Though she had known Landsdowne would not be of assistance, she could not predict if his appointment with Anche would be fruitful. Apparently, the man had thought Gerard interesting enough to request a second interview. How much had Gerard already revealed? Powell? Surely not. If it were known that Gerard had killed a peer of the realm, there would be no secrets, no information, valuable enough to spare his life.
She pulled a book off the shelf. The first volume of Cecilia. She had skimmed it briefly years ago and dismissed it as overly sentimental despite the cutting depictions of characters in society, but now sentiment appealed to her. Now that reason had seemed to flee her thoughts. She was halfway through the third page when a noise at the back of the house made her tense, but Bohm was there, aware that Gerard would come. The man would not let anyone else enter.
Footsteps down the hall followed, then the door opened and the rectangular space framed a familiar silhouette. She stood quickly and went to him, even as he closed the door behind him. Tension thrummed tangibly through his body.
“What happened?”
His face was granite and she knew at once he’d sold his soul once more. Fury seeped through her, sharp and searing. She struggled for calm, waiting to hear what he would say, even though a deep sense of betrayal filled her.
“I will gain a title. An estate. Everything you desire.”
“And in exchange?”
“Information.”
“And?” She crossed her hands over her chest as if the movement could contain her fury. “You’ve never shrunk from the bald truth before. Whom do they want you to kill?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“Of course you can’t. Just as you could not tell me Powell was in up to his ears in corrupt activity. But you think I will marry you. A man who will have no standing in society other than some newly created title.” She wanted to cry. How close she had been to being willing to give everything up for him, even if he didn’t succeed. But here was proof he had not changed, had resorted to what he knew best in order to solve the problems their love posed. He wanted a new life, one not tinged by darkness, but how could either of them have it if it was built on death, on servitude to a cause in which he didn’t believe?
“My brother…”
“Lord Templeton? Who married his mistress… Yes, certainly he will help you.”
“Jane, it is unimportant.”
She threaded her fingers through her hair and clasped her head in her hands in disbelief. “A life is unimportant? As mine was in Vienna to that man? How can you say such a thing?” Her head ached. Her heart ached. “How can you give up everything you are on merely the chance of a future with me? I didn’t fall in love with that man who would risk everything.”
“Didn’t you?”
She swallowed hard.
“Come here, Jane.” He reached for her, drew her in close. She longed for this, missed his scent, his taste, missed the way she felt when their bodies entwined.
It would be so easy to let him seduce her into compliance. However, to live with her on the terms she had set, he intended to not only act the assassin, but to risk his life. Risk the soul she had thought yearned for redemption and renewal. The way she yearned for something more than everything she had ever known.
She pulled away from him. “I don’t want the hands of a killer on me,” she whispered, knowing it was cruel.
He let her go. She lowered her lashes against the naked agony in his eyes. Her heart twisted in her chest. She didn’t know how to save him and how to save herself.
“You did in Vienna.” She shuddered at the hoarse rasp of his voice.
Naked body against naked body standing in the inn on the outskirts of the city, coming to him freely. She remembered those moments with such strong force that she nearly lived it again. She had felt free, had believed in him, had known he would fight for her. It had been a dream, and he was here now, and he was about to risk his life. But what could she say that would stop him?
“That was out of pity. That was good-bye.”
His jaw worked, then relaxed and his lips tilted up into a devastating smile. He stepped forward, every bit as dangerous as he had been that first day she had looked up at the angel of death.
He curled his hand around her bare neck, pulled her close. Light dimmed. His scent and heat filled the space between them. She wanted nothing more than to press herself against him, be with him in the way they could never truly be, not unless she was willing to run away.
“Your pity is a wondrous thing. Say good-bye to me once more.”
His lips on hers were the beginning of a promise that she felt in every fiber of her body. He saw through her words. He would not let her go.
She reveled in that promise, accepted it as if it were the truth. Later, she could return to reason, but for now she was happy to give in to his will once more, to luxuriate in his touch and the way warmth trailed like honey everywhere his fingers skimmed.
His lips coaxed hers, and she threaded her arms around him, under his coat, and drew him closer, pressed against him to feel the hard lines of his body. His arousal, too, was hard and she shifted against him as desire settled sharp and spicy low in her belly. She knew how he felt, how he tasted, and it made the anticipation so much sweeter.
“Jane.” Her name was an exhale, a sigh against her skin. “I’ve missed you.”
She had missed him too. Not just this, the energy that raced through her, but his conversation, the way he looked at her, the way he listened to her. He had become, against all odds, her friend. But not like any friend she had had before with whom she still needed to hide parts of herself.
With Gerard, she wanted to open up more, give more, unite her body with his until there was nothing between them but pure understanding. She wanted the physical and the cerebral transcendence. But she didn’t want to put any of it into words. She simply wanted to—
Touch him. Her hands explored the curls of his hair around his neck, the skin beneath smooth and warm. She wanted to press her mouth to that skin, to feel his pulse beneath her lips. Once she’d bridged the barrier of space, desire bloomed, turned into a living ravenous thing that demanded control. She gave in to that need.
