His chest rose and fell rapidly, and he brought with him a waft of chill morning air as he limped across to her bed and seated himself. He gave her a weary smile. “Well, that’s another enemy of the state safely stowed away. We can all sleep a little easier in our beds.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” She didn’t like the familiar way in which he’d taken possession of her bed. Then recalled that it should have been his.
“Unfortunately, the secrets I keep are not my own, and the less you know, the safer you’ll be. Suffice it to say that I, and others, have garnered some advantageous information from my assailant, upon which we mean to act as soon as possible.”
He reached inside his doublet and withdrew his packet, gazing on it with satisfaction. “And I’ve retrieved this, which will keep me out of trouble with my superiors.”
Tucking the item back, he rose, hobbled across to his chest, and withdrew a costrel, which he offered to Chloe.
“After tonight’s shenanigans, you might like a drop of this to steady your nerves.”
She didn’t want brandywine—she wanted answers. But he was right about the nerves. She took a manful gulp, but it caught in her throat and precipitated a coughing fit.
Sir Robert was there immediately, rescuing the costrel and rubbing her robustly on the back until she ceased choking.
“Steady, Mistress. Anyone would think you’d never tasted the stuff before.”
She hadn’t, much. It was not the drink of well-bred young ladies.
“Your limp is worse.” She pointed to his foot and took a step away, freeing herself from his disturbing touch.
“Aye. I must have ridden twenty miles this night, so little wonder. Tell me—have you had any sleep at all?” He cut off her retreat and caught her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting her head up. “You look as exhausted as I feel.”
“I was concerned.” She thrust the dag at him. “Anyone who leaves a woman with a firearm—albeit an unloaded one—must have fears for her life. I found those difficult circumstances under which to sleep.”
He frowned and replaced the costrel and the gun in the chest. “I apologize for embroiling you in this. I confess, I initially thought you had my document, but I believe our enemy appropriated it when our wagon cracked its axle.” Glancing toward the window, where the light was intensifying by the minute, he added, “I fear we’ve forfeited our night’s rest. And yet, ’tis too early to break our fast. How shall we occupy the next hour?”
There was a glint in his eyes that belied his claim of exhaustion. A predatory glint.
She backed toward the door. “I hope you’re not having any lascivious thoughts, sir. I’ve told you time and time again that I’m not what you think.”
He followed her and as she reached for the latch, his hand came over hers. “Pray, don’t decamp just yet, Mistress. You have not yet explained your presence at Mistress Riviere’s, nor why you were dressed as a boy one moment and a charming woman the next. I beg you, indulge me. Fill my empty moments by telling me your story.”
Curse it! He was far too close, his blue eyes alight with mischief. And with promise. She gulped.
“Step back, sir. You’re trying to take advantage of me. If I saved your life tonight, you should be showing me your gratitude, not… not looming over me.” And not looking like he wanted to kiss her, threatening to reawaken all those wicked imaginings she’d had earlier.
“Was I looming? My apologies. So, are you going to tell me what you were doing in that house of ill repute?”
“Certainly not, as it’s none of your business.”
He tipped his head on one side. “If you are a whore, you’re the most reticent I’ve ever encountered.”
Why did his gaze keep sliding toward her mouth? It was most unsettling.
She pushed her shoulders back. “I’ve told you so many time that I am not. You should accept the word of a lady.”
“If you are a lady, then who are your people? Who are your family, and whither are you bound?”
He was looming even more. So close, she could feel his breath on her face. And there was no space for retreat. Placing a hand firmly on his chest, she gave him a push, but he was immovable. Instead, the rogue placed his palm over hers and came even closer.
Time for the knee again? She rather thought it was. But before she could move, he’d wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her against him.
“Nothing to say, Madam Mystery?” His lips teased her ear.
