by Lara Archer
He felt a need for her that he didn’t even know how to name.
But he pushed it away. Rachel had spent most of her life schooling herself in restraint; she could find it in herself again. And he could certainly get himself back under control.
He wasn’t supposed to be flesh and blood.
Of course, after he’d left her, he’d seemed nothing but flesh and blood—the cockstand he had might have killed a lesser man. That, at least, he dispatched with ruthless efficiency. He’d needed just a few good, fierce strokes, thinking of her, imagining thrusting inside her, imagining that wet, burning sheath he’d plunged his fingers into welcoming the full length of his shaft. The thought of her flesh sliding against him like wet velvet, her inner muscles clutching and pulsing around his cock as she moaned his name, drove him to explosion. He pumped ferociously into his palm, coming in a hard, hot jet.
His chest heaved. His hips and shoulders collapsed back onto the mattress as if he’d been thrown there from several feet away.
There. Better. Relief. It’s what he should have done in the first place, and spared them both a world of trouble.
Well, he wouldn’t touch her anymore. He absolutely wouldn’t.
He rolled out of bed, washed himself hastily, pulled on fresh clothing—simple trousers, a peasant’s shirt and jacket. He had to get to work. He had to figure out what was really going on here, underneath the surface. He should have received those dispatches by now from—what was the full name Rachel called him? The Black Giant?
An amusing name for him. Like something from a fairy tale. And it suited him far better than his Christian name, which was about as fitting as a wolf named Pussycat.
What would Rachel say if she learned the Giant’s name was William?
And that he was a peer of the realm?
The message Will had sent through Emilio this morning said he’d brought dispatches from England, and had other news of some sort. Perhaps there would be word of the ship that had attacked the Calliope. A chance for revenge in that area would be sweet indeed.
And, come to think of it, it would be a pleasure to make him pay for taking Rachel to see the chapel. That place was Sebastian’s own purgatory, his own penance. Slamming his fists a few dozen times into Will’s jaw would feel very satisfying just about now. The Giant could certainly take it, and knew damned well he deserved it.
Sebastian strode down the stairs to the kitchens with fresh enthusiasm.
To his surprise, Will was already there, a scraped-clean plate before him, and the scent of ham and bread and coffee in the air, brightened by the tang of oranges.
Evangelina sat next to him on the bench, her head resting against his sleeve, and she was swinging her legs and chattering happily about something. Will, as he often did, was actually looking down at the child kindly, with a smile in his eyes, if not on his lips.
They’d always been this way together, though it never stopped seeming odd. Eva was the only person he knew of other than Sal who’d ever seemed comfortable around Will.
Rosa hovered by the fireplace, wielding her ladle as if she might need to use it as a weapon. She’d never managed to convince herself that the huge man with the long black hair was entirely civilized, and—just as she might have with some wild bear which regularly wandered into her kitchen—she seemed to deal with the situation by feeding him as much as possible, trying to render him stupefied, perhaps, or at least beyond the point of further appetite.
Fortunately, it would take an entire roast pig and probably a barrel or two of ale to even come close to stupefying Will.
Sebastian’s fists were itching with eagerness.
But the look on Will’s face stopped him cold. Those ugly features were harsh by nature, but this morning, the moment he looked up at Sebastian, all traces of the warmth he’d directed at Eva drained from them, and he looked almost brutal.
“What is it?” Sebastian asked.
Will whispered something to Eva, who scampered out of the kitchen, and then he reached inside his jacket and handed over a packet wrapped in oilcloth. “Dispatches,” he said.
Sebastian accepted them, but still watched Will. The usual dispatches would not bring such a hard look to his face. “What else?”
“There is news from Diego Escobar—apparently the Baronesa de Talandrina welcomed an interesting houseguest yesterday.”
“Who?”
“The duc du Bourge.”
