A Spy's Honor

by Russell, Charlotte

  “I like working with you,” he said.

  She smiled, and his breath hitched. “I like it too.”

  She walked toward him. Stopped beside him. Too near. Within reach. John clutched the footboard with both hands. The fire had warmed her, heated the perfume she wore. His head suddenly felt as if it were full of air, a bubble about to burst.

  “You must rest. Perhaps I could help you take off your boots?” she offered, a devilish gleam firing a golden streak through her brown eyes.

  John pushed away from the bed and feigned a formal attitude, hoping the chill in his voice would calm the lustful tremor sweeping through him at her artless attempt at seduction. “Claire! That wouldn’t be proper and you know it.”

  Her eyebrows flew upward as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. “Oh? What do you know about propriety? When I was engaged to Kensworth you had no qualms about kissing me. Or t-touching me.”

  Her stammer had nothing to do with nervousness or a missish sense, John saw. Her cheeks flushed and her chest swelled; she was remembering.

  Barely able to breathe, he struggled to push air into his tight lungs. “I am attempting to be a gentleman,” he replied, too aware of how priggish he sounded. It was too late for moralizing. Perhaps Kensworth had the right of it; he should abandon the cautious and proper course and follow his—

  No. Claire was worthy of patience and restraint. And a declaration of love. This, here, now, was not heading toward a discussion of their innermost feelings. John knew her; he knew she needed to hear how he felt about her, but he still had so much work to do.

  After.

  God, it was hard to be proper.

  Her hands dropped to the sash of her wrapper. One flick of her finger and the thin flannel opened. “As a former schoolmate of mine once said, ‘A woman has no need of a perfect gentleman in the bedchamber.’” Her eyes, as round and coppery as halfpennies, turned beseechingly upward. “Don’t you want me, John?”

  She couldn’t have disarmed him with any other words. That question stripped away any defense, any excuse, he’d previously been able to muster, and without hesitation John stepped toward her, reaching for her, only too willing to show her how much he wanted her.

  He was rebuffed. Claire put her hands to his chest, straightened her arms, and held him off.

  But he didn’t fail to notice how her fingertips curled into his shirt, as if they had discovered something new and delightful.

  “I see it in your eyes. I do. But sometimes,” she whispered, bending her arms and stepping closer, “a lady needs to hear the words.”

  She could have her words, but John wasn’t going to say them without being able to touch her. Roughly he pulled her into him, tipping her chin up with his injured hand so he could gaze into her eyes and speak directly to her heart. “Claire, I have always wanted you. I want you at sunrise, at sunset and all the hours in between. I want to talk to you, to listen to you, to look at you, but most of all I want to touch you. Everywhere. Anywhere. For hours on—”

  He got no further as Claire apparently decided she’d heard enough and found another occupation for his lips. Her arms stretched up around his neck, pulling him into the sweet champagne flavor of her mouth. John crushed her body to his, tasting, touching, inhaling the essence of Claire.

  Her lips parted as her hands skittered down the length of his torso, searching, seeking until she worked them up under his shirt, her soft fingers exploring the hot flesh of his stomach and chest. John’s knees nearly buckled from the scale of her assault.

  He managed to rouse himself to the challenge, though, plunging his tongue inside her deliciously open mouth, sweeping an arm beneath her legs, hoisting her against his chest.

  The trip to the bed was short and then she was laid out beside him, still kissing him, too greedy to let their lips part for a moment.

  There was no going back now. Never again would she question whether he wanted her or not. She was his. Not Kensworth’s. Not anymore. All his.

  And she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

  ***

  Claire locked her hands behind John’s head, anchoring his mouth to hers, unwilling to let him go. Unwilling to let him think twice about what they were doing.

  She’d had time enough to think while waiting, brushing aside the painful thought that a life with John might mean an overabundance of waiting, and she knew where she wanted to end up. Right here, on this bed.

  There was no longer any reason to pretend they didn’t want each other, though John had appeared as if he were willing to go cross-eyed trying to find one. She’d never seen him look so stoic, nearly prudish. She’d wanted him all the more.

