He opened his mouth to speak. She had the distinct impression he wanted her to stay but she shoved the silly thought aside. Why should he desire her company?
Georgina reached for his bindings but the memory of his hand around her neck froze her mid-motion. She rubbed the sensitive skin where that possessive touch—firm but gentle—lingered. No one had ever handled her with even a modicum of tenderness. Reason had taught her to loathe such weakness. After all, compassion had brought her nothing but trouble.
His gaze went to her neck. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ve never mistreated a woman.” Until now.
Considering her own experience with men and his earlier violent outburst, she didn’t put much faith in his statement. Nonetheless, Adam Markham was desperate, an emotion she knew well. She waved off his apology. “You’re not the first to…put me in my place.” A niggling whisper of a dream flitted through her mind. In a different life she would have been the beloved daughter of a loving couple. She may even have a doting suitor. How different might her life have been if she’d been born a daughter to loyal British subjects? Georgina brushed back a loose strand of hair. “I wish there was something I could do to help you, but I can’t.” At least not now.
“You can free me.” He was nothing if not persistent.
“I already said I can’t.”
His eyes ran a path over her face, but he said nothing.
Georgina bound his hands and hurried to leave before her father came home.
“Miss Wilcox?”
She paused.
“Thank you,” he said in hushed undertones.
With a nod, she took her leave and made her way to the kitchen, where she gathered potatoes for the evening meal. Self-preservation dictated she forget Adam Markham. Yet her heart wouldn’t allow her to do any such thing. All the while she prepared dinner, the visage of the handsome stranger danced through her mind.
He’d mistaken her for a servant.
Her skin tingled with the remembrance of his silken fingertips caressing her rapidly beating pulse.
If he’d wanted to strangle her before, what would he do if he learned she was really his captor’s daughter?
In his meeting with Napoleon, Robert Emmet was informed the British have in their employ an agent who is assisting France. This person has pledged to also help the United Irishmen.
Signed,
A Loyal British Subject
Chapter 2
Adam Markham had been betrayed. For seven years, he’d faithfully served the Home Office as a spy with The Brethren of the Lords. He’d uncovered the identities of Irish radicals trying to separate from England, had uncovered plots against the Crown, and seduced the secrets out of nefarious women all over the Continent.
None of his accomplishments mattered when coupled with his one great failure—the lapse in judgment that had earned him this month-long descent in the pit of hell.
Adam stared blankly at the cheerful floral curtains of his prison, at the sun’s rays raining false brightness through the window.
The night Fox and Hunter had taken him prisoner, he’d been drugged. That much was clear. Adam had been in his townhouse, meeting with four other members of The Brethren, two of whom had been strangers. Someone must have slipped something into his glass of wine.
Who had handed him over to Fox? Fury licked at his insides, and he fed that anger because it staved off the mind-numbing fear. With a roar, he yanked his arms. The rope dug into his skin, rubbing the flesh raw until blood seeped down his wrists. Adam unleashed a string of black curses against his captors.
Adam comforted himself with the image of the day he would eventually be freed. He would use his far-reaching influence to see Fox and Hunter were made to pay. He would destroy his captors and all those who’d betrayed him. Their immediate death would be too easy. He would see that they suffered a traitor’s public death so that any and all linked to them would learn the perils of interfering with The Brethren. Still, it wasn’t only the thirst for revenge that kept him alive. Not anymore. Now there was also the young maid, Georgina.
As if his unspoken thoughts had summoned her, she appeared in the doorway. Georgina froze at the entrance and tipped her chin back a notch. A fiery light sparkled in her chocolate brown eyes. She put him in mind of a skittish cat.
He couldn’t help but wonder what she’d be like if she lived in another house, in different circumstances. A cheery girl no doubt, with rose in her full cheeks, and a soft, sweet laugh that bubbled past her generous, bow-shaped lips. The thought made his heart twinge.
She carried a tray of food, on top of which rested a leather volume. “They’ve gone out,” she murmured, the husky tone washing over him, as she closed the door behind her.
He remained silent, continuing to study her. The thick, dark waves of her hair always somehow managed to escape the knot at the base of her neck. Her slim figure was testament to the endless work she did in Fox’s home. But for the bountiful breasts and generous curve of her hips, the maid’s efforts had left her borderline gaunt. Still, there was something compelling about her.
Mayhap it was the determined sparkle in the brown of her eyes? Or the rigid set to her small shoulders that would have made a cavalry officer proud.
He’d tried to sort out her role in the household. With her regal carriage and cultured voice, she may as well have been any lady in a London drawing room. Her haggard figure and drab gown told a different tale. What had happened to bring her here?
As she did each time she visited, she released one of his bindings then took a quick step away from him. His gut churned with guilt as he thought back to the day he’d wrapped his fingers around her neck. Captivity did horrible things to a man. It turned gentlemen into monsters.
He eyed the bowl of chicken pottage. It was the third day in a row she’d prepared a meal of chicken. “Chicken, again.”
She frowned. “You always eat the chicken.”
“I eat all the food,” he pointed out. “I am a prisoner.”
“But you eat it faster, so I thought you preferred chicken and—” She clamped her lips shut. “I’ll make something different next time.”
As he shoveled another bite of broth into his mouth, he studied her. The quality linen dress she wore seemed more fitting of a lady than a household maid. He watched her fist and un-fist the silvery gray fabric of her skirts. Something seemed amiss, yet he could not put his finger on it.
“Is there anything I can bring you as a diversion?”
Her quiet question snapped him back to the moment.
Was that even possible?
“I draw.”
She tipped her head. “Draw?”
He waved his free hand. “Yes, sketch. People. Buildings. I like to sketch.”
“I’ve never known an artist,” she mused aloud.