Kisses Like a Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “How are you?” His voice was too careful. Could she fob him off with a social lie? Did he deserve that? No.

  “I’m fine now.” She hesitated, considering how much to admit. Could she stand to have him constantly watching her? They’d be sharing a bedroom once they returned to the palace. “My father died in a mountain thunderstorm, back in Scotland. Storms like this remind me.”

  She kept her head down, not looking at him.

  He looped the reins over the rail, steadying the horses, and took her into his arms. “My poor darling, you must have been with him, to let another storm frighten you.”

  “Yes.” She sniffled and leaned her head against his shoulder.

  “But I’m sure he was a strong man, who’d be very proud of how you conquered your fear and found shelter for us today.”

  Father, strong? Oh yes, but what good had that done her? Images flickered behind her eyes. Father, who’d chosen the name for his first-born and hadn’t changed his mind, despite the irritating arrival of a daughter. Father, pouring himself another neat whisky and ignoring her carefully practiced recital of a new foreign language. Father, always willing to depart early on a journey and leave her to follow with Nanny.

  “Yes, quite.” She disengaged herself and sat up, away from Brian’s all-too-enticing body. She couldn’t let herself give in. She’d been hurt once before in a storm like this. Could she survive another such disaster?

  “Hell, I’m sorry, Meredith, if I raked old memories up.”

  “Brian…” She almost laughed. But she couldn’t let him feel guilty. “Sometimes strong isn’t comforting.”

  “What do you mean? Your father should be your biggest comfort and supporter, until you’re married.”

  She could have laughed in his face. “Sometimes it simply implies selfish, especially when the world conspires to help.”

  Rain was drumming on the heavy wooden roof overhead, a reassuring sound now that she couldn’t see water rising in the rivers and waterfalls. A few high, grilled windows pierced the stone walls. The floors were also stone, set with drains. It was a man-made cave but it was still almost a prison.

  Brian’s fingers entwined with hers. He waited but didn’t demand any answers to his unspoken bafflement.

  “We were on holiday in the Scottish Highlands when Father and I went hiking alone.”

  Brian opened his mouth, clearly outraged. She simply raised an eyebrow and waited for him to recollect her mother’s highly citified ambitions.

  “It was a wet year and the rivers were very full, in scenery much like this. We had a late start but managed to reach a famous overlook, high in the crags.” She still loathed standing on cliffs, where one could see exactly how long falling to one’s death would take.

  She squeezed Brian’s fingers, taking comfort from his strength, and he kissed her hands.

  “The storm started on your way back down.” Brian’s voice was very tight. Morro pressed closer to her, whining in his throat. He always knew when she had nightmares.

  “Yes.” Maybe one day she’d sound relaxed, rather than choked up. But not yet. “Soon we couldn’t see more than a couple of steps away. Father shoved me under a ledge and told me to wait there, he’d bring back help.”

  She closed her eyes. Don’t think about how dark it had been, the rivulets pouring in to become waterfalls, the chunks of rock falling down…He must have been doing his best.

  “And then?” Brian’s voice was soft as an owl’s wing.

  “I waited. And waited. The rain stopped after dark but the search party didn’t find me until almost dawn. Apparently we’d wandered off the main path.” She shrugged, trying yet again to convince herself help had come as soon as possible.

  “What about your father?” She glanced up at her lover, startled at his tone. When Mother told this story, most people were very worried solely about her father’s survival and stopped thinking about her, the little child who’d been lost. But Brian seemed almost angry, his brows drawn together as if he were second-guessing that night’s events.

  Maybe saying this out loud would help erase the agony. Besides, the tale wasn’t a secret in Eisengau, thanks to the Judge’s frequent claims of superiority over his wife’s first husband. “They found him at midnight dead in a ditch, reeking of whisky.”

  “Maybe he was lost or heading for the first place he knew he could find people.” The grooves by Brian’s mouth deepened.

