His Spanish Bride Read online

  “It’s not your—”

  “Trouble between us and the Spanish is all our affair. You don’t have any idea who took the letter?”

  “Never received it. Tiresome, that. Don’t know why Bella had to put pen to paper—”

  “For God’s sake, Linford.” Malcolm seized his arm. “Do you have any idea what you’ve exposed her to?”

  “Bella knows—”

  “Isabella Flores could lose her child and her friends and her reputation. And she probably considers herself in love with you. Which is more than can be said on your side.”

  “Oh, very well.” Linford tugged his arm free of Malcolm’s grip and smoothed his sleeve. “Not as though there aren’t plenty of other fish in the sea.” His gaze swept the room. “Isn’t that the girl you brought back from the Cantabrian Mountains? What’s her name? St. Vincent? Tasty morsel, that.”

  “If you so much as dance with Suzanne de Saint-Vallier,” Malcolm said, “it won’t be Flores you’ll be fighting.”

  Linford ran a gaze over him filled with the contempt of the soldier for the diplomat. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me.”

  Linford gave a low laugh, crude as the most graphic Rowlandson print. “You fool, Rannoch. You think she’s an innocent. But for all you know she’s a Continental adventuress.”

  Malcolm’s right hand curled into a fist. “One word, Linford.”

  “Never thought to see a cold fish like you brought low by a woman. Go right ahead and make a fool of yourself.”

  “I say, Linford, aren’t we going to play cards?” A shorter, stouter, sandy-haired man approached them. William Haddon, Linford’s boon companion. If he cut less of a swath with the ladies, it was only because he was less dashing, not for want of trying.

  “Yes, all right, since Rannoch’s playing the spoilsport.”

  “You don’t want to dance with your wife?” Malcolm asked Haddon. He spotted Mrs. Haddon across the room, a tall woman with honey-colored hair and a direct gaze. She was the former Charlotte Spencer. Malcolm remembered her from his childhood in England as a lively girl with a quick wit who had played with his cousins. Now the ironic curve of her mouth and the disillusion in her once bright eyes betrayed the knowledge that had come with the married state.

  “Lord, Rannoch, no one dances with his own wife. What are you thinking?” Haddon demanded.

  “Rannoch’s besotted,” Linford said. “Go and moon over the Saint-Vallier chit, Rannoch.”

  To go straight to Suzanne de Saint-Vallier was to play into Linford’s hand. On the other hand, to avoid her was to yield even more sway to Linford. Malcolm crossed the room to Suzanne de Saint-Vallier. She greeted him with an amused smile.

  “I was dreadfully afraid Captain Linford was going to come speak with me.”

  “He was.”

  “Did you think I couldn’t cope with him?”

  “I have no doubt that you could. But I didn’t see why you should be required to do so.”

  Suzanne laughed. She had a warm laugh with a touch of ironic amusement that gave her an air beyond her years. “You’re a gallant man, Mr. Rannoch.”

  The laughter in her eyes couldn’t quite disguise the ghosts in their depths. Malcolm had seen how strong she could be, fighting off French soldiers at his side, nursing the wounded, riding long days and sleeping on the hard ground in enemy terrain. She’d grown up in a dangerous world, and her parents had taught her unusual skills. But he knew she was already the subject of casual speculation like Edward Linford’s. And that was nothing compared to the talk there would be when her pregnancy became obvious. She was less prepared to defend herself against those attacks than against a French ambush.

  In the candlelight, the bones of her face were strong yet incredibly fragile. One wrong step—

  “I was going to go out on the balcony for some air,” he said. “Care to come with me?”

  “And escape the ballroom? I thought you’d never ask.”

  He held open the French window. She moved past him onto the wrought-iron balcony, the silk folds of her gown brushing against his legs. Her perfume washed over him, roses and vanilla, and some other elusive, aromatic scent.

  Malcolm closed the window. The rush of cold air hurt his lungs. “Have you given any more thought to my suggestion ?”

  “That I go away and have the baby in secret? It’s the only option.”

