Bewitching: His Secret Agenda Page 7

  She scowled. “No, you don’t get it. You think I’m up to no good and I’m telling you I’m not. I was just doing my best under difficult circumstances.”

  “Of your own making. How do you explain the dress?”

  “That was personal,” she snapped. “I owed you for hunting me down like a dog.”

  His mouth twitched again, and this time she was sure he wanted to smile. At what? She wasn’t having any fun.

  She reached into her pocket and produced the check, by now wrinkled, she’d written on Saturday night, and thrust it at him. She could still return the dress, but she’d included its price in her check. “Here, take it. It’s reimbursement for the lunch, the dress, the dinner, the donation to the New England Athenaeum—everything.”

  “I don’t want your money, Hannah.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  His eyes darkened and she stopped breathing. Stupid question, Hannah. Stupid, stupid. His answer was obvious in the heat of his gaze, the tenseness of his body.

  What he wanted was her.

  Just as she wanted him.

  Their physical attraction was a fact, unpleasant, distracting, constant. And just as there was nothing they could do about their relationship to Cotton Harling and Priscilla Marsh, there was nothing they could do about the primitive longing that had erupted between them.

  Well, Hannah thought, there was something....

  But that was crazy. He was a Harling. He was the enemy. She couldn’t think about going to bed with him!

  Did he know that was what she was thinking? Could he even guess it?

  “Okay, okay, fine,” she said quickly, before he could respond. “Have it your way.”

  She spun around, preparing to leave. Wanting to leave. She would return to Marlborough Street, talk to Jonathan Harling about the Harling Collection, and bypass his know-it-all nephew altogether.

  She got almost to the door before Win said, “The Harling Collection has been missing for at least a hundred years. Uncle Jonathan insists a Marsh stole it, just like a Marsh stole our land in southern Maine. Marsh Point, you call it now.”

  Stole Marsh Point? Damn, Cousin Thackeray! He must have known that was what the Harlings thought.

  “Of all the—” Hannah whipped around, even more furious when she saw Win sitting calmly on the edge of his desk, watching her, waiting for her reaction. She pounded over to him, slinging her satchel. “That’s what you think? That we’ve had the damned collection all along? Then why in hell would I risk life and limb trying to get in to see you to talk you into giving me access to it?”

  “You tell me.”

  She groaned, itching to knock him off his high horse.

  “So, you no longer deny that you’re a Marsh,” he said, rising.

  It wasn’t a question, but she said, “I never did deny it. I just didn’t acknowledge it.”

  He touched her hair, wild from her mad dash across Boston, from the wind, from her anger. She fought the tingling sensation it caused. “A direct descendant of Priscilla Marsh?”

  “The last.”

  He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, letting his finger trace the outline of her jaw and creating a heat in her like none she’d known before. Then he dropped his hand to his side. “You’re not from Ohio.”

  “I’m not from anywhere. I live in Maine now.”

  “Marsh Point.”

  “We didn’t steal it.” Her reply was based more out of loyalty to her cousin than on any certain knowledge.

  “We have a case, you know. I’ve been looking into it. If we can prove the Marshes stole our deed, we can establish our right to the land.” He remained close to her. “Until you showed up, I never paid much attention to Harling family history.”

  Hannah thought of Cousin Thackeray, who had been born on Marsh Point and wanted to die there. It was his home. Had he tried to talk Hannah out of going to Boston out of fear that she would rekindle the Harlings’ claim to his slice of Maine?

  Now Win Harling was on the case.

  Thanks to her.

  She faced him squarely. “What do you want from me?”

  She saw the immediate spark of desire in his eyes and held her breath, wondering if he could see it mirrored in hers. But he didn’t touch her, didn’t act on the sexual tension hissing between them like a downed and very dangerous electrical wire. Neither did she.

  “All I want,” he said, “is the truth.”

