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The shadow of a bruise marred her pale cheek. He knew it had been a mistake, but his anger had gotten the better of him; Kerim Bey had been a friend, a decent and honest man dedicated to the work of MI6. He knew of no other secret agent aboard, and the idea that a woman like her could commit a cold and heartless murder made his blood boil with anger. He refused to admit that he had been fooled by her, taken in by her looks and her girlish laughter. He’d almost forgotten she was a double agent, a spy for the Russians. Why she would kill one of her own alongside Kerim he did not know, but from now on he would keep a close eye on every move she made. Still, he reasoned, there was no call for him to act as rashly as he had. He’d given a lot away in his thoughtless rage: she now knew that her ruse had been discovered, and was likely to be more careful and sly as their journey continued. He, on the other hand, had gotten nothing from her. Her protestations of innocence and love did nothing to enlighten him, and now he’d have to make sure the bruises on her face and arms were hidden. He couldn’t have anyone on the train suspecting that Mr. and Mrs. Somerset were anything but a happy, honeymooning couple. Husbands rarely beat their wives during the honeymoon. He’d get her make-up to cover them, and make sure she wore long sleeves to hide the finger shaped bruises from where he’d held her too tightly. She would tell him eventually what orders she had been given, but he would use different, subtler means to extract information from her. After all, despite everything she’d done, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.