Free The Virgin's Spy by Laura Andersen Page A

objects in the tent were a pallet bed and his weapons.
    Harrington did not enter alone. Behind him, perhaps half his size, was Roisin, a drenched cloak over the dress that still bore bloodstains from Carrigafoyle beneath the dirt of travel.
    “Asked to speak with you,” Harrington said without emphasis.
    “About?”
    Instead of a direct answer, Roisin said simply, “Alone.”
    Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Got a knife secreted somewhere to kill me with?”
    “We were searched. Your men were thorough.”
    He did not want to be alone with her, and not out of fear. There was something about her direct gaze and the blaze of her hair…it had been a long time since England. And despite hating himself for it, Stephen could hear Oliver Dane’s taunt in his head,
Bed an Irish girl…and you’ll never be contented with a polite Englishwoman again.
    “Leave us, Harrington,” he said, despite all the warnings of a young, healthy body strung too long at too high a pitch without release.
    For the first time Stephen could remember, Harrington hesitated. “Stephen,” he said, the fact that he had called him by name as much a caution as his expression. Harrington looked as though he meant to say more, but obedience and reticence were long habits. He shut his mouth and exited the tent with only a last inscrutable look at Stephen and the Irish girl.
    “What can I do for you?” Stephen asked. He offered her his stool, the only place to sit.
    She remained standing, facing him with that self-possession he’d noticed for days, and also a touch of curiosity. Her hair was plaited away from her face, then fell loosely across her shoulders. In the lamplight, her eyes were a shifting greenish blue that pulled at Stephen like the ocean waves they echoed.
    He’d nearly forgotten his question when finally Roisin answered. “You can tell me why,” she said.
    “Why what?”
    “Why have you gone to so much trouble for us? Splitting your force, marching us across Ireland—is it merely to spite Oliver Dane?”
    “You know Dane?”
    “Everyone in Munster knows him. A hard man. One it is wiser not to cross.”
    Stephen gave her a wintry smile. “I do not plan to be in Ireland long enough to need to worry about the consequences of crossing Dane. As soon as I’ve seen you all into the Earl of Ormond’s hands, I’ll be returning to England at the earliest opportunity.”
    “You do not care for Ireland?”
    “I hardly know Ireland. And no, I cannot say I have any great wish to know it better. I would think you should be glad to see the last of any Englishman.”
    She shrugged. “One less or one hundred less makes little difference. Unless your queen cares to give up her claim, there will always be Englishmen in Ireland. And in the end, we will win. Not with weapons or soldiers…There is a Latin saying. ‘Hibernia Hibernescit.’ Ireland makes all things Irish.”
    “All the more reason for me to retreat while I can, then, for I rather like being English.”
    “There might be things here…people here…that would make your memories sweeter.”
    Had she moved closer? Stephen focused on breathing evenly. She most definitely had stepped nearer, so that he had to tilt his head down to meet her eyes. They were wide and wild, fathomless in a way he was afraid to recognize.
    She was his prisoner. No virgins, no wives, no force…but she was the one leaning into him, tipping up her face until her lips were within inches of his own.
    “I would give you one happy memory of Ireland,” she whispered, and the warmth of her breath was like spiced wine, heady and sweet and tantalizing.
    “Why?” he breathed out. When he should have said no, or simply stepped back firmly.
    “Because you have been kind, Lord Somerset. There is not so much kindness in Ireland that it should go unrewarded.”
    Virtue is its own reward
rang through his mind, but that platitude had little to do with the desire that had seized him until he could scarcely see straight.