Bewitching: His Secret Agenda Page 5

  An old man with a cane shook hands with Preston Fowler. Hannah shifted in her chair, her interest piqued. She had seen him somewhere before.

  Salt, she thought, for no apparent reason.

  Lunch at the private club on Beacon Street.

  Her heartbeat quickened, her fingers stiffened on her wineglass, and she said to herself, “The old man with—”

  But she didn’t finish.

  Across the room, the younger Jonathan Winthrop Harling’s black eyes nailed her to her seat.

  “Oh, no,” Hannah whispered.

  Her first impulse was to tear her eyes away and pretend she hadn’t seen him, but she resisted just in time and met his gaze head-on. She even smiled. She made everything about her say he didn’t intimidate her. She could take on him—a Harling—and win.

  If ever a pair of eyes could burn holes in someone, it would be the two fixed on her. Hannah felt an unwelcome, unbidden, primitive heat boiling up inside her. There was something elemental at stake here, she thought, something that had nothing to do with Harlings or Marshes or three-hundred-year-old grudges.

  She raised her wineglass in a mock greeting, then took a slow, deliberate sip.

  He was past Preston Fowler in a flash, threading his way through the crowd, aiming straight for her. His steps were long and determined, as if he’d just caught someone picking his pocket.

  Then he was upon her.

  The man, Hannah thought, strangely calm, was breathtaking. His dark suit was understated, sophisticated, highlighting the blackness of his hair and eyes, making him look all the richer and more powerful. To be sure, he was a descendant of robber barons and rogues, but also of an infamous seventeenth-century judge who’d hanged one of her own ancestors.

  “I like the daffodils,” he said in a low, dark voice.

  “Do you?” She fingered the two she’d tucked into her hair; it was an un-Brahmin-like touch that went with her cream-colored, twenties tea dress. “I thought they were fun.”

  “They didn’t go with your Newbury Street dress?”

  So, he knew already. She licked her lips. “Not really, no.”

  “You’re a thief,” he said simply, “and a con woman.”

  She tilted her head to a deliberately cocky angle. “You know so much about me, do you?”

  His eyes darkened, if that was possible. “I should, shouldn’t I? We’re supposed to be married.”

  Her mouth went dry. “I never said...”

  “You didn’t have to, did you? People assumed.” He moved closer, so that she could see the soft black leather of his belt. “I wonder why.”

  The old man with the cane stumbled up to them, saving Hannah from having to produce a credible response when she could still barely speak. “So, you’re our Cincinnati Harling,” he said.

  She managed a smile. “Word travels fast.”

  “This is my uncle,” his nephew said, his tone daring her to persist. “Jonathan Harling.”

  She put out a hand to the old man. “I’m Hannah. It’s a pleasure.”

  “Delighted to meet you. Welcome to Boston.” He surprised her by placing a dry kiss upon her cheek, his eyes—Harling blue—gleaming with interest, missing nothing. He turned to his nephew. “You two have met?”

  “Not formally,” Hannah replied.

  “No?” The old man clapped a hand on the younger Harling’s shoulder. “This is my nephew, Win. J. Winthrop Harling.”

  So, it was true. There were two Jonathan Winthrop Harlings in Boston. Oh, what a mistake she’d made.

  “It’s a pleasure,” she said, refusing to let the situation get the better of her.

  But Win Harling murmured, “The pleasure’s mine,” and bent forward, kissing her low on the cheek. To all appearances, no doubt, it was a perfunctory kiss, not unlike his uncle’s. Hannah, however, felt the warm brush of his tongue on the corner of her mouth, his hard grip as he took her hand. And she felt her own response; it was impossible to ignore. Her mind and body united in a searing rebellion, imagining, feeling, that warm brushing, not discreetly, against the corner of her mouth, but openly, hotly, against her tongue, against other parts of her body.

