by Laurel McKee
And now here he was, in her arms.
She buried her fingers in the rough silk of his hair, pulling his lips down to hers for another kiss. She closed her eyes tightly, savoring each taste and texture, the slant of his lips over hers, the soft moan deep in his throat that made her melt He tasted of mint and wine, of Will.
She parted her lips, twining her tongue with his, and it was as if that lightning blast enveloped him as well. He groaned again, his hands seizing her waist to swing her back against the door, lifting her high.
She was braced between the polished wood and his lean, muscled body, surrounded by the scent and heat of him—by the humid blur of sexual need that dragged her down into a boiling whirlpool. She held him closer as their kiss slid into desperation, into frantic need
The skirts of her dressing gown and chemise fell back as she wrapped her bare legs around his hips, the coarse wool chafing the soft skin of her thighs. She felt his erect penis, hot and as hard as iron through his trousers, as he rocked into the curve of her body.
His hand slid from her waist to her bare leg, sliding up and up, slowly, his callous palm a delicious friction on her skin as he pushed the fabric out of his way until she was completely bare to him. Spread wide, vulnerable, open to any desire he possessed.
Eliza's head fell back against the door, her eyes drifting closed as his lips trailed from hers and along the column of her throat In that whirling darkness, she couldn't think at all. Only feel. Need.
His tongue delicately touched the hollow at the base of her throat, tracing the arc of her collarbone, nudging her chemise away until it fell from her shoulder. He kissed that naked skin, the soft slope of her breast where her heart pounded. His hand slid to the top of her thigh, drawing her up even higher against him.
His thumb pressed to the wet seam of her womanhood, sliding just barely inside. Eliza moaned at the flood of raw sensation, the rough friction of his touch on that delicate skin.
"Do you want me?" he gasped against her breast. "Do you want me, Eliza?"
Want him? She had never felt anything like this terrible, desperate, primitive need, that ache of urgent desire deep inside her, at her very core. Surely the world would shatter into sizzling little shards if she could not have him.
He nipped at the soft skin just above her aching nipple, soothing the little sting with the tip of his tongue. "Do you want me?" he said again.
"Yes," she whispered. "I always have."
His mouth came back to hers in a frantic kiss, and he swung her away from the door, her legs still wrapped around his hips. They fell onto her bed, sinking deep into the feather mattress.
Will rose above her, tearing off his coat, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing the clothes away. His muscled chest, taut, bronzed skin rippling over his ribs, was lightly dusted with pale blond hair, which turned him to molten gold in the dying firelight.
Eliza discarded her own garments, the dressing gown and chemise landing atop his shirt She never took her eyes from him as she lay back, naked, parting her legs in silent invitation.
'Do you want me, Will?" she whispered.
In answer, he kissed her again and again, his body falling into the arch of hers as she wrapped her legs around him, holding him as her prisoner. The strength and weight of him on her, around her, was delicious, wondrous. Her rare rumblings with her husband, even her dreams of Will over the years, could not compare with this burning, desperate forgetfulness.
She reached between them, unfastening his breeches and peeling them away until she could feel him. She traced her fingertips along the veined length of his penis, the iron under hot velvet of his erection. It leaped under her touch, and he moaned against her mouth.
He did want her! Eliza longed to shout out with exultation, with triumph. But then she moaned, too, as he parted her legs wider and sank deep inside of her, to her very core. And they were joined together at long last
She clutched at his sweat-damp shoulders, closing her eyes as she felt the slide and press of him against her. There, in that darkness again, she could hear his breath, the pounding of his heartbeat that echoed her own. He went still, and she dug in her nails, holding him to her.
"Eliza," he gasped, sliding out of her and then plunging back again, deeper and faster. He caught her mouth with his, mingling their gasps, their incoherent words.
