Thoroughly.
Until she lost her breath so completely that she could only sob and wordlessly beg, entreat, implore. Hands clenching tight in his black hair, she arched helplessly beneath his too-knowing ministrations. Desperately dragged in a breath. “For God’s sake, Logan—just fill me. Please …”
He obliged, but with his tongue, stroking so deeply, so roughly that she climaxed in a shattering, shuddering rush of sharply glittering pleasure.
As it waned, she only felt emptier still.
Cracking open her lids, she focused on his face, took in his expression of pure masculine gloating as, straightening, he looked down at her. His slow smile stated he knew exactly what she wanted, what she needed, and how to deliver it.
“Up.” Grasping her hands, he pulled her up and off the desk, steadied her when she wobbled, then turned her and steered her, guiding her unsteady steps toward the table. It was difficult to walk with her breeches about her knees, but before she could think to do anything about it, his hands tightened about her hips and he halted her. “Lean forward and grip the edge of the table.”
She did, her knees against the edge of the bench built out from the table’s base.
Even as the vulnerability of her position registered, she felt his hands roam her bare bottom, sending sensation and dewed heat washing beneath her skin, then his boots bracketed hers, keeping her feet, her braced legs together. His splayed hands caressed slowly, savoringly, upward over her hips, pushing her shirt and her chemise up over her waist, exposing even more of her, then one hand settled heavily over the back of her waist while the other swept down and away.
Her heart was still cantering, hadn’t slowed from before. Anticipation kicked it into a full-blown gallop.
She’d barely started to work out what he planned, hadn’t truly caught her breath, when she felt the thick rod of his erection push into the hollow between her thighs, felt the marble head nudge between her folds—and he thrust home, pushing her forward, onto her toes, making her breath stutter, her hands grip tight.
He withdrew and thrust in again and she nearly mewled with pleasure. He held her hips steady and filled her repeatedly. She could feel his groin meeting the smooth skin of her bottom, feel the rasp of crinkly hair, the evocative pressure of his balls against the backs of her thighs. She clung to the table, head bowing as the sensation of him filling her over and over, deeper and yet deeper, rolled over and through her, and claimed her mind.
His hips pumped powerfully in a primal beat. He reached around her, hands working, then she felt a tug. He leaned, forward, pushed deeper into her. A darkly whispered order in her ear had her complying by releasing one clenched hand, then the other, letting him strip off her coat and waistcoat, then reaching beneath her shirt, he loosened her bands, drew them down, and closed his hands about her breasts, screened only by her fine chemise.
He kneaded, filled his hands and played, possessed, while his body possessed hers in the most flagrant way.
Then he leaned closer yet, one hand leaving her breast to skate down her front, to stroke her curls, then reach further and stroke her, then cup her there, steadying her as he changed the angle and pushed her on.
She shook her head in desperation, started rocking her hips, riding to his rhythm.
Glorying in the sensations that crashed through her as he rode her deeply, thoroughly, unrelentingly, until she shattered again. Came apart on a cry she fought desperately to smother.
Felt her legs, her arms, fail, heard his deep, dark chuckle as he caught her against him, held her to him, still sunk in her body, hard and full.
She felt a moment’s indignation that he wasn’t as desperate as she.
But she knew him, his ways, well enough by now to know that he would seek his own release only after reducing her to boneless helplessness with bout after bout of blinding ecstasy.
Her wits were so enthralled in glory she was only distantly aware of him shifting her bands, unpicking the knot, then unwinding them.
Then he drew off her chemise, withdrew from her, shuffled her the short distance to her bed, and tipped her onto it.
She could barely summon the strength to lift her lids, and through her lashes look up at him. He stood for an instant looking down at her, his smile holding equal measures of primitive possession, unalloyed pleasure, and simple content.
The latter clutched at her heart, but she pushed it aside. He would undoubtedly be just as content with some other woman, some other lady, later. After.
