing here? It seemed to Kit that Mary had been purposefully vague when explaining this trip to the Midlands, and the young lad who’d brought up her bath when they first arrived and the woman who followed with the tray of food now sitting on the table next to her had called her ma’am not m’lady. Not that she was offended. She had, after all, been just Miss Endicott to Pen and Pris, but the address suggested Martin had not properly explained their identities to the proprietor. Ah well, she was too tired right now to ponder all that could mean.

Rising from the tub, she reached for a drying cloth and wiped away the water from her body and freshly washed hair. It felt good to be clean, free of the road dust and the smell of gunpowder and a body too long in a carriage. Donning her nightgown, she sat by the fire eating the lukewarm stew, which was hearty and tasty. She was so hungry that the temperature was of little concern. She hurriedly drank from the tankard of ale, combed out her long tresses, slipped into bed and thought no more.

Aware of the possibility of highwaymen on the road, Martin and John had discussed what measures they might employ, though Martin had, of course, hoped none would be needed. Though he was prepared he had still been shaken by the danger to Kit. Once again, he was protecting a wife while acting the spy. At least this time he had been successful.

Mulling over both his past and their future, he’d left Kit to her bath and joined John in the common room of the inn for a late supper of mutton stew and ale, good country fare though it would not have been his preference. Living in France had taught him the value of well-prepared food and good Bordeaux, but he accepted that it was ale not wine that was the staple of the local English farmers, and he appreciated it for that reason.

Having finished his meal, Martin ascended the steps to his room, thankful for an understanding magistrate. Of course he’d had to present himself as Sir Martin Powell and accept the official’s gratitude for ridding the countryside of the bandits who’d been plaguing it. Soon thereafter, he was three horses richer and free of any suspicion.

He was unsurprised to open the door and find a dying fire and Kit curled up in bed, her hair streaming across the pillow like dark red ribbons. His groin tightened at the prospect of stripping naked and sliding into that bed; it had been too long since he’d shared anything more with her than a comforting hug and a quick kiss. He was desperate to take her in his arms, to lose his body in hers. As long as Ormond had talked him into this marriage, he might as well have the pleasure of it. But he’d made a bargain, one he was coming to hate. Then, too, she was surely exhausted and emotionally spent.

Standing at the edge of the bed, watching her sleep, he felt another surge of worry. What he had heard in the common room proved that unrest was rising in Derbyshire. The prior year had seen a hard winter with snow lingering into late spring. Many crops failed and families faced starvation. Men at the large ironworks in Ripley had lost their jobs now that the war with France was ended, and some were openly speaking of rebellion against the new laws, some urging another march on London in protest. The Midlands had become a powder keg waiting to explode, and he wondered if Oliver might just be the match that lit the fuse. He brooded as he considered he was taking his new wife into the center of that storm.

Wife. The prospect of having one made him feel vulnerable, but now that Kit was his he had to admit he wanted to keep her. Every night in his bed. But not in the middle of a revolution being purposefully fueled by a government spy. Since Oliver had said he could be found at the Talbot Inn in the town of Belper, north of Derby, Martin would keep Kit far from there. It was too close to the flame, too dangerous. Instead, they would stay a few miles farther north in Pentridge. Perhaps he could protect her by confining her to the inn and the village. He and Ormond had discussed it.

He washed, doffed his clothes and pulled back the cover, and had to restrain his hand from lifting the nightgown that covered Kit. Her beauty tempted him beyond reason. Naked, Martin crawled into bed and curled his body around her warmth, drawing her close. She was soft and her hair smelled of roses. A part of his anatomy longed to join them together, but his drooping eyelids told him he needed rest as much as she, and then there was that silly promise.

As he drifted to sleep, a thought crossed his mind. He had not even told her they were registered as Martin and Katherine Donet.

Kit woke early to find Martin again gone from their room. She was certain he’d come in last night, as she recalled his warm chest at her back and his arm draped around her. The thought made her smile. His presence brought not only the desire she had tried to suppress but comfort, for while their marriage had a strange beginning, she was pleased with the tenderness he had shown her. Given their passionate first night and his words since, she knew such restraint came dear.

