by Baird Wells
“I've thought of something, from time to time,” she offered, freeing one of two remaining buttons.
“Mmm?”
“On the comte's estate.” Working fingers into his waistband, Olivia slid a palm over his shirt tail, tracing his thigh. He tensed, and heat fanned faster down her shoulder. “Would you have dared, had we not been interrupted?”
His head jerked up, eyes wild. “Knowing what I know about you now, not a chance.”
Not afraid of bullets or blades, but terrified of virginity.
Laughing, she brushed fingers inside his thigh. “If you did not know that.” Grabbing a fistful of linen, she yanked. Ty yelped and leaned further between her thighs.
“All things being fair and equal, Olivia, you have always had a hold over me,” he ground out. “In that moment, we could have been anywhere. The opera. A battlefield. Without interruption, I'd have managed.
“Impressive.”
“Mm.”
Her fingers played against his rib cage, raking the linen until the shirt was over his head. Olivia snatched it, tossing it over herself and settling her arms inside a length of sleeves.
“What… Are you doing?” His words came out as a strangled gasp.
Her chest strained at the hint of real fear in Ty's question. She choked back laughter and shrugged. “Now we're fifty-fifty. Bit more even.”
Ty glanced between them. “No. I've got boots yet. Socks.”
Pleased with her coup, she leaned back, bracing palms against a table, and grinned. “Then we must even the score.”
He stalked closer, and her heart pounded in earnest. “Meaning?” he drawled.
“Meaning that's hardly fair. They must come off.”
Ty's hands darted for a boot, but she grabbed his wrist. “They have to come off when I am done.”
“When I am dead,” he muttered, softening his displeasure with a wink.
Grabbing up fists full of his shirt, Olivia gathered them to her nose, inhaling deeply of all the things that were Ty. Coarse weave raked across her nipples and the wide hem brushed her hips. Her resolve began to melt away.
She rested a hand on each of his shoulders. “I'd pay good coin for a bed and some privacy,” she mimicked.
“I would,” he protested, eyes following the path of her fingers. “Tomorrow. Next week. But not now, Olivia. Right now, I'll have you on this table and not complain a bit.”
“Our bed is right there,” she protested.
“We are already right here.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?” She studied him with narrowed eyes, a shiver running up her spine. “You want something.”
Fingers brushed her breast. “An accurate statement.”
She swatted him away. “Not that. You want something, and you know I'm going to protest.”
“Not,” Ty murmured into her neck, “if we conclude this diversion first.”
Shoving a knee between their bodies, she planted a foot in Ty's gut, putting space between them.
He shrugged, grinning ear to ear. “You're always more agreeable, after.”
“That’s to your credit, but don't let it go to your head.” She lowered her foot, letting him close again and draping arms around his neck. “Let's have it.”
“London,” he announced, needing to offer no more explanation.
“When?”
“He desires within a fortnight.”
He being Ty's father, of course. The idea made her nervous. Court life, what little of it she'd been forced to swallow since fleeing to England, was not to her taste. As a bastard, Ty was free to consort with whomever he chose, but the thought of even that small sliver of scrutiny made her stomach churn.
“You'll come with me?” His plea was soft.
She bit her lip, praying Ty would understand. “I need to be here, when things are settled with Fouche.”
And of course, he did. “I can give you that much time,” Ty assured, tracing her cheek with the tip of his nose. “I can wait.”
Ty's promise stole the breath from her chest. She pressed her lips to his in a gesture bereft of words.
Damp palms pressed heat through the shirt at her back. Ty slid her from the table, catching her hip when her uncertain feet struck the floor. Not until he'd twined their fingers together did Ty break their kiss. He met her eyes, pulling her one step at a time across the rug. “How can I deserve you?” he whispered.
“We deserve each other,” she teased, breath coming faster.
He didn't laugh or even smile, making clear he was in no mood for a jest.
