“Very.” Sabrina laughed. “Mama always says I am my father’s daughter.”
Riding ahead, Dirk sat high atop his stallion. Rebecca marveled as he exercised his horse, knowing he would be an excellent patriarch, doting endlessly, and no doubt a stern disciplinarian.
And now that she had resigned the Corps, her child would not live in fear of losing its mother. As the matriarch of her growing family, she would celebrate every milestone, from the first word, to the first steps, to the first session at Eton; to the day he took a wife.
While there were no medical tests to confirm her instincts, she believed she was carrying a boy. The spy trade had taught her to trust her inner voice, and it proclaimed, loud and clear, that she increased with Dirk’s heir. Absently, she pressed a palm to her belly.
“How does it feel?” Sabrina queried in a small voice tinged with awe.
Rebecca blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“To have a life growing inside you? Does it tickle?” Sabrina chuckled, and then her expression sobered. “Does it hurt?”
Faced with such charming naïveté, Rebecca could only smile. It was too soon for her to evidence any physical change, but she felt different, yet it defied explanation.
“No, it does not hurt. Though I have heard it can tickle when the babe begins to move. Still, it is a tad early for that.” At that moment, Dirk waved, and she blew him a kiss. “Daresay my condition has had greater impact on my husband, as he has been constantly underfoot.”
“Oh?” Sabrina frowned, and Rebecca wondered if she had overstepped her bounds. “How so?”
“We have been to Drury Lane twice, the opera,” she said, counting off the events on her fingers. “And he even escorted me to a musicale at the Hogart’s, which I would rather he had eschewed.”
“Bloody hell.” Sabrina wrinkled her nose. “Not the twins.”
“Oh, yes.” Rebecca grimaced. “After all the talk, which I must confess I thought exaggerated, I have finally suffered the distinct privilege of enduring their unique brand of entertainment.”
“You give them too much credit.” With a hand to her mouth, Sabrina leaned in to whisper, “Miranda Hogart sings like a braying ass.”
Rebecca burst into laughter.
Just then, a swarthy, oily looking man stepped from behind a large maple. He swept up his arm in a flash.
Startled, Rebecca shrieked.
Shouting the alarm, Sabrina positioned herself between Rebecca and the stranger. Fast as a whip, she raised her parasol and conked the man directly on the head. With his mouth agape in surprise, he stood frozen and then slumped unconscious on the ground.
As if from nowhere, Sir Ross, Damian, Blake, and Lance magically appeared, with Dirk bringing up the rear on his stallion. After quickly dismounting, he ran to Rebecca.
“He had something in his hand,” Sabrina said breathlessly, as she held a fist to her heart, the parasol still clutched tightly in the other.
Squatting, Sir Ross bent over the motionless figure and retrieved a small spray of wildflowers. “Is this what gave you cause for concern, Miss Douglas?”
“Uh-Oh.” Sabrina shuffled her feet.
“It is all right, darling.” Dirk snaked an arm around Rebecca’s waist and hugged her close, but she was no mood for his particular brand of comfort. “You have nothing to fear.”
She glanced at Dirk, then Sabrina, then Sir Ross, and then Dirk again. “My lord, if you wish to maintain the use of your arm, release me this instant.”
He had done so, dropping both hands to his sides.
Frightened and furious at once, Rebecca lifted her chin. “Would someone care to tell me just what is going on here?”
#
After profuse apologies to the unfortunate flower peddler, the group reconvened in Dirk’s study. With a calm deportment, Rebecca inclined her head as Sir Ross explained the motivation for their efforts. Not for one minute was Dirk fooled by his wife’s outward demeanor. She stood at the center of the room, a subtle warning that while she might understand their actions and sympathize with their cause, the man sitting behind the desk enjoyed no such affinity and would not escape her wrath.
“We searched Clarkson’s residence,” Sir Ross explained. “We discovered correspondence which indicates he was in direct contact with a French operative. I thought it necessary to keep you in a protective custody, of sorts, and your husband was kind enough to cooperate.”
