The Secrets of a Scoundrel

by Gaelen Foley

  He eyed her in amusement, as though well aware of her staring. His glance flicked to the riding crop in her hands. “Not sure I trust you with that thing.”

  “Don’t make me use it,” she shot back in a breathy tone, to her dismay. At least she had recovered her bravado in time to avoid making a complete cake of herself.

  He laughed softly and bent to pick up his clean linen drawers near her feet. He looked at her, then cast aside his towel, and stepped into them.

  Throbbing with his nearness, Gin bit her lower lip and dropped her gaze while he proceeded to dress, but she could feel him studying her. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “Yes. Why?” She swallowed hard.

  “You look, I don’t know. Nervous.” She jumped slightly when he touched her face, wiping away a fleck of mud that her horse must have kicked up. “Something wrong?”

  I thought you betrayed me, her heart whispered. But outwardly, she managed a taut smile and shook her head. “Just eager to get on about our business.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

  “I’ll wait outside.” If she stayed in here much longer, alone in the dark intimacy of the cave with him, she had a feeling they were both going to end up naked in that pool, and that was not allowed to happen.

  Somehow, she dragged herself back out to the threshold of the cave, savoring the bracing chill of the morning now. But as she waited for him, staring out at the gray drizzle of the day, she reminded herself once again that he was a spy—­trained to manipulate, deceive, charm his targets into doing things that were not in their best interest.

  Which was all the more reason not to let him know the truth. That she had been incapable of loving her dead husband because he could never compare in her eyes to the breathtaking men who worked with her father.

  Men like Nick.

  And she knew perfectly well why Virgil had never wanted her to meet any of them. He had known what would happen. That she, passionate, rebellious, would fall desperately in love with one or the other of them, but that, given his warriors’ deadly obligations, it could only end for her in agonizing heartbreak.

  It might yet, she thought, as Nick sauntered out to join her near the cave’s mouth.

  As her gaze flicked over him, she could not help smiling a little. No cravat, no waistcoat, but at least he had his trousers and boots on; he was still tucking in his loose white shirt and pulling his black jacket on as he approached.

  “Nice piece of horseflesh,” he remarked, nodding at Trebuchet, who was eating the leaves of some nearby bush.

  “Come,” she ordered. “He’s strong enough to carry us both.”

  Nick followed her down over the slippery rocks outside the cave’s entrance to her horse. They took the bulky side saddle off him so they might ride together; Nick carried it back up into the cave for one of the servants to collect later.

  Soon, Trebuchet was moving along at an easy, swinging walk with both of them on his back. Nick rode behind her, his hands resting lightly on her waist.

  Gin was acutely aware of his hands and the unyielding hardness of his body behind her, his breath warming her neck as she held the reins.

  They passed through the drizzling woods in silence.

  “You thought I’d gone, hadn’t you?” he asked at length, his voice low and intimate at her ear. “Don’t lie,” he chided softly before she could deny it. “I saw the relief on your face when you stepped into the cave.”

  Gin considered how to respond. “You’ve defied my expectations,” she admitted.

  “You’ve certainly upended mine,” he replied.

  She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but maybe it was better not to know. Whatever assumptions the cynical ex-­spy had made about her were likely to be a tad insulting: She refused to rise to the bait.

  “I’m not going to abandon you,” he said. “I agreed to help you, and I will. I do have one speck of honor still.”

  “Good,” she forced out. “I’m counting on you. And so are those kidnapped girls.”

  “Right. Well, what’s next?”

  “Weapons practice. Let’s make sure you haven’t lost your touch.”

  “Me?” He laughed idly. “I was born with a sword in my hand, don’t you know?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the irresistible rogue. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  She fed him well and let him play with guns. Nick was not the type to fall in love, but these two points put Lady Burke as close to being his ideal woman as he had ever met.

  There was also the lesser fact that the more time he spent with her, the more curious he became about what she would be like in bed. Tender and sweet? Needy and demanding? Shy or insatiable? Would her façade of cool control melt away into frenzied submission, or would she try to master him, fight him for dominance?

  Envisioning the many possibilities heated his blood so much that he avoided meeting her gaze for fear she’d read the drift of his dirty thoughts in his eyes.

  He was not getting himself sent back to prison by offending her. Only a dolt would fail to realize he had already pushed his luck. Therefore, Nick gave no sign of his desire: He was a very angel, on his best behavior. For once.

  They spent an hour in target practice with an assortment of guns, shooting toward the steep hill behind her house to ensure that any stray bullets pierced nothing more than turf.

  Not that there were any stray bullets. Nick hadn’t lost his touch, as it turned out, and as for Lady Burke, why, the beautiful baroness was an impressive shot.

  She favored her little silver pistol. He was more of a rifleman, himself.

  At length, the gray gloom cleared, and the skies parted to admit some slanting, golden sunshine. It immediately began to dry the soggy grass and lit the bleak autumn world around them with its mossy, melancholy beauty.

