by Zoë Archer
Simon had slipped on a pair of trousers and a shirt, but that was as far as he’d gotten. They still had hours to go until dinner, and he’d be damned if he’d spend all that time fully clothed. The bath had still been warm by the time he’d gotten into it, and now a lethargy weighted his eyes and limbs. He was sprawled on the chaise, with a book in his lap, but the moment Alyce had come out of the bathroom, he completely forgot what he’d been reading.
“It’s your own sense of modesty I’m thinking of,” she answered, glancing up. Pink stained her cheeks, despite her bravado. “Working at Wheal Prosperity, watching the men come in and out of the wash house, there’s not much I haven’t seen.”
“I haven’t seen any miners come racing out with their goods uncovered and dangling.”
Did she know that her gaze shot straight to his groin the moment the words left his mouth? He suddenly remembered the book in his lap, and gave thanks for it.
“You remember that lake in the cavern? The boys bathe there in summer.” She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Lace-patterned light drifted across her face as the afternoon sun wove through the curtains.
He grinned. “Naughty girl. You spied on them.”
“Of course I did.”
Goddamn it, but he liked her. “Did they get the chance to return the favor?” He half dreaded her response, thinking of those slavering country boys getting a look at what he was dying to see.
“Girls couldn’t use the quarry.”
He exhaled.
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t sneak out at night and have a bathe with some of my girlfriends, though.”
And there went his breath again, and the throb of his cock. The image was almost too much: Alyce, sleek and nude, cavorting in ink-dark water in the lamplight. Doing as she pleased because she’d bend to no one’s will but her own.
Desmond had once taught him some special techniques for calming his thoughts, and he used them now. It was either that or lunge for her like an animal. He emptied his mind, filling himself with a bright nothingness, thinking of absolutely naught.
“Simon? You’re not ill, are you?”
He blinked back to awareness. “Only tired.”
She covered her mouth as she let out a huge, lusty yawn. “I’m starting to see two of you.”
Glancing at the clock, he said, “We still have a few hours until we have to be at Harrold’s for dinner. Better get some sleep.”
“Doubt I could get a wink. I’m too wound up.” But she yawned again.
“Soldiers know that if they don’t get rest before a battle, they could make a fatal mistake on the battlefield.”
“That’s not much of a lullaby, Sergeant.”
The idea that Alyce knew about his past didn’t send immediate needles of panic through him. He was glad, actually. It felt so bloody liberating to be around someone without any wall or distance. As if, for the first time, he was more whole than he’d ever been.
“Just lie down and shut your eyes,” he said. “If you sleep, good. If not, lie there and entertain yourself with thoughts of how utterly we’re going to ruin those bastards.”
Naturally, that idea made her smile. Still wearing her flannel robe, she pulled back the covers and nestled beneath them. The sight of Alyce in a big, welcoming bed was one of the greatest tests of his life.
Or so he thought, until she held the covers open. “Come on, soldier. You need your rest, too.”
His body turned to rock, and he gripped the back of the chaise until his knuckles whitened. “Over here is fine for me.”
“It can’t be as comfortable.”
At that moment, it felt like a bed of nails. He said through gritted teeth, “I get into that bed, the last thing we’d do is sleep.”
Her eyelids lowered. “So we won’t sleep.”
God, he was so tempted. So bloody tempted.
“No,” he said.
“But—”
“Don’t fight me on this, damn it. One of us has to make the right decision.”
Her look was pure mutiny. He half expected her to jump out of bed, haul him up by his shirt, and throw him into bed. Almost wished she would. Instead, she turned away from him.
“I’m trying to be rational,” he said gently to her back. “I want you. So much. But we just … can’t be.”
A long silence. “You’re right,” she finally said, still with her back to him. “But I hate it.”
“I do, too.”
Neither of them spoke. Her body relaxed, and within minutes her breath grew steady and deep.
He let out his own breath. It was easier, actually, with her asleep. He’d never bestow his attentions on a sleeping woman. That was for scoundrels and artless seducers. No, if he was going to make love to Alyce, he’d want her fully awake, ready and eager for his touch.
I need to take my own advice and rest. But that was impossible with his cock pressing like a branding iron against the front of his trousers. No help for it, then.
Noiselessly, he rose up from the chaise and slipped into the bathroom. He almost laughed at himself as he tore open the buttons of his trousers. When was the last time he’d had to hide himself away for a secret wank? Years and years. But this was what he needed.
He fought back a hiss as he took his cock in his hand. Since he’d arrived at Wheal Prosperity, he hadn’t had any kind of sexual release. Weeks of tension and need had built within him. With Alyce as the sole focus of all that hunger. Now she slept in the other room, after filling his head with images of her undressing, taking a bath, going for late-night nude swims. God, she’d be so incredible naked. So tight with muscle, so long and curved in all the right places. Would she have dusky or light nipples? Of a certain, the curls between her legs would be dark and silky.
His hand froze when the door creaked open.
In the washroom mirror, his gaze met Alyce’s. She gripped the door frame with one hand, and the other pressed against her belly. Her eyes traveled from his face to his hand, still wrapped around his cock. It pulsed beneath her scrutiny.
