Her Majesty’s Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  Gray eyes molten, his mouth tipped in a grin, he slid down to the foot of the bed and placed his hands gently on each of her ankles. Slowly, with long delicious strokes, he slid his fingers up her thighs, then bent his head to kiss her belly before dipping a finger into her curls.

  Tavia gasped and clenched the bedclothes, arching against his touch to draw him deeper. He stroked her slowly, until she was slick with need, and then nudged her thighs apart.

  “What now?” she asked, gazing down at him. There had to be more. She needed more of him. To feel him closer, to know if his heart was thrashing in his chest as hers was. To taste his kisses again.

  He smiled and settled between her thighs. Tavia shivered at the first slide of his hot tongue. The thick hair of his beard tickled against her thighs, and she let out a little squeal.

  Killian lifted his head. “Anytime you wish me to stop, I will.”

  Reaching down, she skidded her fingers against the soft hairs at the edge of his jaw and shook her head. “I don’t want you to stop.”

  He dipped his head again, and she threaded her fingers in his hair, dragging against his scalp as she bucked toward him. She tried calling his name, but throaty gasps were all she could manage as he pleasured her. Then she began to quiver, her thighs tensing as her body arced below him. Tremors rippled through her. Killian lapped at her more hungrily, and the exquisite dance of his tongue was too much. As if she couldn’t hold the pleasure in and she would break apart. And then she did, shuddering against his mouth as she let out a long lusty moan.

  Killian settled next to her, and she fit herself against him as he pulled the covers up. She savored the warmth and weight of his arms as he embraced her, pressing her mouth to his heated chest to flick her tongue out and taste his skin. She traced her fingertip along the scar she’d first seen in the cottage, and then one nearby.

  “I had no idea,” she marveled. “I know the mechanics, of course. I’ve read books.” Books that had lied, or at least diminished the extraordinary bliss of release.

  “There are additional mechanics we didn’t explore.” He bent his head to meet her gaze, one brow arched high.

  “I know,” she whispered, pushing her palm playfully against his chest. So much more. The books had been quite clear on the mechanics of coitus. And the variety of methods. “I just didn’t expect—” She didn’t finish, just nuzzled against him.

  Which seemed perfectly all right with Killian. Apparently, he was a man who preferred actions to words.

  He tightened his hold on her waist and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Sleep, sweetheart,” he bid her between kisses.

  Tavia nodded, nuzzling closer. She didn’t have the words to tell him what was in her heart. Not only had their lovemaking overwhelmed her, but so too did her feelings. She wanted to stay this way with him. Capture this moment and hold on to it forever, especially since she could never keep Killian in her life.

  They were destined to part, but why did it feel so right when they were together?

  Within minutes, her body melted against his, each muscle softening as her breathing slowed and deepened. Images flitted through her mind. Days spent with Killian, nights wrapped in his arms. Fantasies with as much substance as candy fluff.

  Just for tonight, she’d let herself dream of that future.

  Tension seemed to seep from Killian’s body too. His eyes fluttered closed. But just for a moment. He opened them again and gazed across the room, as if to ensure the fire was waning.

  “They might still be out there,” he whispered. “I should go back down.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” Tavia urged.

  A yawn stretched his jaw wide, and he remained beside her. He stroked a hand along her back, smiling when she let out a satisfied purr in reply.

  He needed to go. She knew that. Not downstairs but back to the life he’d rejected. And he would. She would see to it. But now she knew one fact above all others.

  Succeeding at her mission was going to hurt like hell.

  Chapter Eight

  Tavia woke in a warm cocoon of blankets wrapped snugly around her body. She stretched her arms above her head, opened her eyes, and found that she was in the middle of Killian’s bed. Wrapped in Killian-scented blankets. The man himself was nowhere in sight.

  Grady lay nearby, watching over her from a rug near the fire. He tilted his head inquisitively when she climbed out of bed.

  “Where is he, boy?”

  The hound twisted his head in the other direction but offered no clues.

