Chapter 7 #2
Finally, Blake managed to get behind her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders in a hold that wasn’t quite threatening but was definitely controlling.
She was pressed back against him, both of them breathing hard, and for a moment they simply stood there in the darkness, their twin breaths the only sound in the stillness.
“You’ve always been persistent, haven’t you?” she whispered.
“One of my more charming qualities.” His voice was low, spoken close to her ear. “Along with my dashing good looks and impeccable taste in shirts. Though you did ruin my favorite oxford with that shot.”
He felt rather than saw her smile. “That shirt was the wrong color for you.”
“It was Egyptian cotton.”
“Pretentious,” she repeated.
Despite everything—the fight, the suspicion, the very real possibility that she was here to kill him or to spy for the Germans—Blake found himself wrestling with a smile. God help him, he’d missed this. Missed her.
Which was deeply inconvenient and possibly suicidal.
“You know,” she said, and her voice had shifted into something more dangerous.
Something that made Blake suddenly very aware of how close they were, how her back was pressed against his chest, how her hair smelled faintly of lavender soap.
“You look as if you’re highly interested in taking that kiss, Blake. ”
His breath caught. Blast her for noticing. Blast her for saying it aloud.
He tightened his hold slightly—not threatening, just … grounding himself. Reminding himself that this woman had shot him. That her brother was a traitor. That he didn’t know whose side she was on.
“I only kiss traitors during an assignment,” he whispered in her ear, throwing her own words from the Lusitania back at her.
The silence stretched between them, loaded with everything they weren’t saying.
“What a shame.” Her response came soft, breathless. “Since I am no traitor.”
Blake’s heart squeezed at her echo of his words. “Prove it, Evie.”
A sound down the corridor made them both freeze. Footsteps. Someone else was awake.
“Dash it,” Blake muttered.
Evie moved, and this time he let her. She slipped out of his hold with ease, putting distance between them in an instant.
When she turned to look at him before turning the corner of the hall, her face was carefully composed, but her eyes—those mind-blanking eyes—held something he couldn’t quite read, but it only tightened the vice in his chest all the more.
“Stay away from me, Blake,” she whispered. “For both our sakes.” For both our sakes? “Not likely.”
“If she recognizes me …” Evie’s gaze held warning, desperation. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
“Then tell me.”
The footsteps were growing closer. She glanced toward the sound, then back at him. “Trust me.”
And then she was gone, slipping into the shadows like she’d never been there at all.
Blake stood in the darkened corridor, his shoulder throbbing, his heart racing, and his mind churning through everything that had just happened.
Trust her?
How? Yet something in his gut wanted to. Yes, she’d shot him, but she’d also shot him in the shoulder. Precisely placed. Nonfatal.
“What a shame, since I am no traitor.”
Blake touched his wounded shoulder absently.
A maid rounded the corner—Mary, wasn’t it?—and stopped short when she saw him.
“Oh! Mr. Blake, sir. You startled me. Are you quite all right? Should you be out of bed?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Blake said with his most charming smile. “Nightmares are nasty little things.” Everyone knew the notoriousness of soldiers’ nightmares. “Thought I’d take a turn about. Clear my head.”
Mary’s entire expression gentled. “Would you like me to fetch someone for you to talk to?”
“No, no. I’m fine.” He waved her words away. “Just heading back now, actually.”
He excused himself and made his way toward the family rooms, his mind still on Evie.
“I am no traitor.”
He wanted to believe her. God help him, he wanted to believe her.
But if he was wrong, it wouldn’t be just his life at stake. Grace could die. Dozens, if not more, soldiers would die.
Blake paused at the window overlooking the grounds, moonlight streaming through the glass.
He had to solve this mission quickly.
Even if it killed him.
As was usually the case, the news about Grace’s condition had already spread through the house before she’d even posted Frederick’s letter.
And it didn’t take a great deal of detective work to understand how.
One servant saw the doctor arrive, another overheard her exclamation to Blake in the hallway, and several—most likely—had harbored their suspicions all along. Much to Grace’s temporary mortification.
She paused. No, not mortification. That was too strong a word.
Perhaps humiliation.
At the very least, embarrassment.
