The Thespian Spy: The Seductive Spy Series: Book One Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Pandamoon Books

  The Thespian Spy

  Book 1 in The Seductive Spies Series

  By

  Cheri Champagne

  © 2018 by Cheri Champagne

  This book is a work of creative fiction that uses actual publicly known events, situations, persons, businesses, and locations as background for the storyline with fictional embellishments as creative license allows. Although the publisher has made every effort to ensure the grammatical integrity of this book was correct at press time, the publisher does not assume and hereby disclaims any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause. At Pandamoon, we take great pride in producing quality works that accurately reflect the voice of the author. All the words are the author’s alone.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Pandamoon Publishing. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pandamoonpublishing.com

  Jacket design and illustrations © Pandamoon Publishing

  Art Design and Direction by Matthew Kramer: Pandamoon Publishing

  Editing by Zara Kramer, Rachel Schoenbauer, and Heather Stewart: Pandamoon Publishing

  Pandamoon Publishing and the portrayal of a panda and a moon are registered trademarks of Pandamoon Publishing.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC

  Edition: 1, ver. 1.00

  Dedication

  For everyone with a wild imagination and an adventurous heart.

  The Thespian Spy

  Prologue

  Mary Wright took a deep, calming breath as she paused at the top of the spiralling stone staircase. The dungeon of the castle ruins was still and cold, and the eerie calm sent a chill of apprehension down her back. She knew he was here. Gabriel was here, and he was hurting.

  On silent feet, she tread slowly down the narrow stairs. She trailed her fingertips over the rough, damp stone wall at her side, guiding her way around the curve of the perilous steps. She blinked, attempting to acclimate her eyes to the darkness as it slowly engulfed her.

  She adjusted the sheer cloth of the harem costume draping from her arms so the delicate material would not tear on the ragged rock face.

  A loud, familiar clap of skin against skin echoed through the passage below, harshly breaking the silence. Her stomach clenched as a cry of pain and a choked groan swiftly followed. She must think of a plan to free him. But what? This costume hardly afforded many secret compartments for concealed weapons, as scant as it was.

  Her costume…

  Why of course! A slow smile stole over her lips. Her costume! When short on weaponry, one must know how to use all at their disposal. Mary would rescue Gabriel and save their mission with just her knowledge and her ridiculous costume.

  She hastily removed two pins from her loosely fashioned chignon, allowing her curling auburn locks to fall over her shoulders and to her waist. She surreptitiously slid the two slender pieces of metal beneath the cuff at her wrist.

  Pulling the elaborately beaded and embroidered vest from her shoulders, Mary slipped it down her arms and dropped it regretfully to the stone steps, discarding one of the only modest elements from her costume and leaving her bosom all but entirely nude beneath the fine lace of her bodice.

  She pasted an insipid smile on her lips and forced her eyes to dull into witlessness before trundling noisily down the remainder of the stairs.

  Torches lit the landing where one guardsman stood beside the large oak door leading to the dungeon. The large man was all too easily distracted by the dusky points of her nipples stretching the sheer material over her bosom. He stared openly at her, eyes glazed over and mouth agape. Predictable man. Mary winked seductively at him as she lifted the large piece of wood barring the door and pulled, stepping back to allow the door to scrape open on creaky hinges.

  Striding sensually over the threshold, her heart nearly stopped at the sight before her. Gabe sat, shirtless and bloody, on a hard, wooden chair. His wrists were pulled behind his back and imprisoned by manacles, his shoulders bulged with strain, his body was shiny with perspiration, and his face…oh, his face. Swollen. Puffy and splattered with his own blood, the poor man.

  Mary forced her heart to beat normally and willed her mind and body to follow direction and stay in character. The guard outside closed the door behind her with a decidedly ominous thunk.

  She drooped her eyelids and curled her lips back in an aroused grin as she placed her hands on her waist, deliberately displaying her flagrantly-exposed figure. Cocking one hip, she allowed her belt of shining coins and bells to jingle.

  “Oh yes,” she lowered her voice to a husky thrum. “Please tell me I can join in this erotic game.”

  Chapter 1

  Cumberland, England, July 1795—twenty-years ago

  The sweetly warm wind blew through young Mary Wright’s deep auburn locks as she ran hell-bent through the fields of bluebells. Her lungs laboured to drag in each gasping breath, her heart thundering mercilessly in her chest. With each leaping step, her dirt-stained skirts wrapped more tightly around her knees and calves, but she hardly took notice. She was being chased! Being pursued by…by…a dreadful pirate!

  Mary released a shouted laugh of glee at her own genius and forced her legs faster.

  Yes, the fearsome pirate White Beard. No. Not frightening enough. Murderous Jack! Yes, definitely the name of a dreaded pirate. He and his men knew that she, and only she, held the secret to the fair maiden’s magic and the counter-spell that would unlock the horrible curse that had been placed on said pirate. But Mary would never tell. Even were she to be captured and held prisoner on Murderous Jack’s ship, the…the…Squalling Angel, yes, and tortured daily, she would never tell.

