The floating spots faded to her husband.
It’s Marcus. It’s Marcus. Her disoriented mind clung to those words, the details of him, the way a drowning person does to driftwood.
The worried lines on his face, blue eyes bright with concern. His chest was bare, shadows dancing over rippling muscle. He was sitting next to her, bedclothes tangled around his lean waist.
The bedchamber. The cottage at the Cotswolds.
He reached a hand to her, and she couldn’t stop the flinch.
Surprise flitted across his features. “You’ve had a nightmare, darling. A bad one. But you’re safe.” His voice was deep and soothing, the one he used with the boys when they were hurt and in need of comfort. “You’re here with me.”
“Yes.” Her insides were coiled so tightly that she could hardly get the word out.
He reached a hand out again, this time slowly, and she managed to hold still as his palm cupped her cheek. Wetness slid against his callused skin. His eyes held hers.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he said.
“It… it’s nothing. Just a dream. As you said.”
“You’re shivering all over, darling. Come here.”
She allowed herself to be gathered against his chest. Her skin was chilled, clammy, and she soaked in his warmth as he pulled the blankets over them both. Cuddled against him, trembling, she could hear his steady, strong heartbeat, and it rooted her in the present. She rubbed her cheek against his hard chest, the wiry scratch of hair another needed reminder that this was real. That she was here. Not there.
I’m with Marcus. I’m safe.
“After Waterloo, I used to have dreams.” His voice rumbled beneath her ear. Easy and conversational. Lulling. “Bad ones. Of battle. Remember the time I woke you during our wedding trip?”
She’d forgotten, but the memory came back.
“Here, in this bed,” she managed.
“Yes. I woke up terrified. Of the dream, but mostly of scaring you. Of the fact that my bride of five days might think me a lunatic.”
“I didn’t think that.”
“No, you didn’t.” He stroked her hair, his touch as warm and reassuring as his voice. “What you did was hold me and make me talk about it. You listened and never judged. You did that every time I had a nightmare, and eventually, I stopped having them.”
Her pulse sped up; she knew where this was headed.
“Trust me to do the same for you, love,” he said.
“I… I’m scared.”
“Of the dream?”
“Yes. But more so…”—her voice cracked against the hard core of it—“of what you’ll think. Of me.”
“Nothing can change that. You’re my love, my Penny, and you’ll always be.”
“I almost lost you. I don’t want to risk that again—”
“Darling, you couldn’t lose me in Covent Garden on market day.”
That made her lift her head. “That’s not true. If I hadn’t kidnapped you, you might be with Cora Ashley. Our marriage would still be in danger—”
“Hell, Penny, is that what you think?” His eyes radiated genuine disbelief. “I would never go to Cora Ashley—or any other woman for that matter. You’re the only one for me. I’ve told you that.”
He had, in fact. Repeatedly.
At the time, she’d known his assurances were genuine, and she’d believed them… hadn’t she? Confusion and shame rippled through her. Why is it so hard for me to believe?
He sat them both up against the pillows so that they were facing each other. Holding her hands in his, he said, “I acted like a bastard because I was hurt. That doesn’t excuse how I treated you, and you have my word that I’ll do my utmost not to lash out at you like that again. But you must know this: even if my faith in our marriage suffered a brief crisis, my love for you never faltered.”
“How could it not?” she blurted. “I hid the fact that I was a spy. That I… I wasn’t a virgin.”
Instinct made her brace herself. She watched his expression, waiting for it to harden.
It didn’t.
Instead, his gaze unwavering, he said, “I slept with over a dozen women before I met you, Penny. Thirteen, to be exact. Did you know that?”
She didn’t. “No.”
“Are you going to hold it against me?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you sleep with anyone after we met on the Pilkingtons’ balcony?”
“No,” she said cautiously.
“What about after our very first meeting—Christmas at the camp?”
She shook her head.
“Then I don’t care,” he said firmly. “I don’t care what you did before me. Because from the moment we met, you’ve been mine, Penny. I was just too stupid and angry to realize it when you first told me of your past.”
