by Baird Wells
She swatted his hand. “I cannot fathom that any of your needs just now are spiritual.”
While she picked through a small crate, Ty moved beside the fire and opened the basket.
“What is this, chicken? I'd give my right arm to eat it, on the smell alone.”
Shaking her head, Olivia threw the napkins onto the hearth and settled on the cloth. “Not my doing. I don't cook.”
Ty, stripped down to his shirt and breeches, planted himself directly across from her and braced the bottle between his knees, slipping the cork free with an easy pop. “Thank goodness I married you for reasons other than domestic prowess.”
“Like love?” she offered.
He filled her glass and handed it over, eyeing her suggestively. “That too.”
“Cad.”
“Far too late, now. You are saddled with me. 'In full times, and in poor', remember.”
“The same holds true for you,” she threatened, stabbing an unoffending piece of chicken and dropping it onto Ty's plate.
He leaned over and inhaled. “Does it smell like almonds?”
She scoffed. “What do you take me for, some amateur? Anyway, I prefer the element of surprise when poisoning.”
Ty sniffed the meat, pretended to inspect it, then tapped the ceramic plate with a finger. “What do you intend to do with all this, come morning?”
“Burn it, I suppose.” She enjoyed his momentary look of shock and the way his bite of food hung frozen between his mouth and the plate.
He recovered quickly enough and nodded. “Ah. Your signature method.”
“Are you referring to the drape again?” She took a good mouthful of Port. “I only lit it on fire to get your attention.”
“So you could kill me!”
“Hmm.” She nodded slowly, fixing what she hoped was a thoughtful expression. “Eventually.”
“I might have gotten to you first,” he warned, leaning back and propping one boot on the hearth.
“I doubt it.” She licked her lip slowly. “You didn't put up much of a fight.”
Ty swallowed, then clutched his chest. “I had to retrench. You'd removed my mask, seen my identity.”
“You let me.”
He raised his chin an inch or so, scowling a little in what she guessed was meant to be his impression of Grayfield. “Whenever possible, attempt to convert an adversary into an asset.”
“I've read the manual.” She snagged his glass and emptied the last of the port between them. “Who converted whom?”
“In the end, I'm not certain it matters. I was the last one with the letters in my possession.”
“Were you?” Olivia relished the moment, smiling hard enough that her cheeks ached at what was surely coming.
His brow furrowed, as if sensing a trap. “I was. They were claimed from my hand by our mysterious opponent.”
Laughing in earnest, Olivia fell back against the floorboards, clutching her stomach. “You simply took what I gave you. Did you ever look, to see if they were truly Fouche's letters?”
Ty yanked his boot from the hearth and sat forward, head shaking, mouth working in absolute shock.
“You never looked!” She laughed again, and emptied her glass, nearly choking in her prone position. “They were. I cannot go so far as to let you believe otherwise. But I could have.”
Shaking his head, Ty laughed, relaxing again. “True of many things that night.”
“Such as?”
“You could have got the better of me in the garden, had you not been so damned smug. Truly, Olivia? You kicked me in the head! Twice!”
“Oof!” She clutched her chest, mock-wounded. “Hurtful, but fair. I'll grant you that one.”
“You could have entirely had your way with me in the hall, if not for our amorous intruders.”
Her face burned, and not just from the Port. Olivia fixed eyes on her glass as it rested on her belly. “A dangerous admission.”
His voice held a rare, sharp, serious edge. “It was a dangerous encounter. I allowed you to get the better of me, for no reason I shall ever manage to quantify.”
Olivia's pulse hammered in her throat. She could recall that night's every sensation, as though it were taking place now, and not four months earlier. The grip of his wool coat on her bare arms, the warm slip of black silk when his mask pulled free. Pressure, his lips on hers, his body holding her against the wall. She worked up the courage to meet his eyes. “Perhaps the very same thing that is happening now?”
Ty nodded slowly, gazing down at her, unblinking. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Saved by six pewter buttons.”
She thought back for a moment. “Your breeches had eight...”
