The Spy Wore Silk

by Andrea Pickens

  “With pleasure.”

  The earl waited until she obeyed his command before he went on. “You seem quite fond of games, so let us play one now. A guessing game.” With slow, deliberate steps, he took up a position directly in front of her. “Here’s the question—why does a mysterious beauty suddenly appear in London and offer herself to a group of wealthy book collectors?”

  “Lord Kirtland—”

  He silenced her with a curt wave. “Let me finish. You have not yet heard the key clues. Though she claims to be a courtesan, she is in possession of military equipment that is issued to only the most elite cavalry regiments. And she is highly trained in its use. Indeed, she has learned how to handle a sword from none other than Allegretto Da Rimini, a renowned rascal but one of the best blades in all of Europe.” The earl saw her fingers fist in the counterpane. “Not to mention that her town house in London is secured by a specialized locking system unavailable to most civilians. And then there is this…” Kirtland pressed the point of the poniard to her breast.

  “A perfectly balanced throwing knife crafted by Artemis Chandler. As far as I know, only military men are privy to his expertise.” His litany finished, he allowed a flash of teeth. “Now you may speak.”

  Siena regarded him with a tight-lipped stare.

  “You don’t care to hazard an answer? Then let me make a guess.” The blade slowly cut through the top lace of her bodice. “On the basis of the official arsenal, I would say you were working for the British government.”

  “That is absurd.” Her voice was a touch more brittle than usual.

  “At first blush,” he agreed. “Yet I ask myself, who else would know of secret military suppliers?”

  Once again he was met by silence. She looked as though she didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “If you are not working for our side, then a logical surmise is French intelligence.”

  A second silk ribbon yielded to the blade. “So perhaps you are an agent of Bonaparte, sent to assassinate someone here. But The Gilded Page Club hardly poses a threat to the French. Nor does the guest list include any government official. So that seems unlikely.” Her bodice had slipped low enough to reveal the black tattoo. Rutland stared for a moment before going on. “Another possibility is that you have come to steal a critical document. The Psalters? I would not think so. So that begs the question of whether the duke holds some other secrets that might be valuable to the Emperor?”

  “I am no traitor,” she shot back. “Are you?”

  “No.” He drew the sharpened steel up so that it was kissing her neck. “But it is not my actions that are under discussion; it is yours.”

  “You are mad. Or mayhap someone has spiked your wine with tincture of opium.” Unlike her sword thrusts, her denial did not ring quite true.

  “Am I? My head may be spinning, but only from the flurry of your lies. It’s high time you told me what your real mission is, paloma.”

  For an instant there was a flicker in her eyes— something akin to longing? Then her lashes spiked, and she tilted her chin, causing the blade to prick the flesh.

  “Am I to be subjected to the Inquisition?”

  “I shall forgo thumbscrews or the Iron Maiden.”

  Threats were not the way to wrest information from her, he reminded himself. He pulled back, anger now fueled by a different heat. “I’ve other ways of seeking to plumb the depths of your secrets.”

  “The red-hot poker?”

  The earl could not help the curl of his lips. Any other female would be using tears as a weapon, not irony.

  “You arouse a hellfire flame in me,” he answered slowly. “I am not sure whether I want to shake you until your teeth rattle, or …” He lowered his mouth to within a hairbreadth of hers. “Or kiss you until you cry for mercy.”

  Her lips parted, showing the pink point of her tongue.

  “Were I marching into battle against the enemy, I would call it bloodlust.” His voice turned raspy. Like metal against metal. “But this—I am at a loss as to what to call it.”

  “As am I,” whispered Siena. Deflecting the razored steel, she touched his collar and slowly loosened the knot of his cravat. Her hand slid inside his shirt.

  Kirtland felt as if his flesh were on fire. Seduction was indeed a dangerous game. He had started out with the intention of teasing the truth out of her, only to find his own weapon being turned against him.

  Mano a mano? Sexual tension added a potent heat to the match of wills. It was now threatening to explode.

