Checkmate, My Lord

by Tracey Devlyn

  “Beautiful.” He closed his hand over her aching breast, adding the slightest bit of pressure to her ruched peak. A stab of need sliced through her body, lifting her to her toes.

  “So responsive.” He squeezed again, this time harder, compounding the torturous move by ravishing her mouth.

  His tongue slid inside with a thoroughness that made her legs squeeze together. She wanted to hold on to this moment for as long as possible. She wanted to experience a man’s need and have him assuage hers. She wanted to feel alive again.

  Breaking the kiss, he threw back the covers and climbed into bed. He reclined against the mound of pillows, lifting one knee and holding out his hand in invitation. A shiver raced along her bare flesh, having nothing to do with her state of undress and everything to do with his sultan-like pose. Rippling muscles, smoldering steel-gray eyes, raw desire. The erotic combination stole her breath.

  His hand lowered. “Take your hair down for me.”

  The breath she had been holding whooshed from her body. She wasn’t used to such blatant commands. They made her feel uncertain and shy, beautiful and bold.

  Straightening her spine, she lifted her hands to her hair and began pulling out pins. He followed the unfurling of every long lock with such intensity that her attempt to appear seductive and unhurried began to fray.

  When she finally located the last pin, she breathed a sigh of relief as she swept her mass of blond hair over one shoulder. “Anything else, my lord?”

  His nostrils flared. “A good deal more, I assure you, madam.”

  He lifted his hand again, and Catherine noticed it was no steadier than hers. She swallowed back the last of her trepidation and accepted his assistance. Once she had scaled the high bed, Sebastian guided her into position. She nearly balked when she realized he wanted her to mount him. Never had she assumed such a place of power with Jeffrey.

  Perceptive as always, he noted her hesitation. “Do you mind?” he asked. “I’m afraid my knee won’t hold up to the traditional way.”

  He radiated so much power and strength that Catherine momentarily forgot his injuries. “Not at all. What of your head wound?”

  “I will be careful.”

  He tugged on her hand, and Catherine followed his summons. With her knees framing his hips and her hands entwined with his uplifted ones, she knelt above him, taking in the surreal image of Sebastian beneath, gazing up at her as if she were his entire world. Power surged through her, and she lowered her starving cleft until it rested on the warm girth of his erection.

  Fire shot up her spine and her muscles clenched tightly. Even though he had not penetrated her yet, her body was on the cusp of a mind-shattering release. She rubbed her slick flesh against his hardness, the exquisite friction making them both moan their approval. She increased the pressure and her pace, nearly flying out of her skin every time her sensitive nub connected with his staff.

  “Are you through torturing us, madam?” he asked in a desire-clogged voice. Not waiting for her answer, he said, “Kiss me.” Releasing her hands, he let his arms slide around her back, nudging her down.

  Their lips met, and Catherine lost herself in their feral kiss. It was wild and exciting and unlike anything she could have imagined. And then she felt him at her entrance, probing, seeking, needing.

  She adjusted her position, and he eased inside, filling her with a fullness that made her blood sing and her heart thunder. Bracing her hands on his chest, she had the odd thought of how small they looked against the breadth of him.

  He grasped her hips and lifted her high, to the point of nearly releasing him from her channel. Then he encouraged her to sink low once again. On and on it went, their languid pace increasing as the scent of desire flooded their senses.

  “Come with me, Cat.”

  She closed her eyes and searched inward for the tiny spark that would ignite her release. But it remained stubbornly out of reach. Her legs quivered from her exertion, sweat dampened her brow. “I’m t-trying. Can’t quite—”

  “Hold on,” he commanded.

  With barely enough time to comply, Catherine clung to his shoulders while her world upended itself and then she was staring up at the sapphire canopy above his bed. “Sebastian, your knee!”

  “Forget it,” he said. “Prop those beautiful legs up and meet me halfway.”

  Power surged inside her, and Catherine’s hips flexed. She kissed his chest, his neck, his mouth, all the while meeting him with a confidence that surprised her. This is where she belonged, within the cage of his arms, beneath the power of his body. Here, she did not want to be strong, did not want to be in control. At least, not yet.

  He hit the spark, and Catherine lifted her hips, pressing closer and closer. No longer pumping a rhythm, only seeking repletion. Greedy in her purpose and not caring a whit.

  The spark ignited, sending Catherine into beloved white light.

  Their mingled cries of pleasure echoed through the chamber. Within seconds, an unnatural silence settled around them. Their harsh breaths the only indication life existed after such a fierce loving.

  All too soon, he peeled his body off hers, kissed his way down to her breast, and then drew her nipple into his mouth. His actions were languid, not meant to arouse, but simply enjoy. When he’d had his fill, he rolled onto his back, bringing her along.

  She stiffened in his arms, afraid she would hurt him. “Perhaps it would be best if I did not crowd you.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, keeping his eyes closed. “But I prefer that you stay right where you are.”

  Unwilling to argue about something she wanted anyway, she carefully molded her body around his and rested her head against his chest. She listened to the chaotic beating of his heart until it calmed to a normal rhythm.

