Temptation’s Tender Kiss

by French, Colleen

  Reagan moaned with delight as he released her breasts, catching one already-hard nipple with his teeth. She fumbled with the flat pewter buttons of his breeches. This was no maid's thought of a romantic interlude with her love. Reagan needed him, hard and deep within her.

  "Grayson," she whispered, nipping at the flesh of his shoulders. "Grayson, love."

  Sterling had never experienced such desperation, such utter abandon in a woman. He had never had a woman want him so badly, he had never wanted a woman so badly.

  "Reagan. " He lifted her petticoats, laying his face on her bare breasts as he released his manhood from its confines.

  "Please, Grayson," she begged, pulling him down on her. She lifted her hips in reception of his first thrust, crying out and biting down on the soft flesh of her hand.

  He pushed into her again and again, and they both rocked and bucked in wild fury. It was over in a minute as first Reagan, then Sterling cried out.

  Sterling collapsed on Reagan, buried in her pile of petticoats. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  "I'm so embarrassed," she said when she finally found her voice.

  He rolled off her, still panting. He kissed her damp brow. "Why?" he breathed.

  She covered her face with her hands. "No woman should behave like that. " Her breath still came in short gasps.

  "It's a man's dream to be wanted like that," he whispered softly.

  "We're not animals."

  He smiled, lifting up on an elbow as he pushed down her petticoats. "Sometimes we are. " He kissed her lips, gently, lovingly. "Give me a little time and we'll do it the right way," he teased. "Slow. Painfully slow."

  Reagan sat, scooting out from under him. A smile teased her love-bruised lips as she fumbled to tie up her bodice. "Please put your clothes on, Grayson."

  He sat up, pulling his shirt over his head. "But you just ripped them off me."

  Her flushed face grew redder as she backed out the door. "Upstairs, Captain. You can take it up with me in your chamber."

  "That a promise?" he called after her.

  She stuck her head around the doorway. "A promise."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Long after Sterling slept, Reagan lay on her side, awake, resting her head on his shoulder. They had made love here in his bedchamber a second time, then a third. He had taken her beyond the limits of sweet, searing rapture. He had lifted her to a pinnacle of all-encompassing pleasure until together they'd shattered into a million shards of bright light and fell back to earth.

  Reagan stared up at the damask curtains that framed Sterling's bed. She could feel his breath on her cheek as his chest rose and fell rhythmically. His hand rested comfortably on her waist. She was still in awe of the feelings he aroused in her, not just physically, but emotionally. Since Papa had died, she thought she had lost her ability to feel . . . to care.

  For the past month she hadn't permitted herself to think of Grayson or the feelings he stirred in her. He was the enemy. He was responsible for her father's death and the cessation of publication of their leaflets, just as every red and green coat in the city was responsible. But no matter how strongly she believed in her new country, she knew deep in her heart of hearts that the love she had for Grayson transcended sides in a war.

  She knew she should feel sad that theirs wouldn't be a permanent relationship. They would never marry, have children, and live here in her grandfather's home with Elsa. The British Army would move on and Grayson would be gone from her life forever. But he was here, now, and that was what mattered, tomorrow be damned. He said he loved her, and she believed him. She knew he was a man with a talent for wooing women, but this was something he couldn't lie about. She could see it in his eyes when they made love. She could also see that he, too, knew the futility of their love.

  Sterling stirred beneath Reagan, sighing in his sleep, and she turned to study his angular face. A lock of blond hair brushed the corner of his mouth. Carefully, so as not to wake him, she pushed it back. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for loving me, for making me realize that life goes on . . . for making me realize what I have to do."

  Kissing him lightly on his parted lips, she slipped from beneath the counterpane. She gathered her petticoats, her stockings and underthings, and slipped silently out of the room. In her own bedchamber she dressed in a soft flannel gown and wrapper and slipped a pair of cotton mules on her feet. Taking a lamp she went down the hall, pausing at Grayson's door. Hearing no movement, she went downstairs and into the kitchen.

