To Win a Scoundrel's Heart (The Lords of Whitehall Book 2)

by Kristen McLean

  Marcel went rigid.

  Nick pretended not to notice. “Pity. Had I but known, I would have waited and killed her afterward.”

  “You killed her?” Marcel choked out.

  Nick’s lips turned up crookedly. “She died by her own blade. Fitting justice, eh?”

  Marcel growled and charged, much the way Renaud had, but with better form.

  Nick stepped out of the way at the last minute, then struck Marcel’s temple with a hard right cross. Marcel staggered a little but swiftly recovered. Then a giant fist was sailing a hair past Nick’s jaw with a second grazing his middle.

  After that, it was all Nick could do to avoid the blows. They kept coming, one after the other, without regulation, without calculation. The beast was being driven by passion, making him careless.

  Good. Carelessness would result in mistakes.

  Nick found an opening when Marcel moved right instead of left. It left him vulnerable long enough for Nick to drive a solid blow into Marcel’s side. It was meant to be a combination, but Marcel twisted before Nick could land the other.

  That was not what he had expected.

  Nick’s stomach was struck first. Then a shattering blow caught his temple and sent him down. Bells rang in his head, and lights danced before his eyes. He knew he was on the ground, and he knew he had to get up, but his body wasn’t cooperating.

  When he did pull himself up, it was too late. He was barely standing when another fist collided with his jaw.

  This was not going as well as planned.

  Nick was back on the ground, spitting up blood while his head screamed at him. Blood was streaming down the side of his face, dropping to the grass as he pushed himself up.

  He heard Marcel coming at him and rolled, narrowly avoiding a boot to his head. When he finally got to his feet, he knew precisely where his opponent stood.

  He forced himself to focus, to devise a plan of attack to end the fight, preferably with himself still alive.

  Marcel came forward, and Nick dodged his fists, driving his own into Marcel’s jaw. Again, he dodged and struck. Dodged and struck. He slowly beat away at the hulking bruiser one deadly blow at a time, putting what ought to have been unnecessary force into every one.

  He was tired, in pain, and he couldn’t see clearly, but he had to go on. It was either that or he would die in this field.

  Marcel began to stagger, and Nick moved in to finish the job. It was now or never, considering the devastating effect that blow to the head had dealt to his vision and balance, not to mention how fast the punches were draining Nick’s energy. It had been years since he had fought fisticuffs with a heavyweight. He generally went out of his way to avoid it.

  He drove his fist into Marcel’s jaw, knocking him back for the first time. He kept at it, alternating his strikes between Marcel’s jaw and his gut, putting all his strength into them. Finally, Marcel fell, and he fell hard.

  Nick was breathing heavily. He was dizzy, his head was pounding, and his ribs were painfully reminding him they were not as healed as he wished they were. Considering the tumble with Henri and now this, he was beginning to wonder if he had cracked them again.

  “André,” he called, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He walked back to where Céleste had fallen and found an empty circle of flattened grass. “Saint Brides!”

  No answer.

  Nick swallowed the nausea and began walking back to where he and Saint Brides had tied the horses. Surely, that was where Saint Brides had taken André and Céleste. Had they stayed and Nick lost the fight, Marcel would have gone after them next. It was what Nick would have done.

  Step after painful step, Nick reassured himself everyone was fine. He knew this; he simply wanted to see it for himself so he could forget the sight of Céleste falling to the ground like a ragdoll.

  He walked on, ignoring his body’s protests with every movement while his heart raced and his hands fisted at his sides.

  He expected his head would hurt like the devil well into tomorrow, but the dizziness wasn’t improving. He blinked hard to clear his fuzzy vision. Nightfall was setting in, but it seemed strangely bright for twilight, especially with a storm blowing in. At least it sounded like a storm with how loud the ocean was becoming.

  Where was he? The field near the old shack; that was right.

  And he was going where?

  Ah, to the ground, it seemed. Rather quickly.

  Chapter 13

  “Will he be all right?” Céleste sat on the edge of the bed, frowning down at the still form beneath the coverlet. “He has been unconscious for so long.”

  Saint Brides shrugged. “Your physician seems to think so.”

  “He also thinks he collapsed from exhaustion,” she muttered. “What nonsense.”

  “I am sure exhaustion had a great deal to do with it,” Saint Brides said. “He hasn’t had much sleep lately, and he fought highwaymen, Renaud, and her giant all in less than a day. He is only human.”

  “I rather think it has more to do with the giant gash on the side of his head,” she returned, automatically touching her fingers to Nick’s temple, lightly brushing them over the white bandage there.

  Even André, a mere boy, had known enough to be worried about the injury. She had spent the entire journey comforting him, ensuring him that Nick would pull through. He had been doggedly by the patient’s side until only a few moments ago, when Mrs. Brice brought in warm milk, and convinced the lad to rest himself in his own bed. A boy cannot be much help to anyone if he hasn’t had a wink of sleep, she had said. He was so tired by the time he finished the milk, she had to half carry him out.

  “I am sure he has been through worse,” Saint Brides said. “He may act like a dandy with not a serious thought in his head, but he was one of my finest assassins for years.” He frowned. “Although, now that this case is solved, I expect he will wish to retire. Again.”

