Mission to Love (Brothers in Arms Book 14)

by Samantha Kane

  “Of course,” she said, smiling at him. “Join me as soon as you can. I shan’t take long.”

  Robert took so long to come to her room, she began to fear that he’d changed his mind. She’d lit every candle in the room, hoping he wouldn’t take the time to blow them all out. She’d even placed some in out of the way places so as to make it inconvenient for him to do so. She felt like a wanton seducer doing it, but she didn’t care. When he did finally come he began methodically walking around the room extinguishing them, and she finally spoke up.

  “Please leave them burning,” she begged. “I like the light. I want to see you.”

  Robert froze in the middle of reaching for a candle and looked over his shoulder at her in shock. “I don’t wish to embarrass you.”

  “I won’t be embarrassed if you won’t,” she teased. She held out her hand. “Come.”

  She was covered up to her chest, her arms on top of the blanket. Her bare shoulders made it clear she was nude. Robert pulled aside the covers just enough to get in but not to expose her bare body. He was still wearing his dressing gown. “Aren’t you going to undress?” she asked.

  “I don’t—”

  “Robert, for heaven’s sake, get undressed,” she said, her patience wearing thin. He looked startled and her heart began to pound. She’d let the mask drop too much. “I mean, don’t worry about me so much,” she stammered. “We are married, after all. This isn’t our first time together. I will not be offended nor frightened by your nudity.” She held her breath, hoping he’d accept her explanation.

  “Of course,” he agreed. He turned away and slipped the dressing gown off, laying it over the back of a nearby chair. Christy had to fight to control her breathing. His back was beautiful. Long, sinewy, well-muscled, a sculpture worthy of Michelangelo’s David. And he was hers. Hers. In a way no one had ever been or would ever be again.

  When he finally slipped under the covers she went to him willingly, gladly, eagerly, forgetting the past several months of hesitation and awkward caresses. She took him in her arms and kissed him possessively, putting her mark on him, telling him the only way she could that she adored him and that he was hers.

  Robert kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her and pressing her full against him. She realized it was the first time they’d ever been that close, skin to skin. Robert had always kept his nightshirt on when he’d come to her or insisted she remain half dressed. She’d attributed it to shyness on his part, but was it some sort of misplaced chivalry? She was determined to show him tonight that she had no boundaries when it came to physical intimacy. They were married, and whatever they did in the privacy of their bedchamber was perfectly acceptable to her. Actually it was more than that—it was extremely agreeable.

  She used her weight to roll him onto his back and climbed on top of him, stretched out so that she felt him from her breasts to her toes. He was hard, and she couldn’t help but rub against him in hedonistic delight.

  “Christy,” he gasped against her lips. His hand slid from her lower back to her hip. She wasn’t sure if he meant to stop her or encourage her, and she didn’t think he was sure either. So she did it again. His fingers dug into her hip deliciously and pushed her away for a brief second before pulling her back in, and this time he rubbed back against her. She moaned, and he stopped. “Are you all right?” he asked breathlessly.

  “I am better than all right,” she said, her teeth clenched against the sheer delight of his touch everywhere. “It’s perfect. Don’t stop.” She pressed kisses from his mouth across his cheek and then gently bit his earlobe. This time he moaned.

  “Christy, what are you doing?” he asked. She’d never heard him sound like that before, rough around the edges and a little out of control. Robert liked very much to be in control.

  “I’m not exactly sure,” she admitted. “Whatever feels good, or crosses my mind. I’m not thinking very far ahead at this point.”

  Robert turned his head and captured her mouth again, delving inside to tangle his tongue with hers. He’d never done that before. She’d always initiated their more passionate kisses. He slipped his hand into her hair and cupped the back of her head, holding her captive to his kiss, and she let him, encouraging him with a moan of surrender that made him tighten his grip on her hip and pull her into him again. She slid her legs open and straddled his hips so his penis was nestled against her sex. She felt hot and wet, and she gasped at the vibration that resonated through her at the contact.

