by Jane Feather
Gabrielle chuckled. “It goes with my temper, I’m afraid.”
“So they say.” He traced her mouth with his finger. “But yours is no worse than mine, and I’ve no hint of the devil’s color in my hair.”
“Nathaniel, I don’t mean to be importunate, but how long must we continue this conversation,” she said, the mock-plaintive tone doing little to disguise the husky throb in her voice. “We started something earlier, and I’d dearly like to finish it.”
“Postponing gratification is good for the soul, they say,” he murmured mischievously, trailing his finger along the curve of her cheek.
“To the devil with my soul,” Gabrielle declared. “My body is already on fire, so my soul might as well join it.”
“In that case …” Taking her hand, he led her through the veiling fronds of the willow tree. “My parlor, madame. I trust you find it to your satisfaction.”
“Quite frankly, I’d find the open road to my satisfaction at this point,” she said, flinging off her cloak before slipping her arms around his neck, reaching against him.
“I am possessed with the most violent need, my love,” she whispered, all teasing abruptly vanished beneath the urgency of her demand. Her hands ran over his back, remembering every curve, every muscular ripple, every knob of his spine. Her eyes closed and the scent of his skin and hair filled the air around her. She inhaled greedily, her lips parting as he kissed her, gently at first, as if he wanted to rediscover her taste and the wonderful feel of her mouth.
Her breasts pressed against his chest, and his hands moved to cup her bottom. The firm, rounded flesh was warm against his hands, and he realized with a shock of amusement and delight that she wore no underclothes beneath the fine muslin gown.
He drew back, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Wanton brigand,” he said with soft satisfaction. Obeying the peremptory hand on her shoulder, she sank down on the cloak he’d spread earlier, her hands reaching for him impatiently.
He dropped to his knees beside her, and without preliminary drew her skirt up to her waist. Her tongue touched her lips as the cool night air laved her bared belly and thighs.
Her thighs parted for him as he unfastened his britches and pushed them off his hips. Her hips lifted to meet him as he lowered himself upon her. He entered her, penetrating to her very self in one deep thrust. It was the culmination of their passion on the terrace and the long, tantalizing hours of anticipation ever since. A rich liquid fullness spread through her loins, her inner muscles contracted around him, and she was instantly lost in an explosion of joy that sent her spinning into the star-filled night.
The piercing descant of a nightingale brought them back to an awareness of their surroundings. Nathaniel hitched himself on one elbow and smiled down at her transported countenance.
“I do believe I’ve just made love in my boots,” he said with an exhausted chuckle. “I’ve never done that before.”
Gabrielle was too spent to do more than stroke his face with a languid hand, brushing back the lock of hair that flopped damply onto his forehead.
Slowly, he caressed the length of her exposed thighs, his fingers playing in the curly tangle at the base of her belly, moving over the mound beneath, taking his time now that the desperate urgency of lust had been slaked.
“Don’t do this,” she pleaded weakly. “I am already dissolved.”
“But I want to,” he said simply. He placed his hand over the moist, pulsing warmth of her core and bent to kiss her belly, tickling his tongue into her navel. His breath whispered over the taut skin of her abdomen and his hand seared her.
“Please,” she whispered, uncertain what she was asking for as, despite dissolution, she lifted and twisted on the cloak beneath the devastating power of his touch. And when his mouth replaced his hand, her little sobbing cries filled the dim green grotto beneath the willow as the rapturous tide swept her yet again into momentary oblivion.
“Cruel,” she gasped when she could find breath. “When you knew I couldn’t bear any more.”
“But you did,” he said, kneeling astride her again. “It’s what happens to wanton brigands who roam the countryside at night without any underclothes.”
Gabrielle’s chuckle was more of a groan. “I thought they might get in the way.”
“Such a hurry you were in,” he reproved, tracing the curve of one breast beneath the muslin.
“That was your fault for starting something on the terrace and not finishing it,” she retorted.
