Her thoughts and emotions scrambled. In that moment, as long-suppressed parts of herself flexed back into uncertain life, it was as if Pieter died again—because another man was stirring her feminine interest. As she gazed at Harry, tears filled her eyes.
He froze, his expression suddenly as blank as the mask she’d hidden behind at the coffee-house. He stood abruptly. ‘We’ll leave at dawn,’ he said harshly.
‘Wh-what? Where are you going?’ Saskia managed to find her voice just as he reached the door. ‘You haven’t finished your supper.’
‘You hired me to protect you—not to sit watching me eat like a lamb supping with a lion.’
Saskia gaped at his retreating back. It took her a few moments to grasp his meaning. ‘I am not a lamb!’ she exclaimed indignantly. But it was too late. The door had already closed behind him.
She’d had tears in her eyes! She must have realised he was lusting after her like a rutting stag and the knowledge had frightened her. Harry slammed his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. He would have to control his unruly passions better in future. If she was a spy she must be prevented from causing harm to England. But even a spy should not be subjected to fear of abuse at a man’s hands. Never at his hands. More than two decades ago, filled with disgust and powerless fury, he had made that promise to himself. He would never physically mistreat a woman. But now he was back in England he must take care not to distress them in other ways.
Richard wouldn’t have made such a gauche error. He’d always been at ease in the company of others. Though Richard didn’t possess Harry’s physical toughness, he had a shrewd grasp of business that had helped him advance his career, tempered by a charm of manner that had won him many friends. Harry was confident his younger brother had never made a woman cry, even by mistake.
Harry forced his clenched fists to relax, reminding himself that Saskia had repeatedly lied to him. He must not lose sight of the fact that even if she wasn’t a Dutch agent, she was undoubtedly hatching some as yet undisclosed plan.
He didn’t like leaving her alone at the inn, but they’d left London so precipitously he had little choice if he wanted to get a message to Lord Swiftbourne. It was Harry’s good luck that the regular route from London to Portsmouth went through Kingston. Swiftbourne’s grandson and heir had married a lady who owned a house in Kingston. Harry had never met Jakob Balston, but he hoped Balston would be at home and that he’d either be able to take or send a message to Swiftbourne. He stopped to ask for directions. A few minutes later he arrived at the house and was relieved to discover his luck had held.
‘Harry Ward!’ Balston greeted him. ‘Your brother is a friend of mine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘And I you.’ Harry shook hands. He’d been aware of Balston’s existence for years, but knew Swiftbourne’s grandson had only arrived in England from Sweden the previous summer. Balston was a couple of inches taller than Harry’s six feet, broad and solidly muscled, with pale blond hair. Harry immediately thought of Saskia’s hair. He preferred the warm, reddish glow of Saskia’s blonde curls. His fingers still ached to touch them, whereas he felt no urge to touch Balston’s hair.
‘I apologise for calling so late,’ he said.
‘I’m glad to meet you at any time,’ Balston replied. ‘I’ve just returned from Sussex. My wife is still there, admiring the Kilverdales’ new daughter, but I had business to attend to here.’
‘The Duke is another of Swiftbourne’s grandsons,’ Harry remembered. He’d not met any of Swiftbourne’s family while he was under the Earl’s guardianship, partly because of the divisions caused by the Civil War, but mostly because he and Richard had left for Aleppo within weeks of becoming Swiftbourne’s wards.
Jakob smiled. ‘Since your father’s sister was married to Swiftbourne’s oldest son, you can claim cousinship with us,’ he said.
‘A very distant connection,’ said Harry.
‘But a connection nevertheless. So sit down and tell me how I may serve you.’
Harry briefly summarised his meeting with Swiftbourne and then the outcome of his interview with Saskia at the coffee-house. ‘She insisted on leaving London immediately, so I had no opportunity to take or send a message to Swiftbourne,’ he concluded.
‘Is she a spy?’
‘No.’ Harry paused to consider his immediate, instinctive denial. ‘I don’t believe she has told me the truth,’ he said, oddly reluctant to discuss Saskia with Balston. ‘But I have no doubt her fear is genuine.’
‘You have no idea what the lady is afraid of?’
‘No, but I will find out.’ Harry stood up, anxious to return to the Coach and Horses and Saskia. ‘I will be in your debt if you ensure Swiftbourne knows what has happened so far.’
‘I’ll go into London tomorrow. To be honest I’m glad of the errand.’ Balston smiled a little wryly. ‘I find I miss my wife when we are apart. Visiting Swiftbourne will fill the time until my own business is concluded and I can fetch her back from Sussex.’
Sunday morning, 16 June 1667
‘You are an arrogant, presumptuous fool! How dare you suggest I would let anyone eat me up without a bleat of protest—least of all you.’ Saskia kept her voice down, but she made no effort to hide her indignation.
‘Bleat of protest?’ Harry repeated. They were breakfasting together downstairs at the Coach and Horses. Or rather, Harry was making a good breakfast of cold turkey pie while Saskia nibbled on some bread and butter, most of which she fully intended to save for later. Just because she could get up with the birds didn’t mean she had to eat her first meal of the day with them.
They were the only customers in the room and Saskia glanced around to make sure none of the inn servants were close enough to overhear her. ‘I am not a little lamb,’ she stated unequivocally.
Harry had been munching his turkey pie in what Saskia considered to be a rather grumpy silence. She decided he must dislike getting up early as much as she did. At her announcement he looked up, good humour suddenly—and in Saskia’s view inappropriately—softening his expression.
‘Ah, I see. Are you claiming that you are a lioness disguised in lamb’s clothing?’ he enquired. ‘Or would you prefer a gentler comparison? A doe, perhaps? Graceful and fleet of foot—’
‘I am not any kind of animal,’ said Saskia. ‘In future, do not use such metaphors for me.’ She could foresee that when she finally told him their true destination was three times further than he currently anticipated, his comparisons might be considerably less flattering. ‘We are not living in Aesop’s fables.’
Harry grinned. ‘But how interesting it would be to discuss with a hawk what she sees as she soars in the sky. Or ask a whale what hides in the depth of the ocean.’
Saskia blinked at his unexpectedly poetic response. ‘I had not anticipated such whimsy from you, sir.’
‘Whimsy? If you are walking over barren, rocky ground, isn’t it natural to look up at the hawk and wonder what it would be like to fly so fast to your goal? They use doves to carry messages between Skanderoon and Aleppo. I would rather be a hawk than a dove.’
‘I…’ Saskia stopped. As a child she’d had such thoughts when she went down to the Cornish coast or walked on Dartmoor in neighbouring Devon, but it was a long time since she’d allowed anything but the most practical ambitions into her mind.
‘My husband could not walk,’ she said abruptly. ‘He designed for himself a chair with wheels. He even made some of the more intricate parts himself—his hands were still quick and strong. But he could only use it on a flat surface. Clambering over rocky ground was just as much an impossible dream to him as the hawk’s flight is to you.’
She