  He caught her wrist. “You are as skilled at distraction as you are at dueling, my dear Dove. But this time, I mean to get to the heart of your deceptions.” His voice was perilously close to cracking.

  “By God, no more lies! Tell me the truth about what you are after.”

  She answered with equal heat. “You ask me to trust you, Lord Kirtland? Give me a reason why I should.”

  “Because …” He drew in a harsh breath, then ever so softly feathered his lips along the slant of her cheekbone. “Because I want to believe you are innocent of any evil intentions.”

  “H—how can I be sure that you are not the dastard I seek? All I know for certain is that he is clever, cunning, and ruthless. You are said to be all that. And your history gives me no reason to doubt it.”

  In answer, the earl moved her hand to his heart. “You have nothing to fear from me. I swear on my honor.”

  For a flickering moment her lashes hid her eyes. “I cannot risk a betrayal. And not just for my own sake.”

  “I have never betrayed anyone,” he said, wondering what she meant. “Not myself, not my friends, not—”

  “Not your country?”

  A tiny muscle twitched at his jaw. “No. Why would you ask?”

  “The rumors—”

  “The rumors be damned.” Cupping her chin, Kirtland forced her gaze to meet his.

  The martial light in her eyes was unyielding. “You are a soldier, sir. Would you betray the rules of engagement when caught behind enemy lines?”

  At daggers drawn. The hilt of the poinard pressed into his palm. If ever they were to end this duel, one of them must be the first to yield. He had asked her to trust his word. Was he willing to make the same leap of faith? There were only inches separating them …

  Slowly lowering his mouth, Kirtland took her lips in a long, lush kiss. Perhaps she was right—he was behaving like a man possessed by madness. But all of a sudden he didn’t care. Fighting his own doubts no longer seemed so important. The only battle that mattered was to win her belief in his honor. Even if it meant making himself vulnerable.

  “I am not your enemy, paloma. But I have no proof to offer except myself, my promise.”

  She broke away to trace the line of his jaw, her hand blessedly cool against his flesh. “Julian.”

  At the sound of his name, a smoky, sensual sound from deep in her throat, all earlier thoughts of strategy, of tactics, gave way to something far more elemental. His hands found the last fastening of her bodice. Threads snapped. Silk slithered down from her breasts, their curves molding perfectly to his touch.

  Kirtland groaned at feeling her hardening nipples against his palm. Her steel matched with his. He gladly surrendered the last little grip on his emotions.

  She cried out as he took her nipple between his teeth. Her voice was rough, almost desperate with feminine longing, as if she hadn’t played out this game of passion countless times, with countless men.

  He thrust the idea of other lovers from his mind. The past didn’t matter, only the present moment and the exquisite ecstasy of her supple body yielding to bis. The poniard fell to the floor.

  Be damned with cold steel. He tugged off his shirt, feeling clumsy as a schoolboy, and somehow managed to kick out of his boots.

  “Lift your hips, paloma.”

  She arched beneath him, allowing him to strip her dress and drawers down to her knees. A last little arch sent them frothing to the floor. His will to resist went
with them.

  She was all soft flesh and willing curves.

  “Julian.” Her voice was like liquid fire.

  Bracing himself on his elbows, he edged his steeling shaft higher. With a boldness that wrenched the air from his lungs, she took hold of his cock and guided it to the entrance of her passage. “Don’t stop this time,” she urged. “No matter if a whole regiment of Russian Hussars is lurking outside the window.”

  An entire army could not have held him back from closing the last little distance between them. So close, so close.

  The scent of her was all around him, the sweetness of verbena now musky with an earthier spice. Somehow, he found enough breath to groan.

  “Contrapostura,” she whispered, skimming her hands along the slope of his shoulders.

  Kirtland was only dimly aware of her voice over the pounding of his blood. It was on primal instinct alone that he altered his angle.

  “I yield to your forte.”

  With a shuddering swiftness, he thrust forward, sheathing himself in her liquid heat.

  Naked desire. The gleam in Kirtland’s eyes lit a wicked fire inside her. But it was nothing compared to the sensation aroused by the feel of his mouth on her cheeks, her throat, her brow.

