“A huge beastly rat with a long tail, beady eyes, and pointy teeth bolted across the foot of the bed.” Delilah let go of the covers long enough to make fangs with two of her fingers. “It was horrible,” she said on a suppressed sob.
“It was most likely a common field mouse,” Marcus said with more confidence than he felt. He would not be at all surprised to discover a rat or two still making their home in the castle.
“It wasn’t a mouse, Marcus. It was a rat.” A tinge of outrage stiffened her voice. “You forget I was raised in a small village with field mice aplenty.”
He much preferred her anger over her fear. Her stare made him fidget with a loose button on his waistcoat. “We’ll acquire a cat or two, shall we?”
She let the covers drop a few inches. “Mother had an orange tabby when we lived in Stoney Pudholme. It was a brute who left all sorts of dead animals on our doorstep, but he would curl up in my lap while I read.”
“I’ll find a litter of kittens, and you can pick out the two most bloodthirsty of the lot.” He took a step backward toward the door.
“Wait!”
He stilled and cocked his head.
“What if the rat returns with his brother and gnaws on my toes?” The look she cast him had no relation to fear. It held an invitation. A frisson of awareness zipped through him.
“Would you like me to join you in bed to protect you from beasts?”
“I expect it’s the only way I’ll ever find sleep.”
He vacillated. If he returned to the study, it would be to bang his head on the desk in frustration. In order to tackle the mystery fresh, what he needed was sleep.
Yet, if he joined her in bed, sleep would not be imminent. He knew it, and based on her mischievous smile, so did Delilah. He stripped off his waistcoat and dropped it over a chair. His shirt followed. “Are you sure you aren’t too sore after last night and the day’s ride?”
“I’m a bit sore, but—” She plucked her bottom lip with her teeth and looked away in an unconsciously sensual gesture, shrugging her one bare shoulder. Her night rail slipped down another inch. “I want you.”
A roar of satisfaction blasted through him like a flame through dry tinder. They had created sparks from their first moments together, and he was gratified she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.
Peeling off the rest of his clothes, he slipped under the covers. He could smell sunshine on the sheets. Or did the brightness radiate from Delilah’s skin? She was still sitting upright, and he lay kisses along her bare, freckled shoulder while plucking the ribbons loose along the front of her night rail.
“I never understood.” Her head fell back, giving him access to her neck.
“Never understood what?”
“What it could be like between a man and wife. How much I would crave your touch. Will it always be like this?” She lifted her face to his.
He considered the question with the seriousness it deserved. “I don’t know. My Irish grandparents loved each other until the end. In fact, one couldn’t live without the other.”
“But we weren’t introduced at a dance. You didn’t set out to woo me.” She clutched at his shoulders, demanding a response, her nails scoring him with bone-deep pleasure.
“Our courtship was unconventional, but never doubt that I consider myself a lucky man for having met you, Delilah.” He didn’t say it merely to get up her night rail. No matter the complications and worries she added to his already complicated, worrisome situation, he was a lucky man. He hadn’t realized how lonely and isolated he’d been in his quest until she’d joined his cause and become his partner in every sense.
He should make love to her slowly and tenderly, but desperation beset him, hastened along by fear. Fear he might die. An even greater fear she might.
Although he didn’t put voice to his fears, she seemed infected with the same driving need to prove their existence in the here and now. She pulled at the fall of his breeches. Their fingers tangled in their haste. Finally, she had him in one hand while she rucked her night rail up to her waist with the other, drawing him between her legs. She was a siren, and he was ready to drown for her.
As the head of his cock breeched her folds, her hips jerked, and he was buried deep inside her, pleasure spiraling to curl his toes. She didn’t allow him to wallow in the feeling but pulled at his buttocks. His rhythm was wild and primitive, guided by her erotic sighs and moans. Rolling them over, he shimmied his breeches lower and urged her into a straddle.
“What are you doing?” She rolled her hips and rubbed herself against him.