Du Bourge? A faint chill ran down Sebastian’s back. “Since when is the duc a traveling man? We left him in the keeping of the Countess of Leeds in London just days ago, and since then British ships have been avoiding these shores. And suddenly he is the guest of a Spanish lady who has never been abroad, and cannot have met him before?”
Will shrugged. “I would guess that introductions were effected by some agent of Napoleon’s. The likelihood of imminent invasion no doubt persuaded the baronesa to widen her social circle. As for the duc, perhaps the pin money he gets from his London countess does not seem sufficient to him anymore.”
Sebastian rubbed his fingers over his eyes. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest that du Bourge might be in the pay of Napoleon, aristo or not. There’d never been a trace of honor in the man. But how deeply involved was he? Certainly, he was too stupid to mastermind anything on his own. “Why would they need him? Because he knew Sal? Because he could help them spot her?
“Or draw her in to a trap somehow?”
Again a chill swept over his skin. And a desperate impulse to hide Rachel away. He had to stiffen his spine and remind himself of the choices they had both committed to. Regardless of any tremors he felt in his heart. Discipline. Discipline above all. “Then let us oblige the duc,” he said, “and perhaps he will lead us to our quarry instead. Find out where du Bourge will be tonight. Salomé and I will be there.”
“Of course,” said Will quietly, and then he added, “There’s something more.” He slid a small sheaf of papers from his side pocket and passed it over the table. “Diego also brought this to me. A young boy—a stranger—delivered it directly to him in the street.”
“A stranger? In the street? How could they know who you were?”
“Open the outer sheet of paper.”
Sebastian did so, and was surprised to read what was scrawled across it, in English. “Take this to your master, who must give it to the hawk.”
Will raised an eyebrow. “The hawk. I presume that means you, Hawkesbridge.”
“Me?” said Sebastian, puzzled. “But almost no one in Vigo knows my real name, much less has any knowledge of a connection between you and Diego, or between you and me. This is most alarming.”
“At least whoever it was apparently didn’t know where to give it to you directly. That’s good news in terms of . . . Salomé’s safety.”
Sebastian nodded grimly. “Did Diego recognize the boy who gave this to him?”
“No. He said the boy was a street urchin—rags and grime, dark hair and eyes. Not anyone he knows from the local neighborhood, and could be almost any male child from the streets anywhere else in Spain. The boy thrust the paper into Diego’s hands and vanished into the crowd.”
Sebastian unfolded the inner sheet of paper, and was equally baffled by what he found there: a series of indecipherable scrawls in dark black ink, like runes or hieroglyphs. “A code? Whose code? I don’t recognize this.”
“I’ve seen something like it on two documents our Spanish agents captured from French soldiers in Lisbon. The soldiers were well-trained, and admitted nothing, except that they themselves have no idea what the symbols mean. The fact that they are soldiers, though, and headed in the direction they were headed, suggests the message may have been meant for General Fourier.”
“So, this could be military. A French military code. We need to know what it says.”
“Perhaps it uses the same code Sal found in de Laurent’s notebook.”
“Damn. But if it is, who would want to pass it along to me, and in su
ch a backhand fashion? We know all the English agents in the region. They’d have approached me more directly.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “And there’s something I should tell you: it wasn’t Victoire de Laurent who sent that ship after the Calliope. I only realized it this morning. Sal’s re-appearance at the Talandrinas’ took her entirely by surprise.”
Will’s mouth formed an exceptionally hard line. “By surprise? So Victoire didn’t receive reports of Sal’s reappearance from her London agents? Then who the hell was trying to kill the two of you at sea?”
“I’d love to know.”
Will grimaced. And his fingers sought out the knife he’d abandoned by his dinner plate, gripping its handle reflexively, in a way that made Sebastian pity anyone who found themselves facing the sharp end of the blade. “Then we need to find du Bourge as soon as possible,” said Will. “Find out who he’s working for. And try to translate these damned documents. If ever there was a time we needed—”
Sal, he was about to say. But at that moment, the door to the kitchen swung open, and for a moment it was if Will’s wish had been granted. Rachel walked in, dressed in Sal’s clothes.
