by Zoë Archer
Ada muttered a soft curse. “Is he made of smoke?”
“And silence, and guile,” Michael answered.
They neared closer to the wall, meeting Marco halfway. In his yearlong career with Nemesis, Michael had worked mostly with Simon, though his path did cross now and then with the other agents. Marco himself remained a bit of a mystery—an air the chap deliberately cultivated. He stood a few inches shorter than Michael, but he carried himself like the highly trained operative he was. Marco wasn’t just Nemesis’s bloke, but the government’s, too. He never said exactly what he did for the government, but it involved intelligence, and jobs the crown wouldn’t ever officially admit to. God only knew what secrets hid behind those dark eyes of his. Secrets Michael felt better not knowing.
“Ada, this is Marco,” Michael said.
They both exchanged nods. Michael felt a petty stab of satisfaction that Ada’s gaze didn’t linger too much on Marco’s face, for there was no denying it, the blighter was handsome, olive-skinned and dark haired, with a neatly trimmed goatee, and he cut a good figure in his dark, fine clothes.
“Got a Christmas present for you.” Michael pulled the valise from his satchel and handed it to Marco. But he didn’t bother handing him lock picks.
Ada glanced at Michael with a frown, then gasped when, with just a flick of his fingers, Marco opened the locked case.
“A magician, too,” she muttered.
“No magic,” Marco replied. “Just skilled at larceny. Which is nearly the same.” But his casual tone dropped and he softly laced the air with ornate Italian curses when he beheld the case’s contents. “And a Happy Christmas to you. What’s with Barclays Bank here?”
Quickly, Michael told him everything that had happened since he’d arrived at Covington Hall, leaving out nothing—except the kisses he’d shared with Ada. From the discovery of the missing valise, to tracking down the key, to the eventual discovery of the case itself, and what its contents meant for the Larkfields.
“Can’t pin the crime on them,” Michael concluded, “but that doesn’t mean they won’t pay.”
“To the tune of one hundred twenty three thousand pounds,” Marco added.
“We didn’t tell you how much was in there,” Ada said. “We haven’t even counted.”
Marco flashed her an unnerving smile. “I did.” And he’d done so with just a glance at the money.
Terrifying bastard.
“What’s to become of the money?” Ada asked as Marco snapped the case shut.
“Time for a few dozen orphanages in London to get their own Christmas presents,” he answered. “Do a little expansion to make room for the children displaced by those Larkfield stronzi.”
She smiled. “A Happy Christmas, indeed.”
Michael glanced up at the sky. “Snow’s coming. We can’t stay out here, in case we leave tracks.”
Marco gave a clipped nod. “See you back in London. There’s a job waiting for you when you return.”
The thought made Michael’s stomach clench. He didn’t mind the assignment, but damn it, he wanted more time with Ada. He felt like a child given a gift, only to have that gift torn from his grasp. The same unhappiness showed on her face.
Marco turned to Ada. “I’ve been at this vengeance business for five years,” he said, “and done … other things for far longer. Takes a considerable amount to impress me.”
That’s the bloody truth. Marco only recently started calling Michael by his name rather than “the Footman.”
“But you’ve impressed me, Ada,” Marco continued. “Nicely done.”
Michael wasn’t surprised. She had done marvelous work. But Marco’s praise seemed to have stunned her. A moment passed before she spoke. “Thank you, sir.”
He might be part Italian, but Marco wasn’t the most effusive bloke. At least, not that Michael had ever seen. Without another word, he turned and melted back into the shadows.
Michael looked up at the sky again. Already the first snowflakes began to fall, lightly now, so that they spun in arcs on the breeze. But soon, they’d fall more heavily, coating the ground, and revealing their tracks.
He started when he felt Ada’s hand lace with his. In silent agreement, they hurried back to the house. The mission was nearly over, the money safely in Nemesis’s hands, and the cold scraping through Michael had nothing to do with the winter’s chill.