“I suppose I have an irrational desire to keep my head on my shoulders,” he responded, flicking the dark smudge of her nipple until it rose against the bodice of her dress. “Even under the influence of near ungovernable lust.”
“What are you doing with the Russians anyway? It seems madness.” She tried to marshal her thoughts for a coherent conversation but sensed that the reprieve was going to be short-lived.
“Someone needs to eavesdrop on these negotiations,” he told her blandly, transferring his attentions to the other breast. “And I have the best cover of anyone. It took a lot of work developing it, so whenever there’s a particularly delicate job to be done among the Russians, I usually do it myself.”
“But it’s so dangerous.” Her hand clasped his wrist, whether to stop his caresses or to encourage them, she didn’t know. It didn’t much matter anyway, since Nathaniel shook off her hold and continued regardless.
“Spying generally is,” he reminded her evenly. “And what are you doing here?”
“Acting as my godfather’s hostess,” she said.
“And what else?” His hand ceased its delicate maneuvers and he grasped both her wrists strongly, his eyes seeming to run her through as he knelt over her.
“Let’s have it in the open, Gabrielle. If you’re involved in espionage, then we can have nothing more to do with each other after tonight. It should never have happened. I swore it never would again, but I seem to be in the grip of some madness when I’m with you.”
His hold on her wrists tightened almost painfully and the glitter in his dark eyes intensified. “It won’t happen again, Gabrielle. It can’t. We say good-bye now.”
“I’m not involved in anything,” she said. “Talleyrand needs a hostess and I’m better at it than his wife.”
“And Fouché?”
“This isn’t his field of operations,” she said. “His territory is internal not international diplomacy. That’s my godfather’s sphere. If Fouché’s men are here, it’s only as bodyguards.”
Nathaniel looked down at her in frowning silence, still holding her wrists captive. He had no reason to doubt her … not this time. She smiled up at him, the gray eyes candid.
“Why would I lie to you?” she asked quietly. “I’ve had no part in spying since you left.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t seem to find the stomach for it,” she said with utter truth.
His frowning scrutiny continued for minutes, then he nodded. “Very well.”
His eyes were suddenly hooded, but she could read the resurgence of passion in them as she could feel him rising hard against her thigh.
She reached down to enclose him in her hand, her fingers fluttering in an erotic dance along the stem of flesh, sliding between his thighs to play a tune of yet deeper resonance before guiding him within the warm, welcoming portal.
This time, with the utmost delicacy Nathaniel held himself poised at the very edge of her body before sheathing himself slowly within the silken chamber. He knelt upright between her wide-spread thighs and stroked with firm rhythm, watching her face, watching for the moment when the charcoal eyes would deepen to ebony and a look of joyous wonder would cross the mobile features. He knew her so well, he thought, every facet of her body, every play of emotion, every response, and yet each lovemaking was a revelation, a glory of newness.
Gabrielle smiled up at him, and he knew she was sharing his thoughts, that she too found each experience unique in its wonder.
&n
bsp; Slowly he withdrew, holding them both on the edge of delight. Expectation thrummed in her veins, and he could feel it in his own flesh buried deep within her.
“Gabrielle,” he whispered, and took her with him into the inferno.
“How’s Jake? I’ve been meaning to ask ever since I saw you, but something else always distracted me.” She smiled indolently, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. “How was he on the boat?” She plucked a succulent stem of grass from the base of the tree and sucked it with the same dreamy smile.
Nathaniel grimaced. “The only way I could get him aboard was to carry him bodily, kicking and screaming blue murder. If anyone had been around to hear, they’d have accused me of torturing the poor mite. Fortunately, it was a calm crossing, so he quietened down; I don’t think he holds it against me,” he added with a wry grin.
“And you left him at Burley Manor?” She tossed aside the chewed stem and plucked a fresh one.
“Yes, in the arms of an overjoyed Primmy and Nurse. The entire household was frantic They thought he’d been abducted. Miles had called in the Bow Street Runners, and they were swarming all over the countryside.”