  “Assassin?” Céleste repeated.

  Nick was an assassin? No wonder he had looked so amused when she had called him a mere investigator. No wonder he had thought her naive.

  Saint Brides raised a brow at her. “You mean you had not figured that out yet?”

  “I… well…” Céleste had not really had much time to think about his profession, as strange as the thought of a working aristocrat was. She had been busy trying and failing to control her emotions, to keep herself from falling in love.

  “Of course, you had not,” Saint Brides said, shaking his head, obviously thinking better of his question. “What sort of spy would he be if he could be so easily found out?” He raked a dissatisfied gaze over the sleeping patient. “If I could clone him, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

  No! Céleste thought. Having any more beautiful gods running about would be devastating to the female population.

  “Well, I must go,” Saint Brides declared on a deep exhale. “I have pressing letters to write and a report to magically turn into a coherent series of events with sufficient explanations, like why I utilized all my men stationed in France to take down a fully armed ship off the coast of Le Havre. God knows I shall be the only one bothering with it. Good evening, Lady Dumonte.”

  “Lord Saint Brides,” she returned.

  He tipped his chin to her, then strode from the room, his confident footfalls receding down the hall.

  Céleste turned back to Nick, smoothing away the sandy locks from his forehead. She had not wanted him to be brought to Paris, but they couldn’t waste the day it would take to send someone there for a decent physician. Her physician. The only one she trusted. Even though they had taken the most comfortable conveyance available and Saint Brides had ridden alongside so Nick would have room to lie down for the journey, she had still worried the trip might have been too much for him. Her physician had echoed her concerns when they had arrived.

  Now he was tended to and comfortably resting. If only he would wake up…

  He had been out for two days, and every hour that
ticked by had her wringing her hands together with worry. He had saved her life more than once. She couldn’t let him die.

  If only that were the sole reason… She was such a fool for allowing herself to fall in love with him. They had no future. He would go back to England now and be glad to be rid of her, no doubt.

  She traced her fingers along the lines of his face, stopping at the bloody slit in his lip. She wanted to kiss him there, but this light touch would have to suffice.

  She moved slowly down to his chin and chiseled jaw, thick with stubble. Then his bare neck and the dip at the base of his throat where his pulse beat slowly and steadily against her fingertips.

  Familiar heat unfurled in her belly. She knew she ought to leave and avoid him entirely until he had recovered and gone. At the same time, she knew she would never get this chance again. And he was unconscious. Surely, he wouldn’t wake up the one minute she spent touching him out of the nearly three thousand he had been unconscious.

  She pulled the counterpane down from his shoulders, revealing his chest beneath the unbuttoned shirt. The well-defined muscles rose and fell with even breaths. He was so warm under her hand.

  She moved her hand under his shirt to feel his heartbeat to prove to herself he still lived. He would wake up and go on living, go on taking care of André. Go on… without her.

  She frowned, absently caressing the soft skin of his chest.

  How was she to forget a god? How was she to go on as though the last several weeks had never happened? How could she forget the feelings he had stirred in her? Feelings she had never known existed. Feelings she had thought were only for fairytales and fanciful novels.

  But feelings would be the easiest thing to repress. She was accustomed to that. It was his smile she would be haunted by. His voice. His laugh. His touch. His eyes filled with some secret amusement.

  Him.

  Her fingers dug into his chest involuntarily, as though her body defied logic and refused to give him up.

  Without warning, a hand wrapped around her wrist and her waist at once, pulling her down on top of him. Hooded blue eyes peered up at her, blearily raking her face.

  “You are alive,” he muttered.

  She nodded, thinking the same about him. He was alive and awake, and he had just caught her fondling his person. Her cheeks burned.

  His gaze lingered on her lips. “I worried I was too late.”

  “You almost were,” she breathed. She licked her lips, and his eyes followed the action, smoldering to dark sapphires.

  He let go of her wrist, then moved both hands over her back, slowly dipping lower. His gaze never left her lips.

  “But I wasn’t, then.” He smiled crookedly. “And I won the fight.”

  She nodded, incapable of speech as his hands reached her derrière.

  “I don’t remember,” he admitted. He massaged her soft flesh, pulling her harder against him. “I should never have let you go.”

  She was about to argue that there wasn’t a thing he could have done to stop her when he cupped the back of her head and brought her lips to his.

  His mouth slid against hers in slow, rhythmic glides that drowned her protest before she even had a chance to utter it. The heat that had begun inside her when she had touched his chest blazed as his arm tightened around her and his tongue sought hers.

  She met him gladly, tasting him, reveling in the intimate slide of his tongue against hers. He growled into her mouth as he grabbed handfuls of skirt and petticoats. She helped him, wriggling so he could pull them to her waist.

  He raised his torso so she could draw his shirt up and over his head. Then he was yanking the counterpane from between them and finding the slit in her drawers. He lifted her and lowered her back down onto him as she guided him in. She gasped as his thick length filled her perfectly, stretching her, as though her body had been made for him and him alone.

  He grasped her thighs and groaned, filling her with a sense of feminine power and overwhelming joy.

