A Secret in Her Kiss Read online

  Prestwood’s arms wrapped around her waist and his lips softened, sweeping over hers. “If you are going to sell this as a lovers’ quarrel, you need to act like you’ve been kissed before.” He caught her gasp of outrage by deepening the kiss.

  With a gentle tug, he drew the veil from her hair. He slowly sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the trapped flesh.

  But she wasn’t about to let him control the kiss. This was her plan. And she had been kissed before, curse him. True, it had been absolutely nothing like this one, but if he was concerned about convincing their audience, he need not fear. She had read quite a bit on the subject.

  She pressed herself more fully against him and copied what he’d just done to her lips. But her studies hadn’t prepared her for the jolt of pleasure that came from the small hitch in his breathing. She wanted to crow in triumph, but then his hand dropped down to cup her backside—her backside!—and she was sure she’d be shocked later, but all she could think about now was trumping his move. And the fact that his body was pressing against all the spots begging to be touched, sending heat between her legs.

  She groaned and shifted, her nipples rubbing the rough wool of his jacket though the silk of her caftan. She gasped at her audacity and the foreign sensation. Heavens, that was—she rubbed against him again—incredible.

  What would his hands feel like there? Would his touch ease the burning or only increase it?

  His hand caressed up her side, promising to reveal the answer. One more inch and his finger would brush the side of her breast. His hand stalled so close, the warmth of it heated the very flesh that ached for his touch.

  Did he seek to drive her mad?

  Wantonly, she leaned forward. But Prestwood stepped back, causing her to stumble.

  The Janissaries had sheathed their swords. Around them, the crowd of men cheered and hooted.

  How long ago had the danger passed? And how had she allowed herself to become so lost that she had no idea of the answer? She spun away and collected her father, who studied a rock in the road.

  “Do you suppose this rock might have been trod upon by an ancient Roman?”

  She helped him to his feet and resisted the urge to snap at him. “Perhaps, Father. Take it with you if you want.” She turned back to check on Prestwood. He stood directly behind her. His face wore the same arrogant, bored expression from earlier.

  The cad. As if she had not just saved his skin. As if he had not just kissed her so senseless she’d forgotten herself in the middle of a public square.

  The British might have been able to blackmail her into continuing her work, but that didn’t mean she had to accept the watchdog they sent to ensure she bowed to their wishes.

  They might have been able to gain her compliance with threats, but they didn’t control her as completely as they thought.

  Bennett sat in the backward-facing seat of the coach and glared at the other two occupants. What in the blazes had just happened? Not only had he been so distracted by the aggravating Miss Sinclair that he’d failed to notice the discontented audience, but then he’d mauled her in the street like a randy recruit.

  If he’d thought the urge to write about her strange, it was nothing compared to the yearning he now felt to touch her again. To experience the vibrancy that had shaken him to his core.

  Experience the vibrancy?

  Colonel Smollet-Green had been correct. Poetry led to weak, milksop officers.

  Bennett had been too long on the battlefield and too long from the soft touch of a woman. Nothing more. He needed to bed one, not write about one.

  He studied Miss Sinclair. Her hazel eyes were indeed incredible—soft brown pools stirred with ribbons of jade and flecks of gold surrounded by thick, dark lashes his sisters would have killed for. Her eyes slanted upward slightly at the corners, granting her an exotic, mysterious air that promised silken sheets, spiced oils, and nights of untold delight.

  The eyes rested in a sun-kissed face underlined by strong cheekbones and a straight, Roman nose. Her lips—Bennett pulled his gaze from their seductive, just-kissed fullness. His memory was far too active to dwell on that feature.

  Rather than a soft English kitten, she was a panther. And like a panther, she appeared ready to go for his throat.

  He met the challenge in her gaze with one of his own. She shouldn’t have tried to deceive him.

  Completely and utterly unacceptable. Sophia had done that, allowing herself to be beaten time and time again.

  Love for his sister had made him gullible and blind. He’d believed her when she had not attended family gatherings, claiming a sudden illness, even though she’d never been sickly as a child. He had believed her when she’d claimed the bruise on her cheek resulted from bumping into a door. Hell, he’d even teased her about it.

  But he’d allow no emotions to interfere with his protection of Miss Sinclair. As soon as he received the locations the government wanted sketched, he’d arrange for her to draw them. Then he could leave.

  Her hazel eyes flashed. “Stop glowering. It isn’t my fault I had to save your life.”

  No, he wouldn’t let her rouse him this time. “Thank you for your quick thinking.”

  She frowned and lowered her brows. Searching for the trap in his words, no doubt. She crossed her arms and stared out the window.

  Her father, Sir Reginald, slouched next to her, a bemused smile on his face. Sir Reginald had given his daughter her coloring, but there the similarities ended. His face lacked the sharp angles that defined hers and his addiction had taken its toll, robbing the man’s skin of luster and his eyes of life.

  Miss Sinclair glanced at him and caught his survey of her father. She quickly turned back to glare at the pane of glass beside her. Too quickly.

  He sought to put her at ease. “His sickness is no reflection on you.”