She tried to speak, but her voice lodged in her throat. A giddy sensation of excitement washed over her as she stood quivering in his arms, fascinated to discover what he’d do next. The strength and power that emanated from him both comforted and alarmed her. Protection, safety, danger. She wriggled, only to find his arms tightening around her.
He pulled his head back a little, and she was able to focus on his face. His gaze had darkened and a smile played about his lips.
“I find staring death in the face has a way of making one feel gloriously alive—as if one’s continued existence was a gift not to be squandered. As if there isn’t a single moment to lose. Tell me, didn’t besting that blackguard stir your blood, just a little?”
She shook her head. It had been terrifying. Particularly when he’d pointed his weapon back at her.
“But you were magnificent.” Even though Sir Robert was holding her less tightly now, her limbs had turned to water, and she couldn’t have escaped had she wanted to. Did she still want to escape?
He twined a curl of hair behind her ear and stroked her cheek. Suddenly, she remembered she was wearing only her thin summer nightgown. Far too little to shield her body from his. He must be able to feel her breasts pushing up against him—it would incite him, would it not?
What else had her mother taught her about evading the attentions of a lustful man? Frantically, she searched her memory, struggling to pull together her scattered thoughts. Sir Robert, meanwhile, was gazing at her mouth again, a hungry smile on his lips.
Go limp. That was it. Go limp and slide down, out of the grasp of your over-amorous suitor.
Well, it might work with the clientele at Mistress Riviere’s when they overstepped the mark, but they didn’t have the reflexes of Sir Robert Mallory. The instant she relaxed, he scooped her up and held her across his body.
“You’re not about to swoon on me, are you? Mayhap you’d better lie down.” He carried her to the bed and laid her atop the cover.
Nay! If she lay down, she’d be completely at his mercy. But when she struggled to sit up, he pressed her shoulders back against the mattress, then lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.
It was the briefest of touches, but it calmed her fears and, at the same time, ignited a curiosity within her. Her treacherous body demanded more.
“Sweet as sugared rose petals. I would taste you again.” His voice was as soft as the caress of his lips.
She should turn her head aside, or fight—or even scream. But she did none of these things. She merely gazed into his admiring eyes and wondered what was to follow.
“No complaint, Mistress?” He brushed her lips with the tip of his tongue, and they tingled in response.
Nothing to complain of as yet.
“Won’t you kiss me back?” He pressed his mouth more firmly over hers, licking the seam of her lips, sipping, sampling, then increasing the pressure.
This was surprisingly delightful. In fact, he should stop talking and do more kissing. Each kiss was like an enchantment, awakening a different part of her body, filling her with life, yearning, and expectation. There was a hint of brandywine on his lips. Indeed, the man was akin to that potent spirit, stripping her of her worries and inhibitions. Was this how seduction worked? If so, he was very good at it.
Her lips parted, and she felt the questing of his tongue. When she opened her mouth, he pressed decisively in, taking possession.
How long she lay like that, molding her mouth to his, experi
menting and experiencing, she couldn’t say. But eventually, he lifted his head and drew in a long breath.
“Thank you, my lady. A most welcome taste of Elysium.” His voice had deepened and his words sounded slurred. Where his body pressed against hers, it felt heavy, hot, and languid, as if he were melding himself with her.
She sighed, and as his hand freed her shoulder and brushed across her breast, she pressed her fingers into his hair and ran her thumb over his cheek.
She was caressing a man’s face? How had this come about, when her head had been so full of her quest to find her parents that no other thoughts were allowed to intrude? Had Sir Robert Mallory given her a love potion, or cast some manner of spell? She couldn’t find it in herself to resist him—she was deprived of all will. Her body was fascinated by his touch, keen and eager, and when he swept a hand over her breast again, her nipples peaked in excitement.
“Sir, we ought not—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “I know it. Yet it seems I cannot help myself. Looking into the face of death gives one an appetite. And you, Madam Mystery, are a feast for a starving man.”
“Chloe,” she croaked. “Call me Chloe.” After all, if he was going to massage her breasts in that intimate way and tweak her aching nipples, they should at the very least be on first name terms.