He barely kept himself from lifting her and impaling her on his cock. “Giving you your first riding lesson. Remove your night clothes.”
She drew in a quick breath before scrambling to obey him. Her night rail puddled on the dark blue counterpane. He took a moment to enjoy the sight of her glorious body above him. Her thick, silky hair had come partly loose from its braid and pieces brushed her cheeks and shoulders. Her breasts were full, her nipples dusky and budded in her arousal. The curve of her waist and hips was decadent, and he was embarrassed at the way his hands trembled in reaction as he grasped her thighs.
She plucked at his shirt. “What about you?”
“I am your beast to command. What would you like?”
“Take your shirt off,” she said huskily.
He raised himself enough to grasp his shirt. It joined her night rail. “Take me inside you.”
She wriggled and spread her wetness over his cock. He let out a slow breath, trying to keep his animalist urges under control. Perhaps he truly was a beast.
She lifted off him, her gaze dropping to where she played over the head of his cock with her fingertips. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever experienced. His cock twitched against her hand, and she gasped. “Am I hurting you?”
“My cock has a mind of its own, and all it can think is how badly it wants inside your tight sheath.”
She sank her teeth into her bottom lip as if uncertain, yet the sly smile overtaking her mouth said otherwise. She fit his cock to her body and lowered herself an inch at a time. Bracing her hands on his chest, she let her head fall back on a low moan that vibrated through him.
Finally, finally, he was seated inside her. “Now, ride me, Delilah. Ride me at whatever pace gives you the greatest pleasure.”
At first, her pace was a plodding walk, rising only a few inches before falling. But soon she was cantering and then galloping hard and fast as she raced toward her pleasure, her hips rolling with a grace that was hypnotic.
His control was in tatters and fraying to the barest of threads when her body shuddered and her movements grew erratic. Muttering a curse of thanks, he grabbed her hips and drove her even harder until he too spent.
He trailed his hands up her torso to cup her breasts and glide his thumbs over her velvet-soft ruched nipples. A lock of her hair tumbled over the back of his hand in a caress. The intimacy between them blossomed from understanding and something more elusive. Something he wasn’t quite ready to name.
She sank down to his chest. “Were you pleased with my performance, my lord?”
The smile in her voice made him smile in return and press a kiss into her hair. “You are a quick study. However, there is much yet to learn. It will take a great deal of practice, I’m afraid.”
She rose to her elbows and playfully nipped his bottom lip with her teeth. He growled deep in his chest and deepened the kiss, one hand on the back of her head, the other grasping her bare bottom. He stirred inside her.
He broke the kiss and shifted her to his side. Taking her again so soon would be selfish on his part. She stretched like a cat, yawned, and cuddled into his side. Her breathing evened, and her body grew lax against his as she slipped toward sleep.
Unable to help himself, he allowed his hands free rein over her curves, mapping them in his mind’s eye. One day soon, after the danger had passed, he would take her to bed in the afternoon. Her hair would toss
red sparks, a hint at her fiery passion, and her body would be gilded by the glow of the sun.
But for now, danger stalked them, and he had to keep his wits sharp and determine a safe path forward. He slipped from under the covers and shivered as he re-dressed and then returned to the study to pore over the coded book once more, searching for inspiration but finding none.
The faint sound of Hermes barking from the stables had him stilling and cocking an ear. Probably another rat. Even so, he tucked the book into a pocket inside his jacket and snuffed the candles. The darkness lent both a sense of safety and menace.
On the balls of his feet, Marcus took small, silent steps toward the ornate entry door. The creak as it opened made him grimace. He listened but heard nothing. The quiet should have been reassuring, but instead, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. It was too quiet.
The great hall offered little cover if indeed peril had landed on their doorstep. A quick glance up the stone staircase sent fear skittering through his stomach like thrown gravel. In sleep, Delilah was vulnerable.
Keeping to the walls, he made his way to the front door, easing it open only enough to slip through. He flipped up the collar of his jacket to hide the snowy whiteness of his shirt. Sounds erupted from the direction of the stable.