  “You can pretend it’s an orphaned child you’ve taken in.”

  “Wouldn’t there still be talk?” She drew the folds of her shawl about her.

  “Of course. But no one would be able to prove anything.”

  “I suppose that’s the best I can hope for.” Her fingers tightened on the velvet and lace of the shawl. “You’re kind to try, Mr. Rannoch.”

  “There’s another option.” He leaned against the cold glass of the window and studied her, silhouetted against the moonlight and the dark sky. A dusky cloud of hair framing a heart-shaped face. Pale skin, winged brows, quicksilver sea green eyes. He wanted more than anything to close the distance between them and take her in his arms. And that told him how very much danger they were both in. Once the words were spoken, they could not be taken back. And the more he wanted it, the greater the risk.

  He drew a breath. A thousand past hurts and future risks rushed into his lungs. “There’s another option. You could marry me.”

  Her gaze fastened on his face. Wide and dark. Shock reverberating in its depths. “That’s terribly kind of you, Mr. Rannoch—”

  “I should warn you I’m not much of a bargain,” he said before his impulses could betray him into danger. “My parents’ marriage was a disaster. I’ve long been determined to avoid any such entanglements for myself.”

  “Mr. Rannoch, are you telling me my predicament has overcome your scruples?” Her eyes were still dark with shock, but there was a faint tremble of laughter in her voice.

  “Miss Saint-Vallier, I’m warning you of what you’d be letting yourself in for. I work long hours. I’m often required to attend events such as this one.”

  “From what I’ve observed you spend a great deal of those events in the library.”

  “Whenever possible. You’d be welcome to join me, but I imagine you’d find it harder to disappear. You have a way of drawing the eye.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  He moved to the balcony railing and leaned against it. Support was probably a good idea considering he had just cut the foundation of his life out from under him. “When I’m not attending receptions or drafting memoranda or sitting in meetings, I’m likely to disappear unexpectedly.”

  “On intelligence missions. Like the one on which you met me.”

  “Quite. You’d be on your own much of the time. As would”—the word stuck in his throat, an acknowledgment of just how much he’d be taking on—“the child.” The tie that would bind them for the rest of their lives, a role and a responsibility he’d never thought to assume, for which he suspected he was entirely unsuited. “Of course you might consider that an advantage.”

  She moved to lean against the railing beside him, one white-gloved hand gripping the balustrade. The crystal beads at the neck of her gown sparkled in the moonlight. The wind tugged at the knots of ribbon on the shoulders. “Mr. Rannoch, you have to have considered—This child—”

  “Deserves to be loved.” His hands closed on the cool metal of the railing behind him. “Love” was not a word that came easily to him.

  “Mr. Rannoch—” She put out a hand, then let it fall to her side. “That means a great deal to me. But you can’t have thought this through. The child could be a boy—”

  “It’s not as though I have a title to pass along.” He kept his gaze steady on her face, his head turned sideways.

  “Your mother’s father is a duke. I’ve heard you talk about your family’s estates—”

  His father’s legacy. He swallowed a bite of bitter laughter as rumors from his own childhood swirled in his brain
. “You’ve heard me say often enough I don’t believe in inherited wealth.”

  “Saying it in the abstract is different from putting it into practice in one’s own life.”

  “All too often. But not in this case.” His fingers tightened on the balcony railing. The cold metal bit through his gloves. “I don’t know what sort of father I’d make. My own father didn’t set much of an example. But I swear to you I would love your child as my own.”

  A multitude of thoughts he could not put a name to chased themselves through her eyes. “If you know me at all, you must realize how grateful I am. And that I could never ask you to make such a sacrifice.”

  “Believe me, Miss Saint-Vallier, it would be no sacrifice.” Until he spoke the words he hadn’t realized quite how much he meant them.

  She swallowed. He saw the pulse beating just above the draped peacock blue silk of her bodice. “Will you give me a few days to consider?”

  “Of course.”

  He should have felt relief. Instead cold terror gripped him.

  The terror of incipient loss.

