by Dare, Tessa
“I won’t stop,” he whispered, burying his face between her breasts. He nuzzled close to her rapidly pounding heart. “I don’t care if I’ll hang for it. I need to be inside you. Don’t tell me to stop.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you to stop.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “Just to hurry.”
Very well. That he could do.
Christian reached for the closures of his trousers, tugging the falls open and pushing the waistband down to his knees. His eager cock sprang forth, jutting toward her in an expression of pure, carnal need.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Oh, yes.” She reached for him, sliding her fingertips up his arms. His cock brushed her thigh. A jolt of desire shot through him, melting to a fierce tingle at the base of his spine.
He took himself in hand and positioned his hardness at the center of her soft, wet heat.
Sweet mercy.
It went easier than the first time, but she was still just the palest shade beyond innocence. So very, very tight.
He forced himself to pause, allowing her body a few moments to adjust. It was so dark. He couldn’t scan her eyes for cues to her emotions. Was she frightened? Regretful? In pain?
“Christian,” she sighed.
Her voice held only desire. Trust. Love.
“Violet.”
Shifting his weight to the other elbow, he slid an inch deeper. He panted for breath and prayed for restraint.
“This was it, Violet. This was when I truly knew. The moment we joined, it felt so right. I felt as though I’d…” He nudged all the way in, sighing deep. “As though I’d found the other half of myself.”
Her fingers soothed his back. “I never once regretted making love to you. I felt I should regret it, but I couldn’t. That’s why I kept the secret all this time. Because I feared others would label me weak or wanton…but I wasn’t either of those things. I was just in love.”
And at that moment, Christian knew he was the most fortunate bastard in England. Scratch that. Most fortunate bastard in the world.
Stretching her neck, she pressed kisses all along his throat. “Love me,” she whispered. “Love me now.”
At first he set a slow rhythm, taking care to be as quiet as possible. But the way she undulated beneath him, sighing lustily with his every stroke, had him abandoning the slow, steady course. His hips bucked faster, until the slap of their bodies meeting resounded through the small room. The bite of her fingernails on his back urged him faster still. One of her slender legs wrapped over his, adding yet another source of sleek, feminine friction to drive him wild.
“Violet. Oh, God. Violet.”
He rose up on his knees for better leverage, lifting her hips. She arched against him greedily, rolling her head to one side. Could she possibly…?
He pressed his thumb to her pearl, working it feverishly. “Yes, darling. Again.”
Her body clenched around him as she found her pleasure a second time.
God in heaven.
Her body stroked his cock in pulsing waves, dragging him perilously close to the edge. He hated the thought of withdrawing, but he knew he must. He’d used up all their contraceptive luck the first time, and he couldn’t risk leaving her pregnant.
But God, he loved the thought of her pregnant. He went a bit wild at the image of her swollen with his child. Nursing his babe with those soft, perfect, bouncing breasts…
With a muttered oath, he pulled free and took himself in hand, spending over her taut belly.
Then he slumped atop her, burying his face in her neck. She folded her arms around his torso. His seed glued them together at the middle. Someday it would fuse the two of them into in one new, unique soul.
Someday soon, God and Wellington willing.
He felt a small tremor quake through her, and pushed up on his elbow, concerned. “Are you well? You’re not weeping, are you?”
“No. Not at all.”
She convulsed again—but in muffled laughter, not tears. The smile on her face could have lit the whole room. It certainly kindled a blaze in his heart.
“What’s so amusing, love?”
“Only that I shall have to rename you.” She pushed the hair back from his brow. “Oh, Christian. That was anything but a disappointment.”
Chapter Nine
Oddly enough, procuring the boat was the easiest part of all.
So much easier than leaving the bed.
Violet wished they could just fall asleep together and lay tangled there until dawn. Who cared if they were discovered? Let them be found. Christian would marry her, and they would go home together. Their families would be so pleased. There would only be the small matters of his crushing guilt and the potential charges of treason.
She sighed. She could let him go. Just this once, for God and country. But she could not have parted with him for anything less.
As he stretched and dressed, she rose from bed. She slipped back into the green silk and tied a dark, nondescript woolen cloak over it.
From one of her packed trunks, she withdrew a pair of nubby, hand-knit gloves and a small folding knife. “I’d been saving these as Christmas presents for someone. Now I know they were for you.”
He accepted the small gifts with a kiss. “I’ll treasure them always.”
Once they’d dressed, she led him down the back stairs and out to a storage lean-to attached to the back of the building. There was a lock, but Christian made short work of it. Together, they wrenched opened the door, waved away a cloud of dust, and shone the smuggler’s lantern on a small rowboat.
“The ladies use it in the summertime,” she said. “For pleasure jaunts around the cove, or up the canal. No one will notice it’s missing for months.”
He grimaced. “It’s pink.”
“Christian, this is hardly the time to complain about color schemes.”
“No, no. I just would rather it be blue or brown or black. Some darker color.”
“I’d hate for you to take a fisherman’s craft, just to abandon it. The fishermen need their livelihood.”
He scouted the small shed. “Found some pitch,” he said. “We’ll blacken the thing. Give me the lamp, and I’ll warm it.”