  Memories flooded her mind, flushing her body with heat. He filled her mind. She regretted nothing about the intimacies they’d shared. In fact, the only thing she wanted was to see him, speak to him, kiss him again.

  After dressing quickly, she started toward the door, noting that her ankle barely twinged as she put her weight on it. She tried to ignore her satchel, which sat slumping on the top of his desk. Planting her hands on her hips, she let out a ragged sigh. Her trip to Yorkshire had not been a pleasure jaunt. She’d been sent to Killian for one purpose. A mission so valued by their monarch that Tavia’s efforts were the last in a long line of attempts to retrieve a wayward duke.

  Like Killian, she’d lost sight of her duty.

  Emotion complicated every situation. She told herself that prior to each investigation. And she’d learned the lesson well when her betrothed told her as much while breaking off their engagement, claiming she was a woman “brimming with far too much emotion.”

  Her father had been a man of logic, reason, stoicism. She suspected she’d disappointed him by being too eager, too happy or sad, depending on the provocation.

  And she’d never met a more potent provocation than Killian Graves.

  But there was no question of remaining in Yorkshire to live with him in his reclusive hideaway. And what if she succeeded in her mission? What if he returned to London, assumed the responsibilities of his title, and did his duty by the queen?

  One countess as a school friend did not make Tavia the equal of a duke.

  She cast her gaze toward the tangled sheets on his bed. No, she would regret nothing, but now she needed to get back to the business at hand.

  As she headed downstairs, a half-open door along the hallway drew her notice. From the moment she’d entered the house, only one door in the upstairs hall had ever stood open—the one to Killian’s bedchamber. Stopping outside the cracked door, she peeked inside, and her breath—and all her fresh resolve—tangled in her throat.

  Near an open window, Killian stood, bathed in sunlight and bare from the waist up. He had his back to her, and she marveled at the dips and curves of corded muscles rippling across his torso as he lifted a razor in one hand and held up a hand mirror in the other.

  Gaping, breathless, she watched as he slid the blade along his jaw. “What are you doing?”

  Razor midair, he pivoted around to face her, a grin lifting the edge of his mustache-less mouth. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to interrupt a man while he’s shaving?”

  “You’re shaving it all off?” She rushed forward and took up a towel from the nearby basin to wipe at shaving foam that had trickled onto his chest.

  “I am, though it’s damned hard to do in this tiny mirror.” He cast what looked like a lady’s vanity mirror aside. Looking around the room, she guessed it had once been a woman’s bedchamber. A sprightly rose wallpaper had faded and begun to curl at the tops of the walls.

  “May I?” Tavia lifted her palm and glanced at the razor.

  He laid it warily in her hand. “Are you skilled at shaving a man’s face?”

  She applied her fingertips to his chin and jaw, holding him steady as she lifted the blade. “How hard can it be?”

  That sent one of his bronze brows winging high.

  “Just keep still,” she commanded. “I need to concentrate.”

  The sound of his heartbeat and warm puffs of breath against her cheek were almost as tantalizing as the topograp
hy of his beautifully sculpted lips. Peaks and valleys and a full crescent that made her own mouth water. Especially now that she knew all the wicked things they could do.

  He watched her every move, studying her face. This close, he’d no doubt notice every wretched freckle and the constellation of “beauty” marks that dotted her skin. She’d long thought of them as a curse.

  “There.” Tavia skidded the razor across his skin to shave away the last of his beard and tipped her head back, studying her work. He’d gotten most of his whiskers off by the time she’d entered the room, but now his jaw was completely bare. A strong, chiseled jaw that only added to his appeal.

  He stared at her, saying nothing, an amused grin playing at the edges of his mouth.

  “What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

  “You’re beautiful, Octavia.” Killian shrugged and reached for the towel to wipe away the remaining shaving foam. “Especially when you concentrate.”

  She stumbled over words, compliments she wished to give him, but telling a man of his beauty seemed too effusive. Her cheeks heated, and all she managed was a quiet “Thank you.”

