What surprised Pandora wasn’t just Harrington’s youth (he looked to be in his mid-twenties—young for an officer of his rank and achievements). No, it was also the fact that this much-lauded hero was addressing her as courteously as if she were some Mayfair debutante and not the painted strumpet she was currently disguised as. His fierce eyes—she couldn’t tell their color in the dimness—stayed on her face and didn’t wander to the expanse of flesh displayed by her torn bodice.
“See? N-nothing ’appened, sir.” Stumbling to his feet, Bradley rubbed at his arm, his voice just short of a whine. “We were just ’aving a bit ’o fun—”
“It didn’t sound like fun to me.” Harrington’s tone had a dangerous edge that raised the hairs on Pandora’s skin—and, intriguingly, not in a bad way. “I heard the lady tell you no. She told you to stop.”
Blanching, Bradley nonetheless said unwisely, “But she’s just a trull—”
“And that gives you the right to assault her?” Harrington demanded.
“N-no, sir, I didn’t mean… that is…”
“We are fighting a war to protect those who cannot protect themselves. As soldiers, this is our duty. What does it say about you that you’d take advantage of someone weaker and less powerful than you?”
Weaker and less powerful?Pandora stifled a snort. If she’d chosen to employ her trusty garotte, she could have strangled Bradley before he could let out so much as a squeak. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but be charmed by Harrington’s moral code. His chivalry was rather quaint, like that of a knight of old.As much as she enjoyed watching him make that worm Bradley squirm, however, she couldn’t allow matters to get even more out of control. She had to contain the situation.In and out.
“No ’arm done, sir.” She addressed the Lieutenant-Colonel with a whore’s pragmatic cheeriness. “Just a misunderstanding is all. Be obliged if you’d let the lad off—if word gets out ’round camp, it’ll be bad for business, if you get my meaning.”
Harrington’s gaze roved over her, so intently that for an instant she fancied that he could see through the curly blond wig designed to distract from her features, the layers of paint she’d meticulously applied, the torn and tawdry dress. That he could somehow seeher…
Her heart quickened; her breath jammed in her throat.
Turning to Bradley, Harrington said curtly, “Report to my tent at eight o’clock sharp. You’re dismissed.”
Like a cur with his tail between his legs, Bradley slunk off.
Harrington advanced toward her, unbuttoning his scarlet jacket. Immediately, Pandora took a step back, but he was too quick for her. He reached out… and a moment later, she was engulfed in warmth and a clean, masculine scent.
The cove gave me his jacket?She blinked up at him, bemused.
“I’ll walk you back to your tent,” he said.
“No. That is, no need, sir.” She gathered her wits. “I’ll find my own way back—”
He took her arm, his grip on her elbow gentle yet firm. “It’s dark. You shouldn’t be out alone at night. It’s not safe with a battalion of soused soldiers roaming about.”
Did he not see that she was dressed and painted like a whore? Where else would she be but plying her trade in precisely such circumstances? Before she could think of a reply, he was steering her through the darkness toward the cluster of small, glowing tents in the distance, home to the camp followers.
“May I ask your name, miss?” he said.
Blooming hell.
“It’s Kitty, sir. Kitty, um,”—her gaze latched on a clump of dead bushes—“Brown.”
“Marcus Harrington, at your service. I must apologize, Miss Brown, for my subordinate’s behavior. Rest assured he will be punished for his offense.”
She slanted a look at Harrington. His dark hair was cut in a short, no-nonsense style, and his features were too rough-hewn and stern to be handsome—but handsome was too paltry a word to describe a man with such an aura of command. No, a more apt adjective was… compelling. Disturbingly masculine. Magnetic to the senses.
This isn’t a promenade through Hyde Park, you stupid chit. Focus. You’ve got to get out of here.
“Be obliged to you, sir, if you left it alone. Like I says before, a girl’s got to make her livin’. If talk spreads,”—she looked up at him through heavily sooted eyelashes—“I’ll be out o’ work.”
“Would that be so bad?”
She heard no judgment in his voice. Just a calm curiosity.
Shrugging, she said, “Do what we ’ave to do to survive, don’t we, guv?”
In her case, that meant protecting her country by any means necessary. Something that he’d never find out. Octavian’s warning rang in her head.Military and espionage are like oil and water: the two don’t mix. Those mushrooms in uniform are too stodgy to trust us, and we’re too clever to trust them.
