A moment later, he padded into the clearing.
“Oh, Max,” she exclaimed softly. “He’s beautiful.”
Nicobar stopped a few paces away and flopped onto the ground like an enormous, friendly house cat, blinking at them, flicking his tail. With his sleek, striped fur and a collar of gold around his neck, he looked every inch the regal king of this domain. After a moment, he rolled onto his side and stretched with a great yawn.
The sight of his curving fangs made Marie’s breath catch in her throat. “Did I say beautiful?” she asked in a small voice. “I think I might amend that.”
Max chuckled softly and circled her with one arm, pulling her close. “Have no fear, fair maiden, I’ll protect you from all manner of fearsome beasts and dragons and…” He looked down at her and their gazes met, and his voice dropped to a deeper tone. “Dangers.”
She let all her love for him shine through in her eyes. “I know.”
He swallowed hard. That odd look came into his expression again, the sadness. “Do you know how much I love you, Marie?”
She leaned into him and nuzzled her cheek against his. “If it’s even a fraction as much as I love you,” she replied softly, “it must be a very great deal indeed.”
For a moment, there was no sound but the songs of the birds and the trickling of the stream. Nicobar reached out one lazy paw to bat at a purple blossom that bobbed just out of his reach.
“Max, you know that nothing could ever change the way I feel about you,” she whispered. “Nothing could ever make me love you any less.”
His other arm came up to circle her back and he held her tight. He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his heart pounding.
She rested her head on his shoulder, wanting to say more, to ask him plainly what was troubling him, but she didn’t want to push. Whatever it was, it clearly pained him deeply. He would share it with her in his own time.
She placed the softest kiss against his neck just above his shirt collar, accepting his silence, willing to give him all the time he needed.
There was no need to hurry. They were together, they were safe, and that was all that mattered.
The cottage seemed almost eerily quiet that night as Max walked through the darkened corridors, heading toward the guest room in the west wing that he shared with Marie. He had been outside for almost an hour, talking to their guards.
Discussing a change of plans.
As he closed the bedroom door quietly behind him, he saw that she was already asleep. He left his boots by the door and treaded softly across the marble tile toward the bed—an enormous circular mattress on a raised platform, curtained with gauze and piled with tasseled pillows. An oil lamp burning on a low table to one side cast a golden glow over her skin and struck glossy copper highlights in her brown hair.
He stopped beside the bed, gazing down at her through the sheer curtain that separated them. Tenderness and longing knotted inside him. She looked like a dream. A sweet, impossible dream cloaked in mist. She lay curled on her side, her hand resting on his empty pillow, the sheets and her nightdress rumpled as if she had tossed and turned while waiting for him.
His wife.
But not his wife.
He stared at the band of gold gleaming on her hand. A false symbol of false promises. He would give all he possessed to take it back and give it to her again, to make it as real as the feelings in his heart.
But he doubted he would ever have that chance.
Blinking hard, he stood there a moment longer, memorizing every graceful curve of her face and figure. More than a dozen times in the past three days he had come close to confessing the truth of his identity and his mission. Part of him had wanted it over with
Yet another part of him had clung to every hour with her, unwilling to relinquish a single second of her love. It might be all he would ever have, the memories of these last few days. For the rest of his life.
And now they didn’t even have another hour together.
He ached to slip into bed beside her, to awaken her with kisses, to make love to her one last time before he left. But he couldn’t. He had set himself one final task, then he had to go. It was better to let her sleep. To make this as painless as possible.
He turned away and went back to the door. Picking up his boots, he slipped out into the dark corridor and headed deeper into the west wing, toward the library.
Until today, he had thought they would have a fortnight here together, perhaps longer. But all his plans had changed this morning with the arrival of the daily London newspapers.
The original plan, the one he had agreed to with Saxon and Julian, had been that he and Marie would remain here until word arrived from his brothers that the traitor had been discovered. The D’Avenant family had a network of reliable informants in some unusual and useful parts of town, men called upon now and then to investigate business or political affairs important to the family. Saxon had felt confident they could ferret out the traitor.
And as soon as he sent word, Max was to have taken Marie back to London—though he had been adamant with his brothers that he meant to protect her, to stay with her every step of the way. He had to turn her in, but he wouldn’t give her up.
He had even managed to convince himself that she might come to understand and forgive what he had done, eventually.
But this morning, an announcement printed in the London newspapers—all of them—changed everything.
It was an invitation. One he had seen before. One that only he and two other men in England would understand.
One that had almost made his heart stop.
He stepped through the door into the library—or what would someday be the library. At the moment it held only Saxon’s favorite antique desk, an upholstered leather wing chair, and a few boxes of books. He lit the lamp on the desk, felt in his waistcoat pocket for his spectacles, and picked up one of the newspapers he had left here earlier.
Sinking into the chair, he folded the paper open to the offending page and put his spectacles on. There, printed in bold letters amid news of the war and casualty lists, were the exact words he had seen once before, on a note brought to him by his valet on a silver tray weeks ago.
