“Because it’s what I do best.”
She snorted, thinking it was true in his personal life as well. “If you’re so good at escaping, then why not exercise your prowess in London?”
“They had a bloody pistol to your head, and I didn’t want to risk it!”
His voice was angry, but Lucia’s heart was suddenly beating hard. Alex cared about her! He’d obviously been terrified when the pistol was aimed at her head, and that meant he really did care. He’d as much as said so. She was beaming.
“Try freeing your hands again,” Alex said.
Lucia barely heard him. “Hmm?”
“Move your hands. They were swollen before. Try now.”
She wiggled them. The heavy cords burned her skin, but miraculously she was able to slip first one hand out, then the other.
“I’m free!” She turned and hugged him, kissing his neck, then feeling for his cheek, his lips. “Oh, Alex, thank you! I knew you cared!” She kissed him again.
He probably thought she’d been hit on the head to be this happy at being free. She was clutching him so tightly, she could hardly breathe.
“Lucia.” His voice was muffled. “If you’re done now, see if you can free me.”
“Oh, sorry.”
She gave him one last hug, then started on his bindings. A half an hour later, she had to rest. Her arms were aching and her fingers were raw and wet with sweat or blood.
There was no comfortable way for Alex to sit, so she crossed her legs and laid his head in her lap. Sucking on her sore fingers, she said, “So, you’re the intelligence specialist, how long can we expect to be on this ship?”
“We should arrive in France in a day, day and a half at the most,” he said, voice floating up to her.
That was about what she’d calculated, but the thought of so many hours in this tiny, dark room and the intentions of the men above almost drove her to panic again. She wondered what time it was, and then she thought of her parents. “Oh, Alex! What will my parents think when I don’t come home?” She tried to keep her hysteria under control, but she heard it creeping into her voice. “They know I’m missing by now, and they’re probably sick with worry.” But more than that, she was concerned that her vanishing would create a scandal. Her father would never forgive her.
“Hodges will figure out what’s happened. He’ll go to Dewhurst, and Freddie will go straight to my brother and your sister. I’m sure Ethan and Francesca can concoct some plausible reason for your disappearance.”
Ethan and Francesca? Freddie? Her mind was spinning. “Freddie? You mean Lord Dewhurst? Does he know you’re a spy? Pardon, I mean an intelligence specialist.”
“Freddie’s worked at the Foreign Office for years.” He sat up but stayed close enough that his arm brushed hers.
“Lord Dewhurst? The same Lord Dewhurst who cries when his cravat has a wrinkle?” She couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice. The notion that Dewhurst was a spy was so absurd, she almost forgot about her parents.
“I don’t believe it,” she said finally.
“That’s why he’s so good at it.”
Lucia opened her mouth and shut it again. How could she argue? It made perfect sense.
“But I warn you not to call Freddie a spy in his presence,” Alex went on. “He makes a clear distinction between spies and intelligence specialists. It’s a matter of pride.”
“But he can’t be a spy,” Lucia protested feebly. “He’s—he’s a dandy!”
“And?”
“And he thinks of nothing but his cravat and—and his next bon mot.”
No answer, only the sound of the ship cutting through the water.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Lucia, look around you. Do you think I’m being absurd?”