  After scrubbing at his face and wiping his hands on the towel, he started toward her. She couldn’t take her eyes off his mouth, and his gaze dropped to hers. Slipping a hand around her waist, he pulled her close for a kiss. He tasted of bay shaving soap and tea, and when she raised her hand between them, the heat of his chest felt glorious under her fingertips. Too quickly, he lifted his head, braced one hand on her lower back, and smiled. “I haven’t even bid you good morning yet.”

  This was too easy. Being with him, kissing him, letting him hold her as if they belonged to each other. There was a lightness in his eyes this morning.

  “Did you sleep last night?”

  “I did.” He cast her a breath-stealing smile. “More hours than I’ve managed in years. Some sentry I am.”

  “They didn’t come.” Though the fact brought Tavia no relief. They were watching, and at least one of them was armed. “Who do you think they are? Surely the queen wouldn’t employ such brutal, bungling men.”

  “No,” Killian said, slipping one of his hands lower, over the arch of her backside to pull her closer. “Not the queen.”

  “Unless she didn’t trust me to ensure your return,” Tavia mumbled quietly, as much to herself as much to him.

  “I doubt that very much.” He tipped his head, studying her. “Don’t worry, Octavia. I have a plan.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, but hold that thought,” he whispered as he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. He found the spot that turned her knees to jelly, a patch just behind her ear. “I’ve thought of kissing you here”—he stroked the tip of his tongue along the spot, and her thighs began to quiver—“since waking next to you.” Nuzzling her cheek with his freshly shaven jaw, he lifted a hand between them and cupped her breast. “I want to kiss you here too.”

  Sounds from downstairs drew their notice. Bangs and thuds and Grady’s rumbling bark.

  “Killian?” Her voice sounded thick in her ears. As fuzzy as her thoughts. She wanted to be back in bed with him, with nothing between them—no secrets or duty. Just this passion, this desire that neither of them could contain. But the dog kept barking, and a frigid chill chased down her spine. Fear sharpened her senses and instinct took hold. “They’re here.”

  Killian retrieved a knife from his boot and quickly donned his shirt. A moment later, Grady let out a terrible yelp and fell silent.

  “Those bloody bastards.” He gripped Tavia’s arm, and started toward the threshold. “Go to my chamber, lock the door, and retrieve my pistol from the bedside drawer. You know how to shoot and defend yourself?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Octavia, just go.” His mouth came crashing down on hers before he wrapped an arm around her, pushing her toward the door.

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs and Killian pushed Tavia behind him. The hinges of the bedchamber door creaked as someone pushed through.

  “Mrs. Teague.” Tavia reached for the woman as she half stumbled, half fell into the room. “What’s happened downstairs?”

  “Men confronted Niall in the field. They’ve wounded him. Brought him back trussed up and bloodied. Forced their way inside. Grady and I tried to stop ’em, and they gave the dog an awful blow.” She tipped her tear-filled eyes up at Killian. “Told me to come up and fetch you.”

  “I’m going down.” Killian started past her, turning back to tell Tavia, “Keep her safe, and yourself.”

  “Have a care,” Mrs. Teague warned. “One of them has a gun and I suspect they’re concealing more.”

  “I’m not staying here.” Tavia brushed past him, and he pulled her back by the elbow.

  “This isn’t up for debate. I can’t…” His grip tightened on her arm, and emotion burned in his eyes. “I can’t bear to think of you coming to harm.”

  Tavia braced a hand on his shoulder and lifted onto her toes. “I won’t allow anyone to hurt you either.” She took his mouth in a quick kiss. “Which is why I’m coming with you.”

  “Tavia…”

  With a finger to his mouth, she quieted him. “You’ll want me there, Killian. I have two revolvers in my satchel.” She cast her gaze back at Mrs. Teague. “We should give Mrs. Teague your knife to protect herself.”

  Killian flipped the blade toward himself and offered his housekeeper the handle. “You’re all right with a knife?”

  “Aye, me lord.” She narrowed one bloodshot eye and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “I wager I’ve done more filleting than you’ve done shooting. And forgive me for saying so, sir, but those men downstairs deserve a bit of both.”