Logan couldn’t help smiling at the sight of her, his fierce captain, sprawled mostly naked on her bed, her skin rosy, flushed with sated desire, the marks of his possession showing faintly on the fine skin of her breasts and hips. He would probably mark her more before the night was out, but as he’d informed her, this was his night, his way.
He saw the glint of green beneath her lashes. Before she could think to say anything, he reached down and tugged off her boots, rolled down her stockings, and drew off her breeches.
Leaving her totally naked, still sprawled, letting him look his fill as he swiftly dispensed with his own clothes, then, naked, let his body down on hers, covering her, with one hard thrust mounting her, feeling her arch instinctively beneath him, then wriggle to more comfortably accommodate his harder bones, his different angles.
Clamping one hand about the worked head of the bed where it attached to the wall, he looked down at her beneath him and let the reins fall, let his body surge.
Again and again, he moved powerfully over her, thrusting deeply into her, smoothly, rhythmically, taking her, possessing her. Imprinting the feel of him deep within her.
He didn’t stop when she dragged in a huge breath, thrust a little faster as she raised her arms, ran her hands down his sides, over his back, then helplessly clung.
And started riding with him, her body undulating beneath his, actively receiving him.
Giving him all, everything he wanted.
All of her, every last gasp, every moment of passion he wrung from her. With his free hand, he reached down and gripped her thigh, raised it. She lifted it further, wrapped that leg, then the other, around his hips, opening herself even more.
So he could fill her even more deeply, take even more of, her luscious heat, bathe even more deeply in her scalding glory.
Eyes closing, he rode on, harder, ever more powerfully pushing her on. He could feel his grip on reality fracturing, feel the siren call of her body as it tightened around his, inexorably racking the wheel of passion to the last degree.
He raised his free hand, blindly searched and found her face, framed it, then bent his head and sank into her mouth. Filled it to the same primal rhythm with which he filled her sheath.
Swallowed her scream as she climaxed beneath him, as bucking and straining she fractured, and ecstasy took her, racked her, raked her.
As she pulled him with her, hands clutching, her sheath a velvet fist clamping around him until he surrendered, until, on a long, hoarse groan, one she drank in, he gave himself to her.
Sometime later, Linnet awoke, immediately reassured by the weight of the heavily muscled leg entwined with hers, by the warmth of the hard chest wedged beside hers. Opening her eyes, she saw Logan propped on one arm alongside her. The narrow bed forced him to lie half over her—no bad thing in her opinion.
The moonlight had strengthened, pouring through the stern portholes to bathe his face, limning the chiseled angles in silver. Revealing his expression, the firm set of his lips, but drowning his blue eyes in shadows.
A long moment passed, then he said, his voice deep, low, but definite, “I meant what I said. I can’t believe you can conceive of anything in this world powerful enough to make me give you up. Make me not return. Only death, or something close to it, will stop me coming back for you.”
She said nothing; there seemed nothing she could say. In this, their views were diametrically opposed, and no amount of his loving was going to change that. But … “I believe you b
elieve that.” She had to allow him that. “I don’t think you’re, just saying it, a sop to your conscience or mine. But—and yes, there is a but—I don’t have your faith that, once back in your real world, away from my world, you’ll still see things the same way.”
The twisting of his lips told her clearly what he thought of her lack of faith, her inability to believe. But after searching her face for a moment more, he shifted, then slumped over her shoulder, laid his arm across her, holding her half beneath him.
If their minds weren’t in accord, their bodies were. Sleep drifted over them, inexorably drew them down.
Before it captured them completely, he murmured, his voice a dark, faintly Scottish rumble by her ear, “One of us is wrong. Bone-stubborn witch that you are, it’s going to be glorious when you realize it’s you.”
Linnet fell asleep smiling.
Close to midnight
Shrewton House, London
Daniel strode into the bedroom he and Alex had been sharing, brushing lingering snowflakes from his coat. By the flickering firelight, he saw Alex rise to prop in the bed, brows arching in question.
Closing the door, Daniel headed for the bed. “The snow’s coming down heavily. I’d forgotten how wet snow here is. The roads are slush.”