  “He’d probably been drinking from the flask in his pocket, passed out, fell in, and drowned.” He’d needed the whisky more than he needed to stay sober to find help to save her.

  “Hell no!” Brian rubbed her hands against his cheek, his expression appalled. “It was only a brief lapse.”

  Dear God, how she envied his certainty because she couldn’t share it.

  “You may be right. But I saw hundreds of occasions where my father enjoyed the bottle more than my company or my mother’s. And during the hours I spent among those rocks, my heart learned to believe that my father didn’t care whether I lived or died.”

  “Meredith, please believe that not every father would do that. Mine would give his life to protect his children.” Outrage blazed from his cobalt eyes, but she couldn’t allow herself to lean on it, especially when he mentioned his sire.

  “I’m glad for you.” She shook her head at him. “You’re twice lucky: You’re a man and the laws are on your side. It’s why I won’t marry. If I can’t trust my father, why would I give my life to another man who can do anything to me he wants to, under the law?”

  His jaw dropped opened before he recovered himself.

  “Meredith, not every man is like that. You must start believing in some men. Or come to America where the laws protect women.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Laws? What good were they when enforced by men like her stepfather? But maybe America might be different. “Equally? Including voting rights?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted. “But you could work to change that. It’d still be better than here.”

  He was undoubtedly correct—and physically tempting. She dared to smooth the frustrated lines in his cheek. “You’re still trying to convince me to quit the workers’ party. But I won’t.”

  “Truce? At least for now?”

  “Truce,” she agreed. Why did he have to be so easy to talk to? Why couldn’t he have been somebody who’d dismiss her thoughts—and let her walk away from him, too? A carnal night or two, not this yearning to hold hands and talk.

  He caught her fingers and kissed them quickly.

  She smiled at him but freed herself before she could be trapped by his skills and jumped down from the phaeton to stretch her legs.

  “Where are we?” he asked. “There’s actually a good deal of room here.”

  “We’re above the private gallery connecting the railroad blockhouse and the big guns’ emplacement. This was originally a snow shed but it was modified to hold private vehicles.”

  “That’s why it’s large enough to turn around in,” he commented, suiting the action to the words.

  She agreed silently, admiring his skill at the tricky art, especially in such tight confines. And his hands…

  He loosely tied off the horses’ reins and came to join her, looking around curiously. A small door in the far corner caught his attention. “That’s definitely not the main entrance to the artillery emplacement.”

  The pure disgust in his voice sent giggles racing through her lungs and throat. She choked and yielded to them, glad to laugh, however near to hysteria.

  “That was a very good joke, especially since I don’t even know what it was. Care to share it?” He propped his hand on his hip and pretended to glare at her.

  “Almost all the supplies travel using the railroad, and the railroad blockhouse. The troops come straight from headquarters and go directly to the emplacement itself.”

  “So this door is only for people.”

  “It was built for Grand Duke Rudolph but Zorndorf also uses
it occasionally. There’s an inspection port to the magazine behind it.”

  “Zorndorf doesn’t use it often, I’ll wager.”

  “No. Very important guests do, too, occasionally. It must be locked now, since there are no sentries posted.”

  Brian strolled a little farther forward, covering ground in a big cat’s graceful prowl rather than a cavalryman’s bow-legged strut. Her mouth went a little dry.

  “What’s that bit of white by the door?”

  “A dropped handkerchief? A love letter for the chef?” She stayed by the main entrance, enjoying the open air. She couldn’t see the river or any waterfalls from here, even if there was more rain than the watercourses could easily handle.

  “A packet—or, actually two cigars wrapped in a piece of paper.”

  “Somebody will be very unhappy to miss their nighttime smoke.”

  “Mmhmm. Good cigars, too.”

  She chuckled at his purring anticipation.

  “Wait, the paper has writing on it.”

  “On the wrapping paper, not the cigar itself?” She craned her neck, totally forgetting the storm for once.

