by Darcy Burke
Yet he was far too clothed. She clawed at his cravat, ineffectively attempting to undo the knot. Laughing, he separated from her, tearing off the cravat and undoing the buttons of his shirt. When he slid the material off his arms and tossed it onto the blanket, she could only stare open-mouthed at the expanse of his hard, muscled chest. One long scar ran across his right pectoral, while an old burn marred the flesh above his left hipbone. Half a dozen other smaller marks littered his rugged physique.
She trailed her fingers down that long, windy scar. “What happened here?”
“Enemy in Brussels,” he said, clasping his hand over hers. “His knife might have left its mark upon me, but in the end I had the best of him.”
She leaned forward, placing her lips over top of the old wound. Gently, she kissed him, her tongue darting out to lick his skin.
He moaned underneath her, and she became more adventurous, her hands exploring the strong planes of arms, then his chest. And then down to his arousal—but he stopped her, his hand closing over hers and lifting it. “Not yet, my love,” he told her. “Not if you want this to be any good for you.”
She arched a brow at him, but he ignored her challenge. He stood up, and then he lifted her up in his arms, taking her over to the bed. He grinned as he laid her down. That mischievous grin of his drove her wild, for she knew she was the only one who ever got to see that side of him.
He parted her legs, situating himself in between them. His lips found her neck, her breasts, her stomach as he explored her, hands roving, leaving trails of heat wherever he touched. She wriggled underneath him, reaching down to try and direct his mouth to where she needed him most, but he was determined to torture her. He proceeded at a slow, leisurely pace, as though he had all the time in the world to win.
“James,” she gasped. “I want you. Please.”
He stopped his downward glide. “Tell me what you want.”
The sight of him was nearly enough to undo her. His half-naked body, his mouth poised right above the thatch of curls that led to her center. His eyes sparkled roguishly, and he held that pose, even as his bulging arousal told her exactly what he’d like to be doing.
He was mad, really, to expect such coherent thought from her.
“I want you to kiss me,” she panted. “Down there.”
“Not as specific as I would have liked, but we can work on that.” He flashed her that heart-stopping grin again before his head dipped between her thighs.
Her hands fisted in the sheets, for the short stubble of his day-old beard against her intimate flesh created a sensual friction she had not expected. Then his tongue flicked out, tracing her inner lips. Toying with that bud until she was moaning with need, slowly shattering under his ministrations.
“You are so wet.” He nibbled at her pearl, his teeth lightly grazing her, until she was flying, screaming out her release.
He made her forget about Sauveterre, about the possibility of joining the Clocktower, about everything that had passed in this last year and a half. There was only him and this blessed sense of rapture.
And when she was finished, when her body lay languid against the silk sheets, she looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, her gaze coming to rest on his hard arousal. Her climax had been powerful, but it wasn’t all she sought.
“I want you.” She reached for the band of his breeches, flipping open the clasp. “I want you inside of me.”
“Are you sure?” His gaze flickered over her face.
She knew that if she did want to wait, he would—whether or not it made him greatly uncomfortable to go without release. That made her love him more.
“Of all the things in life, I am most sure of this,” she told him.
He shucked his breeches and small clothes swiftly, coming back to her. Nudging her legs apart, he positioned himself between her thighs, bracing himself above her. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, his hard muscles against her own curves, the woodsy scent of him permeating everything.
“I swear, this shall only hurt the first time,” he promised her.
She nodded. Pain would no longer scare her away. She’d vowed to be fiercer.
There was the weight of his arousal against her folds. The pressure as he entered her, breeching her maidenly barrier. She grasped his shoulders. Stiffened at the discomfort, but it was fleeting. Her body stretched, accommodating his girth.
His gaze locked on hers, and she gave a push of her hips to let him know she was ready. He thrust, unhurriedly at first, his speed increasing as they found a rhythm that worked for them both. The fire that burned so bright within her before glimmered again, but hotter this time, for he was within her, filling her to the brim. He drove into her, so in tune to her, knowing immediately what pace she needed.
Passion thrummed through her, winding higher and higher, until suddenly she had nothing left to hang onto. The fire burned in the grate, their breaths comingled, but all she could focus on was this pleasure. It built and built within her, becoming almost too much to handle. Just when she feared she couldn’t take much more, she came apart at the seams, in an explosion of light and warmth. James crested after her, groaning out his release as he spilled within her.
He broke from her, falling to the side of her. For a few minutes, they simply lay there, cradled in each other’s arms. His hand came to rest upon her hip, and she placed her own on top of it, entwining his fingers in hers. Once her mind finally cleared enough to speak again, she turned her head to his, placing a kiss on his forehead.
“That was brilliant,” she breathed.
He grinned. “Not incredible?”
She stretched languorously, luxuriating in the feel of the silk sheets against her skin, combined with the warmth of his body. “Better than incredible.”
Her heart was bound to his, the last shreds of her uncertainty falling away as he held her close to him. As Vivian Spencer, she would be a different woman, free of the fears that had constricted her before.