She relented when they reached the bed. “I don't think it works like that. We're not prizes to be awarded.”
“Then what?” he asked, settling on the white coverlet, creasing its blue needlework.
“Two halves of a whole?” She shrugged, stepping between his knees and forcing him to lean back.”
His hand traced the curve of her thigh, raising his shirt hem in its path. “That simple?”
Olivia snatched the linen, jerked the shirt off over her head and let it drop. “Nothing simple about it.” She worked one knee beside him, sucking in a breath at his calloused palms weighing her breasts.
“Simple enough, at the moment.”
Her other knee up, and Olivia straddled him, enveloped in citrus. Wool trousers scraped her thighs, transferring heat between their bodies. “How is that?”
“I'm going to lie back,” Ty raised both arms, then fell against the mattress like a downed oak, “and you are going to make love to me, and we’ll be whole.”
Yanking at his waistband, she nodded. He was right; it was simple.
* * *
After, she pulled away from Ty, wriggling up the bed and opening her bedside drawer. Olivia fished in dim light for the folded paper she’d put there earlier. “I claimed this for you, when I was in Antwerp. A memento.” She held out the ledger page, creased neatly in half. “A poor one,” she admitted, “But I thought you should have something.”
First he skimmed the page. His brows furrowed and his frown seemed stuck. Then he pulled away, wriggling up the bed until he was sitting. “What is this?”
“A passenger manifest?” She assumed it would be obvious. Leaning over, she pointed to Kate's signature near the bottom of the page, scrawled across two lines.
“I don't understand.” She watched his eyes search the words again. “I took the manifest Kate signed. I took it to Webb. Showed it to him.”
“That's not possible. I found this in the customs office in Antwerp. A different Katherine Foster, perhaps?”
“No.” He waved the paper at her. “The handwriting is the same. I would know it anywhere. And anyway, I found my copy in the customs office in Antwerp.” He looked at her, confusion written across his face.
“She might have changed ships. There were so many leaving that day, hers might have been full.”
“Which day?” Ty was unfolding the manifest again.
“The day of Waterloo. Everyone was fleeing in a panic.”
Finally, he met her eyes.
Understanding dawned on her in the same moment he must have grasped the truth. She dared the thinnest smile at the tangle they’d uncovered. “Kate was not aboard the Union. But why did she leave?” What had been so dire that Kate had fled shipboard?”
“The bloody retreat,” muttered Ty, more to himself than for her ears. After a breath, he looked at her with anguish almost equal to when he’d belied Kate dead. “Some hussars abandoned the field, during the worst of the fighting. She must have crossed paths with them in Antwerp and God knows what they told her.”
She pressed at a heart aching for Ty, and for Matthew and Kate. “Something so horrible that she believed all hope was lost.”
“Shite!” He sat fully upright, raking fingers through his hair. “Matthew is in for one goddamn surprise when he lands in New York.”
“Him? Think of her! How devastated was she, sailing for America without telling a soul, not even you?” Oli
via imagined the crushing agony she would feel in Kate’s place, thinking her love dead and the battle lost.
“Shite!” he barked again, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I would pay a king's ransom to see their faces. Serves them right for all their stubborn maneuvering.”
He was relieved, and angry at being relieved; she knew him well enough to read it in the tense lines of his face. Olivia wrapped her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. “No, it does not serve them right. They must both be in agony.” She kissed his chin. “But not for much longer, thanks to you.”
Muscles in his shoulders relaxed, and Ty exhaled. “What would have happened, if we had not dared that trip to London? If I hadn’t flayed Matthew and demanded he visit Kate’s home?” His face blanched. “I might have separated them and never set things right.” Folding up the manifest, he tossed it onto his bedside table and met her eyes. “God bless you, Mrs. Burrell.”
Her heart swelled at his use of her name, and she pecked a kiss to his temple. “I love you, too.”