  She frantically glanced over her shoulder. The pirate captain and his band of thirty men…no…seventy men rose over the crest of the hill behind her.

  There was no chance of escape.

  She drew in a deep breath and let out a lilting scream, but a fresh gust of wind carried it away just as quickly as it was expelled. But screaming was of little use. No one would come to save her. The wicked serpent witch, Alexandra, had imprisoned her love, the devilishly handsome Prince Sebastian.

  Mary sent another glance over her shoulder. A lock of hair caught at t
he dampness on her forehead, briefly obscuring her vision. My downfall at the hands of my own hair!

  With her vision compromised, she failed to spot the rock imbedded in the ground before her. The large toe on her right foot connected painfully with the small, jagged stone, the material of her slippers scarcely providing any protection. The incident propelled Mary forward into the waist-high bluebells, her cry of shock and agony rolling over the hills around her.

  * * *

  Gabriel Ashley finally managed to escape his governess’ notice. She was advanced in age and rather fond of drink, so all that was required was patience, and he was able to slip away once she fell into a liquor-induced sleep.

  He tossed his favourite conch shell up in the air and caught it in one hand with a grin. Father had brought it for him the last time he’d returned home. It wasn’t a tin soldier, but it was from father, so it was special.

  Gabe strode past the estate gardens and began to wander through the tall grass, before he cringed at the throb of pain from the sore bruise on his rear. His older cousin, Fredrick, the nasty blighter, had delivered a punishing kick to Gabe’s bottom while calling him mixed blood with a nasty sneer. Gabe frowned. Everyone treated him poorly because he was half Scottish. His aunt and uncle jeered at him and called him “half-feral,” and he’d overheard his uncle’s acquaintances call him a “thing” while grimacing in disgust. Gabe could hardly change his blood, blast it.

  He took a bite of the biscuit he had palmed from the kitchens before leaving his uncle’s estate, savouring the fluffy, buttery taste. He took solace in the familiar flavour. Mama made the best biscuits in the whole of the world.

  Gabe kicked a tuft of long grass as he strode up a small hill. The sun shone gaily from its happy perch in the sky, the heat from it a comforting change from the coldness at home.

  Swallowing another mouthful of biscuit, Gabe put his lips to the tip of his conch shell and blew, and a faint honk mixed with his sputtered breath came from the wide opening on its side. Father said that when his lungs were stronger, he would be able to make a louder noise.

  A light gust of warm wind blew, further mussing his mass of curling brown hair. He had wandered far from the estate, but had not yet reached his favourite, secret spot. He marched over the hills and through the reaching bluebells which nearly topped his thighs. His secret forest lay just over the crest of the last hill.

  A muddy white spot in motion on the next hill caught Gabe’s attention. He squinted against the brightness of the sun. A girl…a waif of a girl, surely no more than four years of age, running headlong through the tall blue flowers. Her red-tinted brown hair glowed like fire in the sunlight. Gabe’s chest tightened at the fear on her features.

  Gabe’s eyes darted over the vacant hills. The little waif appeared to be running from something or someone, but there was nothing in sight.

  She swung her head around to glance over her shoulder. Her high-pitched scream carried to him on the wind and his heart dipped in his chest. Gabe’s feet began to move of their own volition in the direction of the running child. She seemed to push herself ever faster as she cut a hasty path through the fragrant flowers.

  She darted her head around again, then made a misstep. No. Another scream split the air, the shrill sound piercing his ears, before she fell, disappearing into the bluebells.

  Without conscious thought, Gabe broke into a run. The warm wind blew his blue coat open to flap behind him and ruffled the curling mop of brown hair atop his head. The song of the birds flying overhead, the rustle of leaves from the nearby trees, and the whoosh of wind past his person all faded from his consciousness as he ran toward the fallen girl.

  He skidded to a stop as he saw the small thing lying flat on her back among the flowers. She gazed back up at him with wide, tear-filled, steel grey eyes. His heart gave another odd bump. She blinked those startling eyes, fresh tears skidding over her temples and into the hair above her impish ears.

  Gabe tore his gaze from the small girl to glance around them, searching for whatever had frightened her and feeling an odd surge of protectiveness welling within him. Whoever had frightened her would have to face him if they wanted to get anywhere near his waif.

  He returned his gaze to her mud streaked and tearful form among the beautiful flowers. “Are ye well?” he asked in his faint Scottish brogue.

  She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, more tears welling in her eyes as she valiantly nodded. Brave gel.

  “Where are ye hurt?”

  Lifting up on her elbows, the waif rose to a sitting position and wrapped her hands around her foot. Tears spilled over her eyelids, and she sniffled.