  This time, their relationship would be different. They would bind themselves together, body and soul. They would take things farther than they ever did five years ago and there would be no going back, no leaving—

  Ohhhh my.

  He had abandoned her mouth to blaze a path of kisses across her jaw, ending with a nip on her earlobe. Claire shivered.

  This was no time for thinking. It was time to explore, to feel, to learn, to taste. She raked her fingers through his thick, straight hair, marveling at the softness of the ebony strands. She turned her head just a fraction and pressed her lips to his neck, thrilled to feel his pulse throbbing against her mouth.

  John was doing the same to her, only he suddenly withdrew, inhaling deeply. “What is that scent you wear?” he rasped. “I’ve been trying to figure it out for the past five years. I used to smell it when I dreamed of you.”

  He had dreamed of her. She smiled against his neck then lifted her lips to his ear. “The secret ingredient is gardenia.”

  What sounded like a growl reverberated through his chest—she felt it in her own—as he skimmed kisses down past her collarbone. “I love it.”

  When his lips ran into the neckline of her nightdress, he returned to her mouth, his tongue plunging and stroking until Claire was drowning in an explosion of feeling. The hot, firm lips against hers, the tantalizing touch of his hand at her waist, the hardness of him against her hip….everything felt right, and she couldn’t even imagine it feeling so with anyone else.

  As John slid his hand up her leg, pushing up her gown, nothing could overcome the flush of excitement consuming her body. He smiled, but Claire could see that he was thinking, wondering, hesitating.

  She kissed the upward curve of his mouth. “I’m not easily overset like Mrs. Cahill.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “But as you say, sometimes it’s nice to hear the words.”

  “I am thrilled,” she whispered, working her hands up under his shirt and running her fingers over the gloriously hard muscles of his back, “when you touch me with either of your hands, and I sincerely wish you would begin doing so once again.”

  Behind his silver spectacles, his eyes darkened in a most arousing way, but he didn’t do her bidding. “Are you certain you want to…?” His reluctance to finish the sentence was evident in his voice. “Perhaps we sh—”

  She rushed to press two fingers to his lips. “I never thought I would say this but, John Reyburn, you talk too much!”

  He laughed softly and pushed himself onto his knees. First he bent backward and placed his spectacles on the bedside table. Then Claire watched, as greedily as she had the first time, as he stripped off his shirt again and let it fall onto the coverlet.

  For someone so tall and lean, he looked surprisingly powerful without his clothes on. Muscles abounded in his chest, his stomach, his arms, clearly delineated. She might have thought him one of those Roman statues instead of a human if it wasn’t for the light scattering of dark hair across his torso.

  As she stared, one of those steely arms reached down and hauled her upright until she too was on her knees on the mattress facing him. Within reach of that sculpted, naked body.

  Claire splayed her hands across his chest. Emily had been so right about boldness. “It’s a good thing I never saw you like this before.”
>
  He replied with another one of those lustful groans and a crushing kiss. Claire let her hands roam over every inch of him she could, barely aware that he was busy divesting her of her wrapper and gathering up her nightdress. She hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed with what he discovered beneath. There was so much more of her than she ever wanted there to be.

  Before she knew it, he whipped the gown over her head and there was nowhere to hide the “more” of her. She began to sink down, hoping she might melt and become one with the coverlet, but John caught her at the elbows and pulled her against him, smoothing her hair back with one hand.

  “Claire.” His breath feathered against her temple, sending a shiver down through her belly to her core. “I know you think there is something wrong with your body but you are everything I want you to be.” He placed a kiss near her ear. “Soft.” His tongue blazed a hot trail down her neck, ending with a kiss in the hollow of her collarbone. “Curved.” He pushed her back onto the bed and kissed his way to her breast. “Delicious.”