Words that had summoned him to a clandestine meeting on the Southwark docks:
My lord, if you would like to prevent what happened to your brother from happening again, come to the Hawk and Sparrow on Bishopgate Street, on the same day at the same hour as before.
This time, below that, there was more:
Leave the girl where she’ll be safe. Bring companions if you don’t trust me, but come.
And this time it was signed—with a single letter.
W.
Wolf. Max refolded the paper and tossed it back onto the pile.
It was a trap. Every instinct born in him during the past weeks told him that.
But it was a damned strange trap.
Leave the girl where she’ll be safe. If it was a trap and Wolf was in league with the French, why hadn’t he insisted that Marie come as well? Max was of no use to them alone.
They might kill him, but he was of no real use to them.
On the other hand, if Wolf was loyal to the Crown, why use such a public summons? Especially when his colleague—the traitor—would understand it as well?
The only answer Max could think of was grim: Wolf would resort to the newspapers if the danger was genuine. Because he would have no other choice. No other way to warn Max. No clue as to where to deliver a more private message.
Taking off his spectacles, Max rubbed his eyes, letting his head fall back against the padded leather of the chair.
Bring companions if you don’t trust me, but come.
It was either a deadly plot—or a desperate measure meant to keep him alive.
And he had no idea which. And no time to think about it. Their previous rendezvous had been on a Tuesday, at two A.M.
This was Monday.
And the hour was almost ten P.M.
And he had already decided to go.
He sat up straighter and put his spectacles back on, opening one of the desk drawers and searching through it. He had been turning the problem over in his mind all day, questioning whether he should go to his family for help. But he could not risk their lives. The danger would be his alone. He was the one who had taken on this mission.
And one way or another, he would finish it. Tonight.
That was what he had been discussing with the guards outside. He would take two of them with him and leave the others, the best marksmen, here to protect Marie.
His throat tightened as he thought of her asleep in their bed, so trusting, so happy.
So innocent to the intrigues raging all around her.
He found a sheaf of paper, along with a quill and ink and sealing wax. This was the final task he wanted to complete before leaving. Because he might never see her again.
And if he did…it would be with British Intelligence in tow. And he would finally be forced to explain to her exactly who he was and what he had done and why.
Either way, it would be too late to make her believe that what they had shared was real, that the feelings he had professed were not a lie, not part of any intrigue, but true and deep.
It was important to him that she know that. He wanted to convince her, in some way that she couldn’t deny. He couldn’t risk writing the truth about his identity and mission, on the chance that she might open the letter before he returned—but he had to tell her the truth of his feelings.
He sat staring down at the blank page for a few minutes that felt like agony, then began to write.
My Dearest Marie…
He couldn’t get any further than that. After a moment, he scratched it out and crumpled the sheet and took another.
He stared down at that blank page as well.
Damnation, this business of writing a love letter was much more difficult than he had anticipated.
After several attempts, he tried to shut off his logic and simply feel. To feel all that she meant to him, all that she had brought to his life.
And the right words came.
Ma chère, he began, I know what you must be feeling at this moment, but please do not stop reading until you reach the end. I do not know if I’ll ever have another chance to tell you this, my love, and I have so much to say…
He finished a half hour later. Folding the sheets, he put them in an envelope and melted wax over the flap, so overcome by emotion that his hand trembled, so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t notice the door open, didn’t realize he was no longer alone until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
He flinched and went still.
“I guessed I would find you in here,” Marie whispered, coming around to the side of the chair.
He remained still for a moment, then finished what he was doing, setting the wax aside and stamping the letter with a metal seal—the D’Avenant family crest. He fought to keep his voice light. “And how did you guess that?”
“Books,” she said with a smile. She perched on the edge of the desk, clad only in her nightdress. “Wherever books can be found, that’s where you’ll be. Who are you writing to?”
His throat felt dry. He hadn’t counted on seeing her before he left. There was no time for explanations, not a moment to spare on farewells. He had to go.
Putting the writing implements and paper back in the drawer, he gave her the best smile he could manage. “You.” He handed her the sealed envelope. “I want you to keep this with you always, Marie. Don’t open it until you…someday when…” He struggled to explain without explaining. “You’ll know the time. Just keep it until then.”
She took the letter, glancing down at it, then back at him, her smile fading. “I don’t understand.”
He took her other hand, threading his fingers through hers, half because he wanted to reassure her and half because he couldn’t stop himself. “I love you, ma chère,” he said in a rough voice. “I only want you to know how much. That’s what’s in the letter.”
Her smile returned. “But I know how much you love me.” Setting the envelope aside, she reached down to caress his cheek. “I don’t need you to write it in a letter, Max. You show me every day. Why would you…” She stilled, her eyes widening. “Why would you write a letter to me unless we weren’t going to be together anymore?”
“Marie—”
“Is that why you’ve been in a strange mood all day? Are you going somewhere?” Her breathing became quick, uneven. “Do you know something you’re not telling me?”
