The Trouble with Love (The Mason Siblings Series Book 2) Read online

  Charles paced in the centre of the bedchamber with increasingly agitated movements and his hand hovering protectively over the pistol hidden in his pocket.

  “For heaven’s sake, Charles,” she said, placing a gown and several pairs of stockings indelicately in the trunk, “do stop your pacing.”

  He halted in the middle of the room and ran a restless hand through his tousled blond hair. “Very well.”

  Bridget packed the last item in her trunk, fastened the straps, and clicked the lock closed. “There. That was not long, was it?”

  “I suppose not.” He shrugged one shoulder and picked up her small trunk, swiftly placing it behind the hidden panel in the wall.

  A thought suddenly occurred to her.

  “I wonder, Charles, how you knew precisely where the panel was in my bedchamber. Which also leads me to wonder how you knew that Oliver was in here with me the night we practiced our fencing. The cabin that you claim to have been living in looks directly into my bedchamber and the nursery, don’t think I did not notice.” She paused, looking intently at him. “Have you been spying on me, Major?”

  His expression betrayed nothing, but the redness of his neck indicated that she was correct in her assumption.

  Part of her felt betrayed in the violation of her privacy. But another part of her was distinctly…flattered.

  He turned his back to her and closed the wall panel, then opened the saddlebag and removed a bundle of cloth. “Put these on.” He extended the fabric out to her and waited for her to accept it.

  She allowed him a reprieve, and followed the change in subject. “What is it?”

  “It is a disguise. I will put one on as well.”

  A wide smile split across her face. “Oh! How exciting! What will I be?” Bridget reached for the bundle of clothing, but Charles pulled it back. She frowned, “What—”

  “It is not a costume, Bridget. It is a disguise, and it is rather more serious than playing at dressing up. We are attempting to avoid our captors who intend to take your life, not go to a masquerade.”

  Her frown deepened. “My apologies, then, for attempting to put a positive light on our dreadful situation. I will henceforth endeavour to be as pessimistic as possible.”

  He huffed an exasperated breath as Bridget pulled the bundle from his hands. And why should he be frustrated? Finding a modicum of fun in their current gloomy position would keep her from the panicked dread and overwhelming fear that threatened to claim her. She had been thrust into this situation—not of her own accord—had been shot, and now was fleeing for her life. He should credit her for not weeping.

  She brought the bundled clothing with her behind the privacy screen in the corner of the room and, careful not to put undue stress on her injured arm, began to undress.

  “Might I inquire as to why we must have these costumes, Charles?” she called over the screen.

  “It is an added effort, I admit, but they not only afford us anonymity and allow us to travel alone together, they will also confuse and misdirect our pursuers—should we have any. After all that you had been through, I thought it prudent.”

  After all that she had been through, indeed. She and Charles had somehow become lovers, Charles was a spy, Bridget was marked for murder, Charles owned a castle, Bridget’s entire governess position was fictional, and now she and Charles must assume alternate identities and flee for their lives. What more could possibly happen?

  An unbidden squeak escaped her as Charles appeared behind the screen with her. She brought her hands up to cover her nearly nude form. “Charles! What in heaven’s name—” Charles’ hand clapped over her mouth as he pressed her back against the far wall of her bedchamber, further hidden behind the privacy screen.

  He hefted his saddlebags over his shoulder and pressed his body lightly against hers as he leaned down to breathe in her ear. “Shh…listen.” His hot breath warmed her ear, and blew the wisping tendrils of her hair across her neck, spreading gooseflesh over her skin.

  Bridget ignored the heated sensations and tilted her head toward the other side of the screen. The distinct snick of her bedchamber door handle echoed through the room. Her startled gaze flew to Charles’. She normally had excellent hearing; how had she not heard someone coming down the hall?

  Charles put a finger to his lips and urged the both of them further against the wall; his large, masculine form pressing hard against her scantily clad one. Bridget urged her mind to focus on the situation at hand.

