She was a traitor.
"Please don't hurt me, Hugh."
There was a quaver to her voice that caused his muscles to tighten. Even knowing what he did about her, even suspecting that she was deliberately playing on his sympathies, he discovered that, though he would give much for it to be otherwise, he was not proof against her frightened-sounding entreaty.
"I'm not going to hurt you— at least, not if you behave yourself. I'm going to cut the ropes." Cursing himself for a softheaded fool, he shifted so that he was on his knees beside her. "But be warned— if you give me any trouble, any trouble at all, you'll regret it."
He felt some of the tension leave her body as he pushed aside the nearly waist-length tangle of wet hair that hung in his way and set to work. Her skin was corpse-cold, he found as he touched it, but soft and smooth, and her fingers were elegantly tapered and well cared for. There was a long scratch on her left hand, but no indication that she had ever done anything more strenuous in her life than lift a bonbon to her mouth. In short, she had the hands of a lady, he registered unwillingly. Setting his knife to the rope binding her wrists, he began to saw with some savagery at the wet hemp. He would cut her free, get her dry and warm because that was the expedient thing to do, and allow her to think that he might just let her go if she gave him what he wanted.
The letters, that is, and the full story of how and why she had obtained them and to whom she expected to give them once she reached France.
Nothing else.
"Hugh. Thank you. I would have drowned if you hadn't jumped into the water after me. You saved my life."
Clearly she was attempting to forge a bond between them. During the years he'd spent in his country's service, he'd encountered that trick more than once. It was, in fact, a classic captive-to-captor maneuver, and he was too old a hand to fall for it. Still, she was surprisingly clever for so freshly minted a spy, he thought with a welcome surge of cynicism, even as he found himself responding instinctively to the soft sweetness of her voice.
"I had a reason."
"Still. Thank you."
He didn't reply. When the rope, cut through, dropped to the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position with a quick, fluttery-lashed glance over her shoulder at him. Drawing her bound legs up beside her, she chafed her wrists and shook her hands, presumably to get the blood flowing to them again.
Hugh started to work on the rope around her ankles without a word.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Cutting the ropes?" His question was dry. The blade continued to saw at the resistant hemp, and his attention stayed focused on his work.
"Why did you kidnap me? What do you want?"
As the last rope fell away, he glanced up at her. Her face was just inches away. With the wet, matted snarls of her hair springing out around her delicate features like a lion's mane and her eyes gleaming a feral gold in the lamplight, she looked like some untamed creature at bay. A supremely beautiful creature. Even as their gazes met, he could not help but acknowledge that. She regarded him warily but with a shade less actual fear than she had shown before. Then she essayed a little smile.
"I want the letters you stole from Lord Archer, to begin with," he said, in a tone made utterly grim by her smile. "It would make it easier on both of us if you would just hand them over and be done."
Her eyes widened into big pools of utter innocence. Her lips parted and rounded. The faux bewilderment was well done, very well done indeed. His mouth twisted as he took in every nuance of her expression. She was an actress of no little talent, without a doubt. Too bad she hadn't chosen to take to the boards rather than betray her country.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Her artlessness grated on him, for which he was thankful. It would be far easier to do what he had to do if he could see her as the kind of conscienceless, conniving witch she undoubtedly was instead of the ravishing young girl she appeared to be.
"Of course you don't."
Standing, he returned his knife to his waistband and looked her over sardonically. She was still giving him the big-eyed treatment when he reached down and curled a hand around her elbow, hauling her without ceremony to her feet.
Even soaking wet, she weighed surprisingly little. So little that using his strength against her bothered his conscience. Actually, it made him feel like the biggest brute alive. Manhandling helpless women was not normally his style.
She, of course, was not a helpless woman. He had to keep reminding himself of that. As he struggled mentally to replace the image of her his senses gave him with what she was in truth, she hung awkwardly in his grasp, stumbling a little as she got her feet beneath her.
