A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard)

by Stone, Jillian

  He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “You could have just asked me to take off my clothes and jump into bed. I’d have gladly—”

  “We did not know the extent of your injuries,” she bit out. “Dé Riquet helped undress you.”

  The bedposts groaned as he strained against his shackles. Finn arched a brow.

  “Those are for my protection. Your odd little friend had business elsewhere.” She pressed her lips together, and still a smile surfaced.

  Finn guessed there was enough slack in his bindings to right himself—possibly. Using a bit of arm and shoulder muscle, he lifted his upper body into a sitting position. A shower of stars blurred his vision and he waited for the throbbing ache in his head to subside. “Since it’s obvious I’m staying put, where might you be off to, Mademoiselle Anarchiste?”

  She looked at him as if he was either mad or thickheaded. “I’m after the twenty thousand, of course.”

  Some part of Cate’s collusion with Los Tigres had gone awry. He had overheard enough at the old cooperage to surmise that much. And the money seemed to be a large part of the difficulty.

  Testing, reassessing their hold, he tugged absently at his bindings. “What’s going on, Cate?”

  A delightful grin accompanied her headshake. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you.”

  His gaze flickered upward. “For such a talented operative, you spout the most naive things. Clever of you, I suppose.”

  Exasperated, she got up and dragged the bedstand over. He noted the satchel on the floor. His bag. The one loaded with weapons, assorted spyware devices, and ammunition. “I see that rat Dé Riquet has gone pilfering.”

  “I wouldn’t be so hard on him if I were you. He saved your life, retrieved your luggage, and, even now, is seeing to the livery of your horse.” She opened a jar of salve and added a tincture to a basin of water. “In your delirium, you cried out for that handsome red steed of yours.”

  “Sergeant MacGregor is a stout-hearted mount. Quite the bullyboy.”

  “A sergeant no less.” She wrung out a washcloth and traced over an old scar, one that started below his collar-bone and disappeared beneath a bit of chest hair. She held her mouth open slightly—in concentration. A pink tongue swept the underside of an upper lip as she gently pressed the cloth to various scrapes and cuts.

  Finn wrinkled his nose. “The smell of antiseptic triggers memories.” The water stung in places. “Four weeks spent in a field hospital south of Kandahar.” Those were just the physical injuries. There were deeper wounds that held secrets he never spoke of. The groan of bedsprings pushed the recollection aside as she sat on the edge of the mattress.

  “You were very brave today,” she said. Her eyes darted up, softer and somewhat shy.

  His dry throat caused a raspy answer. “Is it brave to kill another man?” When she raised a brow, he shrugged—as much as he could, tied up. “It comes down to kill or be killed. For the time being, I’d rather it wasn’t me.”

  She tilted a glass to his lips. “Drink this.”

  Finn clamped his mouth shut.

  She kept the tumbler raised. “It’s just wine.”

  “No laudanum?”

  “Nothing to dull the senses.”

  His first sip of claret went down well. “Ah, the honeyed blood of the grape—the bliss of dreams.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Atticus Adams. Intrepid private investigator.” Gradually, he took in more claret until he gulped thirstily. At the bottom of the glass, he sighed.

  “One of your fictional characters, I presume?” She wrung out the wet cloth and studied his nude torso. Rather arousing, how she could peruse his nude body while pretending polite conversation. “Tell me, are you Agent Gunn right now, or do you prefer Curzon on the Continent?” She pressed the cloth to more scrapes and cuts, as he flinched and groaned despite the wine.

  “Finn to you, Curzon to the authorities. Ah-h!” He gritted his teeth. “I can see you wish to abuse me.”

  “Dancers know something about contusions.” Her fingers slipped into the jar of salve. “A bit of warmth and gentle massage encourages blood flow.”

  His throbbing prick leaped at the first brush of her hands on his chest. Gentle fingertips kneaded sore muscles and soothed bruised ribs. “I find it fascinating that you’ve made no attempt to cover any part of me.”

  Cate sat back and stared. “Has the royal Roger caught a chill?”