  Siena cried out, wondrous of what had taken hold of her. Somehow her strategy of seduction was spiraling out of control. She had mastered the use of blades and bullets, but wielding her body as a weapon was proving far more demanding. Aware of the dangers, she stilled for an instant under his weight.

  “Did I hurt you?” Beneath the rough rasp of male arousal, the earl sounded surprised. “You are so tight. I—I did not expect it.”

  “It’s been ages since … I have had a man inside me.”

  He lifted slightly.

  “No!” Siena gripped his back, reveling in the hard slabs of muscle, the cording of sinew tapering to a lean waist. “I—I shall adjust in a moment,” she said, sliding her hands down over the taut swell of his buttocks.

  A hoarse laugh. “It’s not you I am worried about, paloma. I, too, have gone a long while without the company of a woman. I should like to go slowly and give you pleasure.”

  Pleasure did not begin to describe the feeling of him inside her. Strange, but it was as if a missing piece to a puzzle had been put into place. Steel interlocked with steel, his strength completing hers. It was her duty to distract him from her mission, but she could no longer lie to herself. This had gone far beyond training and tactics. It was no longer professional, but personal. Intensely so. Her hands skimmed to his hips, his ribs, the lithe line of his spine. She wanted to know every inch, every contour of him. His smell, the texture of his hair. Everything.

  “Not quite so fast, Valkyrie,” he gasped, his voice hovering on the brink of control. “I fear my sword cannot keep up with your moves.”

  Curling one leg higher around his hips, Siena flexed her body, giving herself completely to desire. “With the proper heat, a blade can be forged anew.”

  “Unless it has been burned to a crisp.”

  What fire consumed her own flesh, she could not say in words. She kissed him full on the mouth, teasing his tongue to twine with hers. The lush curling of his caresses sent spiraling shivers to her core. So fierce and yet so tender. She was reminded yet again that he was a warrior, a man who, like her, understood both triumph and pain.

  She had come to think of them as evenly matched. But all of a sudden she realized that it was not quite so. From the first clash of hands, Kirtland had taken hold of her, overpowering her guard. Oh, how she had fallen— spinning, twisting, head over heels.

  And yet she felt safe in his arms. How to describe the sensation?

  Love.

  The word took shape from the shadows. All her martial skills and mental strengths were no defense against the elemental force of love. As for trust… Principle or passion. Whose side was she on?

  In the next moment she must make a choice.

  As the question cried out for an answer, it was joined by an echo from Rutland’s earlier interrogation. If you are not working for our side, then a logical surmise is French intelligence. In the heat of the moment, he had spoken with a righteous anger.

  Our side.

  Were words strong enough proof of the earl’s innocence? Perhaps not for Lynsley’s liking. But Siena was suddenly so certain she could trust her intuition that she was willing to stake her life on it. Kirtland had taken the first leap of faith, allowing his belief in her innocence to

  overpower all his suspicions. She was willing to meet him halfway.

  But what about her mission, her country? More than her own life was at risk.

  With a muffled groan, Kirtland cut through the last of her lingering defenses and buried himself to the hilt. No more thoughts.

  It was one of Da Rimini’s first rules of engagement. Once you have committed to a strategy, Volpina, you must believe in yourself.

  Siena arched into his thrust. If she was wrong, she would face the consequences.

  Rising, falling, their bodies quickly found a perfect rhythm together, moving with the animal grace of two skilled fencers. A duel of desire. She had never felt so gloriously alive. His hands were coaxing her higher. Heat was spiraling through her legs, seeking some sort of escape. Trembling, she clung to him. “What is happening?” she cried in wonder. “I fear I am falling—”

  He covered her mouth with a bruising kiss. “Trust me, paloma. I won’t let you go.”

  Trust. She yielded to his need, and hers. “Hold me, Julian. Steel me with your strength.” Her whispered urging spurred him to quicken his strokes. Harder, faster, his thrusts drove her to the very edge of reason. And then she was over it, her cries like cracking crystal as her senses shattered in a myriad of sparkling shards.

