She waited. Waited in silent horror for him to come to his senses, to pull away in disgust.
“Relax, Cora.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“You can. Now, breathe.”
She tried and failed.
“Again,” he demanded.
His fingers skimmed carefully over the half-dozen circular burns dotting the soles of her feet. She closed her eyes, her body tensing even further.
“That’s not helping,” she ground out.
He ignored her. “Do these still cause you pain?”
Enough, her mind raged. She pulled at her foot.
“Do be still.” He tugged her foot back in place. “Answer my question, if you please.”
Jaw clenched, Cora glanced down at where his hands continued their masterful manipulation. “No. Just tender.”
When he lifted one savaged sole toward his lips, her eyes rounded in horror, and her body turned into a block of cold, unmovable marble.
“Oh, God,” she choked out, her toes curling. “No, Guy, please don’t—” His lips pressed against first one burn mark and then the other. Tears threatened. “P-please stop.”
With the greatest care, he rested her foot across his thigh and cupped the bottom of her foot with his warm palm. His other hand smoothed over the tops of both her feet. “I will do everything within my power to give you ease, Cora.”
Gratitude flooded her body, but she had to struggle to enjoy the sensation. She wanted to follow his lead, allow him to help her through this dark hour. But the emotions were trying to choke her. There were so many of them to grasp and control and to set free.
She gathered her tumultuous thoughts together and focused them on his strong hands, on the exquisite pleasure spiraling up her spine. Nothing else. Only the hedonistic joy of the moment.
He continued his gentle assault, rubbing every muscle and crease of her foot. Within minutes, her eyes fluttered shut and her body melted into the cushions of the chaise. She idled in this half-aware state until an odd throbbing against the side of her foot brought her back to full awareness. She glanced down and noticed her foot now rested against his groin.
His hard, pulsing groin.
“Guy—” She made to sit up, but her chest met his staying hand.
“Ignore it.”
It drew her attention again. While she stared down at his lap, it lengthened and stretched to an impressive and painful-looking size. “I don’t know if that’s possible.”
“Do your best. I can’t control my body’s response to your nearness, especially dressed as you are, but I can control how I react to such temptation. So relax and allow me to do this one kindness for you.”
Cora searched his eyes for a secret meaning and found nothing save sincerity. When the nightmares remained locked away in her mind, she eased back, giving her silent consent.
Approval shone in his dark eyes, and Cora felt a ridiculous amount of satisfaction at her accomplishment. He began working on her other foot, and then those amazing hands kneaded their way up her calf.
She emitted a low, approving groan, certain there was a special place in heaven for hands as skilled as his. He had a wonderful knack for hitting all the right spots. She thought of all the beautiful women for whom he had mastered the technique, shocked by the stab of jealousy that shot through her heart.
How many feminine calves had it taken for him to learn the exact amount of pressure to exert in order to arch a woman’s back? Her mind shied away from such useless questions. Concentrate on the pleasure, she chided herself.
She gave it her most valiant effort, but her mind veered back to Guy. In his youth, he had been a handsome lad with a decided bent toward mischief. Even now, in unguarded moments, she could detect a sparkle of the boyish charm that had saved him from numerous lashings. But the glimpse of her old friend wasn’t what compelled her to spy on him beneath her lashes.
It was the rugged perfection of his sculpted features. Every line on his striking face seemed carved by the hand of the great Bernini. If not for the end-of-the-day stubble on his chin and the disheveled sweep of his hair, he would be too damned perfect for her taste.
His hair.
Aching to feel the silky texture of his long locks, she twisted her fingers together before she succumbed to such enticement. Thick strands of black hair had escaped his leather thong, making him appear as though he had just stepped off the deck of a two-masted brigantine. Piratical. Dangerous. Seductive.
When she drew in a calming breath, his scent—an exotic combination of sandalwood and musk—filled her nostrils. Her pulse stuttered, and her stomach clenched. Out of sheer torture, she indulged in another deep inhalation. Her body grew languid, her eyelids heavy.
“If you continue to stare at me in such a way, Cora, I may have to rethink my earlier statement about controlling myself.”
Her eyes widened, and heat crawled up her chest and into her face. Who would believe that Cora deBeau, British agent and seductress, remembered how to blush? She disliked her loss of control. She had worked hard over the years to mask her emotions. Emotions that could get her—and others—killed. What was it about Guy that made her forget years of training and discipline?
And yet, she was tempted to burrow beneath the Raven’s persona and see where things led.
“Is that a challenge I see in your beautiful eyes?” he asked, his tone drenched in male desire.
For a charged moment, she allowed his question to hover in the air between them. Then she dug her foot into his thigh. “Yes, I can see how I would inspire uncontrollable lust in my present state, especially with a man of your experience.”
He looked down at his arousal. “I believe my current state of discomfort belies the first part of your comment. As for the latter part… what do you know of my experience?”
She glanced away, her unease returning. Their conversation had crept over the invisible line of what she could tolerate. Her hand rubbed over the area around her heart. It felt like a ball of slithering snakes resided within. She needed to move, needed to escape.
