by Kit Donner
He sought her mouth with a punishing kiss before branding her with his wet-blazing tongue, marking his way slowly and pointedly down to her swelling breast exposed by his fervent hand. She relished his powerful touch and welcomed his hot tongue on her heated skin, her body instinctively arching for more of what only he could give her.
Any coherent thought had fled at his first sweeping touch, his caresses overwhelming her senses. He sought to drain her of her life, her energy, but she quickly grasped the knowledge that instead of taking from her, he was giving—vitality, a renewal of awareness, a teaching of pleasure never known before that would alter her life forever. And she relished each lesson, easily memorizing the senses and images which would always remain a part of her.
He pulled and tugged on her nipple with his mouth, sucking and lathing, as it hardened in response to his driving tongue. When at last he reluctantly dragged his mouth from her breast with a long suck, she whimpered softly in despair. Was this the end? Their passions spiraled her toward the unknown, with no end in sight, his touch hard yet somehow gentle at the same time.
Her hands grasped tightly in his thick hair as his mouth began to wander again. She felt his hands at her waist luring her to the cold balcony floor, welcoming to her heated flesh.
His touch burned her with a fever, sure to set her aflame as she leaned her arm on his shoulder. She lay across the floor, her head pillowed by his muscular arm, her hair sweeping the ground. Trapped in dream heat, his body and skillful hands taught her what to do, how to move, how to feel.
She secretly smiled when she caught the tempest blazing in his blue scrutiny, both of them astonished by their shared passion. Once again he returned to her lips, wanting a refreshment only she could offer him, tasting her honeyed mouth, as a thirsty man seeks a deep well.
She hardly recognized her own body which created a combustion of kaleidoscopic senses. While his mouth teased her sensitive lips, his free hand caressed an aroused nipple again before sliding down to her waist and continuing to the newly opened gap in her drawers. His feather touch on her exposed thigh made her jump in surprise, but he immediately calmed her with soft whispers, gentling her fears.
As tumultuous and confusing feelings tornadoed through her senses, she wondered what would come next, not wanting the embrace to end, ever. All those long years of wonder were unraveling at a dizzying pace. She clutched Bryce tightly, for he was both her sanity and her madness. And he was real.
Bryce felt overwhelmed by her innocent desire and acceptance of his touch. He knew she was innocent, because he wanted to believe tonight that the world was good, and she felt so right in his arms. If this was not true, he didn’t want to know, ignoring any rationality for his motives.
Her hair flowed like a dark current over his hand and felt like silk to his touch. He wanted to make her body sing with music to make the angels envious as he watched her soft, undulating body seek a release.
He deftly eased his hand up her thigh to the downy patch of curly hair and moist heat. He heard her gasp and try to block his hand from continuing its search, but issuing a slow breath to control his own fires raging within, he whispered in her ear, “Shh…sweet dream. Let me do a good deed tonight. For I need saving. I promise not to hurt you.”
She opened her eyes to see if his promise reached his revealing eyes. His somber expression and face taut with passion convinced her, she was safe, here in his arms.
As he slowly stroked her velvety lips, her wet heat helped his fingers slide farther into her warm passage. Again, she jerked in his arms, bewildered by her body’s responsiveness to his tender caresses. And she now knew, she must know, where he was so persuasively taking her.
He paused, leaning his brow on hers to catch his breath. He tried desperately to maintain control over his own desires, almost afraid to disappoint her, but it was costing him his power and reasoning. She was so wonderful to touch, he thought as he breathed in her awakening, aroused body.
When he recognized that he could not continue much longer next to this exquisite woman without reaching his own climax, he doubled his efforts to bring her the pleasure she sought by lifting her hips to meet his insistent fingers. He could tell by her breathing that she was almost there. The soft, almost-cooing sighs teased his already-frenzied arousal.
He wanted to be inside her when she found her release, but her desire had overwhelmed him. When she shuddered in his arms with a sweet intensity, he held her captured, feeling her heart pounding, and her breath short.