  Her breasts ached. She broke the kiss with a gasp and sat back, her hands pressed to Robert’s chest. The covers slid down her back, exposing her, and she watched as Robert looked at her body. She enjoyed his perusal, so she sat up straighter, trailing her hands down his chest to his tight stomach. His hard penis was now pressing against her sex in just the right way, and she moaned, her head falling back as she closed her eyes. Even the touch of her hair on her back felt deliciously erotic.

  “Touch me,” she begged.

  “Where?” Robert asked. He had his hands on her hips. He was holding her so tightly she knew she’d have marks in the morning, and she loved it. She wanted it, wanted the proof that at last Robert had shown a passionate desire for her.

  She grabbed his wrists and lifted his hands to her breasts. He held them so gently, barely touching her, and she huffed in exasperation, dropping her chin to her chest as she glared at him.

  “Harder,” she demanded. She put her hands over his and showed him what she wanted, squeezing tighter, and the pleasure made her squirm on top of him. They both groaned as her movement ground her sex against his in a most pleasing fashion.

  She moved his hands and rubbed his rough palms over her sensitive nipples. She began to rock against his cock, and she grew breathless. She had to let go of his hands on her breasts to put them on his stomach again, and the change in position caused her to lean forward just enough to let the tip of his cock slip inside her.

  “Yes,” she cried out, pressing back and pushing more of him into her passage.

  “Christy,” he groaned. He pinched her nipples and she gasped. It felt as if there was a string traveling directly from her breasts to her sex and he’d just plucked it, like the string of an instrument. Suddenly his hand was on her hip. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice deep and rough with the effort he was making as he held still.

  “It doesn’t hurt, it feels good,” she told him. “Please, Robert. Please,” she begged.

  She fought his hold until she’d pressed back and taken him fully inside her. She smiled at the joy that rushed through her, lifting her hands to look at them, expecting to see light shooting from her fingertips like candle flames. She felt wicked and wonderful, and she hadn’t realized until that moment how much she had missed that feeling.

  “Christy.” She looked down at Robert and saw that he was offering his hands to her. She took them, used them to balance herself as she rode him like a stallion. She could see on his face that he wasn’t disgusted with this side of her, this wanton woman who used him so decadently. He was mesmerized by her, and his smile was as joyous as hers.

  It only took moments for Christy to peak—it had been so long since she’d experienced such a rush of pleasure—and she cried out. She tried to keep watching Robert, but the last thing she saw before she closed her eyes and lost herself to her own joy was Robert’s eyes closing as well as he thrust his head back into the pillow and came apart beneath her.

  Chapter 8

  “Gantry.”

  “Constable.” Simon eyed Manderley warily. They were in his office at the police station. The constable had been late for work. Simon and Hastings had been waiting for almost a quarter hour.

  Hastings was pacing like a caged tiger, as usual. Honestly, the man was good in a fight, but so far he’d proven all but useless at the more mundane elements of secret service and police work.

  “Where have you been?” Hastings demanded. “You’ve kept us waiting.”

 
; “Have I?” Manderley seemed almost insultingly unconcerned. As a matter of fact, he seemed rather delighted with the whole thing. “Do accept my apologies.”

  “Of course,” Simon said smoothly, cutting off Hastings irritated retort. “I hope all is well?”

  Simon was perched casually on the corner of Manderley’s desk. He didn’t want to directly ask about Christy, that wouldn’t do. But he’d been twiddling his thumbs here imagining all kinds of dire situations that might have delayed Manderley at home. He was beginning to think it was not a dire circumstance that had caused his lateness but something far more pleasurable, and a great deal more distracting for Simon to think about.

  At his question, the constable turned and focused a sharp look on him. “Everything is fine,” he said. “Why do you ask?” The question seemed to bear more weight than it ought to as Manderley continued to stare at him.

  “No reason,” Simon replied. “You are usually punctual, that is all.”

