by The Spy
“I’ll-wait-out-here-if-it’s-all-the-same-to-you,” she blurted.
She heard James snort. “Good Lord, Flip. You can’t box in a shirt and trousers.”
She shook her head frantically, although she didn’t know what a box had to do with anything. “I’ll be fine. No problem.”
He sighed gustily. She felt his breath on her cheek and her gut twisted. She was disappointing him again, she knew. But how could she possibly explain?
“All right, Flip. But will you at least promise to try the ring?”
Anything, just don’t make me go in there! “Absolutely. I will definitely try the ring.”
“Very well. I’ll be but a moment.”
She felt him pass her but remained where she was, desperately trying to scrub that final image from her mind’s eye.
No good. It was to be hairy buttocks forever. Damn, if she had to preserve someone’s naked arse in her memory, why couldn’t it have been James’s?
She stayed out of the way of the other men and stared with great interest at the soaring architecture of the gymnasium hall. Majestic arches met overhead, supported by lovely Ionic columns that pierced the echoing chamber at regular intervals.
“Ready, Flip?”
Now don’t let on that you’re all atwitter over a bit too much skin. She took a breath and turned to face him.
And almost swallowed her tongue. His bare torso gleamed before her eyes, sculpted into rigidly defined muscles and sinews. The scar on his shoulder was like a medal adorning his heroic chest. He was wrapping the knuckles of one hand with a linen strip and she found herself fascinated by the tension in his bicep as it rolled and twisted.
Great Greek gods. How could she have forgotten how splendid he was? Or how his splendor turned her knees to porridge and her female parts to melted wax?
An attendant came to wrap the second strip around James’s other hand. After pounding his fists together for a moment as if to adjust the fit, James gave Phillipa a challenging grin.
“Watch carefully now. If you work hard, you might be as good as me someday.” Then he swung himself up onto the platform and climbed through the ropes. Another half-dressed fellow stepped up at James’s invitation, but Phillipa had eyes for James alone. The high clerestory windows poured the pearly morning light down on his honed body, highlighting and shadowing his muscular form in a breathtaking way. At least, James took her breath away.
Then the other man hit him. Hard.
Phillipa cried out in protest and surprise, a high sound that was unmistakably feminine. Fortunately, the blow caused the other men who watched to break out in encouraging cries of their own. Her exclamation went unnoticed in the general bellowing.
She bit her lip, determined not to make another sound as she watched a most appalling display of masculine rivalry. Blow after blow rained on James, although she must admit that he gave as good as he got.
He didn’t seem to be coming to any actual harm in his ridiculous game, so Phillipa gradually relaxed enough to feel the pull of attraction once more.
Pull? It was a bloody force of nature. As the session progressed she watched James perspire, turning his body into sculpted bronze. Yet he was liquid metal as well, as his skin rippled over the flex and pull of taut muscle.
So graceful. So powerful.
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to run her hands up his bulging biceps to his broad shoulders, then bring her fingers to her lips to taste the salt on his gleaming skin. His hair dampened and clung to his forehead and neck in an unrestrained mane. He was like a great golden beast. He lunged and parried with his opponent, his brown eyes gone black and intent on his prey . . .
She wanted to be his prey. She ached to have that intensity directed at her. Want me. Pursue me.
Capture me.
Quite unaware of herself, she licked her lips and watched him with eyes wide and thighs pressed tightly together.
James ducked aside from his sparring partner’s next blow in a graceful movement. Nicely done, if he did say so himself. He chanced a look out of the ring to see if Phillip had seen that one. The fellow had a lot of catching up to do in the manly arts—
Phillip was not only watching, he was intent. Excellent. James grinned and laid a nice uppercut to his opponent’s chin. Then he had to laugh inwardly at himself. He ought to be more concerned with improving Phillip than impressing him.