Will flinched at the sight of her.
What must he be thinking? Sebastian had never asked Sal about the nature of her relationship with Will. And Lord knows he’d never asked Will himself. But there had always been something between them. Sal, cynical as she was about everyone else of their acquaintance, would never hear a word against the man. And Will, for his part, was a decidedly tamer beast in her presence. Many times, when Will arrived at the house in one of his horrible black moods, the sort that sent Rosa scurrying upstairs muttering prayers to the holy virgin, Sal shooed everyone else from the parlor and closed herself in with him. By the time the doors opened again, the two of them would be sitting quietly, playing cards or chess, like a pair of vicars who’d been discussing fine points of theology.
It had always been a mystery.
And then—that awful night when Sal died, the sound that came from Will’s mouth when he found her blood-soaked and dying on the floor. It would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Now, as Rachel moved into the room, Will seemed to recover his sporadically impeccable manners, and rose to his feet. “Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” he said with a bow.
Rachel looked quickly between the two men, seeming to sense instantly that something was afoot. “What’s going on?”
Sebastian waved the pages of black runes through the air. It was a relief, actually, to have something to keep Rachel busy and far from his chamber. “We have some work for you, my dear.”
Chapter Eighteen
As it turned out, Sebastian could give Rachel little time to devote to making sense of the papers he’d given her. Will had gone out again, then returned in just over an hour with the news that the Baronesa de Talandrina herself was throwing a fete that night—in honor of her esteemed visitor the duc du Bourge.
The impulse to keep Rachel safe at home rose up fiercely within him. But du Bourge had been far closer to Salomé than to Sebastian, and he’d hardly approach if Sebastian hovered over her with his weapon drawn. Victoire de Laurent might keep to the shadows, but her followers weren’t half as clever as she. One of them—du Bourge or another—might yet blunder and cost the French dearly.
So the constant throb of fear in his chest had to be ignored.
By the time the moon rose, Sebastian changed into his evening clothes, and went to the kitchen to await Rachel. Evangelina and Rosa helped her into her best gown, and when she emerged, she was a glorious sight. They’d done her hair in a simple but fetching style—perfect for Salomé. But Sebastian rather preferred the sight of Rachel with fewer jewels, less trumpery. And far less clothing.
She barely looked at him, however, her whole demeanor uncertain, her cheeks tinged a scorching red. It was the first they’d been alone together since he’d ordered her from his bed.
With cool reserve, he handed her a lorgnette-style mask, black velvet held on a long, golden stick. He helped her into her domino, draping the hood carefully over her hair, so they could reach their destination with some degree of anonymity.
He congratulated himself on behaving exactly as a marquess should.
Then she brushed past him as they moved into the hallway, and he caught the fragrance from her throat.
Instantly, a vision filled his head, of taking her in his arms, pushing her back into the empty parlor, slamming shut the door. He could see exactly how it would go: he’d spin her quickly, as if they were waltzing, and get her up against the wall, pressing his body against hers.
And he knew just how she’d react. Her uncertainty would vanish as fast as his self-discipline. Her mouth would be hot and hungry against his, and her hands would clutch at his hips, drawing him tighter to her.
It was always that way between them: fire and pitch together, an instant blaze.
It wouldn’t matter that Rosa or Evangelina or any of the others could enter the parlor through the other door—he and Rachel would give themselves over to it, frantic with the need to touch flesh to flesh. He’d clamp his fists around her hands and yank them up over her head, so he’d have her pinned, and grind against her skirts like a rutting beast. And she would moan, tilt back her head, offer him her throat, and let him drink in that delectable scent and intoxicate himself with the sweet taste of her.
There would be pleasure for both of them, so much pleasure, as there always was.
He couldn’t deny that.