Settling back against the pillows, he wrapped her with an arm and she gave in to his insistent tugging. “Whatever happens in our future, promise me something.”
Nodding, Olivia held her breath.
“This is very, very important. Olivia?”
“What?” she breathed, ready to make any number of promises to spare him the misery which Matthew and Kate must have endured.
“Promise me that you will never tell Webb about that second manifest. He'll chew my arse over this mistake for the rest of my days.”
Swallowing a laugh, she nestled closer to his side. “Hmm.”
He pulled back, eyes wide. “What? What is ‘hmm’?”
“Oh, nothing. I'll keep your secret.” She inspected her nails, fiddling with her ring. “For now.”
“Loyalty, Olivia,” he protested.
“Leverage,” she countered, enjoying the upper hand.
He ducked and stole a kiss, then dug two fingers into her ribs. “Witch!”
They lay there teasing and laughing, her threats escalating against his promises to subvert her. At last, Ty pulled her over him, and their laughter subsided.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Paris - December 4th, 1815
It had been difficult, getting used to staying in one place. Not moving from city to city, learning not to look over her shoulder each time she stepped onto the street.
Had, Olivia thought, leaning back into the embrace of Ty's favorite brown corduroy armchair. She stretched stockinged feet out across her ottoman, wiggling her toes in the heat that emanated from a glowing fireplace.
Slowly drifting snowflakes had spent the day forming a thin mantle over the peaks of Notre Dame, just visible out her parlor window, its ancient stone bathed in pink and rust by the sunset. Spiced tea warmed her from the inside, and Olivia took a moment to simply enjoy being cozy. After everything she’d endured, all that she’d done, it felt impossible to simply sit and be, but she was getting used to it.
Horseshoes clicking against the cobblestones out front sat her up in the chair.
Ty. She snapped her book shut and wrestled herself from the chair's plush depths.
Padding along the hall's cold marble, she reached the foyer just as Morley opened the front door.
Her breath caught at seeing Ty, as it always did. He still stopped her heart when she spied him in a crowd or when they had been apart all day.
Water beaded in the black cape of his wool greatcoat and dripped from the brim of his black top hat. She waited for him to remove his gloves, then took his chilled hand.
His other palm pressed to her belly, looking her over as though she might break. “How are my two darlings faring this evening?”
Olivia started to answer, then stifled a protracted yawn against the back of her hand. The exhaustion of early pregnancy had yet to even out into a measured fatigue. Each afternoon had become a challenge, fighting to keep her eyes open through dinner for Ty's benefit. “We're well enough, under house arrest.”
“Incarceration, until it stops snowing,” he agreed, leading them back down the hall.
“Not particularly knightly behavior, Lord Burrell.”
Ty's eyebrows wiggled, and he pointed to an empty lapel. “Well I'm not wearing my medal just now, you see, so it doesn't apply.”
“Oh.” She nodded slowly. “Keep me locked up for too long, and I'll not be held responsible for what happens to you.”
He had all sorts of notions about her condition. Foods with too much spice, tight stays, slippery walks, bouncing carriages. Hot rooms. Cold rooms. With Kate's help, they had talked him out of the boughs on most worries. New snowfall had made him intractable, so fiercely adamant that Olivia, surprised by his swell of concern, had given in.
Ty glanced over his shoulder at Morley as they passed from the hall. “A runner, from Grayfield's office?”
“Yes, sir. I'll get it for you.”
“No, Tyler,” she pleaded. “No letters at the table. No treaties at coffee. Just for tonight.” If he wasn't with Webb or the prime minister, he was with the regiment. Peacetime ironically meant less of Ty to go around.
Ty held up a finger. “One. Webb has had me at the sand table all day, and I have one thing to address.” He pecked her cheek. “Then I am the lady's to command.”
He pulled out her chair at their small rectangular dining table. It was so small that the white cloth had to be doubled and the dishes crowded comically for a place in its center. It had been a card table, in another life. They'd both grown tired of arranging themselves at angles or distances around the hulking plank that had once stood in its place.