They worked together, daubing the boat’s exterior with a hasty layer of dark, sticky pitch. Then they hoisted the inverted craft between them, carrying its weight on their shoulders and rigging the smugglers lantern to hang in the center.
All too soon, they were in the cove, making their farewells. A thin layer of clouds had covered the moon, diffusing its light to a warm, creamy glow. Scattered snowflakes began to fall.
Forcing down the sadness in her chest, Violet went about lighting the lantern. “Remember the signals?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I know this cove in the dark. Just keep your eyes on me. I won’t steer you wrong.”
With his fingertips, Christian turned her face to his. “I know you won’t.”
Christian held her there, allowing himself this one last, lingering minute to memorize her every feature. To simply behold his love. His lady.
And what a lady she was. Pride swelled his heart. Violet was his ideal partner. Brave, clever, discreet, swift with a gun, possessed of an extraordinary facility with languages…
And she was so beautiful. Her skin glowed in the first, faintly yearning hint of dawn. Her eyes were big and blue enough to hold the entirety of this magical night. God, how he wished he didn’t have to leave her behind. If only he could—
“Take me with you.” Her whispered plea wrenched at his heart. She held on to his coat with both hands and pulled up on her toes. “Please, Christian. Take me with you. I can help you. I know I can do it. You know my French is impeccable, and I’ll perfect the Breton. I’ll blend right in as your wi—”
She swallowed hard and lowered herself to the ground. “That is…unless the humble farmhand already has a wife.”
“No,” he assured her, smiling a little. “No, Violet.
The humble farmhand does not have a wife. Nor a sweetheart, nor a lover.” He pulled the folding knife from his coat and severed a stray lock of her hair, then pocketed it. “The humble farmhand has a braided lock of golden hair. He keeps it stashed behind a loose board, and sometimes he foolishly kisses it in the dark. He is alone.”
“He needn’t be.”
A snowflake dipped and swirled and clung to her cheek, instantly melting into a teardrop. He kissed it away, then hugged her close. “I wish I could. I wish I could take you with me as my wife. But it wouldn’t be safe. Not now, not like this. I’d be putting lives other than my own at risk. And imagine, if you disappeared so suddenly…by all appearances, abducted by a raving Frenchman…? Your family would suffer so much worry and pain. Spindle Cove would cease to be a haven for the ladies who need it. No reasonable families would send their daughters or sisters to such a place.”
“I know.” She buried her face in his neck. “I know you’re right, on every score. I only wish…”
“Oh, my love.” He cinched his arms around her waist. “I wish it too.”
He held and kissed her just as long as he safely could. And then he held and kissed her for several seconds longer. But he knew it must end.
Even a love this true, this strong had no chance to stave off daybreak.
He pulled away. “You do this for me, Violet. You must go back to Town and go on living your life, and you must do it all without breathing a word of this night. Not to anyone, not even our families. My own father does not know the particulars of my assignment, nor should he. It’s for my safety. Do you understand? Beneath everything, you are my lady. But to the world, you must behave as if this night never occurred.”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Promise me,” he said.
“I promise. And you must do the same.”
“Yes. Or ya.” He swore. “I’ve spoken a dangerous amount of English tonight.”
She pulled back and looked at him, her gaze sharpening in the night.
“Violet? What is it?”
She released her grip on his lapel. Before he could spend a split heartbeat to wonder what she was on about, her palm connected with his cheek.
Lord above. She’d struck him. Square across the face, and hard enough to force his head to the right.
“Who are you?” she asked.
When he hesitated, another blow whipped his head left. In his vision, a chorus of dancing snowflakes wished him a very merry Christmas.
He blinked the pain away, whispering, “Corentin Morvan eo ma anv.” My name is Corentin Morvan.
“Louder.” Her fist drove into his gut. “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“Me a zo un tamm peizant.” He groaned the words. I am a humble farmhand.
“Liar.” She reached into his breast pocket and withdrew the folding knife. In less than a second, she had the blade snapped open. Its edge gleamed white under the moon.
With one hand, she caught him by the collar. With the other, she held the knife to his throat. Cold steel caught him just below the jaw, threatening the soft, vulnerable place where his pulse raced.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Tell the truth.”
The Breton spouted from his lips. Like blood spurting from some vital wound. “My name is Corentin Morvan. I am a humble farmhand. I sleep in the barn loft. I know nothing. By the Virgin and all her saints, I swear this to be true.”
Pulling at his collar, she lowered the knife to his exposed chest. There, she applied pressure to the blade, scoring his skin. Once, and then again. Two neat, fiery lines of pain etched just beneath his collarbone. His eyes watered as he suppressed the urge to lash out or curse. Wincing, he looked down.
Thin red slashes made the shape of a tiny V.
She’d marked him. The act was shocking. Barbaric. Wildly arousing.
“You are mine.” She tugged his collar and pulled his face down to hers. “You are mine. Do not forget it.”
Her lips claimed his. The ferocity and passion in her kiss set his mind spinning. His body responded with raw, visceral need.
