Adrian struck a match and held it to the crumpled paper in the ashtray. “Last night, I Rogered the lock of the local wire office—tapped off a few messages of my own.”
“Ah, Roger the skeleton key.” Cate rolled her eyes. “So much more amusing as a verb.”
Adrian blew out the match. “I telegraphed the names of those extracted and informed the Admiralty as well as Scotland Yard of your capture. I left Reginald, my aide, to wait for a response and returned to our rooms in the palace.”
Finn tossed back his whiskey. “I take it you heard back.”
Adrian picked up one of the missives and read aloud: “From General Frederick Roberts, ‘Lend all assistance necessary to the recovery of Agent Gunn. Stop. Hero of the Battle of Kandahar and national’ ”—the chargé d’affaires met Finn’s gaze directly—“ ‘treasure.’ ” Adrian leaned forward, shaking his head. “Bloody Roberts, for God’s sake—they must have bloody woken him up for that.”
Cate waited for Finn’s response. In fact, she and Adrian both waited. “It appears your escape from the tribal village wasn’t harrowing enough.” She gave him a nudge. “There’s more.”
Adrian slumped back in his chair. “Oh goody.”
Finn shot a lethal glare across the table.
Adrian tossed his hands up in casual surrender. “I like war stories.”
“As Cate mentioned, I was captured and held in a village northwest of the fort.” His speech seemed measured, reluctant. “I managed to escape, along with a few other survivors. Our return was slow going. The men were in poor condition and Kandahar was surrounded by Ayub Khan’s army.
“Once we made it inside the walls, we learned that General Roberts’s troops were on a forced march from Kabul to Kandahar to reinforce us. Since we had slipped through the Afghan general’s lines, we knew where their troops were camped. I mapped out their positions and led a sortie to clear the way for Roberts.”
It was hard to imagine how he mustered the courage to do such a thing after what he’d been through. “You went back out again.” Cate’s voice was almost a whisper.
“The sortie wasn’t a complete success but we managed to push Ayub’s army into the mountains long enough for Roberts’s reinforcements to arrive.” He spun his whiskey glass around at the base. “We won the Battle of Kandahar—or declared it so. Six months later we pulled out of Afghanistan.”
Finn stood and pushed back his chair. “Any idea when we make port?”
“Midafternoon, I expect.” Adrian gathered the pile of missives and their responses. “Reggie wired the Clouzot brothers before daybreak. Suffice it to say they will be anxious to see who arrives in Cherbourg.”
“If you’ll excuse me.” She followed Finn out of the lounge.
Sensing a shadow, Finn turned back. “I’m sorry, Cate, but that kind of heroic war talk rankles.”
She grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed. “Help me to understand—please, Finn.”
“Many soldiers suffered insults and terrors much greater than the ones I endured, and some of them died. For what?” Finn stopped midrant, his eyes dark and troubled, as he tried to hold back his grief and his anger. “There is nothing noble about war, Cate, not the one I experienced. But there is something gloriously noble about the soldier beside you. All this talk about national treasure—I fought for my men. As a soldier you’re asked to walk the razor’s edge, for God and country. But in combat, it’s the bloke beside you who counts.”
“Like the Punjabi soldier—the Sikh man who shouted the warning—the one who was . . .”
“Shot before my eyes,” he bit out.
The realities of his war experience came crashing into her mind. She felt a bit light-headed, out of sorts. She could only imagine how it must be for Finn. Cate bit her lip and nodded. “And the soldiers you were captured with—how terrifying and brutal those executions were.” She must have looked a bit forlorn, because he pulled her close and rocked her in his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “Sorry to have said anything—no one should have to think about such things, least of all—”
“Don’t say it, Finn. You trusted me enough to share the terrors you’d suffered—your fears, as well as your triumphs.” Cate met his gaze with a fierce one of her own. “I love you, Phineas Gunn.”
There—she had finally said it. She waited for his reaction, which took an exasperatingly long time. Her eyes burned, slightly, and she stepped away, fearful he might not—“Oh, the hell with it. Just because you already know this, doesn’t mean I can’t—” she started.