"If you choose to make this difficult for yourself, then so be it." His voice was pure steel. "You will oblige me by disrobing."
A search of each garment must needs be made in case she had sewn the letters into a secret pocket in her petticoats or chemise. They were not in her bodice, he was willing to swear.
"What?"
Looking utterly taken aback, she tried to pull away then, but he held her fast. As her eyes fixed on his face they were wide with what gave every appearance of being genuine alarm. Again he gave her points for acting, although given her profession and the fact that she had already offered herself to him, she was perhaps overdoing the role of shocked innocent a bit.
"You heard me." He was deliberately brutal. "Take off your clothes."
Chapter 7
"Hugh. Please. You must listen: There's been a mistake."
Claire knew she sounded desperate, which was reasonable, because she was. Her breathing came quick and shallow, and her heart pounded as she fought to keep calm, to think, to plan. Her exhaustion was forgotten. This harsh-faced man whose hand bit into her arm had a grim air about him now that frightened her anew. The decency she had thought— hoped?— she'd detected in him earlier had vanished. His eyes— they were gray, she saw now, the cold opaque gray of lead— were as wintry as the day just past. She realized that if he chose to force her to do anything, anything at all, she would be hard put to successfully resist. She was already well acquainted with his strength, and he was, in addition, far bigger than she. The top of her head fell inches short of his chin, and with his broad shoulders and wide chest he dwarfed her far smaller frame. And when he had so nonchalantly stripped off his clothes right in front of her widening eyes, she had been provided with more evidence than she had cared to see of his whipcord muscularity.
Words were her strength, practically her only strength, and she wielded them frantically.
"Indeed, truly there has been a mistake. I know nothing of any letters, and as for Lord Archer— I believe he may be a friend of my aunt's. I have never met him."
For a moment he stared down at her, his eyes narrowing. He was so close that she could see the tiny lines radiating from the corners of his eyes; so close that she could almost count each whisker that made up the shadow darkening his lean cheeks; so close that she could smell on him the faint salty aroma of the sea.
For an instant, she thought with budding hope, he almost seemed to be considering her words. Then his mouth twisted sardonically.
"I'm too old a hand to be taken in by a glib tongue and a pair of big eyes, and so I warn you. Come, we'll deal better if you'll leave off the pretense. I'll give you one chance to hand over the letters voluntarily, and one chance only. Well?"
"I don't have any letters," Claire insisted.
His lips thinned. "Not the answer I want. Try again."
Claire hesitated, nonplussed. How to convince him? Lips compressing, she searched his face. The look in his eyes was one she had never before encountered in any man: It was guarded, but beneath the wariness there was a lurking— was it disdain? She knew her own beauty, knew its power. She'd been dealing with it, for good and ill (and it had largely been ill), since she was in leading strings. To a man, every male she had ever met had regarded her with admiration. No man had ever looked at her as this one was looking at her now: as if she were the object of his— contempt.
Trying to fathom the why of it made her head swim— or maybe it was her physical state that was to blame for the increasing light-headedness she felt. She was so cold she had passed beyond shivering, so wet there wasn't so much as an inch of dry skin remaining on her body, and so exhausted her legs felt as rubbery as green twigs. It required a real effort of will to stay alert, but she knew her survival might depend on her ability to respond to the opportunity of an instant. Puzzling this nightmare through, however, was beyond her.
"I don't have any letters! I don't! I swear to you I don't!" Claire felt hysteria start to bubble up inside her. "If I had them I would give them to you, believe me. Can't you see you've made a mistake?"
"Poppycock." His face was implacable. His fingers gripping her arm hurt. When she made an involuntary movement to free herself, they tightened still more.
"You're hurting me."
Her protest was instinctive. If she'd thought about it, she wouldn't have bothered making it. She would have assumed he wouldn't care.
His lips thinned. Then, to her surprise, his grip loosened just enough that it was no longer bruising her arm, although he still did not release her.
