"I've heard rumors," he said. "There are people who say you and your aunt hold certain loyalties toward the French. It would certainly be understandable if you were willing to sacrifice yourself in order to collect information that might be helpful—"
"If you are saying what I think you are, that is completely insane. I was born in this country—so was my aunt. We both love England. This is our home. Every time we read in the papers how many of our men have died, how many have suffered at Napoleon's hands, we are heartsick. As for any loyalty I might feel toward the French—for God's sake, Caleb, a number of my family died by the guillotine. England gave us refuge. How can you possibly doubt our loyalty?"
Caleb said nothing for several long moments, but his eyes ran over her, taking in her defiant stance, the way her small hands fisted, the flush of color in her cheeks, and the tension slowly ebbed from his shoulders. He stood in front of her, barefoot and bare-chested and so handsome it made an ache rise in her throat.
"Why then?" he said softly.
Lee glanced away, unable to hold his penetrating gaze a moment more. "Because it's what Aunt Gabby wants. Because I owe her and I can't repay her in any other way. Because she loves the life she lives and through me she can continue to live it. Because I don't want to return her years of kindness by making her believe I feel disdain in any way for the life she has chosen."
Caleb said nothing. He stood so close she could see the dark centers of his eyes, read the turbulence there. Then his big hands framed her face and he bent his head and very softly kissed her.
"Don't go yet," he said. "There are hours before dawn. I'll make sure you're back in the house before anyone wakes up and finds you missing."
She knew she should go. Every moment she spent with Caleb put her in peril. Love. It was the greatest danger a woman could face. Mary had suffered for it. Her mother had suffered for years and died with a broken heart that had never mended.
Lee looked up at Caleb, knowing the risk, knowing part of her heart already belonged to him. Willing to accept the risk, even if it meant losing an even bigger portion during the short time they had together.
Caleb took her hand and carried it to his lips. She didn't resist when he lifted her up and carried her across the room, back to his narrow bed.
11
« ^ »
Mounted on the big bay gelding named Duke, Caleb rode toward the village of Parkwood. It was early afternoon, the first chance he'd had to get away. The village wasn't far. As he approached from the south, he could see roofs and chimneys in the distance. He passed a wagonload of hay and the driver waved a greeting. A pot-seller's wagon rumbled along ahead of him, its cargo clanging and clattering as the vehicle dipped and swayed behind the donkey struggling to pull its heavy load. Caleb barely noticed.
He was on his way to the house on the opposite side of town that belonged to Cyrus Swift, the silversmith who carried messages for him to London. The one he needed delivered today concerned Vermillion.
Since he had awakened her from a deep sleep snuggled beside him, Caleb hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. Over and over, he replayed the night they had shared, which was nothing at all as he had imagined and one he would never forget. As he reined the horse off the road onto the lane leading to the silversmith's house, one thing was clear: Vermillion hadn't been selling her body to gain information.
Until last night, she had been a virgin.
Several different emotions filtered through him at the thought, none of which he completely understood. His desire for her hadn't lessened as he had believed it would. Instead, every time he recalled her small body sweetly gloving his shaft, he got hard all over again. He wanted her even more than he had before, and thoughts of her upcoming birthday, knowing she planned to give herself to another man, sat like a crushing weight on his chest.
He wasn't sure what he meant to do, but letting another man touch her, make love to her as he had done was something he refused to let happen. He had to do something to change the tide of events about to be set in motion and Caleb believed he might have found a way.
Riding into the yard of the silversmith's whitewashed, thatched-roof house, he swung down from the bay. The place looked a little forlorn with its window boxes untended and weeds growing up between the bricks in the walkway leading to the entrance. He banged on the wooden door, considering his plan, praying his instincts were right about Lee Durant and knowing how much he had to lose if he were wrong.
Knowing how much England had to lose.
"Captain Tanner! Please, come in." Cyrus Swift was a slight man with fine bones and refined features. His hair was as silver as the craft he had perfected and his smile was genuine and always exceedingly warm. "Its good to see you. Could I offer you a glass of cider or perhaps some elderberry wine?"
Caleb shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. I can't stay long. I said I had an errand in the village but they'll expect my immediate return."
Swift nodded, though Caleb could see he would have liked the company. "Come then." Swift motioned him into the parlor, a room that had once been cozy and well-cared for, with bright floral slipcovers on the sofas and ruffled curtains at the windows. But Mrs. Swift had passed on last year and the signs of a bachelor household had begun to surface.
A stack of old newspapers sat in a haphazard pile on a piecrust table near the hearth. The curtains drooped and the rugs could have used a good beating. A Swift-made silver tea service sat on a tea cart near the door, but the pieces were tarnished.
"There's pen and ink on the desk. I believe you know the way."
"Yes, sir." Caleb had been to the house on several occasions to send or retrieve a message.
Following Cyrus farther into the parlor, he went over to the small oak writing desk along the wall, drew out a piece of foolscap, and plucked the quill pen out of its silver holder. He scratched out a note requesting a meeting with Colonel Cox as soon it could be arranged, then signed it, Respectfully, Captain Caleb Tanner.
"I shall see it delivered today," Swift promised.
"If it's at all possible, I'd like you to wait for a reply."
He nodded. "As you wish."
"Thank you, Mr. Swift. Your help in this has been invaluable."
"It is the very least I can do, Captain Tanner. I lost my eldest son, James—God rest his soul—ten years ago in the Netherlands Campaign. My youngest boy is a corporal in the 95th Infantry. I have no wish to lose him, as well."
"No, sir. With the help of people like you he'll have a far greater chance of staying safe."
Swift walked Caleb to the door. "I'll leave the reply in the usual spot in the barn, Captain."
"Thank you again for your help, Mr. Swift." And then he was gone.
Caleb had no idea what Colonel Cox would say when he heard the idea Caleb had come up with, but the army needed someone inside the house, someone close to the occupants, someone they could trust. Caleb prayed the colonel would see the merit in his plan.
Laughter echoed through the house. Servants hurried about beneath the weight of heavily laden silver trays. Food and drink sat on linen-draped tables and champagne flowed like water. The guests were all enjoying themselves but to Vermillion, the house party seemed endless.
In a gown of emerald silk, daringly low-cut and embroidered in fine gold thread across the bodice, she wandered from room to room, smiling and nodding and pretending an interest in the various conversations around her. In truth, all she could think of was Caleb and that she had gone to him last night and the two of them had made love.
She wasn't an innocent anymore. She had given herself to a man and not one of those she had vowed to choose as a lover, but Caleb Tanner, Parklands' head groom.