by Diana Quincy
His face heated. “I wonder why French women bother with a chemise at all.”
“Do get on with it, won’t you?” she said, her nerves apparent. “Or do you prefer to continue discussing Paris fashions?”
He fell silent, momentarily mesmerized by the alluring vision before him. The thin linen chemise did nothing to hide her considerable enticements. The rosy shadows of her breasts were easily apparent, their pearl tips straining beneath the fabric. Farther down, he could distinguish the dusky triangle at the apex of her thighs. Farther still, the sight of the garters around her slender pale thighs drove him to distraction. No practiced courtesan could have looked more beguiling. His tightly held control cracked, and heat raced to his groin, making him harder than the Rock of Gibraltar.
Damnation. Embarrassed and uncomfortable, he shifted his body so that she wouldn’t see what was going on between his legs. If only he’d had the foresight to don a proper tailcoat, which would have hidden the prodigious evidence of her effect on him.
“Your petticoat, if you please,” he said, aggravated by how hoarse he sounded.
She leaned over and grabbed the white heap to toss his way. He made a show of examining it inch by inch, paying special attention to the waistband, hem, and flounces in the skirt, places where the missives were most likely to have been sewn in, taking far longer than he needed in order to give his body time to get a hold of itself.
She shifted, diverting his attention from his inspection. His heart seized in his chest as she daintily placed one pointed foot on the seat of her chair, her long, shapely leg bent at an angle, the chemise’s short length teasing at the shadowy enticements between her legs.
She untied the lacey garter and tossed it to him. He caught it with one hand, and his basest instincts surged, his upper lip curled back and the predator within growled. She had his full attention as she rolled the white silk stocking down the shapely length of her leg, his mouth drier than the Egyptian dessert, where he’d once spent several weeks working to undermine France’s attempt to limit British access to India and the East Indies.
She finally straightened, removing her foot from the chair, only to replace it with her other foot. Good Lord, she was going to repeat the entire untying-her-garter-and-rolling-her-stocking-down business all over again.
He tugged at his cravat, regretting having stoked the fire earlier; it was already far too warm. His primal urges were about to boil over and take command, obliterating any gentlemanly inclinations.
She untied the second garter.
“Halt,” he barked in a raw voice, his fingers gripping the edge of the table, his member pointed steel between his legs.
She looked up askance, her leg still propped on the chair, her captivating silver eyes widening. “Sorry?”
He tossed her dress at her. “Make yourself decent.”
She straightened, removing her foot from the chair, and caught the dress against her chest. “But I am not done yet.”
“I can easily surmise there is no place to hide the packet I seek anywhere in your shift or stockings.” Stepping out from behind the table, he bent and reached for her petticoat and stays and chucked them at her, one after the other, perhaps a little more forcefully than was necessary. “That’s enough.”
Her under things fell to the floor beside her. Her surprised gaze shifted downward to the pronounced bulge between his thighs, where his prick pressed hard against the placket of his breeches. A gleam entered her eye. “Had enough, have you?”
“Yes, quite,” he said in a brusque manner. “Obviously, we need to find your maid. She must have the papers.”
“Sophie doesn’t have them. You’d be wasting your time.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about the best uses of my time?” He turned away and headed for the door, anxious to make his escape and find some cold water with which to douse himself. “I suggest that you rest now. We depart for England at first light.”
—
She retreated the following morning in a hired coach arranged by Will. Avoiding the main roads, they spent long days on the road and nights in the homes of farmers along the route who seemed to be expecting them.
Will did not join her on this leg of the journey. When she asked why, he murmured something about having matters to attend to. They were to rendezvous at the coast in time to meet the vessel that would take them to England—and to her precious little girl.
A cautious joy surged in her chest every time she thought of Susanna, who was never far from her mind. A part of her was afraid to fully embrace the idea that she would soon hold her precious baby in her arms after all these years of being apart. She tried to dismiss the nagging fear that something—or someone—would intervene and keep her little angel from her. The constant worry had her sleeping fitfully, despite the exhausting days on the road.
On the third night, they stopped at a cozy farmhouse where the laconic host’s morose demeanor did not invite conversation. Not that she cared. She was only too happy to eat the delicious stew prepared by his amiable wife before retiring for the evening. Exhausted from travel and lack of sleep, she fell into the narrow bed, desperate for much-needed rest.
She dreamed of Susanna. They were together at Langtry, and a little girl with a wide smile and her father’s unmistakable eyes came running toward her calling, “Mama, Mama.” A hand snatched out and grabbed the little girl. “Stop,” she told him, “let my daughter come to me.” The man laughed and turned around and then she saw who he was: Duret.
She woke with a start to the sensation of being suffocated. It was no dream. Something was pressing against her mouth. A male hand that smelled of horse and leather. A muffled scream tore out of her throat, and she struggled and scratched, kicking at the intruder.
“Elle, be calm. It’s Will.” The soothing voice drifted through the darkness. “Do not be afraid.”
She stilled and blinked into the darkness, trying to see through the shadows. “Will?” she asked, her query muffled through his fingers.
He withdrew his hand and sat at the edge of her cot. “Yes.”