“I am sure he was,” Rebecca said sweetly. Too sweetly. “Tell me, Sir Ross. In the time you have had me under surveillance, has anyone shown unusual interest in my movements?”
“No.” Sir Ross shook his head. “There has been nothing to suggest you are being stalked. In light of Clarkson’s death, our villain may have feared discovery and fled the country.”
“Well then, I suppose there will be no opposition to my journeying to Lyvedon tomorrow.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course not.” Sir Ross cleared his throat. “If the individual we sought has escaped, then the danger to you is non-existent.”
“How fortunate,” his wife said in a high-pitched singsong that gave Dirk collywobbles.
“Rebecca, I am sorry for my part in the deception.” Sabrina shifted her weight. “I was genuinely concerned for your safety and was only trying to help.”
“Do not worry yourself one bit, my dear.” Rebecca placed a kiss of sisterly affection on Brie’s cheek and then exchanged a handshake with Sir Ross. “I am not angry with either of you.”
Behind her, Dirk reclined in his chair, as the implication of her words confirmed the fact that he alone bore the brunt of her ire.
“Now, if you will excuse us, I would like a word with my husband.”
His study cleared with remarkable efficiency, as his fair-weather friends abandoned him to the firing squad. With a piteous glance and a pained expression, Sir Ross departed, at last. No sooner had the door shut than Rebecca faced him.
“How dare you conspire to use our unborn child as a carrot before the horse?” She pounded a fist to the blotter. “And you lied to me. How could you deceive me?”
“Becca, darling--”
“Don’t you ‘Becca, darling’ me.”
“I know you are upset--”
“Upset?” She set hands on hips. “You think me upset?”
“Easy, love.” In a flash, Dirk stood, rounded his desk, and grasped her arms. “Think of the babe. You--”
“Do not touch me.” In high dudgeon, she wrenched free and stomped to the window. “I am not upset. I am bloody well furious! How could you do it?”
“Neither you nor our child were ever in any danger.”
“You do not know that.” Her eyes flared. “And I thought you a kind and considerate husband.”
“I did what I thought best.” He reached for her, but she quickly skittered beyond his reach, taking refuge behind a chair. “I did not want you to worry.”
“So you plotted with Sir Ross to continue the mission without my knowledge?” Rebecca emitted a cry of sarcasm. “Tell me, my lord, did you laugh at my ignorance behind my back? Did you find sport in your duplicity?”
“Of course not.” When he shoved the chair aside, she turned and ran from the study. “Becca, come back here.”
“Leave me alone,” she cried over her shoulder as she flew up the stairs.
“We are going to discuss this, my lady wife.” Dirk took the steps, two at a time.
“I am through talking to you.” She gained her room, slammed the door, and slid the lock home with a defiant click.
“Well I am not through with you,” he muttered under his breath. Standing before the entry to her chamber, Dirk grasped the knob and shook it hard. At the same time, he banged a fist on the oak panel. “Rebecca, open this door.”
“Go away, you addled ass,” she shouted in response.
And then it hit him. He was a no-nonsense man who preferred an orderly existence defined by logic and reason. Yet there was nothing
logical or reasonable in his actions. With a chuckle, he released the knob, strode down the hall, crossed his chamber, and ever so quietly slipped through the little corridor adjoining their apartments. With nary a sound, he entered his wife’s quarters and smiled.
With her back to him, and an ear pressed to the door, Rebecca stood. Stealthily he stalked her. In mere seconds, Dirk swooped and whisked her into his arms just as she screamed.
“Let go of me.” Tears coursed her cheeks, and he cursed himself for making her cry. As he retraced his steps, carrying her to his bedchamber, she folded her arms in front of her. “Do not think you can seduce your way out of this.”
“I do not intend to,” he replied with genuinely good humor. “We are going to talk this through calmly and rationally, and then I am going to seduce you.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Dirk walked to the edge of his mattress and eased her down. Before she could scramble away, he covered her.
Rebecca squirmed and kicked, and with both hands she pushed at his chest. “Get off of me.”
