the last four years have seemed an eternity to me.”
Elizabeth tensed, her heart stopping before quickening its pace.
Avery turned them both to face their visitor. “Ah, here is my partner now. I understand you and Lord Westfield are old acquaintances. Hopefully such a fortuitous arrangement will expedite matters.”
“Marcus,” she whispered, her eyes widening as the import of his presence struck her like a physical blow.
He bowed. “I am in your service, madam.”
Elizabeth swayed on her feet, and Avery tightened his grip to steady her. “Lady Hawthorne?”
Marcus reached her in two strides. “Don’t faint, love. Take a deep breath.”
It seemed an impossible task as she gasped like a fish out of water, her corset suddenly unbearably constricting. She waved him off, his proximity and the scent of his skin making it even more difficult to expand her lungs.
She watched as Marcus shot a telling glance to Avery, who then turned and walked away, suddenly finding interest in the fronds of a distant fern.
Lightheaded but recovering, Elizabeth shook her head rapidly. “Marcus, you have truly lost your mind.”
“Ah, feeling better, I see,” he drawled with a sardonic tilt to his lips.
“Find your amusement in some other venture. Resign your commission. Leave the agency.”
“Your concern is touching albeit confusing, after your own callous disregard for my well-being in the past.”
“Save your sarcasm for another day,” she snapped. “Have you no notion of what you’ve involved yourself in? It’s dangerous to work for Lord Eldridge. You could be hurt. Or killed.”
Marcus released a deep breath. “Elizabeth, you are overwrought.”
She glared at him and glanced quickly at Avery, who maintained his discretionary study of the fern. She lowered her voice. “How long have you been an agent?”
His jaw tightened. “Four years.”
“Four years?” She stumbled backward. “Were you an agent when you paid your addresses to me?”
“Yes.”
“Damn you.” Her voice was a pained whisper. “When were you planning on disclosing this to me? Or was I never to know until you came home in a coffin?”
He scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t see that it much matters now.”
She stiffened at his icy tone. “All these years I feared reading the banns announcing your marriage. Instead I should have been perusing the obituaries.” Turning away, Elizabeth sheltered her racing heart with her hand. “How I wish you had stayed far, far away from me.” She gathered her skirts and hurried away. “I wish to God I’d never met you.”
The sharp tapping of his heels on marble was the only warning she had before her elbow was caught and she was spun about.
“The feeling is bloody damn mutual,” he growled.
He towered over her, his sensual mouth drawn taut with anger, his emerald gaze sparkling with something that made her shiver.
“How could Lord Eldridge assign you to me?” she cried. “And why did you accept?”
“I insisted on taking this mission.”
At her astonished gasp, his lips thinned further. “Make no mistake. You fled from me once. I will not allow it to happen again.” He tugged her closer and the air sweltered between them. His voice turned rough. “I don’t care if you marry the King himself this time. I will have you.”
She struggled to escape, but his grip was firm. “Good heavens, Marcus. Haven’t we inflicted enough damage on one another?”
“Not nearly.” He thrust her away as if the feel of her against him was distasteful. “Now let us dispatch this matter regarding your late husband so Avery can retire.”
Shaking, Elizabeth moved swiftly toward Avery. Marcus followed behind her with the predatory gracefulness of a jungle cat.
There was no doubt she was the one being hunted.
She stopped beside Avery and took a shuddering breath before turning.
Marcus watched her with an unreadable expression. “I understand you received a book written by your late husband.” He waited for her answering nod. “Is the sender familiar to you?”
“The handwriting on the parcel was Hawthorne’s. It was obviously addressed some time ago, the wrapping was yellowed and the ink faded.” She had puzzled over the package for days, unable to determine its origin or its purpose.
“Your husband addressed a package to himself and it arrives three years after his murder.” Marcus narrowed his gaze. “Did he leave any grilles1, any cards with odd holes in them, anything written that struck you as unusual?”
“No, nothing.” She reached into her reticule, withdrawing the slim journal and the letter she’d received just a few days ago. She handed both to Marcus.
After a cursory perusal he tucked the book into his coat and