* * *
By the time Ada climbed back into the Gray Bedchamber, her heart had set up a steady pounding, but it wasn’t due to scaling the wall, or fear of being caught by the groundskeeper or anyone else. No, her heart beat with a different fear. Excitement, too, and resolution made her pulse speed.
She stuck her head out the window. Michael was still standing at the base of the wall, clearly trying to decide whether or not to go back to his quarters, or follow her.
At her soft whistle, he glanced up. And when she waved him up, he didn’t smile, but went sharp and focused. It’s how she felt inside, too. Determined. The voice urging her to silence itself was silenced.
She moved back from the window, and stood in the middle of the abandoned chamber. Watching Michael lithely climb in after her, she felt herself more present in her body and mind than ever before. She saw and sensed everything, yet nothing captured her attention more than him. He slipped into the room, his long body unfolding, and shut the window. At that moment, snow began to fall in earnest—lavish, icy white flakes that outlined the lean length of Michael as he stood in the darkness of the chamber. A few snowflakes clung to the curls of his hair and along his shoulders, glittering in the dimness.
Time was slipping away, as surely as the snow fell from the sky, marking the passage of each moment. She crossed the room and stood directly before him, only inches away. They stared at each other in the reflective glow of the snowfall, neither speaking. Words seemed a small and finite thing, as finite as time itself, and she didn’t want to waste anything. Not a moment. Not a breath.
Instead, she ran her hands up his torso. The fabric of his coat was cool beneath her hands, but she felt the warmth of him beneath that, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Her hands slid higher, to rest right over his thundering heart.
He clasped her hands against him, pressing her closer. His gaze continued to hold hers as he let her feel the beat of his heart. This is what you do to me, his eyes told her.
She rose up on her toes at the same time he bent his head, and their mouths came together. His lips were cold at first, as she imagined hers must be, but soon they grew warm. He tasted like winter and the faintest bite of whiskey. Their mouths grew bold, opening to each other, tongues sweeping in velvet gloss and growing need. The night’s chill melted away from her with every touch of his lips to hers, and the low rumble of appreciation sounding deep in his chest.
Her hands were trapped between their tightly pressed bodies. She pulled them free and plunged her fingers into his hair, bringing herself even closer to him. One of his hands cupped her chin. His other hand was even bolder, curving around her behind and bringing her snug, hips to hips. She arched into him, the energy of his athletic body reverberating through her. When he pulled his mouth from hers to scrape his teeth along the small exposed part of her throat, a fuse lit within her. She wanted it to burn. Burn until it exploded.
She walked backward, pulling him with her. Until the back of her legs met the mattress of the giant, ornate bed.
Lifting his head, he glanced from her to the bed and back again. Hunger sharpened his features. Yet he rasped, “Be sure, Ada. Be sure this is what you want.”
“For the first time,” she answered, breathless, “I know exactly what I want. It’s you, Michael. Even for only a night.”
He went still. His muscles tense, drawn into themselves as if in waiting. Both she and he knew what this moment meant. A housemaid and shopgirl couldn’t be free with her body, not without consequence. But she didn’t care about consequence. Not with time drifting away in swirling eddies of snow.
“Then we’ll have our night,” he growled. “And I’ll use precautions.” He glanced around the cobweb-shrouded chamber with a scowl. “Wish it didn’t have to be here. I’d give you a room at Claridge’s.”
“Doesn’t have to be Claridge’s. Or a hayloft. Just us together. Wherever we are. For as long as we have.”
Another moment’s stillness from him. And then he was all action, undoing the buttons of her dress with ferocious intensity. He wouldn’t even be distracted by kisses. But she couldn’t blame him, and wondered why she wasted precious time by standing still when he was fully clothed. It was a furious, awkward tangle of hands as they pushed and pulled at each other’s clothing, shoving the garments aside and to the ground, heedless of the dust graying the floor.