Still, the fellow’s avid attention was good to see. It seemed he had finally managed to snare Phillip’s interest in something more than books and food. After all, everyone needed a bit of diversion, didn’t they?
Time for Phillip’s turn. James backed off a few dancing steps, raising his taped fists in the gesture for “halt.” It wouldn’t do to be too tired to give Phillip a good lesson.
He beckoned to one of the attendants, who brought forward another set of tapes. Phillip looked down when the fellow approached him, then backed away, hands up.
“No—”
“Now, Flip, you’re going back on your word?” James leaned on the ropes. “Not an hour ago you promised to give it a try.”
James had to laugh at the panic on Phillip’s face.
“I’ve never struck anyone in my life,” he protested.
James nodded agreeably. “Then I’d say it’s past time.”
The attendant was busy divesting Phillip of his frock coat. When the man reached for the buttons of Phillip’s waistcoat, the young tutor stepped back out of range. “This is sufficient, thank you.”
One of the men watching snorted. “Does the little bloke want his hat on too?”
James waved the fellow to silence and climbed through the ropes to jump down lightly at Phillip’s side. He leaned in close. “Come now, Flip. You don’t want to look the rabbit in front of this lot, do you?”
Phillip swallowed. “I don’t care a whit for their opinion . . . but I did give you my word.” His bony chin went up. “I can only promise to try, James.”
James almost reached out to ruffle that mousy mop. Then he recalled Phillip’s prickly pride and settled for clapping him on the shoulder. Phillip staggered a bit but scared up a wavering smile. Somewhat reluctantly, he held out his hands to be taped.
A few moments later, James stood across from him on the canvas. Phillip stood primly, feet together, fists held up and forward as if he were milking a cow.
Hoots sounded from the gallery. James shook his head at them all and moved around behind Phillip. Kneeling, he clapped one hand between Phillip’s rigid knees to part them.
“Here. Stand feet apart for balance. Step forward with the left.” Phillip didn’t move. “Phillip?”
Phillipa was absolutely frozen in shock at the sensation of James’s hand between her thighs. At his insistent shove, she managed to breathe and, yes, step forward with one foot.
“Other left, laddie,” shouted one of the wags.
Phillipa switched feet hurriedly, feeling her blush climb to full purple. Then she felt James straighten and move his body close behind hers. He wrapped his arms around her to take her fists in his hands.
Weak with confusion and trembling desire, she allowed him to turn her wrists and to advance her left hand forward while drawing back her right. He gave the left fist a squeeze.
“Guard,” he said softly. His breath warmed her ear and sent hot shivers down her neck.
He pulled the other fist back nearly to her shoulder. Then he extended both their right hands forward, forcing her body to twist as his chest pressed to her back until her arm extended to its full length.
“Straight Right.”
His body was warm and damp from his exertions. She could feel his heat through the heavy waistcoat and shirt she wore. She could smell him—the scent of recently bathed man after a bit of healthy exercise. His scent was stirring and male, waking yet another sense of hers to be dominated by his presence.
He drew her arms back to the beginning position, then brought her left fist around in a curve to strike empty air.
>
“Left Hook.”
His groin brushed her buttocks as they twisted and she found herself fighting the urge to grind gently against him there . . . to press back against the length of him, to rest her head back on his broad shoulder as he wrapped both hot hands around her tightening breasts—
“Flip? Are you going to faint or something?”
She started, bolts of chill disorientation making her quiver. “Zap,” she muttered.
James was back across from her, staring at her through his raised fists. “Are you ready? Or do you need to sit down?”
Phillipa shook her head. “Might as well be done with it.”
James shook his head. “That’s no way to think. You seemed interested enough before. As if you couldn’t wait to tussle.”
She was unable to repress a surprised snort of guilty laughter at that. “Indeed,” she affirmed shakily. Then taking a breath, she raised her fists in the stance he had shown her.
“En garde,” she challenged gamely.
