She swiped her nose. “What kind of secret mission? What kind of spy?”
He should release her shoulder, but it was all he could do to not draw her closer.
A strand of her hair brushed against his callused fingers.
He swallowed. “It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you.”
“But Frieda knows.”
“Frieda’s part of the operation. My contact set up the meeting with her and her father.”
“Did your contact say you had to pretend to be in love with Frieda and kiss her?”
She could have been an attorney. He grunted and dropped his hands to his sides.
“I take that as a no.”
“There are bigger concerns at stake here than you or me.”
“Then tell me.”
He had his orders and his backup lie. Her tears had stopped, but the residue of their tracks still lined the dirt on her cheeks. She had come all this way for him. The coat, the trousers, all of it for him. How had she managed to sneak off the plantation and find her way here? The lady was a fireball.
Risk the truth? Or lose her with a lie? She was an abolitionist at heart. The problem was that quick mouth of hers. He rubbed his hand over his jaw.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Her voice faltered. “I should have figured as much. Better not to say anything than make promises you don’t intend to keep. Like saying you’ll take me on walks or write me notes and then avoiding me instead.” She narrowed her eyes. “Your actions have made your true intentions painfully clear. A couple hours of sweet talk followed by a week of silence and disappearing. Don’t tell me that’s part of the mission too. Nicholas is a lot of things, but at least he’s not inconsistent. You fancy Frieda?” She scooped her hat from the ground. “She can have you.” Morning Fawn coiled her hair in a knot and stuffed it beneath her hat.
“My staying away and not writing has nothing to do with Frieda.”
She rolled her eyes and tucked her shirt tails back into her trousers, which hung loose despite the suspenders.
He ground his teeth. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re impetuous and quick-tempered?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you have a forked tongue?” She jutted out her chin. “And I suppose Miss Perfect is calm as glass, never a hair out of place, never a ruffled feather.”
“‘Miss Perfect’?” He scowled. “That’s what you think of her?”
“That’s whatyouthink of her.” She jabbed her finger in his direction. “And I’ve had enough of it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Why don’t you write that in a note sometime? See if I’m around to read it.” She pivoted and started up the embankment, gripping an exposed root to pull herself up. Loose dirt slid beneath her torn, bloodied stockings. “Don’t bother to look for me.”
He scuffed his boot. Morning Fawn was the most exasperating woman who had ever lived. And if he didn’t speak up, he was going to lose her. “It’s Isabelle.”
She half slid back down the hill and jabbed her hands to her hips. “What?”
He marched over and snatched the hat off her head. She wouldn’t run off without it, not dressed in trousers. A bitter taste rose up in the back of his throat. Was he really going to start this conversation now? “Isabelle is the reason I didn’t write.” He could almost hear the suture rip in his heart.
She blinked at him. “Because you still love her?” Her voice wobbled.
He swallowed. “I will always love her.”
She inhaled sharply. New moisture pooled in her eyes.
His arms twitched toward her, but he held them steady. “However, I’ve recently discovered my heart is bigger than I realized. It has a chamber for Isabelle. But…” What in the world was he doing? He reached for Morning Fawn’s hand and lifted her fingers to his left breast. “It also has a huge chamber for someone else, a girl who has more courage, strength, determination, and spunk than anyone I’ve ever known.”
She sniffled. Her fingers pressed against his shell jacket as if a magnet drew them toward the flesh beneath. “If you meanthat, why didn’t you write? Why do you make yourself scarce?” Her bottom lip trembled.