  And that’s when the first tears gathered. She came here to seduce the earl for a scrap of paper, while her daughter slept beneath a canopy of evil. There was no way to get through this intolerable situation without someone getting hurt, either physically or emotionally.

  However, she tried not to fool herself where Sebastian was involved. Affaires were commonplace for him. Pleasurable while they lasted, but he likely gave them little thought once they ended.

  After his breathing deepened and his hold slackened, Catherine waited a full twenty minutes before easing out of his bed and dressing. She wended her way down the broad staircase, bracing herself for the appearance of a wide-eyed servant. To appease Cochran, she would search the study again tonight and, tomorrow, the library. She pushed the study door open and held her breath. The room was empty. Dark.

  She ran to Sebastian’s desk and lifted the ink blotter to see if any more names had been added to the sheet of paper she found there a few days ago. The list was gone. “Blast,” she whispered.

  The realization that she would need a light to continue her search struck terror in her heart. She took precious minutes to see if her eyes would adjust to the gloom. Although she could see a little better, it wasn’t enough.

  She located one of those lovely Argand lamps on Sebastian’s desk, but discarded the notion of lighting it. From what she’d read, they provided the same amount of illumination as six candles. Catherine only needed the light of one.

  Unable to locate a taper anywhere, Catherine swallowed her fear and lit the lamp. Golden light flooded the room, momentarily blinding her. She glanced at the crack beneath the door and rushed to retrieve a throw from the chaise longue to place in front of it.

  The clock on the mantel mocked her with its incessant passage of time. Perspiration dampened her skin. She searched his desk, his bookshelves, and any other drawer she could find. Nothing.

  Recalling the hidden compartment in her writing box, she returned to his desk and bookshelves to poke, push, pull anything she could get her hands on. Still nothing.

  Frustration seethed beneath layers of fear an
d desperation. She whirled in a wild circle, seeking some other source for secreting away valuables. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

  She drew in a ragged breath, grappling with a sense of defeat and utter relief. Pulling herself together, she extinguished the lamp and replaced the throw on the chaise. She stood in the gloom-filled study, hesitating. Her gaze lifted to the upstairs bedchamber, where a handsome, complicated earl slept in a halo of repletion. Repletion she had given him.

  Shrugging off the maudlin thought, Catherine opened the tall paned doors leading out to the garden, closing them behind her. She made her way down to the stables to fetch Gypsy, ignoring the burning sensation in the back of her head. She could not worry about a pair of searing steel-gray eyes watching her, not when she was busy repairing the ruins of her wall.

  Eighteen

  August 16

  “Still no sign of the list, daughter?”

  Catherine finished entering the date of Mr. Tucker’s repair on her schedule before answering her mother. Once the notation was made, Catherine surveyed the meadow for their two gaolers from beneath the small tent Edward had erected for them. Silas was nowhere to be found, a condition that made her more nervous than if he’d been standing five feet away.

  She located Mrs. Clarke kneeling on a blanket out in the middle of the field, instructing Sophie on how to build a kite. With nothing more than a couple of sturdy sticks, yards of string, and silk from an old ball gown, her daughter was well on her way to flying her first kite. Catherine wished the joyful moment weren’t tainted by an undercurrent of fear.

  “No,” Catherine said. “Two evenings of searching, and not a single treasonous note.”

  Her mother drew a long, red thread through a square of linen. “Have you searched Lord Somerton’s rooms again?”

  “Not yet.” Catherine dropped her quill pen onto her portable writing box. “Now that I’ve completed the lower level, his private chambers are next.” She hated speaking of such things with her mother. Although the words were never spoken, Evelyn Shaw knew how her daughter spent her evenings. Thankfully, her mother understood the situation well enough not to cast judgment on Catherine’s actions. “Last night, I caught a glimpse of a half-composed letter on the writing desk in his bedchamber. From the few sentences I had time to read, the words were disjointed and illogical.”

  “Disjointed,” her mother repeated. “Could it be a coded message, like Ashcroft’s letters?”

  “Perhaps.” Catherine stared at her daughter, standing now with the framework of a kite. “I’ll copy it tonight, so that I might study it in more detail on the morrow. If I can’t obtain the list of agents, Cochran might be appeased with an important message instead.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes until Sophie’s laughter broke into their musings.

  “My granddaughter seems to be taking to her new governess.”

  “Yes.” After the initial shock of their gaolers’ invasion had passed, Sophie had gradually warmed up to her constant companion. Mrs. Clarke’s kindness and inventiveness kept Sophie’s mind occupied with games and an assortment of crafts, rather than the disastrous way in which they were introduced. “In many ways, Mrs. Clarke is the perfect governess for Sophie.”

  Proving Cochran’s contemptuous comment true. Why would a woman such as she align herself with so despicable a man? The question piqued her troublesome curiosity.

  “I am sorry that you have this to deal with in addition to the loss of your father and husband.”

  “No need to fret on my account.” Catherine clasped her mother’s cold hand in hers, forcing a light tone into her voice. “Although I would rather be in Brighton, basking in the sun and listening to the waves, my situation could be far worse. I could be consorting with a man weighing twenty-five stone, thrice my age, with a propensity for greasy foods.”

