For Your Arms Only by Linden, Caroline (best fiction books to read .TXT) 📗

seemed to grow more peaceful—although perhaps that was due to his own apprehensions being eased by Cressida’s compassion. He had dreaded anyone knowing; no matter who employed him, no matter what he hoped to achieve in return, Alec couldn’t shake the thought that a spy was a spy, and he had a particular reason for abhorring the very word.

But Cressida didn’t. A spy’s talents had come to her aid, and then she had looked past them to see him. That went deeper to his heart than anything had in years. He might never be able to prove his innocence, but she didn’t ask him to.

He explained to Mrs. Phillips what he had told Cressida, that he could find no trace of her father. Mrs. Phillips’s new fiancé, Tom Webb, hovered unsmiling and protective in the background as he spoke, but Alec set the thought aside. He also saw how Webb looked at Mrs. Phillips, and remembered what Cressida had told him. Webb had a powerful motive to want Turner to vanish, but even had Alec had evidence or proof of that, he wasn’t so sure bringing it to light would benefit anyone. In fact, as the newly engaged couple made plans for their wedding and removal to Portsmouth, there seemed a quiet acceptance that George Turner was gone forever.

His cousin John was preparing to leave, and Alec finally began taking on his estate responsibilities. He might never feel truly comfortable with the mantle, but as he rode with John, it managed to drift down onto his shoulders more lightly than expected. He began to feel the love for Penford that his father and Frederick had had creep into his soul. And after roaming the land—his land—it felt natural to return to the house. To his family. To Cressida. To the realization that the rolling lands of Penford might not be the only love growing in his heart.

For the first time, Alec could envision a life here. He had a duty to Penford, and he had his family to look after, but most of these visions came to involve Cressida Turner. Since the day he invited—asked—her to stay, he had only become more intrigued. When he first met her, Alec had thought her striking, but not beautiful; now he found it hard to take his eyes off her, especially when she wrinkled up her nose to laugh at something her sister said, or sucked on her lower lip as she concentrated on something, or just turned her face up to the sun, eyes closed in a peaceful expression. He wanted more than a chaste kiss from her. He wanted to see her with her hair down in the moonlight again, her nightdress soft and thin in his hands as he slid it over her shoulders and down her hips. He wanted her eyes to burn when he touched her. He wanted her—and now that his assignment from Stafford had drawn to an end, he finally might be free to pursue her.

But of course nothing ever ended that easily. One hazy afternoon, he was returning from the estate manager’s office when a smart phaeton turned in the drive, followed by a cloud of dust from the dry road. He paused, and watched for a moment before realizing what had caught his eye. The woman in the carriage was Angelique Martand, another of Stafford’s agents.

He crossed the gravel to meet her as the carriage drew up to the house. “Angelique,” he said, helping her down and taking her hand to his lips. “Ian.” The driver, also Stafford’s man, tipped his hat and winked. “What brings you to Hertfordshire?”

Ian Wallace laughed. “The fine weather,” he said in his broad Scots accent. “Doesn’t everyone flee the city when it’s hot?”

Alec smiled, but kept one eye on Angelique. He had never really got on well with Ian, a tall, lanky fellow with lusty appetites and a booming laugh, both of which tended to attract too many women and too much trouble. He also had a deft touch with horses and was absolutely deadly in a fight, traits that made him invaluable to Stafford’s schemes despite the women and trouble. “I’m not sure you’ve come to the right place,” he said. “It’s bloody hot here, too.”

Ian laughed again before snapping the reins and driving on where a stable boy was waving to him. Alec turned back to Angelique.

She smiled her dimpled smile. Alec had marveled out loud the first time he realized she could smile either with or without dimples. “Alors, we have come to see you,” she said, “to see how you get on in the fresh country air. Major Hayes, non? I shall have to remember not to call you Brandon.” She sank into a curtsey.

Alec dropped her hand. “Stop.”

“I do not mean to tease you.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Not too much, that is. We have come to see how you progress with Stafford’s work, of course. He grows curious without word.”

His eyes swept over the grounds, the limestone house, the well-kept lawns, the neat gravel drive, and knew how it would all look to Angelique. “I’ve made some progress, but not much worth reporting.”

“Are you in need of help?”

“No.”

Angelique arched an eyebrow. “Either you make progress, or you require help. It is not like you to muddle along.”

He thought about what to tell her; what did he want Stafford to know? Nothing much, he admitted. But Angelique was no fool, and she had worked with him before. The urge to talk through the problem with someone else was extremely tempting. “What did Stafford tell you about this assignment?” he asked abruptly.

She fluttered her fingers. “A missing man. A favor for a politician. He has dozens of these little favors that need doing.”

“Do you recall our last job?”

Her face grew tight. “All too well. What of it?”

Alec hesitated. His theory about George Turner, still somewhat nebulous, was only that: a theory. He, of all people, balked at staining the name