by Shana Galen
When Sophia had slipped out tonight, she had to escape not only the notice of the staff but also her husband. Adrian usually spent evenings at his club, but tonight he’d stayed home. When she’d crept past his bedroom door, his light burned, and she could hear him moving about.
The soft plop of a footstep in water made Sophia catch her breath and flatten her back against the wall beside the stairs. She looked up at the origin of the sound and then down at the darkness before her.
She wasn’t alone.
Her own boot was still wet from trudging through that puddle at the top of the stairs. When she’d searched the ground floor of the building and found it empty, she’d decided to try the lower level. Obviously, someone else had the same idea. It could be Blue behind her, but until she was certain, she was taking no chances.
Sophia didn’t hear the interloper again, but that didn’t mean he—or she—wasn’t there. Balancing caution and speed, Sophia took the last few steps and descended into the musty gloom of the lower level. She felt along the base of the damp, moldy stairs until she found an opening underneath which to crouch.
A cobweb brushed across her face, but she ignored it and focused on unsheathing the dagger strapped to her thigh. She was lowering her skirts and mantle again when she heard the step squeak—the same step she had made creak a moment ago.
The intruder was close.
She adjusted her weight so she was balanced on the balls of her feet then loosened the grip on the dagger so she held it firmly but could still manipulate it. Like she, the person on the stairs had paused when the board whined, but now he—his step had been heavier than hers, and Sophia was fairly certain it was a man—was moving forward again.
She had to give him credit. She could not hear him moving—he was as silent as the fog—but she could feel the subtle disturbance in the air as he continued his descent.
Sophia counted the steps in her head. Four.
Three.
Two.
She leapt nimbly from her hiding place and thrust her hand out at the dark shape before her, intending to disable him. Once she was in control and knew with whom she was dealing, she could decide how best to proceed. She’d aimed for his throat but had to adjust when he was taller than she expected, and her hand hit him in the chest.
Before she could wrap her fingers about his windpipe and force him back against the wall, he had his own hand around her wrist and was squeezing painfully.
Sophia did not cry out, and it only increased her concern when, despite her surprise attack, her assailant made no sound. She knew he had not heard her. She had taken him completely by surprise.
And yet, he was reacting with calm and skill that came only from years of training.
Blue?
No. This man was taller and heavier than Blue. He was certainly far more muscled and powerful than she. Not that she considered this a problem. It was merely an observation.
Blocking the pain of his punishing hold on her wrist, Sophia brought her other hand up and slashed with her dagger. She cut him across the forearm and heard him hiss. His hold on her wrist loosened, and she jerked free.
She knew she had some space behind her, and she moved away, giving herself room to maneuver. The farther she pulled back, the more she was shrouded from the meager light near the stairwell. She could use the darkness to her advantage only so long as the man, who she now knew must be a trained operative like herself, was unsure of her location. The lower level was almost without light, and she could barely make out the indistinct shapes of boxes and crates behind her. She stepped carefully to avoid disturbing anything and giving away her position.
She had been taught to strike first and ask questions later. Whoever this man was, she considered him a threat.
The threat moved forward. Whether by chance or skill, he came directly for her. Sophia shifted to the side, trying to clear his path. Without the benefit of surprise, a direct attack favored the larger, stronger participant. If she wanted the upper hand, she would have to ambush him.
But the man had eyes as keen as hers.
As soon as she shifted out of his path, he shifted to follow. He couldn’t possibly have seen her movements. Even with her acute vision, she was practically guessing at his location. Could he hear her?
Suddenly, he lunged, and she ducked, narrowly avoiding capture. But she came up fighting. Dagger in hand, she slashed at him, catching his cloak and, unfortunately, nothing else. He reached for her weapon, caught her wrist, and there was a brief struggle. He tried to shake the dagger free of her grip, but she would not release it. Instead, she kicked, connecting with what she thought must be his knee.
