Beauty and the Spymaster

by Moriah Densley

  Standing victorious, blood surging in his veins like ignited fuel and his muscles vibrating with ready strength… the last time he’d experienced battlefield elation had rushed over him.

  Blood matted on his sleeves, gunpowder burned into his nostrils, and endless billows of smoke obscured the cacophony of cries from their sources… The horrible crying came from impaled horses, men blown apart and dying, and men still standing and roaring in challenge.

  War was Satan’s symphony, and when England took Julian from a plow and put a rifle in his hands, he’d discovered he played it like a master. His head clear in conflict, his reflexes and stamina superior, he was vulnerable to the buzz of victory when a foe came within inches of taking his life then lost the contest.

  It began as a humming under his sternum then grew to a pounding, consuming pleasure he craved. Julian had volunteered in the advance party, where the combat was fiercest. He’d earned the nickname Thunder Grey from his comrades for his lusty battle cries; they said it made his enemies soil their trousers, and that only inflated his ego. He’d become openly cavalier, disrespectful of the sacrifice a fallen soldier made, regardless of his uniform. Young and stupid, Julian had fancied himself some sort of Hercules, throwing himself into the fray and emerging victorious with nothing worse than a scratch.

  When the Brotherhood of the Falcon had recruited him, he’d secretly relished the government-sanctioned violence, all in the name of Britannia. Even years later when he’d accepted the position as vicar to serve as a communication liaison for the council, he’d adopted his holy duties with minimal discomfort, hiding behind the fact that the men he’d killed were enemies who’d tried to kill him first.

  Seeing Chauncey shot between the eyes and crumpling lifeless to the ground, Julian was grateful — humbled, and relieved that he’d not been the one behind the smoking gun. Even though he’d seen Chauncey stab Devon and aim a pistol at his heart, had the task of eliminating Chauncey fallen on Julian, it would have been murder. Because he would’ve done it out of desire, even pleasure, and vengeance. None of those were elements of righteous self-defense.

  And he was guilty of it on dozens — perhaps hundreds — of counts. The truth he’d buried for so long rose from its shallow grave and shook its ghostly limbs in his face. In his core, he had the same illness as Chauncey, the same madness as his own father.

  The line that separated Julian from hell had never seemed so thin.

  “Word has it you’re the man of the hour.”

  He startled, and on instinct his right hand grasped for the handle of a pistol that wasn’t there. Suddenly he felt cold without a shirt on, and even more naked than he was. “Helena.” He hadn’t meant to say it like a growl.

  “LeRoy was quite a nasty villain. You’ll probably be canonized. Saint Julian...” She leaned against the doorjamb, one hand propped on her waist. Her gaze swept around the room then settled on him.

  He was ready for the blow-to-the-gut sensation as their eyes met, but he couldn’t think of a damned thing to say to her.

  “The surgeon just left. He said Lord Devon will recover from his stab wounds, but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Of course. She should be concerned with Lord Devon. Her son-in-law… and it would be dishonest to say he wasn’t revolted, knowing Devon was also one of her lovers. Formerly. No, that didn’t help—

  “It was Roderick Montegue,” Helena snapped, one brow lowered and her lips pursed.

  “What?”

  “You think I had an affair with the current Lord Devon, and you’re wrong.” She certainly didn’t mince words. “It was Roderick Montegue, the late elder brother. Wilhelm was a boy of sixteen then, and I’ve never had much of an appetite for veal.”

  “Oh. Right.” Lame of him, but it was all he could do not to blink and look stupid. Probably too late on the stupid count.

  She straightened and stared him down. Slowly she shut the door. He swallowed hard when she turned the lock with a sinister click. She approached the bed with a loose-hipped saunter, putting him in mind of a tabby cat walking a fence as dogs barked below. “Though Wilhelm Montegue might be the only handsome, rich man in all Christendom I’ve left unscathed.”

  Even knowing she’d designed the comment to make him jealous, it roared through him anyway, making him imagine an endless parade of men better than he, exchanging artful glances with Helena then taking her upstairs to bed.