Framing her jaw with his fingers, he covered her lips with his and then seized her mouth. He licked and suckled her tongue, engaging her in succulent play--an appetizer to the main course. As her resistance faded, her legs stilled, and her body relaxed beneath him.
“I did what I had to--for you,” he murmured against her flesh.
“For me?” Rebecca asked, and her breath hitched as he nibbled at her throat. “I would have thought your heir of paramount concern.”
“I would do anything to protect you.” Dirk lifted his head and gazed into her turbulent brown depths. “You are my life, Becca. Without you, I am nothing.”
The truth rang clear in his voice, startling even him.
Resting his forehead to hers, he sighed. “I love you.”
How striking was it that three simple words, honestly spoken, could wash away the ire in the blink of an eye?
Favoring him with a flirty, feminine smile, Rebecca wound her arms about his neck and scored her nails to his nape. “My lord, I love you, too.”
With nerves charged, passion shimmered like the finest crystal, igniting the air about them. Fueled by a wicked erection, and the base desire to join with his wife, he inched her skirts to her waist and then unhooked his breeches.
“I thought you said the seduction would come later.” Rebecca swallowed hard. “After our discussion.”
Dirk nipped the tip of her nose. “I changed my mind.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
In the weeks since they had journeyed to Lyvedon Hall, Dirk counted himself a fortunate man as his wife blossomed amid the lush landscape of their country estate. The dark circles beneath her brown eyes paled, the underlying strain in her deportment faded, and at last, she relaxed. With the energy one would expect of a secret agent hunting information vital to national defense, Rebecca dove into household management, expressing an unrivaled zeal for menu planning. Much to his relief, she no longer found it necessary to strap a dagger to her thigh.
And although he had remained on guard, should some unexplained, infelicitous misfortune strike his bride, it seemed his concerns were for naught. With each passing day, the traitor occupied less and less of his thoughts. As such, Dirk and Rebecca settled into a comfortable routine.
Professing an avid appreciation for the backwater, she accompanied him on the weekly jaunts to visit their tenants, and he marveled at her natural ability to ferret out the minutest deficiency. When Rebecca declared that, while London was fine for a time, she would much prefer to spend her days on their principal estate, Dirk was not about to argue. Keeping his beautiful wife tucked in the woods might seem a bit draconian to some, but he thought it the perfect environment to nurture their marital relationship, because he so wanted to be a good husband.
Climbing the back stairs to the morning room, Dirk shrugged his shoulders in an effort to relieve a nagging twinge. For some reason he could not fathom, he had suffered an uneasy night. When he recalled the inventive measures his resourceful viscountess had undertaken to soothe his restlessness, he could not help but smile.
Sitting on the chaise, attempting to master needlework, the only skill she had yet to conquer, she cast a charming pout and peered at him as he entered the room. “My lord, pray tell. How do women find the patience for such tedium?”
Dirk laughed and sat beside her. “I had thought to spend the afternoon shooting.” He gave her a playful nudge. “Unless you would rather remain here and indulge your fondness for embroidery, would you consent to join me?”
“Oh, my love. I can think of nothing I would prefer more.” Eyes effervescent with unabashed joy, she twined her arms about his neck and kissed him on the mouth with a resounding smack. “Give me five minutes to change my clothes.”
Without hesitation, she tossed aside her silks and leapt from the chaise.
“I shall await you in the foyer.” It was his luck to marry a woman who preferred guns to a needle and thread.
#
With a squeal of delight, Rebecca brushed out the skirts of her new red riding habit, which she had ordered a week before departing London. How she had fretted that it might not arrive in time for her to bring it to Lyvedon, but a stodgy character delivered it with nary a second to spare. And she had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to surprise her husband.
Checking her image in the long mirror, she appraised her appearance and giggled. “The man will not know what hit him.”
In a froth of petticoats, she skipped down the stone staircase that led to the foyer, where Dirk waited. Midway, she paused. Wearing tan corded-breeches tucked into gleaming Hessians, an ivory lawn shirt sans cravat, and a dark green hacking jacket, her husband looked only slightly dangerous. When he turned and spied her, his jaw dropped, and her belly flip-flopped.