With an “oof”—the first sound he had made—he stepped back.
He did not release her hand.
Sophia tamped down a surge of frustration and tried a new tactic. She pivoted, presenting him with her back and driving her elbow hard into his middle. Little surprise, that part of him was as firm and unyielding as the rest. But she was not through yet. She shoved into him, as close as a lover, then arched her neck and slammed the back of her head into his chin.
The blow reverberated through him, and he staggered back.
Unfortunately, he took her with him.
They stumbled blindly for a moment. Sophia’s heavy mantle caught on something, but he managed to right himself.
The counterattack was swift and sure. He propelled her forward, throwing her off-balance then whipping her around. Again, he shook her wrist, trying to loosen her fingers from the dagger. Although her nerves screamed for release from the pain, she would not comply. She slammed against the wall behind her, ducking before he could grasp her throat with his free hand. Instead, she struck out first, catching him hard on the jaw. She heard the pop as his head snapped back and then grunted when the retaliatory blow came: a hard jab to her abdomen.
For a moment, she could not breathe. Small dots of light danced before her eyes, and then with a roar, she launched herself off the wall and collided with his body.
He lost his grip on her wrist, and she fell awkwardly, losing possession of her dagger in the process. The clink of the metal on the hard floor startled them both, and as one, they began to grope for the weapon.
They were on the floor, her legs tangled with his as their hands patted the cold dirt beneath them. Sophia felt a jolt as his hand brushed over hers, and her reaction was to kick out at him, increasing the distance between them. It was then that she realized how close to the stairwell they’d fallen. Three or four steps, and she could be on the stairs and away. For the first time in her career, she was not certain she would win a battle. And why did it matter? There was no Lucien Ducos to take prisoner. No Napoleon Bonaparte to defeat. Exactly what was she fighting for?
She shoved at the man again just as she heard the dagger scrape against the ground. He had it, and now was her chance. While he closed his hands about the weapon, she freed her legs from him and dove for the stairs.
She had gained the first one and would have gone farther had her skirts not tangled about her ankles. Damn! She knew she should not have worn this gown. It was her own vanity, her own desire to please whoever had arranged this meeting, which had caused her to be impractical.
And now she would pay for it. Her slight delay gave her attacker the perfect opportunity, and she felt his hand close on her ankle.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he murmured.
“Oh, yes, I do,” she growled, lowering her voice to disguise it. Sophia kicked back and felt her ankle collide with his jaw. Thank God she had worn her half boots and not some silly satin slippers. And yet the man seemed almost unfazed by the blow. He pulled back on her ankle, hard, and she went down. Kicking free, she gained the stairs once again, but this time his hand snagged her waist, and he pulled her off her feet and back into the darkness of the lower level.
“Let go!” she barked, kicking and clawing fiercely. Sophia much preferred a disciplined, structured attack, but she was not averse to an unruly approach. Only this
time, neither seemed to work.
He had her, and he had her firmly. They stumbled back, and as he struggled to maintain control, his hand brushed over her breast. He must have felt it, too, because he jerked and then clamped his hand hard about her flesh.
“Bloody hell. I knew it!” he exclaimed. They fell into a wall, the reverberation from the impact jarring both of them. But not jarring him enough to release her.
Even muffled by the pounding in her head and the blood rushing through her veins, his voice sounded familiar. If she could just place it…
“Knew what?” she asked, ramming her elbow into his gut. A whoosh of air escaped his lungs, and he squeezed her breast hard in retaliation. “Knew you were being beaten by a woman?” The words came out between gasps as she fought to suck in air.
“I am hardly being beaten, madam. If I so chose, you would be on the floor, unconscious.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “You are most welcome to try.”
He pushed her free, and she did fall, but at the last moment, she tucked her legs and rolled into a crouching position. Without waiting for him to recover, she shot forward, ramming her head into his gut. She’d hit him there repeatedly now, and she knew he must feel the pain.