She slid her palms down the groove of his spine, feeling the powerful shift of his muscles under her touch. A glorious sensation expanded inside of her like a sunrise, all hot color and burning emotion. It danced up from her very toes, over her whole body until it exploded into a hundred brilliant fireworks.
"Eliza!" Will cried, his body rigid above hers, his back as taut as a bow. Then he collapsed beside her, their arms and legs entwined.
She slowly, slowly caught her breath, the world still twirling around her. She turned her head to kiss Will's brow, his closed eyes. She stroked his damp hair, whispering soft, wordless murmurings as his own breath grew even and slow.
She edged up onto the pillows as he rested his head on her abdomen, his arms around her waist They said nothing—what could there be to say? What words could solve their terrible dilemma now?
They were as close as two people could be, their bodies twined together in the lassitude of sex. Yet the Irish Sea might just as well lie between them.
/ have this moment, she thought, spreading the length of his golden hair over her stomach, listening as his breath slipped into sleep. The moment would have to be enough.
Chapter 7
Will sat straight up in the bed, jolted from sleep by some half-remembered dream. Some twisted nightmare of battles, blood, and cold drowning waves. Blood flowing on the Liffey.
He rubbed his hand hard over his face, trying to erase the hazy, horrifying images. It was still night outside the window, and the fire in the grate was burned down to embers, leaving the chamber cold.
He looked down at Eliza, still sleeping amid the rumpled bedclothes. Her dark hair was tangled around her face, her bruised pink lips parted on a breath. How young she looked asleep, he thought sadly, young and carefree, like the girl he remembered from Kildare. The girl who would ride and run and kiss with abandon, with no fear. Who would tell him tales of ancient Irish kings and gods, her brown eyes shining with the wonder of it
Perhaps, deep down inside, they were still that Eliza and Will, and they had found each other again all too briefly tonight But when morning came, Lady Mount Clare and Major Denton would still be waiting. And he still did not know how to stop her headlong tumble into the dangers of rebellion.
Eliza murmured in her sleep, turning restlessly as if seeking warmth in the cold winter night Will lay back down beside her, gathering her gently in his arms. She settled against his shoulder with a soft sigh.
He pressed a kiss to her rumpled hair, inhaling deeply of her scent of roses and salt, of clean linen sheets. Her tall body curled into him, as if she felt safe with him.
"I will keep you safe, Eliza," he whispered, thinking of her follower at the coffeehouse. "Whether you like it or not."
She stirred at the sound of his words, her eyes slowly blinking open, as if she, too, surfaced from deep dreams. For a moment, she gazed at him with puzzlement, as if she could not quite recall who he was or why he was there. Then she remembered, and a wide smile broke across her face.
"You're really here," she cried, sitting up beside him as the sheet fell away from her bare breasts. She kissed his cheek, his nose, his mouth. "It was not a dream!"
"I hope not," Will answered, laughing as she rolled atop him, her legs straddling his hips. He felt himself stirring to life again at the warmth of her body, his penis hardening. He arched up against her. "Does this feel like a dream?"
"Not at all." She leaned down, her lips finding his for a lingering, exploring kiss. It wasn't desperate, lustful, like their kisses of the night, but full of wonder and welcome. He caressed her shoulders, feeling the fall of her hair over his hands, curlin
g around him to hold him her willing prisoner.
"It is just... sometimes I did dream of this, while you were gone," she said: She sat up, staring down at him as she traced his features with her fingertips, as if to memorize him. He caught her finger between his lips, suckling at it until she gasped.
"I dreamed of you, too," he answered, cradling her hand against his cheek. "It was a lonely life in the islands, and at night I would lie awake and stare up at the stars in that hot sky. I would think of you, imagine kissing you by a cold Irish stream. I wondered so often what you did, how you fared."
She smiled teasingly, sliding her palm along his rough, whiskered cheek, down his neck, tracing a light pattern over his chest. "Were dreams of me all the romance you had, Will? I would vow not"
He laughed hoarsely, remembering the bored English wives, the French plantation owner's widow, and the pretty milliner. None of them had been able to turn him from his memories, no matter how hard he—or they—tried.
