He came to stand beside her. “So do I.” He let out a sigh. “I suppose I’d better go make arrangements for our return to London. Can’t say I’ll enjoy having to travel with our prisoner.” He gestured to the closed door of the bedchamber.
Marjorie reached out and stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Simon, I—”
He shook his head. “We can discuss it when we’ve seen this through. I’d rather things not be awkward between us these next few days.”
“Why would—”
“Please,” he said. “Do me this one courtesy.”
She nodded, and he gathered up his greatcoat and departed for the village. He’d be back in an hour or so with the coach, outriders, and horses. She could best use that time to change and pack. But as soon as she stepped into her bedchamber, she inhaled his scent and closed her eyes. She could all but feel his hands on her, his lips caressing hers, the warmth of his body. Somehow she had to give that up and go back to what their lives had been like before.
She couldn’t yet remember everything about her life in London. A few things, like Tabby’s purr and the rooms in her flat, had come back to her. But she couldn’t remember her friends or walking in Hyde Park or visiting the British Museum. Her strongest memory was of a small, dark office. The room was only large enough for a desk, a chair, and a bookshelf. No window brought in natural light, and yet, from what she remembered, she spent all her time there. Stacks of papers were piled high, and she sat, hour after hour, her candle burning down, as she read and studied the missives.
She was the best. But she was not happy.
Simon had been happy. He had an office in Westminster as well, just down the corridor from hers. She often heard him pass by her door, laughing and speaking with the other agents. Sometimes she heard them inviting each other to dinner or discussing the tavern they’d gone to the night before. She wasn’t included. She was a woman and couldn’t be included. She told herself she didn’t care, but she did care.
She resented being left out.
And she resented Simon Burrows.
She’d never thought about why she should resent Simon more than, say, Roger McCreary or Tom Score or George Mallory. She’d worked with all those agents as much as, if not more often, than Simon. They were all good agents, but none made her feel hot and prickly when they walked into a room. None of the others made her belly tighten or her breath catch in her throat. None of the others were heart-stoppingly handsome like Simon or remotely as clever. She didn’t even think she was as clever as Simon in some aspects of the job.
At first, she’d been able to push her feelings for him into a compartment and ignore them. He was younger than her, a junior agent, and she wasn’t often asked to train agents. But once he had been trained, she’d had to work with him, and every time she did, she liked him more and more.
Over time, she began to realize he liked her too. He’d recently said that surely she hadn’t been oblivious to his feelings for her. She wouldn’t have been an agent worth her mettle if she hadn’t realized he felt more than professional courtesy for her. The heat in his eyes at times could be scorching.
But she hadn’t dared acknowledge her own feelings for him. And, in trying to hide them, she’d gone too far in the opposite direction and treated him with coldness and often outright hostility.
Was she a child of ten? That was how she’d been acting. Yes, there was the real fear that she’d be less respected at the Foreign Office if she began an affair with another agent. But by the time Simon had been there a year or so, her reputation was solid. That fear was just an excuse.
No. The real fear was of being vulnerable with him—with anyone. She’d always liked being a spy because the job allowed her to hide from everyone, including herself.
But these past few days, without her memory, she’d felt more like herself than ever before. What had she been so afraid of? Would Simon ever be able to forgive her for her treatment of him? Was he already thinking about how to distance himself from her when they returned to London? Why else would he speak of awkwardness and courtesy? Now that she had begun to remember who she was, he wouldn’t want her anymore.
Marjorie opened her portmanteau and tossed in several items of clothing. She didn’t feel like packing. She couldn’t imagine not having Simon in her life. How could she convince him that she’d changed? She wasn’t the cold, rude person she’d been. She didn’t want to ever be that person again.
But how could she expect him to believe that? She hoped she could show him and that, when the rest of her memory returned, she wouldn’t revert to her old ways.
SIMON STEPPED INTO his flat and dropped his greatcoat on the floor. Of course, he immediately picked it up and hung it on the coat rack, but his exhaustion was such that he had thought, just for an instant, about leaving the garment on the floor. From the minute he and Marjorie—Agent Clawson—had retrieved the map, he had not had an hour to think. He and Clawson had to transport the traitor back to London over several days. Then, after delivering him to the Foreign Office for questioning, they’d had to endure their own questioning by the minister of this department or the deputy of that office. He hadn’t seen Marjorie since they’d been taken to separate rooms for debriefing.
Simon strode into his drawing room and found his decanter of brandy. He paused, turned over two clean glasses, and filled both with three fingers. Lifting one, he sipped it.
He didn’t know what he’d say when he saw Marjorie—Agent Clawson—again. He rather wished he wouldn’t see her. Then she couldn’t end things between them. She wouldn’t be able to tell him that now that she had her memory back, she remembered how much she hated him and never wanted to see him again.
She’d hidden her loathing for him remarkably well on the journey back, but they’d both been consumed by work and hadn’t had a moment to speak privately. They’d taken turns sleeping, and he couldn’t help but glance at her on occasion when she was unaware, just to convince himself that everything that had happened between them wasn’t a dream. Instead, he was reminded of how beautiful she was and how, after months and months of infatuation, he’d fallen in love with her.
Perfect. He’d fallen in love with the one woman who hated him more than all else.
His snifter was empty, so he lifted the decanter to pour another.
“Pour one for me as well,” a familiar voice said. Simon stilled. He knew that voice.
“Already did.” He lifted the second snifter. “I was wondering when you’d show yourself.”
Marjorie stepped into the drawing room. She was still wearing a cream-colored pelisse, but her hat hung by its pink ribbons down her back. “I was wondering the same. I’ve been waiting a half hour.” She strode forward and took the snifter of brandy.
“I apologize.” They spoke so formally now. He hated it. “I suppose you’ve come to discuss what happened in Cornwall.”