He said nothing. Merely extended a hand. She glided to a halt before him and dutifully twirled for his perusal.
“Is this a new outfit?” He pressed his lips to her palm.
“It is.” She dipped her chin.
“Perhaps we should reconsider our afternoon entertainment?” He pulled her hips to his and thrust, every so slightly. “What say you?”
“My lord, you are shameless.”
“And aroused.”
“But our horses are saddled.” She tugged on her gloves. “I do so look forward to our rides.”
“Oh, I can promise you a ride.”
“Dirk.” Thrilled with his enthusiastic response, she swatted playfully at his chest. “There is always tonight.”
“All right.” He cast her a lop-sided grin. “But I would have your word that only I relieve you of this delicious confection.”
“If you insist,” she said with a laugh, as they stepped into the sunlight.
“Indeed, I do.” He lifted her into the saddle and then reached beneath her skirt to caress her calf. “Damn. I knew I should have had Hughes pack the two-seater bench.”
“But you are so inventive.” Quick as a wink, she grasped him roughly by the neck and kissed him hard. “I am certain you can improvise.”
“Rebecca, by all that is holy, I am going to make love to you like fifty men.”
“Is that a promise?”
“You may depend upon it.”
“Then let us away, as the sooner we venture, the sooner we return.” She flicked the reins and set a furious pace.
With Poulson, the loader, following at a discreet distance, they steered their mounts for open country. Charging hell bent for leather through the meadow, Rebecca taunted her husband, urging him faster still. In a clearing, targets perched at various distances provided ample sport, as well as the opportunity to best her no-nonsense captain.
“Hell and the Reaper.” Dirk studied her pattern and marked bullet placement in chalk. “Remind me never to quarrel with you when there are firearms within reach.”
“Well, your smooth bore pistol projects a curve ball, so I aim with recoil, in min
d,” she stated, matter-of-factly.
“My dear, you are an excellent markswoman.” He chucked her chin. “Should we have another go?”
“Yes, please.” Basking in his praise, so freely accorded, she smiled and nodded eagerly. “I must confess it is your flintlock rifle that I am most anxious to try.”
“I should warn you, it has quite a kick.” Dirk retrieved the weapon in question. “Perhaps I should help you?”
“Show me.” She assumed the proper stance.
“Grasp it by the stock, and tuck the butt into your shoulder, pulling it in tight.” He made a few adjustments. “Rest your cheek to the flat of the butt, else you risk a nasty bruise to your lovely face.”
“Like this?” She followed his directions to the letter.
“Perfect. Now, take aim.” Standing at her back, he checked her form. “Rotate to full-cock, but be careful, as that releases the safety lock.”
She performed as he bade. “What is next?”
“You are ready to fire. Do not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid.” Rebecca inhaled a deep breath and held it. Ever so slowly, she eased her finger to the trigger and then tugged hard. The force of the blast nearly set her on her bum.
“Beautiful shot, Becca.”
After a few additional rounds, her hand went numb, her shoulder ached, and her belly rumbled with pain of a different sort. “Dirk, I fear all this excitement has worked on me as I had not intended. I am quite famished.”
“Actually, I am not surprised, given that you eat for two.” He narrowed his stare and grinned. “Come, as I would not have my viscountess withering. We are past due for our noon meal, and, it just so happens, I have provisions.”
“We are to picnic?” She blinked.
“Precisely.”
A nearby grove of trees offered a shady spot for lunch, and he spread a blanket on the ground, as she untied a sack from his saddle and grimaced. “This is heavy.”
“Careful, darling.” Dirk accepted the parcel and knelt. “There is chicken, cheese, bread, grapes, and white wine.”
“Sounds delicious.” After unpacking the simple fare, she sat, situated her skirts, and draped a napkin over her lap. “You are so thoughtful. Thank you, for today.”
My Lady, The Spy Page 25