“I’m pregnant.”
He froze on the threshold, heart jacked up beneath his ribs. Arden was pregnant?
There had been a time when he’d once entertained the thought of being the man with whom she had a family. He’d loved her for years, but she’d clung to the belief that Luke was alive. She’d been right, and his heart had broken for it. He loved her still, but no longer in that manner. She was better with Luke, and vice versa. They belonged together. Christ, Luke had even gotten a tattoo similar to Arden’s when he was so far under the Company’s spell that he didn’t know who he was, let alone that he had a wife. The two of them were made for each other.
They were the only things in Alistair’s life that made it worth living, which was why he turned to them. He could not ignore the myriad emotions playing over both their faces: shock, joy, regret, worry, love. He tried to look between them rather than directly at them.
“I’ll do it,” he promised. “I’ll be the liaison. And if the American spy doesn’t like it, she can rot.” Awkwardly he added, “Congratulations.”
And then he finally crossed the damn threshold and went the hell home—alone.
Chapter 3
They moved her to a cell.
They called it a cell, but it had a four-poster bed, thick rugs on the floor and steam circulating in the iron heating pipes. She was comfortable and cozy. It was nicer than some of the places she’d holed up while working for the Company. They even gave her a lovely beef dish and a glass of red wine for dinner.
Claire didn’t fool herself that the Wardens were somehow better than the agency she now betrayed. The W.O.R. was treating her this well because she was of use to them. The oh-so-very-polite British believed in encouraging cooperation through kindness rarokther than violence.
Of course, if she hadn’t proved useful, they would have shot her in the head and left her in just the right place to send the right message to the right people.
There were no windows, so she had no idea what time of day it was. She knew that they had brought her underground after wheeling her from the hospital ward in an invalid chair. They’d strapped her in with shackles and used a large key to wind a mechanism in the back of the chair that caused a wire and metal dome to close up over the front of the chair. It had been disconcerting, but Dr. Stone explained that it was not only to protect them from her, but to protect her in case anyone tried to kill her.
Apparently word had gotten out that the Wardens had “the Dove” in custody.
It was such a hideous name, but every agent had to have a code name. She’d been given hers because Robert had made some stupid joke about how many doves were at the funeral for a Napoleon-type character she’d sent to his maker. She wasn’t supposed to kill him, but he’d shot a child in front of her, just because he wanted to make a point. She’d done the world a favor by disposing of him in kind. He’d gotten off easy; she had planned to let the child’s father have him.
And then there was that silly rumor that she’d earned the moniker because she was like the dove sent out by Noah, but that was just a fanciful story.
She picked up the tin cup the guard had brought her tea in. It was still warm. She wasn’t a big fan of tea, but it gave her something to do. She could read one of the books on the shelf, but that would require moving, and her entire body felt as though . . . well, as though it had been shot and had then fallen off a roof.
The clock was ticking. She had to get back on Howard’s trail. He’d be at that country party a few days at best before moving on to the next phase of his plan. Even if they let her go tomorrow—in Five’s custody—she was in no condition to travel hell-bent for leather. It was going to take longer than she wanted to catch up to the bastard.
She’d seen the look on Payne’s face when she offered up information on Company operatives. He wanted what she knew, but he was disgusted with her for turning on her former comrades so easily, even though she’d explained what happened to Robert. All her strength had gone into showing as little emotion as possible as she talked about her brother, and that ginger-headed bastard looked at her as if she were dog excrement on the bottom of his shiny boot.
Claire would have looked upon herself with the same expression once upon a time. Now she didn’t care what anyone thought of her or how anyone looked at her. She didn’t even care that what she was about to do was tantamount to putting nails in her own coffin. She was going to make certain Stanton Howard paid for her brother’s life. If that satisfaction cost her own life as well, then so be it.
She took another sip of tea. She was going to have to make her way to the toilet soon. It was hand-painted porcelain that swept waste away with the pull of a chain. Back home in New York, they’d had chamber pots. Apparently England believed even her enemies needed posh pots to piss in.
There was no fighting it any longer. Claire pushed herself to her feet with a throat-ripping growl of pain and clung to the bedside C th>table for support while stars danced before her eyes. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She gripped the top of the chair that sat in front of a little writing desk—where she was expected to commit all she knew to paper—and used it as a makeshift crutch as she shuffled across the carpet.
By the time she finished her business and began her return to the bed, her legs were trembling and cold sweat clung to her hairline. It was of course at that moment that a rap sounded at her door, followed by a key in the lock. She heard the grinding of gears as the locking mechanism disengaged, then a solid “thunk” before the door eased open. Claire looked up, expecting to see Dr. Stone.
It was Payne.
Had he come to kill her? She’d heard of such things happening to Company agents in W.O.R. custody. They were taken and never heard of again. Or had Huntley changed his mind about helping her? That would be unlike the man she used to know, but then he wasn’t that man anymore.
“What do you want?” she demanded. Why did he have to show up when she was in need of a bath and trembling like a leaf in the wind? She had to look a fright, and her looks had always been something she used to her advantage. Men—and some women—generally found her very attractive.
Payne was obviously not one of those men. “I came to talk,” he replied in that voice that reminded her of velvet rubbed the wrong way—rich and rough. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
There was no advantage to lying. “The loo,” she informed him, using a word she’d heard other Brits use. “Seems I wasn’t quite up to the task.”
His cinnamon brows pulled low into a scowl as he stomped toward her. Was he swearing under his breath? Claire might have laughed had he not seized her by the arm and slung it over his shoulders as he bent low and put his own arm around her waist. “Lean on me.”
She’d rather stick her face in a wasp’s nest, but she did as she was told and was grateful for his support. He practically carried her to the bed, then set her upon the mattress with surprising tenderness. It still hurt like the devil, but not as much as it would have if she’d done it on her own.
“Thank you.”
The earl seemed to understand how difficult those words were for her to say. He gave a curt nod and pulled the chair she’d abandoned closer to the bed so that he might sit. He could have remained standing to intimidate her, but he didn’t. She would not assume it was out of chivalry. The Earl of Wolfred didn’t need to stand to be intimidating. The man was built like a prizefighter, albeit a rangy one, and he had a gaze as cold and hard as steel.
He braced his forearms on his thighs and leaned toward her. His black greatcoat pulled across his back, the fine wool stretching to accommodate the movement. Normally she would love that he put himself so close, as it would make it all the easier for her to strike him in the throat or crotch, but right now she was painfully aware of just how little of a threat to his safety she was in her current condition. He was no doubt aware of it as well.