  She wanted to protest his description, but his acceptance of her as she was, coupled with Emily’s constant refrain about her attitude, gave her pause. She couldn’t yet convince herself she wasn’t too plump, but she might be able to accept that some people liked plumpness. Then John drew her nipple in between his teeth and she was no longer able to think let alone utter an objection.

  He licked and suckled at her breast until she was arching her back off the mattress, silently begging for something more. For him to do the same to her other, neglected breast. For him to touch her elsewhere.

  Claire was a trifle mortified to acknowledge that, in her mind, “elsewhere” was one spot and one spot only. But she did crave his touch there, a desire so fierce she was willing to ask him to do just that, no matter how profligate she might seem.

  She tried to organize her thoughts into some semblance of speech, but again, John destroyed her ability to do so. He threw his leg over hers, pressing his arousal firmly against her inner thigh, contact that almost satisfied her urge to be touched.

  John lifted his head and pinned her with a hot, dark look. “Do you know what’s going to happen? Did anyone explain?”

  She licked her lips and nodded. “Emily and…books.” At the memory of what her sister had said, Claire grew warm and surprisingly wet “elsewhere.”

  A muffled affirmation sounded from near her navel, for his adventurous lips were busy again. He’d slid further down her body and she keenly felt the loss of his hardness. Only for a moment though. He massaged her thighs with firm, thrilling strokes and Claire held her breath, waiting for his hands to move closer, to fulfill her wish.

  Instead, his dark head dipped down and, and, and…

  Impossible. He couldn’t possibly be using his—

  The exquisite caress stopped and he looked up at her with a rakish gleam in his eye. “I don’t suppose Emily told you about this?”

  “Heavens no,” she gasped. She should probably have said more, muttered an insincere protest, but she was so very afraid that if she did, he wouldn’t continue.

  He smiled slowly and his head disappeared again. Claire sighed, maybe even moaned, and let her own head fall back. This was wanton and wicked, possibly even wrong, but she didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Her brain was not engaged; her senses were. Every flick of his tongue, every rough rasp, electrified her nerves and kindled a sensual fire that raced through her veins. That fire built, grew steadily hotter with John’s persistent, penetrating strokes until fireworks exploded within her, showering her body with unbelievable pinpricks of pleasure.

  When she finally stopped shuddering and the haze began to clear from her overwhelmed mind, she opened her eyes to find John propped on his elbow beside her. His black eyebrows arched upwards. “Satisfied, my lady?”

  Her smile must have been as silly as a fool’s. “Yes. No,” she amended quickly. How was one to think after such an experience? She reached up and brushed her thumb across the bruise on his cheek. “I want more. I want you, John.”

  She wasn’t surprised to hear him growl again as he lowered his head to kiss her. Restored to the moment, Claire renewed her exploration. She began with his arms, the uppermost of which were so thrillingly hard she could have rubbed her hands over them all day. But then there were his shoulders to round and his back to explore. She probably should have been embarrassed to behave so, but she wasn’t. John should experience the same bone-melting pleasure as she had. So she continued on, skimming over his ribs, and before she knew it, her hands were pressing along his breeches, curving around the long, inflexible length of him.

  He groaned, this time with satisfaction, and pushed back against her hand. A surge of raw power swept through her, making her skin tingle.

  The more she stroked, his breathing became harder, rougher, and finally he gasped out one word. “Buttons.”

  Claire obeyed, unfastening his breeches with haste, eager to become a woman at last, John’s woman.

  With her having done the intricate work, John stripped the rest of his clothes off. She could only stare and wonder. How would it feel to have him inside her? Would it hurt? Her sister had said it would. But for how long?

  John reclined beside her again and cupped her breast. “Stop thinking.”

  “Very well.” She smiled and reached out to touch him. Now she had something new to explore. It was warm, firm and slightly moist on the end, and a sense of insatiable urgency charged through her veins once more.

  Bending his head, he nipped at her neck and rasped, “Please say you’re ready.”

  “I am. Yes. Oh, yes.”

  He propped himself on his hands above her, his jaw taut, his eyes intense. Claire waited, holding her breath.