Quiet in his arms a few minutes later, Patience was reluctant to leave this strange new world of enveloping warmth. She hated to disrupt the tender feelings and pleasures he had taught her and brought her. But she decided to face her fears and him by peeking through her long lashes to discover him watching her intently, his face a smooth mask of tightly controlled emotion.
He leaned down and whispered, “Let’s finish our lessons in my bed, lovely lady. For I long to know more of your secrets,” his voice husky with promise.
But his invitation abruptly returned Patience to thoughts of the hard balcony, and to confusion and fear about what they had just done and what Bryce wanted to continue. Blimey! How could she have forgotten Rupert and her need to save him from their enemy? Possibly from this man who held her so tightly in his arms?
Quickly, she rolled out of his arms onto the hard stone floor, jerked down her skirts, and hastily buttoned her bodice with shaky fingers. Not daring to look at him, in case she would stand accused of her own seduction in his eyes, with a shaky voice, she murmured, “That is not possible, my lord. I, I, cannot.”
Bryce rose slowly on one knee, careful not to place too much pressure on his injured leg, now stiff from staying in one position too long, his body trembling with unspent passion. He walked stiffly to the balcony railing, drawing deep breaths of air to cool his thoughts. Looking at the stars, his back to her, he said, “The night seems to have lost its magic. Perhaps you should return where you came from.” He looked over one shoulder as she continued righting her clothing. Disappointment and resignation lined his words.
She knew she had disappointed him, but he didn’t seem angry, which was a slight relief. Wanting to offer him comfort, her emotions tore her apart, but her head ruled to make a quick escape. It suddenly occurred to her that she might no longer have employment.
“Do you wish me to leave Paddock Green, my lord?” thinking this his intent and waiting with anxious breath for his reply.
“No, I still need your assistance. This is your home for now,” he told her enigmatically.
She nodded and turned toward the doorway, hoping her legs would carry her safely to her room. She took one last look back to find Bryce again watching the darkness as he had done earlier. Recognition dawned on Patience that she was indebted to him for his generosity. No one usually gave her anything, they only took from her. Oh, why did he have to be my enemy? And why don’t I feel something akin to regret? She fled from the shadow of the man left to the company of the night.
Although Bryce did not see her leave, he knew the moment she was gone. Perhaps it was the perfume in her hair or the sighs she had given to the night air that stayed with him. She couldn’t be real, he thought in disillusionment. She’s certainly bewitched me to where I no longer care if she’s guilty or innocent. I only know I want to hold her in my arms again.
To halt these reflections which served merely to strengthen his ardor, he thought of his brother and his mission. Nothing should matter but that before long he would have the French spy in his grasp and discover the identity of the woman who had led his brother to his death.
Late that night, the same dream came to him after his battle with consciousness had won. Even in the throes of a deep sleep, the dream reached out and pulled him in unwillingly, reliving that fateful night.
With the piercing wind at his back, he stepped over black rotted trees encased in stone-hard ground, accustomed to finding his way in the dark, even on enemy soil. The
night as his companion had long kept his secrets and since the danger was as much a part of him as breathing, he had never given it a nod before, would not even acknowledge its existence. Until now. His younger brother, Edward, was missing.
The famous English spy, known only as the “Black Ghost,” had arrived offshore earlier to discover that his brother, who served as a lieutenant on the HMS Gauntlet, had mysteriously left the ship an hour before. The Black Ghost had wasted little time arguing with the Gauntlet’s captain, Keegan Kilkennen, that he could handle the search alone. Their only clue to Edward’s whereabouts was from a sailor, who had overheard Edward mentioning the small village of Doume a few miles inland.
Although the Black Ghost had never been to this corner of France before, slipping in and out underneath the Corsican’s nose had become almost like a game to him. His mission was to provide vital information to the Foreign Secretary about Bonaparte’s flotilla and his plans for invading England.