  “If Priscilla Marsh was anything like you, Hannah Marsh,” Win Harling said in a rough, low voice, “I can see what drove Cotton Harling to sign her hanging order.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE WOMAN WAS QUICK. Win would give her that much. She gave him a haughty look and threw back her shoulders regally, or as regally as anyone could manage in a silk tea dress from the twenties. The daffodils in her hair didn’t help matters. But she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself.

  She thrust her chin at him. He could still see the flush of pink, high on her cheeks, from his kiss. Obviously it had as powerful an effect on her as it had on him. “Why did you call me Hannah—who?”

  He decided to indulge her. “Marsh.”

  “And Priscilla—it was Priscilla, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “This Priscilla Marsh. Who is she?”

  “Your great-great-great-great—oh, I don’t know, I’d give it five greats—grandmother. She was hanged by a Harling three hundred years ago.”

  “I see,” she said, apparently trying her damnedest to sound confused. Win knew she wasn’t confused at all.

  “Her statue is on the State House lawn.”

  “Oh!” Hannah smiled suddenly, as if finally getting it. “You mean the witch.”

  Look who was calling who a witch, Win thought, but kept his mouth shut. He was already out several thousand dollars, thanks to Priscilla’s great-whatever and was beginning to feel the bewitching effects of her eyes, her luscious, pink mouth.

  “I’ve read about her,” Hannah said.

  “Every real Harling knows about Priscilla Marsh and Judge Cotton Harling.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You’re not a real Harling. You’re a Marsh.”

  She sighed. “Well, I’m not going to argue with you. Shouldn’t you and your uncle be finding your seats?”

  Uncle Jonathan had busied himself tracking down a couple of drinks. Win sat down in the empty chair next to Hannah Marsh. “Preston Fowler thought the Harlings should sit together.”

  “How nice,” she said, clearly not meaning it. She pursed her lips, trying to buy time, Win suspected, to think of a way to wriggle out of the tight spot she’d squeezed herself into. “If you’re so certain of who I am, why haven’t you told anyone?”

  “You’re a smart woman. Figure that one out for yourself.”

  “With a Harling, it usually boils down to reputation.”

  Win indicated his uncle, who was making his way through the crowd, carrying two drinks. “If it weren’t for him, I’d stand right up on this table and expose you to everyone here for the lying thief you are. But Uncle Jonathan...” He narrowed his eyes on her and saw the spots of pink in her cheeks deepen under his penetrating gaze. “He deserves better.”

  “I can explain, you know. Or won’t you give me the chance?”

  “What mitigating circumstances might there be for you to charge an expensive dress to my account?”

  Her lips parted slightly, her eyes shone. She dragged her lower lip under her top teeth, a habit, Win guessed, when she was caught red-handed. “You asked for it,” she challenged him. “There isn’t a court in the country that would convict me—unless a Harling was the presiding judge.”

  “You have to be a Marsh. Only a Marsh would hold someone responsible for what one of their ancestors did three hundred years ago.”

  She shrugged, neither accepting nor denying his accusation.

  Uncle Jonathan arrived with the drinks. “Here you go, Winthrop. Did I miss any
excitement?”

  “No, not at all.” His eyes didn’t leave Hannah. “We were just discussing genealogy.”

  “Boring stuff.” Uncle Jonathan sniffed. “Let the dead bury the dead, I say.”

  Since when? No one was more adamant on the subject of the Marshes’ long-standing grudge against the Harlings than Win’s uncle. Win glanced at him but said nothing.

  “Well, Miss Harling,” his elderly uncle said, “how do you like our fair city so far?”

  She graced him with one of her beguiling smiles. Her eyes skimmed over Win, as if he were a cockroach she was pretending she hadn’t noticed. “Please,” she said, “just call me Hannah.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Win scowled at his uncle; he knew the woman was a liar and very likely a Marsh, yet he was still trying to charm her. She might look innocent, and she certainly was attractive, but Win wasn’t fooled. She’d already cost him too much time and money.