With a smile on her face, Kit washed and quickly dressed in a cerulean day gown, pulling her hair back into a knot at her nape. Someone had left her a tray of food, and she greedily ate the coddled eggs as she looked forward to a last day of travel and to finally being settled in one place for a while. Packing her things in the small valise and taking up her cloak, she went in search of her husband.

Not seeing Martin in the main room of the inn, she stepped outside to find him talking to the coachman. As she approached the carriage, he greeted her with a broad smile.

“Sleep well, Kitten?” He took her valise and handed it to the waiting coachman.

She could feel herself blush. “Yes, thank you.” The name always reminded her of the intimacy they once shared, an intimacy she knew he was anxious to share again. But she supposed she was his kitten now, and the thought made her smile. “Are we to leave soon?”

“Almost ready,” said Martin. “I was letting you sleep, but I would have been up to check on you in a moment. You will be happy to see the carriage doors have been repaired and I’ve added some warm bricks to the floor. It should be much warmer inside.”

It wasn’t yet very cold out, but the day was damp and she was grateful. “My toes thank you,” she said, smiling just as John approached the back of the carriage with the horses. “Will one of these three be mine?”

Martin raised a brow. “You ride? ”

“I do. Perhaps not like Lady Ormond, but yes, I love to ride.”

“All right, but I don’t want you riding around the Midlands alone, not without one of us along. Promise me.”

A ride through the countryside each day was something she’d look forward to, but she would expect to be accompanied. “Of course.”

While the rest of their baggage and the food they would carry with them was loaded, Martin went into the inn to settle their account. This left Kit with the coachman, who was from Derbyshire and happy to share his knowledge of the area in response to her questions.

“Aye, the gentle hills of Pentridge could tell you a story if they could talk, ma’am. ’Twas the site of an old hill fort at one time. The village has been there as far back as the Romans. On the steeper slopes, there are even remains of Celtic fields. Why, the very name Pentridge was borrowed from the Celts. Some say it means the Boar’s Hill. There’s an old church ye might want to visit—St. Matthew’s. It goes back to the time of the knights. O’course, the coming of the turnpike and the Butterley Ironworks in nearby Ripley changed many things.”

“Ironworks?”

“Aye, since the Conquest the land around Pentridge has been known for its coal and iron veins. Though farming is still much a part of the village life, many of the men have taken up the job of colliers or miners.”

Perhaps the village of Pentridge had much to teach her. With somewhat more optimism than before, Kit looked forward to their arrival. She thanked the coachman just as Martin, finished with his tasks, came to help her into the carriage. John mounted one of the horses and tipped his hat to her in greeting.

The day proved long and the ride bumpy. Still, she found the passing hills and cloudless blue sky beautiful. The late spring sun lit the green valleys dotted with small farms and sheep. The country road was such a contrast to the congested and dirty streets of London that to Kit her surroundings appeared something out of a dream.

She turned to watch Martin stare out the window at the lands bordering the narrow road they traveled. His hand held hers, so perhaps now was a good time.

“Can you tell me something about your family?”

Martin took a deep breath and turned to face her. “Must I? Speaking of one’s beginnings can be so tedious.” But he offered that rakish grin which implied he was not truly averse to sharing with her.

“Are you flirting with me, husband?” she whispered.

“Yes, and I’d like to do more.” Pulling her into his arms he said, “I’d rather kiss you.”

He did, gently at first and then more forcefully, entwining his tongue with hers. She was swept into the feel of his masculine body wrapped around her. It seemed she had little resistance to his charm. “Kitten,” he murmured, trailing kisses down her throat. “I want you.”

Her body responded to him as it always did. Tempted to let him have her right there in the carriage, she nonetheless resisted, wanting to know him in more ways than just this.

“Martin,” she said in a breathless whisper, “can we just talk for a moment? It’s part of the reason I wanted to slow our…coming together.”

