Excitement, just as wicked, streaked through her.
He stepped away from the settee and she turned onto her side to watch him, pillowing her cheeks on her hands. His back was to her as he stoked the fire, then added more wood. She watched his shirt stretch over his back, shifting over muscle. But it was not muscle that made her heart sigh. It was the plush pillow he brought to the floor, and the quick glance to check the height of the flames.
He was seeing to her comfort. Did he not know she required none of the trappings? Silk pillows and warm rooms were unnecessary. She had made love in uncomfortable places, because sometimes that was all she’d had to tie her to Jeremy in the last hours before battle.
Now, with Angel, she had gone far beyond the need for a soft place to lie. A chair would suffice—oh! His shirt was drifting to the floor, and then one boot was tossed into a corner. Then the other. Angel in nothing but breeches was a magnificent sight. Lean, elegant, and gold all over. Then his breeches were discarded, then the drawers beneath and then—nothing more could be thought. A naked Angel was every woman’s dream.
He walked toward her. Strutting almost, she thought, and realized she was smiling at him. Well, she did want the dream. When he reached her, one arm slid beneath her knees, the other behind her back.
She laughed when he picked her up, sounding as giddy as the butterflies wreaking havoc in her belly. And when he laid her on the rug before the fire, she simply sighed. Low flames licked the logs, tongues of red heat to slowly burn away the cold wood. She felt just like that low fire. Tiny flames flickering inside, but not burning out of control. A pleasant hum in the blood, and needy heat between her legs.
“There’s a romantic in that spy soul of yours, Angel.”
“And a romantic in your warrior’s heart.” He stretched out beside her, nuzzled her neck.
And though she wanted softness, she also wanted more. One quick move and she was above him, straddling muscled thighs amidst a froth of muslin and ruffles and lace. He used the moment to begin to unfasten the hooks at her back. One, two, three . . . the scrape of his thumb against her back sent her blood from that low hum to a bright peak. Anticipation slid along her skin.
Then the ribbon tied around her waist was loose. She set her arms into the air and let him draw the gown from her, the chemise, her stays. The petticoats were more difficult, but then those and the stockings were gone.
She was bared to him, dressed in nothing but skin and firelight. She still ranged above him, straddling him. He twitched against her, his body trying to pierce the warmth and wetness of her. She only smiled and pressed herself on him so that he groaned and tipped back his head, hands gripping her waist.
“Do not make me wait, Lilias.” His voice was part groan, part whisper.
But she wanted to look, and decided he could stand the exquisite torture. Tongue caught between her teeth, she studied him. Lean muscles on his chest and stomach. Crisp hair rasping against her fingers. Eyes that were half closed and watching her.
His hand moved to her breast, thumb flicking across her nipple. The concentration on his face was complete, as though nothing in the world existed beyond her body.
And so she took him in. The hand on her hip gripped tighter and he pressed himself up, deeper. She let her body adjust to him, let her heart swell with that contact. With the sensation of being filled and being given a gift and being taken, all at once.
Breathless, she could only glory in it. A single moment where neither of them moved, and yet both were moved. When nothing existed but that place where they were joined, and their breath, and the beat of hearts.
She sensed the gathering in him. Saw his eyes focus on her face and the hunger come into them. She braced for the move, for the flare of his desire and the snap of his control. When he pulled her beneath him she simply rolled with him and vised her legs around his hips. When he buried his face into the curve of her neck, she wrapped her arms around him.
He thrust into her, slow and even, drawing out the pleasure. Some part of her heart ached. Not a hard pain, but the type that moved its way to the throat, then built behind her eyes. Her head tipped back as he found the rhythm, as his body melded with hers.
Torture built in her, pleasure and pain and need and passion. It all tangled together, just as her hands sought one of his and their fingers tangled. Then his other hand found hers, so they were joined by both hand and heart.
His body claimed hers again and again, his fingers tightening in hers. That grip was the last bastion against drowning in sensation and emotion. Until it was no longer enough. The last bastion failed, and there was nothing but the exquisite pressure building inside her like so many starbursts.
And then there was nothing but gold behind her eyes and his lips against hers as she cried out. When he joined her beyond that moment of reason, his body was slick with sweat, his muscles rigid with the release. He withdrew, thinking again of her comfort and safety, no doubt.
The thought had her pulling him onto her, so that now he did crush her with his weight. But it did not hurt. Her arms cradled him, her legs held him. They stayed there, wrapped in the firelight and each other, until the flames died low and nothing but burning coals remained.
Chapter 34
“WHEN I FIRST saw you, I never would have thought that I would be lying here with you. Like this.” He lay beside her, propped on his elbow and looking down at her. One of his hands lazily cupped her breast.
“En déshabillé?” she suggested.
“This is a little more than en déshabillé.” A corner of his mouth ticked up.
She laughed. It was more—so much more. She was loose and satiated, and had no driving need to leave the rug in front of the fire.
“You were so fierce that day on the field,” he said. “And so beautiful.” His thumb brushed across her nipple, sending tiny aftershocks to her belly.
“And you were covered in sweat and blood, and looking fierce yourself.”
