“I’m not frightened of you,” she said, forcing a smile. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then she hurried to the fire to take the kettle off.
He watched her warily. He still wasn’t sure what he intended to accomplish with this assignation. Did he really mean to bed her just to find out what Walcester wanted to know?
No. The bedding was because he desired her, and he could swear that she desired him . . . when she wasn’t flitting about acting like a maiden on her wedding night. She intrigued him, with her armor of words and her changeable moods and her strange reluctance. Beneath it all lay a real woman whom he itched to unmask. Because she plainly wasn’t who she appeared to be.
Could she really be the spy that Walcester feared she was? For the Dutch or the French perhaps? If Walcester was right and she was trying to draw him out, she could be working for almost anyone.
Then again, perhaps her secrets were more mundane.
Whatever they were, he meant to ferret them out before the night was over. He dropped into an armchair and began to pull off one of his muddy half-boots.
She was at the cupboard with her back to him, fooling with the kettle and some items she’d taken from a drawer. “Time for tea,” she said cheerily as she turned to face him with a tray in her hand.
Then she froze, her gaze dropping to where he was now removing his other boot.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “I decided to make myself comfortable.”
“Of course,” she murmured as she went to set the tray down on the table. But her hands were shaking.
“I’m curious,” he remarked in his best casual tone. “Where are you from originally? You don’t have a London accent.”
With a quick nervous gesture, she brushed a damp lock of hair back behind one ear. “Well . . . ah . . . the country, of course. I was born and bred in the country.”
He dropped his boot, noting how she flinched at the sound. “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down. At least give me the county. Yorkshire? Lancashire?” He paused. “Or perhaps not England at all. Perhaps Ireland?”
She shot him an irritated glance. “Don’t be absurd. I’m as English as you are.”
He merely kept staring at her. As a young spy in France, he’d learned that remaining quiet and fixing the subject of his questioning with an expectant look got better results than dozens of questions. People disliked uncomfortable silences.
Annabelle was no exception. “Northamptonshire,” she remarked after a moment. “I grew up in a small village you’ve probably never heard of.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I roam our fair country a great deal. I’m sure I’ve been in your neck of the woods at some time or another.”
“Why does it matter where I’m from?”
Ah, he thought, the skittish swan had reappeared.
“It doesn’t.” He leaned back in his chair to watch her pour tea into a chipped bowl. “Believe me, I understand your reluctance. You can’t risk people carrying tales to your family. No doubt your parents would haul you back home and marry you off instantly if they knew you were in London on the stage.”
She blanched. “My parents are dead.”
The glint of sudden tears in her eyes made him gentle his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
She squared her shoulders. “ ’Tis no matter. At least I can care for myself, which is more than some orphans can do.”
Ah. That was why she fed the street urchins.
“But I did hope, when I came to London,” she went on, “that I might find other members of my family. So tell me about these relatives of mine you seem to know.”
Back to the Maynards, eh? This got more suspicious every time she opened her mouth. He had to play this carefully, for Walcester’s sake.
He wracked his brains for information about the earl’s family and distant relations. “Let me see. There’s Joseph Maynard, of course, a lawyer and a knight.”
“Oh?” She spooned some sugar into the bowl and stirred. “A knight?”
So that was important, was it? “Aye, although he only received that honor recently when he was made the King’s Serjeant.”
She looked disappointed.
“There’s Leticia, his sister, a bitter witch with a penchant for tearing apart other women’s reputations.”
Annabelle just stared at him. Clearly Leticia didn’t interest her.
“Oh, and Louis, the poet. Let’s not forget him. Not that anyone could, since he persists in circulating his ridiculous verses at court to anyone who will give him the time of day.”
“He’s older?” she prodded.
“Actually he’s about my age.”
Her interest seemed to vanish. Age must be important to her, too.
“I almost forgot,” he said casually. “There’s Edward, the Earl of Walcester, a widower of about fifty. Now, that’s a relative you should cultivate. His fortune isn’t vast, but it’s certainly enough to keep a woman like you in gowns and slippers for some time, especially since he has no heirs.”
He knew he’d hit the target when she froze.
Damn. He’d begun to hope Walcester was wrong about her. Because what reason could she have for trying to “draw the earl out,” especially after all these years? Did she intend to blackmail the man for something related to his tenure as the Silver Swan? If so, how could she know anything about it? She hadn’t even been born when Walcester was a spy. This still made no sense.
Which was why seducing her might be wise. Women told confidences to men who bedded them.
He ignored the part of his conscience that said his debt to Walcester had nothing to do with why he wanted to bed her.
A shaky laugh left her lips. “A nobleman? I hardly think I’m related to nobility.” Nonetheless, she carried his tea to him with trembling hands.
He took the bowl and set it on the floor. “Oh, I can well believe you have connections to nobility.” When she started to move away, he clasped her hand. “A woman of your beauty and obvious refinement can’t help but move in high circles.” He pulled her to stand between his thighs. “And now, my dear, it’s time we engaged in a more intimate discussion.”
She pushed away from him none too gently and went to sit at the table. “Let’s have our tea first. It will do us both some good.”