“Hmm.” She leaned forward over one silver-domed serving tray and inhaled.
Folding into his chair, Ty glanced up, grinning. “What, checking for poison?”
Pursing her lips, she peeked underneath the lid. “Just grateful that food smells appetizing, for a change.”
“Lord and saints be praised!” he cried. “I can't bear any more of your complaining about boiled oats.”
Morley’s reappearance paused sharp retort on her lips, then stole it completely. “What is that?”
Whatever it was he toted beneath a black velvet arm, it was not what she’d expected. A brown paper square, nearly two feet in both directions, it was considerably larger than a letter.
Ty claimed it from Morley’s white gloves, then held it out to her. “I may be more excited by this than you. It has been in the works some time.”
“What on earth is it?” she repeated, resting one edge in her lap and letting it rest back against the table.
“Open it,” Ty whispered. “See for yourself.”
She plucked one end of the brown twine, then laughed as Ty leaned in impatiently, cutting through string with his small pen knife. Olivia folded back the paper an inch at a time.
Gold. The first thing she saw was wood carved into swirling fans, laid with gold gilt. It was a frame. Self -control draining away, she grasped the paper's seam and tore.
Ty’s eyes were boring holes into her; she could feel it, feel him waiting for some reaction, but she could only stare. “How…” She traced a lock of hair, the arch of beautiful smiling lips. Then she met Ty's eyes, hers brimming with tears. “How did you do this?”
“Lady Grayfield’s skill with a brush receives all credit. I described the portrait from the estate until her sketches were exact. Ethan was able to arrange…” Ty cleared his throat against a fist, “The Duchess also lent some ideas, in gratitude for Bordeaux.”
She raked fingers at Ty, and he filled them with his handkerchief. Olivia caught the dampness on her cheeks with it, still stroking her mother's face. It was not a replica of the chateau portrait, or the formal paintings owned by Uncle Edward, images of a familiar woman who didn’t quite seat with her own recollection. Impossibly, it was her mother as Olivia remembered her.
“Where would you like to hang it?”
Nowhere. Not yet. Sl
iding out from her chair, she set it atop the mantle's white plaster where it could be glimpsed without being in her line of sight. She wasn’t ready.
Ty got up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “We can send it to Portsmouth for safe keeping. Store it in London until we return home.”
“Not yet.” She closed her eyes, leaning into him and feeling his reassuring heartbeat at her back. “Not just yet.” She pushed him away before she was ready, not willing to deprive Ty of a hot dinner when her fickle appetite had left him with more than a few lukewarm meals of late.
“Grayfield came to see me today.” Ty pulled out her chair and offered his news in quick succession, as though legs scraping over a wood floor would help drown it out.
She couldn't fight a scowl that creased her face, both at Ty's news and the sudden betrayal of her stomach against dinner. “What about?” Any time Ethan began poking, it was cause for worry.
“Talleyrand is formally dismissed. Fouche has been relieved of his post in Saxony.”
Pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, she warred to pick out any one emotion from the storm inside. Any sense of joy or relief would be long in coming. First she would have to trust that Fouche was really and truly gone.
“Not far enough,” she muttered. Or dead enough. She couldn't bring herself to say the words out loud.
Ty stopped cutting and held her eyes. “He's going a little farther yet. His cartloads of blood money are being moved to his estates in Trieste. Provisional government wants him gone by week’s end.” He squeezed her hand, infusing some enthusiasm into her where they touched. “This is our doing, Olivia. We accomplished this.”
“Out of government, and out of France.” She dared the faintest smile. “We completed our mission, and in just under a year.” Still irrationally annoyed by Ethan's interference in their world of two, she speared a piece of chicken. “What did Grayfield want with you, besides that news?” With Ethan it was never just one thing. The man was a consummate juggler.