  “I’ve told you everything I know.” Her voice was hoarse; she paused to clear her throat. She wondered if his uncle had been filling him with the same kind of nasty tales about the Marshes that Cousin Thackeray had told her about the Harlings. “I understand you have no reason to trust me, but I’m not here to reignite the Marsh-Harling hostility. I’m just doing my work.”

  “If I knew you better, maybe I’d find it easier to believe you.”

  She tried to ignore the sudden softness of his voice. The fox coaxing the chickens to open the henhouse door. “Does your uncle know about me?”

  “He suspects you’re a Marsh, but that’s all.”

  “He won’t approve of my writing Priscilla’s story, will he?”

  “I’m sure he’ll question your objectivity.”

  “Do you think he knows what happened to the Harling Collection, if it ever existed?”

  Win smiled. “If he does, he’d never tell a Marsh.”

  She hoisted her satchel onto her shoulder, preparing once more to leave. She’d see what Jonathan Harling knew and didn’t know, and what she could talk him into doing. “Truce?”

  “Cease-fire. I’ll talk to Uncle Jonathan this afternoon.” Win stared at her for a moment. “Dinner tonight?”

  It was more a challenge than an invitation. Hannah felt her throat tighten, but nodded. “Okay.”

  “You’re not staying at any hotel in Boston,” he said. She assumed he remembered the address she had given the cabdriver after the fund-raising dinner.

  “No, I borrowed a friend’s apartment on Pinckney Street, right around the corner from you.”

  His eyes held her. “So we are neighbors.”

  “I guess so,” she said cheerfully and fled, wondering what she had got herself into. Why hadn’t she listened to Cousin Thackeray to begin with and steered clear of Boston altogether?

  * * *

  “WIN HARLING KNOWS EVERYTHING,” Hannah told Cousin Thackeray from the kitchen phone. Her nerve endings were still on fire from her encounter with the wealthy Bostonian. She tried not to think of him simply as Win. That was too...personal.

  Cousin Thackeray sniffed. “I told you this would happen.”

  “So, you did.”

  “You coming home?”

  “Not yet. Thackeray, what do you know about a Harling claim to Marsh Point?”

  Silence.

  “Thackeray?”

  “They don’t have one.”

  “Not a legitimate one, I’m sure. But—”

  “But nothing’s ever settled with a Harling,” he grumbled, half under his breath. “Win Harling’s after my land?”

  “I don’t think so. He says he doesn’t know much about Harling family history, so all this stuff’s fresh for him. He could laugh it off, or he could decide to take up the Harling cause. I just want you to be prepared.” Not, she thought, that her dear cousin had paid her the same favor.

  Cousin Thackeray laughed without amusement. “I’m always prepared for a Harling.”

  Hannah wished she could say the same for herself.

  * * *

  HOURS AFTER HANNAH MARSH had left his office, Win was still trying to get her out of his mind. He walked home, hoping for distraction. The gusting wind, the traffic, the bustle of rush hour.

  Nothing worked.<
br />
  He made his way to Tremont Street off Boston Common, walking past the shaded grounds of Old Granary Burial Ground behind the First Congregational Church. Established in 1660, it was one of New England’s oldest cemeteries. Thin, fragile, rectangular headstones stood at odd angles. Paul Revere was buried here, John Hancock, Samuel Adams, Ben Franklin’s parents, the victims of the Boston Massacre.

  And the man who had condemned Priscilla Marsh to death, Judge Cotton Harling.

  He continued across Boston Common, welcoming its green grass and fluttering pigeons, its history. He crossed Charles Street and went through the Public Garden, where tulips and daffodils were in bloom. He didn’t stop until he was in Back Bay, on Marlborough Street, letting himself into his uncle’s brownstone with his key.

  The door to his uncle’s first-floor apartment was slightly ajar. Win creaked it halfway open. “Uncle Jonathan?”

  He tensed when no response came.

