Claire Thornton - Runaway Lady

She was glad that tonight she could sleep safely in a proper bed—but she didn’t realise she’d spoken aloud until she saw Harry’s startled gaze flicker from her to the bed and back again.

Until that moment she hadn’t given a thought to the significance of their surroundings. She almost groaned as she suddenly understood what Harry had meant about the need to make awkward explanations to her lord. How could she have been so stupidly unaware of something so obvious? Especially when she was pretending to be the mistress of a devoted lover. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at revealing herself to be so unworldly.

She knew why she hadn’t considered the implications of being alone with a man in a bedchamber. For more than four years of her marriage she had taught herself to think of her bed as a place only for sleep. Pieter had regained far more strength after the accident than any of them had initially expected. He’d even designed his own wheeled-chair that he could manoeuvre on flat surfaces—but making love was one aspect of their married life they’d never recovered. Saskia had learned not to torment herself with thoughts of what they’d lost. It was shocking—disorientating—to realise that her potential future in this regard had changed. She was a widow, not the wife of an intelligent, but physically incapacitated husband.

She stared at Harry. She’d known from her first glance at him that he was a virile, energetic man, but somehow she had distanced herself from that knowledge, seeing in his strength only a means to protect her and save Benjamin. Now she looked at him again—with the eyes of a woman whose vows of fidelity had died with her husband.

She saw the play of candlelight on the lean sinews of his forearms as he laid his knife down and picked up the tankard of ale. Simple, mundane actions—but suddenly she was very aware that she was looking at a man’s strong hands. A man whose whole body was just as strong and deft. His self-assurance, lean, handsome features and piercing gaze commanded attention, but she’d rarely met a man with less vanity about his masculine appeal. An edge of danger always lurked beneath his apparently nonchalant exterior. But though he must know that element of his character was attractive to women, she’d never seen him take advantage of it the way another might. He was intelligent, slightly exotic, physically compelling—and without doubt the most dangerously attractive man Saskia had ever met.

Her thoughts and emotions scrambled. In that moment, as long-suppressed parts of herself flexed back into uncertain life, it was as if Pieter died again—because another man was stirring her feminine interest. As she gazed at Harry, tears filled her eyes.

He froze, his expression suddenly as blank as the mask she’d hidden behind at the coffee-house. He stood abruptly. ‘We’ll leave at dawn,’ he said harshly.

‘Wh-what? Where are you going?’ Saskia managed to find her voice just as he reached the door. ‘You haven’t finished your supper.’

‘You hired me to protect you—not to sit watching me eat like a lamb supping with a lion.’

Saskia gaped at his retreating back. It took her a few moments to grasp his meaning. ‘I am not a lamb!’ she exclaimed indignantly. But it was too late. The door had already closed behind him.

She’d had tears in her eyes! She must have realised he was lusting after her like a rutting stag and the knowledge had frightened her. Harry slammed his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. He would have to control his unruly passions better in future. If she was a spy she must be prevented from causing harm to England. But even a spy should not be subjected to fear of abuse at a man’s hands. Never at his hands. More than two decades ago, filled with disgust and powerless fury, he had made that promise to himself. He would never physically mistreat a woman. But now he was back in England he must take care not to distress them in other ways.

Richard wouldn’t have made such a gauche error. He’d always been at ease in the company of others. Though Richard didn’t possess Harry’s physical toughness, he had a shrewd grasp of business that had helped him advance his career, tempered by a charm of manner that had won him many friends. Harry was confident his younger brother had never made a woman cry, even by mistake.

Harry forced his clenched fists to relax, reminding himself that Saskia had repeatedly lied to him. He must not lose sight of the fact that even if she wasn’t a Dutch agent, she was undoubtedly hatching some as yet undisclosed plan.

He didn’t like leaving her alone at the inn, but they’d left London so precipitously he had little choice if he wanted to get a message to Lord Swiftbourne. It was Harry’s good luck that the regular route from London to Portsmouth went through Kingston. Swiftbourne’s grandson and heir had married a lady who owned a house in Kingston. Harry had never met Jakob Balston, but he hoped Balston would be at home and that he’d either be able to take or send a message to Swiftbourne. He stopped to ask for directions. A few minutes later he arrived at the house and was relieved to discover his luck had held.

‘Harry Ward!’ Balston greeted him. ‘Your brother is a friend of mine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

‘And I you.’ Harry shook hands. He’d been aware of Balston’s existence for years, but knew Swiftbourne’s grandson had only arrived in England from Sweden the previous summer. Balston was a couple of inches taller than Harry’s six feet, broad and solidly muscled, with pale blond hair. Harry immediately thought of Saskia’s hair. He preferred the warm, reddish glow of Saskia’s blonde curls. His fingers still ached to touch them, whereas he felt no urge to touch Balston’s hair.

‘I apologise for calling so late,’ he said.

‘I’m glad to meet you at any time,’ Balston replied. ‘I’ve just returned from Sussex. My wife is still there, admiring the Kilverdales’ new daughter, but I had business to attend to here.’

‘The Duke is another of Swiftbourne’s grandsons,’ Harry remembered. He’d not met any of Swiftbourne’s family while he was under the Earl’s guardianship, partly because of the divisions caused by the Civil War, but mostly because he and Richard had left for Aleppo within weeks of becoming Swiftbourne’s wards.

Jakob smiled. ‘Since your father’s sister was married to Swiftbourne’s oldest son, you can claim cousinship with us,’ he said.

‘A very distant connection,’ said Harry.

‘But a connection nevertheless. So sit down and tell me how I may serve you.’

Harry briefly summarised his meeting with Swiftbourne and then the outcome of his interview with Saskia at the coffee-house. ‘She insisted on leaving London immediately, so I had no opportunity to take or send a message to Swiftbourne,’ he concluded.

‘Is she a spy?’

‘No.’ Harry paused to consider his immediate, instinctive denial. ‘I don’t believe she has told me the truth,’ he said, oddly reluctant to discuss Saskia with Balston. ‘But I have no doubt her fear is genuine.’

‘You have no idea what the lady is afraid of?’

‘No, but I will find out.’ Harry stood up, anxious to return to the Coach and Horses and Saskia. ‘I will be in your debt if you ensure Swiftbourne knows what has happened so far.’

‘I’ll go into London tomorrow. To be honest I’m glad of the errand.’ Balston smiled a little wryly. ‘I find I miss my wife when we are apart. Visiting Swiftbourne will fill the time until my own business is concluded and I can fetch her back from Sussex.’

Sunday morning, 16 June 1667

‘You are an arrogant, presumptuous fool! How dare you suggest I would let anyone eat me up without a bleat of protest—least of all you.’ Saskia kept her voice down, but she made no effort to hide her indignation.