To Wed a Scandalous Spy by Celeste Bradley Page A

the handsome—albeit slightly odd—Mr. Stonewell. Alone, in an inn room, with her husband on her wedding night.
    Wed him and bed him
. Moira's voice seemed very far away and long ago. That had sounded so simple, if a bit daunting, this morning. Well, she'd wedded him. Cross that one off.
    Abruptly he seemed to become aware that he was blocking her way. He stepped back, then turned swiftly to pull their packsacks into the dim circle of light from the single tallow candle provided by the inn.
    "What were you speaking to the innkeeper about, downstairs?" she asked him. Not that she was curious—except that she always did seem to be curious—only she wanted him to speak to her, to have conversation, to ease the way the room seemed to be shrinking around them. "Is there something of which I should know?" She put one fist on her hip. "Are you ever going to answer me?"
    He gave her a brief glance. "No."
    An answer at last! "Wait—which question are you answering?"
    He went still for a moment, then shook his head with a rueful twist to his sensual lips. "You choose for me. I've lost track again." He bent to take some items from his bag, then swung it into the corner. All very interesting, and Willa did so enjoy watching her new husband in motion—especially all that bending over—
    He stepped away and she followed, for some reason compelled to make him speak to her. Her foot trod on something on the floor where he'd been sorting through his things. A small packet, wrapped in a simple handkerchief. Willa picked it up and unrolled the linen to drop a thick gold ring into her hand. "What is this?" she asked, holding it out to him.
    Nathaniel reached automatically, then went very still when the ring dropped into his waiting palm. It was heavier than he remembered, but that was somehow appropriate. The Reardon crest had been carved into the old gold in the days of knights and tourneys, when the title of Marquis of Reardon was first created by a grateful king and the ring given by the royal hand itself. The stone had been reset a few times through the intervening centuries, so last spring Nathaniel had felt no qualms replacing the inferior emerald that had previously occupied the setting.
    The large stone was a fine ruby, cut and polished in Vienna by the finest jewel smiths in the world. He knew because he'd chosen the stone himself. His former fiancée, Daphne, loved rubies, though they reminded Nathaniel of blood. Now the ruby simply reminded him of all that he had freely given up yet still mourned.
    His mission fired within him anew. Downstairs he'd taken the innkeeper aside for a moment to ask if he'd seen Foster. The man grudgingly had affirmed that Foster had indeed passed this way. The traitor was an entire day ahead now.
    Oddly, Nathaniel had not truly expected Foster to take this route. Nathaniel had diverged to the south road in order to reach London all the faster and deal with his unfortunate marital situation. He'd hardly dared hope that Foster would be traveling the same road.
    And why? Why had Foster also turned suddenly hard toward London? At great speed as well, according to what the innkeeper had said. Nathaniel's fingers tightened unknowingly on the ring in his palm, until he felt the gold edges pressing deeply into his skin. He eased his grip enough to display the ruby in the candle's glow once again.
    Willa seemed fascinated. She reached to stroke the insignia worked into the shoulder. "Is that a boar? And a sword? What does that mean?"
    "Not a bloody thing." Not anymore.
    She pulled her hand back and Nathaniel cursed his harsh words. But how could he explain the fresh loss he felt just looking at the damned thing? The grief welled within him again, the destruction of his honor and with it all his private dreams. With a swift motion, he pulled back his fist to throw the ring into the fire.
    "No!" Willa reached out to stop him but halted when she saw his bleak face. Nathaniel seemed almost sinister, lit spookily