  “Sir.” Longfellow stood in the office doorway, addressing the constable as he glanced between him and Simon. “I’ve got the information on our dead body from the other day.” He held up a piece of paper. “Someun’ came to claim the body at the morgue.” His comment broke Manderley’s concentration on Simon.

  “Did they?” Manderley asked, taking the paper from Longfellow. “Well, then, who was he? And who claimed him?”

  “His name was David Foster, and the lady what claimed him said she was his ma, Alice Gaines. The names are legitimate.”

  “Gaines?” Simon asked. “That name seems very familiar.” He tapped his walking stick on the floor while he turned the name over in his mind. “Geoffrey Gaines, Alfred Gaines, Tibby Gaines,” he said under his breath, listing all the people he could recall knowing with that last name. “Oliver Gaines.” He stood up. “Oliver Gaines.” He looked over at Longfellow. “Is Alice Gaines married to Oliver Gaines?”

  Longfellow grinned. “She was, sir. But Mr. Gaines turned toes up about two years ago. Rumor has it the wife had summin’ to do with that.”

  “Who is Oliver Gaines?” Manderley asked with commendable calm.

  “A former soldier, informant, and French courier,” Simon said. “He’s also been known to assist the Russians on occasion.”

  “Past tense,” Hastings corrected. “How did you know him?”

  “He informed for me, of course,” Simon told him. “Nasty little fellow, but useful. He was married to a madam with a house over in Bermondsey, adjacent to a gin shop. The aforementioned Alice Gaines, I presume, although she went by Fat Linnie on the street. I never met the woman. I long suspected that much of the information he sold was actually gathered by her and her girls in the course of their work.”

  “To Bermondsey, then.” Manderley picked up his hat and gloves, which he had only just removed. “Come along, gentlemen.”

  “Why are we just standing around here?” Hastings asked for the tenth time, huffing out an impatient breath as he shoved his coat out of the way and put his hands on his hips. There were times when it was painfully obvious that Barnabas had recruited him off the streets, straight out of the orphanage. He’d taught him to speak and dress like a gentleman, but his mannerisms too often gave him away. Luckily, in their line of work that was more often a help than a hindrance.

  “Because it behooves us to get the lay of the land before we go charging in there demanding answers.” Manderley answered the question this time. They’d been taking turns. “One can learn a great deal by simply observing, Mr. Hastings. I suggest you give it a try.”

  Ouch. That was a direct hit. The constable’s patience must be wearing thin. Simon had thought he had an endless store of it. Apparently not. He rather enjoyed discovering a chink in Manderley’s armor. Practically perfect paragons were decidedly boring. And Manderley was perfect, or nearly so. Simon had almost forgotten how perfect he was. But he found that it didn’t bother him like it used to. As a matter of fact, he rather liked it.

  “I’ll have you know I’m one of the best agents the Home Office has got,” Hastings retorted. “I’m being wasted doing these endlessly idiotic chores instead of real work in a ridiculous effort to punish me for killing someone who deserved to be killed. Now, how is that fair? Or efficient? To waste an excellent agent like myself in such a manner?”

  “So you keep telling us,” Simon answered, looking at his thumbnail. He’d snagged it on something, damn it. Now he was sure to put a run in his silk waistcoat. He’d worn his best today, for some reason. Curse Daniel and these favors. “If you really were one of Barnabas’s best agents, I daresay he wouldn’t keep punishing you by putting you on secondary duties such as this. Perhaps you should be asking yourself different questions, instead of questioning his directives.”

  He looked up at Hastings and raised his brows with a smirk. He was being deliberately antagonizing, but he was bored, too. He was a smart enough agent to know that Manderley was right, however. He knew from experience that good information came to those agents who waited patiently.

  “I am quite sure that I shall be delighted to inform Sir Barnabas that I do not require anyone’s assistance if you two do not stop bickering like schoolboys,” Manderley said quietly.

  Thom Longfellow had been ignoring their conversation, silently observing the house, and at a signal from him Robert stepped up beside him, waving Simon and Hastings back. They both melted into the shadows as a large carriage stopped in front of the gin shop across the street.