Chapter 19
He awoke with a start. Someone was pounding on their bedroom door. In one fluid movement, he swung off the bed, his feet hitting the ground solidly as he stood up.
“James!” Panic saturated Arden’s yell, dowsing the last dredges of sleepiness in his mind. “Come quickly! Someone’s approaching!”
He reached over, rousing Vivian with a shake. “We have to go.”
She sat up, holding the sheet up to cover her bare chest. Yawning, she blinked up at him. “What’s going on?”
Before he could answer, Arden hit the door, shouting once more. Vivian’s grip on the sheet tightened.
“Get dressed,” he told her, swooping up his breeches from the floor. He tugged them on, then his shirt, ignoring his waistcoat and other accoutrements. He located Vivian’s dress and chemise, slung across the bench at the foot of the bed.
“Where are my stays?” she asked, as she accepted her clothes from him.
“No time.” He pulled his boots on, grabbing the three small knives on the bedside table and sliding them into the lining. On his way to the door, he grabbed his holster, strapping it on around his waist and loading two daggers into it.
His heart beat a little slower whenever he was properly equipped, alarm no longer clogging his throat. He could breathe again.
“He’s here, isn’t he? Sauveterre.” Vivian’s voice shook as she tossed her dress over her head. She came to stand next to him, and he did up the back of her gown in record time.
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. “In the closet, there’s a rapier. All those fencing lessons over the years? They’re about to mean something.”
The color drained from her face as she rushed to the closet, her fingers wrapping around the cup hilt of the straight-bladed sword. “No button.”
“No, love,” he murmured. “No button.”
When thrust properly, the two-edged blade would slice through flesh, reducing it to ribbons. Now that she might actually have to exac
t that revenge she’d spoken so much of, she hesitated. He recognized that mien of dread; the slump of her shoulders, for it was the same way he’d looked before his first mission.
But there was no room for second-guessing.
He opened the door, stepping out into the hall. Vivian peeked out around his arm, still holding the rapier. Arden came to them, her hands poised on opposite ends of a long staff. Northley trailed behind her, clutching a parasol that James suspected had a knife built into the tube, for the tip was a bit too pointy. In this circumstance, he was glad the maid was armed. Taking in the lines etched in Arden’s wan forehead, he had a feeling they’d need all the help they could get.
“Is it Sauveterre?” Vivian asked.
Arden lifted her chin, her gaze fastened on him. “That is the most likely scenario.”
He caught the unsaid meaning behind her words. The list of enemies to the Clocktower was expansive—without knowing what Sauveterre looked like, they couldn’t positively identify the threat. They had to be prepared for anyone.
“Where’s Nixon?” he asked, following Arden toward the front door.
The hall was wide enough they could walk two abreast. Vivian made a move to walk beside him, but he shoved her back behind him. Protecting her was the priority. If anyone attacked, he’d be able to better shield her with the bulk of his body.
“Outside watching,” Arden said.
Her short answers sounded another alarm in his mind. Yes, time was of the essence, but Arden didn’t suppress the details unless there was a reason.
He reached for her arm, halting her. He refused to leave the stronghold of this house without knowing what he was facing. Not again. “What’s out there, Songbird?”
The use of her code name snapped Arden’s head up, her breath sucking in an audible hiss. Good. Her mind was back in the game.
“Five men, possibly more,” she said. “All armed. Looks to be clubs and knives, mostly. One gun. Nixon thinks it’s a rifle with a bayonet attachment. French military is our best guess.”
“Blast,” he muttered. “I do so loathe bayonets. Still, that’s doable—not even two men for each of us. We’ve fought worse odds before.”
He heard the intake of Vivian’s breath. Stretching out his arm behind him, he laid his hand on her arm. Her body relaxed slightly under his touch.
Arden watched them, her lips setting into a thin line. “We can’t leave Nixon alone much longer,” she suggested gently, as if she hated to intrude, but duty called.
“Go. I’ll meet you outside.” He nodded, turning around to face Vivian. How he abhorred the whiteness of her face, the tremble of her hand against the rapier. This place was supposed to keep her safe, not endanger her further. “Listen, I want you to take Northley and go back in our bedroom. It’s the safest room in the house. Position something heavy in front of the door, and don’t move it for anyone. You understand?”
“I can help,” Vivian protested.
Her assuredness did not reach her eyes. Before his mind’s eye flashed an image of Louisa, as she’d been the night she begged to take on Nicodème.
He said what he should have said then to his sister. “No.”
Yet compliance without question was not in Vivian’s blood. “You’ve trained me. I’m ready.”
“It’ll take years of training before you’re ready,” he said gruffly. “I don’t have time to argue with you. Just do this for me.”
She grasped his hand, her touch like a lightning bolt through him. “I don’t want to leave you.”
And he broke at the seams. This was not a mission like any other. This was her life.
“Please love, I can’t lose you too,” he murmured.