“Advance preparations.” Pushing aside the basket and his plate, Ty scooted across the space between them, facing her and nearly hip to hip. He brought the bottle along and refilled her glass.
Tilting it, Olivia tipped its dark residue from side to side, fiddling with the stem. His leg pressed insistently against hers, heat seeping through layers of clothing. He leaned over, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, filling her nose with his distinctive scent. His finger brushed from her crown, between her curls, fanning them out above her on the floor. Eyes closed, she shut out everything but the warmth of his hands.
“Nearly every man must believe himself among the luckiest on his wedding day.” A finger trailed down her forehead, tracing her nose, brushing her lips. “But today, I am king among those men, Olivia.”
Opening her eyes, Olivia studied his face, his broad forehead, and the proud line of his nose framed by blue eyes. They gazed at her, and nothing else existed in the world but him. “I love you.”
“I know.” He nodded, claiming the glass from her trembling fingers. “I can have no doubt of it, not with the way you are looking at me now.”
She watched the easy fit of their hands, not able to bring herself to meet his gaze. Silence stretched between them, pulled along by anticipation. They both knew what was coming, ironically both hesitant at the prospect. After all the times they’d shared kisses, the moments when their bodies had touched with the intimacy of lovers, the fact that they could do and be whatever they wanted felt impossible to her.
“Shy?” he asked, after a few minutes.
Relief nearly dissolved into laughter. “Yes,” she admitted, scraping up enough courage to look at him.
He blushed, and she loved him for it. “We're alike in that respect.”
“Truly?”
“I was being entirely honest when I said I have never had anything like this before.” He shrugged, features pulled into earnest lines.
Love. They were in uncharted territory together. The idea calmed her nerves. She raised his hand to her belt and rested it on the buckle, confident of what she wanted.
He hooked the sash, tugging it free with a sound yank, pushing her to a tipping point between anxiety and anticipation. His fingers hovered at each button, pausing, then deftly popping them in turn from throat to waist. It was clear revenge for every time she'd teased him about the hasty removal of clothing. There was a confidence in Ty’s hands born of experience, a capable ease in the way he seduced her now. A voice whispered for her to close her eyes and feel, the way she would with a virtuoso musician.
Ty’s hands spread the two sides of her coat, taking a slow path from her shoulders to her waist, the heat of his touch through her dress magnified by the rush of cool air in the drafty house. The rough pad of one finger crossed her throat, at the border of her collar, bringing her eyes open.
His lips twitched.
“Something amuses you?”
“I cannot recall ever seeing so little of you. Covered from chin to ankle.”
She arched a brow for effect, understanding what he meant and happy to give him trouble for it. “You object to a modest wife?”
Ty shook his head, smoothing the white muslin over her belly and lower, until she gasped.
He nodded, looking pleased. “It's having an agree
able effect.”
His teasing, as much as his touching, had gotten her into the spirit of things. She braced on one arm, flicking at the open neck of his shirt. “From a man who does not leave the bedchamber without his cravat and top hat? Hmm.” She made a show of looking him over, enjoying every inch. “If more pleases you, perhaps less pleases me.”
His eyes widened. “Is that a question?”
She sat up fully. “It is. Or perhaps it’s a challenge.”
Ty leaned in, bringing their lips a breath apart. “I accept.”
He'd tricked her. Olivia realized it too late, after she had tipped closer and Ty pulled back, grinning ear to ear. He’d dodged her, but the shirt would come off, and that at least was a small victory.
He pulled at his shirt-front. “Will you, or shall I?”
A last jitter of nerves whispered for her to leave him to the deed, but her fingers recalled too well the pleasure of undressing Ty. Licking her lips, she claimed two good fistfuls of crisp, heavy linen and snapped it free of his waistband. One sharp pull, her hands skimmed his arms, and the deed was done; Ty was bare to the waist.