  Hannah gestured toward the glittering view of Boston Harbor. “Boston’s a lovely city. I’m glad I can appreciate other places without wanting to give up my own life. I know people too afraid to appreciate somewhere else, because they believe it might make them think less of where they live, and others who can only appreciate places they don’t live.”

  Uncle Jonathan stared at Hannah for a few seconds, blinked, sipped his drink and looked at Win, who from years of experience with his uncle already knew what was coming. “What did she say?”

  “She likes Boston but doesn’t want to live here,” he translated, turning to Hannah. “Uncle Jonathan’s a bit hard of hearing.”

  “I’m not. I just didn’t understand what in hell she was saying.”

  Win wondered if he’d be as blunt in his eighties or have as tolerant a nephew. What Hannah was doing, he knew, was saying whatever popped into her head to keep the conversation going before one of the real Harlings at the table decided to call her bluff in public.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized quickly, “I’ve had a long day.”

  “You’re not going to plead a stomachache and make a fast exit, are you?” Win challenged her with an amused grin.

  Her luminous eyes fastened on him, any hint of embarrassment gone from her cheeks. There was only anger. The zest for a good fight. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Just wondering how hot it will have to get before you bow out.”

  “I don’t care what you think. I know who I am.”

  “And who is that?”

  She gave him a small, cool, mysterious smile. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  Before Win could respond, Preston Fowler came up between them and clapped a hand upon each of their shoulders. “You found each other all right, I see. Glad you could make it. People are delighted to have the Harling family active in the New England Athenaeum again. Hannah, have you talked to your cousin and uncle about your family history? Jonathan here is quite an authority. He might have family papers pertinent to your research that aren’t part of our collection.”

  He spotted another couple entering late and made his apologies, quickly crossing the restaurant.

  Uncle Jonathan looked at Hannah. “Didn’t know I had a niece in Cincinnati.”

  Win watched her smooth throat as she swallowed. She said, “I sort of exaggerated our relationship, so I could use the library for my research.”

  “Sort of?” Win asked wryly.

  She scowled at him. “Believe what you want to believe.”

  “I will.”

  “What kind of research?” Uncle Jonathan asked.

  “Oh, I’m just looking into my roots.”

  “Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  Uncle Jonathan sniffed. He pulled at Win’s sleeve and whispered, “She’s a Marsh, all right. I know just what she’s after.”

  Hannah was frowning, obviously certain Jonathan Harling wasn’t saying anything positive. Win, seated between them, turned to his uncle. “What’s that?”

  “The Harling Collection.”

  Win had never heard of it.

  “I’ll explain later,” Uncle Jonathan told him, just as Hannah Marsh saw her opening and jumped to her feet.

  Win grabbed her by the wrist with lightning speed. “Don’t leave,” he urged amiably. “You paid for dinner with your own money.”

  She licked her lips guiltily.

  Win gritted his teeth.

  “I started to pay with my own money,” she explained, “but then I...well, one of the staff asked me if they should just send the bill along to you, and I said sure, why not?”

  He didn’t release her wrist. He didn’t know how she managed to look so damned innocent. So justified.

  “I also put you down for a five-hundred-dollar donation,” she added.

  “Sit.”

  “You won’t make a scene. I know you won’t.”

  “Sit down, now.”

  She batted her eyelids at him, deliberately, cockily. “Shall I beg, too?”

  “It could come to that.”

  He spoke in a low, husky voice, and it was apparently enough to drop Hannah Marsh back into her chair. The spots of pink reappeared in her cheeks. Her breathing grew rapid, light, shallow. She drew her lower lip once more under her top teeth.

  “I’m going to find out what you’re after,” Win said. “And if I have to, I’ll stop you.”

  She gave him a scathing look. “Spoken like a true Harling.”

  It wasn’t a compliment.

  * * *

  HANNAH GOT OUT her checkbook the moment she returned to her Beacon Hill apartment and wrote out a check to J. Winthrop Harling for every nickel she owed him.