  The carriage was just a tad too large and a bit too fine for this area. Nothing too ostentatious, mind you. But it was in good repair and obviously belonged to someone of means. No hangings were hiding crests on doors or other telltale markings. It would have been absurd to find a peer’s equipage here, and frankly it would have disqualified the occupants as thrill seekers rather than persons of interest in the current case.

  But this carriage—this was the sort of thing they’d been waiting for. It sat outside the madam’s house for a good five minutes, the coachman simply perched on his bench while the passengers remained hidden inside. There was a corresponding lack of movement in the house.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” Hastings murmured. “Just seeing the sights here in Bermondsey, are we?”

  “Indeed,” Manderley agreed in a whisper. He touched Simon’s arm softly, stepping in closer, and Simon nearly jumped out of his skin at the shiver that raced down his spine at the contact. What rubbish was that? He knew it was Manderley behind him. He must be more on edge than he thought.

  “What do you think?” he asked, his voice coming from right next to Simon’s ear, his breath a tickle against it. Simon shivered again and scolded himself silently for his foolishness.

  He turned his head and whispered into Manderley’s ear, “They’re waiting to make sure no one is around before they show themselves.”

  He hadn’t realized how close the other man was. Simon could suddenly feel his body heat against his side from shoulder to hip. It was nerves, obviously. He hadn’t seen action since Africa, and that had been a nightmare from beginning to end. His back began to ache as if on cue.

  “Then we shall make sure not to reveal ourselves,” Manderley whispered back, and Simon couldn’t help but glance at him as he spoke. The constable’s lips were quirked in an anticipatory smile. He was enjoying this, enjoying the chase, the mission. Some of his excitement bled into Simon and his nerves settled.

  “Indeed,” Simon said with a similar smile as Manderley’s gaze met his. He’d clearly caught Simon’s attempt to imitate his earlier remark to Hastings and amusement flashed through those eyes.

  “Why don’t we just rush the carriage and find out who they are and what they’re doing here?” Hastings asked impatiently. “All this waiting is foolish, if you ask me.”

  Manderly sighed, and they were so close his breath rushed across Simon’s lips like a phantom kiss. Simon jerked back as if he’d been burned.

  Manderley’s brow wrinkled quizzicall
y, but he merely shrugged and stepped away. “Because we will get no answers that way,” he explained patiently. “Most likely they would get away in their carriage, and there’s a high probability someone would get shot. I do not wish to get shot today.”

  “It’s that sort of cowardly attitude that allows criminals to boldly walk the streets of London,” Hastings remarked snidely.

  “If you weren’t an immature boy who is being petulant about having his wishes thwarted, I’d call you out for that,” Manderley said mildly. “But rest assured I am not pleased with your remarks, sir, and shall take exception to them at a more appropriate time.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Simon said more bluntly. “Honestly, are you really the best the Home Office is producing these days? Rush in, start shooting, and get no answers? No wonder Barnabas sent you to Manderley for more training.”

  “This snooping about business is not my specialty,” Hastings whispered angrily. “Normally I just kill them. That’s my job.”

  Simon understood then. “You’re the new Daniel.”

  “Whatever that means,” Hastings said dismissively. “I’m not shagging Sir Barnabas, that’s for damn sure.”

  “What?” Manderley burst out in an aggrieved whisper. “Why does every conversation with you people somehow end up at shagging?” He put a hand on his forehead. “I can’t believe I just used that word.”

  “It’s a good word,” Hastings said. “Fucking is for the lower class, or so Sir Barnabas tells me.”

  “Good Lord,” Manderley whispered to himself, shaking his head.

  Simon decided to try a new tack. “Hastings, think of it this way: Sir Barnabas is trying to round out your skill set. Clearly you are proficient at the killing skills, and now he would like you to become more proficient at the snooping about skills. Even Daniel had to learn this side of the business. That’s all this is. So look, listen, snoop, and learn. Less shooting—”