"There has never been anyone like you, Eliza," he answered truthfully. There never could be anyone like her, with her wild Irish spirit
She leaned down to press light, alluring kisses over his skin, her tongue tracing the flat, brown disc of his nipple. "And was it worth the wait?" she whispered.
"Assuredly so," he muttered tightly.
"Good. I would hate to think you were disappointed." Her mouth slowly trailed lower, over his chest and the sharp arc of his hip, until she reached out to caress his now achingly hard erection. Delicately, teasingly, her fingertips slid down and up again.
"Eliza..." He groaned, threading his fingers through her hair.
"Shhh," she whispered. "I want to try something...."
And then—oh, by the saints!—her mouth closed over him, her tongue tasting him.
His hips jerked at the hot waves of pleasure, his hands instinctively pressing her closer. It was unlike anything he had ever known, a rush of primitive sensation blended with an almost unbearable intimacy.
And that intimacy, that bond of trust that made them engage in such an act, was too much. He gently tugged at her hair, drawing her up to him again.
She stared down at him, her glistening lips parted, her eyes as dark as the night outside. He clasped her hips, spinning her down to the mattress as he drove inside of her.
They watched each other as they moved together, finding each other's rhythm, learning what brought pleasure. Will felt he would drown in her eyes, fall into that darkness and be lost forever.
Their fingers entwined, pressed flat to the bed as their movements grew faster and faster, their breath ragged. Eliza cried out, her body writhing beneath him, her legs tight around him, holding him to her, in her.
And he, too, cried out in his release, the blood roaring in his head. He knew only her, her scent, her body, and the desperate pleasure of their joining.
He fell to the pillows beside her, his head on her shoulder. He pressed his face to the curve of her neck, inhaling the essence of her. Her breath whispered over him as she wrapped her arms around him tightly.
How very alive she was, his Eliza. Alive and vibrant, as wild as the Irish land she loved so much. But he so much feared that in the stormy days to come, one—or both—of them was doomed.
As if she read his dark thoughts, her arms tightened even more, pulling him into her as she kissed his cheek softly. At the window, the black light had softened at the edges, heralding the dawn.
"It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear,'" she whispered.
Will smiled at her, twining one of her long, dark curls around his finger. "It was the lark, the herald of the morn___'"
"More light and light it grows.'"
"More dark and dark our woes.'"
He kissed her once more, lingeringly, gently, before climbing from the warm haven of her bed. He gathered up his discarded clothes as she watched him, sitting up and wrapping the sheet around her.
"I warned Anna against reading too many romantic novels," she said. "But perhaps Shakespeare is the real danger."
Will laughed roughly, pulling on his shirt "I don't think we needed poetry to inflame our passion."
"No. We needed only to see each other again."
"Speaking of which..." He paused in reaching for his coat "Can I see you tonight?"
She hesitated, her gaze sliding away from his. "Not tonight"
"You have a previous engagement I'm sure."
"Yes."
"Lady Mount Clare's schedule is no doubt busy, indeed. A ball, the opera?"
"My schedule is not so busy as all that! But I am engaged with friends tonight"
"Friends," he said slowly. He could imagine what sort of "friends"-—United Irishmen.
Eliza bit her lip. "And tomorrow I promised Anna I would take her to the draper's to shop for feathers for the queen's birthday at Dublin Castle. No doubt I will see you mere. All of Dublin must be seen to attend the birthday."
'That is not the sort of 'see' I meant," he said, leaning over the bed to kiss her lingeringly. To remind her of the storm of their passion just barely spent.
She smiled, gently touching his cheek. "Perhaps tomorrow night I will send you word. Are you at your family's town house in Merrion Square?"
"Nay, I moved to lodgings in Castleton Street. My family's house is far too gloomy for me, I. fear. Good night, Eliza."