  An image of Silas skulking in her entrance hall surfaced. After her first evening with Sebastian, she had returned home before the sun had crested the horizon. Silas had been waiting. He’d emerged from a darkened corner, the play of shadows over his ugly features making him appear more insidious than ever. The sight of him had come close to dropping her in a dead faint. Every night thereafter followed the same routine. His only greeting was a question: “Do you have it?”

  And each time, she would shake her head and brace herself for his reprisal. Other than his lips thinning in displeasure, he had not reacted, simply stepped back and nodded toward the staircase. She had wasted no time in complying.

  “Given that dreadful image,” her mother said, “I shall view this situation in a more positive light, but I still prefer that you were not involved at all.”

  “Had I not drawn attention to myself and Jeffrey’s letters, neither Lord Somerton nor Mr. Cochran would have given me a second’s thought.”

  “Where do we go from here?” her mother asked.

  A good question. “I must proceed with my search until I find something of value for Mr. Cochran. With any luck, the indecipherable missive I found will assuage their demands.” Catherine squeezed her mother’s hand. “Can you continue watching over Sophie?”

  “Of course,” her mother said, sounding put out that she even had to ask.

  “Thank you.” Catherine recalled Cochran’s parting words. Finish what you started, Mrs. Ashcroft, or I will slit your daughter’s throat. “Promise you will send for me the moment you believe something has gone amiss.”

  Her mother patted Catherine’s hand. “Be at ease, daughter. I will not let you down in this.”

  The muscles in Catherine’s throat constricted. “I never doubted it, Mother.”

  She sent Catherine a wan smile, appreciating the small falsehood.

  A whoop of laughter broke into their reverie of past failures and future happiness. They looked up to find Sophie tearing across the meadow, her kite flying thirty feet above, Mrs. Clarke running alongside, encouraging her with gentle instruction.

  Before she realized what she was about, Catherine was on her feet, clapping. Chagrined, she glanced over at her mother, who stood beside her, wearing the same proud smile, her hands clasped together at her chest. They grinned at each other and then turned as one to cheer on their little girl.

  ***

  Sebastian cursed his impatience, even while the heel of his boots tore into the graveled path leading to his stables. With hours to go before Catherine made her nightly appearance, he could no longer tolerate the sound of his own interminable pacing. He needed something to take his mind off the widow and her penchant for vacating his bed in the middle of the night.

  For the last two evenings, they had indulged their carnal desires, and afterward, she would crawl from his bed and set about searching his home with a thoroughness that would put many of his agents to shame. After their first night together, when he was still suffering the effects of his beating and fell into a deep sleep, she had made the mistake in thinking he was not easily awakened. But sleep was something he needed very little of and, as a result, it took him awhile to fall into slumber. Had she waited a little longer before deserting him, she might have pulled off the deception without his knowledge. But she had not, and he had been forced to follow her about the house as she combed through his personal items.

  A movement by the paddock fence caught his eye. His steps slowed as he made out the form of a small child sitting atop the rail and watching his groomsman exercising Sebastian’s prized white Arabian.

  Sophie Ashcroft. Sebastian closed his eyes and counted to five. He could pretend he hadn’t seen her and continue on to the stables, where he intended to muck out stalls, brush down horses, clean tack—anything—that would release the tension strumming through him.

  Opening his eyes, he noted her precarious perch and knew he couldn’t walk away. Her mother would never forgive him if he allowed harm to come to the child. He would not analyze why he cared about the feelings of
a woman who made passionate love to him one moment and deceived him the next.

  Blowing out an exasperated breath, he headed for the horse-hungry imp. Even from this distance, he could make out her rapt expression. What he wouldn’t do to feel such unreserved joy for something. Anything.

  “Miss Sophie,” he called.

  She started, grabbing the rail for balance. Once she had recovered, she shoved a piece of paper into the pocket of her red pelisse, then glanced over her shoulder with a guilty expression.

  “Do you remember who I am, child?”

  She nodded. “You’re the Lord Earl.”

  Leaning his forearms against the fence, he followed Cira’s progress. He shared the girl’s fascination with the Arabian. The horse’s trim lines and graceful maneuvers had been perfected over centuries of solid breeding.

  “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he said with the same patience as her mother. “I am an earl, but the proper way to address me is by using my title—Lord Somerton.”

  She wrinkled up her nose. “Lord Somerton.”

  His lips twitched. “Or you may call me Sebastian.”

  She perked up, but her gaze never veered from the Arabian. “Bastian.”

  He smiled, liking her version better. “That’s right, Sophie.” A few silent minutes passed while they both admired the white beauty.

  “Did you know Arabians are the oldest purebred horses in the world?” she asked with wonderment.

  He did. But how did she? The child couldn’t be more than six or seven. “I had heard something to that effect. What else can you tell me?”

  She turned wide, expressive eyes on him. Her father’s eyes. “King Sol-lom—”

  “King Solomon,” he offered.

  Her eyes opened wider. “Have you heard this story?”