This time when she tried to remove her feet, he released them without comment. Placing a supportive hand against her rib cage, she sat up and planted her damaged feet firmly on the floor. She stared at the worn carpet fibers, fighting the compulsion of her own mind.
He touched her shoulder. “Cora.”
The contact pushed her over the edge. She stood.
“Don’t run.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “More like a strategic retreat.”
She wanted to stay but needed to go. She hated this weakness, hated Valère for ruining her chance at love. Hated herself for caring about something she had forsaken years ago.
Squaring her shoulders, she opened her mouth to apologize for her cowardice, for not being strong enough to be his friend. Before she could say a word, a grimace shot across his features, and his eyes widened in pain.
“Damn man-eating tiger,” he growled, bending over. “I’m going to turn you into a hand muff.”
Before he blocked her view, Cora caught sight of the kitten wrapped around his bootless ankle, claws extended, fangs exposed. He disengaged the kitten and raised him in the air by the scruff of his little neck. The incredulous look on Guy’s face and the swatting kitten dangling in midair was too much. A gurgle of amusement started low in her stomach, building steadily until it finally emerged on a snort of laughter.
Guy’s stunned gaze locked with hers across the short distance, her laughter having caught them both off guard. A warm smile lit his face, even as he dodged the small beastie’s sharp claws.
Cora’s heart lodged in her throat at his display of tenderness.
She had revealed too much.
Again.
His upturned lips transformed into a stern, thin line. “It’s not funny, Cora. His attacks were bad enough while I wore leather boots, but razor-sharp needles penetrating my stocking-covered ankle ceases to amuse.”
Grateful for the distraction, Cora responded, “You’re right, of course. Here”—she reached for the kitten—“let me take Scrapper to my bedchamber, so he won’t cause you further injury.”
“Scrapper? You named the damned cat Scrapper?”
“It was either that or Fang, and I think Scrapper has a certain poignancy to it, wouldn’t you agree?” She turned to leave.
“Cora, come back here. I’m not through with you yet.”
She continued her escape with the kitten hooked over her shoulder. “I believe that’s enough comfort for one evening. Good night, my lord.”
Cora couldn’t contain the huge grin and accompanying chuckle any longer. She dug her fingers into Scrapper’s velvety fur and climbed the stairs to her room on feet lighter than when she had descended. She barely felt the pinpricks of pain each step caused.
It wasn’t until later, when Cora lay in her bed, staring at the darkened canopy above her and the kitten purring contentedly atop her chest, that she permitted herself to bask in the warmth of Guy’s smile.
***
Guy’s attention narrowed on the furry menace draped over Cora’s shoulder as she dashed from the room. Was that a twinkle he saw in the damned cat’s eyes? Before Cora turned the corner, the little feline baggage stretched out a paw toward him, claws extended.
How the hell was he supposed to interpret that? Probably trying to get in a last bloodletting swipe before being carted off.
Cora’s soft chuckle reached his ears. The pure beauty of the sound left him reeling with joy, his furry nemesis forgotten. This morning, when she noted Scrapper’s claw marks on his Hessians, her smile nearly broke free, and he had mourned the loss. But tonight… tonight she had laughed, actually laughed for the first time since they had retrieved her from France.
His mood darkened.
She had been nothing more than a bundle of bones when they had found her. Not an ounce of femininity could be found. If not for her unmistakable eyes, he might have left her behind. Guy pulled in a ragged breath to stem his churning stomach.
Thanks to Dinks’s encouragement, or rather, her bullying, the hollows in Cora’s cheeks had already begun to fill in, and the skin stretching across her narrow fingers no longer looked so stark and colorless. Although her recent merriment was short-lived, it signaled yet another area Valère failed to destroy and heralded another step closer to her recuperation.
The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air. It pulled at the tension coursing through his shoulders until they relaxed by slow degrees. As he reclined on the chaise, feeling the warmth left behind by Cora’s body, he clasped his hands behind his head and began plotting ways to make her laugh again.
Fourteen
As the porcelain-and-ormolu clock in the drawing room chimed for the eighth time, Guy strode through the kitchen door and circled around the dew-dusted herb garden with its diamond-shaped design full of rosemary, parsley, peppermint, and an assortment of other greenery he couldn’t identify. Before long, he found the narrow path that would take him to the small lake nestled on the west side of his property.
For the last two mornings, Cora had hidden in her chamber until Dinks served her luncheon meal, and then she would disappear with her guards in tow. He was certain she had adopted this careful ploy because of their encounter in the library. The unmistakable evidence of his desire had at first flustered her before it reawakened the ever-present terror that refused to release her from its grasp.
His anger fired at the implication evident in her reaction. Valère not only damaged her body, but he had crippled her soul, an injury that could take decades to mend. Guy would devote whatever time he had left in this life—and the next—to her recovery. After all she had sacrificed, she now deserved a bit of happiness. They both did.
Once he had detected Cora’s current preference for solitude, he had decided to allow her this small respite from his company. However, on the rare occasions their paths crossed, he would take the opportunity to kiss her hand, cradle her elbow, or stand too close. His decision might prove a difficult setback in his goal to unearth his former friend, but he was willing to risk it, for he needed a reprieve, as well.