As Kilkennen and the Black Ghost stealthily crept over the uneven terrain, they were wary of any sound from the French patrols. The Black Ghost, disguised as a priest—in severe black clothes, low-crowned hat, and white neckcloth—carried a worn prayer book for proper effect. To some the book promised salvation, but this was a man who had little need of others’ faith. The book’s sole purpose was to conceal false French papers—to be used if he was taken prisoner—which rested neatly underneath the faded leather cover.
The English spy, whose real identity was Bryce Andover, Earl of Londringham, had long ago determined that his younger brother would be his heir and continue the long Saxon line. But Edward had been adamant about sailing the seas, and Bryce could not stop him.
He swore under his breath as tiny white puffs escaped from his lips. Edward should have been safely back at their home, Paddock Green. He should never have joined the Royal Navy.
As Bryce slipped into the dark lair of the forest, with Kilkennen a breath away, a chilling thought wormed into his gut: his younger brother was missing because of him. Bryce had always felt he would be prepared when the Devil eventually presented his card. But the wrong man had received it.
Now, ironically garbed in a priest’s clothing, the spy wondered if he knew the words to offer an appeal to God.
The two determined men weaved their way among the silent trees, at times becoming part of the landscape. A mile inland when the faint lights of a remote village blurred in the distance, they quickened their steps, still undetected. Unsure where to look, Bryce planned to leave no stone unturned in his search. He would not leave France without his brother.
The full moon briefly gleamed silver through the trees’ branches, alighting a tiny abandoned cottage far off to their right. Quiet since their journey had begun, Bryce called softly to his friend, “Wait.” He thought he heard something. He cocked his head, his senses sharpened from the years of playing the game and a strong will to stay alive.
The incautious moan happened again. Definitely human. Definitely in pain.
With catlike grace, Bryce changed direction toward the cottage, approaching warily and looking for signs of a trap. Kilkennen followed him down a winding path, which suddenly veered to the right, and a few steps farther they found a shelter with a half-thatched roof, its broken wooden fence aproned to a tiny clearing. Bryce motioned to his companion that he was going inside and to keep watch. Kilkennen nodded curtly, already reconnoitering the snow-draped trees.
In the frigid November winter, Bryce began to sweat. His right hand swept his waist to check the cold steel in his belt before he lifted and pushed away the rotted door. Unconsciously, his right hand returned to his pistol, and he stepped inside.
Jaw tightened, his heart slowed to a crawl. His keen eyes quickly adjusted to the little light drifting in from the jagged hole in the roof. It was not until he turned to go that he saw him.
Edward. He lay on the damp floor, clutching at the dark stain on the left side of his chest.
Bryce knelt down by his slain brother’s side, daring to believe he had made it in time. “Edward, I’m here,” his voice hoarse.
Edward’s eyes blinked open, glazed from pain and his approaching fate. He struggled to breathe and whispered, “Knew you’d come for me, big brother.”
Quickly, Bryce tore off his neckcloth and pressed it to his brother’s wound. He replied grimly, “I have come to take you home.” His heart denied what his mind understood: he could not save his brother. The smell of death was too close. Eyes damp, Bryce carefully raised Edward’s head onto his leg, praying all sorts of forgotten prayers—vengefulness, grief, and loss warring inside of him.
Edward smiled and a spittle of blood slipped from his mouth. “She was…beautiful. They called her the ‘Dark Angel.’” His pale face looked serene at the remembrance.
Bryce froze at the mention of her name, the very infamous Frenchwoman spy who inspired fear in even the most stalwart of English soldiers. She, with her long mane of black hair and light eyes, claimed many successes at seduction and sometimes murder to get her information. Once she had decided on a target, hope for the hunted was almost futile.
Bryce knew with certainty. He himself had been her next mark.
Time was no longer theirs. Bryce had to know. Anger blazing he exclaimed, “Did she do this? I will find her!”
His brother raised his hand with what little strength he had left. His breathing became more difficult. “She was looking for Londringham. Said…said it was important to our country’s security. I did not know.” A shudder went through him. “I am sorry, my brother.”