But no matter what he did, there would be pain, too. He’d hurt her again, as he had before—leave her doubting herself, and hating him.
Because he knew no way to make this end happily.
He just wasn’t designed for that.
So he didn’t take her in his arms. Instead, he squared his shoulders and straightened his spine. As he helped her up into the coach, he gave her the sort of cold, controlled smile that used to come to him so easily, though tonight it seemed the muscles pulling his mouth might simply snap.
He released her hand again once she was safely in her seat, and vowed to himself that would be the end of contact between them for the rest of the night.
The world offered her enough threats. He’d done all the damage to her he was going to do.
* * *
Rachel wove her way through the crowd at the Talandrina home, trying to catch sight of du Bourge.
Sebastian was nearby, she knew, and also the Black Giant, who with several of his men watched the house from outside. The English had an agent planted among the baronesa’s footmen, a precaution taken months ago, as it had been in many noble households, that was now paying off.
Rachel needed some latitude to be free to speak with du Bourge, but Sebastian gave her strict instructions to stay within shouting distance of the footman, who had a pistol and a small armory of knives tucked beneath his livery coat.
While she waited for du Bourge to appear, Rachel chatted with a Spanish nobleman Sebastian had pointed out to her as one of Sal’s former conquests. She’d flirted and flattered him to the point that he was regaling her with gossip about the ravishing golden-haired enamorada of the Conde de Orte-Saldana. Before he revealed anything that would help her trace Victoire’s current whereabouts, however, a deeply familiar voice sounded behind her.
“Sarah?” the voice said, in tones of astonishment. “Sarah Covington?”
Every muscle galvanized.
It was Mr. Rapson’s voice.
She turned, heart hammering, trying to keep control of her expression so that she wouldn’t betray the depths of her astonishment.
It was impossible. Yet there he was.
Her friend. Standing in a Spanish villa, a thousand miles from home. Hopelessly out of place with his gold hair and unfeigned smile and unmistakably English blue eyes.
What in the name of heaven was Mr. Rapson doing here? In Vigo of all places?
And would he recognize the true identity of his form
er pupil? She and Sarah could never fool him as girls.
Perhaps if they were in a private place, she could be open with him about who she truly was. But here in this crowd, if he realized she was Rachel, he wouldn’t have the guile to conceal the truth from anyone else, and that could put them both in mortal danger.
She reached deep for the courtesan manner Sebastian had taught her. Her hair, her cosmetics, her jewelry all altered her—as had so many things in the three years since she’d last seen her friend. It would have to be enough.
She met his eyes with the sauciest look she could muster, her head tilted at a coquettish angle Rachel Covington would never have dared use. “Forgive me, monsieur,” she said, still in French, for the sake of the Spanish nobleman who was overhearing their conversation. “I believe you have me confused with someone else.” For Mr. Rapson’s sake, though, she winked, and saw him flinch slightly. Rachel had never winked. And the Reverend Mr. Rapson had never been a man anyone winked at. Dear God, what was he doing here? “My name is Salomé Mirabeau.”
Mr. Rapson looked confused for a moment, but then his eyes gleamed thoughtfully, and he gave a gracious bow. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Mirabeau,” he returned, in equally excellent French. “I have heard of you, but we have not met before now. It’s just that you remind me, quite forcefully, of someone I knew long ago.”
“How delightfully charming,” she answered. “And intriguing. How I’d love to hear more about this lady who resembles me. She was very beautiful, of course.”
Mr. Rapson colored slightly, but he did not give their game away. “Of course.”
Rachel turned to the Spaniard and curtsied. “Forgive me, Don Andrés,” she said, in Spanish now, “but I would like to speak with this gentleman, who will tell me so many delicious things about my beauty. I will speak to him alone, if you don’t mind, and seek you out again later. ” She gave Don Andrés’s hand a playful squeeze, a squeeze with as much sensual promise as she could put into it.