Chapter One
May 1813
Northern Spain
Hidden deep inthe shadows within the copse of trees, Malcolm Kennedy leaned against a sturdy pine, his eyes focused on the dark figure sneaking through the wet grass, dangerously close to crossing over enemy lines.
Wellington, the general leading their troops, had tasked him with uncovering the traitor—a mission he’d happily accepted. In the days since, Malcolm had been waiting patiently for the man to make his move.
He much preferred his work away from the front lines. Not that he wouldn’t fight if needed, he most certainly would. But discovering enemy secrets and rooting out traitors was something he excelled at.
Observation was his strongest skill, and he’d made quite the name for himself because of it. So much so, that Wellington had personally sought him out and confided in him that there was a mole amongst their ranks.
Someone was leaking their plans to the French, and they needed to be stopped.
Now.
As he continued to study the mysterious figure, he narrowed his eyes.
The suspect’s shoulders were hunched, his gait lacked confidence and finesse, leading Malcolm to believe the person he trailed was of lower ranking. A foot soldier mayhap.
The sound of the leaves crunching beneath the figure’s footsteps halted. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he tried, the inky darkness made it impossible for Malcolm to discern any distinguishing features, leaving him unable to identify the suspect.
Malcolm moved forward, his breathing low, boots silent on the soft ground. Stealth was another skill he possessed.
His pulse quickened as he drew closer, the rush of the chase breathing new life into his war-weary bones.
Almost daily, he missed Scotland, his home country, and Culzean Castle, his familial estate. He would be happy to be back on familiar land. After being away for far too long he had begun to worry if he would ever return to his beloved home.
The interloper tripped over a rock and crashed to the ground on to his hands and knees.
“Oof.” He scrambled back to his feet and brushed his hands off on his thighs.
Malcolm stepped from behind the tree, approached the figure, and stopped a short distance from his back. He clamped a heavy hand down on top of the man’s shoulder and spun him around.
A most unmanlysquealescaped the man’s, nay, the lad’s lips. After a moment of shock, he twisted and jerked, breaking free, then took off running toward the enemy and their makeshift barracks just over the knoll.
“Shite,” Malcolm cursed and sprinted after the boy. He abhorred running, but there was no other option but to give chase.
It was critical he captured him before he crested the hill.
The culprit held his cap to his head as he dashed through the brush.
He was fast, but Malcolm was faster. Once he was within a few feet of his target, he put his head down and lunged, tackling the boy to the ground.
The boy’s cap flew off and his mouth gaped open and closed as he struggled to take in a breath. Like a fish after being pulled from a river. He threw his arms up to his head in an effort to defend himself from possible blows.
“Let…me…go.” He sucked in air between each word, desperately trying to catch his stolen breath.
“Be still.” Malcolm held him face down on the ground with one knee pressed to the center of his back. He patted him down, dug through the boy’s pockets, pulled off his boots, searching for evidence he was their traitor.
His fingers closed around a roll of papers secured to the boy’s back by a leather strap around his waist.
A slow smile crept across Malcolm’s face.
“Well, well,” he whispered, as he yanked it free. “What have we here?”
“Give those back…” The lad struggled against Malcolm’s hold in a feeble attempt to snatch the papers away.