But he grabbed her shoulders and thrust her back, spinning her about and, once again, imprisoning her about the waist. But this time, his arm had come around her, confining her limbs so she could not use elbows or hands.
She kicked back, but he danced out of her reach. She could hear his own gasps for breath, and then his mouth was beside her ear. “Who are you?”
“I might ask you”—she fought to take another breath—“the same question. Let go.” She was positive now that she knew the man. The spy from Calais? The double agent from Lisbon? If she could just grab a moment to think…
“Stop fighting.” His breath was warm, and it tickled the sensitive skin of her ear. She felt her body heat in response and shook her head to clear her mind.
What was wrong with her? This man held her prisoner, would probably kill her, given half a chance, and she was becoming aroused? No wonder the Barbican group no longer had need of her. She was going soft.
“You are not going to win.” His velvet voice rumbled through her, and his breath skated over her neck. She shivered. There was something about his voice. It was doing something to her, having this erotic effect on her.
“I’ve never lost.” She managed to wiggle her hand into the slit at the side of her skirt. The pockets tied underneath held her last hope.
“Famous last words.”
“Yours.” And with that, she freed the small pistol and pressed the muzzle into his thigh.
He stiffened.
“Now, let me go. Slowly.”
She’d expected immediate compliance, but for some reason, the man hesitated. She dug the muzzle harder into his flesh. “Let go.”
But he was still, listening. “Wait a moment.” His voice was far away, distracted.
Damn. He’d recognized her voice. That was the last thing she needed. She tried to distract him with another nudge from the pistol, but he shook his head. “Who are you?”
“Someone with whom you should not trifle.”
“Sophia?” The word was strained and almost high-pitched, and before she could stop herself, she jerked, giving all away. “My God.” His hands suddenly flew from her, releasing her as though she’d just told him she had the pox. “It is you.”
Sophia landed on her feet, stumbled, then whirled to face him. There was a scratching sound, and the acrid smell of smoke assaulted her nostrils. A lone match flared, and she was staring into Adrian’s face.
Shock, like the blow of a blacksmith’s hammer, slammed into her. She felt as though her head had been cleaved in two, and she could make no sense of the apparition before her.
“Adrian?” she managed before the flame went out. “But how—?”
The sound of footsteps above them jerked her back into the danger of the situation. She went absolutely still, noting Adrian did the same. As one, they slid toward the shelter of the staircase. Sophia ducked down, bumping shoulders with Adrian as he did the same.
“Get out of my way,” she hissed.
“You’re in my way.”
The footsteps began again. “Shh,” they said in unison.
Sophia bristled. Who was he to shush her? And what was he doing here? Adrian’s idea of excitement was walking home from his club in a drizzle. She had to be imagining this… or was it some kind of test? Had whoever arranged this meeting brought Adrian here to evaluate her loyalty? Or perhaps to expose her…
“Are you down there?” a man’s voice called from the top of the staircase. The warm glow of lantern light flickered above and cascaded over them.
“Who the hell are you?” Adrian called, careful, she noted, not to reveal himself.
“Why, Lord Smythe, come upstairs and see for yourself. You, too, Lady Smythe.”
Sophia snapped a look at Adrian, but he appeared as confused as she.
“No need to worry,” the man said. “I know all about you and the Barbican group.”
Sophia was still staring at Adrian, and it was then that she saw it.
He was wearing the gray cloak. The same gray cloak the operative who had stolen Ducos out from under her had been wearing.
Her eyes must have widened, because Adrian’s expression went from bewildered to alarmed. “What is it?”
“You,” she spat. She reached forward and grasped a handful of the offending cloak. “It was you. I do not believe this. It’s impossible.”
And it was. Adrian? He had been the agent to apprehend Ducos?
Adrian looked at the wadded material of the cloak in her hand, looked at her face. “What are you talking about?”
“Lucien Ducos.”
His face showed no reaction to the name. “I don’t follow.”