  Her every touch caused either a groan or a sharp intake of air sucked between clenched teeth. “Goodness. Where does it not hurt?” She lay her hand on the flat of his abdomen, just below an outline of rib. A light drumming of fingertips captured his complete attention. Suddenly, all he could think about was the one place on his body he wanted her touch. “I’ll let you know when you get there.”

  Soothing a pale green bruise, she moved lower. He inhaled a quick, sharp breath as her fingernails scraped his belly. “Here, perhaps?” The muscles of his abdomen quivered. Her eyes widened. “Dear me, I shall have to find another spot.”

  So far, he had experienced few ill effects from the wrist and leg restraints. His elevated heart rate was caused as much by her ministrations as by the bindings themselves. And for the sake of this fascinating bit of love play, he would tolerate a bit of nerves in hopes of even greater arousal to come.

  She quirked a brow. “A bit lower, you think?”

  He met her gaze. “Not so bruised, below.”

  Cate straightened. “Then I suppose a massage is not really necessary.”

  Half-crazed with lust, Finn strained against his ties. “Desperately. Necessary.”

  “I see.” The gleam in her eye and upward tilt of her mouth spoke volumes. She knew exactly what she was doing—driving him mad. “I am told most men enjoy this.” Warm, slick fingers traveled down the length of his burgeoning cock. “Do you . . .?” Slippery with lotion, her hand wrapped around his thickness and reversed course. Near the head, she ran a finger lightly over the narrow cleft of the tip. “. . . Enjoy this?”

  Any fear of a nervous attack gave way to the surge of arousal. As pleasure rushed through his body, he released a groan that was, at least in part, rutting water buffalo. Gradually, she increased the pressure of her hold, as well as the speed of her strokes. She used her other hand to sweep through his chest hair and circle a nipple. Good God, she remembered.

  She leaned close and whispered. “Do you . . . darling?”

  His brain had come to reside in his penis. He could think of nothing but her next stroke, and the force of his impending eruption. Every muscle tensed, every nerve ending readied.

  She removed her hands from his near-to-bursting extremity. “I’m afraid I’ve dallied far too long.” Rising from the bed, she methodically wiped slick ointment from her fingers. “I must be going.”

  It took a moment for an actual thought to register in his brain. “You’re not quitting, are you?” He growled the words.

  Cate backed away. “How badly do you want it?”

  His eyes narrowed to slits.

  She collected a man-tailored jacket and picked up his revolver. “As badly as I want to see my brother alive?” Her eyes darted about the room. “I need that twenty thousand, Finn—for ransom or bribes, not quite sure which at the moment.”

  “Untie me. I’ll go with you.” He tried softening his glare. “Be reasonable, Cate.”

  She hesitated at the door. “In London you said you thought you trusted me—a little.” Rueful eyes met his briefly. “How could you ever do so now?”

  She had taken him to the edge of ecstasy. And now the wicked little minx was backing out the door talking nonsense. Worse yet, she was going to get herself killed. He yanked on his bindings. “One day—very soon—I will make you pay for this, Miss Willoughby.”

  Dark lashes fell over a violet-blue gaze. “Oh, I do hope so, Mr. Gunn.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cate ducked her head as the bullying anarchist prodded her belowdecks. She di
d not know this man who had tied her arms behind her back. “¡Vaya!” He shoved her past several men in the galley of the ship.

  Admittedly, she’d gone after the anarchists without much of a plan. Dé Riquet had mentioned a sloop anchored in the harbor with the name El Gato del Mar—The Sea Cat. Eduardo’s prized possession, and his one pleasure. She should have waited for Dé Riquet to return to his hovel. Instead, she bolted out of the flat and hired a local to take her out to the ship—a man who turned out to be a paid lookout for Los Tigres.

  There appeared to be very few anarchists aboard, either that or Finn had reduced their numbers by half. Could Los Tigres actually be down to a handful of men? How could her brother have associated himself with such ruffians? Or was this crew the last remnants of a better time—a nobler cause? The guard with the pistol at her back pushed her into a forward cabin.

  The hatch slammed shut behind her and she leaped into deep shadow. A single porthole illuminated a space that was small—suffocatingly so. She squinted in the dim light. Nothing but a built-in berth and a compact writing desk. A chair sat by the door.