He yanked her back into his arms and kissed her hard, slanting his mouth back and forth, coaxing her to open to him. A single brush with the tip of his tongue, and she swirled hers up to greet his. Finn lifted her off the ground and stepped through the hatchway before putting her down. In the privacy of the passage, he pressed her against the wall and nipped at her bottom lip.
Rallying to his game of kiss and release, she caught the bottom ledge of his lip with her teeth and tugged. “Mmm.” His mouth skimmed over hers. “Before I rip all your clothes off and get us tossed in the brig for”—he continued to angle soft kisses over her mouth—“indecent lipsucking, might we take this up again in private?”
He backed away reluctantly. “I’m going to run down and check on MacGregor. Then I’d like to freshen up a bit. Have you any idea where my cabin is?”
“I know where my mine is.” She smiled. “Number eleven.”
Chapter Thirty-three
Finn entered cabin eleven and his jaw dropped at the sight of her. A naked beauty had fallen asleep on her bed. His gaze slipped past the angle of her shoulder and moved down an elegant curve of spine. He lingered on a lovely rounded hip and two perfect globes of derriere before traveling down shapely legs that went on—forever.
He needed to be near her, to enter her body and experience her shudder from his touch. She was sleeping soundly and hardly stirred when he took her in his arms and stroked her smooth, tawny skin.
Cate stirred. “Am I in a dream?”
“I love you, Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. I love your shoulder, your spine, your hip, and this—” He ran his tongue along a rise of hip to her buttock cheek. “I have loved every moment ever spent with you—and I am going to make every exquisite part of your body come alive.” His words buffeted softly against her mouth as he brushed his lips across hers.
She opened eyes that were desirous—of him. “With hot cockles and swivery?” Her words were coolly mysterious—even provocative, until her lips curled upward. She turned onto her side and lifted a brow. “Mind telling me what it means?”
“The cockles or the swivery?” he teased as his gaze lingered over bare peach skin. “Two bodies. Naked. Doing a bit of sheet shaking—in this berth together.” Finn turned her over on her stomach and smacked her bottom for emphasis.
He laid a condom packet beside the bed, pulled off his boots, and unbuttoned his trousers. An erection strained against his drawers as Cate tugged at the strings that would loose the dragon and allow his raucous cock to spring to life. Standing at the edge of the bed, he took hold of her knees and pulled her bottom toward the edge of the mattress. He needed to see all of her. Placing himself between her legs, he opened her wide—enough to memorize every glistening detail, from the wet petals of her sex to the wanton smolder in her eyes.
“You are the most exquisitely beautiful thing I have ever seen.” His hands traced light caresses up and down the insides of her thighs. “Let go, Cate—abandon every inhibition and let me pleasure you.”
She flung her arms overhead and gasped as his fingers brushed lightly over moist curls and slipped into her body. He played with her arousal in stages, first with his fingers, moving rhythmically inside her—tantalizing secret places, while his thumb opened tender folds and circled her most sensitive spot. She responded by rotating her pelvis and pressing against his fingers to ease her erotic torment. “Please,” she begged, but he refused her.
“Not so fast,
Cate.”
Bending over her, he ran a trail of kisses down the inside of each thigh—until his lips and tongue found the engorged spot between her legs to suckle and lick and circle. He delved deeper, swimming in the very juices of her arousal, delirious and intoxicated by the scent and taste of her.
He listened carefully to her every sigh, every tremble and shudder. And just as she was nearing the edge, he lifted away. In wicked, playful answer, she took hold of his shaft and stroked. He had no idea how long he would be able to last, to hold off his finish.
She urged him on, drawing his mouth down over a nipple. And he suckled and nipped and fondled until she was once more writhing beneath him. He reached for the rubber goods. “Let me,” she whispered. While she rolled on the condom, he found the small of her back and slid his hands down to cup each buttock cheek. He tilted her pelvis and filled her with his stiff, smooth shaft. He did not ease himself in, but took her roughly, pumping hard and deep. And she was warm and slick and so wonderfully—flexible.