“Don’t,” she said when he started to release his hold on himself.
Goddamn it. He grew even harder.
“Then get out of here,” he growled, “and let me finish.”
She stepped into the washroom. “We’re supposed to be married. But the minute we show up at that dinner tonight, they’ll know we’ve never really touched each other. Not very convincing.”
He cursed. “Sit on the edge of the tub and watch, then.”
“No.” She closed the distance separating them, pressing herself to his side. Her breast brushed his arm, the hard point of her nipple a delicious rasp against him. “I’m going to take care of you.”
He closed his eyes, praying that he didn’t spill right there and then. “You’ve done this before?” His voice was pure gravel.
“Some fumbling at the cavern. Nothing like this.” Her own voice was husky. “Show me what to do.”
Shuddering, he let go of himself. Then took her hand in his and wrapped it around his shaft. They both moaned.
“God,” she breathed. “I never knew. The feel.”
“Hard.” That was the only word that came to mind. He’d never been so hard in his life.
“Soft, too. The softest thing I’ve ever touched. And hot.” She tore her gaze from her hand around his cock and looked up at him. “I make you feel this way?”
“You make me feel everything.”
She gazed back down to her hand encircling his shaft. “What do I do?”
He could barely get the words out. “Stroke it. Move your hand … up and down. Tight. Don’t be afraid to be rough.”
“I’ll hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
Her hand began to move, pumping him. Tentative at first, and then with more strength. He’d never felt anything half so delicious. It was all the more exquisite because it was her touching him, stroking him. The woman he’d wanted for so long. And she was so strong, so wondrously strong
. In every way.
He shut his eyes. If he looked down, if he saw her hand around his cock, it would be over in seconds.
She took some time to circle her fingers around the head, finding the exact spot that scoured him with pleasure. “Yes.” He hissed. “Just like … just like that.”
“Simon,” she said breathlessly. From beneath her gown, her breasts quivered against him, and she deliberately rubbed them along his arm. “Feels so good, so wicked.”
“Ah, God. Alyce. I’m—”
He arched, groaning. The climax shredded him. It tore from his body, from somewhere deep inside himself, and he reached one arm back to grab the towel bar behind him for support. His body was molten, his throat raw. The world dimmed around the edges. All he knew was his release, and Alyce.
Slowly, her fingers uncurled, releasing him. The small washroom filled with the sounds of their panting. He finally opened his eyes and saw her studying her hand, fascinated. He quickly grabbed a washcloth and cleaned her up, then himself.
They stared at each other. A febrile blush darkened her cheeks, and her pupils were fathomless.
Christ. He’d just had the most intense sexual experience of his life. All from Alyce’s hand. From her.
“That was…” She shook her head, as if unable to find the right words. He understood completely. Words were too small, too defined, for what had just happened.
“I can make you feel more,” he rumbled. “Much more. We’ll get through this damned dinner and then the rest of the night is ours.”
She pressed a hand to her belly. “I won’t be able to concentrate, knowing that.”
“Don’t concentrate on anything now. Just rest.” He led her to the bed, then collapsed onto the chaise as exhaustion overwhelmed him.
She got into bed. “Simon … thank you.”
He managed to choke out a laugh. That she should thank him was ridiculous. And wonderful.
Within minutes, Alyce’s eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. She was truly asleep.
Yet even after everything, despite his weariness, Simon couldn’t sleep. His mind whirled. And his goddamn sodding heart raced.
He stretched out as best as his tall frame would allow on the confines of the chaise. Taking his own advice from earlier, he envisioned the owners and managers of Wheal Prosperity shaking their fists at the heavens as their corrupt system was torn away, decimating their fortunes. They’d rage and scream, but there would be nothing to stop their ruin. And Alyce happily licked fresh butter from her fingers.
Simon fell asleep with a smile on his face.
* * *
Hours later, arrayed in his formal black-and-white evening clothes, he waited down in the hotel lobby. He exchanged pleasant nods with other guests as they walked in and out, all the while drumming the brim of his top hat and trying to keep his foot from tapping. Impatience, excitement, and a soupçon of concern danced through him. Going into a scheme with confidence was crucial. But he wanted, needed, this ploy to work, and Alyce was the means to make it happen.
Currently, she was sequestered in their room upstairs with one of the hotel’s maids, helping her dress and complete her toilette for the evening. Simon had dressed quickly, his back to the women, and then hurried out.
Simon now gave his starched cuffs a tug and took another look at himself in the pier glass over the fireplace. He adjusted his white tie and double-checked the studs on his shirtfront. Everything seemed in order. No one in his social set knew that he hadn’t employed a valet since he’d returned to civilian life. After dodging Zulu war clubs and Indian bandits’ bullets, relying on someone else to help him put his clothing on seemed remarkably ridiculous.
Three chintz-covered chairs were drawn close to the fire, but he couldn’t sit. Too much energy surged through him. And one of the chairs was occupied by a large orange tabby that regarded him with the disinterest in which cats seemed to specialize. Simon had no doubt, however, that the moment he took one of the other chairs, the cat would immediately leap into his lap and cover him with orange fur.
