For Love of the Earl (15 page)

"Alec?
 
Do you think we can rest for a while?" Sarah whispered.
 

Alec swallowed.
 
She felt the movement against her forehead as her head had come to rest once more along the top of his chest.
 

"Yes, Sarah, I think we can rest for a while," he said.
 

His voice was deep and comforting against her ear, and she shivered again for entirely different reasons.
 
She allowed herself to
 
snuggle even closer to him as his grip on her tightened.
 
And this time when sleep came, she let it, because more than anything, she wanted to know what it felt like to wake in her husband's arms.

~

Unbeknownst to our hero and heroine in the port of Dover

At the same moment

"Lady Cavanaugh?
 
Lady
Cavanaugh?"
 

Matthew Thatcher cleared his throat, his eyes dodging from side to side as if seeking someone to verify his current situation.
 
He didn't do much work for the War Office of the British empire, but he was learning that when he did, the work came with a certain degree of oddity.
 
Whomever had thought the British were a prim and proper sort clearly never did work for the War Office.
 
His present predicament an example of his point.
 

"Yes," she whispered to him, her own unusually golden eyes flashing in the muted light of the tavern.

He studied her face for longer than was polite, but he couldn't help but follow the delicate line of her nose to the soft curve of her full cheeks and the decadent line of her lush mouth.
 

"Lady Cavanaugh," he repeated, sounding monotonous to his own ears.

He simply could not believe that
 
this voluptuous woman was a spy for the War Office.
 
He quite simply had expected, well, less really.
 
She was tall, and her long neck held her head high with a kind of regal poise.
 
Thatcher had never thought much on a woman's posture, but there was something about Lady Katharine Cavanaugh that demanded one take note.
 

"Yes, I am Lady Cavanaugh," she said, "You are Matthew Thatcher, correct?
 
I mean, I was just assuming with that hat and those boots that-"
 

"Yes," he cleared his throat again, "Yes, I'm Thatcher, but-" his voice stuttered in his throat, and he had to clear it a third time.
 
"It was just that I was expecting a lady, ma'am, not a-" he stopped, not knowing the word.
 

"I believe the correct term is bar wench.
 
Or ale wife if you prefer," Lady Cavanaugh said.
 

She winked at him, and the motion drew his attention once more to the color of her remarkable eyes.
 
He was unsure of their true color in the haze of the barroom, but the gold flakes in them danced every time she turned her head.
 
She turned her head away for a moment, and again, the gold flashed in the light.
 

"And why are we playing at bar wench?" he asked, still thinking about the color of her eyes.
 

"The War Office told me to," she whispered, turning her head back and threading her fingers through his hair, sliding her hands down to his shoulders so she could pull herself more tightly against him.
 
She was practically in his lap already on the rickety bench in the corner of the tavern.
 
He wondered for a moment how close she planned to get.
   

"The War Office sent you to Dover to play the role of bar wench?
 
Why?"
 

"Because I'm the best actress they have.
 
Lofton told the office that we needed people in servants' roles down here, so they contacted me and sent me down immediately."

"The office thought it appropriate to send an unmarried lady to a port full of sailors to play a bar wench?"
 

"Well, I am a widow.
 
That was how I was able to play the Earl of Stryden's mistress for so long."
 
She smiled and tilted her head just the barest of degrees to the right.
 

Cute, Thatcher thought.
 
She was beautiful and cute.
 

She turned her head away for a moment and then back.
 

"I think that's them," she whispered to him.

Thatcher knew what she was talking about.
 
Honestly, he did.
 
But could anyone blame him if he was a little distracted?
 
Lady Cavanaugh-
lady, Christ
-had quite a substantial bosom, and that bosom was currently substantially bared and pressed against his ribs.
 
So substantially, he had a right to be distracted.
 

Yes, his friends' lives were in danger.
 
Yes, they were probably currently being handed over to the French where they were to be held as prisoners or maybe just killed.
 
Who knew with the unpredictable French?
 

But right now a fine English lady pressed her bosom against him and ran her long fingers through his hair.
 

So he was going to let himself be distracted, damn it.
 

Lady Cavanaugh had her head turned again, watching three men on the other side of the room.
 
The one had two gold teeth that flashed in the weak light whenever he opened his mouth.

But Thatcher studied her hair.
 
It looked dark brown, maybe black, but he couldn't really tell in the light.
 
He suspected it may even have lighter strands running through it, but again, he couldn't be sure.
 

And then Lady Cavanaugh's head swung around again, almost knocking him in the chin.
 

"They're looking!" she hissed, right before her mouth connected with his.
 

Oh, sweet, sweet Lord.
 

Lady Cavanaugh could kiss.
 

Her mouth was wide, full, and her lips soft.
 
She angled her head in just such a way as to draw his lower lip into her mouth.
 
She suckled, and his hands became enmeshed in the fabric at her back, pulling her more firmly against him.
 
She changed the angle, and he swore he heard a moan come from her, but there was a strange roaring in his ears, and he couldn't be sure.
 
Now her tongue was in his mouth, her grip on his shoulders strong as if he was her only root to earth, as if he was the only thing keeping her from floating away.
 

And just as suddenly as she came, she went, pushing herself off of him with a loud smack as their lips separated.

Her eyes were glassy and huge.
 