He reached out, but she batted back his hand, buying a moment to take him in. It was nothing she hadn't seen before: broad and well defined across the chest, and three ragged pink scars cut different angles across the flat plane of his stomach. She had seen it before, but now it was her own to please and possess. The realization made her bold. She brushed her lips against his shoulder, trailing kisses to the first corded line at the outside of his rib cage.
He drew a sharp breath, and his skin twitched at the contact. Before she could press on, he pulled away and stood up.
Reading what must have been an open question on her face, he rubbed palms up and down along the thighs of his breeches, jerking his chin towards their makeshift bed. “We should...now is likely a good time to...”
Entirely sympathetic, Olivia pursed her lips to hide a smile and reached out a hand for him to help her up. “That would be the best place, I think, if...” The effort of wresting both arms from her coat's wide sleeves was all that saved her remark from hanging awkwardly.
Ty stopped at their bed, pried off his boots and matched them together at its foot with a preciseness that made her chuckle. So not all of his habits were an act. Then he reached out a hand for her, wedding band glinting in the firelight.
“I know that look in your eyes,” she whispered, resting her fingers in his.
“Is that so?”
She nodded, laying her other hand on his bare shoulder. “The upstairs hall, at the baroness’s party.”
He nodded. “The doorway.” His arm slipped behind her, drawing her close. “Burned into my memory.” Ty cocked his head. “Though I’m not certain I could say what my look was just then.”
She’d had no trouble recognizing it. “The urgent calculation of a man preparing to undress a woman. I think you would call it an advance.”
Ty gasped, looking them both over with feigned shock. “By God, Olivia, I think you’re right.” His arms snaked behind her, pulling her to his chest.
Olivia wished she had any idea what to do with her hands, her lips just then. He was broad and warm, heat between them wafting up wine and cologne. He was all hers, free rein, and she had no idea where to start. Fortunately for them both, Ty did.
His fingers slid into her hair, pressed her jaw, and clasped her head. His breath brushed her neck with more contact than his lips, the barest hint of skin against skin.
She couldn’t find words to ask him for more; owing to the eager sounds in her throat, she didn’t have to. Twining arms around his neck, she tipped back her head, silent permission for the kiss he pressed to her mouth. Hooking an arm behind her, she grasped his wrist, urging his arm to the buttons on her gown.
“Olivia.” Ty hung his head, panting against her shoulder. Damp heat seeped into her dress beneath his fingers’ path, one yielding button at a time. Yards of muslin crumpled to the floor in defeat, and despite the closeness of the fire, she shivered.
Ty stepped back, surveying his handiwork, letting more cool air between them. “I can’t do you justice. I’m a poor poet, even with my hands, but I worship you.” Gripping her wrist, Ty pulled her toward the blankets.
“Wait,” she breathed, swallowing for her voice. How could she explain it? Not that she was ashamed, or even that Ty would give it second thought, but it seemed the wrong sort of surprise on their wedding night. Drawing a breath, she met his curious stare. She chewed her lip, waving a hand over him. “You have...that is, there were times on an assignment when you must have enjoyed the company of a lady.”
Ty raked fingers through his hair, and Olivia winced at his open confusion. He cleared his throat. “None that should cause you concern.”
“Oh, no! No, I’m not the least jealous.”
“Oh, you’re concerned that I…” Ty pointed a finger to his chest, his broad shoulders slumped, and he exhaled. “I’m no hypocrite, Dimples. Whatever lovers you’ve had. I don’t subscribe to the notion of damaged goods or any –”
“Tyler, I’m a virgin!” She exhaled, closing her eyes against slack relief.
She caught his sharp breath, and then a hint of a laugh. He pressed a kiss to her temple in answer, tracing the neckline of her chemise to where it clung helplessly at her shoulder. In a silence punctuated only by the hiss and pop of the fire, she forgot nerves and shyness and kissed Ty plainly.
His hands skimmed her chemise and stays, her waist and then bare arms, pressing, raking, until she was breathless.
Panting too, Ty pulled away. He dropped onto the quilts, settling against the wall, and hauled her down to straddle his hips. With a knuckle, he traced her from forehead to chin. “It’s just like dancing, Olivia. I shall lead, you’ll follow, and we’ll both enjoy every moment of it.”
