Compromised Miss Read Online Free PDF

reasonable explanation?—but realising that he could not find the right words to say. Those that rushed into his mind, he must not say! Something deep and unpleasant in his gut prompted him towards fearand suspicion. Who to trust? It was becoming more and more difficult to know who to trust as time passed.
    ‘You were delirious when we brought you back here. From what you said you were looking for someone. A woman, I think…’
    He shook his head, winced, groaned.
    ‘I see you’re reluctant to tell me the truth, so I must draw my own conclusions.’ Even sterner, the pale eyes piercing, pinning him to the bed in icy contempt. The tone of voice was a condemnation in itself.
    ‘A matter of business, let us say.’ The best he could do.
    ‘A business that left you half-dead with a bullet in your arm, a crack on the head and your pockets empty?’ Heavy cynicism lay strangely on the young face that swam before him.
    ‘So it seems.’ From the mists, he suddenly recalled the barrels and casks in the boat, the bales. ‘Were you engaged in the Free Trade? Are you a smuggler?’
    The tone remained biting. ‘Yes. I am.’
    ‘You’re very young to be a smuggler,’ he commented, though why that should seem important to him he could not say.
    ‘But not too young to do it well. I am an excellent smuggler.’ The young man stood and advanced to the bed, leaned over to examine the wounds, fingers firm and searching, yet gentle enough, against his hair, his arm, but Lucius got the distinct impression that there was not much compassion in the solicitude, rather a hard practicality. ‘You’ll live.’ The blunt statement confirmed it. ‘The bullet went through your arm. A bang on the head—hence the headache. You were lucky. You’ve lost blood, but you’re strong enough. Another day and you’ll be on your feet again.’
    Except that Lucius felt as weak as a kitten, and found himself sliding into sleep, unable to pull back, unable to keep his eyelids from closing. Not that he wouldn’t be sorry to block out the disparaging stare of the self-confessed smuggler. ‘I’m sorry. My mind seems to disobey my demands. Sorry to be a trouble to you…’ He fretted at his unaccustomed weakness, sensing some urgency that he could not grasp, his fingers pulling at the sheet. ‘I must get up now. I’ll be missed if I don’t…’
    ‘You can’t.’
    ‘I can’t stay here…’
    ‘You must for a little while. Sleep now. You’ll be stronger when you wake.’
    And because he really had no choice, Lucius Hallaston did as the smuggler ordered.
    Harriette continued to sit beside him. Her reactions to this man confused her. He wouldn’t answer her questions and she did not think it was because he could not recall anything of the previous night. Some mystery surrounded him. No doubt he was a spy after all and she should condemn him for it, yet she had seen fear in his face—but perhaps that was just the fear of any man who was set upon, his life threatened by a pistol shot. And there had definitely been that deep anxiety, for a woman. He had not denied it, had he? She leaned back, arms crossed, scowling at the sleeping figure, unable to disentangle her emotions. Was he not hurt and in trouble, his wits still scattered? Did he not demand her compassion, her understanding?
    On the other hand, what did it matter that she knew not whether to damn him or care for him? What did it matter that he might sell his soul, or at least England’s security, for thirty pieces of silver? His treachery was entirely irrelevant because once he was recovered he would be on his way to whatever nefarious practice demanded his attention, and she would never see him again.
    Yet still, accepting that, Harriette allowed herself a little time of sheer self-indulgence, of self-deception, for that was surely what it was, and allowed her deepest instincts to surface again. His voice, deep and smooth as honey, was as pleasant on the ear as his features were to her