Avenging Angel from one's peers for
being a timid soul. And Isabelle traveled freely on both sides of
the channel. She had balked at the notion of working with Sinclair,
declaring her intention of telling Merchant he must make other
arrangements. That, of course, Sinclair did not intend to let
happen. Isabelle could have been genuinely angry about the kiss, or
she could have a more sinister motive. It would not be easy for her
to contact Napoleon with Sinclair tagging after her. Thus far, of
all the names on the list, she seemed most likely to be Bonaparte's
spy. Sinclair dipped his quill pen into the ink-pot and underscored
her name with a thick line, only to frown and follow it up with a
question mark.
He kept remembering how soft and
enticing she had felt in his arms, how warm and sweet her lips. Yet
he had had no business attempting to kiss her. He felt almost
grateful that she had slapped him, bringing him to his senses. He
knew some men might consider seduction a good method for gaining
information, but Sinclair had his own code. He did not bed women in
order to learn their secrets and then betray them.
In truth, he had not been thinking of
information at all when he had held Isabelle, only the flaring of
his own desire. That disturbed Sinclair more than anything else. He
was no saint by any means. He had a keen appreciation for beautiful
women, but he had always known how to check his passions until the
appropriate place and time. What was it about Isabelle Varens that
overrode his natural caution? Beautiful, she certainly was, but he
had known many beautiful women before. Perhaps it was Isabelle's
more elusive qualities. An aura of mystery seemed to cling to her,
her fine sculpted features touched by a deep sadness even when she
smiled.
When he had asked about her husband, he
had seen the haunted expression in her eyes, as though some specter
from her past had risen to torment her. Sinclair rarely felt
protective impulses toward women, but he had had an astonishing
urge to cradle Isabelle Varens against him, lay all her ghosts to
rest.
A loud clatter from the region of the
fireplace disrupted his wandering thoughts. Startled, he glanced
up, having all but forgotten his brother's presence in the room.
Charles, in the act of removing his boots, had accidently kicked up
against the fire irons.
"Sorry," Charles muttered. "Are you
nearly finished, Sinclair?"
"Another minute or two," Sinclair said
with a grimace. Chuff never could sit still for more than five
minutes at a time.
Sinclair set the list aside and dragged
his attention back to Colonel Darlington's letter.
“This will be your last contact with
headquarters. All further information will be provided to you by
our agent in Paris. From this time on, I advise no further
communication with your family, especially your father.”
A wry chuckle escaped
Sinclair.
Charles was warming his stockinged feet
by the fire. But he paused to peer round the side of his chair at
Sinclair. "I never knew old Darlington was given to cracking
jests."
"An unintentional one," Sinclair said.
"He tells me not to communicate with Father. Apparently he doesn't
heed the gossip in the officers' mess or he would know that the
general and I have not been communicating for years."
Charles looked unhappy and cleared his
throat. "You know, Sinclair, that if there was any message you
wished to send him, I have a few days' leave coming. I will be
seeing Father. . . ." Charles's words trailed off and he seemed to
be holding his breath, awaiting Sinclair's reply.
An unendearing image of General Daniel
Carr rose to Sinclair's mind—a ramrod-stiff bearing, steel-gray
hair, and cold green eyes. A handsome man despite his advancing
years, Daniel Carr’s features were so rigid, he might well have
been an effigy carved from stone. Sometimes, when glancing into a
mirror, Sinclair wondered if he would look like his father in
thirty years' time. The thought scared all hell out of
him.
"You can
being a timid soul. And Isabelle traveled freely on both sides of
the channel. She had balked at the notion of working with Sinclair,
declaring her intention of telling Merchant he must make other
arrangements. That, of course, Sinclair did not intend to let
happen. Isabelle could have been genuinely angry about the kiss, or
she could have a more sinister motive. It would not be easy for her
to contact Napoleon with Sinclair tagging after her. Thus far, of
all the names on the list, she seemed most likely to be Bonaparte's
spy. Sinclair dipped his quill pen into the ink-pot and underscored
her name with a thick line, only to frown and follow it up with a
question mark.
He kept remembering how soft and
enticing she had felt in his arms, how warm and sweet her lips. Yet
he had had no business attempting to kiss her. He felt almost
grateful that she had slapped him, bringing him to his senses. He
knew some men might consider seduction a good method for gaining
information, but Sinclair had his own code. He did not bed women in
order to learn their secrets and then betray them.
In truth, he had not been thinking of
information at all when he had held Isabelle, only the flaring of
his own desire. That disturbed Sinclair more than anything else. He
was no saint by any means. He had a keen appreciation for beautiful
women, but he had always known how to check his passions until the
appropriate place and time. What was it about Isabelle Varens that
overrode his natural caution? Beautiful, she certainly was, but he
had known many beautiful women before. Perhaps it was Isabelle's
more elusive qualities. An aura of mystery seemed to cling to her,
her fine sculpted features touched by a deep sadness even when she
smiled.
When he had asked about her husband, he
had seen the haunted expression in her eyes, as though some specter
from her past had risen to torment her. Sinclair rarely felt
protective impulses toward women, but he had had an astonishing
urge to cradle Isabelle Varens against him, lay all her ghosts to
rest.
A loud clatter from the region of the
fireplace disrupted his wandering thoughts. Startled, he glanced
up, having all but forgotten his brother's presence in the room.
Charles, in the act of removing his boots, had accidently kicked up
against the fire irons.
"Sorry," Charles muttered. "Are you
nearly finished, Sinclair?"
"Another minute or two," Sinclair said
with a grimace. Chuff never could sit still for more than five
minutes at a time.
Sinclair set the list aside and dragged
his attention back to Colonel Darlington's letter.
“This will be your last contact with
headquarters. All further information will be provided to you by
our agent in Paris. From this time on, I advise no further
communication with your family, especially your father.”
A wry chuckle escaped
Sinclair.
Charles was warming his stockinged feet
by the fire. But he paused to peer round the side of his chair at
Sinclair. "I never knew old Darlington was given to cracking
jests."
"An unintentional one," Sinclair said.
"He tells me not to communicate with Father. Apparently he doesn't
heed the gossip in the officers' mess or he would know that the
general and I have not been communicating for years."
Charles looked unhappy and cleared his
throat. "You know, Sinclair, that if there was any message you
wished to send him, I have a few days' leave coming. I will be
seeing Father. . . ." Charles's words trailed off and he seemed to
be holding his breath, awaiting Sinclair's reply.
An unendearing image of General Daniel
Carr rose to Sinclair's mind—a ramrod-stiff bearing, steel-gray
hair, and cold green eyes. A handsome man despite his advancing
years, Daniel Carr’s features were so rigid, he might well have
been an effigy carved from stone. Sometimes, when glancing into a
mirror, Sinclair wondered if he would look like his father in
thirty years' time. The thought scared all hell out of
him.
"You can
Similar Books
