Isabel remained dead serious. “Montfort wants todestroyyou.Why?”
Chapter 26
Of a sudden, the pitched ceiling of the hayloft seemed to compress and squeeze in, making it difficult for Percy to draw breath.
For such a small word, Isabel’swhyasked much of him, and in direct opposition to how he should be handling her.
He should treat her like an enemy agent, like all the words that flowed from her mouth were lies spun to wrap him in her web, leaving him vulnerable to Montfort’s strike.
But he couldn’t. For here was the thing:
She had bared her soul to him.
And he would do the same for her. Not because he wanted to, but because heneededto. He needed this woman to know him, thoroughly.
And once she did, no longer would she gaze upon him as she did now, with openness and a care resembling affection.
Once she saw him for who he truly was, she would find it easy to walk away from him.
And that was precisely what she needed to do: not walk, butrunas fast and as far from Lord Percival Bretagne as she could.
“It has been fairly established,” he began, “that I was a vainglorious young man in search of valor on the battlefield.”
She nodded and moved toward the stack of hay, plucking out a stem of straw. She began to worry it between her fingers, her silence encouraging him to continue.
“I was seasick the entire voyage to Spain. Byron failed to mention that possibility in his poetry. But my enthusiasm and thirst for war wasn’t dampened one bit.”
Why did she continue to look upon him with those intent eyes of hers? Why wasn’t she put off already?
“Then came the Battle of Maya, my first battle. My only battle. It was a right slaughter from beginning to ignoble end. I believe Wellington calls it his lasting shame.”
“How did it end foryou?” The sympathy contained within thatyouwas almost too much.
“After I picked upthis”—he indicated the slash running along his right cheekbone—“a cannon ball cratered the earth a few yards away, and the world went black. My countrymen took me for dead and retreated through the mountain pass without me.”
Isabel’s hand flew to her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “How did you survive?”
“Days later—or weeks. Those early memories are hazy—I awoke in a modest farmhouse, being cared for by a Spanish family that consisted of a very old woman and her very young great-granddaughter. The rest of the family were either dead or fighting, which was as good as dead. The cannon shot had wiped my memory clean. I couldn’t have told you my name, but my body was whole, if battered. As my strength returned, I began helping around the farm. They were in need of a man about the place. Picked up the language by bits and pieces, too. After a few months, an Englishman darkened the door.”
“Montfort.”
“He was passing through the territory when he picked up a rumor about an Englishman in the area. When he found me, he said I was an English soldier.”
“But”—Isabel’s eyebrows drew together in bewilderment—“you were thought dead for over a decade.”
“Another bit of intelligence from your source, I presume?”
She shrugged, unabashed.
“Montfort didn’t tell me the full story of my true identity. He left out that I was Captain Lord Percival Bretagne. He gave me the opportunity to continue serving my country.”
“This is when you became a spy.”
“My newly acquired Spanish was useful, along with the French I’d retained. There are any number of ways a man can be an asset to his country. Some operate in the light, like soldiers and diplomats. And others do their work in the shadows.”
“And you became one of the latter men?”
He wanted to draw closer to Isabel. Instead, he used that energy to retreat to the window on his side of the loft. Here, he could speak the words he needed to make her understand. “I did.”