  Turning up the lamp's wick, she opened the door to the stairs, and descended into the cellar. Driven with purpose, she walked through the damp, musty chambers, coming to stop at the secret door. A lump rose in Reagan's throat as she recalled the afternoon she'd spent here with Papa cleaning out the secret room. Tears welled in her eyes as she walked down the passageway and entered the printing room. She hadn't been here in over a month . . . not since the fire.

  Closing the door behind her, she lit the lamp that hung overhead. Bright light illuminated all but the far corners of the small room. The printing press sat silent, sheets of paper scattered on the floor; crocks of mixed ink sat congealed. It looked as if her father had just stepped out of the room for a moment . . . except for the cobwebs that stretched across the press.

  "Papa," Reagan whispered. "Papa, can you hear me?" Her voice grew stronger with each word. "Papa, your death won't be for naught. Your work won't come to an end just because you've been taken from us."

  Purposefully she moved to her grandfather's old desk and set down her lamp. Pulling up a stool, she took a quill and uncorked a small bottle of ink. She slipped a sheet of foolscap from the drawer, a smile on her lips. "Tell me what to say, Papa," she whispered.

  She sat for a moment, her eyes half closed, and then she began to write. In her mind she heard her father's voice. She heard him arguing with men, she heard heated discussions from years past. Until the wee hours of the morning she wrote. When her quill broke from the pressure of her hand, she found another.

  Sometime before dawn, Reagan rose stiffly from her stool and blew out the overhead lamp. Taking the light from her bedchamber, she closed the secret door and made her way upstairs. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, but her heart swelled with pride. In only a few short hours she had composed the penman's next leaflet.

  "Good morning. " When Reagan came into the kitchen for a late breakfast, both Sterling and Elsa were there. The two crouched near the fireplace, admiring Elsa's cat.

  Sterling looked up. "Morning."

  Reagan blushed, looking away. She remembered his lips on hers, the feel of his touch, and she wanted him all over again.

  Elsa was silent. She scooped up Mittens and retreated to the far side of the kitchen, glaring at her sister.

  Sterling glanced back at Reagan, offering her a hint of a smile. With Grayson's reassurance she chose just to ignore Elsa's unforgiving behavior. In a few days she knew her sister would completely forget about Ethan the blacksmith.

  "I think I'll start whitewashing the barn and carriage house today. It's been needing it for a good two years. " Reagan retrieved a muffin from a plate on the table and bit into it.

  "I could help," Sterling offered. "I have some business this morning, but I'll be back by one or two. " He watched Reagan's tongue dart out to lick the crumbs from the corner of her precious mouth. Memories of their lovemaking floated through his mind. This morning, seeing her bright eyes, her teasing smile, he didn't know how he would tell her he was leaving. He didn't know how he could go.

  "I don't know how that would look, Captain. A man of King George's Army aiding the enemy."

  Sterling lifted a blond eyebrow. He knew she was teasing him. "As you like, madame. " He spread his arms. "I only thought to offer help to a defenseless woman."

  "Well, I know how you can help this defenseless woman. " She took another muffin, eyeing him.

  "How? Ask and I shall do all in my power to grant you your wish."
r />   She watched Sterling demonstrate with a dramatic sweep of his hands. He was more handsome this morning than she'd ever seen him. Very rarely did she see him in his wig these days. His golden-blond hair was pulled back into a neat queue and tied with a black velvet ribbon. His blue eyes twinkled with a secret only the two of them shared. She pointedly ignored the scarlet uniform. "I was thinking about going back to selling my gingerbread, but I'm nearly our of gingerspice as well as sugar."

  "I could see what I could do," he offered honestly.

  "There's not much money, and now without Papa to provide—" The words caught in her throat. " . . . so we could use the money from my gingerbread. " It wasn't a lie—not entirely. They could use the money. Of course the gingerbread would also provide her with a reason to come and go freely about the city without the soldiers becoming suspicious.

  "There'd be plenty of men in the barracks willing to buy it if you'd be willing to have redcoats eating your gingerbread."

  "I'll have to think about it."

  "Fair enough. " Sterling winked, turning to Elsa. "Why don't you help your sister with the whitewashing. It's supposed to be a beauty of a day."

