Free The Virgin's Spy by Laura Andersen

hide his true face behind a convincing mask. Yes, all that had been done in the interests of England. But that didn’t stop him feeling guilty at being good at it. Dominic Courtenay couldn’t tell a convincing lie to save his life—as evidenced by his past. Why was Stephen so conflicted? Wasn’t he eager to prove himself apart from his name and birth? Why did the thought of proving himself a good spy feel second best?
    But second best or not, Stephen thought he mightn’t even mind that as long as it kept him out of Ireland’s battles.
    Their progress was excruciatingly slow. At the end of the third day, they’d gone barely thirty miles and Stephen’s frustration had him snapping at his men. Harrington, always so careful not to overstep his bounds, also knew when and how to intervene. He got Stephen on his own and cautioned neutrally, “There’s no way to move faster than ten miles a day with the prisoners walking.”
    “I know. You’ll smooth things over with the men?” Stephen asked abruptly.
    “They understand.”
    “It’ll take us nearly two weeks to reach Kilkenny at this pace. And I don’t…” Stephen rolled his shoulders, feeling the tight pull of tension. “The danger increases the longer we’re out here.”
    “I agree.”
    To know that an experienced soldier like Harrington could also feel the dread that seemed to seep out of the very ground and air steadied Stephen and made it possible for him to make a decision.
    “We’ll split up,” he announced. “Mount the prisoners, and that still leaves us two dozen men on horseback to ride with them. The rest of the men will march behind. Without the women slowing them down, they can make nearly as fast a time as we can. That should cut our trip to Kilkenny down to four days, five at the most.”
    Harrington nodded in agreement, possibly approval. “You want me with the other group?”
    “No. I need you. Put Lewis in charge of those marching and see to the disposition of the horses. I’ll let the women know.”
    The de facto leader of the small band of prisoners was only a few years older than Stephen, a wary redhead named Roisin. She wasn’t the oldest of the women, nor the most hostile, and perhaps it was her even temperament that led the others to defer to her. When told they would ride from here, she studied Stephen briefly before asking, “You feel it, don’t you?”
    “Feel what?”
    “Someone’s coming for us.”
    He didn’t know if she meant English or Irish—either way, it confirmed his belief that he’d best get them into Ormond’s hands at Kilkenny as quickly as possible. With a curt nod, Stephen told her, “Prepare the others. We’ll be riding as fast as we can go. It will not be comfortable.”
    “Comfort is not something we are raised to look for in Ireland.”
    Why did he feel the urge to apologize to her? Biting down on his own distaste and impulse to strike out in order to alleviate it, Stephen stalked away.
    The prisoners were tough and uncomplaining riders. They more than doubled their pace from the previous walking and would have made it to Kilkenny by dark on the fourth day if a strong storm had not swept in. They made camp five miles from Ormond’s castle, the women and boys housed in two tents and the men taking it in turn to watch. Stephen retreated to his own small space, having given his larger tent for the prisoners, and sat on a folding stool, head in his hands, hoping that the pounding he felt would ease tomorrow with the handing off of this unlooked-for responsibility.
    That sense of responsibility, at least, was something he could trace directly from his father. Lucky Kit, he decided wryly, who seemed to have escaped that particular trait.
    It was an hour or two past sunset—if they’d been able to see the sun through the rain—when Harrington announced himself outside. “Come in,” Stephen called, rolling up the map he’d been studying at a table not much bigger than the stool. The only other