by Jenny Brown
“Do your lips still burn?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Perhaps I can soothe them.”
He leaned toward her, and his lips met hers, parting them with the tip of his tongue. It was hot—hot with spice, and hot with the warmth of rising blood. She sucked hungrily at him and felt his tongue swell in her mouth, pulsing and sending waves of desire throughout her body. His hands cupped her breasts, kneading them through the thin fabric. Her nipples hardened as his thumbs pressed against the stiff peaks, which rose to meet his touch. He was responding to her unspoken desire, and once again, she was losing control.
She struggled to regain it. Much as she wanted him, she feared to give herself entirely into his power. She pulled away slightly, and when she did, he didn’t attempt to draw her back but waited patiently until she got up the courage to rejoin him. Then he savored her kiss the way he had each mouthful of their feast, with the same unhurried calm.
He would enjoy her, but he wouldn’t let himself need her. He wouldn’t let himself lose control any more than she would if she had a choice.
But he gave her no choice. He kissed her until she thought she must tear off her clothes and fling herself on him, so strong was the hunger he’d aroused in her. But he still made no move to remove her garments or his own. She reached for the swelling bulge barely contained by his buckskins, brushing her fingers across it, provocatively. He grasped her wrist and gently lifted her hand away. As he had when he’d stopped her from stealing at the masquerade.
“Not yet,” he said, smiling that tormenting half smile of his. “Curry must be savored in small bites. Let us linger over every step as we get to know each other better.”
He was holding her off. Charmingly, gracefully, but effectively. He had found a way to control her, and he was using it. He was playing her game, better than she played it. The sense that they understood each other deepened. Then he drew away, pausing like a cat poised above a rat hole. He wanted something from her, and it wasn’t her body. He had that already, and he knew it. He wanted something more.
“I will take you, Temperance, and then I will leave you for my chosen bride. By this time next year, I will be ten thousand miles away. I pledge you nothing. And yet you want me. You are beautiful. You are clever. You could do better than me—far better. Why do you need to be punished?” he demanded. “What is it that you’ve done?”
Trev saw her shrink back at his question. It had touched her to the core as no sexual move of his could have done. She’d been willing to strip herself naked and let him possess her body even if it meant suffering pain. But she hadn’t expected this. She was retreating now, hiding her soul in the same tattered covering she’d already pulled so tightly around her heart, unwilling to show him that kind of nakedness.
But he must make her do it. His body burned for her, but he had disciplined his body to suffer hunger and thirst, for without discipline, a soldier died young. He could ignore the throbbing in his loins. He could endure pain that dwarfed this insistent craving. A soldier must learn to ignore pain if he was to survive amid the agonies of battle.
But she’d penetrated too deeply within his own defenses for him to be satisfied with just possessing her body. He must understand how she’d done what no other woman had ever done—how she’d made him drop his guard. What was it about her he was reacting to? Why had he been so close to tears when he’d twisted the knob of her door, convinced he’d find her gone? He must learn why, so he could keep it from ever happening again.
“What have you done,” he repeated, “that you would let me become an instrument of punishment? That’s not what I want to be. Yet you would have let me hurt you. And even when I try to be gentle, you hurry me and urge me to take you before we have a chance to know each other. Why? Is it because you can’t pardon yourself for being unfaithful to your dead lover?”
She flinched.
“Were you faithful to him while he lived?”
She nodded. But as she did, her gray eyes grew more luminous as the tear she was trying to suppress escaped and hung for a moment on the edge of her lashes.
“And he. Was he faithful to you?”
The tear rolled down her cheek.
Bastard. “He must have been a brave man to betray you. I should think twice before offering you such an insult. How did he dare do such a thing knowing your strength?”
Her answer was spoken in a voice that was barely a whisper. “I trusted him too much. But he didn’t believe in marriage. He said we must live in freedom, not like slaves, and that fidelity was just a form of slavery.”
How convenient for the man. “Was he the first?”
Again, she nodded.
“How old were you?
“Almost sixteen.”
So very young. Too young. “Where did you meet him?”
“At the fair in our village. He’d brought his crew with him—it was as close to a holiday as he’d allow them. He said it was good to travel around and learn the people’s mind. While the girls went out a-knuckling, he’d get people talking to him, pretending to tell their fortunes.”
“Did he tell you yours?”
“He said I would marry a wealthy man just like my father and give birth to more parasites to prey upon the workers.” She blinked back another tear.
“An odd way to make love to a woman.”
“He wasn’t making love to me. He was making revolution. He said I was just an empty-headed rich girl. I said that was a lie. I told him I would prove it. He laughed and said I couldn’t give myself to a poor man.”
“Did you prove that was a lie, too?”
She bit her upper lip and looked down.
Clever bastard, but he said only, “And where was your mother in all this? Too busy oppressing the workers to notice?”
“She died at my birth. I was raised by the woman my father married later. She spent her time praying for God to soften my hard heart, so I might not sin and fall into the fiery pit.”
