A Talent for Trickery

by Alissa Johnson

  Struggling for control, he slowed his hands, gentled the kiss, and allowed them both the luxury of drawing out every moment. He savored the taste of her, reveled in the sight of her, relished the feel of her beneath his palms and the sensation of her curious, eager hands running over his chest.

  She shivered when he nuzzled at her neck, trembled when he slid her bodice from her shoulders and followed the exposed skin from her collarbone to the soft swell of her breast above the confines of her corset.

  They undressed each other in slow stages. There were so many layers to be stripped away, so many secrets to discover, and so much pleasure to be had in the reveal.

  He touched her everywhere, just as he wanted, but he did it with the disciplined care of a man mindful of the treasure he held, of how close he’d come to losing her. His hands skimmed lightly over the gentle rise of hips as he helped her out of her skirts. His palms curved around the indentation of her waist as he slipped off her petticoats and crinolette.

  Lottie undid his necktie and pressed a kiss to his throat as her fingers worked the buttons of his waistcoat.

  Gradually, piece by piece, the layers slipped away until there was nothing standing between them but Lottie’s light blush.

  * * *

  Touch me.

  Lottie’s skin was hot and tight, unbearably sensitive. The cool air against her exposed flesh sent shivers racing up her spine. Only she didn’t feel cold. She felt wicked, delighted, cherished. And, yes, just a mite embarrassed. But all thoughts of modesty disappeared when Owen reached for her. His calloused hands pulled her close, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.

  He settled her on the soft linens of the bed and then there was only sensation after sensation. His large body covering her own. The brush of lips and hands, the mingling of breath. His touch was everywhere, drifting across her heated skin, making her squirm and shift in a restless bid to prolong each moment of pleasure. Her hands trailed down the long plane of his back and found the firm muscle of his buttocks, eliciting a choppy groan from Owen. She reveled in that sound and in her own helpless sighs. She felt thrilled and impatient, emboldened and powerless. She felt loved.

  She shivered and arched as his mouth traveled up her neck and caught the sensitive lobe of her ear between his teeth. A pull of need dragged a gasp from her lips when he bent his head and lazily circled a nipple with his tongue.

  “Owen. I want…”

  “I know.” His whisper was tortuously hot against her flesh. “Wait for it. It’s better when you wait for it.”

  It couldn’t be better. Nothing could be better.

  Oh, but there could be more.

  He drew her nipple gently into his mouth, and she arched against him with a stunned cry. Slipping a hand between them, his clever fingers sought the ache between her legs, and then she was lost to everything but the dizzying pleasure. It grew and swelled, layering and building on itself endlessly until she thought she could bear it no longer.

  “Owen, please…” She wasn’t sure what she was asking for—she only knew that better was no longer enough, more wasn’t what she needed. Everything. She needed everything.

  Shifting over her, he carefully settled himself between her legs, and she instinctively brought her knees up to cradle his heavy form.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  She needed him. All of him. Her Owen.

  He wrapped his arms around her protectively and pushed forward with one long thrust.

  There was pain, but it faded as quickly as it came, leaving behind only a curious ache that became lost to the relentless pull of arousal and the ecstasy of knowing that finally, finally he was hers.

  Wanting more, she bowed up, encouraging him to move. But he simply held her, and held her still as his mouth took hers in a long, unhurried kiss. His hands began to caress her again, petting and soothing, teasing and exciting with exquisite care and boundless patience, as if he had all the time in the world.

  She could feel him shaking with the effort to be still, felt the tremble in his arms and down the hard slope of his back. He was trying so hard to be gentle.

  So careful, her Owen. Always so wonderfully, infuriatingly careful with her.

  “Don’t wait.” She wrapped her arms tight around his shoulders in an effort to bring him even closer. “Don’t wait.”

  He muttered something against her ear, an endearment, or a curse, she couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter, because he was finally moving, working himself inside her in careful, shallow thrusts that enflamed and frustrated.

