Dangerous to Hold by Elizabeth Thornton Read Free Book Online Page A

incensed by the laugh lines that creased his cheeks. It was utterly futile to pit her wits against this reckless devil. One way or another, he would discover what he wished to know.
    She felt in one coat pocket, then the other, and produced two grubby handkerchiefs, a piece of ribbon, some loose change, and last, but not least, what she was looking for.
    “This is my card,” she said. “Now we have nothing more to say to each other.”
    “Miss C. Courtnay,” Marcus read, “of Heath House, Hampstead. Now why didn’t you save us both a lot of trouble and give me this information when I asked you politely?”
    Back straight, she marched to the desk, shoved herbonnet on her head, picked up her muff, then her pistol, and turned to go.
    “You forgot this,” he said, holding out her reticule. “There is nothing in it. How strange! Most ladies I know keep their possessions in their reticules and not in their pockets.”
    She snatched it from him without breaking stride. He stepped in front of her and politely held the door open. “So it’s true what they say about red hair,” he said, and chuckled. “You really do have a temper.”
    This taunt was treated with all the disdain it deserved. Head held high, she strode along the corridor. Let him call out the guards and have her arrested for attempted murder. She could argue a case against him. And if he did start digging into her past, he would never find anything to connect her to Catalina.
    He coughed at her back, but she ignored it. “I believe,” he said diffidently, “you are going the wrong way.”
    Her steps slowed.
    “The way out is this way.”
    She breathed in slowly, did an about-turn, and sailed right by him. He said no more till they were on the pavement on Whitehall.
    “How do you propose to get home to Hampstead?”
    As though he were invisible, she raised her hand and flagged a hackney. Marcus held the door for her. “The King’s Theater,” she told the hackney driver.
    “Don’t tell me you’re an actress,” said Marcus, following her inside.
    She stared pointedly out the coach window, determined not to be drawn into a conversation. Her participation was unnecessary. He embarked on a flow of chitchat that required no response from her, and which lasted until the hackney pulled up opposite the theater.
    He allowed her to pay off the driver and that disappointed her. She would have relished the chance to throw his money back in his face, and his look told her he knew it.
    McNally turned at their approach. She allowedMarcus to help her into the buggy, but the ice in her expression did not thaw. “Home, McNally,” she said.
    “One moment,” Marcus advanced toward McNally. “Miss Courtnay has had a slight accident. No, nothing serious. See that she puts a cold compress on her chin when you get her home. Oh, and if she can be persuaded, get some brandy into her.”
    “Yes, sir,” said McNally. He knew an officer and a gentleman when he saw one, even if he wasn’t in uniform, and this one had a familiar look. He glanced over his shoulder at Catherine, but was met with a stony stare.
    To Catherine, Marcus said, “I shall call on you within a day or so to see how you go on.”
    Her features might have been carved from stone. “Drive on, McNally.”
    McNally looked at Marcus.
    Marcus took a step back, surveyed Catherine’s frozen profile for a long, considering moment, then he grinned. “Drive on, McNally,” he called out.
    Only then did McNally click his tongue and bring the reins down on the pony’s rump.
    Marcus watched the buggy make a turn and traverse the length of the Haymarket, until it turned the corner into Piccadilly. Then his smile faded and a calculating look came into his eyes. He was almost certain that she wasn’t Catalina, but there was still a small niggling doubt. For all their differences, the resemblance was uncanny, and he had good reason to believe that his erstwhile wife was in England. When he’d seen Miss Courtnay,