The knife slipped from her grip, clattering to the shingle beach. She slid both hands into his hair, gathering fistfuls of his overgrown locks to pull him closer. Hold him tighter. Kiss him harder. Until she possessed him so completely, he forgot his own name.
He only knew he was hers. She’d marked him and claimed him, and he was hers. Flesh and blood, heart and soul.
“Me da gar,” he murmured, clutching her tight. He dropped his head to brand her throat with hot kisses, then nipped at her bottom lip. “Me da gar, me da gar.”
I love you.
They broke apart just as swiftly as they’d united. Little clouds of breath filled the space between them.
“Go,” she said. “Go now, or I can’t bear it.”
Nodding, he moved in silence to the boat. As he pushed the small craft into the black water, she readied the signal lamp. When the water was knee deep, he steadied the rowboat and entered it with the assistance of a helpful boulder.
“Once I am clear, you must dash back to Summerfield. Remember, you have no idea what became of me. No notion of my identity or origins. And you will never breathe a word of this, to anyone. All must be as you promised.”
“It will be as I promised.” As he gathered the oars, she repeated the instructions. “One long flash for east. Three short flashes mean veer west.”
He nodded his understanding. He braced his feet on the baseboard and gave a full-strength pull on both oars. The boat skimmed through the water in response, doubling the space between them.
As quiet strokes of the oars carried him away, he gazed at her. His fierce angel, guiding his way through the darkness.
You are my life’s bright star.
No matter what occurred, he would make his way back to her. Always.
“I will return to you,” he vowed, pulling on the oars. “I swear it. And when I come for you, Violet…don’t let me find you hiding in the corner.”
Chapter Ten
Violet kept all the promises she made to him that night.
All her promises, that was, except one.
As soon as Christian’s rowboat safely cleared the cove, she stashed the lamp behind a boulder and hastened up the beach path. She took the long way around the village, racing the dawn over pastures and fallow fields. With a pang of regret, she dropped her woolen cloak into a stream. She wouldn’t be able to explain it later.
As she neared the back garden of Summerfield, raised voices reached her ears. No doubt they were turning the manor inside-out, searching for her and the mysterious stranger.
How was she going to slip back inside unnoticed? What possible excuse could she invent?
If she’d had days or weeks or even a few hours, she might have been able to formulate a plan. But she didn’t even have seconds. A rear door swung open with a bone-chilling whoosh.
Two militiamen. Any moment, they would see her.
Violet made her body go limp. She dropped flat to the snow-dusted ground.
And there she remained for an agonizingly cold quarter-hour or more, until the men found her. If only she’d collapsed a little closer to the house!
But find her they did. Eventually. She allowed herself to be carried inside. She looked her best friends right in the eye and merrily dished them up falsehoods for breakfast.
She’d been drugged, she told them. Just like Mr. Fosbury. Only she’d managed to stay conscious long enough to follow the stranger outside. She’d tracked him as far as the back garden, and there she’d collapsed.
No, she hadn’t gained any clues to his identity.
No, she had no idea what he might have wanted or where he might have gone.
Yes, it was a remarkable thing that she wasn’t a human icicle, after lying in the frost all those hours. She might have frozen to death. A Christmas miracle, she supposed.
Lord Rycliff was most displeased with Fosbury, and rather harshly berate
d the tavern-keeper for his lapse in vigilance. Violet felt a slight twinge of guilt on his account.
Still, she did not breathe a word.
The militiamen searched the coastline and countryside, but never found any trace of the mysterious intruder—nothing but a smugglers’ lamp stashed behind a boulder, down in the cove. That seemed an explanation in and of itself. Clearly, the mysterious stranger had been some associate of Bright’s. Or an enemy. Either way, it was a matter for the Excise.
As he was hauled off, Bright did some wild raving about a slatternly girl breaking into his shop. But considering how he’d been discovered—reeking of spirits and tangled in a compromising position with a dress form—most were inclined to believe he’d mistaken Nellie. The poor, stuffed dear had been ruined in more ways than one.
The militia handed Bright to the magistrate, Violet went home to London, and that was the end of the excitement.
Violet carried on with her life. On Twelfth Night, they dined with the Pierce family next door. She inquired politely after Christian’s health and listened to the duke describe his youngest son’s adventures in the West Indies. She spent much of February shopping with Christian’s sister for a whole new wardrobe, patiently listening to all her advice on attracting eligible beaux. Just as she’d vowed, Violet never spoke of that night to anyone in her family, or his.
She kept all her promises. Save one.
Try as she might, Violet could not behave as if the night had never occurred. The effects of it shivered through her life in a dozen small, barely perceptible ways.
She spoke her mind a bit more often. Her tastes ran to daring styles and colors when she visited the modiste. She was bolder, more confident.
How could she not be? Others looked at her and saw Miss Violet Winterbottom, late-blooming wallflower. But beneath the disguise, she knew herself to be Lady Christian Pierce, seductress and secret agent.
From the first ball of the Season, her increased confidence drew interested gazes from gentlemen and several complimentary remarks from her mother’s friends. Her mother credited the healthful atmosphere of Spindle Cove, and both Lady Melforth and Mrs. Busk expressed a particular wish to send their own patience-trying daughters on holiday.