That one small act of consideration could not be said to hold very much significance. Still, it was a hopeful sign in a bleak situation. She had been beguiling men, purposefully and otherwise, from her cradle. It was, her sisters said, a gift that came naturally to her. Already it had occurred to her that she might use her gift to save her life. Unlike her previous captors, this Hugh seemed almost the gentleman in some ways. She would try to touch any deep-buried chivalry he might possess.
"The letters, Miss Towbridge."
Just as Claire opened her mouth to assure him once again that she didn't have his letters, did not, in fact, have the least notion as to what he was talking about, the name he had called her registered. Her eyes widened as she looked at him. There, she'd known it was a mistake! The whole terrifying ordeal was the result of a gigantic error.
She felt almost giddy with relief.
"There, you see. You have it wrong. Of course I have not got your letters. I am not Miss Towbridge. I am Lady Claire Lynes."
His eyes flickered. For a moment he seemed taken aback, and his gaze moved swiftly over her face. Then his jaw hardened.
"All right, you've run your length. I've no more patience with your lies. Disrobe."
Claire met his steely gaze with dawning dismay. He didn't believe her; it was quite clear.
"I
am
Lady Claire Lynes! I am! I promise you I am!"
Again she tried to pull free of his hold. Loosened though his grip was, it was still like trying to break free of a shackle. His fingers were long enough that they almost met around her arm, and strong enough that there was no dislodging them short of hitting them with a blunt instrument, which, unfortunately, she didn't possess at the moment.
Holding her fast, he made a rude sound that most eloquently expressed his opinion of her claim. His mouth tightened to a sneer.
"This is a mistake, don't you understand? I— "
"You're wasting your breath and my time," he broke in on her impatiently, giving her arm a little shake. "I want those letters, and I mean to do whatever I have to do to get them. If you don't hand them over immediately, I'll strip you naked and search your garments and then your person until I either find them or am utterly convinced they are elsewhere. And if I am so convinced, believe me, you are going to tell me exactly where they are."
Claire was suddenly outraged. She had nearly died a dozen times tonight, and all for a mistake. A mistake that this mush-for-brains lummox did not seem to have the wit even to consider might have been made. "They
are
elsewhere! Have you no ears? Do you not hear what I'm saying? Very well, I'll say it again: I am not the person you're seeking, and I know nothing of your letters!"
"Enough." His hold tightened again, not quite hurting her this time but allowing her to feel the hard strength of his fingers. "I have no intention of bandying words with you. You have a choice: You can either undress yourself or I will do it for you."
Unable to break free of his grip although she tried once more, Claire glared up at him, rendered speechless by the sheer futility of continuing to insist on something that he patently did not believe and she could think of no way to prove. Even her wedding rings were missing, she discovered as she looked for them as proof that at least she was a married woman and no miss at all. Stolen while she had been unconscious in the farmhouse, she guessed, or lost to the sea. She almost stamped her foot in frustration, but her poor abused appendages were so cold that she feared the action would be painful, and besides, the gesture was far too childish for the gravity of the situation or, indeed, for a woman of her years.
If he could only be convinced that he had made a mistake, she would surely be allowed to go free. The problem lay in convincing him.
Taking a deep breath, Claire tried again, speaking forcefully, as she might to someone who was either hard of hearing or a trifle slow-witted, which, she considered, seemed to be the problem in this case. "You've made a mistake, I tell you: I am not 'Miss Towbridge.' I am Lady Claire Lynes."
"Of the Lynes family of Sussex, I presume?" His voice was silky. The silkiness should, perhaps, have warned her.
It didn't. Encouraged, Claire nodded eagerly. It seemed she was getting through to him at last.
"You are claiming to be a relative of the Duke of Richmond, in fact, rather than a grasping tart who has been under the protection of Lord Archer— a man old enough to be your grandfather— for nigh on a year?" His voice was satirical. "That dog won't hunt, my girl. I should inform you that I have some acquaintance with the Lynes family— and you have approximately one minute to start taking off your clothes."