  The intruder closed the door and slowly entered the room. Bridget listened as her bedclothes were rustled, her wardrobe opened, and the contents of her drawers dropped to the floor.

  What could the intruder be searching for? Was this the ‘traitor’ that Mr. Stevens had informed them of?

  The thought of confronting the intruder briefly crossed her mind, but she immediately dismissed it. Her rapier and smallsword were hidden in the passageway behind the wall across the room from where they were currently concealed. There would be little hope of retrieving them before the intruder struck first.

  Charles’ arms tightened around her, and Bridget held her breath, as they listened to the trespasser draw near. She heard the rustling of papers and realized that the cad was searching through the letters and ledgers on her desk! Well, he was doomed for disappointment, for the only papers there were letters from her sisters and worksheets that she had created for Henry.

  Several moments passed before a tumbling crash echoed through the room, followed by splintering wood. The clamour caused Bridget to jump and Charles’ arms to tighten once more.

  Would the intruder not search behind the privacy screen? How was it that Charles thought they were safe?

  They waited in silence for several moments before the sound of the door closing and retreating footsteps could be heard.

  Bridget let her breath out in a whoosh. “Do you suppose that was the traitor?”

  “I have no doubt that it was.”

  “Why did they not search behind the screen?”

  Charles shrugged one shoulder. “I prefer not to look the gift horse in the mouth. I would have fought if necessary, but while catching the traitor is a priority, it might take weeks to bring down his network. And furthermore, getting you away from this ‘beacon’ as you called it, is more important at the moment.” He released her and looked around the privacy screen. “We must leave. Now.” He turned back toward her and froze, apparently just this moment realizing that she was wearing only her chemise, stockings, and garters.

  Charles visibly shook himself. “My apologies; I should let you dress. Quickly, if you will.” He hefted the saddlebags in his hand. “I will put my disguise on as well, then we will be off.”

  At a loss for words, Bridget nodded in response. Just the thought of Charles dressing on the other side of the screen sent shivers over her body.

  No. No, she mustn’t allow his astonishingly attractive physique to cloud her thoughts. She was determined to be cross with him; he had deceived her. He had broken her heart when he could have told her the truth, and he allowed her to live an untruth for the past weeks. He had given a poor little orphaned boy hope for a family then threw it away like so much rubbish.

  She unfolded the bundle of clothing that Charles had given her and examined it.

  A bubble of excitement threatened to spill forth as she saw the billowy white blouse, a midnight blue and burgundy striped worsted calamanco skirt, and two petticoats for warmth.

  “Spanish?” She slipped on her petticoats and gently pulled the blouse over her head, knotting the ties at her chest.

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  She heard the rustling of his clothing from the other side of the privacy screen.

  “You said that you preferred not to question our good fortune, Charles, but I simply cannot keep the thought from repeating in my mind. Why is it that the traitor did not search behind the privacy screen?”

  He grunted, the sound muffled as he presumably pulled an articl
e of clothing over his head. “I can understand your curiosity,” he muttered thoughtfully. “The traitor must have assumed that as the screen hid the chamberpot, there was nothing of interest to them there.”

  Bridget nodded, stepping into the skirt and fastening the brown tape waistband. She turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror and let out a small laugh. “I look ridiculous. I am afraid that your plan to create the appearance of two Spaniards will prove fruitless, Charles. My light hair is anything but Spanish.”

  “Your disguise is not yet complete, Bridget. Have faith in my abilities.” Water splashed.

  He was correct. She hadn’t the faintest idea what he was capable of. The man was clearly experienced in the art of spy work and disguises. She must have more faith in him. “Very well.”

  A matter of moments passed before she heard Charles’ steps come around the screen.

  But the man before her was not Charles.

  This man was tall. He had dark wavy hair that appeared to be still damp from bathing, a moustache, and distinctly foreign attire.

  Bridget felt her eyes widen as she realized that this man was Charles. She could not mistake the piercing blue of his eyes, nor the serious set to his mouth.