  Although Uncle Jonathan was not paranoid about city life, he was cautious and consistent about his personal security. He would never just step out for a quick walk and leave his door ajar, never mind unlocked. Had he been on his way out and stepped back inside because he’d forgotten something?

  “Uncle Jonathan,” Win called, raising his voice.

  Still no response.

  He went inside the apartment; its faded elegance made him feel as if he were taking a step back in time. Not wanting to startle his uncle, who might just be fine, Win shut the door hard and called him again as he headed from the small entry into the living room. Its bow windows looked onto Marlborough, and its Victorian style contrasted with the earlier Federal Period architecture of Beacon Hill.

  “Good God!”

  The place was a wreck.

  Sofa cushions, drawers, shelves, the antique secretary; everything had been pulled out, tossed, scattered and left.

  Win’s heart pounded. “Uncle Jonathan!”

  He leaped over books and magazines and papers and pounded down the short hall to his uncle’s two bedrooms and bath.

  Jonathan Harling was sitting on the edge of his four-poster bed, staring at the small fireplace. He looked unharmed, if gray-faced and stunned. He rubbed a hand through his thin hair and peered at his nephew. “I heard you.”

  Win squatted beside the old man. “Are you all right?”

  His blue eyes focused on Win, betraying not fear, but anger. “She could have asked.”

  “What?”

  “Your Hannah Marsh. She could have asked. I’d have told her no one’s seen hide nor hair of the Harling Collection since around 1892.”

  Win jumped to his feet, stifling a rush of anger. He wanted to go out and track down Hannah and wring the truth out of her beautiful, lying lips. But he resisted the temptation. He had his uncle to see to. “Come on, Uncle Jonathan. I’ll make you some tea and we’ll talk. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Oh, yes. I came in after the damage was done. Nearly had a damned heart attack on the spot. Wouldn’t that have delighted the Marshes no end?” He reached for his cane, which lay on the bed, and used it to pull himself upright. He appeared, indeed, remarkably steady. “They’ll never be satisfied until they’ve killed off one of us, the way they say we killed off Priscilla.”

  “Uncle...”

  He shook his cane at Win. “She’s a witch, I tell you!”

  “Are you saying Hannah trashed your apartment looking for the Harling Collection?”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  Win indulged his uncle’s crotchety mood, given the scare the old man had just had, not to mention the circumstantial evidence that appeared to point to her. “Did you see her?”

  “Nope. She’s too clever by far for that. But I called the neighbors upstairs. They saw her. I gave them a description. She’s easy to spot, you know.”

  Win knew.

  “They said she came by this morning while I was at the club.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head and pointed his cane again at Win. “This is between her and us Harlings.”

  Leaving it at that for the moment, Win helped his uncle, who kept grumbling he didn’t need any damned help, into the kitchen, which had been spared the upheaval of the other rooms. Win filled a kettle with water and put it on the old gas stove.

  Uncle Jonathan sat at his little gateleg table and heaved a long sigh. “And such a pretty woman to be such a scurrilous thief. I thought she was the one for you, Win, Marsh or no Marsh. Those eyes of hers...well, I should have known. She’s got nothing but larceny in her heart.”

  “I’m having dinner with her tonight.”

  “Good. You can fleece the truth out of her.”

  Win thought he already had. He pictured Hannah Marsh standing in his office, proud, indignant, sexy, a woman to be reckoned with, who wouldn’t project her own insecurities onto him. She hadn’t looked as if she’d just ransacked an old man’s apartment.

  But then, what did he know about the real Hannah Marsh? She had already proved herself capable of lying and scheming to get her way, no matter how honorable her cause or understandable her reasoning. If indeed they were honorable and understandable. He had only her word to go on.

  The kettle whistled, and Win made his uncle a pot of tea and even had a cup himself, though he was not a tea drinker.

  “We need to talk,” he said. “Then I’ll clean up the place.”

  “Don’t cancel with Miss Marsh on my account.”

