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

Her mouth fell open. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. A brilliant bolt of lightning lit the sky for a moment, with thunder like a cannon shot. They really ought to go inside. “Why are you not sorry?”

“I had time to think while I rode to The Grange. I read Will’s letter; I knew what it said, and I was fairly certain what it meant for my circumstances.” He had to raise his voice as the rain increased, drumming loudly on the stable roof and the paving stones beneath their feet. “I had time to consider if I would rather have never been accused of treason, and come home to go on my way without ever crossing your path, or if this were the happier ending for me. And I knew I would rather have you, whatever else life might bring.”

She blinked, and sniffled. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes. “You’re mad.”

He grinned. “Barking, howling mad,” he said. “For you.”

“Even though—?”

“Even though.” He kissed her until she forgot her question, then tipped back his head and squinted into the downpour. “I don’t think we shall have a walk today after all.”

She smiled through her tears. “Not without getting very wet.”

Alec laughed. “It feels rather good, to tell the truth. But perhaps it’s holding you that feels good, and not even the rain could quench my delight.” He cupped her cheek and made her look up at him. “You said something earlier, about loving me.” Cressida froze, her eyes wide with apprehension. “I was wondering…or really, hoping,” he went on, “that you might love me as much as I love you. Or at least enough to marry me, because I really don’t think I can ever let you go.”

For a moment she was too stunned to reply. Then wordlessly, she began nodding, and didn’t stop even when he held her close and swung her off her feet.

Chapter 32

To Alec’s great surprise, John Stafford himself arrived the next day. He had never learned what Stafford’s real interest was in George Turner’s disappearance, and could only guess that it was even greater than suspected for him to come all the way to Marston for a report.

“Welcome to Penford,” he said.

“Thank you. It is a lovely estate.”

Alec smiled. It was like a boxing match, the two of them circling each other warily. He was not sorry to be leaving Stafford’s employ. “You’ll have heard the story from Ian, of course.”

The other man’s eyes gleamed. “I expect there is more to the story than Mr. Wallace could tell me.”

“No doubt.” Alec paused, then changed course. He had no patience to repeat what Ian had already said. “Why did you send me on this job?”

Stafford smiled his thin, dry smile. “A favor for Lord Hastings.” Alec waited, just watching him. “And I suspected it might be to your benefit as well.”

“Why?”

His former employer’s mouth quirked. He clasped his hands behind his back and turned to walk over to the window overlooking Penford’s sweeping lawns. “I realize everyone does not always recognize my methods or means, but I am not as haphazard as one might suspect. This is not a game we play. A wrong guess often leads to disaster. When I send my agents out, I do so after solemn consideration of their skills and talents and what will be needed in the circumstance at hand.” He flashed a sly glance at Alec. “And, of course, I never forget why my agents have chosen to serve His Majesty.”

“Did you know what Turner—?”

“Of course not,” Stafford interrupted. “Certainly not with regard to you.” His voice fell back into calm, bland tones. “Hastings alerted me that the man had gone missing; he wanted him found, although he did not particularly care if it were dead or alive. It didn’t take much to persuade Hastings to reveal the true nature of his concern. I daresay Turner thought he was quite clever, but he spread his net too wide.”

Alec had suspected as much. Turner had been blackmailing Hastings, or trying to. He wondered what Hastings’s secret was, and then he realized he didn’t care. “Cressida has her father’s effects,” he said. “Should you wish to examine them for anyone else’s private papers. There may be more hidden at Brighampton as well, according to his journal. Turner, I gather, managed to retain both sides of the correspondence by showing the letters from one to the other, but then keeping them. Whatever he hadn’t sold to Lacey might still be there. Lacey sent his servant to steal them back, but the man never found the papers.”

“I should very much like to look into that,” Stafford agreed at once. And that, Alec realized, was what had brought him to Marston: the prospect of Turner’s hoard of secrets being exposed. No doubt people like Hastings only trusted Stafford himself to return their shameful secrets discreetly—and freely. Or perhaps not. Perhaps Stafford would expose them in his own way. Hastings might well regret setting him on the case.

“But why did you send me?” he asked again, returning to his main concern.

“Your brother’s death was not insignificant.” A rare note of compassion entered Stafford’s voice. “I recruited men like you because I wished to create a more honorable class of agent, men who had honor and could be depended upon to serve the Crown and not just themselves. Men who could testify in court and not be dismissed by the judges as tools of the government; a discreet security service of sorts for His Majesty, if you will. But when your brother died, Lord Sidmouth directed me to send you home. Your family’s need was greater. As to this last assignment…” He shrugged. “I have seen the French colonel’s letters. After working with you for four years, it seemed incomprehensible that you could have been his correspondent, but there was no proof.”

It was an odd comfort to