  Her mouth dropped open and her face jerked toward him. “Of all the arrogant, overbearing— Why do you suppose for one minute that I care a whit for your opinion about me or my father? Just because some imbecile assigned me to you, it doesn’t allow you free rein in my private life.”

  Bennett clenched the seat cushion until his fingers ached. Control. The army had taught him control. As a Rifleman, he could hide unmoving in the brush for hours while enemy troops moved inches from his position. A mere slip of a woman didn’t have the power to rile him. “On the contrary, for the next month, it belongs to me entirely.”

  Hell, how had that escaped?

  Miss Sinclair sputtered. “The devil it does!”

  Bennett rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I’m here to protect you—”

  “That’s a polite way of putting it. I agreed to do the drawings, not to accept a jailer.”

  “You need to be alive to draw.”

  “How do you propose to accomplish that? Your very presence threatens to expose me. I risk discovery every day. The risk increases monumentally if I’m entangled with an obviously British keeper who knows nothing about the country he’s been sent into.”

  Bennett’s hands tightened on his knees. “What you are doing for the British is dangerous. Your ridiculous scenes put your life in jeopardy. Who did I meet with this morning?”

  Staring at him defiantly, she folded the veil with crisp, tight snaps. “My maid.”

  Without the guidance of her father, she’d grown too wild. Her excessive freedom ended here. “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

  Her lips stretched over her teeth in an expression that was more snarl than smile. “I’m busy.”

  “With what?”

  She lifted her chin and shrugged. “It doesn’t concern my work so it doesn’t concern you.”

  “Your plans?” He waited silently, never letting his attention waver from her, a trick that had wrung information from the most hardened soldiers.

  Apparently, Miss Sinclair was made of sterner stuff. When they drew to a halt at her residence, she still hadn’t answered him.

>   He jumped down, then assisted her out. The touch of her skin was as disturbing as before.

  As if he were Prometheus holding stolen fire.

  When she tried to pull away, he refused to let her, locking his fingers around her wrist. Her pulse fluttered under his fingers.

  “Unhand me.”

  “Not until I know what you are planning.” And until he convinced his brain that there was nothing extraordinary about this woman except her foolishness.

  Suddenly, she twisted in his grasp, freeing herself. But he grabbed her waist before she’d managed a single step. The lithe muscles under his fingers tensed, and he tightened his hold before her next attempt to flee. “If you don’t tell me your plans, we will stand here all night.”

  She shoved against his chest with both hands, but when that didn’t loosen his hold, she sighed. “I’ll stay at my house tonight like an obedient puppy.”

  Bennett nodded at the concession. Good, perhaps she could learn who was in charge after all. “We’ll discuss my plans for you tomorrow morning at nine.”

  She nodded.

  “Do I have your word that you’ll not try to leave the house this evening?”

  She glared at him. “If it convinces you to let go of me, then yes, you have my word.”

  He loosened his grip, and she stalked away toward the coach.

  Despite her glares and muttered oaths, he helped her remove her father. Once the man’s feet were on the ground, he teetered for a moment, then straightened and practically skipped into the house. She stalked after him, the silk of her robe clinging to softly supple hips.

  She’d never agree to confine her movements to a carefully arranged schedule. Even knowing what little he did of her, his original stratagem was ridiculous. So rather than monitoring her from afar he’d have to—

  Damnation. He wouldn’t be able to leave her side.

  Chapter Three

  Mari glanced at her clock. Seven. That gave her two hours until her captor arrived. She ignored a small spurt of guilt. She’d only promised to not leave the house last night. She wrapped her veil around her head. She’d guaranteed nothing about her location this morning.

  Breakfast was already laid out on the sufra. Her father hadn’t yet awoken then. When he was up and sober, he demanded a solid English breakfast served at a table. She knelt down by the leather mat and popped a green olive into her mouth. Thank heavens, he was still abed. She couldn’t have stomached the bland mass of grease that passed as an English meal. She untied the bag hidden in the folds of her robes and tucked in a hunk of feta cheese and slices of hard pastirma sausage. She didn’t have time to waste eating here.

  As she draped her veil over her head, she opened the door and checked the street. Clear. She needed to speak to Nathan. If anyone could take care of Major Prestwood, surely an agent of the British Foreign Office could.

  Mari threaded her way through the streets. The city already bustled with market goers eager to avoid the oppressive summer heat and purchase their produce before the flies discovered it. She kept her head down, veil pulled across her face, to avoid recognition.

  She skirted a basket weaver’s stall and slipped down a narrow alley, picking her way around foul-smelling puddles and under lines strung with drying laundry.

  The hairs on the back of her neck quivered. She bent over and pretended to adjust her shoe as she peered behind her.

  People milled around in the market beyond the entry to the alley, but no one seemed to be giving her undue attention. Yet she was being watched. She could feel it.

  She continued on her way, keeping her pace slow and measured. Seven . . . eight . . . nine . . . ten. She whirled about trying to catch sight of her pursuer.

  Silence clung to the dark alley. Shadows flickered as sheets rippled in the breeze. But she could find no followers.

