He rose at her entry, his impeccable manners almost amusing given the situation. That was one of the things she’d always loved about Marcus. He was a gentleman not merely by birth but by his behavior: he showed regard for others… even if they didn’t deserve it.
“Feeling better?” she said.
“As good as a man who’s been drugged and kidnapped by his wife can feel.” His tone was neutral.
If he thought that would set off her conscience, he didn’t know her. Didn’t know the lengths she’d go to save their marriage. If being a spy had taught her anything, it was that sometimes the best choice was the lesser of two evils. Her arms tightened around the box.
“Would you care to have a seat?” Marcus gestured to the chair on the other side of the table, metal links rattling as he did so. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to unchain me first?”
She took the seat. It was the safer of the two options. Especially since she’d measured the length of the chain and knew she remained precisely ten inches out of his reach.
He followed suit, his posture in the chair lordly, his torso erect and his thighs slightly sprawled. She did her very best not to ogle his naked chest, the way the parted blanket accentuated the hard planes…
“You wanted to talk. So talk,” he invited.
She didn’t know what to make of his bland tone. Or his impassive expression. He didn’t seem angry—but, if the past two months were any indication, it wouldn’t take much to get him there.
Stop stalling. Get on with it.
Exhaling, she said, “I know you don’t want to hear about my past, but you’re going to have to. I’ve come to the conclusion that honesty is the only way for us to get past this.”
“By all means then, be honest,” he said.
What did he mean by having such a calm tone? His blue eyes were steady, and he seemed so much like her Marcus of old that she experienced the urge to just drop everything and crawl into his lap. To beg him to hold and cuddle her, to experience again the succor of being in his arms—the safest place she’d ever known.
Instead, she set the box on the table. It took up almost the entire surface. She put a hand on the lid before Marcus could lift it.
“We’ll start at the beginning,” she said. “The first time we met.”
“You mean at the Pilkington Ball?”
In for a penny… “No, actually, that wasn’t it.”
A line formed between his brows. “I’m quite certain it was.”
Deciding to let the truth speak for itself, she took the lid off the box.
Casting a puzzled glance at her, Marcus reached inside, parting the layers of protective tissue. He pulled out the jacket, examining the scarlet fabric, the insignia … and incredulity shot across his features.
“What the devil? My officer’s jacket. Why do you have…?”
She saw the moment that the truth hit him.
“It… it was you,” he stammered. “The prostitute at the camp. The one who was being attacked by one of my men.”
So he remembered her.
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t understand. Why were you there?” His gaze suddenly sharpened. “Dear God, that night… Christmas. Starky was found dead. Natural causes by all appearances.”
She wasn’t surprised that Marcus made the connection so quickly. Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington was a brilliant man. She sent up a prayer that he’d believe her explanation.
“He was a traitor,” she began.
“Yes, I know,” he surprised her by saying. “Several months after his death, we came into possession of letters he’d written. Plans he’d drawn of our battle positions. The missives proved that he’d been selling military secrets to the French.”
Relieved, she said, “Yes, he was.”
Blue eyes bored into her. “Starky didn’t have a heart attack?”
“No.” She held her husband’s gaze. “He didn’t.”
Marcus stared at her. Raked a hand through his hair. “By Jove… poison?”
She nodded, her heart an erratic presence in her chest. Not because she’d admitted to killing a turncoat—that bastard Starky had cost countless British lives by leaking information to the enemy—but because she didn’t know what her husband would think of her. Of the fact that she was capable of taking a man’s life.
“When Starky’s betrayal came to light,” Marcus said slowly, “Wellington declared that God had looked after us by taking a traitor from our midst. If Starky hadn’t died when he did, he would have compromised us further, made the months leading up to Waterloo even more bloody and hellish. But it wasn’t God’s work.” He sounded stunned. “It was you.”
Penny wetted her dry lips. “Octavian said there was no other choice. Eliminate Starky or let innocents die in his stead.”
“I understand his reasoning. I can even understand that actions during wartime are judged by a different set of morals than during times of peace. But what I don’t understand,” Marcus said, his voice low and dangerous, a muscle leaping in his jaw, “is why he’d send you—God, a mere girl at the time—to do such bloody, dangerous business!”
He was being protective… of her?
A lump rose in her throat. She didn’t think it possible, but her love for this man grew even more. At the same time, she realized that he didn’t quite grasp the entirety of what she was trying to communicate to him. Of what she was disclosing about who and what she’d been.
“Octavian sent me because I was one of the best.” She said it without pride or emphasis; facts didn’t require embellishment. “It wasn’t my first of that sort of mission; it wasn’t my last.”
Marcus said nothing. His assessing gaze didn’t leave her face. Perhaps the truth of whom he’d married was finally sinking in.
“Why did you keep it?”
His question was unexpected; it took her a moment to comprehend that he was referring to his jacket.
“Because I wanted to remember that night.” In this, she had nothing to hide. “The night I fell in love.”
His pupils darkened. “You didn’t let on.”
“How could I? For one, I was on a mission, and for another, I was disguised as a harlot. You would have turned me down flat.”
He didn’t refute her; they both knew it was true. He wasn’t the type of man who’d stoop to consorting with a whore, to taking advantage of someone less fortunate than he.
“Why did you wait until the Pilkington Ball to approach me? That was nearly four years later,” he said, frowning.
“At first, the business of Napoleon kept us both occupied. Then there was the aftermath of war to contend with. And I suppose the truth was,”—she shrugged—“I wasn’t ready to meet you. I needed time to prepare myself, to become the sort of lady you might be interested in. Flora was helping me, giving me lessons in all the things a debutante ought to know.”
“In between dispatching traitors and protecting your country, you were learning how to pour tea and make proper conversation?” Marcus said incredulously.
“Trust me, the former set of skills was far easier than the latter. I’d rather face a firing squad than a roomful of gossiping matrons.”
He didn’t respond to her attempt at levity. He said intently, “What if I had met someone else in the interim?”
She bit her lip before admitting, “I was keeping an eye on you.”
One dark brow winged. “Define keeping an eye.”
She released a breath. “I was there at Toulouse. In April of 1814.”
Surprise rippled across his face. “That was a bloody fight. We were tasked with capturing the Heights of Calvinet, and I was lucky a sniper’s bullet only grazed my…” His eyes widened, comprehension flaring in them. “It wasn’t luck?”
“No,” she said in a small voice. “It was such a fracas that I didn’t see the sniper until too late. He got off the shot—although I did manage to alter the trajectory of his aim.”
“Good God.”
Not knowing what to make of his expression, she decided to forge on. “And I was there, in the village near Quatre Bras, two days before the battle. When that other sniper had you in his sights. But I got him in time.”
“The bullet… it whizzed past my ear.” Marcus wore a stupefied look.
Knowing her husband, she guessed that he might not be best pleased at the discovery that she’d taken an active role in keeping him alive. He was a proud man, not the kind to hide behind a woman’s skirts. Or her pistol.
Sliding him a cautious glance, she decided she might as well get it over with. “After you left the army, I stayed apprised of your activities. I loved you, but I wasn’t sure that I could win your love in return. When I heard the rumors that you were on the verge of offering for Cora Pilkington, however, I knew I had to act. I gave Octavian my resignation and came to London to find you.”
Silence fell. His eyes were hooded, his features carved from granite. She gathered her courage to face the darkest of her sins—the men she’d bedded—but Marcus spoke first.
“Come here.” He rose to his feet.
Her heart beat madly at the blazing heat of his eyes. How angry was he at her? Would he let her finish what she had to say?