Starlight whinnied, a panicked sound as if being prodded. Hermes barked and scrabbled against the wood of a door, trying his best to protect the castle. Marcus crouched as he made his way toward the stable, pausing to the side of the wide stable entry.
A voice carried faintly out of the stable. “Stay down, old man. Answer my questions and I’ll make your death quick. Otherwise…” The man sounded calm, unhurried, and slightly amused.
“A curse upon you, ye bloody bastard.” O’Connell’s voice was strained. The thud of a boot hitting flesh had Marcus seeing red. The last play of the game was upon him.
Marcus stepped farther into the stable. O’Connell was splayed on the ground. His chest still rose and fell, and the bands around Marcus’s lungs eased. He attempted to imitate the cool tone of the man who had come to kill him and those he loved, but anger and fear added a dash of heat. “Lord W, I presume?”
“Ah, I can say the same, can’t I, Wyndam?” The man stepped from the shadows. “But we haven’t been formally introduced.”
Recognition jolted through Marcus. It was the gentleman he had bumped into at Gilmore’s soiree.
“I am Lord Whitmire.” He moved with feline grace to face Marcus. The lantern hanging from the peg nearest Starlight’s stall swung in the stiff breeze and cast eerie shadows across Whitmire’s jawline. “You have proved an even bigger nuisance than your father.”
The truth was a bitter vindication. “You framed him. Did you kill him too?”
Whitmire clucked his tongue. “No. He chose death over rotting in Newgate while his title and lands were stripped away from him. And from you.”
The pang in Marcus’s heart echoed in his chest. Had his father sacrificed his life so Marcus could receive a title and lands? If so, it had been a poor trade. “Why involve my father in your schemes at all? What had he done to you?”
“Nothing. He was convenient. I needed someone on the outside of government. Someone who was well-liked and had a reputation for honesty. Any of several peers would have done, but your father was the most desperate for coin. Based on my assurances, he swore on his reputation the powder was of the highest quality, demanding an equally high price. When he discovered the gunpowder was tainted and soldiers had died, he came to me, devastated and trusting me to do the honorable thing. It was really quite unfair. I didn’t know the gunpowder was defective when I bought it.”
“You bought cheap powder and used my father to sell it to the government at an inflated price. My father earned a commission, but the bulk of the profit filled your coffers. Is that about right?”
“Yes,” Whitmire said simply.
“And the book you killed Quinton for?”
“Your father stole two personal journals from my study, intending to expose me, but he didn’t understand how long and how successfully I’ve been playing the game. I code anything of importance. One, as I’m sure you know, I retrieved from poor Quinton. The other will be mine tonight.”
“Over my dead body.” Marcus regretted the bold, naive statement as soon as it left his mouth.
“I’m glad to hear we are in agreement.” Whitmire pulled a deadly-looking stiletto out of his jacket. It was the same sort that had killed Quinton.
Marcus braced himself for an attack that didn’t materialize. At least, not yet.
“I was surprised to hear you married the chit.” The way Whitmire caressed the stiletto was disturbingly sexual.
Marcus didn’t pretend ignorance. “There’s no need to involve Delilah. This business is between you and me.”
Whitmire hummed thoughtfully, as if he were actually considering Marcus’s suggestion. “If only that were the case, but she saw me in the library with Quinton. Rather careless of me, I must say.”
With a suddenness that gave Marcus just enough time to throw his hands up, Whitmire leaped forward, the end of the stiletto aimed at Marcus’s heart. Marcus’s wrist made jarring contact with the side of Whitmire’s hand, saving himself from a quick end.
The point of the stiletto glanced across Marcus’s upper arm, tearing through fabric and flesh. A stinging pain spread outward to his shoulder and hand, and with it came an unwelcome numbness. His sleeve was already wet with blood.
Marcus scrambled out of the stable and into the graveled yard. He had to fight back, but with what? His fists? Whitmire would cut him down. The wall of weapons in the great hall flashed into his head, but the blades hadn’t been sharpened in decades and he had no arrow to notch into the crossbow. Plus leading Whitmire into the castle brought him closer to Delilah.
