Page 56 of Her Tempting Traitor
Cassian sighed and gently extricated his hand from hers to grip his reins once more. “I cannae, lass.” He sounded sad—no,mournful.
“Because you were ordered to say nothing?” she pressed, unwilling to let it sit, unrestrained curiosity bubbling within her. When he stared straight ahead, not answering, she frowned in thought. “But who would be able to do that? Who could order you to silence and expect you to follow that order, so far as to keep the truth of yourmission a secret from your superiors in the Secret Service?”
She glanced at him, but Cassian’s face might as well be carved from granite, so little hint did it give her.
Perhaps that itself is a hint.
Still watching him, Gabby carefully picked the argument through till the logical conclusion. “You must have orders to remain mute about your mission, from someone you fear or respect more than your handlers. Who? Someone at the top of the Secret Service?”
No, then the Service would still know the truth of the matter. She and Hunter would never have been sent here?—
She gasped as she understood.
“Someone higher up than the top of the Secret Service. Someone who answers directly to the Crown?”
Was it her imagination, or did he grimace slightly at that?
“Someone…” she whispered. “Did the order come directly from the Crown?”
With a muttered curse, Cassian kicked his horse into a trot, leaving her staring after him, mouth open in shock.
Shock, and hope.
Fishing seemed like a fine distraction.
Or talking about fishing, at least.
Or rather, listening to Gus blather on about fishing andoccasionally grunting in agreement when he hadn’t made a noise in a while.
Because Cassian couldn’t focus on much besides the fact thatGabbyhad figured it out.
Well, he’d known she was brilliant, almost from their first conversation.
But now?
Had she guessed by his response that she’d been right? Had she guessed what he’d been hiding?
And what would happen when she decided to push the issue?
Because Gabby Butcombe was far too intelligent to let it slide.
“Perhaps I could pick apart a seam in my trousers,” Gus was musing. “Do you think that would work? I could use the thread to string a line.”
Since he was looking at his father when he asked this, Cassian supposed his son expected an answer. “I think that would put yer trousers at risk of falling apart, lad. And the thread is no’ strong enough to catch a trout.”
“Perhaps if it’s asmalltrout?” Gus stood on the sand bank of the river, boots absent, hands on his hips as he surveyed the river. “I cannae believe we left for our excursion without a line for fishing. Does Gabby have one in her pocket?” Before Cassian could answer, his son had turned and bellowed, “Gabby! Did you bring a fishing line?”
Dreading the coming encounter, Cassian turned to see Gabby swinging herself from her saddle, her horse waitingpatiently beside the other two. Starting guiltily, Cassian realized he should have gone over to help her down.
And what? Fall on yer arse when ye make it happen?
It had been difficult enough to climb down the bank and struggle across the sand with only one steady foot; getting back in time to help her would’ve required a miracle. In truth, he was starting to wonder how he would get back up there at all.
Not for the first time—or even the fifty-seventh—Cassian cursed the stroke of misfortune which had resulted in him being so fooking helpless.
Avers, Simonsen, and Rudinsky would happily switch places with ye, were they no’ dead and buried in Ireland under assumed names.
He sighed. One more thing he had to fix.