Her mouth was everything and his body her world. A dizzy heat consumed her. Her fingertips tingled as they ran over the texture of his skin, and the hair that lightly covered his arms, his chest, and his legs, nestling that part of him that even the thought of pierced her with sharp pleasure. But too much cloth separated her thoughts from her desire. She pushed his coat off his shoulders, left the cloth bunched up halfway down, trapping his arms for moments that allowed her to explore. She ran her hands over his shoulders again, now only separated from his skin by the cloth of his shirt.
He moved his arms and she felt the muscle flex under her hands, a taut strength that thrilled her. She knew what he could do, and what he felt like above her and inside her. She knew he could lift her effortlessly, that his strength was both tender and fierce.
“Gerard,” she said on a breath, drawing out the syllables.
Her voice broke whatever spell had kept him complacent, letting her take the lead. Instead, he pulled his arms out of his jacket and wrapped them around her, one hand burying in her hair as he drew her mouth to his, claimed it with his lips, his tongue, his breath. Claimed her with his heat and his will.
His other hand slid lower, grasping her bottom, urging her against him. Sensations were sharp and yet she melted into his mouth, exploring, teasing, pushing and pulling. She was so thirsty for him, and at the same time the thirst was unquenchable. She pulled at his shirt, releasing it from under his trousers so that she could slide her hands under, feel the bare skin of his stomach, taught and textured.
His hand on the bare skin of her thigh was a shock, her night rail bunched up against her back. Then he let go of her, the cloth falling, and he grabbed her again at her hips, lifting her. The world tilted and she clung to him, dizzy and disoriented, until the soft cus
hion of the high-backed chair was beneath her. He knelt down in front of her, pushing her nightgown up, running his hands over the bare skin of her knees, up her thighs, thumbs catching just at the apex of her thighs as his hands wrapped around.
She watched him across the expanse of her body and he looked up, met her gaze.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered. There was only her one candle flickering in the dark, and the thin moonlight through the window. His gaze seared her, his expression intense yet full of wonder. He was the one who was beautiful, but he made her feel beautiful. Made her aware of the preciousness of the night and the fragility of their created space.
He bent his head and she reached out to caress his dark curls, hand falling to the side as his lips touched her skin. She sucked in her breath and watched—felt—as he made his progress up her thigh, lips warm, tongue wet. His hot breath feathered across her center, and then his lips followed. At the sweet contact of his mouth on her, she sighed and her head dropped back against the leather chair, feeling the strangest sense of peace, of having come home.
An instant later, peace was gone and her hips were writhing as the sensation grew. He was licking, stroking, torturing her with his mouth and she loved it all, wanted more, wanted that explosion she knew would come. And then she was there, shuddering, moaning, reaching for him. He slid her down until she straddled his hips where he knelt on the floor, and kissed her. He tasted foreign but she knew that foreignness was her own scent.
“The floor,” he said, his voice guttural, strained. She went where he urged, lying down on the thick carpet she had never thought of before as anything other than a decorative element or warmth for bare feet on a late night. Now the earthy smell of wool surrounded her a moment before Gerard covered her with his body.
She was languid with spent pleasure as he slid inside her, stretching her with his hard length, but desire rose again, sharp and compelling. She met his thrusts with her hips, with her hands on his back, her thighs clutching him.
“Jane, Jane,” he murmured, kissing her neck frantically, her cheek, clutching at her as he searched for his own release. Then he surged inside her and he buried his head against her shoulder, his low moan vibrating against her skin as he thrust and thrust into her until the tension eased from his body and lay upon her, his chest rising and falling against hers, his breath against her ear. They lay there in silence and she shifted slightly, tightening her thighs around him to keep him there, joined to her.
At length he rose up on his forearms and looked down at her.
“Jane,” he said, his voice dark, devoid of passion. “Trust me. I am doing this for us.”
She tightened her hold even more on him, drew him back down to her chest. He was doing this for them, for her, but not for him. As they had traveled along the Rhine, the stories they had shared, the love that had blossomed, had been of two people shaping their lives and finding that they wanted more. Gerard did not want darkness but he would delve back in in the hopes of a bright future. But how could that life be built on more death?
“Do not do this thing, not for me. Not for anyone.”
He pushed up, breaking free of her arms, sliding from her body. Cool air swept in where he had been. He fastened the falls of his pantaloons as he stood, and she sat up slowly, watching him stalk to the window, stare out into the night.
“Do you fear for my immortal soul?” he said at last, mockingly.
“Yes.” She stood, strode over to him and pulled on his shoulder until he turned to her. “Yes!”
“You need not. I destroyed whatever there might have been years ago.” His voice was flat.
“Gerard.”
“Jane,” he said, imitating her. Then he let out a deep breath, ran a hand through his hair and the frozen facade cracked. “What do you suggest then? I love you. I cannot accept that you live your life and I live mine and that life is not the same.”
