Too Wicked to Marry by Susan Sizemore Page A

Empire and czarist Russia. Russia schemed to expand its borders, England countered with schemes to preserve the current balance of world power. The Great Game, as some romantic in the foreign office had dubbed the power struggle decades ago, was played on many levels, some official, many covert. Martin fought the war with words, negotiating delicate treaties between the Empire and governments
that were courted with equal fervor by the Russians. His was the clean, honest way: a game played by fair rules.
    His lip curled back in disgust at the game she played. "Spies." He might as well have spit as said the word. "I'm getting used to your preposterous tales, Miss MacLeod. Do go on."
    "The short version of the story is that a courier carrying vital information needs to be met at a certain time and place. The person who was supposed to meet that courier has been delayed. The meeting is to take place at a very private house party on a secluded estate. When I heard the location, I recalled that you had turned down an invitation to that specific party to accept the Hazlemoors' invitation instead. You could still go to that party—and take me with you." She smiled. "You see, when one ignores all the secretive trappings, it is really a very simple plan. I need a way in, you have an invitation. I meet the courier, I leave, no one is any the wiser."
    Somehow he was certain it could not be as simple as she said. He must have received four or five invitations for the same time that he chose to spend in the Hazlemoors' wholesome company.
    He smiled bitterly. If he hadn't gone to Freddie Hazlemoor's and been bombarded by eligible maidens, his thoughts would not have turned to marriage. Then he would not have proposed to his governess and he would not now be sitting in a room in Scotland with the treacherous woman who'd torn his life and soul to shreds.
    He crossed his arms. "Good God, how I wish I'd gone off to Sir Anthony Strake's for a fortnight of good old-fashioned debauchery."
    "You still can," Harriet said. "But you have to take me with you."
    Martin stood even more quickly than he'd sat up, and it was even more of a mistake. This time when the room spun, it kept right on spinning. He could barely manage to croak out, "Take
you
to that den of iniquity!"
    The last thing he heard was Harriet very calmly saying, "I could go as your mistress."
----
Chapter 10

     
    Martin woke with an aching head and to the sound of rain blowing hard and heavy against the windowpane. He also woke with two thoughts. One was never to touch the local whisky again. The second was that it had been quite a dream. An image of Harriet with her hair down and her clothing in disarray swam through his head. To combat the headache he let his imagination take the notion further, baring her shoulders and calling up an image of ripe, round breasts. He had not let himself think of her as a woman for so very long, but now every thought of her was of carnal revenge. She was traitorous; false—how right it would be to make her pay for her crimes against him in his bed. He groaned at the notion, half in pain, half in regret for letting the opportunity to use her as she deserved slip away so easily the night before.
    "That was a dream," he reminded himself. The sound of his own voice, though it was only a whisper, sent a fresh jolt of pain through him. Getting up and dressed was not something he particularly wanted to do, but the sooner he was away from the Isle of Skye and temptation named Harriet, the better. It was all he could do to shave and change out of the clothes he'd slept in before stumbling downstairs, where he was immediately confronted by the landlord.
    "G'day, m'lord," the old man said before Martin could utter a word. "Yon carriage is waiting to take you to Mallaig." He gestured toward the door, and had it open a moment later.
    Wind drove in a heavy spray of cold rain that hit Martin squarely in the face. Martin didn't remember requesting a carriage, but the