Page 114 of A Lady's Handbook of Espionage
She studied him. The freckle at the corner of his mouth. The stubble darkening his jaw. This man had seen the darkest parts of her – the thief, the liar, the killer – and still looked at her like she was something precious.
And there was a hunger in his eyes that matched her own.
“Take me home, Ronan.”
34
The gas lamps flickered in the hall as Callahan and Isabel walked to Wentworth’s office.
He shot a sidelong glance at her. They’d lost themselves in each other for fourteen days. For the first time, it was only them. No missions. No Favreau. Just him and Isabel tangled in bedsheets and each other. He could still feel her thighs around his hips, still taste her.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, recalling how she’d bitten his shoulder that morning to keep from screaming. His skin still stung from it.
“You’re staring very intently,” she murmured. “What are you thinking about?”
“Just remembering this morning.”
She glanced at him then, a slow smile spreading. “Which part?”
“The part that left teeth marks on my shoulder.”
A fetching little blush spread across her cheeks. “Behave. Wentworth is many things, but I doubt ‘voyeur’ ranks high on the list.”
“Pity. The man could use more excitement in his life.”
When they entered Wentworth’s office, the spymaster looked like he’d been dragged behind a carriage. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his usually impeccable appearance had slipped – hair dishevelled, jacket slightly rumpled. The man was clearly running on nothing but spite and black tea. Callahan knew the aftermath at Ripon’s had been a nightmare of paperwork and panicked aristocrats. Then, of course, were the explosions in Whitechapel that had to be blamed on Favreau. Word had it that Wentworth personally had to assure Her Majesty that the danger had passed, Favreau was dead, and any surviving Syndicate men were being hunted down.
“Callahan, Miss Dumont. How kind of you to pry yourselves off each other long enough to grace me with your presence. Sit down. And for God’s sake, please refrain from fornicating in my presence.”
Callahan smirked as he and Isabel sat in the plush leather chairs in front of the desk. “Do you ever actually leave this place, Wentworth, or do you sleep in here and subsist on whispers and the occasional cup of tea?”
Wentworth speared him with a chilly look. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of disappearing for a fortnight to fuck our problems away. If I weren’t here at all hours, you lot would beat down my house door. A man must have some place that remains sacrosanct.”
“Ah, I’ve missed this. It’s been ages since you last summoned me for a proper bollocking. I was beginning to think you’d found a new favourite.”
“Careful what you wish for. I’ll not have your cheek today.” Wentworth laced his fingers together. “To business. With Favreau dead, every power-hungry bastard with half a brain is competing to replace him. We need someone to gather intelligence, and unfortunately for me, that someone is you two.”
“You want us to infiltrate the network?” Isabel asked.
“Vienna, to be specific.” Wentworth reached for a folder and slid it across the desk. “We’ve reports of activity there – the remaining dregs of the Syndicate scrambling to shore up alliances and resources. You’ll be travelling as wealthy Russian nobles settling in for the season. Send me every scrap of information you can unearth.” He gestured between them. “I assume you two can manage to act married for a few months without strangling each other?”
Married.
The word reverberated through Callahan. What he and Isabel had was messy. Hard. But it was theirs, and he’d bleed to keep it. When she looked at him, he felt seen for the first time in his miserable life, and he wanted something that would last. Something he could hold on to.
Something real.
“What if I didn’t have to pretend?”
Isabel’s head whipped toward him. “Pardon?”
He shifted in the chair to face her, catching her hands between his. “No more playacting. No more lies. Just you and me, building something honest beneath the aliases. I love you, Isabel.” He pressed a kiss to one palm, then the other. “I want the name behind your alias to be mine.” Another kiss to her fingers. “And if you tell me you don’t want this, I’ll never speak of it again. We’ll go to Vienna and play our parts so well that no one will suspect a thing. But say yes, and it can be real. Be my wife. Let me spend every day trying to deserve you.”
His mouth found hers, and time stopped. Callahan kept the kiss gentle, waiting for her to respond and give him an answer. But Isabel didn’t move. Didn’t reply. Then, to Callahan’s horror, her shoulders hitched. Once, twice. Then he tasted salt on his tongue.
Tears.
She wascrying, and it felt like being gutted.