Her resistance faded at the crack of his voice. His weakness, on display again for her.
She stood up on her tiptoes, planting a kiss on his lips. “You better come back to me.”
“Always,” he said as she turned, heading back down the hall to the room. Northley glared at him, and then she was gone too, after Vivian.
He strode forward, his body loose. Alert. Vivian had claimed she was ready, but he truly was. Reprieve lay outside this house, in preventing the death of another one he loved.
By the time he pushed open the heavy wooden door and joined Arden outside, not more than ten minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity. He stood by her side, waiting. Watching. Nothing appeared in the distance.
Until Nixon burst out from the forest, his arms undulating, clumps of grass churning up underneath his well-worn top boots. He dashed to them, leaping up onto the porch. He swung his flintlock off from his back, hurriedly loading the gun and getting into position.
The enemy breeched the tree line, seven armed men descending upon their secluded retreat. James drew out his knife. Arden rocked her left foot forward, her fists outstretched in a fighter’s stance.
The shot from Nixon’s flintlock pierced the air, the percussion still echoing in James’s ears a moment later. The bullet found its target—one of the men flung backward, as the ball lodged in the tender flesh underneath his right shoulder.
“One down, six to go,” James muttered.
The French agents fired off a shot, but it swung wide and landed in the porch railing. But James did not breathe a sigh of relief, for the accosters picked up pace, advancing quickly.
Nixon reloaded the gun as Arden and James jumped down as one from the porch, onto the level ground. They raced toward the French spies, each taking opposite sides. For a second, their opponents hesitated, all looking toward the man in the middle of their group: a gargantuan man armed with a rifle, who outweighed even the brawny Nixon. The leader nodded. The men fanned out, two going toward Nixon on the porch. Nixon began to use his flintlock as a truncheon, for the gun would not be as useful in close range. Another man went after Arden, expecting that as a woman she would be easy to take down.
James’s lips curved into a sinister sneer. They’d soon find out how wrong they were about her.
That left only the leader and another of his men, a tall, wiry man with an unruly thatch of red hair. James held his ground; knife outstretched in his most forward hand. The leader stood back, as if he wanted to see if his man could finish the job without him needing to be involved. Abstractly, James noted his egotism—it could be used against him. Was this man Sauveterre? He did not know.
The thinner man charged, swiping upwards to the left with his knife. James darted to the side, avoiding the blow. He swung out with his own blade, but Red Hair moved at the last second. They traded attacks like this, blade notching at cloth, never doing more than nicking their skin.
Until the swipe of Red Hair’s knife cut James’s forearm. A piercing pain shot through him, but he ignored it, just as he ignored the sluice of blood down his arm. A sick grin twisted Red Hair’s lips, and he leaned in for the kill.
“You’re going to die, English,” the Frenchman spat, as if being English was the worst insult he could think of.
“Not likely,” James rejoined.
His hand whipped out, grabbing the other man’s weapon hand. Striking out with his fist, James connected with Red Hair’s nose. The move threw him backward. James took advantage of this. He thrust hard with his forearm, slashing into the operative’s lung with one long, deep stroke. The assailant’s muscles tensed, catching the blade before James tugged it out. Blood poured out from his chest, his mouth, and he plunged to the ground.
But James did not stop. The carnage barely registered. These invaders were coming for Vivian—and they’d kill anyone in their way as quickly as James had dropped their man. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Arden had dispatched the man she was fighting and joined Nixon’s battle.
His people remained in danger. Vivian was safe for now in the locked room, but that might not last.
The leader surged toward James, hunched over, the bayonet of his rifle outstretched and gripped between his two hands.
Of course. Always the damned bayonets.
James needed to outmaneuver him. He must be swifter.
He swiped outward, the blade of his knife skittering against the man’s sleeve. The man came at him with the stock of the gun, trying to throw him off balance. Once James was stunned, he’d follow that up with a stab of the bayonet.
But not today. Expecting his opponent’s next move, James scurried out of the way. When the heavier man crowded him again, James seized the opportunity of the closer quarters—he drove the knife in his hand upwards at an angle, stabbing from beneath the man’s jaw. The blade sliced through, buried in the man’s skull. He fell to the ground with a disturbing thud, the knife still stuck.
If indeed the man was Sauveterre, he was dead now. Perhaps he’d spared Vivian from becoming a killer yet.
James did not waste time with further recollections. Instead, he threw himself into the fray with Arden and Nixon. The man who had been shot in the shoulder had risen, rejoining the fight.
Three men against three—he liked those odds.
Not more than a quarter of an hour after Vivian left James, a sharp, loud crack penetrated the windowless bedroom where she huddled with Northley. Vivian recognized the sound instantly from her practice sessions with James earlier that week.
Gunfire.
Oh God, what if James were hurt? She held tight to the counterpane, her knuckles whitening. No, James was strong. He was smart and skilled and he knew how to fight. As a spy, he’d been trained for these very circumstances.