Her heart thudded at his sweet promise, and she licked her lips. Leaning forward, she braced a palm against the crumbling brick beside his head. “This is a familiar start.”
“Oh?”
“Mmm.” She rested fingertips at his cheekbones, drawing them slowly to his jaw, imitating the drawing-down of a mask. Slipping arms around the corded muscles of his neck, she caught his lips, warm with a lingering hint of port.
Ty's hands moved over her back. Not caressing; they were taking practical advantage of her position, working at the laces from her stays.
That was the last rational thought she could recall, until her shift being pulled free cut between their kiss, leaving her naked before Ty.
His eyes traced her, and he pressed her shoulders when she moved to wrap herself with both arms. “Don’t,” he whispered, trailing fingers to her wrists, taking her hands and drawing them behind her. Then he went to work on her hair. She shivered with each brush of his fingers slipping free a pin, untwining her braid. When he’d finished, he wrapped strands in a gentle grip, arranging them over her until they curtained her breasts. She held her breath at his efforts, and at the whisper of hair against her own eager flesh. He was patient, reverent, taking as much pleasure in touching as she did in being touched. She stroked a thumb across his cheek. “I love you, Tyler.”
“And I you, all of you.” Broad hands brushed her neck and shoulders, traced her throat. Rough palms cupped her breasts, kneading softly when she arched into his touch. She was growing impatient, kindled need demanding to be fed. Drawing back, she met his eyes. “You're being a gentleman. I'd expect nothing less...” Curling fingers into the flap of his breeches, she yanked sharply, relieving the first two buttons.
“Say it, then,” he murmured. Somewhere his restraint had become a challenge, and he provoked her. “Ask it of me.”
He might be practiced, but she had a few tried and true aces in her hand. Slipping arms around his neck, she drew him close, crushing her breasts to the crisp hair of his chest. She teased his ear with her lips. “Tyler.”
Ty's weight bore her back, crushing the air from her. Trembling hands raked at her sh
oulders, her sides, and Olivia appreciated just how hard he had struggled for control. He twined their fingers. A sweet, easy gesture, except that he squeezed, holding her arms fast against the quilt.
His lips countered the pressure, coaxing hers to part for his tongue. He did something seductive with it, catching her bottom lip and swallowing her gasp. A knee wedged between her thighs, opening the way for him to settle there.
She tugged one arm free, kneading his shoulder to urge him on. His full weight pressed her into the bed. Her instinct was to raise against it, to beg. Some part of her that had wanted him since that first night was crying out, now, demanding a long-denied release. “Oh God, Ty, please.” She bit him with her nails, willing more from his touch. He flinched, wool breeches gripping her thighs, pulling, encouraging the knot twisting deep in her belly. “Please...” she managed between gasps. “I want...” There were no words to communicate the ache spreading up her thighs.
Lips closed around her nipple, teeth grating, getting revenge for the havoc she'd wreaked on his back. “What do you want?” he breathed into her neck.
He knew exactly what she wanted. Damn him for muddying her thoughts, stealing her words. “I want...”
His hips circled against her before she could finish. “Is that what you wish, Olivia?”
Her answer was a small sob, hungry, pleading. He knew she did. Raising one knee, she laced a leg over his and arched. She had the satisfaction of feeling him stiffen, and she caught his groan with her lips.
Ty's hands released hers, slipping under the quilt. Fumbling between them, his knuckles brushed the inside of her thigh. Fingers gripped her backside with desperate pressure. He drove her into the mattress with a thrust that was more of a spasm, an instinct to fit their bodies together. She winced, cried out. She felt their joining at her very center. Absolute, perfect pleasure, colored at its edges with a sting that weighted the moment, but didn’t cool her hunger.
“I love you, Olivia.” He trembled against her and was otherwise still, panting softly against her cheek.
She raised her hips, filled with the same joy and eager for what else he could teach her.