"Good morning, Will."
He hurried to the window, unlocking the casement and lowering himself down to grasp the thick growth of ivy clinging there.
"I grow too old for this," he muttered as his well-exercised muscles gave a twinge. Too old, indeed, especially after a night of passion. But it was thrilling, too, he had to admit The subterfuge of being Eliza's lover at last
Thrilling—and dangerous.
Chapter 8
And I call this meeting to order," Mr. Boyle announced, banging on the table with his gavel.
Eliza took her place at the table, her notebook open before her as she studied the men gathered around. Boyle, O'Malley, Jameson, and a hard-faced man named Duson from the islands. But not her old friend from home at Kildare, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, who was still deep in hiding.
And they should all be in hiding really, she thought wryly, twirling her pencil nervously between her fingers. With watchful military men like Will back in Dublin, they had to be doubly careful.
She frowned, tapping the pencil against the table. She should be the one most careful. It had been three weeks now since she and Will became lovers, three days since she last saw him at a card party. Then he vanished from Dublin. They said his regiment was sent on patrol to Queen's County, so she agreed to attend this hidden meeting.
Where was he? Was he only biding his time until he caught her out?
"Lady Mount Clare has generously agreed to act as secretary, in Mr. O'Connor's absence," Boyle said, dragging her out of her whirlwind thoughts. "We will keep this meeting as short as possible."
"Aye, the longer we stay, the greater the chance of a raid," Jameson, the delegate from Munster, said harshly.
Eliza glanced around the windowless room, a cellar far beneath a bookshop. All seemed quiet outside, but the very air in the stuffy little chamber seemed to shimmer with tension. The usual civility of an executive committee meeting, as opposed to the rowdier general meetings, seemed strained.
"Then perhaps you will give us the news from Munster, Mr. Jameson," Boyle said, nodding to Eliza.
She jotted down the reports as each man spoke, using the code she would translate into dispatches to send around the country. If she was caught with the notes now, they would merely look like a lady's rambling diary of gowns and tea parties. In reality, they were words of arms, troops, hiding places, strategy.
The island delegate finished up the reports with tales of caves that could be used to hide guns from France—if they ever showed up as promised. So much depended on that, and Eliza didn't like that at all. Surely the uprising should depe
nd on the Irish alone now.
She studied each man's face, their expressions written with grim determination in the faint lamplight What was writ on her own face when Will looked at her? What did he read there with his too-perceptive gaze?
She took a deep breath, setting thoughts of Will aside for the moment "Gentlemen," she said. "It sounds as if the work in the counties is progressing much as planned. Now it is Dublin's turn."
Boyle frowned, leaning forward in his chair. "In what way, Lady Mount Clare?"
'Tomorrow night is the queen's birthday ball at the Castle," Eliza said. "All members of the Irish Parliament, all the nobility, will be there."
"Are you suggesting we mount an attack on the Castle?" Jameson said. "On a day's notice?"
Eliza laughed. "I would hardly say we are ready for that. No, our cause can be served in a much ... quieter fashion, I think."
A ripple of interest went around the table. "What do you suggest, Lady Mount Clare?" O'Malley asked.
"I suggest," Eliza answered, "that people such as Lord Lieutenant Camden will be much preoccupied with the festivities. His offices will be empty, and guards are often easily bypassed in a party atmosphere. Especially by tipsy ladies..."
Boyle laughed. "You are bold, my lady."
'Taking a little peek at papers left carelessly lying about is not as bold as going into pitched battle," Eliza said, starting to gather up her own papers—and trying not to think of battles that would surely involve Will. "But we all do what we can. I suggest you all watch for a new dispatch soon, gentlemen."
'Troop numbers?" O'Malley asked. "Regimental movements into the counties?"
"If we're fortunate," Eliza answered. She thought of Will and the Thirteenth marching on St Stephen's Green. But this was what she had set out to do; she would finish it.