They broke apart long enough for him to pull off his shirt and for her to wriggle out of her dress. She attacked the hooks up the front of her corset, and peeled off her stockings, until she wore only her chemise and drawers. Despite the coldness of the room, she found herself motionless, staring at him, as she finally saw him naked from the waist up.
Naturally, she knew that footmen had to be physically fit, and she also understood that Michael was especially so, given his skill at climbing up and down buildings. And she’d caught sight of laborers without their shirts, learning what made up the male physique. It had always fascinated her, the differences between men and women, their brawn to women’s softness. But now she found herself transfixed by the sight of Michael, snow-filled light sculpting the muscles of his tight, sinewed body. He wasn’t burly, but long and rangy, making each flex and shift sharply defined. The lightest sprinkling of hair scattered over his chest. She watched with appreciation as the contours of his arms sleekly bunched while he tugged off his boots and unfastened his trousers.
And then he stood before her, completely nude. He was lean muscle everywhere. She couldn’t help it: her gaze arrowed right to the thick curve of his erect penis. Heat bloomed through her at the sight. She dragged her gaze up to his. He watched her, his eyes bright and sharp with desire in the dim chamber. She could’ve sworn that his erection gave a twitch when she and Michael stared at each other. Fueling each other’s need.
She tugged at the hem of her chemise, but he took over the task, pulling the thin muslin up and over her head in one smooth motion. In an instant, her drawers had been undone, the cotton pooling at her feet. Now they were both naked.
No one had ever seen her like this. Yet she fought the impulse to cover herself. Instead, she kept her arms at her sides, letting him look his fill. And he looked. At her breasts, of course, and the triangle of hair between her legs, but everywhere else, too. Her arms, shoulders, belly, legs. What he saw must have pleased him, because his breathing grew ragged, and his hands curled into themselves.
She’d heard that nakedness was a sin, especially between a man and a woman not bound by marriage. But she felt no sense of shame to be like this with Michael. Only rightness.
And hunger. They both stepped together, and both gasped as their nude bodies pressed close. Their mouths met again, and their hands were eager in exploration. He seemed to want to know all the places of her body, the soft and the muscled that proclaimed she wasn’t a lady. Just as she wanted to know everything that was him. His deliciously tight arse. The firm contours of his thighs and the landscape of his back. And all the while, she felt that wondrous press of his penis against her belly, and the growing slickness between her legs.
He moved, or she did. Difficult to know, or care, as they tumbled back onto the bed. The coverlet beneath her was chill and a little stiff from disuse, yet she didn’t care. All that mattered was them, together, their limbs interwoven, their hands continuing to stroke and caress and discover. He cupped her breast, then took her nipple between his long fingers and gently squeezed, forcing a pleasured gasp from her. And when she writhed from these attentions, one of his hands trailed down her stomach. Down, down. Until he found her most intimate place. A place only she had touched until now.
She arched up with a moan as he stroked her, gently at first, giving her time to get used to his touch. When her legs opened wider, he seemed to know this was his invitation, and he caressed her, gliding between her folds, his finger circling her opening and then moving up to rub that one bit of flesh.
Sensation filled her, removing everything but him and the pleasure he created. All the while his mouth held to hers, swallowing her every gasp and moan.
But for all the exquisite sensation, she needed to give him some pleasure, too. Her hand slid down between them. Until she took his length in her hand. The first time she’d ever touched a man like this.
“Show me,” she breathed. “What you like.”
He swore, then wrapped his hand around hers and guided her, showing her how to stroke him. Until she learned the rhythm, and his hand fell away. He gritted his teeth in an expression of agonized pleasure.
They touched each other intimately, his strokes growing more commanding, her own turning bold. A drop of fluid slicked her fingers, and she realized it came from him.
Sensation continued to build within her, bright and demanding, centering where he touched her. Until her release refused to be held back. It crashed through her in a glittering torrent, overwhelming her. The climax had her in its grasp, flooding her with pleasure. She bowed up from the bed, lost to it. He took her cry in his own mouth, as if feeding off her pleasure.