  Keep calm. She had time. Time to consider, to weigh options, to calculate odds. But—Dear God in heaven. Marriage.

  Suzanne made her way round the edge of the dance floor and down the passage to the place where she knew she could have a moment to collect her thoughts. The ladies’ retiring room. She drew a breath, reached for the door handle, and froze at the sound of sobs. Instinct cut through her confusion. This sort of unguarded moment was the lifeblood of an agent’s work. Anything she could learn from a guest at the embassy could prove invaluable.

  The cloak of her work settled over her, welcome protection from the tumult of her thoughts. She turned the handle and stepped into the room to find a young woman with chestnut hair collapsed on a low stool in a cloud of cream-colored tulle and French blue ribbon, sobbing into a handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry.” Suzanne stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Is there anything I can do?” And she meant it, while at the same time she was keenly aware of the possibilities this encounter offered.

  “Oh no.” The chestnut-haired woman blew her nose. It was the Marquesa de Flores, Suzanne realized. An Englishwoman married to a Spanish general. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s clearly not nothing.” Suzanne dropped down on a chair beside the other woman. “Don’t tell me one of the attachés made a nuisance of himself.”

  “If only it were that simple.” The marquesa gave a despairing laugh. “You aren’t married, Miss Saint-Vallier. You can have no notion—”

  “Is it something to do with your husband?”

  “My husband!” The marquesa’s voice cracked like shattered crystal. “If he finds out—”

  Isabella Flores broke off. Suzanne waited, afraid to stem the flow of confidences. Isabella wadded up her handkerchief in her lap. “You’re the girl Malcolm Rannoch brought to Lisbon, aren’t you?”

  “Mr. Rannoch came to my assistance after my family were killed.”

  “Rescued you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You traveled with him for some days?”

  “He brought my maid and me to Lisbon.” Was there already gossip about the time she’d spent in Malcolm’s company? Was that part of what had driven him to propose?

  Isabella’s gaze darted over her face. “Do you trust him? Is he a man of honor?”

  Suzanne would have been the first to say honor was a smoke screen frequently employed by scoundrels, yet her voice rang sterling true to her own ears when she said, “Yes. One of the most honorable men I’ve ever met.”

  “I knew him a bit as a boy, but it’s difficult to reconcile that with—Do you think he’s brave and resourceful? If he says he’ll do something—”

  “He’s the sort of man who accomplishes what he sets out to do.” Suzanne studied Isabella’s anxious gaze and nervous hands. “Marquesa—has he offered to assist you?”

  “No, of course not.” Isabella straightened up, wariness writ in her posture. “How could I possibly—”

  “Because if so, I’m quite sure you can rely upon him to sort matters out for you.”

  Isabella gave a desperate laugh. “If only it could be sorted out. Oh, Miss Saint-Vallier, I’ve been such a fool.”

  The story tumbled out in bits and pieces, coaxed along by judicious comments, questions, and words of reassurance. Half of it Suzanne had already guessed. A bored, neglected wife. An older, absent husband. A love affair. An indiscreet letter.

  Isabella Flores twisted her handkerchief in her hand. “You must despise me.”

  “No, I assure you.”

  Isabella shot her a look. “I betrayed my marriage vows.”

  “Marriage can be complicated.”

  Isabella sat back, hands locked on the handkerchief. “You’re very young to have divined that.”

  “I think we’re much of an age.”

  “But I’ve been married. Going on three years.” Isabella threw the crumpled handkerchief onto the dressing table. “I didn’t think it would be like this. I thought I knew precisely how my life would play out. My friends used to call me Queen Isabella because I was determined to reign over society. Ironic, is it not?”

  “It’s one way a woman can achieve power.”

  “Flores offered all that.” Isabella moved to the dressing table bench and picked up a comb to tidy her errant ringlets. “An English marquis would never have offered for me. I didn’t have the fortune or the family. That was my first thought when my father told me Flores had asked for my hand.” She dragged the comb through her side curls with a vicious tug. “I don’t think I’d met Flores above a half-dozen times—I’d only recently left school and come to Lisbon to stay with Papa. But I knew Flores could give me a position, a name older than my family’s, and a title beyond my dreams. I could imagine the looks of envy on school friends’ faces.” She threw the comb down on the dressing table with a clatter. “It wasn’t until after we’d been married for months that it occurred to me there’s more to marriage.”