  Willfully he unclenched his jaw. “Surely you exaggerate.” This was not at all the conversation he’d expected to have with her.

  “Of course I’m exaggerating, you impossible man.” She paused at the edge of the mattress, watching him, and he couldn’t say for the life of him what she was thinking. “But if that’s all you can see when you look at me, then I will kiss you goodbye and be done with you.”

  His brain snagged on the word kiss. It took far longer than it should have for him to connect it with goodbye. “No. Don’t go.”

  Her cocked brow and tilted chin made him feel like a sheepish schoolboy. She sighed, and he finally understood that he was going to have to do better than that. But his willpower grated against the fact that the number of hours she’d been widowed could be counted on one hand.

  Why did that matter? He’d fallen in love with her long ago, even when he’d known it was wrong. And if Helena needed time in mourning, she wouldn’t have locked the door. What would they have to gain by waiting, besides more grey hair?

  “I want you to stay. With me. Always.” Heat rushed to his face, and he couldn’t believe how absurd his words sounded. Saints, he was a dunce. After a mental slap, he gathered his courage. It would’ve helped if she wasn’t looming over him while he lay flat on his back. A surge of bravery made him say, “Helena, I love you. I want you by my side.”

  Her narrowed eyes and appraising look made him wonder if he’d forgotten to fasten his trousers. “I want to believe you.”

  A frustrated gust of breath escaped. “What should I do? Beg on bended knee?” He rolled to his uninjured side, ignoring the searing pinch from his lacerated ribs. If she wanted persuasion—

  With a hand to his shoulder, she pushed him back down. “Stop that.” She leaned closer and examined his bandage, gingerly touching the edge where a spot of blood seeped through. “Is this serious? Do you need a surgeon?”

  “It’s just a scratch.”

  “You always say that.”

  “Because it’s always just a scratch. I’m lucky that way.”

  She shook her head and looked skyward, but at least she sat on the bed and leaned over him, her hip against his and her arm propped on the other side of his waist. The tease of warmth made him want to close his eyes. Why did she do that?

  “Helena, I don’t want to quarrel with you. Why don’t you just say what you want? Tell me, and I will do it.”

  Her answering smile might have been sincere amusement or mocking. “Anything at all?” One long lock of hair curled in a loose spiral rolled off her shoulder and grazed his navel with the feathery ends, and involuntarily the muscles in his belly contracted.

  “Yes,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Even if I can’t stand your being a vicar? If I demand a house in Belgravia and say we can never miss a party? How dashing you’ll look in a bowtie, Julian.”

  She said, “Bowtie,” and he felt the silk strap tighten around his neck like a noose. Banking on the assumption that she was bluffing, he exhaled on a huff then answered, “If you can explain to your friends how you ended up with me as your husband, then carry on.”

  Ah, there — she hadn’t quite flinched, but he had managed to turn the tables on her. “Who said anything about marriage?”

  “I’m a man of the cloth, Helena. I try to limit myself to one or two of the deadly sins.”

  “Ah, now that’s better.” Perhaps it was because he’d called her out; her eyes sparked something dangerous at him, and only moments later she traced a fingertip across his collar. His attention honed on the w
arm trail, and the five seconds he waited until she did it again passed like a minute under water.

  “Should I be at sea? I don’t know what you mean.” It took all his willpower not to grunt in frustration. “And frankly, if you want to play coy games with me, you’re going to win.”

  “I don’t want to win.”

  Pressing a little harder, she dragged slowly down the center of his chest, digging in her fingertip just enough to tickle the roots of his hair. It made every nerve south of her finger riot. She paused just above his navel, long enough to make him insane, then slowly traced around it, lightening her touch.

  He was in such trouble.

  “A man whose prospects include an imminent bedding will promise anything in order to get it.” She said it like a nursery rhyme, and he had a moment of being truly frightened of her before mustering an extra dose of courage.

  “Then you should marry me now before I change my mind.” If his eyes didn’t bulge out of his head, then he deserved a medal.