Again with the damnable tea. He started to tell her he wanted her, not the tea. Then, noting how she watched him, he lifted his bowl and sniffed unobtrusively.
Valerian root and tarragon. He couldn’t mistake the fragrance meant to mask the most important ingredient in a sleeping decoction—laudanum. Mina had taught him and his companions at the Royal Society how to brew the special tea.
Hell and furies, the wench was trying to drug him. He became certain of it when he set the bowl on the floor untouched and alarm crossed her face.
He struggled to hide his temper. What did she hope to accomplish? Robbery? Blackmail? Did she detest him that much?
Then the truth hit him like a well-placed blow. The maidenly behavior, the way she’d retreated after he’d kissed her, her strange refusal to let him pursue her . . . She feared seduction.
No, how could that be? She’d lain with Somerset.
He sucked in a sharp breath. Perhaps. Or perhaps she’d drugged that fool, too, to make him think he’d bedded her. Until he spoke with the man to determine what he remembered, Colin couldn’t be certain, but that made sense. The question was, why?
He was getting ahead of himself. First he had to be sure of his theory.
With a grim smile, he rose from the chair. Her eyes widened. Then she set down her bowl so quickly, some of the liquid splashed out.
“Aren’t you going to—”
“Drink my tea?” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “Not right now. I’m going to kiss you instead.”
She rose as if to flee, but in two strides he was before her and catching her in his arms.
He saw her defenses go up seconds before his mouth seized hers, but he didn’t care. He held her
without remorse, knowing she’d never intended this to happen. His lips plundered hers as he entangled his fingers in her long, damp hair, holding her head still.
She remained stiff as a sword and just as cold within his embrace, clinging to her precious shield of detachment. But he knew that the Annabelle who reveled in his kisses was in there, no matter how much the Silver Swan tried to keep her hidden. And he meant to unveil the woman beneath the mask if it took him half the night to do so.
Chapter Five
“There’s beggary in the love that can be reckoned.”
—William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra, Act 1, Sc. 1
Annabelle didn’t know what had set Colin off, but from the moment he’d set down his tea and come for her, she’d known all was lost. The man’s gaze stripped her bare as a maple tree in winter, seeing into places she hadn’t wanted him to see.
He was angry, too—she could tell. It made her all the more determined to fight him. Unfortunately, she was already losing that fight, and she knew it.
To keep herself remote, she silently chanted a litany of memories about her mother’s torments, of her distrust of men. Yet it changed to gibberish as his mouth invaded hers.
When at last he drew back, she sighed with relief, knowing she wouldn’t have lasted much longer. But then he began to kiss her brow, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose. His anger seemed to have abated and the fierceness to have drained from his kisses. Now they were soft and so tender that they made longing well up in her throat.
Then his mouth closed over hers again, and devil take her if she didn’t respond this time. She hated herself for the weakness, for the cracks appearing in her wall of resistance.
But how could she help it? Faith, the man kissed like a god. Adonis. Adonis had her in his thrall, and there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do about it, not with her body melting like a snow woman under the spring sun. He made her feel alive for the first time in years, made her want and need and yearn.
His hands slid over her shoulders and down, taking the top of her bodice with them. When the air chilled her shoulders, she barely registered it. Until his fingers brushed the upper swell of her breast. Rising from her sensual fog, she tore her mouth from his. But the way he stared, so raw, so hungry, sent her emotions skittering in a thousand directions.
“I want to see you without your feathers,” he rasped.
She closed her eyes in a wordless acceptance. He slid one finger beneath the edge of her gown and her smock, running it all along the top, right over the nipples of her barely covered breasts.
The tips tautened into hard pebbles, and her eyes fluttered open. The raw desire shining in his gaze sent a shudder of longing through her.
He kept his gaze on her as he loosened her gown’s front with expert ease. Of course. He was a rake, after all. No doubt he’d undressed many women.
Futilely she tried to restore her armor of resistance. Why was she standing here letting him strip her of her dignity, her freedom?
Because his gaze riveted her with its knowledge. He seemed to know her as no other gallant had. She couldn’t say why, but the realization paralyzed her. No one else saw beneath her role to the real Annabelle.
No one but Lord Hampden.
Only when her gown loosened did she find the power to speak. “Please . . . let go of me . . . my lord.”
“My name is Colin, dearling.” He pushed her gown down to her waist. Nothing but her thin holland smock covered her breasts. With a tact she hadn’t expected, he refrained from looking at them, but his hand . . . faith, his hand covered one cloth-draped breast.
A sharp pang pierced her, making it hard for her to breathe. Her breast filled his hand as if made to fit. Then he slanted his mouth across hers once more.
His mouth also fit.
Only this time she didn’t soften. She refused to acquiesce, refused to succumb. She’d fight him with the weapon she’d learned would wound him most. Indifference.
She fell back on the trick she’d used during the squire’s beatings, playing a role. He kissed her thoroughly, enticing her, seducing her. So she became the goddess Diana, wild and free, mocking all men as she hunted alone in the forest.
Diana, I am Diana, she chanted silently, and it helped her to withstand the astonishing temptations Colin offered.