  A footman marched out of the house as if on cue and quickly dried off the garden furniture nearby: a wrought-­iron table-­and-­chairs set on a circle of flagstones under a giant, bare-­branched oak.

  The two of them continued shooting toward the hill, but once the furniture was dry, more servants brought out refreshments, which they placed on the table: hot mulled cider, a few slices of excellent firm cheese, and soft pumpkin bread, still warm from the oven and slathered with fresh butter.

  Feeling like quite the king of all that he surveyed, Nick finished brushing up on his skills with the firearms and took his place across from the baroness at the little table to enjoy their late-­morning snack.

  The lady knew how to live, he’d give her that.

  Afterwards, it was on to bladed weapons. Nick picked up a sword. He savored its well-­balanced weight in his grasp, the pleasure of its slicing through the air as he whipped through a few speedy figure eights.

  He lowered the weapon as a grizzled older man approached; Lady Burke introduced him as a local fencing master she had summoned to put Nick through his paces.

  Nick shook hands with him, then switched to one of the blunted practice blades. As Lady Burke sat back and watched him brushing up his moves against the fencing master, Nick felt a little self-­conscious under her scrutiny, as if he were some nervous adolescent trying to impress a girl.

  With some additional effort, he blocked her out of his mind and focused on the fight. The fencing master was good; Nick was better. Moves drilled into him since boyhood had long since turned into reflexes. It all came back to him quickly. When they paused for a break, he took a swallow of the now-­cold cider, his muscles burning, his chest heaving—­yet this was the best he had felt in a long time.

  He glanced over and saw and met Lady Burke’s gaze in wordless gratitude. She smiled knowingly. Then she called in the next expert to engage him, in fisticuffs this time.

  After a rigorous hour with the blades, another forty-­five minutes with the pugilist was all he
had left in him, especially after the brutal trainer landed several blows around Nick’s solar plexus, where his Regent-­saving gunshot wound had only just settled into a healed-­over scar.

  When the old injury grew sore, he took care to block his midsection better, but still, he didn’t see any point in pressing his luck unnecessarily. He appreciated the practice, but he wasn’t stupid. He finally called a halt.

  At least now he was aware of the weakness so that he could guard against it when the fight was for real.

  Lady Burke rose from the garden chair on which she had been sitting the whole time, watching patiently. She thanked, then dismissed the boxing trainer. Equally winded, the giant bald man bowed to her and to Nick, and took his leave.

  Still panting and streaming with sweat, Nick collapsed into the wrought-­iron chair beside her.

  “Having fun?” she asked, eyeing him in amusement.

  “Is that why we’re doing this? For fun? And here I was starting to wonder if you were trying to kill me.”

  “Don’t be a baby. It’s good for you.”

  He laughed in exhaustion, dabbing his face with a hand towel. “God, you are your father’s daughter.” He helped himself to another swig of the leftover cold cider.

  She was watching him intently. “What was it like working with him?”

  Nick looked at her in surprise. “Well . . . he was tough.”

  “I know he was very hard on all of you.”

  He shook his head and took another drink as his heartbeat finally slowed back to normal. “We were grateful for it. Felt like torture at the time, but later on, it saved our lives. Actually, a little bird told me that your father gave you some training, too.”

  She smiled ruefully. “He wouldn’t let me join the Order like I wanted—­”

  “What? You wanted to join?”

  “So what if I did?” she challenged him.

  “God,” was all he said.

  She snorted. “Humph. Well, he wouldn’t budge on that, but at least he agreed to teach me a few basic skills.”

  “Oh, really? Let’s see ’em.”

  She sent him a dubious glance. “I don’t have to prove myself to you,” she drawled.

  “Besides, if we’re headed into danger together, I want to know what you can do. Come. Show me.”

  “Very well.” Taking his offered hand, she allowed him to pull her up fondly out of her chair.

  Her touch, though brief, put his weary senses on high alert. She let go of his hand and went languidly to pick up one of the blunted practice swords, as well as a wooden knife for her left hand.

  Nick followed, but he only took a sword. He had to give her some advantage, after all, just to make it reasonably fair. As they both got into position on the lawn, standing a few feet across from each other, Nick raised the wooden practice sword before his face in a formal salute.

  She did the same. “Prepare to die, thou scurvy knave,” she taunted with a pleasant smile. “En garde,” she added. Then she attacked.

  Nick defended himself in delight. She was quick and agile, and what was more, and he could see her sharp mind working as she skillfully parried his blows, feinting to the right and coming at him from the left.

  “Not bad for a girl.”

  “Fight back! You’re not even trying.”

  “You’re a lady!”

  “Oh, am I?” With that, she swiped her dainty foot behind his heel and tripped him.

  Nick fell back with a merry yelp and landed on his elbows on the ground. He looked up at her for a second in shock, then immediately rebounded, vaulting acrobatically to his feet.

  She arched a brow in aloof amusement. “A pretty move.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Show me,” she taunted in a whisper, circling his blade with her own.

  Nick let out a lusty laugh.

  She lunged as if to run him through; he captured her extended arm, stepping back beside her; she brought her dagger neatly across her body to demonstrate how she still could’ve stabbed him in the eye.