“Well met, Chloe.” He bent his neck and tasted her breast through the lawn of her nightgown. “Pray, call me Robert, or Robin, if you will.”
She’d just begun to respond to the sensation of his mouth on her nipple when he pulled away, leaving her bereft. But it was only to divest himself of his doublet and undo the laces at the neck of his shirt.
“There. It seems unfair that you’re undressed when I’m still fully clad. I believe in equality in the bedchamber.”
Giving her a feral grin that heated her to the very core, he bent to his task again, rasping one nipple with his tongue while rolling the other beaded peak between thumb and forefinger. She moaned, and pushed her hips at him, then twined her arms around his neck and wished she was no longer wearing the nightgown.
Her hands molded his broad shoulders, exulting in the muscular strength she found there. She could feel the heat of his flesh beneath his linen shirt and, for an instant, dared to wish she could feel him properly, skin to skin.
He raised his face to smile at her, then swept a searing kiss across her lips. “I’m crushing you in my enthusiasm. Let’s see if I can’t render you more comfortable.”
With that, he reached behind her and tugged the pillow more solidly behind her neck. She heard the crackle of paper, and something slid to the floor. Her father’s letter! She’d secreted it under her pillow as soon as she’d arrived.
“Never mind that.” She propped herself up on her elbows, but Robert was already reaching down to retrieve the document. He turned it over, then held it up to the light.
“What’s this?”
A shiver of disquiet rippled through her. “It’s nothing. Pray, give it no mind.”
Ignoring her, he stood and strode to the window, examining the seal on the letter.
Wrapping her arms over her bosom, she sat up straight. He’d become distracted and was ruining the most magical moment of her life. Disappointment made her brusque. “Are you in the habit of reading other people’s private correspondence?”
When he turned his head to look at her, she could hardly believe the change in him. All color had drained from his cheeks, and his lips looked white.
“How did you come by this?” His voice was harsh, demanding.
“It’s none of your—” She paused. So strong a reaction suggested that he knew something. He’d recognized the seal! Perchance he could help her find her father.
“That letter was written by the man who sired me. I have not, as yet, been able to work out the name.”
“I know his name.” Robert’s face was a mask of shock. “And I know the seal. It belongs to Sir Mortimer Fowler. He is your father?” He spoke to himself as if in a dream, as though she was no longer in the room.
His voice was filled with despair as he said, “If you are truly his daughter, then I am doomed.”
Chapter Fifteen
All lust quenched, Robert strode toward the door, then stalked back to the bed, the letter quivering in his hand.
“You are genuinely this man’s daughter?” How could he have such ill luck? Indeed, he must be cursed!
Chloe gazed at him, her moist lips slightly apart, looking delightfully tousled. And exceedingly puzzled. “You know him?” She sounded excited.
“Of course, I know him.” He wanted to tear the letter to shreds, then burn the shreds to ash. Then trample upon the ashes for good measure.
“I’ve never even met him.”
He froze midstride, then swiveled toward her. “You’ve never met your father?”
She answered his question with two of her own. “How do you know him? Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“There’s no error. His signature, his seal.” Both were branded on Robert’s memory. Residing with his man of business was a document that required him to repay a large sum of money he’d lost to Sir Mortimer at the gaming tables. He’d only been trying to pay back the money he’d borrowed to fund Meg’s marriage before the interest rate climbed any higher. The memory of the debacle made Robert grit his teeth—the debt was an open wound, a persistent pain.
None of it was Sir Mortimer’s fault, of course. He’d beaten Robert fair and square, and Robert had had too much pride to explain the situation and seek the man’s mercy. Besides, owning his reasons openly would expose Meg’s shame, and he could never do that. She was an innocent who’d been seduced by a philanderer.