He sighed and released her, but he kept her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Besides,” she continued, “how am I ever to know you if you do not enlighten me?”

He quirked a smile and let their joined hands fall to his side. “Just living with me would tell you much, Kitten.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eye and let out a breath. “Ah, well, I can see you’re determined.”

“I am.”

“Let me see. You met my brother Nick. Jean Nicholas.”

“The sea captain.”

“Always and forever. Only one year older than me, he takes after our father more than the rest of us. Quite the adventurer. He’s named after our grandfather, the French pirate Jean Donet.”

“A pirate! He reminded me of such when I met him.”

“I doubt it not. There have been times in the past when he appeared the pirate to me as well. He certainly lived like one for a while. Our grandfather was the younger son of a French count. Nick has stayed on the right side of things, but privateering, even in the Crown’s name, can be a fearsome endeavor.”

“I daresay it is. And…you have other brothers?”

“Yes, two younger, the twins Robbie and Nash. They are the jokers of the family, and they compete for everything. Both are good sailors.”

“And so were you?”

“Perhaps at one time,” he admitted.

“Why did you leave the sea?”

Martin stared out the window at the passing countryside. “It was a long time ago.” He turned back and added, “I had just become captain of my first vessel. I enjoyed command but, unlike Nick, I preferred our business on land to the sea, a fact my father considered unacceptable and tried to ignore. Ever the rebel, I thought to have my own way and, after one rather strident disagreement, I left for…other pursuits.” He stared into the distance again, and she sensed a sadness when he spoke of that time. “It caused quite the rift in the family. It was Mother who held us together.”

“Is your father still angry with you? ”

“Not any longer. I have since seen the wisdom in what he wanted. He believed I could only understand the business if I was first responsible for the lives of our men. He was right, of course, but it took me several years to admit it—to myself and to him.” Martin crossed his arms and smiled. “Now it’s my turn. Tell me something of you and your family.”

Except for Anne, who was ever on her mind, Kit hadn’t thought about her family overmuch since she lost them; it was a sadness she’d locked away. “My mother and sister were two of a kind, both gentle souls accepting of a woman’s place. They stayed about the home, engaged in the usual activities allocated to our sex, like embroidery and music. My father loved and understood them. While I believe he loved me, he didn’t understand me. Not really. I was always the cause of his worry. I pursued my art with a passion, even as a child, refusing to confine myself to the usual watercolors. My sketching took me far afield. It was not uncommon for me to lose track of time while pursuing some unusual face.”

“You really are passionate about your art, aren’t you?”

“I was.” She hesitated. “I suppose I still am.” She glanced at him. “Do you mind it so much?”

“I do not mind it at all.”

Kit was relieved to see his grin. Most men were amused by how seriously she took her art, and her family had been concerned by her unladylike behavior. But Martin did not mind at all. The thought gave her great peace.

Changing the subject she said, “My mother’s strength was her love for her family. She was not strong physically. It was the same for Anne.” Kit had tried to be her father’s strength after her mother died but, as with Anne, she had toiled in vain. Her eyes threatened to overflow with tears as she recalled the last time she saw her parents; their deaths had left an emptiness in her life that only Anne filled, and Anne only until her demise. Oddly, however, Kit felt slightly less bereft considering them. Was it because of Martin?

“You miss them, I’m sure,” her husband said, giving her a sympathetic look.

“Very much.” Then, after a short consideration, she decided to ask the next question that burned inside her. “Mary told me you’d been married before. That your wife died.”

“Yes.” Martin looked out the carriage window. “It happened many years ago in France.”

“Am I anything like her?” Kit felt her cheeks warm at the intimacy of the question. She had wondered about the woman who once held Martin’s heart. Though she had not wanted a love that could leave her despairing of life if it were lost, Kit had no desire to compete with a ghost. Elise had been French, and perhaps young. Kit was sure now he’d loved her. A younger Martin would have most certainly married for love.

“No, you are nothing like her. And, it was a long time ago, Kitten.” Drawing her into his arms, he kissed her. She forgot to ask the next question.