  “Please,” she whispered. More. Faster. Everything.

  With a groan of his own, he began a new pace, steady and strong, and every part of her sighed in relief, even as her muscles tightened and bunched with an anticipation she didn’t fully understand. Something was coming. Something tremendous. Something necessary. Without hesitation, without a moment’s trepidation, she gave herself over to the wanton, dangerous ecstasy of rushing headlong to meet it. Because she could. Because Owen was with her, pulling her along, holding her safe and tight in his arms.

  She gave herself over to him. And finally, all at once, she had everything.

  She cried out, shocked and dazzled by the pleasure, but even as wave after wave of it swamped her, she held tight to Owen, pulling him along, keeping him with her.

  “My Owen.”

  At last, he buried his face in the crook of her neck, tensed, and shuddered in her arms.

  Twenty-two

  Owen stared down at the dark head resting on his chest. It was difficult to believe that, after all these years, it was Lottie in his bed. It was Lottie draped over him like a sheet.

  Smiling, he ran a hand lightly down her hair and fought off the urge to close his eyes. He wanted to give into the exhaustion pulling at his body and slide into sleep with Lottie in his arms.

  He already felt as if he was half caught in a dream, one he’d kept locked away for twelve years. There was more to that fantasy, a future that went beyond secret kisses and stolen moments of passion. He wanted endless hours with Lottie, countless nights of falling asleep next to her, and waking with her in his arms.

  He’d have them. One day, he promised himself, and pressed a soft kiss on the crown of her head. One day soon. He’d find a way.

  But for now, there was a house to secure before nightfall and an angry young man sulking somewhere downstairs.

  Taking care not to wake Lottie, he maneuvered out of bed, donned his clothes, and gathered his weapons.

  He paused at the door and cast a glance over his shoulder.

  She hadn’t given him the words back, not even in the throes of passion. That worried him—even as he told himself to have a little patience, it worried him.

  He did his best to set it aside, however, and went in search of Peter. Owen found him in the study, sprawled in a worn leather chair and glowering at a beam of early evening sunlight that sneaked around the edges of the drapes to cut a sharp line across the faded carpet.

  The boy spared him a furious glance but said nothing until Owen had poured two glasses of brandy and taken the seat next to him. “What do you want, Renderwell? Come to shoot me?”

  “No. I’ve come to offer an olive branch.” He handed Peter one of the glasses. “As it were.”

  “I don’t drink spirits.” A corner of his mouth hooked up. “I’m not allowed.”

  “Because you’re only fourteen.”

  “Nearly fifteen.”

  And the drink was so diluted as to nearly be water. He held it out again. “Exactly so.”

  Peter made a face but accepted the glass. “Is it true, what Lottie said—that our father worked for you?”

  “It is. Lottie did as well.”

  “But not Esther.” He snorted derisively. “Too busy helping our father, I suppose.”

  “I wasn’t aware of it at th
e time. Neither was Lottie.”

  Peter traded scowling at the fireplace for scowling at his drink. “She doesn’t even have the decency to be ashamed.”

  “Ah, now that is where you are wrong.”

  “I’m not. She stood there and admitted to it, bold and proud as you please.”

  “I’m sure she did. A rare breed, our Esther.” He pictured Esther playing with her dagger. “Shame is a tricky thing, Peter. There are some, like Lottie, who will let the fourteen-year-old boy she raised with selfless devotion kick at her like a dog because she feels she deserves it.”

  “That’s not—”

  “And there are those, like Esther, who prefer to do the kicking themselves.”

  “She ought to have the decency to at least appear ashamed.”

  “Your father ought to have had the decency to keep a child out of his affairs,” Owen returned. “You want someone to blame, blame him. You’ve a right to your anger. No one will argue otherwise. You’ve a right to feel cheated and put on. But you have no business judging whether or not your sisters appear adequately sorry for the failings of your parents.”

