“Would you care to have a seat?” Marcus gestured to the chair on the other side of the table, metal links rattling as he did so. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to unchain me first?”
She took the seat. It was the safer of the two options. Especially since she’d measured the length of the chain and knew she remained precisely ten inches out of his reach.
He followed suit, his posture in the chair lordly, his torso erect and his thighs slightly sprawled. She did her very best not to ogle his naked chest, the way the parted blanket accentuated the hard planes…
“You wanted to talk. So talk,” he invited.
She didn’t know what to make of his bland tone. Or his impassive expression. He didn’t seem angry—but, if the past two months were any indication, it wouldn’t take much to get him there.
Stop stalling. Get on with it.
Exhaling, she said, “I know you don’t want to hear about my past, but you’re going to have to. I’ve come to the conclusion that honesty is the only way for us to get past this.”
“By all means then, be honest,” he said.
What did he mean by having such a calm tone? His blue eyes were steady, and he seemed so much like her Marcus of old that she experienced the urge to just drop everything and crawl into his lap. To beg him to hold and cuddle her, to experience again the succor of being in his arms—the safest place she’d ever known.
Instead, she set the box on the table. It took up almost the entire surface. She put a hand on the lid before Marcus could lift it.
“We’ll start at the beginning,” she said. “The first time we met.”
“You mean at the Pilkington Ball?”
In for a penny…“No, actually, that wasn’t it.”
A line formed between his brows. “I’m quite certain it was.”
Deciding to let the truth speak for itself, she took the lid off the box.
Casting a puzzled glance at her, Marcus reached inside, parting the layers of protective tissue. He pulled out the jacket, examining the scarlet fabric, the insignia … and incredulity shot across his features.
“What the devil? My officer’s jacket. Why do you have…?”
She saw the moment that the truth hit him.
“It… it wasyou,” he stammered. “The prostitute at the camp. The one who was being attacked by one of my men.”
So he remembered her.
“Yes,” she said.
“I don’t understand. Why were you there?” His gaze suddenly sharpened. “Dear God, that night… Christmas. Starky was found dead. Natural causes by all appearances.”
She wasn’t surprised that Marcus made the connection so quickly. Lieutenant-Colonel Harrington was a brilliant man. She sent up a prayer that he’d believe her explanation.
“He was a traitor,” she began.
“Yes, I know,” he surprised her by saying. “Several months after his death, we came into possession of letters he’d written. Plans he’d drawn of our battle positions. The missives proved that he’d been selling military secrets to the French.”
Relieved, she said, “Yes, he was.”
Blue eyes bored into her. “Starky didn’t have a heart attack?”
“No.” She held her husband’s gaze. “He didn’t.”
Marcus stared at her. Raked a hand through his hair. “By Jove… poison?”
She nodded, her heart an erratic presence in her chest. Not because she’d admitted to killing a turncoat—that bastard Starky had cost countless British lives by leaking information to the enemy—but because she didn’t know what her husband would think of her. Of the fact that she was capable of taking a man’s life.