It was a blatant lie, and yet his voice betrayed nothing. He was good. Damn! He was good.
“You stole him from me,” Sophia spat. “You’re the bastard who walked in and stole Ducos from under my nose.”
His gray eyes widened. “You’re the other spy? You’re the agent who couldn’t catch him?”
Her jaw dropped indignantly. “Couldn’t—I had him, you fool. That was my trap you stepped into. Days of preparation, and you ruined everything.”
Adrian shrugged—arrogant, cocksure. It was a new look, a novel attitude for him. She hated it and was drawn to it at the same time. This man was not her husband.
“I guess we know who the better agent is,” he drawled.
“Better at pilfering, perhaps. But who won the confrontation down here?” She gestured to the lower level. “I had you right where I wanted you.”
He glanced at the pistol she still held and snorted. “With that toy? I was hardly concerned.”
Sophia’s eyes narrowed, and she raised the weapon. “This toy, as you call it, will put a nice hole in your belly.”
“If you can even fire it straight.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
She inhaled sharply, partly because of the insult and partly because it was truer than he could have guessed. Handling pistols was not her forte. But even she could not miss at this close range. She cocked the hammer. “Shall we test that theory?”
They locked eyes.
The man at the top of the stairs cleared his throat. Neither Sophia nor Adrian looked away.
“If you two want to kill each other, fine with me. But if you are interested in this assignment, I suggest you make your way upstairs. I will not be kept waiting.”
He withdrew, taking the lantern with him, and the lower level was once again pitched into darkness. Neither Sophia nor Adrian moved. There was silence, except for the drip of the water.
Plop, plop, plo—
“I’m going up,” Adrian announced. “If you want to shoot me, now is your chance.”
And Sophia was just tempted enough by the conceited tone in his voice to do it too.
Instead, she eased her hand off the pistol’s hammer and lowered the weapon. “This isn’t over.”
“Not by a long shot,” he agreed.
They rammed shoulders as both attempted to take the stairs.
“Excuse me,” he said, trying to shoulder past her.
She shoved him back then stepped nimbly out of his way. “Go right ahead, my lord. I’ve always said, ‘ladies first.’”
Five
“Ladies first.” Adrian gave his wife a potent scowl before starting up the stairs. “You’re terribly amusing, madam. I don’t know why I never noticed before.”
“Perhaps because you have no sense of humor.”
“Perhaps because—”
“My lord and lady,” the gentleman at the top of the stairs interrupted, “I am waiting.”
From behind him, Adrian heard Sophia hiss in a breath. He reached back, assuming she’d fallen through one of the steps or slipped on a wet patch, but she pushed his hand aside. “I do not need your assistance. I only…” She paused and motioned him closer. They had almost reached the ground-floor landing, and Adrian assumed she wanted to keep their exchange private. “I—my nose itches.”
She was whispering, and Adrian had to put his ear next to her mouth to catch her words. It had been a long time since he’d been this near to his wife, and he couldn’t help but notice the sweet scent of oranges. It was a scent he’d always associated with her, and yet he’d forgotten until this minute that the smell of citrus clung to her. It was in her skin, her hair, her lips…
He had a mental picture of how she’d looked a moment before, when the lantern had illuminated them both. She’d looked wild and sensual—her glossy brown hair falling in unruly curls down her back and her creamy white skin tinged with a rosy blush. Her chocolate brown eyes had—well, actually they had shot daggers at him—and she’d looked full of life.
Life and sensuality.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her look like that, and it aroused him.
And then he saw she still held the dagger in her hand. It looked sharp and deadly and… comfortable there.
And just like that, the arousal faded and the hard truth that she was an operative, like he, crashed into him. This was not some beauty who needed rescuing, or the mousy, docile wife he knew. This was a trained agent. Earlier, she might have killed him—well, caused him some minor injury, anyway—and who knew what assignments she had completed for the Crown. Abduction? Murder?