  Mrs. Teague proved as stubborn as Tavia, and Killian kept the women behind him as they moved as a trio down the stairs.

  Grady lifted his head the moment he spotted his mistress. The old dog had taken a knock, but he was up and shuffled over to Mrs. Teague as she bent to saw through the bonds binding her husband’s wrists and ankles. After helping Niall to his feet, they both offered Killian grim nods, letting him know they’d be fine.

  “Go belowstairs and stay there,” he commanded as he and Tavia approached the parlor threshold.

  Tavia squeezed his hand. The agreed-upon signal let him know she recognized the men positioned on either side of the mantel as the same thugs who’d accosted her in the village. One tall and thin. One young and blond. Just as she’d described.

  “I don’t recognize the other,” she whispered.

  “I do.” Killian swallowed back the bile that chased up his throat.

  None of the three men held weapons in their hands, but Killian suspected all were thoroughly armed. As were he and Tavia, thanks to the arsenal she’d stowed away in her satchel.

  The third man stood apart from the others, both in stature and class. His clothes were finer, his haircut neater. His bearing was one of command, as if he’d never be anyone’s lackey. Blue bloods rarely were.

  “I didn’t intend this to commence quite so messily, Strathmoor.”

  “Forsythe,” Killian hissed, taking a long stride to position himself in front of Tavia. “What brings you to Yorkshire?”

  An expression slashed across Forsythe’s face, too sharp to be a smile. “You do, of course.” Settling into a fixed stance, he spread his feet wide and crossed his gloved hands in front of him. “I persist, you see, in wishing to see you dead.” He scraped a dismissive gaze across the two men at his back. “I thought to trust the matter to others, but they revealed themselves to your woman like bumbling fools. So here I am, dragged away from London’s pleasures to take the matter in hand myself.”

  Tavia came up beside Killian, so close her chest brushed the back of his arm. Killian lifted a hand to keep her from proceeding any further.

  “Get out, Clive. You won’t find the justice you seek here.”

  The gentleman’s brow pleated into deep grooves. “I have never
given you leave to use my Christian name. Refrain from doing so,” he added haughtily, as if Killian were a recalcitrant servant who needed to be put in his place.

  “I did not murder your brother.” Killian took care to enunciate each word. Neville Forsythe’s sibling wasn’t the only one who needed to hear the truth of the man’s death. He wanted Tavia to know the facts too. Her opinion mattered most of all.

  He could feel her gaze on him and sensed the tension in her body. One hand remained in her skirt pocket, where he knew she concealed a revolver.

  Forsythe tugged at the wrist of his black leather gloves, one after the other. “I’ve no time for your hollow claims of innocence, Strathmoor. Particularly when one considers the lengths you’ve gone to avoid capture.” He sniffed, tipped his head back, and looked down his sharp aquiline nose at Tavia. “Is she a servant or a whore?”

  “She’s the one from the village,” Forsythe’s young blond thug put in.

  “The one who knocked you into the dirt?” The other brute was older. Tall and gaunt. Killian suspected he wielded the brains between the two, since he couldn’t imagine him successfully overpowering anyone.

  “Send her away,” Forsythe commanded. “This is a private matter.”

  Tavia strained against Killian’s arm as if she’d tuck her head and rush each of them like a battering ram, given half the chance. He cast a glance at her over his shoulder. She gave a tiny shake of her head, her mouth set in a firm line. He wanted her away from whatever violence Forsythe intended, but he knew she wouldn’t go without a fuss. Of course, with her close, he could protect her. Who knew how many men Forsythe had assembled around the estate.

  “She stays,” he finally said.

  “Why?” Forsythe’s thin coal-black brows lifted. “Does she mean something to you?”

  Killian clenched his fist and imagined doing the same to Forsythe’s scrawny throat. The twisted bastard was looking at Tavia with fresh interest. Wondering, no doubt, whether hurting her would cause Killian misery. It would. She meant a great deal to him. The feelings were fresh and new, but potent. He wanted her, yes, but he cared for her in equal measure. As terrifying as the thought was to ponder, he could not imagine a day ahead without her.