Pointing accusingly at the dossier, he asked, “Why would you ask me to tell you anything when I’m certain all my secrets are laid out in that folio?” The accusing finger moved in her direction. “You possess the advantage, Octavia. No doubt the queen’s men provided you with plenty of tittle-tattle about me. And what of your father? What secrets did he reveal?”
“Leave my father out of this. He’s dead.” Admitting what had been true for over a year still stung. That same pang of pain and loss sucked the air from her lungs. But she wouldn’t crumble in front of him. She would never allow herself to fall into that all-consuming sadness again.
“Tavia, I’m sorry.” He started toward her.
She lifted a hand to stop him. He kept coming until his chest was flush against her palm.
“I didn’t know about your father.”
“But you did know him. When you heard my surname, you said your sins had caught up with you. What does that mean? Tell me how you were acquainted with my father. Of late, everyone I meet knew the man better than I did.” Her father had always been a gentleman of discretion, of secrets locked away. With an encyclopedic knowledge of weaponry. Who’d served the queen, though no one would confess precisely how. “Was he a…spy?”
Killian placed his hand over hers where it lay pressed to the center of his chest. “He was an agent of the Crown,” he admitted, “at least when I knew him. A man of intelligence with a gift for stratagems.” He squeezed her hand. “I returned to Afghanistan after the war. Perhaps in some mad way, I thought to make amends. I provided your father with information useful to the Crown, but that feels like a betrayal now too. The sins are all mine. Your father was simply doing his best to serve our queen.”
Hearing Killian confirm her suspicions about her father brought a jolt of shock, yet it was tempered by memories playing through her mind. Memories linking, one after another, like puzzle pieces fitting into place. Somewhere, deep down, she’d always sensed there was more to her father than a love for travel, ancient artifacts, and classical art.
“He never told you,” Killian said softly.
“Not a word, though he taught me to be curious, how to think inquisitively, and use every weapon under the sun.”
An amused expression tipped the edges of his mouth. “Anyone who knew him would have expected Octavius Fowler’s daughter to be a formidable young woman.”
“I started my own private inquiry agency a year ago.” How she wished her father could know of her accomplishment. “I suppose, in some way, I’ve followed in his footsteps.” Tavia smoothed her hand up Killian’s chest until she reached his shoulder. “And that certainly explains how he knew the queen.”
“Ah yes.” His body tensed under her touch. “The reason you’re here. To fetch me back to London.”
“You still refuse to return?” The Forsythe murder was settled now. If he returned, he could clear the matter and lift the cloud of suspicion that had tarnished his family name.
Killian stared at a point on the wall behind her head. “My brother was a man of honor, as was my father, and Grandfather before them. None of them ever expected me to inherit. I’d be a blot on the Strathmoor legacy if I did.”
“But you have inherited. Aristocratic titles aren’t like achieving a new rank in the army. They aren’t bestowed on merit or experience or the ability to perform the duties of the role.”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I believe you’ve just made the perfect argument against primogeniture.” He bent his head as if he wished to kiss her, but Tavia arched back.
“Tell me why you won’t return.”
“I’ve told you. I will fail.” His eyes lit with some inscrutable emotion before he released her and strode back toward the bed. After sifting through the documents in Lord Cecil’s dossier, his fingers stalled on a series of newspaper clippings. Tavia recognized them as those regarding the Battle of Maiwand, a costly defeat for the British Army during the Second Anglo-Afghan War.
“You survived,” Tavia said quietly.
“Thousands of others did not.” Killian took up one particular square of newsprint, squinting at the black-and-white image illustrating the article. “I should have been at Khig with those men.” Lifting the paper in the air, he held it out for her inspection. “Even the bloody dog survived.”
Of all the newspaper coverage the battle had received, one story had captured the public’s notice more than any other. A scruffy dog had survived the last stand of several brave soldiers who’d fought to their deaths while their comrades retreated. Bobbie, the little scrapper, stood with them bravely before hobbling off to join the retreating army.