  He reached for her hand and bent gallantly over it, gazing up at her as he did, a lock of dark hair falling over one blue eye. “Hola. Mi nombre es Señor Philippe Delgado. Su nombre era la Señora Carrina Delgado. Somos una pareja casada de visita desde Cádiz, España.”

  He pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “Hello. My name is Señor Philippe Delgado. Your name is Señora Carrina Delgado. We are a married couple visiting from Cadiz, Spain.”

  “Charles!” Bridget gasped as he straightened, tugging at the elaborately embroidered waistcoat beneath his brown coat. “For a moment I didn’t recognize you.” She paused. “You speak Spanish?”

  Chapter 18

  “Pero, por supuesto. Hay que aprender estas cosas cuando dominan el arte de reconocimiento. Hablo varios idiomas, el español no es más que una.”

  Charles took delight in the delicate frown that touched Bridget’s brow.

  “What are you saying?” She asked in her wonderfully soft voice.

  He grinned, and repeated in English, “But of course. One must learn these things when they master the art of reconnaissance. I speak many languages, Spanish is but one.’”

  “That is remarkable, Charles.” Her gaze traced his figure, leaving a trail of heat everywhere it touched. “How did you change your hair colour?”

  “It is a combination of herbs and plant roots ground and mixed with water and a small amount of India ink. I could have used shoe polish or other inks, but they are more difficult to remove, particularly from lighter hair such as yours.”

  “Mine?” Her delicate eyebrows rose. “We will colour my hair in such a way?”

  “Sí, mi querida.” At her perplexed expression he chuckled. “Yes.” He neglected the translation for the endearment. “But we must make haste.”

  Charles retrieved the hair staining implements, a towel, and a chair, bringing them to Bridget behind the screen. He draped the towel over Bridget’s slender shoulders, ensuring that her attire was protected. “Please have a seat.” He indicated the chair, and she sat. “Now slide forward and tilt your head back so your neck rests on the backrest. Very good.”

  Her forest green eyes slid closed as he ran his hands through her hair. He pulled it from its knot at the base of her neck and let the tangles unfurl with the brush of his fingers. The white-blonde mass curled and waved around his hands and he lost himself in its beauty. He resisted the urge to bring a lock to his nose to inhale her clean, refreshing scent.

  A soft hum of pleasure escaped from Bridget’s closed mouth and Charles paused, suddenly realizing that he had been petting her absently.

  Brought back to the moment, Charles dipped his hands into the staining mixture and began to massage it into Bridget’s hair, instantly turning it a charcoal black. He coated every strand of hair in the inky concoction, then brushed his thumbs lightly over her eyebrows. Having finished coating her hair, he turned and scrubbed his hands clean in the washbasin.

  “Let it sit for a moment and I will rinse it from your hair. The stain should last for several days, but will come out if it is properly washed.”

  Bridget let out a delicate sniff and wrinkled her brow in distaste. “It smells horrid.” Her green eyes snapped open to gaze up at him from her reclined position. “Whatever did you put in the mixture? Manure?”

  He gave her a mischievous smile. “You will never know.”

  Bridget reached out with her uninjured arm and shook her index finger at him. “So help me, Charles, if you put manure in my hair, I shall never forgive you.”

  His smile grew into a roguish grin. Good God, he loved this woman.

  The frown on her brow turned into a scowl. “Charles…” Her voice lowered with warning. “Charles, you remove this tincture this instant. I will not stand for your making me emanate this offensive odour for anything.” She pointed her finger at him for emphasis. “Now.”

  Her attempt to intimidate him merely served to arouse him.

  “Very well. I will remove it.” And he’d enjoy every second of it.

  He grasped the sides of the chair and dragged both her and the chair toward the washbasin on the other side of the screen. Bridget squeaked in surprise at the movement. Charles laughed.

  The chair was the perfect height in relation to the washbasin. He positioned Bridget’s seat so that her back was perfectly aligned with the water.