He couldn't tell if they were frightened by what had just happened in that kiss or just startled.
 
He really didn't know how he felt about it himself.
 
After all, what was one supposed to think when an English lady masquerading as a bar wench thoroughly, completely, and devastatingly kissed one in a smoky tavern in Dover?
 

He didn't have one goddamn clue.
 

But across the room, he saw the three men they had been watching move.
 
They rose, pulling money from their pockets and dropping it on the table.
 

"They're moving," Thatcher whispered, thinking any speech at the moment may shatter the English lady into a thousand little pieces.
 

But to his surprise, she just grinned.
 

"Do we get to follow them?" she whispered back.
 

Thatcher could only nod, grab Lady Cavanaugh's hand, and start his way through the crowd toward their fleeing prey.
 
When they reached the door, the cold air hit him like a slap, and he sucked in a breath.
 
Even for April on the coast, it was cold.
 
A storm brewed on the horizon, and the water in the port stirred restlessly, knocking boats into docks, and sending dockhands scurrying to secure the lines before the storm reached port.
 
He quickly scanned the crowds of sailors moving from one drinking spot to the next until he found the three gentlemen he wanted.
 

"When do you think they made the trade?" Lady Cavanaugh whispered behind him.
 

He turned briefly and belatedly realized she was without coat in her ridiculous garb of bar wench.
 
She must be freezing, and he started to remove his own coat.
 
She smacked his hand.

"Do not get chivalrous on me now, Yankee.
 
We have a mission to complete.
 
We need to know who those men gave Sarah and Alec to, and we need to know now.
 
Start walking."
 

She poked him in the back, and he did as she demanded.
 

"How far are we to follow them?" Thatcher asked, his path through the crowds carefully selected to avoid detection.

Lady Cavanaugh followed beside him, her own step calculated, and Thatcher made note to compliment her on it later.

"Until the very end, I'm afraid," she said.

"What if they board a ship?" he asked.

"Then we board it with them."

Thatcher stopped and turned to her.
 

"We could end up on the Continent if we follow them on board a ship."
 

Lady Cavanaugh stopped as well.

"Then we pretend we're an Italian lord and lady until we can be rescued.
 
The War Office wants to know what allegiance these men have."
 

Thatcher turned and began following the men again, wondering what an Italian lord was like.

~

Also unbeknownst to our hero and heroine in the port of Dover

Also at the same moment

Nathan grabbed the back of his wife's coat before she could move out of arm's reach.
 
He snapped her back toward him.
 

"Where do you think you're going?" he muttered in her ear.
 

Nora's eyes flashed in the dim light of the alley, barely visible underneath the floppy hat he'd stuck on her head to hide her identity.
 

"I'm going to save my family if it's all the same to you," she whispered, her tone firm but not accusing.

Nathan grinned.

"And are you going to do that all by yourself, my lady?"
 

Nora grinned back, her white teeth flashing in the darkness.

"If you continue to be so slow, perhaps, I shall, my lord."
 

Nathan stopped grinning and started pulling on his wife's arm as they made their way through the rest of the alley.
 

They came out of the small space just yards from the docks.
 
They were on the backside of the thoroughfare, and Nathan could hear the boisterous voices of dockhands and sailors looking for a place to lay their head that night along with a woman as company.
 
This part of the port was seedy at best and repugnant at worst.
 
He felt a twinge of guilt for bringing his new wife here in the middle of a cold spring night, but she had insisted.
 
And if there was one thing Nathan was learning, it was to never tell Nora no if she said she was going to do something.
 
No matter what that something entailed.
 

"Do you think they're still in port?" Nora whispered.
 

Nathan shook his head, the cold air sweeping in from off the water, sending a chill along his neck and down his greatcoat.
 
He pulled Nora closer.
 

"Thatcher has firm intelligence that they were already traded over to the French.
 
They are now following the men who traded him.
 
We need to see if this was a one time event or if they are going to take more Englishmen."

Nora turned to him.
 

"They?"
 

Nathan looked down at her, pausing for a moment to admire the shape of her face in the glow of moon.

"Lady Cavanaugh.
 
I'm not sure you've had the pleasure of meeting her."
 

Nora's head tilted.
 

"I cannot say I have.
 
She sounds lovely though," she finished and turned back toward the thoroughfare with its constant stream of rowdy seamen.

Nathan waited patiently even as the cold air began to rattle his teeth.
 
He looked out to the water, at the outlines of ships bobbing in the quiet ocean and saw the clouds in the distance moving closer.
 
Soon they would lose the moonlight.
 
The water in the port already kicked up fierce waves, and the port was filled with the sound of ships hitting against piers and each other.
 
But the sailors in port took no heed.
 
The ships were safely anchored for the night.
 
They had more interesting pursuits to tend to.
 

"It's that one there," Nathan said, pointing discreetly to a dock nearly ten yards down the wharf from their hiding spot.
 

He could not be sure if Nora looked where he pointed or simply took his word for it.
 

"That is where they will meet us?" she asked.
 

"That is where the ship is docked.
 
The one we are going to use to find Alec and Sarah."
 

Nora turned her face up to him.
 

"And we are certain they are still in the port.
 
They must have been traded quite some time ago.
 
Would they not have gotten underway for France?
 
It seems dangerous to linger."