Crumpling the newspaper clipping, Killian slumped onto the edge of the bed. “Living doesn’t feel like victory when so many others are dead.”
Tavia went to him, stepping between his spread thighs, settling her hands on his shoulders where the long, soft strands of his hair tickled her skin.
“We worked hard to save all the wounded,” he said in an anguished tone. “The sun was relentless. Water was scarce. Dust and dirt gets into your mouth, your eyes, your nose. Fatal errors were made.” He bowed his head against her body. “To leave men you’ve promised to protect, who have fought beside you, as you retreat. How can that be forgiven?”
“You said you transported the wounded. Because you survived, others did too.”
“Like Lieutenant Hollis?”
“He sounds like a man who was determined to make his own choices.”
“As am I.” Lifting his head, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her near. “Can you trust a man who would give shelter to a murderer? Can you love a man who failed to save those under his watch?”
Tavia bent and pressed a soft kiss to Killian’s mouth. “I’m afraid,” she whispered between them, “I already do.”
He latched an arm about her waist, lifted, and turned her so that she was underneath him, the soft lumps of his mattress at her back.
“I take it my confession pleases you.” She reached for the buttons of his shirt, sensing that he needed this moment between them as much as she did.
“I’m giving you fair warning, Tavia.” Killian stroked a finger down her cheek before reaching for the top hooks of her dress. “You deserve far better than me.”
“I disagree. And I’m independ—” Her lips opened on a moan when he kissed the edge of her breast. He’d worked her gown’s fastenings and corset’s hooks quickly, whereas the warm, damp drag of his tongue had stalled her words, and her hands, completely. “I make my own choices,” she managed on a breathy whisper.
“Then that makes two of us.” Killian arched up on his knees and pulled his shirt over his head. When he reached for his top trouser button, Tavia pushed her gown and chemise down over her shoulders, lifting and wiggling until she had the garment gathered around her hips.
He helped her, dragging the fabric, along with her skirt and drawers, over her hips and thighs until she was free and exposed to his eager gaze. “So beautiful.”
“Hurry,” she whispered. She ached for what came next, to be close to Killian in a way she’d never been with any man.
Lifting off the bed, he bent to remove his boots and then let his unbuttoned trousers fall to the ground. He was gloriously hard, not just that part of him that lifted eagerly toward her, but the ridges of muscles down his belly, the flexing sinews of his thighs, the chiseled line at the top of each hip. She’d read books, seen art and sculptures of well-made men, but nothing compared to Killian.
Reaching for him, Tavia slid her fingertips along the edge of his thigh. He groaned before kneeling on the bed, pressing his hands into the mattress on either side of her to balance above her. Tavia wanted no distance between them. She reached for his hip and pulled him close, bucking up to meet him.
He slid against her, his hard, persistent heat teasing at her core, and she wanted him closer. “More.” She wanted all of him, every inch, every secret, every moment she could get.
“This may hurt, my eager love, but only the first time.” He took her lips gently, then delved his tongue inside to taste her. “Only the first time,” he promised.
“Yes,” she whispered and lifted her hips to take him in.
Killian inched inside slowly, his brow furrowed, gaze locked on hers as if scanning for her reaction. The slide of him, the stretching and fullness, was an exquisite kind of torture. There was a pinch of pain, but it was nothing to her eagerness to be close to him. More, more, kept playing in her mind. “Please, Killian.”
And he knew. He understood her plea, because he gave one final thrust and filled her completely. She realized she’d been holding her breath when a gasp rushed out.
“Mercy,” she heard him say under his breath as he began to move inside her. “Tavia.” He said her name on a wonder-filled whisper as he began to thrust. “You feel like heaven.” He set a delicious rhythm, stroking her body as he took her lips again and again. “More than I deserve.”
“Love me.” Tavia reached around his shoulders to pull him closer.