“I thought you and dear Roderick were off to deal with Hamilton in Surrey.”
Daniel grimaced, and sat on the bed to pull off his boots. “So we’d thought, but by the time we reached the area, he—or those with him, guards like Delborough had, according to the few of ours left to tell the tale—had removed those of our men sent to trail their party, and before you lose your temper, the party split into four, so there were only two, men at most following any group.” Boots off, he stood and stripped off his coat. “With our followers dispatched, the devil and his henchmen went to ground. But all is not lost.”
Tossing his coat aside, he started on his waistcoat. “Roderick and I managed to track our men well enough to get a reasonable idea of the area in which Hamilton’s bolt-hole is. We’ve left men enough to trail him whichever way he runs, and they’ll send word as soon as he does.”
“Hmm.” Alex resettled in the bed. “I still think it’s close to certain he’ll head in the same direction—toward the same ultimate goal—as Delborough. Somewhere in Cambridgeshire, northern Suffolk, or Norfolk, to whoever is the puppetmaster pulling all their strings.”
Daniel tugged his shirt from his breeches. “Did you have any luck with finding a new base closer to the action?”
“Yes. Creighton proved most useful. From his description, the house he’s found in Bury St. Edmunds will be just the thing. I’ve organized for our removal there tomorrow.”
Undoing his breeches, Daniel nodded. “You’ve sent word to all our scattered commanders?”
“I have. I thought it best to get the word out before the weather closed in.”
“So what’s happened with Delborough?”
“Larkins is, apparently, confident his little thief is terrified enough to deliver Delborough’s scroll-holder to him—he seems very sure, but I’d rather Roderick went up there tomorrow to make certain nothing goes amiss.” Alex rolled over as Daniel lifted the pale blue silk covers and climbed into the bed. “As for Monteith and Carstairs, we’ve had no further news.”
“With any luck, both are already dead.”
Alex grimaced. “Much as I’d like to believe that … Delborough and Hamilton, too, were supposed to be dead by now. Yet they live, and still have their scroll-holders, and what’s more, are steadily getting closer to their goal—wherever that is. Regardless, our cultists are having a harder, time of it here in England. Not only do they stand out, but they’re also having difficulty comprehending that they can’t simply kill, torture, and intimidate as they do at home in India.”
“Sadly true. And they can’t gain access to places like Grillon’s.” Daniel turned to Alex, smiled through the shadows. “I suspect we might have to take a hand ourselves.” His smile widened. “I know how much killing distresses you, m’dear, but you’ll simply have to grin and bear it.”
Alex laughed and reached for Daniel. “I will. For you, I will. Still, I just hope we’ve brought enough assassins to assist.”
Ten
December 16, 1822
St. Peter Port, Guernsey
The day was overcast, dense clouds in myriad shades of gray blocking out the weak sun. A cold wind strafed low over the sea, sending whipped gray-green waves spraying in plumes over the rocky breakwater.
Standing beside Linnet at the helm, with the wind raking chill fingers through his hair, Logan watched the gun emplacements of Castle Cornet slide away to starboard as, under limited sail, the Esperance rode the tide out of the harbor.
The Channel swell lifted the prow high. Linnet held the wheel, held course, her gaze locked on the breakwater to port. The instant the stern cleared the line of tumbled rocks, she snapped out orders, relayed by her bosun down on the main deck. Sailors leapt to obey, many already hanging in the rigging above. Her gaze now following their movements, as more sails unfurled, Linnet turned the wheel, hand over hand, and steady and sure, the Esperance came around.
As the prow came onto the heading she wanted, she called out more orders, setting sail to run north along the island’s coast. Once they rounded the northern headland, she’d turn northwest for Plymouth.
Sensing the sheer power of the ship beneath his feet, of wind and waves expertly harnessed, Logan looked up, admiring the taut sails, square-rigged on the fore and main masts. At the top of the main mast, the Guernsey flag flapped and snapped in the stiff breeze.