  “Well, well,” he murmured, laughing softly.

  Then he tripped her in return, brushing her feet out from under her so that she went tumbling down in a whoosh of skirts and petticoats. She landed on her back, her chest heaving, both hands still clutching her sword and dagger.

  Nick dropped to his knees astride her, plunging his practice blade into the soft turf by her head.

  She tried holding him at bay as best she could, laying the wooden blade flat against his chest, but he ignored it, disarming her, and pinning her wrists to the ground.

  “Damn you!” she said through breathless laughter, struggling against his hold to no avail, thrashing beneath him.

  “Now, now. You’ll only make it worse for yourself if you fight me. This doesn’t have to hurt. Unless you want it to.”

  She glared at him, but there was more than one type of frustration in her deep blue eyes.

  Nick stared down into them, wanting with everything in him to make love to her. “Never play-­fight against a trained assassin, my dear. And now for the coup de grace.”

  “Ruthless,” she accused him, arching her neck as she tried in vain to sit up.

  “Very. Lie back for me.” Leaning closer, closer, he bent his head until his lips hovered at her throat; he was panting more from lust than from exertion.

  “Nicholas,” she warned, trying to sound stern and failing miserably, for her voice came out as a sensual whimper, full of unspoken, unacknowledged need.

  He wanted with everything in him to fulfill it.

  “There, there,” he whispered with a wicked smile as his lips grazed her throat. “Would you like me to deal you a little death, my lady? Un petit mort?”

  Otherwise known as an orgasm.

  She huffed and shook her head, her cheeks turning even redder. She refused to meet his gaze. “You are a demon.”

  “But I’m your demon now. So what do you say? I have rethought my position on this thing. Now that I know you’re not demanding it of me, I think I’d be happy to pleasure you.”

  “Thanks, but I’m rather busy at the moment,” she answered dryly.

  Amusement danced in his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring at her creamy chest. “Perhaps some other time, then?”

  “You wish.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Not wishing to scare her, he released her wrists and ventured a light caress on her cheekbone with his fingertips.

  She looked up at him uncertainly at last.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Virginia Burke,” he murmured. “Thank you for getting me out of that cage. I was dying in there. My soul was dying.”

  “I know,” she whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek in return for a fleeting moment.

  He throbbed at the softness of her touch. God, it had been so long, and she was not like any woman he had encountered before. He positively craved her.

  But at just that moment, Nick heard something in the distance. He did not move from his position atop her but lifted his head and turned to stare keenly down the drive.

  “What is it?” she asked, still seeming quite content to lie beneath him.

  “Expecting someone?” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes as he stared toward the drive. “You’ve got visitors.”

  “What?”

  He quirked a brow at her. “Don’t tell me you’ve hired yet another expert to come and beat me up.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not expecting anyone. Off with you before we’re seen.” She slapped at his thigh still straddling her hip.

  Nick got up, immediately bending down to offer her a hand. She clasped his palm; he pulled her to her feet.

  She brushed a leaf out of her hair and dusted the dirt off her dress as she went striding toward the carriage, which was presentl
y pulling up in front of the house.

  Nick gazed after her, privately marveling at the woman. Her walk was a thing of beauty to behold.

  He blew out a quiet exhalation, trying to will his hunger for her into submission.

  Then the carriage door banged open, and a young lad of about fifteen, with a shock of dark red hair, jumped out.

  Nick arched a brow as the baroness stopped in her tracks. “Phillip!” she cried. “What on earth are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in school!”

  “Sorry, Mum, I got suspended.”

  “What?”

  “Mother—­don’t explode—­I can explain. It was all just a misunderstanding . . .”

  Nick stared, wide-­eyed. Mother?

  “Who’s that?” the boy suddenly demanded, glancing past Lady Burke at Nick. “Oh, perfect. Another one?” he cried.

  “How dare you?” his mother thundered, but Nick laughed aloud at the lad’s highly impertinent question.

  Hearing him laugh, she sent him a wrathful glower over her shoulder: Nick quickly stifled his humor.

  “Get inside,” she ordered her son. “I want answers, now, young man. Go!”

  The boy glared at Nick as he slouched toward the front door, a mere puppy, but all bristling protectiveness toward his mama.

  Nick stared after him, marveling with a pang of remembrance as the truth hit home.

  The kid was Virgil’s grandson.

  Chapter 6

  The library was the room in their home long since designated for lectures and scoldings. As Gin marched her wayward son thence, her temples throbbed with agitation.

  What’s he done now? she wondered, though, to be sure, Phillip’s getting into trouble was nothing new. He had always been a handful, too smart for his own good and as stubborn as a donkey.

  Taken off guard by his arrival, she had no idea what to do with him, considering that she and Nick were about to leave for London.

  Most of all, she was furious at herself for nearly letting her child find her rolling around on the ground with a strange man. Some example! She felt like a terrible mother, and that only made everything worse. What was she thinking, allowing Nick to take such liberties, anyway?