He felt sick. He’d been about to seduce Sir Mortimer’s daughter, still thinking her a cunning and clever whore. Putting lust aside, if he thought about it, her response to him had been warm but untutored. He’d erred again—she was no doxy.
He thrust the letter at her. “Tell me about your mother and father. What happened?”
She crawled beneath the bed covers, pulled them up to her chin, then glared balefully at him. “Very well. I’ll tell you what you want to know. So long as you tell me how I can find my father.”
He nodded and forced himself to take some deep breaths.
“Dela Riviere is my mother. Her real name is Patience Gage. Her family cast her out after a liaison with my father—the result of which was me.”
Robert could hardly believe his ears. This untarnished beauty was Mistress Riviere’s daughter? His knees gave way, and he sank down onto the lid of his chest.
“Of course, I don’t remember this,” Chloe continued. “My aunt and uncle, who raised me from when I was small, let me believe I was orphaned. But when I eventually found my mother, she told me she had done what she could to support us both by honest means. But ere long, she had discovered her physical charms and experience to be her best financial assets.”
Chloe paused, and a blush stole over her face. “You can imagine the rest. Anyway, my lady mother’s straitlaced sister Philippa had, by that time, wed Matthew Emmerson, attorney-at-law. The union proved childless, so a bargain was struck. My mother was convinced that it was for the best to give me up, and did so. I might have been an encumbrance anyway, in her chosen profession.”
She paused and swallowed. “I’ve only found this out very recently. My mother refused to surrender my father’s name, certain he would shun me and, mayhap, take vengeance on our family. Tell me, is he that unforgiving, my father?”
That was something they were both about to find out. Robert chewed on his lip. “I don’t know him well,” he hedged, needing to hear the rest of the story. “Pray, go on.”
“There’s no more, really. I had to steal the letter you have before you. I took it from what appeared to be a batch of love letters.”
He let out a mirthless laugh. The idea of Sir Mortimer ever being in love! But he’d been young once and was probably handsome in his
prime. Now that Robert knew the truth, he could see Chloe took after her mother, who—although mature—was still very striking.
He glanced at Chloe, recalling the taste of her kiss, the feel of her fingers in his hair. And the swell of her breast beneath his eager tongue. He’d seduced an innocent young gentlewoman, with a rich and powerful father who just happened to the be the man holding Robert’s future in his hands.
Add to that the fact that he’d spent a considerable amount of time alone with her in his chamber, and his doom was complete. Could the matter be hushed up? Unlikely. Could Sir Mortimer be kept ignorant of how Robert had drugged, searched, and seduced the man’s daughter? He could only hope.
But such things had a way of coming to light. Besides—even though he was a spy, he was still a gentleman. As far as he could see, there was only one course open to him.
He got to his feet and took her hand. “Mistress Emmerson—I deeply regret embroiling you in this dangerous affair of mine. Had you told me the truth of your quest at the outset, matters might have been different. But as things stand, I think it would be best for your reputation—and for what remains of my honor—if we were to become betrothed. If you will have me, of course.”
Her fingers felt limp in his, and she looked bewildered. Then her eyes narrowed as the color returned to her face. She whipped her hand away.
“I do not pretend to understand you, sir. I have no intention of marrying you, or anyone else at present. All I wanted was to be known to my true family. I had no intention of saddling myself with a husband as well. Now, begone, break your fast, and we shall forget all about your foolish suggestion.”
“Nay!” He stepped toward her. “You don’t understand.” Dare he tell her of Meg’s shame, the need to borrow money, and his debt to Sir Mortimer? It would be unfair on his sister to expose her good name to the whims of a young woman whom he barely knew.
As if reading his thoughts, Chloe snapped, “You insult me with your offer, sir. We are but strangers. What happened just now was an unfortunate lapse of common sense, but the circumstances were exceptional. To be united as the result of a moment’s indiscretion would be the utmost folly. Now, go below and eat, and we’ll say no more about this.”
Lord of Mistrust (Trysts and Treachery Book 4) Page 7