Beside him, Linnet called out another order, and a young sailor dashed to the mizzenmast. Logan watched him operate the lines of some other flag; shading his eyes, he looked up to see … squinted. Blinked and looked again.
He was army, not navy, yet he recognized one of the various Royal Navy ensigns now flapping high above the Esperance’s deck.
Stupified, he turned to Linnet, gestured. “What the devil does that mean?”
She grinned, corrected the wheel a trifle, then handed it over to Griffiths. “Straight north, then northwest. We’ll take the most direct route unless we see anything that suggests otherwise.”
Griffiths nodded and settled behind the wheel.
Turning to Logan, Linnet waved him to the starboard side of the stern deck. “That”—with her head she indicated the ensign above—”is the strongest plank in the argument that the Esperance is the best ship to carry you to Plymouth.”
Logan stared at the ensign, then looked at her. “I don’t understand. How can the Esperance still be sailing under a Letter of Marque, much less with you as captain?”
Leaning on the stern railing, looking out over their wake, Linnet smiled. “The Trevission family has held an extant Letter of Marque for literally centuries.” She cast Logan a glance. “Englishmen forget that the islanders are more allied to the English Crown than they are. We—the Channel Islands—have been part of the Duchy of Normandy for untold centuries, and still are—your King is our Duke. We’re a property of the English Crown, not of the British state. As such, we’ve fought the French for just as long, if not longer. We’ve been a bastion against the French, and the Spanish, too, in centuries past, and in more recent, times through the Peninsula Wars, we played a crucial part in England’s defense, specifically in imposing naval supremacy.
“As I mentioned earlier, the Esperance—this version of her, there have been four—played a role in the evacuation of Corunna. Later we guarded your troop ships when the army returned. The Guernsey merchant fleet in particular has always provided a bulwark against direct attack on the Channel coast from any of the ports in Brittany, all the way to Cherbourg. And because we’re usually out and about, traveling the western reaches of the Channel, we’ve often provided early warning of any attack from further afield, to the west and south. Without us patrolling those waters, covering so many of the sea lanes, Plymouth and Falm
outh wouldn’t have been able to concentrate their fleets on the Channel itself, on discouraging Napoleon from launching his invasion from Boulogne, and then later supplying and protecting the army when you returned for Waterloo.”
She met Logan’s eyes. “English naval dominance owes no small debt to the merchant ships of Guernsey. And the commanders at Castle Cornet, and at Plymouth and Falmouth, know it.”
“Which explains why you informed the castle before sailing—your courtesy call to Foxwood.” Logan studied her face, saw the passion behind the history. “Does the Admiralty know that Captain Trevission of the Esperance is a woman?”
Her lips twisted in a cynical smile. “They do, but you would, I suspect, never get them to admit it. Not in any way.”
He considered, then said, “What you’ve told me explains why your family held a Letter of Marque until your father died. What it doesn’t explain is why it was renewed after his death, presumably with you as holder, and why it’s still in force so long after the end of the war.” He glanced up, then looked back at her. “I’m assuming you are legally entitled to fly that?”
She chuckled and turned, leaning back against the rail to, look up at the ensign. “Yes, indeed—I’m fully entitled to claim the right, might, and protection of the Royal Navy.” She met his eyes. “Which is why the Esperance sailing under marque is the perfect vessel to carry you to Plymouth. With that ensign flying up there, any captain would have to have rocks in his head to even challenge us.”
Logan shook his head. “I can’t argue that, not anymore, but you still haven’t answered my questions.”
Linnet met his eyes, then looked ahead, along the ship. “My father died in ‘13. I was seventeen. You know how things were in the Peninsula at that time—you were there. The navy desperately needed the Esperance sailing, and more, sailing under marque—she was, still is, the fastest ship of her size in these waters, the best armed, most agile, and her crew the most experienced and best trained. The navy couldn’t afford to lose the Esperance, not at that juncture. The Admiralty received urgent petitions from the island, as well as the fleet commanders at Plymouth and Falmouth.
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