The Spymaster's Lady

Twenty-nine

ANNIQUE WAS WAITING FOR HIM IN HIS BEDROOM, on his bed, on her belly. She was on top of the covers, reading a book. She was naked.

She looked at him through her eyelashes. “I am glad you were not devoured by that animal which has draped itself across the doorway. What is it, that thing?”

In all England, all France, all the world, there was no other woman for him. Only Annique. He had her naked in his bed. One of life’s perfect moments.

“We think it’s part wolfhound. Doyle found it down by the docks, likely off some ship or other.”

“I would say it is rather wolf and possibly also part elephant. It does not like me.”

“Good. Then you won’t go wandering around the halls after dark. Maggie brought some nightclothes.”

“I saw them. They are very lovely, of course, but I thought you would prefer to see that I am totally harmless when you approach me. It is necessary, as I understand these things, that a man not be nervous at such times.” She propped herself up, her breasts just brushing the crimson leather cover. Her smile was knowing, and her eyes were shy. Men would kill to possess this woman.

He came to her, unwinding his cravat, sliding it out of his collar, tossing it onto the chair in passing. He felt infinitely powerful. She made him feel that way. “I’m glad you’re so willing. I suppose you’re preparing for one last beautiful night of lovemaking…”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Perhaps.”

“…before you start dying of thirst.”

Her brows contracted in annoyance. “I had not intended to bring that up. Such matters are not conducive to romantic behavior.”

“Casts a damper over everything, doesn’t it, all that dire nobility of yours.”

“I have changed nothing with my decision. I merely strip away the veneer of civility. I do not need to justify my behavior to a—”

“Then don’t. The best minds in the British spy service are going to talk you out of it tomorrow. We spent the last hour plotting. We have plans.”

“Oh.” She looked stubborn and apprehensive. Also relieved. Nine-tenths of her was hoping to be persuaded out of that idiocy.

He said, “I have plans, too.” She had only to look at him to see what he had in mind.

He jerked the last button loose and pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor, then stripped his trousers off. She started to sit up, but he set his hand on her shoulder to keep her as she was. He liked her this way…naked, laid out on her belly. She was exquisitely lovely, and she couldn’t attack. “Have I mentioned you’re the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“From one cause and another we have missed saying such things to each other.”

Those sleek cat muscles of hers told him how nervous she was. Willing, but nervous. He could use that nervousness. He could make it explode inside her like foam in a keg. He’d send her wild tonight. Beyond thought. Beyond restraint. “I like the curve here…” He ran his hand down the long, taut muscles that paralleled her spine. “It’s like the countryside back home. Long and rolling.”

“I am like countryside?”

“Somerset countryside.” He stroked her buttocks. “With little hills.”

“But truly, men have strange minds.”

He stroked her again. “Did your mother tell you that?”

“I find that my mother did not say anything to the point. She did not wish me to be a courtesan, you understand, and therefore did not instruct me in those arts.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Except for a few trifles. I believe they are not known to respectable English girls, who are very uneducated. I will show you, if you like.”

A pang of pure lust shot through him. His lady was not at all innocent in some ways. He foresaw many long, interesting nights while they worked out exactly who would be in charge in this bed. “Later, maybe.”

“There is one in particular that sounds interesting. I am curious to see how it works.”

She would drive him insane. She’d do it on purpose.

“We’ll save it for those long winter nights ahead. Have I told you I love you, Annique? It started about the fourth time you tried to maim me. I never did find time to say the words.”

“It is the right time now. We are at leisure, and I am not armed.” She was sad under the teasing. He’d put a stop to that fairly soon. “I find it gratifying in the extreme to be loved, especially by a man like you. I shall become quite puffed-up and conceited with it, I think.”

“You go right ahead and do that.” The sweet flesh of her back had decided to stop being nervous and go soft. The tremors in her were just beginning. “This is where you say you love me back.”

“Ah…love.” She pinched a crease into the linen pillowcase beneath her. “You must be disappointed, mon ennemi. I desire you. This is not love.”

“Just desire.”

“You are the first man for me. There must be a first man for every woman, when she is innocent and fools herself into believing in love. This is true even if she is destined to lie with seventy thousand in her lifetime.”

She lay there, wanting him. Scared of it. Wondering if that made her a whore or just a fool. Halfway wondering if she was trading herself to an enemy spy, for safety. Not trusting herself to know the difference between wanting and being in love. If her mother weren’t already dead, he’d strangle her himself.

And that was enough worrying from the Fox Cub tonight. In ten minutes he’d make her forget that nonsense. Give him fifteen, and she’d forget her own name. He slid the book out from underneath her and tossed it away. Her breasts cuddled softly into his palm.

When he touched her, he felt the shudder, felt the throb in her flesh.

You’re mine, Annique…every exquisite, dangerous inch of you. “I haven’t worked it out yet, but seventy thousand would keep you fairly busy.”

He raised her up some, kissing along her neck to confuse her, to quiet that busy mind of hers. She bent her head to watch him while he touched her, watched her nipples squeeze up into hard little buttons between his finger and thumb. She’d already started breathing fast. She was responsive as hell. Good. With a woman like Annique, he needed all the advantage he could get.

He kissed the top of her head. “Seventy thousand’s a lot. Maybe I can convince you to settle for a few less. How about a hundred? Or a dozen?” He lured her chin upward, drawing her jawline. “Or one?”

When she lifted her eyes, they were deep blue and vulnerable as spring flowers. “One?”

“Me.”

“Oh.” She breathed onto his shoulder. “Well.” He could feel each separate breath. Neither of them moved. Slowly she let her forehead lower till it rested against him. Her tongue—a soft, warm touch—tasted him. Tasted his skin.

He knew for sure, then. This hit her as hard as it hit him. They were both lost. No way back for them.

His hand shook with the effort of keeping control. Slow. He had to go slow. He didn’t trust himself to touch her anywhere but her hair. Her neck. The shell of her ear. Let’s not roll her over and dive in like a sailor on shore leave, Robert. She’s new at this, and more ignorant than she wants you to know.

He took her face in light, outstretched fingers. Finger to flesh, tied together by the current between them, he drew her up and up until she was kneeling on the bed. And he was kneeling. Hunger and magic danced in the air. He set his lips to her lips. He’d never had a chance to enjoy her slowly, to savor her when there was nothing ahead but a night of lovemaking. Now, he did.

Her mouth was soft and hot. Hungry. The gateway to a universe of desire. She shuddered as he licked and bit and demanded.

He broke away and whispered, “Who are you thinking about, Annique? Those seventy thousand men? Or maybe a Gypsy boy?”

Dear God, but she was ready for him. He knew it by the slick of sweat on her skin, by the quivering of those sleek, beautiful muscles, even by her smell. Her whole body was his for the asking. Nothing held back. Nothing forbidden.

“I am not thinking of any Gypsy boy, my Grey.” Her voice was husky. “I am thinking of no one but you.”

She put her arms around him and drew him down beside her on the coverlet. She whispered, soft in his ear, wickedly, “And Robert, of course.”