  Something in the air shifted. Her heart jumped into an erratic rhythm. She turned and ran straight into a hard chest. Arms grabbed hold and held on. She looked up into an angular face and cold black eyes. “Alonso.”

  The chill in his smile, though familiar, still sent a tremble through her. “An enchanting beauty who is also tenacious. I am impressed.” He tilted his head, assessing her figure. “As well as stimulated.” He pressed her to him with one hand as he explored her body with the other.

  Dear God, why did it have to be this reprobate again? As of this moment, she hated every member of Los Tigres for this, including Eduardo. Had he any idea what kind of lowly muckworms had taken over his beloved brotherhood? And how dare he resurrect himself from the dead and put her through this. More than ever she was determined to find her brother again—so she could wring his neck. She tossed her head back. “Where is Eduardo?”

  “Patience, Catriona. As soon as the captain returns, we will make our departure.”

  “To where?”

  “Once . . . we are away, mi ángel.”

  “Usted sabe mejor. I am not your woman.” She wrenched away but he lunged after and pressed her against the bed. Without her hands free to catch herself, she fell back onto the mattress.

  “Trousers, Catriona?” His gaze raked up and down her body—an amused twitch to one side of his mouth. “Let’s get rid of those, shall we?”

  Alonso stood above her, smirking. Obviously, what remained of Los Tigres was the dregs. “You have no intention of helping Eduardo.” She raised her chin in defiance. “I no longer believe he is alive. How could he be—when you dare assault the sister of El Primer Tigre?” She dug her heels into the bedding and pushed away. He grabbed hold of her lower limbs. Pain shot though both legs as he landed across her knees, pinning her down.

  He leaned over her, into a shaft of moonlight. His black gaze flecked with pale blue steel. “Your brother is alive—but not for long, I’m afraid.”

  “How do I know that you have not made this up—this story that Eduardo is imprisoned? It would not be the first time you tricked me into funding your exploits. More bombs—is that what you want? And if he is in prison, why can’t I see him—speak to him? ¿Cree usted que soy una idiota . . . que soy estúpida? ¿Una mujer sin sentido?”

  The slap across her face struck with such force, a spray of tears instantly covered her burning cheek.

  * * *

  FINN TOOK AIM. Nothing but the sound of lapping of water. A hundred yards from the pier, a dusky sky outlined the silhouette of the anarchists’ sloop moored in the bay. Two lookouts, fore and aft. He wagered at least four or five more men below. And one Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. Captive or accomplice? He still wasn’t entirely sure.

  Lifting the gun barrel, he angled his rifle against a stack of old tea chests and threaded on the silencer. Dé Riquet peered over his shoulder. “Fancy rig, that.”

  Finn ignored the mercenary operative. “I have a lengthy and personal involvement in the design of this sound suppressor—along with a considerable investment of cash.” He squinted through the site, but not before he glared at the smallish Frenchman. “Untie the skiff and get ready to scull us over.”

  “Ne me blâmez pas! How was I to know she’d tie you up?” Shaking his head, Dé Riquet backed away. “I come home to find you with this cockstand—éléphantesque.” Finn resisted the urge to point his rifle at the scalawag. Dé Riquet shrugged bony shoulders and disappeared down the ladder. “I don’t suppose you enjoyed it any—?”

  Finn braced his leg against the stack of tea chests and took aim on the lookout standing portside. The watchman peered over the side of the deck and Finn squeezed the trigger. A gentle pop from his rifle and it was over. Barely any recoil. The man dropped into the net under the bowsprit. No splash—a spot of luck there. He moved the barrel and sighted on the other guard. He held his breath.

  * * *

  ALONSO PAT TED DOWN the outside, as well as the inside, of her thighs. “Tell me where the rest of the ransom is, and I might leave you less”—he ripped into the trousers at her hips and pulled them off—“bruised.”

  “Get off me.” Cate tried to wriggle out from under him. “Eduardo will kill you for this.” Her chemise barely covered the tops of her thighs. He grabbed both of her legs and roughly dragged her back.

  Now her chemise was well up her torso. She lay there completely exposed—but not humiliated; she was too scared think about modesty.