  “You were very young.” An age at which Suzanne had already been an orphaned ex-whore turned spy.

  “I was seventeen. Lots of girls get married at seventeen.” Isabella wiped at her smeared lip rouge. “It’s not that my husband was unkind. In fact, he was faultlessly polite. But I scarcely saw him, and when we were together he was so remote. I was so desperately lonely. And I missed England. I missed my old life. Not all of it, of course. Not the restrictions and the chaperones hovering about. But—”

  “The admiration?”

  “Yes, precisely.” Isabella twined a ringlet round her finger to reshape it. “You can’t imagine what it’s like yet. One’s an unmarried girl with dozens of young men crowding about, asking for dances, bringing one flowers. Myriad possibilities. And then suddenly all those options are cut off. One’s made one’s choice and one has to live with it.”

  “One’s made one’s choice of husband.”

  Isabella shot a glance at her in the looking glass. “I never thought—I didn’t intend to make any other choice but that of husband. But then there was Edward being charming and attentive. Talking to me about home. Complimenting my gowns, showing me with his eyes that he appreciated me when my husband scarcely seemed to notice. Oh, I know I’m making excuses, but you’ll understand when you’re married. That is—” She bit her lip.

  “It’s all right.” Suzanne touched Isabella’s hand. “I do understand how even under the best of circumstances one could feel one had lost options.” A chill shot through her at hitherto unforeseen possibilities. She’d never thought marriage would be an option for her. Now suddenly she was on the brink of it.

  “I thought of running away with him, you know,” Isabella said in a low voice. “Mad, insane thoughts. But then I thought of my little boy. He’s just a year old. He’s been crying for me as he cuts his teeth, even though he has an excellent nurse. I’ve stayed home with him several eveni
ngs and not even minded. Two years ago I couldn’t imagine being content to spend an evening pacing the nursery carpet, jollying a baby out of fussing.” She shook her head, ringlets stirring about her face. “Having children changes everything.”

  It took all Suzanne’s willpower to keep her hand from going to her abdomen. She didn’t have just herself to think of anymore. But as she had said to Blanca, the rest of her life didn’t stop because she was becoming a mother. Her other loyalties didn’t go away.

  “If Flores discovers the letter—” Isabella drew a harsh breath. “I could lose my baby in any case.”

  The stark fear in the other woman’s gaze resonated to a place in Suzanne she hadn’t known existed. Perhaps it hadn’t existed until now. She squeezed Isabella’s hand. “You can rely on Malcolm Rannoch. He won’t fail you.”

  And she knew it was true. Even though she herself might well be working against him.

  “Rannoch.” Edward Linford’s voice was a low hiss as his hand closed on Malcolm’s arm.

  Malcolm turned to meet Linford’s gaze. The swagger of an hour ago was gone. The blue gaze that women swooned over darted about like that of a cornered animal. “You have to help me.”

  “I just told you that I will endeavor to do so,” Malcolm said. “You didn’t seem much interested.”

  “That was before—Christ, let’s get out of here.” Linford jerked his gaze toward a gilded door that led to an anteroom.

  Malcolm detached Linford’s grip on his arm and inclined his head. They proceeded to the anteroom.

  “Have you received a blackmail demand?” Malcolm asked, pulling the door to.

  Linford spun toward him. “How the hell do you know—”

  “Something happened to awake you to the dangers. Given our earlier conversation I suspect it’s on your own account and not Isabella Flores’s.”

  “Oh, go to the devil, Rannoch.”

  Malcolm leaned against the closed door panels. “For your own sake, not to mention our country’s, perhaps it would be best if I helped you first.”

  Linford tugged a paper from the cuff of his coat. “Someone slipped me this.”