The feel of her satiny skin beneath his palm and the weight of her appreciative gaze roaming over his body was an incredible, erotic combination. He couldn’t remember ever being so swollen with need for such an extended period of time. Not until the moon had begun its westerly descent had his cock ceased its demand for release. And every time he thought about Cora in those provocative silk pai jamahs, the torment would begin all over again.
As it did now. Bloody hell.
Guy’s ruminations came to an abrupt halt when he noticed a man lounging against a tree, watching something in the distance. The cold heat of danger swept through his body, heightening his awareness of his surroundings. He reached inside his coat to retrieve his gun and crept a few steps to the left for a better look.
The man’s profile soon came into view. Jack. For some reason, the realization didn’t lessen the tension thrumming through his muscles. He peered beyond Jack’s shoulder to see what held the footman’s attention so thoroughly that he hadn’t yet registered Guy’s presence.
When he located Cora across the clearing, dressed in manly garments again, his hand tightened around his pistol.
Bloody damn hell.
Fire pounded through his veins, and his gaze flicked to the footman, who still hadn’t detected the danger lurking at his back. Had Guy been one of Valère’s men, the handsome devil would be dead right now.
Rather than scanning his surroundings, Jack’s attention centered on his mistress. Intent and highly disrespectful.
“Enjoying the view?” Guy asked.
The footman started, and he whipped around with his fists raised like a seasoned pugilist. When recognition dawned, the Irishman’s familiar cocky grin surfaced.
“Couldn’t call myself a man if I didn’t, m’lord.” The younger man straightened when he noticed Guy did not share his amusement. “Ay, now, it ain’t like that, you know. If it weren’t for Miss Cora, me and my sis, Grace, would be on the streets. I owe her my life. She’s a fine-looking woman, I admit, but I got no designs on her person.”
Guy’s muscles remained taut, ready. “That’s good to hear.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the gun in Guy’s hand then nervously flicked up to Guy’s face. “You got no need for that, m’lord. I swear it.”
Guy removed his finger from the trigger. “Watch your back as well as your mistress’s,” he warned the footman. “The enemy rarely attacks head-on.”
“Yes, sir.” The footman’s expression turned sheepish. “Did you come to relieve one of us, m’lord?”
“Yes.” He scanned the wooded edge of the clearing. “Where’s your partner?”
Jack jerked his thumb to the left. “Old Bingham is crouched over there, pretending like he’s asleep.” He snorted. “About as likely as me becoming the king of England, it is.”
“I’ll take over from here. Go find out what supplies Cook needs from town and keep your ear to the ground for any mention of strangers in the area.”
“Will do, m’lord.”
Guy waited for the underbrush to swallow the footman’s back before stepping to the edge of the tree line. It took him several minutes to shake off the disquieting feelings brought on by Jack’s casual attitude toward his duties. He decided to have a follow-up discussion with the footman when he returned from his errand. They could ill afford such mistakes with the Frenchman at large. Valère’s keen intellect would pick up on the slightest misstep.
Putting Jack’s odd behavior aside, he ignored the luscious green glade enveloping the small crescent-shaped lake and searched for the woman who had held her long-time servant transfixed. Opposite him, beneath the swaying arms of a giant willow. Cora performed a series of slow, fluid maneuvers. With her body poised in a semicrouch, her arms and legs wove in mesmerizing circles.
The artistry of her m
ovements left him spellbound. Her technique was much more improved, controlled and precise, yet fluid and graceful. She wore a fitted teal tunic over a pair of white silk pai jamahs—an outfit that shouldn’t be worn outside the bedchamber, in his opinion—and her feet were bare. Again.
When he had asked his men about her activities, they told him she walked, she read, and she stared a lot. They said nothing about this.
It was their mention of her staring at some unknown object for long periods of time that brought him to the lake today. He didn’t want her reliving the past, terrorizing her mind over and over. If she must revisit the memories in order to put them behind her, then he wanted to be there to help her through the pain of remembrance.
Following the line of trees, he circled around until he stood ten feet from her. Focused on her maneuvers, she gave no indication of being aware of his existence. That would soon change. Thankfully, he wore a pair of old boots that he easily toed off—his stockings, coat, waistcoat, and cravat followed suit.
Many years had passed since he had last practiced the ancient art of Tai Chi with the deBeau clan. Cora’s father, the late Lord Danforth, was first introduced to the stylized martial art during one of his frequent trips to the Orient. Many years ago, Cora had found her father practicing the meditative movements and cajoled him into teaching her. And so he did. Soon after, Guy and her brother had joined them.
His friend’s animated sister had always charmed Guy, but he had had little call to spend much time with her until then. Their Tai Chi lessons had changed all of that. For one hour every day, she had focused that incredible mind of hers inward. She became stronger mentally and physically. At the tender age of eight, she had a better understanding of herself than few achieved with decades of training.
He now recalled meeting Somerton during one of their sessions. At the time, he thought nothing of the hawk-like way in which the earl studied them or of the quiet conversations between Somerton and Cora’s father as they followed their pupils’ progress. Were the two plotting even then to bring the trio into the Nexus?
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