  She rode him slowly, easing up and down, watching his muscles bunch beneath her as ecstasy played out over his features. She drew her hands down his chest to his narrow waist. With her fingers, she explored his taut abdomen that rippled like stones under silk as he thrust up to meet her.

  She wanted to be careful. He was wounded. He had only just woken up. But good intentions flew out the window when his hips bucked impatiently, and his hands moved to pull her down to meet his thrusts. She let go then, allowing the joy and passion to flow out of her in every frenzied movement.

  She impaled herself on him until she forgot where she was, who she was. The world fell away. Only them, loving each other in the most primitive way. Then there were lights and explosions, and she cried out as she came apart around him.

  He grunted her name, digging his hands into her as he thrust, spilling himself inside her.

  She collapsed against his chest, tightening around his pulsing thickness buried deep within her. She laid her cheek on his shoulder, and his arms came around her. His chest rose and fell quickly, and his heart raced under her, matching the pace of her own.

  “Ah, my love,” he murmured breathlessly, smoothing the hair from her face. “A man could die happily in your arms.”

  She jerked her head up. “No, you will not!”

  He chuckled, pushing her head back down. “No, I shall not.” He rubbed her back in comforting circles, speaking in sleepy murmurs. “By gad, you are a wonderful sight to wake up to.” He paused to yawn. “I think I would much rather fall asleep in your arms, m’dear, just so I could wake up in them later.”

  “But I shall not be here when you wake up,” she muttered, a cold emptiness building inside. “And you will go back to England.”

  “No.” He pulled her more tightly against him, muttering. “’Nother way.”

  She nodded. “No other way.”

  He tensed, then relaxed, his breath steadying with sleep.

  Tears welled in her eyes and slid to his shoulder. It seemed she was destined for heartache, and this was the worst of them all. It was worse than her parents and certainly worse than losing grandparents she had never had a chance to meet. It was even worse than losing Pierre.

  The thought shamed her, but she couldn’t deny its truth. Pierre had been her husband, a dear friend, but he had never been a lover, and she had never felt for him what she did for Nick. It was different. It was fierce.

  She couldn’t explain it. Her only hope was to do her best to forget it. One day, it would be a dull ache, exactly like all the other losses she had endured.

  She could lose love, happiness… him. She had gotten on just fine before he had come along, had she not?

  You were miserable before he came along. You were dead inside, a shell of a person.

  With a shuddering breath, she eased herself up and pulled the coverlet back over his chest. If anyone wondered about his shirt, she would say he must have taken it off himself in a moment of wakefulness. Then she would complain about the room being too hot. It had certainly felt too hot only a moment ago.

  * * *

  Nick woke slowly, grasping for the familiar warmth, the weight that should have been on his chest but was now noticeably absent.

  He mumbled and turned on his side, reaching out again and grasping nothing more than cold sheets.

  He peeked past heavy lids, eyeing the empty space beside him. Then he shifted to his back again and turned his head to check the other side.

  No one.

  Had he dreamt it? No, she had felt too real. His memory was good, but not that good. He couldn’t possibly conjure up every slender curve and dip or the sweet taste of her tongue tangling with his.

  Stiffly, he reached for the bell pull beside him and tugged. Then he slowly sat upright against the pillows and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling off the bandage.

  A maid bustled in a minute later. She made it to the middle of the room before she stopped short and looked away, blushing.

 
; Nick raised a brow. Then he looked down. He was shirtless, and the blanket was pooled about his hips, barely covering the necessary parts.

  He looked around him and found his shirt hanging off the side of the bed. He pulled it over his head and cleared his throat.

  “I am in dire need of breakfast and a bath,” he said. “I have no intention of staying abed all day.”

  “Of course, my lord.” She curtsied, then turned to go.

  “One other thing,” Nick said, stopping her. “Have I had any visitors?”

  “Indeed, my lord.” She nodded. “André has spent nearly every second in that chair.” She pointed to the wingback chair near the bed. “Mrs. Brice convinced him to get some sleep in his own bed yesterday afternoon. I believe he is still sleeping. Lord Saint Brides and His Grace the Duc de Béarn were both here, as well.”

  Nick frowned. “Anyone else?”

  “Her ladyship was here from the first,” she added. “Lady Dumonte, that is. Though, she left somewhat hurriedly yesterday evening and hasn’t been back since.”

  “Thank you,” he said, pleased and disconcerted at the same time.

  She was worried about him; she had to be. She had been here, had she not?

  But then she had left.

  But what did it matter? Nothing had changed. She still deserved marriage, and he still couldn’t offer it.

  The more he thought on it, the more he wanted to offer her something. Being his mistress wouldn’t be so terrible. She was a widow. A dowager countess. She didn’t need marriage.

  His jaw tightened. She deserved better than being a mistress, even his. Ought she to have a choice, though? Perhaps she didn’t want to marry. Perhaps she would rather have an uncommitted relationship.

  Uncommitted.

  He snorted. As if he would let her go anytime soon… or ever. He was tempted to draw up a contract so despicably confusing she wouldn’t even realize she was assigning herself to his protection indefinitely. It would be for her own good.