“It’s battle. There’s no choice.” His hand fell away from her breast, only to skim the length of her belly.
She slid her foot along his calf, part caress, part comfort. The sleek muscle of his leg beneath her toes felt hard and strong. But she sensed an odd pensiveness about him. Something had disturbed him. She had no guesses as to what it was, so she seized his topic of conversation. “What do you remember most about Waterloo?” she asked.
“Aside from you?” His hand moved along her hip and thigh in an absent caress.
She laughed softly. “Yes, aside from me.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Perhaps he wouldn’t speak. Even in the light of the single candle across the room, she could see his gaze turn inward.
“The smell. More than the blood and incessant pounding of the guns, I remember the smell.”
“Gunpowder.” She could smell it even now. Sharp, acrid, burning her eyes and nose.
“And the scent of death. So many dead.” His fingers jerked once, digging into her hip, then releasing. He looked down at her. His mouth was so serious. “Do you ever dream of it?”
“Do you?” She laid a hand on his chest, curling her fingers in the rough hair sprinkled there.
He raised a brow. “That’s not an answer.”
She hadn’t wanted to answer. But she could see in the deep gold that the answer mattered.
“Sometimes.” She ran her fingers over his serious, sculpted lips, pressed the pad of her thumb there as though it were a kiss itself. “I stopped dreaming of it for a while, but since I learned the truth about Jeremy the dreams have started again. They’re all mixed up with the medallion now, and I can’t tell what is memory and what is only dreams. All I feel is sadness.”
“I’m sorry.” He kissed her palm. Softly. Tenderly. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you the truth.”
“But you did have to.”
His eyes
never left hers as his mouth lingered on the sensitive skin of her palm. Those gold eyes stripped something raw in her. She felt the kiss all the way to her soul—where it shook her very foundation. She couldn’t catch her breath as his fingers twined with hers.
“I could have been gentler.” He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. “In the beginning, I didn’t know you. Now I do, and I care.”
Pleasure and pain welled up in her. I care. Simple words. How could they bring such joy and such fear at one time? Her heart clutched, split, then hardened. She could not fall in love again, and she was perilously close to it.
So she did not return the words. Could not. “I do not require gentle handling, as I think I’ve sufficiently proven.” She pulled her hand away from his, though the movement arrowed into her heart.
He continued to lean above her, but his face had lost all softness. “I suppose not,” he said slowly. He watched her one more moment, as though trying to read beyond the skin and bone and into her eyes.
“I did stand my ground against French soldiers and two assassins, after all.” Words that tasted foul. She should have answered him with something better. It was too late now, so she plowed forward. “In fact, what happened to our opera-loving assassin?”
A shutter came down over Angel’s expression, turning his face cool and serious. “It does not signify.” Lean muscles bunched in his arms and shoulders as he pushed up to a sitting position.
“Of course it does.” She sat up as well. Feeling awkward now, she set her arm across her breasts—something she had never done in all her life.
“I meant it is not significant to you.”
Her mouth opened in surprise. “He attempted to abduct me. He’s a Death Adder.”
“But you are not a spy. Not one of us.” His tone was harsh. “You do not need to be involved any more than you currently are.”
Not one of us. No, she was not. She stood, naked, to search for her clothing. “I am a target. I’d think the outcome of my intended murderer would be my concern.” Chemise first.
“No.” He stood as well and reached for his breeches. “It is our duty to protect you. It is also our duty to protect the government and His Majesty. That means keeping some information unknown to civilians.” Breeches buttoned, he stood in front of the fireplace, arms crossed. “I want you kept out of this, to whatever extent you can be.”
Oh, she could see that. In the hard line of his jaw, in the temper in his eyes. Some part of her knew he was striking out at her because of the words she had not said to him. But another part saw the seriousness in his eyes. He did not want her involved. He did not quite trust her.
“So be it,” she said softly. Turning away, she shimmied into her petticoats and ignored the stays. She would carry them beneath her cloak.
A muscle in his jaw clenched. “It’s not a personal affront. It is policy. We only share with those who need to be informed.”
“And I do not. No matter that I’m a target.” She did not want to face him just now, so she kept her back turned as she pulled her gown over her head. She wanted to be angry, to let temper bubble and brew and spill over on him. But it was layered over by hurt, a thin sheen that covered the temper so she couldn’t use it.
“Let me work the hooks,” he said.
“Just leave them,” she snapped. She didn’t want him touching her just then. “The cloak will cover them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She knew she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t go around London with no stays and partially dressed. And his fingers were already on the hooks, so she let him continue. But the little brushes of his fingers that had excited her earlier were now like small scrapes on her heart.
“You don’t need to be involved, Lilias. I don’t want you involved. I shouldn’t even be having this affair with you.” Frustration rippled through his voice.
She didn’t want to hear it. “I must return to Fairchild House. I know there is yet time before the morning, but Grant is becoming suspicious. He has been asking about my early retiring.”
Angel swore, and she felt him tug hard at her dress. “These bloody hooks.” Another curse. Another tug, then he stepped away. “It’s done up well enough. You won’t have a gaping gown in the front. And you must keep Fairchild uninformed.”