  “Brilliant. You can do the ceremony yourself and be the groom.” She pinched him just below the left pectoral where he hadn’t known the skin was so sensitive, and he jumped. “Be serious, Julian.”

  Then she soothed the spot, rubbing a slow circle with her palm flattened against his chest. Her fingertips grazed his nipple with every upward sweep. When had she leaned closer? Her chest pressed against his uninjured side, and while most of the contact was stiff on account of her corset, every time she inhaled, he felt the seam of her neckline then above it a soft pressure as pillowy as meringue on his skin. The urge to look nearly won out.

  He cleared his throat and rubbed across his eyes with the back of a hand. “You want me to be serious? I can’t remember my own name.” She’d started moving her hand again. He had no idea the nerves under her fingers were connected to the ones behind his neck, at the small of his back, on either side of his groin — he was going to embarrass himself if she didn’t quit. “Are you trying to seduce me?” Damn it, he sounded hopeful instead of wary.

  She chuckled, blowing warm breath on his other pectoral. He made the mistake of glancing down at her; up close the shape of her mouth seemed impossibly lush. Provocative. He couldn’t look away. As if she’d heard his thoughts, painstakingly she lowered her head and pressed her lips to his chest, over his heart. The simple contact made his breath catch.

  She did it again, two inches down and to the right, just missing his nipple. As abruptly as his pulse had stalled, his heart kicked back in motion with a frenzy that resembled cannon volley more than a heartbeat. If she was trying to make him explode, she was well on her way. Mad desire to snatch her and roll her over and play out the images flashing hot in his head warred with an intoxicating paralysis. He could lie there all day, waiting to see what she would do next.

  At his collarbone, she nipped his skin with her teeth then trailed her lips up his neck so lightly it felt like a feather. How badly he wanted her to veer back and touch under his jaw where the juncture below his ear tingled and itched. She dotted kisses in that direction then paused to make him wait before sinking her lips into that spot. When she sucked in a bit, brushing her tongue across his skin, a groan stuck in his throat, and he rose up off the bed, his ribs be damned.

  Holding his side, he levered himself back against the headboard and heaved for breath. He crossed a foot over his other knee, embarrassed and completely undone. Helena sat up as well, leaning on one hand. She seemed to have made her point and was satisfied.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think past the silken clouds floating around his head. If he looked at her, even a peek to see what her mouth looked like after kissing his skin, he would lose what little brain function he had left. “All right. I believe you. Point conceded. I would promise you anything right now, whether I meant it or not.”

  He reached around behind her shoulder and pulled her in. She responded, scooting to sit at his side without the bandage. He pressed her head to his shoulder and stroked his fingers through her hair where it hung in curls down her back while he gathered his thoughts.

  “I’m not a complicated man, Helena.” He would never get used to having her so close against his side; her ribs expanding and relaxing with her breathing, the brush of her hair, the dramatic curve between her shoulder and hip that molded to his chest… it felt too good. “I’m not trying to bend your will to mine. I don’t promise one thing then do another. And while I can’t say I haven’t thought about it, my motive isn’t to get you in bed.”

  “I do believe that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak at once.”

  On impulse, he kissed her temple then did it again when the velvety texture compelled him. “I want you. And I want to make you happy. So whatever it is you need for that to happen, I will do it. It’s that simple.”

  “Nothing is ever simple.” She sighed. “Especially when one’s new husband is a spymaster for the Brotherhood of the Falcon.”

  He jumped, equally stunned at hearing her utter that name as the indication that she’d already adopted the idea of marriage.

  Everything had just changed, on her one careless comment.

  After a cursory glance around the room to count the air vents, he covered her mouth with one hand and used the other to grip her by the flank and pull her down to the bed beside him.

  He tucked her close until she lay beside him on the pillow, then he put his lips to her ear. “Never say that out loud again. Understood?” He removed the hand covering her mouth, but she nodded instead of answering. “Who did you talk to?” He was careful to put barely any wind behind his whisper. She would have to strain to hear it.

