Sweet Treason (Entangled Ignite) Read Free Page B

alone?”
    “No! M-my uncle is abed. He will come to check on me soon. He—”
    The spy shook his head as he sat in her abandoned chair and made himself comfortable. “Between the soldiers and the brandy bottle, we’ve made enough noise to wake the dead. If there were someone to rescue you, they’d have come by now. We are quite alone here, are we not?”
    She ignored his question, wishing like fury that she had someone to rescue her now. She had never anticipated such extraordinary circumstances before giving Simon and Mary Bart their own cottage, and Bridey, too. She turned away from him and went to the fire to rub her hands together and bring warmth back to her body.
    When she glanced back, the dimple deepened in his cheek as he grinned. “Do I pass muster, Rose?” he asked. “No need to be embarrassed. ’Tis only natural. I took your measure earlier, as you dealt with the soldiers. ‘Very nice,’ I told myself. ‘When did I last hold a waist so small? When did I ever see eyes the color of elm leaves or hair as sleek and glossy as a blackbird’s wing?’”
    A spy! A traitor! A murderer! She took another deep breath, bracing for trouble. This man was a different breed from the sort who long ago paid her court. He had none of the ridiculous effeminate ways so in vogue these days—no sacrifice of the strong in favor of the genteel. And he had stolen her wits in a matter of seconds.
    His pistol lay across one knee, ready should he need it, and he watched her every move. Her knees were weak, and she perched on the edge of her desk for support. She dared not provoke him to use the pistol until she formed some plan of escape or a ruse to distract him long enough to seize her own pistol in the top drawer.
    While he studied her, he bit into one of the apples from the bowl and took another swig from the bottle. Wayward thoughts passed through her mind that those lips would be intoxicating now, flavored with mingled fruit and brandy.
    Perdition! How addled was she? She’d never suspected she could be so susceptible to a handsome face.
    “You are blushing, Rose. What are you thinking?”
    She cleared her throat and glanced away. Grasping at the first decent thought that came to her mind, she said, “I’m wondering why you are a traitor, sir.”
    The spy’s smiled faded, and his dark eyes narrowed. “What is treason, Rose? Would that not depend upon which side of the conflict you are standing?”
    “If I am wrong, please tell me how I’ve erred.”
    “Is it treason to bring about change?”
    “Yes, if it is at the expense of your king and country.”
    “Nay, Rose. If it were, we’d still be living in mud huts, worshipping trees and rivers. Is it treason to act upon one’s conscience or to seek the betterment of yourself and your fellow man? To quote one of my countrymen, ‘ If this be treason, then make the most of it. ’”
    She knew little of the issues that had sparked the conflict, only that it had made her efforts to survive more difficult—dodging the constant coastal patrols, coping with delays when Captain Reynard hadn’t been able to get through the lines. Paying higher taxes to cover the war expense. How often had she cursed the war for the inconvenience without once stopping to think what was at stake for others?
    But the fire of conviction burned in this man’s dark eyes. He was a zealot—not a man paid for his loyalty and treasons. His passion was so obvious that she knew argument was a waste of time—the same as when Bridey got one of her fanciful notions about the fairies or leprechauns.
    He took another swig from the bottle. “If you examine history, Rose, you will find that ‘traitor’ is nothing more than a word used to describe the losers of a particular struggle. Were the lords who forced King John to sign the Magna Carta named as traitors? Nay. Because they prevailed. Those who prevail—whether kings or insurgents—are named patriots, and those who lose the struggle—whether