  Peter’s expression was both skeptical and mulish. “No one forced them to help our father. They made their own choices.”

  “I imagine that twelve hours ago, you would have been willing to call a man out for impugning the honor of William Bales. You would have risked your life for no other reason than that he was your father. Think what you would have been willing to do had you actually known him.”

  “I’d not have become a common criminal,” Peter muttered into his glass. “I can tell you that.”

  “Maybe not,” Owen agreed, not because he believed it, but because it was best if the boy did. “We’ll never know for certain, will we? Your sisters made certain of that. They made certain it was a choice you would never have to make.”

  “You think I should thank them?” His voice was thick with indignation and disbelief. “For lying to me? For making a fool out of me? I’ve gone on and on about our father—at school, in the village, to you and your men. I bragged about him, about our mother. And it was all lies. They made me a fool and a liar.”

  And for that, Owen thought, the boy had his sincere sympathy. “No man likes to feel a fool. But every man does, at some points in his life. You’ll find the pain of it fades with time.”

  “This won’t,” Peter grumbled.

  Owen took a sip of his drink to hide a smile. Everything was so certain in youth. So permanent. “Regardless of what your feelings may be in a few years’ time, you must admit now that your sisters made the correct decision eight years ago. They lied because you were a child. It was their duty to protect you, even from yourself.”

  “I’m not a child now.”

  “No, you are a young man in possession of a dangerous secret. There are other men like the one in the woods. Men who would not hesitate to harm your sisters because of who your father was.” He saw that hit the mark, saw the flinch of worry and fear. “You are Lottie and Esther’s brother. However angry you are, whatever your feelings for them might be at present, you are bound by duty to keep them safe.”

  “I know that.”

  “Will you?”

  Peter stared at his drink a long time before answering. “Yes.”

  * * *

  For nearly a quarter hour after waking, Lottie stayed just as she was, stretched out in Owen’s bed, tangled in the linens. Her body felt weighted and sore and absolutely wonderful. Oh, she felt glorious. She shouldn’t. It was the wrong time, absolutely the wrong time to feel as if she had swallowed an army of wicked little butterflies, but she would be damned if she felt even a second of guilt over stealing this moment of joy. Owen loved her. Owen had loved her, and she him.

  When the time was right, she would give him the words. She had almost offered them when he had, but she didn’t want to offer them as an exchange. She meant to give them as he had, as an unconditional gift.

  Soon, she thought. She’d offer them soon.

  She let herself seep in the thrill and wonder of the moment for a minute longer, then she slipped out of bed, retrieved the discarded journal, and sneaked back to her own room to work.

  * * *

  It didn’t take Lottie long to correctly guess the keyword to the code adorning the hem of her dress in the sketch.

  “The cipher was on my skirt,” she explained as everyone but Peter gathered at a small table in the library. “Not a terribly difficult clue to follow. The keyword was ‘Tulip.’”

  Next to her, Esther rolled her eyes. “Of course it was. God forbid it be ‘Kitten.’”

  “Kitten?” Owen inquired.

  “I was Tulip,” Lottie explained. She met his gaze and looked away quickly when her cheeks warmed at even that small connection. “She was Kitten.”

  “I see. What does it say?”

  Lottie handed a single piece of paper to Owen and waited while the group inspected the short, simple message it contained.

  You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things.

  And then, in postscript:

  Love, Your Papa.

  Samuel scowled at the page and shook his head. “What does that mean?”

  “Probably nothing of use,” Esther replied. “Like the rest of the journal.”

  Owen handed back the page. “Shakespeare, is it?”

  “It is,” Lottie confirmed, both surprised and impressed. It had taken her longer to remember where she had read the quote than it had to decipher the text. “Julius Caesar.”

  “Is he referring to us?” Gabriel asked. “Are we the blocks?”

  “No, it’s a clue, not a taunt. I rather doubt he imagined you would ever read it.” She smiled a little. “Though I do imagine he would have enjoyed the unintentional insult.”