“Why are you here in the middle of the night?”
“I have reason to believe that your host has alerted Duret’s people as to your whereabouts. We must leave immediately.”
Her heart clamored. She’d just been dreaming of Duret, and now the threat was very real again.
“Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Come quickly and quietly.” She rose, absently brushing wrinkles from her peach gown. She hadn’t undressed, both because she had nothing else to wear and there was no one to undo the buttons up the back of her dress. Thankfully, her corset was loose enough to make sleep bearable.
They quietly made their way out of the cottage walking through a copse of trees until they reached a mount tethered to a low-hanging tree branch.
“Just one mount?” she whispered, eyeing the grayish-white Arabian’s compact body and short tail.
“We cannot risk waking the others by saddling another animal.” He took her small bundle of belongings and tied them to the saddle. “Do you know where the packet is?”
“Yes.” He hadn’t discovered the messages during his search, even though they’d been right there under his nose. She slid a hand into her pocket, feeling the cool, uneven surface of the Cleopatra coin. Her talisman had done its job well. She smiled in the dark, relishing her triumph.
“I don’t suppose you will give them to me for safekeeping?”
“They are safe just where they are.”
He shook his head. “As you say. It might be preferable for you to ride astride in front of me. We will make better time.” He linked his hands, offering her a boost into the saddle. She stepped into them and up onto the animal, conscious of her legs and raised skirt. But then, he’d recently been privy to much more than the turn of her ankle.
The coachmen and two outriders Will had sent her with remained asleep in the barn. “What about the others?” sh
e asked, trying to pull her skirt down over her exposed limbs.
He slid behind her in the saddle. “They can see to themselves. They’ve already been paid.”
Sitting upright, trying not to lean on Will, she was caged between his arms as he controlled the ribbons, each jolt of the Arabian’s gait sending her in contact with the firm musculature of his chest. The leathery notes of his shaving soap mingled with the scent of horse and perspiration; he must have ridden hard to reach her in time to see to her safety. And the safety of the dispatches, of course. Her body, tired as it was, reacted to his proximity, suddenly alert after days of exhaustion, aware of the subtle movements of his chest with each breath, of the feel of his muscled thighs encasing hers.
She struggled to keep a cohesive thought in her head. Anxious to get her mind away from Will’s thighs—and other parts of his person—she asked, “Does it have a name?”
He directed the animal into a trot. “Does what have a name?”
She tried to hold her body firm so it wouldn’t bump up against his with each step. “Your animal.”
“I didn’t think to ask. I do know it’s a mare, though, which should work to our advantage because females of the breed tend to be quieter, and we are in need of a discreet animal for our journey.”
It didn’t help. Her bottom bumped against the vicinity of his masculine parts with each rhythmic trot. Warmth tingled through her at his proximity, swirling lazily in her belly and rushing downward to places it had no business being. Ignoring the rising heat between her thighs, she forged on with the pointless conversation. “You don’t know her name? Where did you get the beast?”
“Let’s just say I appropriated her for the Crown.”
“In order words, you stole her,” she said. “I doubt her rightful owner would happily give over prized horseflesh to the English Crown.”
“He was well compensated for his loss.”
“Where are we headed now?”
“Still to the coast. I intend for us to be on the first packet out of France.”
“Both of us on one small mount?” she asked skeptically. “She’s practically a pony.”
“She’s an Arabian. The breed is known for its endurance.” He urged the animal into a cantor. “We must make haste.”
She breathed a sigh of relief that her bottom no longer bumped up against his manly parts. Now their bodies moved in tandem to the horse’s gait, a much more fluid ride than the trot they’d just come out of. The wind blew past them as the animal picked up speed, the ride smooth as their bodies moved in tune. The movement made her recall the one other occasion that their bodies had been attuned to each other, their limbs intertwined, skin sliding on skin as he’d made love to her, a joining together that was highly erotic but also excruciatingly intimate and tender.
It was a night she would never forget.
The night they’d conceived their daughter.
Chapter 11
By nightfall, Will found a place for them outside a village.
After inquiring at the farmer’s cottage, he returned with permission to overnight in the barn as well as two steaming bowls of stew. The food had cooled by the time Will finished putting the Arabian up for the night, but she was so hungry she scarcely noted it. Sitting side by side in the hay, they ate in silence and shared the cool water provided by their hosts for the evening.
“We should sleep early and leave at first light before too many people are on the road,” he said between spoonfuls of food.
She anticipated falling into a deep slumber as soon as she laid down in the hay. She was exhausted from riding, and her bottom was sore from being in the saddle all day. She also felt grimy and sweaty, but a bath was out of the question.
When they finished eating, Will returned the bowls to the cottage while she flopped back on the hay. When he returned, he reclined beside her.
“Will,” she asked after a while. “Why haven’t you married?”
He was silent at first, his face hidden in darkness. “Some men are not made for marriage.”
She paused, then said, “You wanted to wed me.”
She heard his quiet exhale. “The circumstances were unique.”
“I suppose they were.” Her heart ached at the memory. She hadn’t wanted to be a burden and a duty to him. She deserved a husband who wanted her as much as she desired him. However, had she known that a child would result from their coming together, she’d have made a different choice. “Perhaps you haven’t met the right woman.”