  “In a few more days, your brother will be shipped off to the penal colony at Devil’s Island. Word has it, his health is failing.” Alonso leered down at her. “Pray he doesn’t survive the voyage.”

  This time he wasn’t lying. She knew those cold eyes well enough by now to sense when he stalled or purposely confused the issue. Stunned by the news, she felt every ounce of fight in her simply evaporate. Tears flooded her eyes. “How could you do this—keep this from me?”

  Her legs ached from the weight of his knees. He moved his hand under her chemise, revealing more of her. With his free hand, he unbuttoned his trousers.

  Something pressed against her woman’s mound. A shudder of revulsion ran through her. “Stop—please—” She shut her eyes.

  “Look at me.” He kneed her legs apart. “I’m going to take you now, Catriona. And I want to see those beautiful sapphire eyes.” He poised above her. “Sorry if this hurts.” A shadow moved overhead. She blinked several times to see through a blur of tears. She recognized the face that loomed above Alonso’s. There was not another glare in the world quite like it.

  * * *

  FINN YANKED THE man’s head back by the hair. “Sorry if this hurts, bastardo,” he said.

  He wasn’t sure who was on top of Cate—but he was about to die. The man looked to be the same thug that had used her as a shield earlier today.

  Quick as a striking snake, the anarchist wrapped his hands around Cate’s neck. Finn shoved his gun between the man’s legs. “In the bollocks or up the ass? Your choice.” He placed a knee to the man’s spine and slipped a wire around his neck. “Let go of her.” There was a great deal of choking and gurgling before her violator began to fade. Finn, took the man’s head in his hands and wrenched hard. The neck snapped.

  He tossed the dead torso off Cate. For the second time since he entered the cabin he made eye contact with her. Wide eyes filled with terror and confusion—perhaps some relief. “Get dressed.”

  She rasped, then gasped for air. Once she had filled her lungs, she choked out a question. “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

  “Out of bullets. No time to reload.” He shrugged off her surly eye roll.

  “I’m afraid the trousers are in shreds.” She scrambled off the bed.

  “Never mind. I’ll be the only one who knows you’re naked under that little nothing of a slip.” He kept his speech clipped, his expression blank.

 
; He helped her stand and pulled down the chemise. “Thank you, Finn. Twice in one day—quite a good deal of rescuing.” Her thin smile ended in a shiver. “Would you untie me, please?”

  He shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around her. “No.”

  Finn took her by the arm and she winced. “A bit bruised up?” He suppressed the urge to yank her down the galley as they climbed over dead bodies. Instead, he guided her abovedecks to the waiting skiff. He nodded to Dé Riquet. “I’ll be right with you.”

  A moment later he was back with a knapsack he tossed down to Cate. “What’s left of the Crown’s money. You can buy yourself new pantalets.” He sat down beside Dé Riquet and grabbed an oar. “Row like the devil.”

  Less than fifty feet from the pier, a thunderous explosion blasted out of the cabin of the sloop. Unfazed, Finn continued to row. “Dangerous to keep explosives on board.”

  She tucked her chin inside the collar of his coat. “You’re rather accomplished at blowing up terrorists with their own explosives.”

  Finn angled his oar and steered them toward the pontoon at the side of the pier. There was a town coach waiting dockside. The moment he had her inside the carriage he was going to spank that little naked bottom raw. Cate had fearlessly approached the ragged bunch of anarchists a second time and nearly gotten herself raped. She might have been murdered, her body dumped in the bay. An icy shiver ran down his spine.

  “I went back inside to retrieve my gun—my old service revolver. Stolen from me by a certain anarchist sympathizer—who is once again in my custody.” The skiff bumped gently against the landing. “Turns out one of the men in the galley wasn’t quite dead. He knocked down an oil lamp coming after me.”

  “Kaboom.” Dé Riquet grinned.

  Cate’s watery eyes rolled upward. “I suppose they got what they deserve.” Her sigh was more of a shudder. “Los Tigres will resurrect itself—with a different name and new blood. This goes on and on in Spain. The goals are always the same—they always begin with honorable intentions.” Her gaze moved out beyond the flames engulfing the boat. “Somehow they never end that way.”