Mr.Churchill's Secretary(90)
“Now, if you could just, um, unbutton?” John asked.
Gingerly, Maggie did as he asked, wincing again as the fabric pulled from the wound, which was revealed to be an ugly gash, black from clotted blood, now oozing.
“Not as bad as I thought.”
Despite the pain, Maggie had to give a weak smile. “Ah, that trademark British understatement.”
“Stiff upper lip, don’t you know. We don’t believe in drama.”
“I’ve noticed.”
As John gently cleaned the burn with antiseptic, Maggie started shivering. “You’re in shock.” He put his arms around her. “It’s going to be all right.”
Maggie grasped his forearm; the part of her mind not distracted by pain noticed that John smelled of soap. “Really?” she said. “Because I’m starting to wonder.”
He went back to bandaging, laying clean gauze over the wound and then taping it up. “I believe in you,” he said, meeting her eyes. “And you have all of us—me—right behind you.”
“Thank you, John,” Maggie said.
Maggie rolled down her sleeve and put her sweater back on. She would have loved to change her clothes—how long had she been in them?—but she and Frain had agreed that it would look more realistic for her to wear the same outfit.
“Don’t mention it,” he replied lightly. “By the way, you were right.”
“Right?” Maggie didn’t know what to say. She was suddenly quite conscious of his proximity.
“If you hadn’t figured it out, Paige—Claire—might have gotten to the P.M., and your father might be on his way to Berlin. So—”
Maggie gave a grim smile. “Two down, one to go.”
Claire looked at Maggie when she entered the holding cell but didn’t speak.
Which was a good thing. The sight of Claire—wearing her clothes, although now wrinkled and stained, her hair dyed garish red—was almost too much for Maggie to bear. But they were going to have to work together, Maggie realized, so she needed to put aside her feelings. For the moment.
“Paige,” Maggie ventured finally. “Although I hear it’s Claire now.”
“Maggie, I’m so, so sorry,” she began, “I never meant to—”
“Claire, Paige—whoever you are. I don’t want to hear it.” She took a deep breath. “We’re going to go through with this mission. We’re going to find Devlin. And we’re going to get the override key so that we can save Saint Paul’s from blowing up. And that. Is. All.”
Claire’s eyes filled with tears. “Maggie, please—”
“I’m afraid that we don’t have time for this, Miss Kelly,” Frain said from the doorway. “In fact, we have less than two hours now.” He walked toward Claire with an iron key, then used it to unlock her handcuffs.
As Claire rubbed her wrists, Maggie turned to Frain. “What’s next?”
“We’ve already created the fake accident site, in case McCormack or Devlin wants to check your story.”
“Fine,” Maggie said.
“Fine,” Claire echoed softly.
“The thanks and praise of a grateful nation will be yours, Miss Hope,” Frain said.
“A dry martini will do nicely.”
Frain’s lip twitched, and he nearly smiled. “I think that can be arranged,” he said. “Good hunting. To both of you.”
From the backseat of Frain’s car at the accident scene, they heard ambulances wailing and saw crashed cars with broken windshields and people covered in what looked to be blood being wheeled away on gurneys by emergency service workers.
Maggie looked around at the scenario of destruction in disbelief. “And this is all staged?” she said to Frain.
“Absolutely,” he replied. “Now, let’s review,” he said to Claire and her. “You two were involved in the accident. Claire was being transported to a women’s prison, awaiting trial, and Miss Hope was accompanying her to provide a deposition. And now I must do something I already regret.”
Without warning, he backhanded Maggie.
The slap reverberated in the small space of the car. She swayed under the force of the blow, the sting seeping into her face. Frain’s handprint was hot on her cheek.
“What the—” Claire started.
“—hell was that for?” Maggie finished, raising her hand to her face, which was already starting to swell. “My dead father is alive—and sane. I haven’t slept. I’ve been kidnapped. I’ve been held at gunpoint. I was burned by a hot poker. I just learned that my dead best friend is actually a live traitor. So I ask you, Mr. Frain—just what the bloody hell was that for?”