  When she had refused their offer of a ride home, Win Harling and his uncle had insisted on getting her a cab. She was quite sure they’d heard her give her address and wished, belatedly, she’d lied. But she was getting tired of lying.

  She was not a liar. She was not a thief.

  She had merely adopted an unwise strategy, that was all. Pretending to be a Harling had been a tactic. An expedient. She wasn’t out to get the Harlings. She just wanted to write the definitive biography of Priscilla Marsh. She, Hannah Marsh, had always played by the rules. She didn’t look for trouble.

  But she’d found it in spades, hadn’t she?

  Her check made out, her bank account drawn down to next to nothing, she called Cousin Thackeray in southern Maine. She was still wearing her twenties tea dress.

  Thackeray answered on the first ring.

  “I’m in trouble,” she began, then told him everything.

  Her cousin didn’t hesitate to offer his advice when she finished. “Come home.”

  It was tempting. She could picture him in his frayed easy chair, with rocky, beautiful Marsh Point stretched before him. From her own cottage nearby, she could see the rocky shoreline, tall evergreens, wild blueberry bushes, loons and cormorants and seals hunting for food. Even now she could conjure up the smell of the fog, taste the salt in it. Marsh Point was the closest thing she had ever had to a real, permanent home. She would go back. There was no question of that.

  But not yet.

  “I can’t,” she said before she could change her mind. “I have a job to do and I’m going to do it. I won’t be driven from Boston by anyone.”

  “Driven?” There was a sharpness, a sudden protectiveness, in Thackeray’s voice that made her feel at once wanted and needed, a part of the old man’s life. He was family. “Have the Harlings threatened you?”

  “Not in so many—well, yeah, in so many words. But don’t worry. I can handle myself.”

  “Shall I drive down?”

  Just what she needed. An eighty-year-old man who hated cities, particularly hated Boston, and real
ly and truly hated the Harlings. He would, at the very least, get in the way. And she doubted he could do anything to get her out of hot water with Win Harling.

  “No, I’ll be fine.”

  He hissed in disgust. “You’re not still after that Harling Collection, are you?”

  She sighed. “I’d like to know at least if it exists.”

  “Can’t you take my word for it that it doesn’t?”

  “Cousin Thackeray...”

  “Come home, Hannah. You’ve done enough research on Priscilla. Just pack up and come home.”

  Although he was over a hundred miles away, and couldn’t see her, Hannah shook her head. “You yourself have said that for the past three hundred years the Harlings have been tough on Marshes who don’t kowtow to their power and money. Well, I won’t. I’ll leave Boston when I’m ready to leave Boston and not a minute sooner.”

  Cousin Thackeray muttered something about her stubborn nature and hung up.

  Hannah was too wired to sleep. Work, she knew, was always the best antidote for a distracted mind. But when she sat at her laptop computer, she thought not of Priscilla Marsh and Cotton Harling, but of J. Winthrop Harling. His searing black eyes. His strong thighs. His sexy, challenging smirk.

  Such thinking was unprofessional and unproductive.

  Definitely not scholarly.

  And as for objectivity... How could she be objective about a man who made her throat go tight and dry, even when she just looked at him? Win Harling could have passed for a rebel who’d helped rout the British, dumped tea into Boston Harbor, tarred and feathered Tories. He was tough and sexy and didn’t fit her image of a Harling at all.

  Clearly she needed to restore her balance and perspective. But how?

  “Give the bastard his money,” she muttered, “and hope it makes him happy.”

  * * *

  “IT’S A SHAME,” Uncle Jonathan said, having agreed to meet his nephew for Sunday morning breakfast, “that an attractive woman like that—bright, gutsy, clever—turns out to be a Marsh.”

  Win blew on his piping-hot coffee, then took a sip. The café at the bottom of Beacon Hill wasn’t crowded, but he had still chosen a table at the back, in case Ms. Hannah, apparently also a Beacon Hill resident, blundered in. He needed to concentrate; he’d found he couldn’t when she was near.