Page 45 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
Hearing Sinclair stirring at last, she turned to face him. He had shifted to the edge of his chair, removed his pocket watch from its fob to examine it, shook it first, then held it to his ear.
As though feeling her gaze upon him, he glanced up and smiled. When he smiled at her like that, she felt that she knew him very well, his eyes reaching out to encompass her in their warmth, something in his glance establishing a conspiracy between them, a conspiracy of hearts which shut out the rest of the world.
An absurd thought. Yet she found herself returning his smile, slowly pacing toward the side of the room where he sat. She stood over him, watching as he deftly wielded a tiny gold key, winding his watch. The timepiece bore a look of spartan plainness, the face set with bold black Roman numerals, no scene engraved upon the gold case, yet somehow more elegant for its simplicity.
“That’s a most handsome timepiece,” she remarked.
“A gift from my father,” Sinclair said, without looking up from his task. “One of those rare occasions I ever merited his approval.”
It was the first time Belle could ever recall Sinclair mentioning anything about family. Drawing up a stool from in front of the hearth, she settled herself upon it, so close that she could lean upon the arm of Sinclair’s chair.
“You and your father,” she asked, “you do not get on well?”
“Well enough—as long as neither of us speaks to the other.”
He spoke in his usual light fashion, but Belle detected an undercurrent, a hint of regret that perhaps only she could have caught, harboring so many regrets herself.
As she observed him give the key one final turn, she said, “I never had the opportunity to quarrel with my father. I never even knew who he was.”
Why had she told Sinclair that? she wondered. Perhaps there was something about sitting before a crackling fire on a wet gray day that invited confidences. Perhaps for some odd reason she could not define, she felt it was time Sinclair knew the truth about her.
“I am illegitimate, the daughter of a Drury Lane actress.” She pretended to gaze into the orange-gold glow of the flames, all the while covertly studying him, awaiting his reaction.
“Well, Angel,” he drawled as he reattached the watch to its fob. “I have frequently been called a bastard myself.”
His response provoked a laugh from her, the words so irreverent, so improper, so totally Sinclair. She had just told him her greatest source of shame, the secret that had devastated Jean-Claude Varens, and Sinclair had not raised so much as an eyebrow. Instead he had managed to make her laugh over something that had always caused her pain.
In that instant she knew what it was about Sinclair that disarmed her. He never judged. He gave her complete freedom to be exactly who she was, nothing more, nothing less. A rather overwhelming gift and a little frightening. She was not sure she was ready to accept it as yet.
She felt relieved when he turned the subject, although she suspected he might have been doing so to avoid any more discussion about his own past. Picking up the rope that Lazare had been toying with earlier, he said, “I suppose you noticed our friend Lazare’s handiwork.”
“The noose? Yes, I observed him fashioning it during the meeting. I expect he thought to unnerve me.”
“Angel—”
“I know.” She cut him off, recognizing Sinclair’s warning growl. “You want to tell me again to be careful. I shall. I do assure you that I shall keep Lazare’s role in this affair to a minimum.”
Sinclair did not appear satisfied, but he swallowed what he had been about to say. He fiddled with the rope, and the knots Lazare had made easily came undone. Sinclair gave a snort of contempt. “The man appears to be handier with his knife than a rope. Whatever part he plays, I hope if there is any trussing up to be done, you don’t entrust it to him.”
Belle smiled. “If anything in that line becomes necessary, I could do it myself. I tie a very wicked knot.”
Sinclair said nothing, casting a skeptical glance at her hands. She could tell he was assessing the softness and whiteness of her fingers, then drawing his own doubtful conclusions. This hint of male arrogance sent a prickle of annoyance through her.
“Believe me, Mr. Carrington,” she said. “If I ever tied your hands together, you would not get them undone very quickly.”
“Care to wager on that?” A wicked sparkle appeared in his eyes.
“No,” she retorted, “for I fear any wagers made with you would not involve money.”
“But what have you to fear?” He favored her with the most maddeningly superior grin. “If milady is so sure of herself.”
He dropped the rope in her lap. She should have laughed off his remarks and let it go at that. But she had never, from the time she was a little girl, borne sense enough to back down from a dare.
Sinclair clasped his hands together in front of him and docilely held them out to her. Slowly Belle picked up the rope.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I would never make it that easy for someone I had captured. Stand up, turn around, and put your hands behind you.”
He did as he was told, but with such a smirk on his face, Belle resisted the urge to give the rope an extra hard tug as she began knotting it about his wrists. Frequently she had found one could judge the strength of a man by his hands. Sinclair’s tanned fingers were long and well formed, the tips slightly calloused. She could feel the tautness of the muscle coming down from his forearm and took great care to make the knots tight, well secured.