  Elsa shot Reagan an evil glance and swept out of the kitchen, her cat clutched in her arms.

  Reagan sighed, leaning against the table. "What am I going to do with her? Papa and I had talked about sending her to Richmond to stay with family, but I don't think she could go without me."

  Sterling froze. "You're leaving?"

  Reagan arched an eyebrow. "No, but what if I was? When your new commander takes over, you'll be moving out, won't you? Wouldn't be much of a war if you just sat in this city while Washington waits on the other side of the river."

  Sterling came to her, putting a hand on each side of her and leaning forward so that he had her trapped. "Methinks I hear a bit of hostility in my lady's voice."

  "Damn right you do! What have you to offer me, Captain?"

  Sterling flinched. She was right. What did he have to offer her? Marriage? Security? Honesty? He could offer her nothing. He stared at her lovely face, his blue-eyed gaze settling on her dark, pleading eyes. "My love . . ." he whispered. "For now all I can offer you is my love."

  Reagan's voice caught in her throat as she threw her arms around him. "Oh, Grayson, I'm sorry. I knew what I was getting into. I knew every step of the way. " She rested her head on his shoulder. "I had no right to say that."

  "It's all right, sweet. " He kissed her cheek, smoothing her fiery hair.

  "It's just that it's all so futile," she murmured. "My beliefs are what make me who I am and I'll not change that. I can't, not even for you. " She lifted her head, taking in his steady gaze. "And you can't shed your uniform for me, can you, Grayson?" She knew what his answer would be, but somewhere deep in her heart, she prayed she was wrong.

  "No," he whispered. "I cannot. " It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to say. "So what are we to do?"

  Reagan's eyes drifted shut as she squeezed him tightly. "Do? We live for today, that's what we do. Who knows if there'll be any tomorrow."

  "Oh, Reagan, my little Reagan, women aren't supposed to be so sensible!" He held her against him, feeling the pounding of her heart against his chest. "Just remember that no matter what happens, I love you. I always will."

  Reagan accepted his kiss and then stepped back, smoothing his clean-shaven cheek with the tips of her fingers. "You'd best go on. We both have work to do. " With a bittersweet smile, she lifted her skirts and turned away, leaving Sterling behind to wipe his misty eyes.

  Sterling hurried up the cobblestone walk on to Spruce Street, the message he'd been waiting for, the message he'd been dreading, tucked safely beneath his coat. This letter from Captain Craig had been a week in coming. It was his new orders.

  Reaching the steps of the Llewellyn home, Sterling stopped to pick up a wooden crate resting on the bottom brick step. Lifting the canvas cover, inside he saw cloth bags of varying sizes, obviously foodstuffs. The pungent aroma of ginger rose from the crate.

  Carrying the crate into the house and down the hall, he found Reagan in the kitchen, kneeling on the hearth.

  "You left this sugar on the front stoop. You'd better be careful or someone's going to walk off with it. " He set the crate on the table.

  "What are you talking about?" Reagan came to him. She lifted the canvas cover and gave a squeal of delight. "I thought you said you couldn't find any ginger. You said you would have to find a way to order some."

  "It's not mine. I told you it was on the step. I thought you'd left it out there. " He pressed a kiss to her warm lips, but she pushed him away, anxious to dig into her treasure box.

  She removed a small sack of sugar and a crock of honey. A frown creased her forehead. "If you stole it, I don't care. Blasted redcoats stole everything in our larder the week they came to Philadelphia."

  "I didn't steal it. When I couldn't find any ginger in the market, I asked Jergens at the Blue Boar about it. He said he could get me some, but the price was steep. Too steep for a captain's pay."

  "Mmm. Someone just left it on the step then—a gift. " An image of the mysterious man who had aided her the night she'd nearly been caught by the redcoats entered her mind. "Maybe the blacksmith left it, trying to bribe me."

  Sterling laughed. "I've a feeling you're not a woman to be bribed."