He turned when his peripheral vision caught sight of movement on the stairs. Without thought, his feet took him to the foot of the staircase, and he could only stand there, gaping, as Alyce slowly descended. The maid trailed behind her, but he hardly saw the other woman. His eyes were full of Alyce.
This must have been how Bellerophon felt when he slammed to earth—Simon quite literally couldn’t breathe.
Alyce wore an evening gown of silver satin, its flounces, low neckline, and minuscule sleeves adorned with jet beads. Pale silver-trimmed lace tapered down the bodice to end in a sharp point at her waist. The skirt had been artfully draped to recall Grecian statues, and with each step she took, the gown moved with her, gleaming like a pearl, begging for touch.
The fabric only served to highlight expanses of creamy skin—her neck, her upper chest, the slim band of bare flash between her sleeves, and her long ivory kidskin gloves. Thank God she wore a wrap of dark gray velvet, covering the majority of her décolletage. But he dreaded the reveal that would inevitably come when she’d remove her wrap, because he knew, he knew that it would be his first real glimpse of her breasts—the tops of them, anyway—and it’d be bloody difficult to keep up his patter at Harrold’s when all he’d want to do was stare at the treasure he’d discovered.
He did catch a glimpse of a jet-bead collar encircling her neck, and matching earrings swung from her earlobes, tempting a man to catch her earlobe between his teeth and suck, ever so gently, until she moaned. And the thought of her wearing nothing but the beaded collar sent all of his blood below his waist.
Her hair was pinned up in a more elaborate style, dark whorls and curls held in place with silver silk flowers and jet combs. The hotel’s maid had a talent.
All of this was a far cry from Alyce’s simple, homespun clothing in the village, the heavy apron she wore when working, her tightly pinned bun. Even her smart traveling ensemble was a pale flicker compared to the blazing elegance of this gown.
But none of it mattered—not even the glimpses of bare skin—when compared to the expression on her face. He might’ve expected some shyness or uncertainty. These weren’t the clothes of a bal-maiden. Some women in the same circumstance might tug uncomfortably at their garments, or keep their heads down, modest and blushing.
Not Alyce. Her chin was held high, her eyes gleamed brightly, and the color in her cheeks came not from modesty or even paint.
No—she was a flame of shining confidence. She looked magnificent, and she knew it. As men in the lobby slowed to stare at her, she took in their gazes as if she were a queen, and their regard were her due.
It wasn’t snobbery in her posture or the slight curve of her lips. She didn’t put on airs. But he could see her revel in her power, and it was a deluge, drowning him in desire.
She came down the steps, her hand trailing on the banister. Their gazes met. A long, breathless moment. Then she pulled her eyes away, running them deliberately, thoroughly over him. Taking in the sight of him in his evening dress. He wasn’t a fool. He understood that he wore such garments well. But never did that give him more satisfaction than at that moment, when her eyes darkened, her grip tightened on the banister, and her nostrils flared subtly.
“Thank you, Maisie,” she said over her shoulder, every inch a lady. “You may go.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away before Simon could add his own words of gratitude.
“I know we’re not supposed to thank the servants,” Alyce said. “But this”—she waved down at herself—“is extraordinary.”
“You can thank a maid or valet, and in this case, she deserves the praise.” He couldn’t believe such banal words even left his lips, when all he wanted was to grab her, drag her upstairs, and show her just how extraordinary she truly was.
He closed the distance between them and offered her his arm. “It’s time to hunt.”
She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Hunt
the owners? Or each other?”
His grin was as savage as he felt. “I’m hungry enough for both.”
She did him one better by licking her lips. “Good, because I’m starving.”
CHAPTER 13.
Alyce stared up at the front of Oliver Harrold’s three-story terraced home. Though similar houses lined the street, all of them built on the same plan of bow windows, columns flanking the front door, and sharply gabled roofs, only Harrold’s was built on the blood and sweat of the people of Trewyn. It could’ve been the world’s most elegant home, a grand palace—but to her, it was as ugly as a wound.
As she and Simon walked up the neat path, she murmured, “What was that weapon they had way back in the Middle Ages? The one that could throw boulders into the walls or dead horses over the ramparts?”
“A trebuchet.”
“I’d like one of those right now.”
“What we’ve got is better than a trebuchet. This,” he said, nodding toward the house, “will be a smoldering crater when we’re done.”
“You always know the right thing to say.”
They climbed the stairs, her hand on his arm. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the feel of his solidness, his lean strength. And for the rest of her days, she’d remember the feel of his cock in her hand, satiny and hard as iron, and the agonized look of pleasure on his face when she touched him.
She had done that. She had made him feel that way. She loved that she could give him pleasure, wanted to give him more. And her own body hummed with unspent desire.
Here she was, standing on the front step of her enemy’s house, and she wanted to push Simon against the door and kiss him dizzy. They’d reached the most important stage in their plan. She wouldn’t ruin it with wayward, hungry thoughts.
But it certainly helped keep the fear scraping in her belly at bay. Simon believed in her. Everyone in Trewyn and Nemesis counted on her. Tonight, she couldn’t fail. It just wasn’t a possibility. Except that it was.