  “What stones, then? Statues?” Samuel guessed.

  “Headstones?” Gabriel offered. “Where did the Globe Theatre stand? Could there be a graveyard near the site?”

  “No,” Lottie replied. “You’re taking the quote out of context.”

  “How do you know he hasn’t?” Gabriel inquired.

  “Because I know my father.” Only she didn’t, really. “I know his puzzles. He liked to layer them, make you dig.” Thoughtful, she tapped her fingers against the table. “In the play, Marullus is speaking with the cobbler. He’s angry because people are celebrating Caesar’s return. Hard-hearted men…senseless blocks…”

  “Cheering for a man undeserving of praise and loyalty,” Esther said.

  “A ruler.” Gabriel looked to his companions. “The queen? Is he referring to the queen?”

  Lottie shook her head. “It isn’t about Caesar; it’s about the heartless men who followed him, cheered for him…”

  “The House of Lords,” Samuel guessed.

  “Perhaps.” Lottie looked to Esther. “Do you think he hid something in London? A message of some sort?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No.” Owen leaned over her to tap the journal. “This encryption was left for you. No one but you and Esther knew about the Tulip. If Will wanted to hide something for his children and from everyone else, he’d hide it in his own home, amongst his own things. And he’d hide it in an item he knew you valued. Something he could be certain you’d not toss out after his death.”

  “But what?” Lottie murmured. She’d already looked through every volume of Shakespeare they owned in search of the quote. There was nothing in any of them. “The House of Lords,” she muttered to herself. “The House of Commons.”

  Esther let out a small groan. “Oh, I should have known.”

  “What?”

  She gave Lottie a wry smile. “Parliament.”

  “Parli…? Oh.” Oh, of course.

  As one, they rose from their chairs and hurried into the main hall. />
  Owen and his men were quick to follow. “What? What is it?”

  “Esther’s sketch,” she shot over her shoulder. “In the hall.”

  They didn’t have far to go. A small grouping of Esther’s artwork hung just outside the foyer. At the top was a detailed sketch of Westminster, still under reconstruction.

  Esther stretched up for it but only caught the bottom edge with her fingers.

  Reaching over her head, Samuel retrieved the picture off the wall. He gave it a quick, appreciative glance before offering it to Esther. “You drew this?”

  “Years ago.” She motioned for him to give the picture to Lottie. “I must have been…”

  “Thirteen,” Lottie answered for her. “I took you there.” She turned the picture over and studied the back. “Father had it framed shortly before he died.” The one and only sketch of Esther’s he had ever bothered to frame. Now they knew why.

  Worried, she glanced at Esther, but her sister merely shrugged. “I really should have known. Take off the back, then.”

  “I need a knife.”

  Her companions immediately produced a half-dozen blades.

  Lottie took in the display of weaponry with a combination of amusement and horror. “Good Lord.” She accepted one of Esther’s daggers. “I don’t require a scimitar, thank you, Samuel.”

  “It’s a kukri,” Samuel grumbled as they returned to the library. “A small one.”

  Ignoring him, Lottie sliced through the backing of the frame, tore off the pieces and revealed a large velvet pouch wedged against a second, hard backing. She drew the string loose, opened the bag, and poured a fortune in diamonds onto the table.

  “Oh, heavens.” With a hand that shook, Lottie brushed her fingers over the tangle of sparkling bracelets, necklace, earbobs, rings, brooch, combs, and what looked to be the broken pieces of a tiara.

  With a soft curse, Gabriel picked up one of the rings for a closer inspection. “Appears real. My God, do you know what these are? The Strale diamonds.”

  “That isn’t possible,” Esther whispered in awe. “The Ferret took them.”

  That statement was met with stunned silence by the men, followed by a nervous sort of humming noise from Esther. She cast a sidelong glance at Lottie. “You haven’t told Renderwell, then.”