She answered every thrust, drawing him in as he groaned in response. “Take me to the end of it.” She gasped, winding both legs around his hips. He slipped a finger between them—adding another level to her pleasure and sending her over the edge. Her body trembled with the strength of her climax, shuddering, then bucking under him as she breathed the words. “I do love you, Agent Gunn.” In answer to her words, his own shattering release came in waves, each one stronger than the last, until he collapsed beside her.
Limbs entwined, they drifted in and out of sleep, resting in each other’s arms.
After years of cutting off any uncomfortable closeness with women, he had developed fiercely possessive and protective feelings toward this young lady. It seemed he had tumbled hard into a deep and abiding love for Catriona de Dovia Willoughby.
“Darling?” he whispered, nuzzling a pretty ear.
“M-mm?” The murmured answer of a woman well pleasured.
Finn propped himself on an elbow. “Since I believe you to be thoroughly sated and amiable, for the moment, might you tell me something about how you came to be such an expert cat burglar and jewel thief? No use hiding anymore; it is quite impossible to deny your skills in the matter. Especially since you have done such an excellent job at stealing my heart.”
She turned onto her back and opened somnolent blue eyes. “If you must know, I come from a long line of jewel thieves, on both sides of the family.”
He couldn’t resist touching a smooth translucent nipple that peaked when he circled. “Go on.”
“Abuelo de Dovia, in his day, was a master cat burglar—nearly invisible at his work. Not only was he never caught; in the thirty-five years he plied his trade, there were only two reported glimpses of El Gato del Claro de Luna—the Moonlight Cat. Sylvain’s friend, the clockmaker, tells me he was known as Chat de Saint, in France.”
“I take it he apprenticed you in the trade?”
Cate nodded. “Against all the family’s wishes. Aunts, uncles—Grandmother.”
Finn drew his brows together. “Why not your brother?”
She shrugged. “Eduardo did not take to it. He was always more concerned with politics and progressive reforms—from the time he was quite young.” Her cheeks blushed with color. “After Father and Mother were killed, I believe Grandfather wished to leave a legacy.” She rolled bright eyes that were now even bluer, if that was possible. “Odd, I know, but there is a code of sorts—pride and honor amongst thieves, I suppose.”
Finn drew in a breath. “Let me guess—Baron Brooke was also involved in stolen goods: large heists, the kind one can’t easily fence without causing a stir, even amongst the more talented thieves.” Finn plumped up a pillow and tucked it behind them. “Peer of the realm, excellent cover—strange I never ran across him.”
“I have a theory that he sold most of his gems on the Continent. Shortly after he died, someone stole the ledger he kept along with the jewels.” Cate tucked herself against him and sighed. “Eduardo had to be the one to tell his comrades about the jewels—perhaps about the time this shadow group split off. This new faction may have taken some of the jewels and sold them off quite hastily through a private seller.” Lost in conjecture, Cate chewed on her lower lip. “Anarchists are always in dire need of funds—but then, you know that.”
“The way we catch them is by following the money or the arms deals,” Finn added quietly.
She shot a shy glance his way. “I’m afraid you’re involved with a gypsy thief, Agent Gunn.”
Finn brushed a few hairs back from her cheek. “Actually, I believe I’ve fallen for a première danseuse, desperate to put her dear departed uncle’s estate in order—a respected member of the peerage who resorted to a few discreet heists.”
“You believe me then?”
Finn stared at her for quite a long moment before flashing his eyes upward. “Well, not entirely—yet. You will earn my full trust, Miss Willoughby, when you return all the unsold jewels to Scotland Yard, as was our agreement days ago.”
Cate smiled one of her mysterious Cheshire cat grins.
“What?” It was good to see her face light up and hear a chortle of laughter.
“Nothing. You shall see, soon enough, sir.”
A knock at the door startled them both. “We dock at Cherbourg within the half hour.”
* * *
THE LATE AFTERNOON sun caused Cate to squint up and down the dock.
