curse. His impulse was to reassure her, but he ruthlessly suppressed it. That was the one thing he could not do.
"Don't move," he said, even more harshly than before, and shifted so that he was crouching beside her, knife in hand. She drew in a ragged breath, but lay still, watching him from the corner of her eye. She was breathing too fast; he could see that from the rapid rise and fall of her slender back.
"Your name is Hugh, isn't it?"
Uttered in that soft, throaty voice of hers, his name took on a whole new dimension. As she finished speaking, her tongue came out to moisten her lips again. Watching, Hugh felt another fierce burst of heat shoot through his loins, and steeled himself to resist her wiles and his own base impulses alike.
It was very possible, he reminded himself grimly, that she was enticing him deliberately.
"Yes."
A long shudder racked her, probably from the cold, although fear or a conscious attempt to win sympathy were other possibilities. The thought that she should be bundled in blankets and set before a roaring fire forthwith occurred to him, only to be sternly dismissed. Try though she might to seem so, she was not some small defenseless creature that required his gentle care.
She was a traitor.
"Please don't hurt me, Hugh."
There was a quaver to her voice that caused his muscles to tighten. Even knowing what he did about her, even suspecting that she was deliberately playing on his sympathies, he discovered that, though he would give much for it to be otherwise, he was not proof against her frightened-sounding entreaty.
"I'm not going to hurt you— at least, not if you behave yourself. I'm going to cut the ropes." Cursing himself for a softheaded fool, he shifted so that he was on his knees beside her. "But be warned— if you give me any trouble, any trouble at all, you'll regret it."
He felt some of the tension leave her body as he pushed aside the nearly waist-length tangle of wet hair that hung in his way and set to work. Her skin was corpse-cold, he found as he touched it, but soft and smooth, and her fingers were elegantly tapered and well cared for. There was a long scratch on her left hand, but no indication that she had ever done anything more strenuous in her life than lift a bonbon to her mouth. In short, she had the hands of a lady, he registered unwillingly. Setting his knife to the rope binding her wrists, he began to saw with some savagery at the wet hemp. He would cut her free, get her dry and warm because that was the expedient thing to do, and allow her to think that he might just let her go if she gave him what he wanted.
The letters, that is, and the full story of how and why she had obtained them and to whom she expected to give them once she reached France.
Nothing else.
"Hugh. Thank you. I would have drowned if you hadn't jumped into the water after me. You saved my life."
Clearly she was attempting to forge a bond between them. During the years he'd spent in his country's service, he'd encountered that trick more than once. It was, in fact, a classic captive-to-captor maneuver, and he was too old a hand to fall for it. Still, she was surprisingly clever for so freshly minted a spy, he thought with a welcome surge of cynicism, even as he found himself responding instinctively to the soft sweetness of her voice.
"I had a reason."
"Still. Thank you."
He didn't reply. When the rope, cut through, dropped to the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position with a quick, fluttery-lashed glance over her shoulder at him. Drawing her bound legs up beside her, she chafed her wrists and shook her hands, presumably to get the blood flowing to them again.
Hugh started to work on the rope around her ankles without a word.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Cutting the ropes?" His question was dry. The blade continued to saw at the resistant hemp, and his attention stayed focused on his work.
"Why did you kidnap me? What do you want?"
As the last rope fell away, he glanced
"Don't move," he said, even more harshly than before, and shifted so that he was crouching beside her, knife in hand. She drew in a ragged breath, but lay still, watching him from the corner of her eye. She was breathing too fast; he could see that from the rapid rise and fall of her slender back.
"Your name is Hugh, isn't it?"
Uttered in that soft, throaty voice of hers, his name took on a whole new dimension. As she finished speaking, her tongue came out to moisten her lips again. Watching, Hugh felt another fierce burst of heat shoot through his loins, and steeled himself to resist her wiles and his own base impulses alike.
It was very possible, he reminded himself grimly, that she was enticing him deliberately.
"Yes."
A long shudder racked her, probably from the cold, although fear or a conscious attempt to win sympathy were other possibilities. The thought that she should be bundled in blankets and set before a roaring fire forthwith occurred to him, only to be sternly dismissed. Try though she might to seem so, she was not some small defenseless creature that required his gentle care.
She was a traitor.
"Please don't hurt me, Hugh."
There was a quaver to her voice that caused his muscles to tighten. Even knowing what he did about her, even suspecting that she was deliberately playing on his sympathies, he discovered that, though he would give much for it to be otherwise, he was not proof against her frightened-sounding entreaty.
"I'm not going to hurt you— at least, not if you behave yourself. I'm going to cut the ropes." Cursing himself for a softheaded fool, he shifted so that he was on his knees beside her. "But be warned— if you give me any trouble, any trouble at all, you'll regret it."
He felt some of the tension leave her body as he pushed aside the nearly waist-length tangle of wet hair that hung in his way and set to work. Her skin was corpse-cold, he found as he touched it, but soft and smooth, and her fingers were elegantly tapered and well cared for. There was a long scratch on her left hand, but no indication that she had ever done anything more strenuous in her life than lift a bonbon to her mouth. In short, she had the hands of a lady, he registered unwillingly. Setting his knife to the rope binding her wrists, he began to saw with some savagery at the wet hemp. He would cut her free, get her dry and warm because that was the expedient thing to do, and allow her to think that he might just let her go if she gave him what he wanted.
The letters, that is, and the full story of how and why she had obtained them and to whom she expected to give them once she reached France.
Nothing else.
"Hugh. Thank you. I would have drowned if you hadn't jumped into the water after me. You saved my life."
Clearly she was attempting to forge a bond between them. During the years he'd spent in his country's service, he'd encountered that trick more than once. It was, in fact, a classic captive-to-captor maneuver, and he was too old a hand to fall for it. Still, she was surprisingly clever for so freshly minted a spy, he thought with a welcome surge of cynicism, even as he found himself responding instinctively to the soft sweetness of her voice.
"I had a reason."
"Still. Thank you."
He didn't reply. When the rope, cut through, dropped to the floor, she pushed herself into a sitting position with a quick, fluttery-lashed glance over her shoulder at him. Drawing her bound legs up beside her, she chafed her wrists and shook her hands, presumably to get the blood flowing to them again.
Hugh started to work on the rope around her ankles without a word.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Cutting the ropes?" His question was dry. The blade continued to saw at the resistant hemp, and his attention stayed focused on his work.
"Why did you kidnap me? What do you want?"
As the last rope fell away, he glanced
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