“But you did sin, didn’t you. You sinned when you gave yourself to this man without marriage. Why?”
She bit her lip and said nothing for a long time. Then she took a deep breath. “At the fair, Randall had told me there was a book I must read, The Rights of Man. He said he’d bring it to me that night if I’d meet him behind the stables. So I did. But my father found us together and went after Randall with a horsewhip.” She shook her head as if trying to get rid of the memory. “Then he used it on me. He went mad, he did, and called me filthy names not even the stableboys would use.”
She stopped. Only the way her chest was heaving betrayed the emotion she had kept out of her voice.
Gently, he prodded her. “What happened next?”
Her eyes had taken on a pleading look. “I was so innocent, I didn’t even know what it was my father thought I’d done. I’d only let Randall kiss me—nothing more, and I didn’t know, back then, what came after kissing. But when he was done whipping me, my father dragged me home and locked me in my room. So I showed him. I smashed out the window and escaped. I found Randall at the fair and begged him to take me back with him to London.” A faraway look had come over her face. She hesitated. “He didn’t want to, not at first, but I convinced him.”
“Was it then that you found out what it was your father thought you’d done?”
Her eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, I gave Randall my maidenhead that night.”
“Did he love you?”
“I thought he did.”
When she opened them again, her eyes had lost their sparkle. Her words had been oddly chosen. He’d lay a pony on it—there was a secret buried here—but he gave up his probing for the moment. He’d disturbed her enough—and himself, too.
This lover of hers had been a scoundrel and her great love a tawdry affair. He was glad the bastard was dead. He’d taken her innocence from her, not just her virginity. He ached for girl she had once been, vibrant with ideals, whose courage had not been equal to a scoundrel’s cunning. He
wished he could soothe her even though it was his own merciless probing that caused her pain. He yearned to enfold her in his arms, tenderly, and offer her comfort.
But he resisted the impulse. The curve of her breast was too enticing. He didn’t trust himself to offer her only comfort. If he were to touch the downy softness of her skin, he might not be able to stop himself, and he must—else he would be no better than this Randall of hers had been.
But that wasn’t the only reason he must leave her untouched. For when he’d stripped away her defenses and forced her to reveal the bleeding wound that was her heart, he’d torn open his own wounds, too. Her pain echoed with his own, as different as its cause might be. She wasn’t the only one whose heart was raw and naked. If they were to make love while both were so exposed, far more than just their bodies might merge—and, after a few brief weeks, he would have to leave her. It would deepen her wound.
It wasn’t right. He wouldn’t do it.
She reclined against the sensuous cushions on which he had planned to take his pleasure with her, her head thrown back, her swanlike neck curving down to the delicate collarbone, beneath which rose the mounds of her perfect breasts. She arched her back, making those breasts more prominent, with a motion that was intended to distract him.
She’d had more than enough of the pain he’d evoked in her. Now she was doing what she’d done before when he’d made her feel too much—offering him her beautiful body in that cold, flirtatious way, to arouse him to where he could think of nothing but taking his own pleasure, to make him stop asking her more questions.
He wouldn’t respond to that temptation. He wouldn’t take her now. He pulled away from her.
“You don’t want me, now that you’ve heard my story?” Her voice sounded so young, like that of a hurt child.
“I don’t know what I want. But you deserve more than what I can give you. You need more.”
His cock disagreed—it would take a lot more than a pang of conscience to cool the lust awakened by her perfect body. But he was more than a cock, more than the mindless need that drove him to plunge himself into a woman until he was satisfied. He wished he weren’t. He wished he could take what she offered him and be done with it. It was what any other man would do. But he wasn’t another man.
A scoundrel had taken her with no care for what he’d done, playing on her youth and her idealism and teaching her she was wrong to ask for love or faithfulness. He wouldn’t worsen the damage that man had done.
“You need love,” he said. “You need fidelity.” But he did not say the rest of it, that she needed to join the glory of what she was with a man bold enough to join with her not only with his body but with his soul. That for him to give her less than that would be to make her in truth what she pretended to be—a hardened woman of the world, resigned to using her magnificent gifts to tempt and manipulate. If he took what she was offering, he’d be no better than that man who had taken her childhood from her.
She stretched one hand toward him, desperately—not to flirt with him, but as if she would sink if he didn’t grasp it. He left it alone. He’d already fallen twice for the illusion he might rescue her, and neither attempt at rescue had done more than draw them both into deeper danger.
He stood. “It’s getting late, and Rajiv must be wanting to shut up shop.” He smoothed out his tunic. “Let me take you back to your lodging.”
Chapter 10
He had expected the ride back to her lodgings to be awkward, but once he’d made it clear that he wouldn’t accept anything from her that night but her company, she’d relaxed and dropped some of the flirtatiousness with which she’d been trying to control him. Once or twice, he’d got a glimpse of the woman she might become if she could only leave off playing the games that so consumed her. But even so, his new resolve hadn’t dampened the desire he felt in her presence, and it had been a relief to bid her good night.
His mother was still up when he returned to Keppel Street.