  “Oh, no.” He regarded his uncle’s pale face with growing anger. What was worth terrifying an eighty-year-old man? “I’ll keep our date on your account.”

  Uncle Jonathan grinned feebly. “That’s the spirit.”

  * * *

  HANNAH SIPPED AT the glass of wine that Win had poured her and watched him whisk together raspberry vinegar and olive oil for the mixed green salad he’d thrown together. She hadn’t expected dinner would be at his house. “What?” she’d asked upon entering the historic Beacon Hill mansion. “No maids?”

  Win had smiled over his shoulder. “No furniture, either.”

  He wasn’t exaggerating by much. Although the place retained its regal lines and potential, it needed work. Win Harling clearly could afford to have it done. Why didn’t he?

  There was a lot, Hannah admitted, she didn’t know about the man. A lot mere prejudice couldn’t explain.

  “I haven’t been here that long—I wanted the house back in the family and snapped it up when I had the chance. I keep thinking I’d like to do the work myself, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

  He swirled the contents of the glass carafe, then added pinches of dried herbs from small unmarked containers. “How do you know what’s what?” Hannah asked.

  “Who says I do?”

  A seat-of-the-pants cook. “Dinner should be interesting.”

  “Always.”

  The kitchen was large and drafty, this morning’s dark clouds now pouring forth a cold, steady rain. Expecting a restaurant, Hannah had put on a simple dress and flats. Now she wished she’d brought a sweater.

  “You’re shivering,” Win observed.

  “Not really.”

  He pulled off his cardigan and tossed it to her. “Here, put this on.”

  “Won’t you get cold?”

  “Nope. Cooking always makes me hot.” He had his back to her, but Hannah didn’t need to see his expression to guess what he was thinking.

  The sweater was old but bulky, a thick, cotton knit still warm from his body. She slipped it on. He was wider through the torso than she was, and his arms were longer. She pushed up the sleeves, the fabric soft and well-worn, like a caress against her skin. She licked her lips, suddenly feeling self-conscious, even somewhat aroused. Wearin
g his sweater was too much like having him hold her. Dinner maybe hadn’t been a good idea, but she had to find out what he knew—what he intended to do—about Marsh Point. If anything. She’d stirred up this trouble; she’d see to it that it didn’t reach Cousin Thackeray.

  Win glanced back at her. “Better?”

  “Yes.”

  He did not, she observed, look the least bit chilly himself in his close-fitting jeans and dark purple, short-sleeved pullover. She would bet it wasn’t just the cooking that kept him warm, or even his all too apparent physical desire for her. There was also the fact that they were in his house, his city, on his turf. Easy for him to stay nice and toasty.

  “What did you do today?” he asked casually.

  “Not much. I spent most of the morning at the New England Athenaeum, met you, then headed up to the Boston Public Library. After that I went back to the apartment and entered my notes into my laptop.”

  Win got a small paper bag from the refrigerator and withdrew from it a mound of fresh linguine, which he promptly dropped into a pot of bubbling water. He scooped a cupful of the boiling water into a plain white pasta dish and swirled it around while the linguine cooked. “You didn’t happen to wander over to Marlborough Street, did you?”

  “Mmm...why would I?”

  “I don’t know.” He stopped what he was doing and regarded her, his expression hard, challenging. “Why would you?”

  Hannah licked her lips. “Am I being set up here?”

  “Just tell the truth, Hannah.”

  “All right. I found your uncle Jonathan’s address this morning in the rare book room. Before answering your summons, I took a walk over to Marlborough Street.”

  “Why?”

  “To talk to him about the Harling Collection. I thought he’d know more than you would, and that he might be more reasonable than you would.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No, he wasn’t in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “What do you mean, how do I know? I rang his doorbell and he didn’t answer. I assumed he wasn’t home.”

  “Then you didn’t go into his apartment?”

  “No.”

  “What about this afternoon? Did you go back to Marlborough Street?”