“Shh, Marie, it’s all right—”
“Max, you’re frightening me!”
He stood and pulled her into his arms, lifting her off the desk and holding her close. She clung to him with all her strength.
“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he said gently, rubbing one hand up and down her back, hating that he now had to tell her yet another lie. “Yes, I’m going somewhere—to meet with my friend in London. I planned to be back before you woke up and I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you would worry.” He set her away from him, taking her face gently between his palms. “Exactly as you’re doing right now,” he chided with a grin.
Her breathing calmed a little. Those fathomless dark eyes searched his face. “But why can’t I—”
“You can’t come with me because the streets of London are no place for a lady at this hour of the night.”
She still seemed unsatisfied, clearly sensing that something was wrong.
“Marie, the sooner I go, the sooner I’ll be back.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then released her, patting her lightly on her bottom. “Now off to bed with you, wife, and let me be on my way.”
Instead of obeying his command, she surprised him. Once again.
Lifting her mouth to his, she kissed him. A soft, slow kiss filled with love and longing, as irresistible as it was warm.
Before he could stop himself, he circled her with one arm and pulled her close. He returned the kiss with a sudden, deep intensity that made her tremble. She twined her hands around his neck. Molded her body to his as if she couldn’t get close enough. His other arm came around her, holding her tighter against him. She slid her palms down over his shoulders, his chest, around his ribs. She grasped handfuls of his shirt.
He didn’t have time for even one kiss. Yet he couldn’t force himself to let her go. He had to leave. Had to…
But retreat was already impossible. He needed her. Needed her with an urgency that made him burn. Marie. His Marie. There wasn’t time to carry her to the bedroom. Taking a single backward step, he pulled her down into the chair with him, his mouth still sealed to hers.
She made a sound of surprise—until he lifted and moved her so that she sat astride him. With a little moan of excitement, she pulled her nightdress out of the way. He fumbled with his breeches. Pulled her toward him until her knees pressed into the back of the chair on either side of his hips.
Marie broke the kiss, lifting her head. Their gazes locked. Both of them were breathing fast and shallow. The naked heat of her hovering over him and the musky scent of her arousal wrenched a groan from deep in his chest. He brushed his fingers over her downy triangle, finding her wet, so wet. Her eyes burned in the candlelight as he stroked her, her lips parting on an aching sound of pleasure. He captured the sensitive bud concealed within her dark curls, rubbed it, circled it, until she was shivering with need, with anticipation.
Then he fitted the rounded head of his shaft against her feminine center. Shifted his hands to the small of her back.
And pressed her down.
She arched against him, taking him hard and deep, deeper than ever before. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her head tipped back. He grasped her hips with both hands, showing her how to move. She began rising and sinking over him, fully meeting his passion with her own. She took all of him, gave all of herself. He groaned at the feel of his hard length sheathed in her silky heat, each exquisite st
roke so tight, so hot, so perfect.
Her husky sounds of pleasure made his pulse thunder. He pressed his face against her body as they moved together, inhaling her sweet scent, feeling her heart pounding against his cheek. He lavished her breasts with openmouthed kisses and she tangled her fingers in his hair. He suckled each taut peak through her cotton nightdress, tugging hard with his lips and tongue and teeth until her nipples pressed against the wet, glistening fabric.
Lost in the sensations, they gave themselves to one another completely, soaring together to a place beyond the night. Rising and falling as one, they filled the darkness with hunger and heat. The intensity built almost too quickly. He could feel her inner muscles drawing tight around him, the first flutters of climax sweeping through her.
He fisted one hand in her hair, drew her head down to his and claimed the sleek velvet of her mouth in a potent kiss. His tongue thrust against hers as he arched his hips, stroking into her depths faster, harder.
Suddenly she cried out and shattered in his arms. Her release sent him over the edge, ecstasy crashing through them both with the force of a storm. His whole body shuddered as he spilled himself deep inside her.
She collapsed against him, trembling, and he enfolded her in his embrace.
“I love you, Max,” she sobbed breathlessly. “Always.”
“Forever and always.” He held her fiercely.
And felt grateful that she could not see the tears in his eyes.
No wind blew from the Thames, no light shone from the night’s new moon, no bawdy songs nor raucous laughter sounded from the grimy establishments that lined Bishopgate Street. The scent of the sea laced Max’s every breath as the coach jolted over the cobbles. He peered out through a corner of one curtained window, his greatcoat buttoned high to conceal his face, tricorne pulled low over his eyes.
It all reminded him of a term used by the French: déjà vu. Every aspect of this night felt eerily the same as the last time he had set foot in this murky, deserted corner of the Southwark docks, all those weeks ago.
Even the feeble glow that fell in yellow pools from the streetlamps, illuminating the heavy tavern sign on its iron bracket—that unforgettable rendering of a small bird being torn to shreds by the talons of a larger enemy.
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 25