“I shouldn’t have lied to you,” she said in a small voice.
“So don’t do it now.” His eyes were soft, inviting. “If we’ve learned anything from all of this, it’s that we can trust our love to survive mistakes. Your lies, my foolish behavior. Our love can get us through anything.”
“I was raped.” The words burst from her.
In the silence that followed, her heart thundered in her ears, wings of panic beating in her breast. She saw the flames explode in Marcus’ eyes, and every fiber of her braced for the worst.
“Penny. My God.” He cupped her jaw. His hands shook, yet he touched her with such care and tenderness that her throat thickened. “When?”
“Around the time I met Octavian.”
She saw raw pain slice across her husband’s features. His eyes closed briefly. When his lashes lifted, she saw the fire had been banked in those vibrant depths. His jaw quivered, betraying the sheer strength he was employing to keep his emotions in check. And he was doing it for her.
So she gave him more. “I was out late selling flowers. A man said he wanted to buy some but had forgotten his coin purse at his lodgings. He said if I followed him he’d take the rest of the lot in my basket. I knew better, but I was tired, and that day I hadn’t sold or stolen enough to buy the night’s supper. So I went with him.”
Marcus said nothing, listening, his silence more reassuring than any words.
Strangely enough, talking about this didn’t feel as bad as she’d feared it would. As she gave voice to the details, they seemed… muted somehow. Like something she was watching happen in the distance. Or through a pane of frosted glass.
“He forced me into an alleyway. Left me there afterward.” Her throat convulsed. “That’s how Octavian found me.”
Marcus’ chest surged, his hands holding firmly onto hers. “God, Penny.” His words were rough with emotion, and to her shock, she saw that his eyes were wet. “You must have been frightened out of your wits.”
“I was, at first. But Octavian said something to me that took away the fear. He bundled me in his cloak and said, If it’s justice you want, come with me. I vow not to hurt you and to give you the weapons to avenge your honor.”
“You were a girl,” her husband said, his voice turning low and dangerous, “and a hurt and vulnerable one at that. What the hell was he thinking?”
“He’d seen me in action in Covent Garden. I’d caught his eye when he was there tracking down a Frenchman named Vincent Barone, an enemy agent notorious for his cruelty and ruthlessness, his love of inflicting pain.” Her heart thumping, she forced herself to go on. “As Fate would have it, Octavian’s enemy and mine turned out to be the same. Thus, I dedicated myself to the training he offered: the art of disguise, combat, coding—I learned everything that I could.”
In truth, she’d soaked it up like a thirsty sponge. The need for revenge had displaced helplessness, given her a sense of power. Recalling how Octavian’s approval of her progress had meant the world to her, she felt that old twinge of bitterness. But it was just a twinge, tempered now by an acceptance of who she’d been: a young girl in need of a parent, some older, wiser figure. It happened that the man she’d chosen for that role valued ambition more than anything else, including those who’d worked for him.
Still, in some ways, she owed Octavian her life.
“Three years later, in a brothel in Dieppe, I had the opportunity to mete out my justice,” she went on. “Barone didn’t recognize me in my disguise, drank the wine I served him. And when he lay there, dying, I told him exactly who I was and why his next breath would be his last. I walked out of there knowing I wasn’t powerless anymore.”
Even as the words spilled from her like water from a dam, anxiety frothed inside her. God, she sounded so… ruthless. Aggressive and cold-blooded, like no lady would ever sound. Was Marcus shocked? Had she succeeded in disgusting him at last?
“The bastard deserved to die.” Marcus’ tone was savage. “My only regret about his death is that I cannot kill him all over again. I’d like to tear the bugger from limb to limb, rip his bloody heart out.”
Her heart thudding, she saw the primal intent in Marcus’ eyes, his fierce expression. It was the look of a man who meant what he’d said: he would kill for her. He would avenge the wrong that had been done to his woman. Such brutal justice might offend the sensibilities of a well-bred lady, but to Penny it was a revelation.