He deepened their kiss, reached between them to cup her breast. His fingers circled her nipple, drawing more exquisite pleasure from her body. She was rushing toward a precipice. Every part of her needing, wanting more. He took her further, stroked her until her body tipped toward the edge. And then she was falling, feverish, dizzy, as she trembled against him.
“You’re mine, Tavia.” He pushed onto one hand and stared down as he filled her. He thrust deep the moment the words were out, tipping back his head and letting out a lusty groan. Then his heated weight came down on her. Tavia wrapped her arms around him, stroked his back, trailed kisses along every inch of warm salty flesh she could find.
Minutes later, he rolled onto his side and pulled her close, nuzzling her cheeks, stroking his hands along her sated body. Tavia pulled the coverlet over them and closed her eyes.
Mine, he’d said, and she wished it could be true. She’d come to capture him, but he was the one who’d succeeded in capturing a piece of her heart.
Her throat tightened and her chest ached when she thought of the future. How could she part from him now?
Killian seemed to sense her unease and drew her closer. “Sleep, love,” he whispered against her hair.
She closed her eyes, focused on the steadiness of his breathing, and eventually drowsiness pulled her down. As she rested with her back against Killian’s chest, he began a series of soft rumbling snores. A smile played at her lips. To her ears, the sound was one of contentment, a sign that here, at least for this moment, they were safe in each other’s arms.
* * *
What seemed only a moment later, the world shifted beneath her, and Tavia opened her eyes.
Killian stood by the bed fully dressed, stuffing her belongings back into her traveling satchel.
Sitting up, she swiped at her eyes. “What are you doing?” Her throat felt sleep raw and scratchy, and the light filtering through the window indicated they’d slept through the night.
“Packing up your things. The Teagues are back, and Mrs. Teague says she’s right as rain.” He cast her a half frown, half grin. “A phrase I’ve never quite understood.” Leaning toward her, he slid a hand around her neck and brushed her lips in a too-short kiss. “Come, love. There are fresh scones for breakfast, and we depart within the hour.”
Tavia shook her head as if doing so might clear the confusion in her mind. “Depart to where?”
Killian kissed her again and gazed into her eyes. “I’m giving you what you came for. Me.” Sliding a hand down her arm, he gazed hungrily at her bare breasts and then tipped her one of his heart-stopping smiles. “We’re going to London, Octavia.” He planted one final kiss on her nose and stood. “Now, hurry and dress before I’m tempted to forget the trip and keep you in bed all day.”
Chapter Ten
Tavia was quiet for much of their train journey, and Killian began to fear he’d made the wrong choice.
After the moments of bliss they’d shared and the first long, restful sleep he’d had in years, his mind had settled on inevitability. His fate. Octavia was right. Inheritance wasn’t something a man chose. He was the Duke of Strathmoor. As long as he lived, they would never pass the title to his weak cousin, Bertram, nor to the competent steward of the estate.
He cast a gaze in Tavia’s direction, and she offered him one of her soft, gentle grins that unlocked all the hidden parts of him. Now, with her, he had a reason to return. A reason to do what was right. She would expect nothing less of him. As would their queen.
“We’re halfway to the city, and you’ve been suspiciously quiet.” He swallowed a lump of anxiety. “Regrets?”
“No. Never.” Her hand settled into his, as soft and warm as one of her smiles. He liked that she didn’t wear gloves. That he could touch her and feel the steady, soothing jump of her pulse under his fingertips. “You didn’t say goodbye to the Teagues.”
“I did, love, but in my own way. Mrs. Teague loathes long goodbyes.” Squeezing her hand, he thought of all that he could do for the older couple as a duke. The savings from his time in the army had dwindled to a pittance, but he’d have access to the Strathmoor coffers soon. As well as the responsibility for growing them. “I doubt they’ll ever wish to leave Yorkshire, but I’ll offer the Teagues a place at Gravesend.”
“Is your estate very grand?” Tavia turned away from him, gazing out the window onto the sun-streaked fields rushing by the train car window.