  “Yes. Two styles of text alternate. One line in the Latin alphabet and the other in a foreign language.”

  “What does it say?”

  “The Latin text is random characters.”

  “Let me see it, please.” The modern languages she’d been studying ought to be good for something.

  He handed it over to her without a word and she held it up to the graying light.

  “The foreign text is in Cyrillic, the Russian alphabet.” Her skin was crawling.

  Brian was as silent as a cat studying a mouse hole, ready to pounce at any second.

  “It’s not very grammatical,” she complained, aware she was avoiding bad news. She cleared her throat and began, a block of ice expanding in her stomach. “Additional funds received today. Will use as instructed to buy cannons in time to meet General Staff deadline. Will acquire plans by any means. Sazonov.”

  Brian’s mouth was a tight, hard line.

  “Why is the Latin text such gobbledygook?” she whispered, afraid of the answer.

  “It must be a coder’s worksheet. First he writes down in plain language what he wants to say, which he transfers into the code. After that, he fair copies the coded version onto a telegraph blank.”

  “This is genuine?” Would that it wasn’t.

  “I’d say so. Can you recognize his handwriting?”

  “I’ve only seen him write in French and English. But yes, I believe so.” The scum truly did intend to capture Alaska with Canada’s goldfields just beyond. How dare he take on the British Empire! “How can we stop him?”

  “I’ll cable Washington and hope they listen to me. And I’ll ask Blackwell to do what he can in London, of course.”

  “Why wouldn’t Washington listen?” She bristled immediately. “You’re a decorated war hero and an officer!”

  “I’m a self-made millionaire, who comes from an even richer family. I was reactivated for this mission.”

  Drat, he was being modest. He truly did come from a dynasty, wealthy and powerful enough to force his country to listen to it. What could they do to her if she disagreed? But that wasn’t today’s problem; Alaska was.

  They had to stop Sazonov.

  “I was recommended for this job by Colonel Teddy Roosevelt, who’s a notorious warmonger and the current vice-presidential candidate. I have no official claim on Washington to do anything.”

  “But you did fight during the last war.” She didn’t make it a question.

  “I finished as a major in the First Volunteer Cavalry, better known as the Rough Riders. A very young major.”

  “A very successful one,” she retorted, having seen too many strutting old fools. “You’ll succeed.”

  “If it doesn’t work, we’ll have to stop him here.” His eyes were the same cold blue they’d been at the beer house, compelling her to listen and obey.

  She stiffened her spine and looked him in the eye, wary of what came next. “You should be able to buy the guns instead of Sazonov, since you’re so rich.”

  He bit off a half-formed curse and she kept her head high, waiting. She didn’t know what he wanted yet but she wouldn’t do it, simply because he said so.

  “I can pay cash and I can purchase without permission from my superiors, unlike anyone else here. But I can be outbid if Grand Duke Rudolph starts accepting other types of payments.”

  “If he extends credit?”

  “Or accepts some of the legendary Russian real estate in France, like those palaces in Paris and on the Riviera. Or equal access to their spies’ secret reports. Or…”

  “Surely they wouldn’t give him that!” Those bribes would turn anyone’s head, especially the grand duke’s. She clawed for common sense as a counterweight.

  “Probably not.” Brian shrugged. “But they wouldn’t have to actually deliver it, just convince him they meant to for long enough to get those big cannons out of Eisengau. And then?”

  “Goodbye, Alaska and the Klondike.” She sagged back against the stone wall, barely noticing the water rippling through the stone courses only inches away. “So we stop Sazonov from taking the guns, by either buying them or destroying them.”

  “And the plans.”

  “No!” Her eyes flashed to him. “The plans stay here, to help the workers.”

  “That won’t work. The grand duke will simply make more cannons for Sazonov.”

  “Giving you extra time to convince Washington—and London—to fortify Alaska.” She lifted an eyebrow at her lover. “I’m sure you can manage it.”