She knew that. Of course she knew that. “It isn’t that simple. He’s asked me to marry him.” She tried to feel the back of her dress, stretching her arm around. Crooked. He’d done the damn hooks up crooked. “Grant cares enough that he—” She broke off at Angel’s muttered curse.
“What was your answer?” he asked, voice low and controlled. “Have I been making love with another man’s fiancée?”
“I said no, but he refused to accept it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Do you believe I would agree to marry one man and make love with another?”
He rolled his shoulders before picking up his shirt, but didn’t answer her. He looked irritated and masculine and gorgeous. Which was quite irritating in itself.
“Apparently, you do not trust me at all.” She stalked to the door, temper boiling.
“I’m a spy, Lilias.” His shirt billowed out as he slipped it over his head. “Someone is always lying to me.”
He was right, damn him. And for her, it was time for the truth.
Chapter 35
“HAS HIS LORDSHIP returned?”
“Yes, Mrs. Fairchild.” Graves took her pelisse and the umbrella she’d carried against the threat of heavy gray skies and drizzle during her walk. “Lord Fairchild was in his personal study after a turn in Hyde Park, but then retreated to his room to change his attire. I believe he will be back in his study shortly.”
“Thank you, Graves.” Lilias smiled at the butler before striding toward the study.
It was time to tell Grant the truth. Past time. She’d been a coward, she could admit now. It was so much easier to find excuses than to tell him the truth. Any little distraction would do. But it was not fair to Grant to let his marriage offer go unresolved.
The study was empty and quiet, though a low fire burned in the hearth to ward away the rain. It was considered Grant’s domain. She did not often come here. Few did, aside from the servants. Every shelf space was full. So full, in fact, that books were stacked in front of the typical vertical spines. They littered the desk, the side tables.
She stepped to the desk and flipped open a treatise on ornithology. Riffling the pages, she barely registered the sketches of crossbills and thrushes and woodpeckers.
She suspected Grant knew her answer, though he wasn’t ready to accept it. His marriage offer was not out of passion, but convenience. Yes, she would be able to withstand diplomatic travel, the rigors of foreign courts, hostess duties here at home. Perhaps she could fulfill wifely duties and provide an heir as well. But none of those qualities moved her soul. They did not give her joy.
Marriage to Jeremy had taught her two things. First, one could not trust even those one loved most. Second, if she was to marry again, it would be for love. Anything else would pale in comparison. Because for all Jeremy’s faults, despite the assassinations, the betrayal, he had made her happy when he had been alive. Before she knew the truth, she had known happiness and love and desire.
It was as much of a juxtaposition as Donne’s poems about his mistress and his hymns to God. Jeremy had shown her true happiness. And true betrayal.
She shut the book on birds and opened another volume stacked on the desk. Drat. More birds. Beside the book were feathers and sketches and binoculars. All of them irritated her. Unreasonable response, but she couldn’t care. She shut the second book as well, snapping it closed in a fit of temper.
The book slid from the desk. The spine landed on the carpet with a dull thwack. The cover fell open. Pages fluttered like a whisper on the air.
And she saw it, inked onto the page. A
circle with a black “A.” Her pulse beat an irregular tattoo as she stared at it. Weak light from the window filmed the pages in pale yellow. She blinked, certain the symbol would disappear in the light. But it did not.
The symbol of the Death Adders.
Movement was impossible. She couldn’t quite grasp what she was seeing. A mirage. A hallucination. Certainly people hallucinated in a London study at midday. A log snapped in the fireplace. The sound fueled her. She swiped the book from the floor and frantically thumbed through it.
Birds. Just birds. Sketches, descriptions. All by Grant himself. She recognized the slanting scrawl of his handwriting. An ornithology diary. Some pages held blots of ink, others scratched-out sentences or paragraphs. They were all dated, with details of where he was and what birds he had seen. Behaviors. Colors.
Every few pages she saw the sign of the Adders. It was small, not even as large as her smallest fingernail. Always in the upper right corner. But the design was recognizable. If she didn’t know it belonged to the Adders, she would not have thought twice about it.
But she did know.
Swallowing, she scanned the pages related to the last few weeks. A crossbill. There was a little sketch of a bird’s wing. Loxia curvirostra. Drank from puddle. Hopped four times, flew twenty meters to a spruce . . . Then, in the middle of the page, Lord P______. #9. A series of numbers followed it.
Ice pooled in her veins. She flipped through the pages, going back in time. Only a few days from today. In the middle of a description of a kingfisher observed near the beach, Mrs. L______ F______. #6. More numbers followed the reference.
But it was the L______ F______ that caught her eye. Those initials, on that date, with the Adder symbol.
Oh, God. The ice that had stopped her veins turned to shards of glass. Her very bones felt brittle.
“It is me.” Terror and betrayal scored her throat. Numb fingers turned more pages. Backward. 1817, 1816. What about other years? Horror etched itself on her heart. What about 1815? What about Waterloo? Her hand shook as she flipped to June.
In Bed with a Spy Page 23