Killian bent to kiss the tantalizing patch of freckled skin above the neckline of her gown. “Gravesend is a special place. Not a cold, imposing estate, but a house of snug rooms and byzantine hallways, secret doors, and hidden nooks. My grandfather tore down the original crumbling Tudor structure so he could design a puzzle box of a house. Just the place for a lady with an investigator’s instincts.” He realized he was rambling, eager to get her to look his way again.
She did, but the melancholy in her moss-gold eyes didn’t put him at ease. “I’ll never see Gravesend, Killian.”
“Of course you will.” There would be matters to settle in London, but now that he’d committed to this course, he was eager to return to his family’s seat in Sussex. To see Octavia there and show her all his favorite spots. To kiss her in every single one of them.
She let out a sigh. “You’re a duke. I’m a detective. Why will we even have cause to see each other again once we reach King’s Cross station?”
“Tavia, you’re the reason I’m here. The reason I’m returning to that stinking city at all.” Now his head was beginning to pound. “Do you not understand what you mean to me?”
Nibbling at her lower lip, she stared at him, emotion whirling in her eyes, but she offered no reply. Had he somehow misread all that had passed between them? The passion between them had been real, but did she feel nothing more?
“Will you serve the queen again?” There was a troubled hitch in her tone. “Go back to the army or”—they were alone in the first-class train carriage, but she lowered her voice—“work as an agent of the Crown?”
“Strathmoors have been serving in such a capacity for decades, but I made my decision clear to Her Majesty. I’ve retired. I won’t go back.” He pressed their clasped hands into her lap, but Tavia’s hold had loosened. As if she was preparing to let go of him. “I have other plans now,” he added, wishing he could make her understand. “Tavia, you are at the center of all those plans.”
Tightening her fingers around his, she gave a minute shake of her head and said softly, “I don’t see how that’s possible.”
But she would. She had given him hope and a motivation he’d never expected to find. He felt prepared to move mountains to have her.
Once he’d settled his affairs, put his estate in order, and made amends where he was able with friends and associates he’d abandoned for years, he would ask for her hand.
Though when she tipped her head to rest against his shoulder, he wondered if he possesse
d enough patience to wait. He wanted her now. With a carnal lust, yes. He’d take her on the train carriage bench if she’d let him. But he wanted more than a quick tumble. He wanted her. In his life. In his bed. As his duchess. As his wife.
Patience, man. First he needed to deserve her. Most of London loathed him, convinced he was a raving murderer or, at the very least, a disreputable scalawag. Even worse, some considered him a war hero. He didn’t wish to make Tavia suffer for his dreadful reputation. His only prayer was that he could rehabilitate his good name quickly.
Because, as he’d learned a few minutes after meeting her, parting from Tavia Fowler was impossible for him to do.
Killian watched as she entered the telegraph office, as if he was afraid she’d vanish if he let her out of his sight.
Lord Cecil had instructed her to wire him the moment she returned to town with the duke. Her message was short and to the point.
“How soon will it reach him?” she asked the telegraph operator.
“Within the hour, miss.”
“Very good.” After handing the man a coin, she started toward Killian and stopped midway. He frowned, and she tried for a reassuring look, despite her uncertainty about what came next.
Not only could she not bear to think of the moment when she must part from him once and for all, but Lord Cecil had never told her how to proceed once she’d returned with him. Was she expected to deliver Killian to Buckingham Palace? The guards arrayed around the structure made that seem a less than appealing prospect. Did Lord Cecil plan to meet her someplace and convey Killian to the queen? If so, he should have told her as much.
While she fretted, Killian approached. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure what to do now.”
“Well.” He came close enough for his boots to brush the hem of her skirt. “I wouldn’t refuse a kiss.”
The man was determined to melt her resistance, and it felt as flimsy as foolscap. “There were no instructions about where I should deliver you once we arrived in the city.”
Her Majesty’s Scoundrels Page 10