“So there you are at last!” she greeted him. “There’s been such a to-do. A messenger brought this letter for you and demanded I tell him where you were, but I’m sure I couldn’t, for I certainly didn’t know. It was quite vexing how the man carried on—as if I were hiding something. Some people don’t trust anyone!”
One glance at the seal told him it was from Fanshawe. He hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon. What could he want?
A meeting, it turned out. This very night. No delay was possible, the under secretary wrote. He’d be at his office until way past midnight and must ask Captain Trevelyan to attend him there as soon as possible. A matter had come up he must discuss with him immediately—and only in person.
He sighed. The style was one he’d encountered before when working for Sir Charles. These men who directed secret missions had an unquenchable thirst for midnight meetings and assignations in improbable places, almost always unnecessary. He must count himself fortunate the letter had not been written in invisible ink. It was unlikely the matter about which Fanshawe had summoned him would require so dramatic a treatment. But perhaps the man was testing him, to ensure he was more than a dabbler.
Whatever the explanation, it made him feel better about having let his compunctions get in the way of taking his affair with Temperance to its logical conclusion. If he had spent the night with her, he’d have missed the appointment and left Fanshawe with a poor impression of his commitment. It had been a lucky impulse that had brought him home early, after all.
He was about to take his leave of his mother, when she said, “I went to see that astrologer woman, the other day.”
“Lady Hartwood?”
“Yes, the one who found Lady Pemberton’s emeralds. Everyone goes to see her now—she’s become all the rage. Though she’s a bit eccentric, she’s definitely one of us, so one can tell her things one simply couldn’t tell a Gypsy. And she can answer any question with just the horoscopes she casts.”
His hand tightened on Fanshawe’s letter as he asked, “And what did she tell you?”
His mother made a moue. “That’s the provoking part. I gave her your birth information, and she erected a chart, but she refused to find you a match. She said it wouldn’t be right to attempt it unless you came and asked her yourself. She did condescend to look at my nativity and promised I would live to see my grandchildren. But how I am to get them when you will not lift a finger to find a bride, I do not know.”
“You must ask the stars,” he said with a wry grin, and went upstairs to prepare for his meeting with Fanshawe.
When Trev arrived at the East India Company building on Leadenhall Street, he found Mr. Fanshawe awaiting him in his office. The half-eaten sandwich lying on his desk amid the carefully piled pouches of dispatches signaled he had been working throughout the evening and would keep on working throughout the night, were that to be required. After welcoming Trev, he got right to the point. “We’ve had a change in plan.”
“Are you calling off my visit to the nabob?” The unworthy thought crossed his mind that this would give him more time to spend with Temperance.
But the under secretary quickly dashed his hopes. “Just the opposite. We’ve moved up its date. You must set forth for Sir Humphrey’s estate at the end of this week.”
Again he found himself grateful that he had followed his instincts and left Temperance alone. It would have been too painful for them both had he started something with her, then had to abandon her immediately.
“There’s something else.” Fanshawe cleared his throat. “I wish I didn’t have to ask this of you, but we have no other choice. Once you’ve taken possession of the jewel, we must ask you to deliver it to its owner in person.”
“But he is in India.”
Fanshawe nodded. “Exactly. But those who would foil our plans have stepped up their activity. We can’t afford to risk having the jewel fall into their hands, so we need this affair to be handled by a man of your experience.”
“But my leave—”
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“—is over.” The under secretary tented his hands on the desk. “It’s regrettable that you must cut it short when it has only just started, but if we fail to deliver the jewel to the Nawab of Bundilore, it will mean war. You are the only man we have on hand who has the right combination of skills to get the job done, so we must ask you to make this sacrifice.”
Trev swallowed hard. Had this been the plan all along? It might explain why Sir Charles had been so helpful in arranging his leave. But he couldn’t suppress a flash of anger. He’d earned this leave. He wasn’t ready to embark on another grueling six-month voyage when he was only just recovering from the first.
Not only that, but to return immediately would make a liar out of him, for he’d have no chance to find the wife he’d promised his mother he’d wed. But he fought these selfish thoughts. A soldier might be asked at any moment to give up his life in service to King and Country. How could he complain when all he’d been asked to sacrifice was his leave?
He forced himself to attend as Fanshawe sketched out the details he would need to know to carry out the mission, and nodded as he committed them to memory one by one.
“Good then,” Fanshawe said. “We’ve deposited a generous amount to an account in your name at Threadneedle Street. That should be sufficient for any needs that might arise, and, may also, we hope, compensate you for the sacrifice you are being asked to make.”
He made a show of shuffling through the pile of papers before him to signal their interview was coming to an end.
Trev had been right. The matter was one that could have waited until morning, but he didn’t begrudge the man his bit of drama. He was a paper wallah, and this was perhaps the most excitement his job afforded him. It was the men like himself who carried out their missions who had all the adventures. He straightened his tunic, preparing to rise, but as he did, the under secretary held out one beautifully manicured hand to stop him.