But she was determined not to let it—or her fear—distract her for too long from the very real mystery unfolding all around her. Including the possibility that Blake was a spy.
Or something mysterious at the very least.
And of course, someone was stealing items from the house in a manner strangely and confusingly connected to the chapel.
She wasn’t yet certain how candlesticks related to ancient ruins, except as a practical means of illumination, but she was confident that with a few more clues, she’d sort it all out.
She’d just finished pulling on her shoes and proceeded to lie on her back across her bed long enough to feel the flutterings in her stomach again. A tremor of excitement rushed through her at the fact she actually knew who the flutterings were now.
How spectacular and wonderful!
A sudden crash erupted from somewhere down the hallway.
And it came from the direction of Zahra’s room.
Grace launched herself off the bed and rushed toward the sound.
They’d placed Zahra’s room in the same corridor as theirs instead of up on the third floor near the old nursery—partly because the renovations for that floor weren’t finished, but mostly because Grace couldn’t bear the thought of the little girl being so far away.
When she burst through the door, she found Zahra clutching Shams, her eyes wide. Shams licked her paws with supreme indifference, and the remnants of a shattered water pitcher lay scattered across the floor.
Well. At least no one was attempting to kidnap anyone.
Grace narrowed her eyes. She might be willing to part with the cat, however, given this was the third item Shams had destroyed in as many days.
The cat seemed to sense Grace’s suspicion and sent her one of those wide-eyed innocent looks that completely melted her heart.
She released a long breath. Mischievous animals really shouldn’t hold such power.
“Shams did not mean to knock over the pitcher.” Zahra’s voice held a distinct note of pleading. “She was merely investigating.”
“Investigating?” Grace surveyed the wreckage—water pooling across the side table, porcelain shards glinting in the lamplight.
Shams, as if the feline understood English perfectly, simply returned to grooming her paw with an air of complete indifference.
“Yes.” Zahra nodded earnestly. “She believed there might be a mouse hiding behind it.”
“And was there?”
“No,” Zahra admitted. “But Shams could not know that without a thorough inspection.”
“I see.” Grace pressed her lips together. “And the library curtains that now bear claw marks reaching nearly to the ceiling?”
“She was practicing her climbing. For safety.” Zahra’s expression remained perfectly solemn. “In case she needs to escape danger quickly.”
“The only danger Sham faces is from Zeus, whom she torments mercilessly.” Grace knelt to gather the scattered porcelain pieces, a hitch in her bend. “And Mrs. Powell’s patience is wearing thinner by the instance, Zahra darling.”
Frederick always used “darling” to soften his words to her. It seemed to help with Zahra too.
“But you love her,” Zahra said with utter confidence. “I can tell.”
Grace glanced at the cat, who had leaped from Zahra’s arms to wind around Grace’s skirts, purring with calculated charm. Grace pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Oh, how the little girl wanted to keep this cat.
Grace sighed. “I love that you love her,” she corrected carefully. “There’s a meaningful difference.”
“Papa says you have a kind heart that cannot help but love creatures, even troublesome ones.” Zahra knelt beside Grace, helping gather the broken pieces. “He says it is one of your beauties.”
My beauties?
Zahra was a clever little thing, coating the situation with sugar and bringing Frederick into the conversation.
Her smile trembled wider. “Well, if he were here to witness Shams’ latest campaign of destruction”—Grace sent a teasing smile to her daughter—”he might revise that assessment.
” She stood with a slight wobble that she attributed to pregnancy rather than her usual clumsiness.
Did carrying a child affect one’s balance?
Something else to research. “I think you’ll need to take Shams outdoors more frequently. Especially on lovely days like today.”
“I will.” Zahra’s face brightened with renewed purpose. “Even if I feel the cold to my bones.” She gave a little shiver, as if winter was on their doorstep, though in truth, it wasn’t too far away. “It is not as bad as it was when we first came to England.”
Grace settled onto the edge of Zahra’s bed and gestured for her to come near. As soon as the girl sat, Grace pulled her close. “England is certainly colder and much damper than Egypt.”
“And so much rain.”
Grace chuckled. “Indeed. But it’s also what makes the countryside so beautifully green.” She squeezed Zahra closer. “And it should make us wish to capture the beautiful days while we can.”