Dressed in gentlemen’s traveling clothes, a clean-shaven Nicolas Crowe met Finn and Cate at the dock in Cherbourg. She and Finn walked over to a nearby café, one close to a wire office, and sat down with Fortesque and Crowe.
“How is Eduardo? Is my brother recovered yet?” Cate asked.
This valuable British agent was quite a handsome man—not as handsome as Finn when she compared the two, but the man had his appeal. Crowe stared at her. “I’m afraid your brother has disappeared, Miss Willoughby.”
“Disappeared? I don’t understand. He wasn’t well.”
“Eduardo was sick in Paris, we all were, but he was long recovered.”
“An old prisoner’s ploy,” Finn muttered.
The undercover operative pulled a letter from an inside coat pocket. “He left this for you.”
The seal had been broken on the folded missive. Cate frowned. “You read this?”
Crowe sighed. “I believe you will understand why I opened the letter, if you read it, Miss Willoughby.”
“He’s gone to Paris.” She frowned. “If you believe that. Says he’d rather not be returned to British soil . . .” Her eyebrows furrowed as she read on. “Claims he was betrayed by a faction within Los Tigres, a ruthless group of men who are planning a very great disruption in London—on the evening of twenty-first.” She looked up from reading. “That’s—?”
“Tomorrow.” Finn’s dark gaze met hers.
Crowe lowered his voice. “I’ve already wired Melville and alerted him to the threat.” He stared directly at Cate. “He mentions a name in conjunction with a warning. Means nothing to me, but might you know this man?”
She nodded. “Francisco Guàrdia. He and Eduardo were close for a time, almost like brothers, but there was a falling-out last year. Francisco was . . .” She chewed a bit of bottom lip. “An impatient, passionate sort of progressive—rather high-strung. At least that is what I recall of him.”
Finn stopped a water boy and sent him off for a British paper. “What do you know about him, Cate? Does anything stand out? Some sort of training—was he a chemist, did he have an expertise in arms—?”
Cate straightened. “He was a marksman.” She scanned the faces around the table. “Eduardo sometimes called him Sniper.”
“Your brother is quite possibly handing us a valuable tip.” Adrian leaned back in his chair. “If I’m not mistaken there is a contingency of high-ranked Spanish officials in London this week.”
The boy ran up to Finn with a paper and was tipped handsomely. He snapped opened the London
Telegraph, and scanned up and down. “Right you are, Adrian—two men, the Spanish prime minister, Sagasta, and the governor of Puerto Rico, Romulado Palacios Gonzales.”
All three men rose from their chairs at once and headed for the wire office.
Cate read her brother’s letter again and reread the last paragraph twice. He apologized for running out on her. Again. Typical. Cupping her chin in her palm, she added more hot milk to her coffee and stirred. Perhaps this was all she might ever expect of her brother. Brief encounters, hurried hellos, and good-byes. A sudden rush of loneliness swept over her.
She glanced up from her swirling spoon. Newspaper rolled in hand, Finn strode toward her across a cobbled lane. He jumped a rain puddle. A bit of mud splashed onto his boots—making him all the more dashing. This man would never run out on her. He would always protect her and care for her. He looked up and smiled. “We’re off to London, my dear.”
He was hers.
Chapter Thirty-four
A secretary named Quinn tapped a courtesy knock on the door and gestured for her and Finn to slip inside Director Melville’s office.
“A theatrical hall full of patrons, a skeleton crew of agents—this is a disaster before it’s begun.” The grumbling voice came from behind a great desk piled high with case folders. A gray-haired man with very woolly muttonchop whiskers leaned forward in a squeaky worn leather chair. He held a cable message in one hand. “And how the hell are we supposed to identify this assassin?”
Cate blinked. “I can, sir.”
The man behind the desk stood up as they entered the room. “Mr. Gunn.” The whiskered gentleman turned to her. “And this young lady, I presume, is the sister of Eduardo de Dovia.”
Finn made introductions. “Cate, this is William Melville, director of Special Branch. And his right hand man, Chief Inspector Zeno Kennedy.”
A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Page 29