“No,” he said gruffly. “My life and work are not conducive to having a wife and children. My duties are all consuming. I have neither the time nor desire to be obligated to a family.”
Hurt sliced through her. Even if her letters had reached him in time, he wouldn’t have desired the family she and Susanna could give him. “Do you enjoy your work?”
“Very much.”
No ordinary clerk would demonstrate such extreme devotion to his employer. But a clerk who worked with the ruthless Le Rasoir might. She thought of Duret’s order to spy on Will, of the remote house Will had taken her to after the incident at the arcade, of his ability to secure transportation and funds for their escape to the coast at a time when half of Paris had been scouring the city for them. “Duret had the right of it. You are much more than just a clerk at the Home Office.”
He didn’t immediately reply. After a beat, he turned over on his side giving her his back. “Go to sleep, Elle. We’ve much ground to cover tomorrow.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but a huge yawn escaped instead. Her eyelids heavy with exhaustion, she closed her eyes and for the first time in many nights, fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
—
Will awoke the following morning with a raging cockstand. His inconvenient physical state came as no surprise considering he’d spent the night next to Elle. She’d fallen asleep immediately, but he’d lain awake, acutely aware of her presence beside him, listening to her soft breaths, replaying the alluring vision of her in a shift, garter, and stockings over and over again. When he’d finally managed to fall asleep, the scent of violets had invaded his dreams. This morning, he’d awakened to find the soft, warm source of his sleeplessness pressed against his back, her soft arse pillowed against his, hence the rock-hard discomfort between his thighs. Everything about Elle riled his physical impulses.
With a sigh, he edged away from her and flipped onto his back to stare up at the barn’s rafters. He normally had little trouble controlling his physical desires. Work occupied his days, and twice-weekly visits to an innkeeper’s widow over the past few years filled enough nights to satisfy his baser needs.
His mistress’s inn was conveniently located a few minutes’ ride from his office at Number 20 Crown Street, and the arrangement suited them both; neither had any interest in marriage, which is why the liaison had lasted several years. Helena’s first marriage had not been a happy one, and the inn kept her busy. He had his work and, after losing Elle, no interest in a wife. Besides, his missions were often perilous; he couldn’t chance leaving a family behind should something happen to him.
In her sleep, Elle exhaled and snuggled into his side. He breathed in the scent of warm, earthy woman. In repose, she looked younger and guileless, more like the innocent girl he’d known years ago. He resisted the urge to put his arm around her and bring that lithesome form tight against him. He sensed she would have been amenable if he’d drawn her to him in the night, but he couldn’t take the risk.
He had a number of reasons not to trust her: she’d been associated with Sparrow, his missing agent; she’d whored herself out to Duret—and allowed him to whore her out to Will—for the sake of her daughter. Perhaps she had allowed herself to be used in the same manner to entrap Sparrow. Will had been a fool for her once; he wouldn’t survive it again.
He rose, trying not to wake her. She stirred beside him.
“Will?” she asked in a rough, sleep-filled voice that only exacerbated the steel
iness of his shaft.
“It’s morning.” He looked over his shoulder, keeping the evidence of his carnal readiness out of her sight. “You’d best get up so we can be on our way.”
She sat up and stretched, arching her back in a movement that emphasized her innate sensual qualities. She ran her hands through her tousled hair and yawned. “I slept so soundly. Did you sleep well?”
Not daring to look at her again, he made for the barn door in search of cold water. “Yes, supremely well. Why don’t you make yourself presentable and I’ll see what I can manage for breakfast.”
They were back on the road not long afterward with Will resisting the urge to grit his teeth every time Elle jolted up against him.
“Tell me more about home,” she said suddenly. Happy to have the distraction, he told her about Langtry, Susanna, and the rest of her family.
“Cosmo married?” she exclaimed with disbelief, thinking of her rakehell brother. “To whom?”
“A most formidable female. Mari is an aeronaut and a balloonist.”
She shot him a surprised look from over her shoulder. “She falls from the sky? How extraordinary.”
He nodded. “Mari is more than Cosmo’s match. She keeps him on his toes, and they both dote on Susanna.”
Her face softened at the mention of her daughter. “Tell me more about her.” He told her what he knew—that the child was smart and precocious and had enchanted all the adults around her.
After she’d finished peppering him with questions about the girl, they fell into a companionable silence as the miles and hours stretched through the day. It took everything within Will to control his body’s impulses each time Elle’s hips bumped up against his groin when the Arabian changed her gait or hit a rough patch of terrain. He’d never been so happy for a day’s journey to come to an end when they finally reached the coast later that day.
Elle waited impatiently in the private parlor of the tavern where Will had left her. Once they’d reached the coast, he’d installed her here before going off to investigate which boats were bound for the English coast. He’d been gone almost an hour. Nervous anticipation gnawed at her stomach. What if Duret’s men had caught up to him? She was so close to her daughter now. If all went well, she could be holding her Susanna in her arms before the week was out. The door clicked open behind her and Will let himself in.