  “May I have a look?” He raised his eyebrows in question.

  She hesitated but nodded again. Lowering himself to his knees beside her, he put his conch aside and took her small foot in his hands. He slid her mud-caked slipper off and looked at her foot. Gabe hadn’t the faintest idea what to look for, or why he had offered in the first place, but something about his faerie waif compelled him to offer his help.

  Her big toe had become red and swollen. “It looks painful,” he said, as though it would somehow help. “I cannae tell if it’s broken or nae. If ye want, ye can come with me back to my uncle’s estate and we can summon the physician.”

  She hastily shook her head, looking fearful once more. A brief, puzzled frown marred his forehead before he forcibly cleared it.

  “What is yer name?” he asked.

  “I’m Mary.” Her small voice barely reached his ears.

  He smiled. “Hello, Mary. My name is Gabriel Ashley.”

  “No,” she said, a little louder, a slow smile curving her lips.

  Gabe frowned into her grey eyes. “I beg yer pardon?”

  “You are Prince Sebastian, escaped from the clutches of the evil serpent witch, Alexandra, just to save me. And I am charmed.”

  Gabe wrinkled his nose. Was the girl daft? “Prince… What?”

  Her smile finally grew to split across her pale, freckle-specked face.

  “Prince Sebastian,” she repeated as though he was hard of hearing. She shifted into a seated position beside him as she pulled her foot out of his grasp. She replaced her muddy stocking and slipper back over her pale skin, grimacing at the pain the simple movement caused. “Prince Sebastian is my one true love and he has now saved me from the dreaded pirate, Murderous Jack!” She flung her hand high in the air as though holding a sword aloft and gazed into the glinting sunlight. “He drew his sword and slashed the pirate through the heart,” she stabbed her fictitious sword through the air, “his blood spurting over the ground and a sickening gurgle in the cad’s scurrilous throat!”

  Gabe winced. Bloodthirsty lass. “How old are ye?” he asked.

  She lowered her arm and looked at him with innocent eyes. “Six. But when I marry Prince Sebastian I shall be three and twenty because I would prefer to spend my youth at balls dancing with all the gentlemen instead of wasting those years bearing children.”

  “Verra decided fer so young a girl.” Gabe felt the dampness of the ground seep through the knees of his breeches, but determinedly ignored it…despite how cross it would make his uncle.

  “Decided, indeed,” she agreed with a quick nod. “How old are you, then?”

  “Eleven. Nearly twelve.”

  “You talk funny,” she noted. Her head was tilted at an angle of curiosity, making Gabe believe she had not meant to insult him.

  “Me mum is Scottish. Me—my—da is an English naval captain.”

  “But if you live with English people, doesn’t your accent go away?” A gust of wind blew around them, picking up several locks of Mary’s loose auburn hair and flicking them around her small oval face.

  “I ken how te speak without my accent, but I choose not te.”

  She lowered her chin to rest it upon her raised knees. “It seems to me that you prefer to speak with your accent. If you wanted to speak like an Englishman, you would not struggle so, switching
between the two.”

  He frowned, not particularly liking this conversation. “What of your speech?” he asked, “Why do you speak so well but are out of doors without a nanny or governess, and are covered in dirt?”

  “Why, ‘tis simple, of course!” She smiled over the tops of her knees. “My Papa is a crofter on Baron Winning’s land and Mama is learned and wishes for me to make an ad—” Her nose wrinkled as she struggled to find the word. “Advent…advantat…advantageous marriage one day—”

  “To a prince, of course,” Gabe interrupted.

  “Yes, to a prince. So, Mama bought books with Papa’s earnings and makes me read and do my maths.” She grimaced in distaste. “I despise math.” Her face brightened. “Shakespeare, however, is very pleasing. Indeed, I could read his plays all day.”

  Gabe’s eyebrows rose. “Ye are verra young to enjoy such advanced reading.”

  Mary tipped her head sideways and gave a shrug. “Well, Mama helps me read,” she amended. “But I do so enjoy it.”

  “A lover of theatre, are ye?”

  “Yes!” She bounced awkwardly on her bottom. “Mama says I’m a thes…thesepi…thisp…” She huffed an exasperated breath.

  “A thespian?” he asked.

  She pointed at him. “That’s it! A thespian,” she mimicked his accent with a grin.

  “My uncle is Baron Winning,” he said to the theatrical young waif.

  “Oh!” Her lips formed a small O. “We are neighbours, then! Would you like to play with me?”

  Gabriel gazed at Mary, warmth at her open and immediate friendship spreading through his chest. Who was this young girl to so willingly accept him despite his half-Scottish blood, to smile so freely and guilelessly at him without rancour? The other children of the nearby village sneered at him or spoke about him behind their hands when he passed, but this little girl, so warm, so inviting, not only accepted him, but seemed to like him.