  “Sophia eavesdropped on Lord Devon’s meeting with Sir Gideon, Martin, Philip Cavendish, and — you, I presume.”

  “Good Lord.” He groaned, wracking his brain for the correct protocol. Not that he didn’t know it, but the council could hardly expect him to kill Helena Duncombe in order to protect the secret. And if it was true that Lady Devon also knew, then they were all in danger, but that was Lord Devon’s problem.

  Julian had an idea; it came easily, because the thought had crossed his mind before. And he knew of other female agents in the Brotherhood, so it wouldn’t be unheard of. “What if you were to become an agent?”

  Helena blew a gust on his neck, and a shiver burrowed all the way through his bones. She smelled like some sort of fruit with ginger and a hint of pastry — proof that she distracted him to a fault.

  He didn’t want to tell her more than he had to; that he’d once served as an assassin, that he’d gone on missions amounting to little more than burglary if not on behalf of national security. That sort of work aged a man ahead of his years; he’d gladly deferred to the newer generation of agents when the time had come.

  These days he had little value beyond a pair of watchful eyes, but Helena had a talent where he lacked. “I won’t propose your name to the council unless you agree, but before you refuse, recall how quickly you uncovered Bradbury’s coin scam. I never told you he was arrested.”

  She gave an amused hum. “I’m certain gullible investors everywhere will put my name to verse.”

  “A petty coin scam today, an assassination plot and bandit snatch tomorrow,” he teased, quoting her words back at her. “I shouldn’t say more until you’re sworn in. But think of all the good you could do, Helena. You’re a detective and an actress. You have a natural talent.”

  “And all these years I thought I was a simple ladybird.”

  “There’s nothing simple about what you do. To see the true nature of people is a rare skill.” She hummed again, and he had no idea what it meant. “And who would ever suspect the Incomparable Helena Duncombe as a spy for the state? I bet people blurt out all kinds of secrets to you.”

  “It’s a curse.”

  “Think about it, darling, then say yes. But first say yes to me.”

  She shifted, putting her face inches from his on the pillow, then she placed a hand at the back of his ne
ck and tousled his hair. Her nails scraped a bit, and every now and then she gave the roots a little pull. Oh, heaven.

  Determined not to be paralyzed by her touch again, he slid his hand down her arm, taking his time to rub the little muscles where they seemed a bit knotted. She sighed and closed her eyes, so he did the same with her hand, massaging over her palm.

  He laced his fingers between hers then raised their joined hands so he could kiss the back of her knuckles. She would expect chivalry, and he’d have to dust his off. “Say yes. Be mine, Helena, and I swear to make you happy.”

  She stunned him by closing the space between them to brush her lips across his. “No one can know. Not until I’m out of mourning. I’ve had my fill of scandal. And you’re an upstanding vicar, after all.”

  He pressed his lips to hers, lingering to let the incredible sensation crash over him. Her mouth felt like a flower petal, until he came back for more, nudging her lips with his, and then he couldn’t put it into words. He couldn’t stop; he kissed her again and again. Wholesome with a hint of decadence. Heat and satin. Her breath hitched, he pulled her closer until she rolled to lie half on his chest. He held the sides of her face and angled his head to kiss her deeply, and it felt like touching all the way down to her soul.

  Perhaps before, she’d been deliberately passionate and arousing to prove a point, but all he sensed now was a simple, sweet energy that felt real. It was as perfect as he’d thought it would be. Definitely worth the wait.

  She pecked a short kiss on his top lip, gave him a nip on the bottom lip, then tucked her head under his jaw. Out of breath and a bit dazed, he didn’t mind that she’d rested a hand on his abdomen. A moment later her hand started moving, aimlessly tracing the ridges. He wasn’t sure if the tickling-stroking sensation was soothing or provoking. She veered closer to the waistband of his trousers and scraped her nails down the trail of hair in the center, which ended that internal debate — essentially ending his brain function. She’d set off the chorus of nerves again, but he’d already resigned himself to letting her see him at his worst. Or was it his best?