  With her head hovering above the basin, Charles submerged her hair and worked his fingers through the strands, washing out the slick, oily substance. He cupped the rapidly darkening water in his hands and brought it to her hair, lightly rubbing his thumbs into her scalp.

  Bridget’s eyelids closed, and a contented sigh slipped past her slightly parted lips. Charles held fiercely to his control. Damn, but he wished he could lean down and kiss her senseless.

  Hell, he had such difficulty around Bridget, which could be detrimental to their safety. Focus, man!

  “The enemy is searching for a white-blonde, slender Englishwoman and a tall, blond, broad-shouldered Englishman,” he said into the silence. “It is safe to assume that they know we will be travelling together. The distraction will not last long, but by the time it is discovered that we have employed disguises we should have reached our destination and be far out of the traitor’s reach. I am confident that we will have few obstacles along our way.”

  Charles rung the excess water from Bridget’s blackened hair and used the towel from around her shoulders to dry it as best he could. “Done.”

  Bridget accepted his hand and rose to stand before the full-length reflection glass. Charles watched as Bridget’s eyes widened in shock and her hands rose to cover her gasp.

  “Oh my goodness!” she breathed. “Oh Charles, I do not look like myself at all.”

  Indeed she did not. But she was still astoundingly beautiful.

  “That is the object,” he inclined his head. “Although, I am afraid that your ensemble is incomplete.” He hastened around her chair to retrieve her accessories from his saddlebags and returned directly.

  He stood behind her, watching her expression in their reflection as he placed a simple yet elegant Spanish necklace across her collarbone. The emeralds in the simple arrangement matched perfectly with the emerald of her eyes. The very eyes that warmed with admiration as she regarded the jewellery.

  “Charles, I couldn’t,” she shook her head.

  “You most certainly can,” he insisted. “And you will. It is part of your disguise.”

  Her expression fell slightly.

  “Do not appear so, Bridget. You know you desire it, and I am pleased to give it to you.” He fastened the clasp and let his hands run over the shimmering gilt and silver design at her neck. “If you must know, when I purchased this in La Almeida, I thought only of you.”


  “You purchased this in Spain?”

  “Yes. There was an elderly woman selling wares along the side of the dirt road in their small village. I first admired her roses, but knew they would not last long enough for me to give them to you. She saw me turn away and offered me this necklace. I saw it and thought immediately of your eyes. I imagined this necklace resting on your neck as it is now, and knew it must be yours.”

  Bridget brought her right hand up to finger the neat, swirling pattern at her throat. Charles wished he knew what she was thinking. His stomach knotted uncomfortably as he watched her in silence. Curse his foolish, romantic words; he should not have spouted that nonsense. Damn it, he ought to have kept his thoughts to himself.

  Clearing his throat of its awkward dryness, Charles handed her another accessory for her ensemble. He brought one arm around her waist and tied a burgundy sash at one side, allowing a long length of fabric to flow alongside her skirts.

  “Oh, what a beautiful colour! And it matches yours, Charles.” She pointed at the sash adorning his waist. “How charming.”

  He ignored her comment and lifted an elaborately embroidered burgundy and cream shawl, folded it in half diagonally to create a triangle, and draped it over her shoulders.

  In an effortlessly feminine gesture, Bridget lifted her hair free of the shawl, then winced.

  Damn. He had forgotten about her recently wounded arm. Hopefully it would not hinder her abilities on a horse.

  “Lastly…” He handed her a hand-painted fan.

  Bridget moved to open it, but Charles stayed her hands. “You will have time to admire it when we arrive at our first stop for luncheon. At the moment, we must make haste. We are tempting fate already by lingering here.”

  “But I—oh very well.” She moved to lift her arms to gather her hair, but Charles stopped her.

  “Many Spanish women wear it loose, or loosely tied. I have ribbon for when that time comes, but for now let it dry.” He hoisted the saddlebags over one shoulder.