Page 15 of Undercover Shadow
She set the bowls on the table with the fresh bread Mrs. MacLeod had provided, then sat down. I took the chair across from her, noticing the bruise on her cheek had turned purple-black against her bronze skin. I had to fight the urge to reach across the table and touch it, to apologize for not catching her sooner, for not protecting her from the fall. And most of all, for not protecting her from me.
We ate in silence after that. Though the soup was rich and warming, I barely tasted it.
Every movement Leila made, every breath, reminded me of what I couldn’t have. What I wouldn’t allow myself to have. The way she tucked a strand of hair that had escaped her bun behind her ear, the way her throat moved when she swallowed, and the faint mark on her neck where my stubble had scraped against her skin during our kiss.
Christ. I couldn’t do this. I pushed my chair from the table and stood. After cleaning the bowl and spoon, I left the kitchen and headed upstairs. Before I reached the doorway of the bedroom across the hall from hers, I saw her approaching.
“Don’t do this. It’s ridiculous for you to sleep elsewhere.” Fatigue deepened her voice. “We can share a bed without…”
Without what? Without touching? Without wanting? Without remembering how exquisitely we’d fit together when we kissed?
“Okay,” I said, following her into the bedroom that seemed smaller than it had this morning. The walls appeared closer, and the air felt heavier. We took turns in the bathroom, changing into sleep clothes with the door firmly closed between us. I pulled track pants and a sweatshirt on, trying not to think about her doing the same. When I emerged, she was already under the covers on the far side of the bed, turned away from the center.
I got in on my side, staying as close to the edge as physics would allow. The space between us might as well have been an ocean. Or maybe a minefield—it was dangerous to cross, potentially explosive. The mattress was old enough that it dipped slightly in the middle, trying to pull us together, but we both clung to our edges with grim determination.
I stared at the ceiling, hyperaware of her presence. Her breathing was uneven. She was awake, as I was, and both of us were lying there, pretending not to be.
The memory of the kiss haunted me. I couldn’t forget the way she’d responded, like she’d been waiting for it as long as I had. Or the heat of her mouth, the softness of her full lips, and the way she’d fit against me like our bodies were made to be close.
Last night, we’d gravitated toward one another. Now, we fought that pull, clinging to our separate territories like our lives depended on it. Because maybe they did. Or at least, mine did.
The clock on the mantel chimed midnight. Then one. Then two. Then three. Still, I couldn’t sleep. Every time she shifted, perhaps trying to find a comfortable position, it sent desire pulsing through me. If only she’d face me. Then I wouldn’t—couldn’t—resist her. But she didn’t. And it was the longest night of my life.
5
NIGHTINGALE
The day broke, gray and violent. Outside, the storm raged with renewed fury. I hadn’t slept, and I doubted Tag had, either. We moved around each other with exhausted wariness, preparing a breakfast of tea and yesterday’s bread toasted on the AGA. My eyes burned from fighting tears all night, and my body ached from clinging to the edge of the mattress.
In the harsh morning light, the exhaustion etched on Tag’s face—circles under his eyes, the rigid set of his jaw—was evident. Even fatigued, he was devastating. I hated that I noticed every detail about the man—the way his hair fell across his forehead as he buttered his toast, making sure every corner was covered equally. Even after his rejection, after his confession designed to push me away, I wanted him.
“We should explore the tunnels.” His voice was rough. “Map them while we’re here.”
“Agreed,” I said, grateful for action, for purpose, for anything that wasn’t sitting in this kitchen, pretending I hadn’t spent the entire night fighting the urge to turn to him.
After we’d gathered what we’d need, I checked my gun and chambered a round.
Tag did the same with his, then we descended onto the stone steps. Our lights carved through the shadows as we continued farther down to the tunnel’s concealed entrance.
Working together despite the tension between us, we mapped the passages systematically. Tag did rough sketches while I photographed every intersection, every marker, every architectural detail that might matter.
“This is eighteenth century,” I said, running my hand along a section of stonework, needing to fill the quiet with something safe, something that wasn’t about us. My fingers found the mason’s marks, reading them like braille. “See these chisel patterns? They match what I’ve seen in books on Jacobite construction methods.”
I moved to another section, training my torch on what lay ahead. “But this section is Victorian—see the different mortar? They expanded it, probably during the Highland Clearances, when families were forced from their homes.”
“You know your Scottish history,” Tag said, and there was something in his voice—surprise? Maybe even approval? I couldn’t tell without glancing at him, and I wouldn’t let myself.
“My mother was fascinated by it. Before she met my father, she spent a year at the University of Edinburgh, studying the Jacobite period. She used to tell Idris and me stories about the clans, battles, and betrayals. I think she treasured the romance of it all—doomed causes and noble sacrifices.”
When Tag didn’t respond, I wondered if he’d even heard me.
Rather than follow his lead, I went deeper, finding evidence of modifications from the early twentieth century—concrete reinforcements and metal brackets for long-dead electrical systems.
“It goes deeper than we thought,” Tag said, studying the branching passages.
“My guess is they’re part of an elaborate network,” I agreed, forcing myself to focus on the meaning rather than how close he stood and how his presence warmed the air around him in this frigid place. “Look how they connect—multiple routes, redundancies. You could move through here even if one section collapsed. Whoever designed this was planning for siege conditions, long-term hiding, maybe even counterattack.”
We continued through passages that extended far beyond what any single castle would need for escape. We found debris left over centuries—rusted tools, fragments of crates, provisions turned to dust. Evidence of the tunnels’ use during various conflicts, including a button from a military uniform that was tarnished beyond identification, and a child’s wooden toy, left behind in some long-ago flight.
