There were reasons to despair, but even in this thin soil, hope grew, in an unexpected direction.
In the midst of all this, after the night we’d failed to burgle Mrs. Greenhow’s study, I began to recognize what had been growing between myself and Tim. Back in Chicago, I never would have guessed it. But after so many days and nights in each other’s company, we’d developed an ease, a rhythm, I’d never known with Charlie. That marriage had been real, according to God and law, and this one was only a fiction. And yet, I was happier in this sham of a union than I’d ever been, even for a day, in the other one.
I learned to dance. Tim was an excellent dancer, a talent I’d had no reason to suspect. I began to look forward to the balls and galas, not just as an opportunity to watch Mrs. Greenhow at work, but also for my own private enjoyment. I became amazingly aware of Tim’s hands. How one felt alongside my waist, the other entwined with mine, as we danced a waltz. The strength of his fingers. How it felt when his wedding band pressed against my flesh, warm from his touch. We always did our best to keep up conversation when we danced, since there were so many listening ears nearby.
“Mrs. Armstrong,” he said one evening, “I should tell you how fervently I admire you.”
“You should,” I said with a laugh.
He looked around the room, subtly enough that I doubted anyone else noticed, and then spoke again, more softly. “I should tell you so…Kate.”
I didn’t know how to respond. He was clearly making an effort to reach out, a wholly unexpected one. “Shall I thank you? It seems like I should thank you.”
“We know each other much better than we did before. I’ve learned a great deal. My earliest impressions of you were…mistaken.”
Our feet continued to move in the same pattern, one-two-three, one-two-three, as I considered what to say. I was glad at what I heard, but at the same time, I was not inclined to let him off easy for how he’d acted toward me in those days. “Once upon a time, you told me I would never be able to do what was needed.”
He said softly, “That was a long time ago. I didn’t know you then. I know you now.”
“You do,” I said and squeezed his hand as we made a lazy circle among our enemies.
? ? ?
That night, when we returned to our room, we started off as usual. He put his hand on my shoulder, following me in, and I closed the door behind us. His hand was still there. I closed my eyes, feeling furtive, enjoying his touch, even as I knew he’d pull his fingers away in a moment and walk over to the far side of the room to give me what little privacy he could in our shared space.
But he didn’t.
Instead of lifting his fingers from my shoulder, he drew them across my back, toward my neck. I felt his fingertips move upward, teasing the lace at the top of my collar, and then go skittering across the bare skin just under my hairline. I shivered. He placed the whole palm against my skin, enveloping the back of my neck with a gentle pressure.
His touch was like fire.
I said, unable to keep my voice steady, “We’re alone now. There’s no need to pretend.”
He said, “I’m not pretending.”
I held my breath.
Into the silence, he added, “I haven’t been. Not about you.”
There were so many things I wanted to say. They all died in my throat before I could speak them. The air was so heavy, so laden with danger and promise, and I was terrified of losing that feeling. I wanted it to go on and on in perfect balance. But I also wanted what might come after it, the dazzling, dizzying possibility. I wanted it with every part of me. I raised my eyes to look at Tim.
I saw my own torment reflected in his face—fear and longing, too fierce to resist.
His lips came down on mine, and my arms were around his neck before I even registered that he’d moved.
We had kissed before, in the name of subterfuge, but this kiss was only for us and our true selves, and the passion of it was indescribable. Never had there been anything in my life so powerful. I wanted to throw off the shackles of our lives, our responsibilities, anything that didn’t involve me and this man right here, pressed against each other, now and for all time.
“Sweet Lord,” he said, his voice rich with wonder. In the half-light of our supposed marriage bed, he looked as stunned as I felt.
“Hush,” I said and kissed him again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mrs. Wells
And so the world was new. In the midst of such terror, there were still joys, and it helped us redouble our efforts in the spy game. We worked flawlessly as a team, paying visits to house after house, where I would gossip my way into information and he would mentally map every location, every name, every word. Our reports to Pinkerton were written together, as it now seemed one of us could not have a thought without the other. I still went alone on my afternoon social calls, but evening always found us together, and then the nights afterward.
Nights had become sweet torture. Living as husband and wife in the eyes of the world, retiring to a single room with a single bed every night, there was no one to keep us from each other but ourselves. He was stronger than I. I would have given myself to him that first night if he’d asked and every night after. But each night, we fell into each other’s arms even in the act of walking in the door, poured our passion into kisses, and then like clockwork, he pulled away, groaning, “God, Kate, we can’t,” and stumbled away with a grimace that was almost a smile.