Barely. Only with great concentration could she maintain the role. Colin’s thumb circled her nipple through the cloth of her smock, eliciting a sweet ache with each passing, and a moan bubbled up in her throat. She closed it off just in time.
I can do this. I can fight him if I try.
He drew back, his expression taut with unbridled desire. “I won’t hurt you, dearling. You need not fear that. ’Tis not my wish to take your pride or bend your will to mine. I want only to give you pleasure.”
Where his seductions failed to break through her defenses, his gentle words succeeded. Her lips began to tremble, her chin to quiver. He saw it and caught her fear with his kiss. She tried again to summon up her image of Diana, but she couldn’t think of anything but his reassuring words, his infinitely gentle tone.
Scarcely knowing she did so, she opened to him, her heart slamming in her chest. Such sweet strokes his tongue gave. Such intimate, gentle nibbles his teeth took of her mouth.
He undid the ties of her smock, then slid her smock off her shoulders until it dropped to form a kind of apron over her half-fallen gown. A moan sounded deep in his throat as he filled both hands with the soft weight of her bare breasts, shaping them, caressing them until she thought she’d faint away right there with the pleasure of it. Unconsciously she pressed against his hands, her own hands finally stealing around his lean waist.
Where had all her pride gone? His fingers worked their magic and his mouth plundered hers with honeyed kisses. How could she have forgotten the lessons Mother had taught her?
A tear of regret slipped between her lowered lashes. Apparently, he felt the damp trail against his own cheek, for he pulled back and his hands stilled on her breasts.
Eyes green as a night forest bored into her. “I want to coax your body to sing, my beautiful swan,” he murmured, brushing soft kisses along the path her tear had taken. “Is that so terrible?”
“You want a swan song. If I give you that, I die.”
He stiffened, then lifted his hand to smooth one damp lock of hair from her cheek. “Even swans mate. And they don’t die afterward.”
She must tell him something, must give him some excuse for her hesitation. How could she do so without explaining that her maidenly fears came from being a maiden? She must play this role exactly right if she were to escape his trap.
There was one thing she could request without being thought odd. It wasn’t a part of her role she relished, but if it would protect her. . . .
She forced a knowing smile to her lips. “I’m sorry, my lord. This swan requires more wooing before she mates.”
Suspicion glinted in his eyes. “Wooing?”
“Sweet words, public attentions . . . gifts.”
“Ah.” Though the warm light in his eyes faded to a cold cynicism, he didn’t release her. Instead he kissed her fiercely, almost angrily, as she fought to remain unmoved.
He drew back to mutter, “I promise to bring you all the gifts you want tomorrow, my greedy miss. But tonight, we shall find another pleasure.”
“Nay.” She pushed his hands from her breasts and donned an expression of disinterest, though she had begun to loathe that part of her role. “I’ll find no pleasure with you until I see some material proof of your affections.”
His eyes glittered with a sudden anger and the remnants of desire. But he stepped back and drew her smock in place, tying the ties with quick, jerky movements.
“I should have known.” He pressed his body to hers, letting her feel his arousal. “You’ll have your . . . ah . . . gifts, my coldhearted swan, as soon as I find ones to suit your beauty. In the meantime, you’d best accustom yourself to my presence, for
I don’t intend to relinquish the pursuit.”
His words thrilled her, although she hated herself for it. Without another word, he released her and went to don his clothes. She stood there numbly watching, only half thanking the heavens for her reprieve.
Colin headed for the door, but paused there to fix her with an angry gaze. His eyes raked her so slowly, they set her afire again.
“Oh, and Annabelle,” he said in a warning tone. “I don’t know who mixes your tea, but I recommend she use prickly lettuce in her sleeping decoction instead of valerian. It’s quick and effective, and best of all, the scent is easier to mask.”
He actually smiled then, although the smile stopped short of his eyes. His gaze locked with hers, a challenge in its depths. Then he left.
She dropped into a nearby chair to gaze at the full bowl of tea he’d left on the floor. Oh, sweet Mary, I am undone. He knows. Devil take the man, he knows.
AFTER COLIN LEFT, Annabelle tossed and turned half the night, tormented by fitful dreams. She awoke to find her hand caressing her breast.
She shot upright. Lord help her, what had the man done to her? He was turning her into a wanton!
And sadly, she didn’t mind nearly as much as she should. Hugging her knees to her chest, she surveyed her bedchamber. The gray morning light seeped into the windows like a mist off the Thames, hiding as much as it revealed.
’Twas like her evening with Colin. Every time she’d thought to determine his true intentions, he’d shifted tactics, throwing her off guard.
His last tactic had been particularly effective. She raised her hand to her throat, then let it drift down to her smock, following the path of Colin’s kisses. Fie, but she’d come close to sharing her bed with him. With his words and caresses he’d woven a magical veil around her so impenetrable she could no longer see the world as before.
She dropped back against the pillow with a dreamy sigh. Despite his talk of buying her gowns, he’d not treated her like some doxy to be tumbled at his whim. And he was witty and intelligent and attractive . . .
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