Marcus veered toward the horse ring. After patching the roof of the castle, he and O’Connell had concentrated their repair efforts on the stables and horse ring, knowing only the horses could change their fortunes.
He tripped over something long and hard. Reaching down to catch his balance, he closed his fingers around a splintered piece of rotted post. It was better than nothing. He swung the post around, making hard contact with Whitmire’s shoulder. The man grunted and stumbled to the side. The knife clattered to the cobblestones.
The wood snagged on Whitmire’s jacket, and Marcus yanked it free. When he did, Whitmire let out a bellow of pain. Moonlight glinted off a bent, rusty nail sticking out of the wood. Blood dripped to the ground. Hope injected strength and dulled the pain in his own arm. Marcus let out a feral-sounding yell and swung again, this time at Whitmire’s head. The man blocked the swing and stepped into Marcus, grappling for the post.
Having been raised on a farm, Marcus had been involved in his share of brawls. Brawls as a means to expend excess high spirits when the brew ran out or no lasses were available for the task. The brawls had never been a means for murder. More often than not, they would end in laughter and a handshake.
This was not a brawl. This was a fight to the death, and Marcus was outmatched. His confidence ebbed, and he stumbled backward in retreat. The smile that came to Whitmire’s face was chilling.
Whitmire was a man used to dispatching adversaries with an unnatural dispassion and ruthlessness. He would kill Marcus and O’Connell, then march into the house to dispose of Delilah, for he would be careful this time to eliminate any witness to his evil.
Marcus couldn’t allow Whitmire to win. Iron determination drove out the fear. Fear would not save him. A clear head and dirty fighting might. Reversing course, Marcus launched himself at Whitmire, grabbing the man’s injured arm and squeezing as hard as he could. Whitmire’s bellow echoed around the yard.
Whitmire reared back and headbutted Marcus. His head rang, but he didn’t let go of Whitmire’s arm, digging his thumb into the wound the nail had made. Blood left his hand slippery and his hold precarious.
Whitmire hoo
ked an ankle around Marcus’s leg and yanked as fast as an adder’s strike. Marcus landed on his back and gulped for air. Before he could recover, Whitmire dropped on top of him and pinned his arms down with his knees. Whitmire wrapped his hands around Marcus’s neck and squeezed, thumbs crushing his windpipe to nothing.
Marcus scrabbled and kicked at cobbles, finding no leverage to heave Whitmire off. Black edged his vision as he crawled toward unconsciousness. He pictured Delilah in bed and the horror that awaited her as he slipped toward nothingness.
Chapter 17
Delilah woke with a start and sat up in bed, holding the sheet up to her chest. Her heart galloped along. Had the rat come back to torment her? Because no matter what Marcus said, it hadn’t been a cute little field mouse but a giant toothy rat that had run across the bed. But no rat family stood ready to gnaw at her toes. Everything seemed to be in place. Except for Marcus. The bed was empty.
Naked from their earlier lovemaking, she lay back down and blinked up at the ceiling. It was too dark to see the water stains, and in the dim light from the embers, the room took on the romanticism of a storybook illustration. For the first time, she grew excited at the potential.
After only a few blinks, she pushed the covers off and slipped on a night rail and her dressing gown. Sleep would be an impossibility. She would keep Marcus company until he was ready to retire for the night. The stone floor was cold on her bare feet, but she didn’t stop to dig her slippers out of her luggage.
She lit a candle in the embers of the fire and made her way into the hallway. The shadows were long and cold. The castle was her new home, and she would do her best to make it a welcoming one, but it would take work. Much work.
She stopped in the door of the study, the smile on her face falling. The room was unoccupied but had the feeling of being recently vacated. A finger of brandy remained in Marcus’s glass, and a full brace of candles on the desk flickered.
A SINFUL SURRENDER: Spies and Lovers Page 19