  “You’re not yielding.” He glared at her.

  “Neither are you,” she retorted. Why did this argument feel like tearing her heart out? “But I’m the only one who can steal the plans for you or Sazonov. You have to cut a deal with me.”

  He almost audibly gnashed his teeth and she could have purred. Any other man of her acquaintance would have hit her by now, instead of using conversation to convince her. Nor had he thrown their bargain into her face, which tied her to his bed.

  Her throat was ridiculously tight and a little hoarse, as if she was about to cry.

  “Mexican standoff?” she offered instead. “I can’t leave town without you and you need me to get the plans.”

  “Mexican standoff, darling.” An edged smile flashed across his face, full of anticipation for the fight ahead.

  She managed a smile, hoping she’d win for the workers’ sake. Or at least survive.

  Chapter Ten

  “What do you want to do after dinner tonight?” Brian asked late that afternoon in their room, manfully keeping his eyes on Meredith’s face and not her décolletage. He’d do whatever it took to gain her cooperation and few women enjoyed being blatantly ogled, no matter how low their neckline. Or how beautiful their body.

  She carelessly slung the velvet scarf over her shoulder, removing some of his distractions. Had he ever met a woman who cared less about her appearance, so long as she was tidy?

  “Whatever you think best,” she replied, idly turning over the paste trifles in her jewelry drawer. She’d look far better in real diamonds or rubies than those fakes.

  “I heard there’s a secret masquerade after midnight tonight. Did you want to attend?” She looked up at him inquiringly, all wide-eyed innocence.

  He choked and coughed. She ran to fetch him a glass of water, which he accepted gratefully.

  “Well?” she demanded, as soon as he could speak.

  He frowned at her. “It’s very scandalous.”

  “Zorndorf definitely wouldn’t approve? Oh, we must go!”

  “No!” He’d done many reckless things in his life but he’d never taken a good girl, like Meredith, to a party like that one.

  “Explain to me why not.” She folded her arms across her chest, plumping up her bosom—and making his mouth go dry—and tapped her foot.

  He close
d his eyes briefly and prayed for continued self-control. “The men will be encouraged to wear dresses, and the women to wear trousers.”

  “Men in skirts?” Her voice cracked. “Impossible.”

  “Surprisingly common.”

  “I know the grand duke wears a corset—but dresses?” She snatched up his hands. “It can’t be true.”

  “I’ve been to such parties before, Meredith.”

  “Not in a dress.”

  Her utter certainty made him grin. “Well, no.”

  “Of course not, you’d never squeeze into one.”

  “Sweetheart, a good modiste can work wonders,” he drawled and began to kiss her fingers, one by one.

  “Your shoulders are too broad.” She trembled, watching his mouth.

  “Is that a complaint?”

  “Not for myself. But dressmakers might whine about having to drape silk over a stout paunch.”

  “Or consider it a challenge to their skill.” He turned her hand over and started to tease the blue veins on the inside of her wrist.

  She shuddered. “Perhaps,” she whispered, her eyes drifting shut. “Are we going down for dinner?”

  “Are you hungry?” He nibbled gently on her other thumb and she gasped, making his blood leap.

  “Not after the enormous tea when we came back from the demonstration.”

  “Good, we’re free to enjoy ourselves.” Would that all duty was so pleasant and took him into such delightful company.

  “You arrogant brute, that’s not what I said.”

  He chuckled softly at her halfhearted protest and kissed the corner of her mouth. She moaned something, her lips sighing open. He slid his tongue over her lips, teasing her. She followed him blindly and caught his head between her hands, drawing him into a heated kiss.

  He groaned, his chest tight, his blood running far too fast for this early in an encounter. He liked women, he loved sex, he’d been enjoying it with them for years. He knew how to do this—and walk away without a backward glance, leaving his partner smiling.

  But accomplishing that demanded self-control and a certain deliberation. Not rushing to kiss or touch, not pulse pounding or lungs heaving.