  Kirtland’s voice, a hoarse, husky shout of exultation, crackled in her ear as his body held rigid for one last instant, then shuddered and softened against her spent limbs.

  Though the soft coverlet lay beneath her, Siena felt as if she were floating on some sun-kissed current of air. Weightless, careless. Light as a feather. Pressing her lips to the earl’s shoulder, she tasted the sweetness of his salty heat and wished that she might not come back down to earth for a long, long time.

  “Come, you are shivering.”

  Untwining his limbs from hers, Kirtland reached for the eiderdown quilt that had fallen to the floor. He shook it out and nestled the length of her glorious body in the puff of feathers. Her eyes, still heavy-lidded with passion, glinted in the candlelight, and as he stretched out beside her, their naked flesh took on a rosy hue in the flames and afterglow of lovemaking. He drew her close, reveling in the silky splendor of her unruly tresses, the wanton glow of her whisky-gold gaze. Warm, intoxicating. A man could drown in their depths and die happy.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered. “So alive with a mysterious, magical essence. It defies my skill with words to define.”

  “Your skill with other forms of expression is not lacking in sharpness, my lord.”

  He chuckled, enjoying the new tone of teasing in her voice. “It is heartening to hear it has not grown too dull from disuse.”

  “Mmmmm.” A musky murmur tickled his ear. “It seemed honed to perfection. But perhaps I should test its edge, just to be sure.”

  The earl sucked in his breath as her fingers danced with gossamer lightness over his cock. “I fear I am not quite prepared to show to advantage.”

  “You need have no fears on that score.” Her grip slowly curled around him, exerting exquisite pressure. “Lie still. There are several more steps to perform to ensure all is in working order.”

  “Sweet Jesus. I …” Whatever he was about to say was swallowed in a throaty groan. Pleasure—a word he thought easy enough to explain—took on a whole new meaning in her hands. A gliding exploration ran up and down his length, touching him in ways he had never dreamed possible.

  “Do you like this?” She leaned low over his hip, her hair like t
he fluttering of silk against his skin. Then her lips were tracing the jut of bone, the tip of her tongue igniting sparks of fire. He thought he might go mad with ecstasy.

  Kirtland was sure he sounded like a bedlamite, for another groan—or was it now a whimper—was his only answer.

  “And this?”

  Already aroused, his cock grew hot and heavy against his belly as she drew her circling, stroking caresses ever tighter. Just when he was sure he could not hold himself under control a moment longer, she stilled her stroke.

  He sunk his teeth into his lower lip, the throbbing for release shuddering through every fiber of his being. “Enchantress,” he whispered. For indeed his body was under her spell. It was hers, to do with as she pleased.

  Straddling his hips, she ran a thumb along his hooded tip, conjuring one perfect milk white pearl. “Don’t fight your passions, Julian. It’s a strength, not a weakness, to be made of flesh and blood rather than soulless steel.”

  He had already surrendered to her first touch. “I could not fight what you do to me, even if I wanted to.”

  With a bewitching swirl of her fingertips, Siena once again brought him to the brink. This time, the earl was sure there was no going back. His pelvis lifted from the sheepskin in arching anticipation of her next stroke. And once again, she took him by surprise.

  Moving faster than the flicker of firelight, she raised herself to meet his urgent thrust.

  Enveloped in her warmth, Kirtland wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. A shout, exultant in its wonder, slipped from his lips as he spilled his seed deep within her.

  A tremulous rise and fall, then Siena’s voice joined with his. Her hair, tumbled in a shimmering curtain of polished ebony, bid her face for a moment, but as she rolled off him and settled her head on the crook of his arm, he caught a glimpse of a smile, sublime in its sweetness.

  Gasping for breath, he lay utterly spent, the pounding of his pulse so furious that he feared his chest might explode. Its echo made his spinning thoughts even harder to sort into any coherent order. It should not come as any surprise that the Dove was a seasoned seductress. And yet, a short while ago he would have sworn she had never experienced a climax. While now … Surely no innocent would know such tricks to bring a man to pleasure.