Bryce nearly wept at his words. “It is I who is sorry, Edward. She wanted me.” His words were strained, punctured by knives of grief. “I will not rest until I find the woman responsible, no matter what it takes.” His fiercely spoken vow haunted the little hovel.
With a slight shake of his head, Edward managed, “A mistake. She told her friend…it was a mistake.”
Bryce hugged his brother’s cold, snow-shrouded body closer. “Who? Who was this other person?” But his brother could no longer hear him.
“She was so beautiful,” remained on his lips with a last sigh.
For once, Bryce had no words, no answers. He was beyond thinking. It hurt so much that he could not believe one could feel such savage pain and yet live. He whispered to his still brother, “Do not go, please Edward, do not go,” reminding him of a similar plea he had made to his mother several years ago, when he was a child.
She had never returned. Would only it had been him on this frozen foreign land and not his innocent brother. A part of Bryce died with his brother, the joy and the love that they had shared. Guilt and grief lashed at him, until he was sure the scars would never fade.
Kilkennen broke Bryce’s mourning as he peered into the doorway. He murmured urgently, “What is taking so long?” Seeing Bryce and Edward on the floor, he understood. “We…we have to go.”
Bryce swallowed hard and harnessed the emotions threatening to engulf him. The spy’s survival instincts took over. He had to get Edward home. He gathered his dead brother’s body in his arms and walked out into the bitter cold.
“Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Heavy-hearted, Bryce followed Kilkennen back to the shore where they had secured their small boat. Overhead a lonely nightingale echoed the sad song in Bryce’s heart. He hoped their luck would hold. He had to make it home to Paddock Green, England’s greenest fields, with Edward. He had to take care of him. One last time.
The night began to hum with heightened activity. Every crack, every snap, meant the French soldiers guarding the shore could be nearby. Waiting and watching.
He heard Kilkennen’s sigh of relief at hearing water lapping against the sand. They trudged a few steps farther before they heard it. The sharp explosion of a pistol.
A shout and footsteps thudded behind them, a half mile of sand stretched before them, their small craft, the only avenue of escape. Capture or death made them fleet of foot a
s the two men pounded down the beach.
Kilkennen reached the boat first and hastily untied the line to push the vessel out to sea. Not too far behind, Bryce heard another shot whine over his head. He hurried across the dark sands, his burden clasped tightly to him. As soon as he could, he laid his brother’s body inside the boat, and, thigh-high in the Channel’s cold waters, whipped out his pistol to fire at the line of French soldiers running down the beach like eerie, ghostly shadows.
Shots exploded close by and splintered the bobbing craft’s side, propelling fountains of water to douse the Englishmen.
The noisy pop within earshot alerted Bryce too late.
He felt the stinging burn to his thigh, then the warmth of his blood as it seeped down his leg. It was the second shot which grazed his temple and knocked him down into the frigid black waters.
The pain in his head taunted him with unconsciousness, but he fought for air with all his ebbing strength. When he was able to break the water’s surface, welcome rushes of hard-won air filled his lungs.
He ignored the throbbing in his thigh which crippled his movement and swam over to the boat’s side. With Kilkennen’s help, he finally managed to throw himself into the craft. Wasting no time and dripping blood from both wounds, Bryce took up the oars, and together they cleaved through the waters, soon outdistancing the longest French aim.
Drenched and coughing up water, Bryce’s heart pumped pain with every beat, but he would not succumb to the blackness which hovered within his vision. Not until they were safely aboard the Gauntlet.
When he looked up from Edward’s body, he saw her on the shore. She was smiling and holding out her hand to him as if to help him. He would have recognized her countenance even on a moonless night. Patience.
Chapter 13
The following morning, in another part of the house, Alain Sansouche lay stretched comfortably across Isabella’s settee. He watched her through half-closed eyes as she finished her toilette. “They are laughing at you, ma chérie,” he told her in French.