  "No. I'm not. But I'll take the sugar and the honey, and the ginger just the same. " She dug into the crate. "Oh, look . . . and sewing needles! We were down to one to share among us, and Nettie keeps forgetting where she's left it."

  Sterling glanced into the box. "And tea, Reagie. " He picked up a small tin, waving it in front of her face. He lifted the lid and sniffed. "English tea. " Mischievously, his eyes met hers. "How long has it been since you had a cup of good tea?"

  "I won't allow that tin in my house! Give it to me! I'll burn it!" She took it from him, but he snatched it back.

  "Oh, no you don't. Come on, what would it hurt? One tiny cup? I won't tell if you don't," he coaxed.

  She looked at the tin. The truth was that she had dearly loved her tea before the war like any other Englishwoman. "I couldn't. Now give it to me."

  "It was a gift, Reagan. You didn't buy it. You've committed no sin against God and country."

  "It doesn't matter. " She began to put away her bags of precious baking supplies. Tonight she'd bake her gingerbread. The first printing of her new leaflet was ready to be distributed.

  "I think I'll just take this for safekeeping then. " He shook the can over his shoulder as he left the room.

  Upstairs, Sterling took his time removing his uniform. He slipped on a pair of his own breeches and a simple cotton shirt. In his stocking feet he went to the desk and sat down. His hands trembled as he held the message from Captain Craig. With a sigh of regret, he retrieved his bell mask from his belongings and opened the letter.

  Hesitantly, he laid the deciphering mask over the message. "Request for transfer denied?" he read aloud. "Son of a bitch!"

  "Where's he going?" Westley whispered. He stood beside Reagan in the shadows of the carriage house, watching Sterling ride away. It was twilight, and the streets were coming alive. Carriages rumbled over the cobblestones and soldiers, on foot, hurried to their evening meal.

  "I don't know," she whispered. No whorehouse if he knows what's good for him.

  He was dressed in civilian clothes, a dark cloak thrown over his shoulders. That seemed odd to Reagan. Why would an English officer want to conceal his identity?

  Earlier, he'd come into the kitchen where Reagan was baking her gingerbread. He'd been agitated, his voice edged with controlled anger. But she sensed an emotion stronger than anger. Fear? Relief? She wasn't sure. He had said he was going out and that he didn't know when he'd be back. If anyone came looking for him, she was to say she knew nothing. She'd not seen him all day.

  Reagan watched him as he rode out of sight down the lamplit street. Something wasn't right here. Despite their
happiness in the past week, Grayson had been acting oddly—as if he had something to tell her.

  Westley laid his hand gently on Reagan's shoulder. "The driver will be along shortly. If this shipment's to go out tonight, we'll have to get moving."

  "Then let's do it."

  "Reagan. " Westley's voice penetrated the darkness. "Are you certain you want to do this? You know the danger."

  "I know the danger," she answered, slamming the carriage house doors shut.

  "When the pamphlets surface, that Major Burke'll start the investigation up all over again. You'll be their first suspect."

  "A woman?" She laughed, scrutinizing him in the darkness. "That's the ingeniousness of it. No one will suspect me. It's been assumed from the beginning that a man was writing those essays. Women don't have opinions on political issues, and if they have, they certainly could never express themselves on paper."

  Westley sighed. "I just don't like it, not with that lobsterback still in your house. You're playing with fire."

  "Westley . . ."—Reagan dropped her hands to her hips—"are you with me or not? I'll do it with or without your help."

  He exhaled slowly, scratching his head. "Hell, yeah, I'm with you, but I warn you, if they hang you by your pretty little neck, I'll have no sympathy for you. You don't have to do this. You've done more this winter for our army than most w—"

  "Women!" Reagan grabbed the iron ring handle of the trapdoor that led to the secret room below and gave a hearty tug. The hinges groaned and the door swung open like a great yawning mouth. Lamplight poured into the carriage house. "Westley, you say you're different, but you're just like the rest. You don't think I can do it, do you?"

  "I didn't say that, Reagan. I'm only concerned for your safety. Uriah—"

  "Uriah, is it? Now tell me, if it was me who'd been killed in that fire, would Papa have gone on printing without me?"