glass drop to the floor. He crooked a finger. "If a woman comes to a man's room she only has one thing on her mind."
"Tidying up, most likely," Harriet answered. "Scrubbing the floors, airing the linens."
"That wasn't what I meant and you know it."
"But some bait doesn't bear rising to, does it, Martin—my lord?" Harriet forced her thoughts back to her objective, and kept her gaze away from the hard muscles of Martin's chest. "May I leave off groveling for a while and discuss business?"
"We were discussing business. I've always paid you for your services."
The contempt in his voice brought her angry gaze to his. "I never took any of your money, my lord. Not a penny, or a pound, and I gave Patricia the finest education a girl is likely to receive in this unenlightened age. Furthermore—" Harriet bit her tongue. Justifications were not necessary; she had served her country.
"Furthermore, what?"
"Nothing." She'd risen to her feet during her tirade. Harriet shook her head, shifting the thick tendrils of hair framing her face. How the man could make her lose control so easily after all these years, she did not understand. Perhaps it had something to do with bare chests and beds, but she liked to think that she was not so easily susceptible to his flagrantly displayed charms. It had been a bad day; she was tired and rattled. That was all.
She stiffened her spine, took her seat once more, straightened her skirts, and asked, "Where was I?"
Mention of his daughter seemed to have taken some of the lecherous pleasure at taunting her out of him. "You were about to attempt to talk me into something." He glared at her through narrowed eyes. "You're going to try to make me believe I should help you with some sort of undercover assignment, is my guess."
"For a man who has just met me, you know me too bloody well."
"Don't swear. It isn't ladylike." He smirked. "Oh, right. You're not a lady."
She hated that they so easily descended into bickering. If Patricia had behaved this way, Harriet would have put her down for a nap. She supposed that after such a trying day she and Martin both needed rest, but she was so keyed up she didn't know how that was possible. Perhaps she should ask to join him in a drink—which would, of course, be no more ladylike than swearing. Men got to have all the fun; women who joined them got called very ugly names.
"Very well," he finally agreed. "What do you want?"
"To go to a party."
Martin sat up so fast his head swam, and only an act of sheer will kept him from hurtling face first onto the braided rug on the floor. It took a moment for his eyes to come back into focus, and when they did he saw Harriet MacLeod gazing at him with a look of mild concern, and her usual calm demeanor.
"A party?" he demanded of this odd mixture of complete stranger and longtime acquaintance. "What are you talking about? What sort of party?"
"Let me explain."
Her hands were clenched so tightly together in her lap that her knuckles were white. Nerves? He saw the strain around her lips and eyes. She was a consummate actress, the little traitor, but he doubted these signs of strain were part of an act. He took great pleasure in seeing her perturbed.
"This should be quite an explanation," he observed. "You hate having to come to me for help, don't you? Of course." He rubbed his jaw. "You wouldn't be willing to put yourself in my debt."
"Even drunk, you're too bloody perceptive."
"I'll take that as a compliment, and stop swearing. Tell me."
She took a deep breath, and seemed totally unaware of the delightful way her breasts shifted beneath the starched material of her white blouse. Martin imagined them uncovered while she talked.
"It is a complicated story, and I cannot tell you all of it. To those uninvolved in the game, the details always sound quite preposterous anyway."
He understood what she meant by the game, of course. In his own diplomatic capacity he was very much a player in the rivalry between the British
"Tidying up, most likely," Harriet answered. "Scrubbing the floors, airing the linens."
"That wasn't what I meant and you know it."
"But some bait doesn't bear rising to, does it, Martin—my lord?" Harriet forced her thoughts back to her objective, and kept her gaze away from the hard muscles of Martin's chest. "May I leave off groveling for a while and discuss business?"
"We were discussing business. I've always paid you for your services."
The contempt in his voice brought her angry gaze to his. "I never took any of your money, my lord. Not a penny, or a pound, and I gave Patricia the finest education a girl is likely to receive in this unenlightened age. Furthermore—" Harriet bit her tongue. Justifications were not necessary; she had served her country.
"Furthermore, what?"
"Nothing." She'd risen to her feet during her tirade. Harriet shook her head, shifting the thick tendrils of hair framing her face. How the man could make her lose control so easily after all these years, she did not understand. Perhaps it had something to do with bare chests and beds, but she liked to think that she was not so easily susceptible to his flagrantly displayed charms. It had been a bad day; she was tired and rattled. That was all.
She stiffened her spine, took her seat once more, straightened her skirts, and asked, "Where was I?"
Mention of his daughter seemed to have taken some of the lecherous pleasure at taunting her out of him. "You were about to attempt to talk me into something." He glared at her through narrowed eyes. "You're going to try to make me believe I should help you with some sort of undercover assignment, is my guess."
"For a man who has just met me, you know me too bloody well."
"Don't swear. It isn't ladylike." He smirked. "Oh, right. You're not a lady."
She hated that they so easily descended into bickering. If Patricia had behaved this way, Harriet would have put her down for a nap. She supposed that after such a trying day she and Martin both needed rest, but she was so keyed up she didn't know how that was possible. Perhaps she should ask to join him in a drink—which would, of course, be no more ladylike than swearing. Men got to have all the fun; women who joined them got called very ugly names.
"Very well," he finally agreed. "What do you want?"
"To go to a party."
Martin sat up so fast his head swam, and only an act of sheer will kept him from hurtling face first onto the braided rug on the floor. It took a moment for his eyes to come back into focus, and when they did he saw Harriet MacLeod gazing at him with a look of mild concern, and her usual calm demeanor.
"A party?" he demanded of this odd mixture of complete stranger and longtime acquaintance. "What are you talking about? What sort of party?"
"Let me explain."
Her hands were clenched so tightly together in her lap that her knuckles were white. Nerves? He saw the strain around her lips and eyes. She was a consummate actress, the little traitor, but he doubted these signs of strain were part of an act. He took great pleasure in seeing her perturbed.
"This should be quite an explanation," he observed. "You hate having to come to me for help, don't you? Of course." He rubbed his jaw. "You wouldn't be willing to put yourself in my debt."
"Even drunk, you're too bloody perceptive."
"I'll take that as a compliment, and stop swearing. Tell me."
She took a deep breath, and seemed totally unaware of the delightful way her breasts shifted beneath the starched material of her white blouse. Martin imagined them uncovered while she talked.
"It is a complicated story, and I cannot tell you all of it. To those uninvolved in the game, the details always sound quite preposterous anyway."
He understood what she meant by the game, of course. In his own diplomatic capacity he was very much a player in the rivalry between the British
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