“My lass,” he murmured, as her shudders subsided. “My beautiful lass. I want everything.”
“It’s yours,” she answered.
Then he was above her, winter light gleaming over his shoulders and in his eyes, as he braced himself. His legs lay between hers. The blunt tip of his penis rubbed against her opening. She felt her own desire coating him, making them both ready. Despite the ecstasy that had swept over her, and her certainty of what she wanted, there was a quick spike of fear, and she gripped tightly to his corded forearms.
She knew he felt her fear, because he dipped his head low and kissed her, deeply. At the same time, he thrust forward. Into her.
She knew there would be pain—though it wasn’t as much as she’d believed—but not this … otherness. This separate self within her. Joining them.
He held himself still, and she felt the knots of the muscles in his arms working to keep motionless at great cost. But he didn’t move. Giving her time, she realized, to learn this new sensation.
In slow tides, her body relaxed. Taking him in further. It stunned her when he slid in even deeper—he hadn’t given her his full length until now. She discovered the wonder of this intimate union. And when she shifted, unexpected pleasure careened through her. She let out a startled gasp.
Which broke the thread of his control. “I need you so damn much,” he growled.
“Please,” was the one word she could manage.
He drew his hips back, and she moaned at the sliding sensation. Then he thrust forward. Then again. And again. And each time he did this, her body softened even more, while his grew tighter. She found her legs wrapping around his waist, an unspoken demand for more. The pain added a ruby edge to her pleasure. His movements grew faster, stroking into her, and it was a miracle, this thing they made together, this mutual pleasure, and she held it close.
Until he cursed softly, and pulled quickly from her. She felt a warm spill of liquid on her belly as his body went rigid, and the cords of his neck stood out, his face taut with release.
Several moments passed. Instead of lying beside her, he rose from the bed and rifled around in his clothing. Then he did stretch out next to her, with a kerchief in his hand. He used this to clean her, and when that was done, he gathered her up in his arms. She wrapped herself around him, as well, and together they stared up at the bed’s once-grand canopy.
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed two. And she suddenly realized its meaning.
“Happy Christmas, Michael,” she murmured.
“Happy Christmas, love,” he answered, a
nd pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
The snow outside continued to fall.
Chapter Eleven
Michael hadn’t ever attached much thought to Christmas—only that it meant more work for him as a footman. This morning, as he had every other Christmas morning, he’d attended Mass with the servants at the back of the church. The family sat at the front. But as soon as the service was over, he and the other staff had hurried back to Covington Hall, so the Cowans and their guests might go on with their celebrations.
This year was different. During Mass, he’d sat beside Ada, and they’d cautiously held hands throughout the service. Blasphemous of him, to sit in church and sing hymns and listen to the vicar’s sermon, when all his thoughts had been turned to the woman beside him, and the night they’d shared.
He’d been unwilling to let her go. He wanted more and more of her. Her sighs of pleasure. The resilient silk of her skin. The sound of her laughter. So he’d made love to her again, showing her new ways of loving, and even as she discovered these paths, she’d taught him, too. A mutual discovery. It was only as the first pearl-colored light edged the treetops that they’d grudgingly parted, creeping back to their rooms. But with each step away from her, his heart had ripped into smaller and smaller pieces. When he’d finally reached the male servants’ quarters, he’d been left with a single, bleeding scrap.
It had felt the same leaving church, unclasping his hand from hers. How much heartache could a man endure?
A hell of a lot.
Now he carried a bowl of spiced punch into the drawing room where the family and their guests gathered. His face was a perfect mask. Nothing in his body or movements gave anything away. No one in the room paid him any attention.
He didn’t want to be here. Not after last night, when everything had changed.
Slowly, he drifted backward toward the door to the drawing room, until he stood just inside the chamber. He couldn’t leave his post, yet his body was an iron nail, drawn to the lodestone of Ada, somewhere in this house.