James grinned and she found herself most distracted by the way the corners of his eyes crinkled and the way his dimples flashed so—
He punched her in the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Get your guard up.”
She stared at him blankly. “Parry,” he explained. “Block me with your left.”
She tried, batting his light blows away, but enough got through that tears began to lurk behind her determinedly dry eyes. It hurt and she was getting bloody tired of it!
Facing Phillip, James balanced lightly on the balls of his feet. He tapped Flip again and again, easily slipping past the younger fellow’s awkward defense.
“Hit me, Flip.”
Phillip only ducked away from James’s dancing fists. The men watching began to shout encouragement. James was glad to hear it, for Phillip needed all the confidence he could get.
Trying to get him to lighten his fierce tension, James teased him. “Come now, Flip. Take a swing. If you land one on me, I’ll let you out of the ring.”
Phillip only tightened his shoulders and kept his head tucked behind his own raised fists. The two circled, James easily, Phillip clumsily, while the spectators called out all the while.
“Come on, Phillip. Haven’t you ever wanted to hit anyone? Well, now you can do it and get away with it scot-free. Set yourself loose, man.”
Phillip stopped dead still and James caught a look at his face. The fellow had gone a deep humiliated red and his lips were pressed tightly together.
James halted and lowered his fists. “Ah, Hip, I’m sor—”
Phillip’s fist lashed out in a perfect left hook, smashing into James’s jaw. James felt his own teeth clench his tongue and staggered, more startled than struck. The blow had been technically perfect but not terribly heavy. Still, best to make good show of it. The one thing Phillip needed more than strength was confidence.
So James let his stagger grow into a spinning fall and landed flat on his back on the canvas. He lay there a moment, exploring his injured mouth with his swelling tongue.
He heard Phillip gasp and nearly shook his head at the girlish sound. Then he recalled that he was supposed to be knocked out and lay still, waiting.
He really should teach the fellow to grunt.
He felt Phillip land on his knees beside him. “James? Are you all right? Did I hurt you? Oh, James, I’m so sorry. You said to think of a time when I wanted to hit someone and I was thinking of that swine last night and I—oh, James, please wake up!”
What, no triumphant crowing? No grandstanding? No sportsmanlike faint praise for the downed opponent? James cracked open one eye to see Phillip kneeling over him, his narrow face flushed and tragically worried.
“Fwip?” Damn his swelling tongue. “Are you cwying?”
Phillip shook his head vehemently, then spoiled the denial by wiping one wrist across his eyes. For the first time, James noticed the appalled silence from the previously loud and cheerful gallery. Bloody hell.
He sat up and took Phillip’s upper arm in a firm grip. “Pull yourself together, man,” he hissed. “Or you’ll never be able to hold your head up in this place again!”
“What? What did I do now?”
James sighed. There was no point in blaming Phillip. He should have realized that pugilism wasn’t the place to begin. It was too bad, for the fellow had a naturally perfect swing . . .
Phillip sniffled. James couldn’t bear it. He jumped up and pulled Phillip through the ropes to drag him off to the changing room. Once there, he sat him on a bench and straddled it to face him.
James sighed. “Phillip, what am I going to do with you?”
“Why must you do anything at all? Why can I not simply go on the way I am?”
“But haven’t you any ambition, man? Haven’t you thought that perhaps you’d like to be more than a tutor? Don’t you ever long for adventure?” He looked away, disappointed. “Perhaps you’re simply not the adventurous sort.”
Phillipa was abruptly angry. In addition to her escape from Spain and near starvation, she’d been forced to wear ridiculous, uncomfortable clothing, dance with girls, carry her own parcels, and open her own bloody doors.
She’d been quite proud of the way she’d risen to such unfamiliar challenges. Yet here was James, discounting her ability to deal with adversity?
She glanced up to see James staring at her. With difficulty, she curbed her anger. “The difference between adventure and danger, James, is one’s willingness to partake.”