“I can imagine,” she said, adding casually, “is Primmy still there?”
Nathaniel pulled down a strand of foliage from their canopy and tickled her nose. “Yes, she’s still there, Madame Interference. But so is Jeffrys.”
“I suppose that’s all right so long as he still has Primmy,” she said, wrinkling her nose under the tickling leaves.
“Your qualified approval overwhelms me, ma’am.” He released the frond, letting it spring back into the canopy, and dislodged her head from his shoulder. “It’s time to make a move.” He stood up and bent to catch her hands, hauling her to her feet.
“How are we to manage?” Gabrielle asked as she shook down her skirt. She was stunned with fulfillment, warm satiation flowing like honey in her veins, and yet the need to establish some plan of campaign before they parted couldn’t be postponed.
Nathaniel picked up his cloak and shook it free of grass and leaves. “I want you to leave that up to me,” he said, as calm and matter-of-fact as if they hadn’t passed two transcendent hours under the moon.
“How?” She tossed her hair back over her shoulders, combing her fingers through the tangled ringlets. “Where are you staying?”
“In the town. Six Vilna Street. I have lodgings with a widow.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.” He picked up her discarded cloak and shook it out.
Gabrielle filed this information away for future reference. “How will we meet?”
“At every reception, dinner, and social engagement,” he said, draping the cloak over her shoulders.
“I mean, how will we meet!” she said, fastening the clasp of the cloak.
“Ah … is that what you meant? I didn’t quite understand.”
“Oh, don’t tease!” Playfully she punched him in the ribs and he caught her wrist, clipping it behind her as he pulled her into his body, pushing up her chin with his free hand.
“I said, leave it to me.”
“I’m to wait for you to tell me what to do?” The look in her eyes seemed to indicate that she didn’t find the prospect particularly appealing.
“I may not tell you in so many words, but the message will be clear enough if you use your wits and watch me and listen to me very carefully whenever we’re together.”
He was quite serious now, and Gabrielle quashed the inclination to challenge his assumption of authority. It was his life on the line, after all.
“You must understand,” he was saying in the same matter-of-fact tone, “that if I’m discovered at any point, then you too will be in danger if there’s anything to connect us.”
“You hardly need to tell me that,” she said dryly.
“But do I have to tell you to be discreet?” He pulled up the hood of her cloak, tucking her hair away. “In public, there are to be no double entendres, none of your wicked looks, no indications at all—I mean at all, Gabrielle—that we have any interest in each other.”
“What do you take me for?” she demanded.
“A reckless, wanton, lamentably undisciplined brigand,” he said roundly. “Without a discreet bone in your body when it comes to games of passion.”
Gabrielle grimaced, obliged to admit that she’d given him enough ammunition in the past to justify such an opinion. “I’ll treat you with lofty disdain,” she said. “Unless you’d prefer active dislike?”
“Ordinary civility will do fine,” he said, circling her throat with his hands, his thumbs pushing up her chin.
“That’s never been easy between us,” she teased. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to manage it.”
“I’m serious, Gabrielle.”
“Yes, I know you are.”
He nodded and kissed her eyelids. “You’d better be on your way. It’s already getting light.”
“There’s no law against taking a dawn stroll,” she said. “Just as long as you don’t stroll into town on my heels.”
“I won’t. Off you go now.” He turned her with a pat and thrust her through the veil of leaves onto the path. “And be careful of lurking stones.”
“Why can’t we meet here again tonight?” She paused, squinting against the rosy ball of the rising sun.
“Maybe we can. It depends what the day brings. I’ll tell you if we can.”
“Very well, my lord.” She laughed and blew him a kiss, then turned and walked away, a skip to her step despite the sleepless night.
Nathaniel waited in the willow grotto for over an hour before following her. He sat on the grass, leaning against the tree trunk, his eyes closed as he rested in a half-sleep that he knew would be as refreshing as several hours of deep sleep.