  Her heart hammered in her chest. As the alleyway opened into a shady courtyard, she ducked through a small gap between two overgrown bougainvillea bushes, the branches plucking at her sleeves and thorns raking her arms. The bushes rustled behind her as someone tried to follow.

  There. A cart. She dashed behind the lumbering vehicle, keeping pace beside a mountain of moving cabbage until she reached a street corner. Although the cart trod onward, she tucked herself behind the edge of a building.

  Ignoring the burning in her chest, she strained to hear any sounds of pursuit. The tingling sensation that had triggered her flight faded.

  She’d lost them.

  She drew a breath into her starved lungs and rested her head on the cool stone of the building wall.

  Her shaky legs urged caution so she altered her course three times. When she reached Nathan’s quarters, she circled around the building twice to ensure she was unobserved.

  Mari pressed her ear against the shutters. No noise sounded within. She tapped twice on the slats covering the window and waited. She tapped again. When he didn’t respond, she retrieved the note she’d written from the sash at her waist.

  She pulled on the loose slat, third from the bottom, and slipped the paper into the small crevice obscured by the loose wood. Nathan had said if she was ever in need of assistance, he’d rush to her aid.

  She definitely needed him now. Surely, he’d agree Prestwood would only increase the danger to all of them.

  Mari straightened and made her way to the main street. This time, she lowered her veil around her shoulders and nodded to people she recognized, calling out cheery merhabas and asking after family members. If anyone questioned where she disappeared to this morning, she’d have a dozen witnesses to place her on the way to Esad Pasha’s house.

  She trailed her hand along the wall surrounding Esad’s home. An entire neighborhood had been razed to provide ample space and prestige for the sultan’s favored one. A slave opened the gate at her approach and she entered the lush green courtyard. She stopped for a moment. A jasmine breeze enfolded her, and she allowed the splash of water from the central fountains to calm her.

  If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was still a child feeding her lunch to the cascade of songbirds that trilled in their spacious cages. She had lain on the edge of the hidden fountain in the corner and dangled her toes in the water as she read book after book until she could identify every plant in this garden and then every plant in Constantinople. Since insects were a constant in the gardens, she’d learned them, too. One or two a day, or if she knew her father would be missing, she’d linger and learn four or five.

  She smiled. It had taken her a year to realize Esad was planting interesting specimens in the garden for her to find.

  “Mari! Dawdling in the courtyard as always, I see.” Esad’s voice boomed through the patio. Despite her attempts, his wife, Beria, had never managed to change the former military commander’s volume.

  Mari ran to Esad and kissed both his cheeks. He wrapped his beefy arms around her in a tight embrace.

  She laughed. “Your age is beginning to show. I think you only broke two of my ribs this time.”

  Esad grinned and released her. His smile rearranged the stern wrinkles on his leathery face. “I keep telling Beria civilian life is making me soft. That proves it.”

  “A new turban?”

  “Indeed. What is your opinion?” Garish crimson and indigo clashed with lemony yellow. He claimed he’d spent so long confined to a military uniform that he had to make up for lost time, but she suspected his outlandish taste in clothes stemmed more from a desire to nettle his long-suffering wife.

  “How does Beria like it?”

  Esad raised his bushy eyebrows, his eyes twinkling. “She said it was an abomination that would cause the sun to bury itself in the desert so it would be spared the glare. She forbade me from wearing it to the sultan’s palace, which serves me well, in any event.” He winked. “I have an even better one.”

  Mari shook her head, but didn’t scold him. His choice of clothing was also a calculated ploy to make his enemies underestimate him. Esad’s br
usque manner and large girth led many opponents to believe he’d gained his military position based on brawn. They’d yet to see that under his flamboyant attire stood one of the keenest minds in the empire.

  “It has been a long time since your last visit. Have you been avoiding me?” His face grew serious. “I know you asked me not to execute that rebel, but I had no choice. She was part of a Greek plot to assassinate the sultan.”

  “I know.” She knew quite well. Lidia had once met with the same group of rebels as Mari. But over the past few months, Lidia had grown impatient and sought out more radical separatists. Although Mari was angry at the Greek woman’s death, she wasn’t angry at Esad, at least not anymore. He had been doing what he had seen as his duty.

  Her stomach knotted at the thought of the dead woman’s bloated face as she hung on the city wall, serving as a warning for all who would support a free Greece.

  Unfortunately for the Ottomans, the gruesome sight had inspired the exact opposite reaction in Mari. No longer could she be content to creep to secret meetings and make plans that never amounted to anything.

  The Ottoman Empire was crumbling. Even though Esad would deny it with his dying breath, she’d seen the tension in his eyes when he returned from council meetings. And the more power they lost, the tighter their stranglehold became on their outlying territories, like Greece.

  She did her small part to loosen that fist. All she did was draw, but of the five fortifications she’d drawn and passed on to the British, one had been destroyed by brigands, two were mysteriously plagued by sabotage, and two complained of continually tainted food supplies.

  None of the five was able to subjugate the Greeks.