His scent still wrapped around her, she tried to imagine never seeing him again. When she had left him in Frankfurt, she had thought that the last. Then again, when he left Vienna… No. That was a lie. She had known from the first that their lives were inextricably tied. All these weeks the practical Jane had been taken over by some emotional creature she hardly recognized. She clung to the last shards of herself, to the woman who would live life on her own terms, who would only compromise if it were reasonable.
“I don’t know,” she said helplessly. It was too much to tell him she would have him as he was, an outsider, a shadow, that she was willing to leave her own life behind.
“Then it shall be this way, and you will trust me, Jane.” He took her face in his hands, demanded her acquiescence.
She closed her eyes, rested her cheek into his palm, her heart aching.
“I’d better go.”
Her eyes flew open. His hands dropped and he slipped past her to where his coat lay upon the floor. His coat.
She followed him about the room, down the hall and to the kitchen door. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and make him stay.
“When?” she choked.
He shook his head. “There is planning to be done. Do not ask me for more, Jane. You know how this works.”
She laughed bitterly. “Yes. I know. And how may I find you?”
“I have rooms…I have had for years,” he said. “Do you intend to visit me?” His raised eyebrow and amused smile irritated her, as if he were the only one who could sneak into buildings and bedrooms. Not that she had ever tried before. Or perhaps she would risk her reputation and show up someday at his doorstep.
“Perhaps or perhaps not,” she said. “But I find my mind eased by knowing that the man who wishes to make me his wife is not simply a figment of my imagination who disappears with the next breeze off the Thames.”
He laughed. “A very vivid imagination that would be.”
She smiled tightly and watched him step out into the night. Her chest tightened, stomach roiling and she called out quickly, “Gerard…”
He turned back, eyebrow raised in question.
“I’ll trust you.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll trust you to be a better man.”
A better man. Emptiness hollowed him out as he left her. She doubted him. He had made light of her concern, but perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was trying to create gold from base metal when all it would ever be was base metal. He returned to his rooms exhausted. The highs and lows of emotion were new to him and stole clarity of mind. He lay down on his bed—a narrow thing that had been intended for a valet but as he didn’t currently have one and Thomas had infested the main bedroom, he was making do—and stared up at the ceiling. Contemplated his immortal soul and the actions that might compromise that dubious thing.
In his possession was a file on a man who had managed to slip through the British government’s hands time and time again. Smuggling, sedition, treason even. Yet Arnold Vesper had become something of a folk hero, ignoring the government and war to benefit the poor. Then he’d stopped suddenly, six months before Napoleon was caught. Gone to ground so completely that he might very well have died. Or left the country.
They wanted him dead or alive. Dead preferably, as no one wanted to risk the chance the people would riot if it were found he’d been brought in. The death needed to look like a common brawl, or something natural. If Gerard could find and kill this ghost, he could have his title, have Jane.
This job was another Szabo, another one he was obligated to take regardless of what he discovered about the mark when he did his own investigations. Even if he found Vesper innocent, a hero in truth, Gerard could not turn this work down and still gain his heart’s desire. But the cold, calculating approach to work felt foreign to him now, and donning it was like donning a mask. There was a man he could be, a man who was decent and honorable and who did not walk alone.
Surely he could still be that man even after this last job. It was a mission for the country he intended to adopt as his own. That was a form of patriotism,
was it not? If the action had the full sanction of the government, how could it be a blot on his soul any more than the lives a soldier claimed in wartime? He clung to that thought as he gave way to sleep. He clung to that thought as he woke, more tired than he had been the night before. And he held on to it tightly as he began the work of tracking down a ghost. He didn’t expect it to be overly hard. After all, like recognized like.
Chapter Seventeen
“This is a foolish thing you do.” Bohm chided her for the fifth time as Jane handed him her cloak. “Let me go to him. He will come to you.”
“I am here now safely. You may return home, if you like,” Jane said, ignoring him.
The only reason—well, one of two reasons—that Jane crept through the dark with the intention of climbing a wall and entering Gerard’s apartments was to prove to him that he was not the only one who could have the element of surprise. In some way, to prove she had power, too, of the sort he so seemed to value.
The other reason was that they had parted on difficult terms. He had not said he would call on her. There was no appointment to meet at a future date. He might very well conduct his mission and die trying and no one would think to inform her.
She wanted to see him again, convince him this time that his actions were misguided, though she had not managed to think of a solution of her own. But there would be another option, she was certain of it. She needed Gerard to agree to wait.
Bohm huffed in the dark. “I will be here when you descend, but you will pay me more. If you don’t break your neck.”
She covered her mouth to stifle the sound of her laugh even as she agreed. “Give me a lift?”
Grudgingly, he hoisted her up until she could grab on to the lowest windowsill. She held her breath, hoping no one was a light sleeper, as the last thing she needed was for any of his neighbors to wake up and look out their windows at the strange woman climbing up.
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