So Gabrielle had given up espionage. Was it for good?
He let the thought warm him as the sun’s heat grew, filtering through the silvery fronds of the willow.
“The Comtesse de Beaucaire’s a striking woman,” observed Count Nicholas Tolstoy, letting his lorgnette fall and helping himself to a dainty oyster barquette from the tray proffered by a footman.
“Indeed,” Nathaniel agreed somewhat indifferently. “Although I confess I find Princess Kirov more to my taste.”
“Oh, do you like fluffy blondes?” the count said. “I prefer a little spice to my meat.” He laughed with a hearty masculine complacence that grated on Nathaniel’s nerves.
“I understand you have the task of inquiring after Napoleon’s health every morning,” he commented, changing the subject.
“Oh, yes. The ciar is most anxious to know that his dear friend and ally has passed a restful night,” Tolstoy said. “Just as General Duroc trots up to our door on the same errand from Napoleon at nine o’clock every morning.”
“How touching,” Nathaniel said dryly, and the count laughed.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Did you enjoy the ride this morning?” Gabrielle glided across the salon toward them. Her gown of dove-gray Italian gauze flowed around her, hinting at the length of leg beneath, the soft curve of her hips.
“More than the King of Prussia, madame,” Count Tolstoy said with an ironic smile.
“Yes, poor man.” Gabrielle looked across the room to where the unhappy Frederick William of Prussia stood on the outskirts of the group centered on the two emperors. “Napoleon was making fun of his uniform this morning. He asked him how he managed to button so many buttons on his tunic.”
“He shouldn’t have come,” Nathaniel said. “He knows Napoleon despises him and he was simply setting himself up for further humiliation.”
“That’s harsh, my friend,” Tolstoy remonstrated. “It’s only natural that he’d hope for some concessions for Prussia out of these negotiations.”
“A fond and foolish hope,” Nathaniel declared. “And his pathetic wife, trying to flirt with Napoleon as if her womanly charms could soften him.”
“She’s very lovely,” Gabrielle
said. “But it’s true that the emperor’s impervious to her charms. He was cruel at dinner. He wanted to know why she was wearing a turban. He said it couldn’t be in homage to Alexander, since the Russians were at war with Turkey. She didn’t know where to look or how to reply.”
“Perhaps I’ll go and comfort her,” Tolstoy said with a smile. “I am far from impervious to her flirtatious ways, so if you’ll excuse me, comtesse.” He bowed and strolled off toward the disconsolate Queen Louise.
“You have sharp ears, madame,” Nathaniel observed coolly, his eyes darting around the salon to see if they were being observed with any unusual interest.
“And sharp appetites,” she whispered, her tongue touching her lips, her eyes glowing. She took a step closer and he could feel the warmth of her thigh beneath the gauze of her gown.
“Careful,” he warned, smiling at an acquaintance who was trying to catch his eye. “May I procure you a glass of champagne, comtesse?”
“Thank you, monsieur.” She took his proffered arm and they walked casually toward the supper room. “My godfather is of the opinion that Alexander’s negotiators haven’t a brain between them,” she said in a normal voice.
Nathaniel inclined his head courteously toward her. “Is that so, comtesse.”
She smiled. “It seems to be the received opinion, sir.”
“By all but Alexander and his negotiators,” Nathaniel agreed blandly. “I imagine your godfather’s running rings around Prince Lobanov and Prince Kurakin at the treaty table.”
“He runs rings around most people,” she responded with a touch of asperity.
She bowed and smiled to Madame Duroc and paused to exchange pleasantries, casually introducing Nathaniel. “Monsieur Lubienski has kindly offered to procure me a glass of champagne.”
“Perhaps I may fetch something for you also, Madame Duroc.”
“Why, thank you, monsieur, a glass of negus, if you please. Now, tell me, Gabrielle, what is your opinion of poor Queen Louise.” The general’s wife took Gabrieile’s arm and drew her aside.