James held up a hand. “My apologies, Phillip. I simply thought—” He broke off to shake his head. “Never you mind. Perhaps we’ll speak of it someday.” He stood. “Well done, by the by. You’ve a fine left hook.”
Phillipa sat up straighter and grinned up at him. “Too bloody right I do.”
James’s brown eyes shone pride at her. The changing room swiftly became far too warm. A bit breathless at the joy that went through her at his admiration, Phillipa forced herself to look away, even if that meant endangering her peace of mind with further hairy male parts.
A sudden disturbance from the doorway thankfully drew James’s attention from her before she embarrassed herself by climbing into his lap. A burly man had entered the changing room, swearing.
“The unbelievable bastard! He’s out there right now, as if he has the right to come and go as he pleases!”
“Who?”
The big man snorted with disgust. “Lord Treason!”
Phillipa noticed James stiffen at her side. He stood as if to speak to the angry fellow, then simply brushed rudely past him as he left the changing room. Phillipa followed quickly. That was not somewhere she wanted to be left alone!
In the main hall, knots of men stood talking in low voices and glaring at a fair-haired man who was strapping his fists without the help of any of the trainers. The fellow was tall and well-designed and not at all hairy.
He was also quite the most attractive man she had ever seen, his classic features bringing to mind a work of art. Phillipa moved close enough to James to whisper, “Who is that?”
She saw James clench his jaw. “Nathaniel Stonewell, Lord Reardon.”
“Why did that man call him Lord Treason?”
James gave a short laugh. “Don’t you read the newssheets?”
“Oh . . . that Lord Treason? The one who is the last living member of the Flower Knights?”
James sent her a dark glance. “The Knights of the Lily, the Fleur de Lis. Napoleon’s spies.”
How fascinating. “He’s a spy?” Lord Reardon certainly looked as though he could charm the secrets out of anyone, especially if that anyone was a woman. Or simply breathing.
James’s reply was cool. “So they say.”
Surprised by that response when everyone else in the room was getting decidedly hot, Phillipa looked up at James in time to catch him giving the fair-haired man a tiny nod of acknowledgment. She blinked. Did James consort with Lord Treason? Surely not!
Sympathy for a publicly notorious traitor.
Chapter Fifteen
James entered the sickroom a few steps behind Mrs. Neely. It seemed the very air in this darkened room reeked of reproach.
“Here he is, sir.” Mrs. Neely pulled a bit of lace from within her sleeve to dab at her eyes. “I’m afraid Mr. Weatherby is leaving us even now.”
James forced himself to step closer, to stare into the face of his guilt. Weatherby looked nigh unto death already, his skin gray and his breath so shallow his chest scarcely rose at all. Old Weatherby had been a fine Liar, a man full of vinegary humor and a nearly unearthly ability to spot and unravel even the most difficult codes.
When James had first entered the Liars, Weatherby had petitioned to have him as apprentice, likely on the basis of his father’s work. What a blow it must have been to learn that young James had little of Jeremy Cunnington’s skill with mathematics and even less interest.
Yet Weatherby had been a friend and a comrade, and now he lay on the threshold of death itself. James lowered himself to carefully sit on the edge of the bed. Taking one of Weatherby’s dry papery hands in his own, James closed his eyes.
My life for yours.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat thus, but finally Mrs. Neely placed one hand on his shoulder. “He’s gone, sir.”
Of course he was. They were all gone, one by one, all but Ren.
James tenderly folded Angus’s hands upon his still chest. “Peace, old fellow. This road is done now,” he whispered. Then he rose and forced himself to cross the room.
Ren Porter had been more than comrade. Had indeed been nearly a brother. As the best covert operative the Liars had had, he and James had run many a mission together. They’d been like boys out of school, taking pleasure in their lack of responsibilities and the freedom provided by their work. What more could a man want, truly, than worthy work that left one free to live a life of adventure and heart-pounding excitement?