Chapter One
France, 1813
At the sound of her bodice ripping, Pandora clenched her teeth and pushed away the soldier’s groping hands.Blooming hell. My mission’s going to be foiled—by a bleeding foot wabbler?
It was her own dashed fault. She should have been more careful. Her disguise as a trull—a camp prostitute—was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it gave her access to the army encampment; on the other, it made her appear fair game to the lusty, drunken foot soldier presently accosting her. She’d chosen the dark path at the edge of the camp to avoid such pitfalls, but the bounder had stumbled out of nowhere.
“Let’s warm ourselves with a tickle, eh dove?” he leered, his words puffing in the wintry night. “Share some real Yuletide cheer?”
In the cold moonlight, she saw his glazed eyes and unshaven face, and her stomach lurched at his stench of liquor and unwashed flesh. Memories of another time rose like a dark tide, but she pushed them back. At nineteen, she was no longer a helpless girl. She’d killed men far stronger and cleverer than the bastard in front of her.
In fact, she’d done so not a quarter hour ago.
Which left her with a problem: she couldn’t afford to leaveanotherdead body in the camp. One fatality might be attributed to natural causes (certainly the poison she’d used was designed to mimic death from a heart ailment). Two corpses, however, would definitely rouse suspicion.
A good spy leaves no incision, Octavian always said.In and out.
Octavian was her mentor, the man who’d plucked her from the gutters and given her a new life and purpose—and the tools with which to practice her new trade. He’d even given her a new identity:Pompeia.She was the only female agent that he’d recruited into his elite espionage ring, and it was an honor and privilege she did not take lightly.
No, she wouldn’t let Octavian down… which meant no more killing for the night. She’d have to brazen her way out of the situation. Luckily, she had some skill at dealing with the opposite sex.
Planting her palms firmly against her attacker’s chest, she used the Cockney of her childhood. “Another time, luv. Got a couple o’ brats in me tent squallin’ for their supper.”
Nothing like the mention of children to throw ashes on a man’s libido.
“Let ’em wait. I’ll feast my fill, then they can ’ave theirs, eh?” Smirking, he cupped her bottom and squeezed.
Disgusting.She slapped his hand away, moved out of reach.
Feigning an apologetic look, she said, “’Fraid there’s another problem, sir. I’ve a fire on board.” She waggled her brows. “Wouldn’t want your mast to get burned by the flames.”
If the threat of venereal disease wasn’t enough to stop him, nothing was.
“Only one thing to lower my mast tonight. Fire or not, I’m coming in,” he slurred.
He launched himself at her, and she took an instinctive step backward, only to trip on a blasted rock. Her breath left in a whoosh as her back hit the frost-hardened ground. He wasted no time in clambering atop her, fumbling to push her skirts up.
“No,” she gritted out. “Stop it. Get off me, you bastard.”
He didn’t take any notice.
Blast it.He left her with no choice. She’d have to choke him unconscious; mayhap when he came to, he’d forget what happened, think he’d passed out in the dark. It wasn’t the clean exit she’d hoped for, but it was a damned sight better than getting raped in the dark. Digging the heels of her boots into the dirt, she readied to leverage her strength, to reverse their positions so that she could plant her arm against his windpipe and cut off his supply of air.
Just as she tensed to act, her attacker’s weight suddenly disappeared. Blinking, she watched him hurtle backward into the darkness. The next second, she scrambled to her feet and saw that another figure had materialized: this one was tall, broad-shouldered—and strong, by the looks of how easily he subdued her assailant. After a brief grapple, he twisted his opponent’s arm and used it to drive the other to his knees. The soldier cursed and moaned but couldn’t escape.
“I could have you court-martialed for this,” the stranger snapped.
His captive stopped struggling instantly. “Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington.Sir.” Though still slurred, the soldier’s voice now held a note of fear. “I-I didn’t know it was you. B-beg pardon—”
“Bradley, is it?”
Even in the dimness, Pandora saw the reluctance of Bradley’s nod. “Y-yes, sir.”
“It isn’t my pardon you should be begging.” Harrington released Bradley with a shove, his gaze locking on her. “Are you all right, miss?”
“I’m fine,” she managed.
She’d seen too much, known too much to be surprised by anyone. But Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington was unlike any man she’d ever met. She knew his name, of course; anyone who kept abreast of England’s struggles with Napoleon did. Over the past few years, he’d become one of the nation’s heroes because of the courage and valor he’d shown on the battlefield. Just twelve days ago, he’d been part of Lieutenant-General Hill’s valiant efforts to stave off the French attack at St. Pierre. It was rumored that Wellington planned to bestow a commendation upon Harrington.