  He slid inside her easily enough, except for one small twinge of pain that stung for a moment or two. She flinched, though she tried not to. John didn’t move for the longest time, then he lowered his weight onto her and kissed her. Soothingly, as if to absorb the hurt.

  She drew back. “My goodness, that was wonderful.” A bald-faced lie, to be sure. Claire had expected much more. More of that concentrated pleasure, more of that urge to thrust her hips. She’d expected more of a reaction from him. He hadn’t seemed to enjoy himself nearly as much as she had earlier.

  Refocusing, she found him staring at her, his jaw still tight but with a smile hovering about his lips.

  “You are a goose.” He began to withdraw.

  Well, yes, sometimes. But—

  He plunged in again. Watching her face, he withdrew once more then repeated this fiendish movement over and over again until Claire was panting and lifting her hips to meet him. Wild pleasure overtook every other feeling, and from the blazing fervor in his eyes, she knew he finally felt the same.

  It seemed as if he might continue this tempo forever, but Claire could not hold out. Gripping his buttocks, she cried out John’s name and succumbed to those newfound waves of pleasure. He stopped and watched her, basking in her response.

  Then, before she could gather her wits or breathe normally, he resumed his rhythmic thrusting. Claire thought she was spent, incapable of feeling anything more, but her body responded again, though less stridently. More coherent now, she watched John and marveled at the intensity and desire etched on his face. He truly did want her. There was no denying it.

  “Claire.” A husky rasp, and then, after two final thrusts, he groaned appreciatively. His body shuddered above and within her, and she was filled with a flooding warmth.

  His muscles went lax and he leaned down to kiss her on the nose. “Well?”

  She contained her grin with difficulty and shrugged a naked shoulder. “Oh. Are we finished now?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  John laughed and rolled to his side, pulling her snugly up against him. In between kisses on her shoulder he asked, “Are you all right, my goose?”

  “Quite,” she said on a sigh, her body relaxing into his embrace as if they’d been lovers fo
rever.

  They would be, from now until forever. He’d never known such happiness as he did at this moment. Claire was finally his. His partner, his lover, soon to be his wife. What more could he possibly want?

  “We are bound together now,” she whispered. “No more secrets, no more lies…” She yawned.

  John trailed his fingers up and down her arm. “No. We are partners in every way now.” Finally they were of a like mind.

  He kissed her dark, silky hair and nestled his head against hers. He stayed that way for many minutes, savoring the feel of her flushed skin and each steady breath she took. Now was the perfect time to tell her. “I love you, Claire. I’ve loved you all along.”

  He expected an immediate response. The past was behind them. Their future not only looked promising but perfect.

  But she said nothing.

  He lifted his head to peek at her face, to see what she was thinking, feeling.

  Her eyes were closed and now, now he noticed the evenness of her breathing.

  Asleep. He smiled to himself. She must be satisfied.

  They probably should have washed up, but there would be time later. No one in the household would be about for a few more hours, and he was extremely grateful at the moment not to have a valet in his employ, sleeping in the next room. There would be time enough to smuggle Claire back to her own bedchamber.

  He pulled the sheet up over them both, settled down next to her once again and began to plan their life together. They would need a home. Allerton had offered him, on numerous occasions, a small estate in Bedfordshire. That might do. It was near enough to Bellemere that Claire could visit her sister easily, and John could rely on his brother to guide him in managing the estate.

  Or, if she wanted to remain in Town, they could purchase a house and he could remain with the Foreign Office in some capacity.

  He sighed and stroked Claire’s arm. Truthfully, he no longer wanted to remain with the Foreign Office, or the Home Office if Sidmouth were to ask. He was done with spying. More and more, the idea of taking a seat in the House of Commons and helping to reform Parliament stirred his intellect and eagerness. But the prospect of Kensworth assisting him in gaining such a seat had dimmed considerably, and while his brother would see him elected in a heartbeat, it would be as a Tory, not as a reform-minded Whig. And more and more he saw the need for reform.