“You belong here,” he said, surprised at the force that accompanied his words.
Her gaze swung back to him. Her voice broke. “Do you think so?”
The longing in her softened tones enthralled and mystified him. She had entered the room apparently insensitive to his concerns but now appeared fragile and in need.
“For the mission,” he replied, more from habit than thought. His mind felt challenged to find the reasons for that show of vulnerability. The quiet appeared to go on overlong, so he quickly added, “That is, if we are to succeed.”
“Oh.”
Any imagined weakness vanished in that single utterance, leaving him with the uncomfortable sense that he was somehow responsible for the change in the emotional current. The woman was a bloody enigma.
Lusinda untangled herself from the loose ribbons of her hat and placed it brusquely on the desk. “Then I suppose we should get on with it.”
She tugged on the fingertips of her gloves. “I must admit I am relieved that you aren’t angry about my appearance last night. I wasn’t expecting—”
“Yes, let us discuss that little incident of last evening.” He set to pacing, focused on the best means to properly present his contentions. He had spent a good portion of time fuming over her unexpected appearance at the window. Granted, many of his heated arguments cooled the moment she crossed the library threshold. Now that she had initiated the discussion, he could regather his thoughts and lend full force to his frustrations. “You could have been caught. Our whole mission could have been jeopardized. Don’t you realize how dangerous this escapade of yours could have been?”
“Of course I’m aware of what can happen if I’m caught.” She tossed the gloves beside the hat. “Are you?”
He pulled back a bit. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve told you before what has happened to my relatives. You’re worried about our mission. I’m worried about my life.”
He stopped pacing and studied her, noticing for the first time her swollen eyelids. Had she been crying? Perhaps she did recognize the consequences of her actions. Fighting the desire to pull her into his arms and reassure her that no real harm had occurred, he held himself aloof, reminding himself that such a path led to entanglements.
Lusinda could almost see the silent clockwork of his mind, collecting data, testing theories, formulating strategy—and it made her furious. After the earlier incident with Portia, a tension simmered just beneath her skin, prickling, irritating, searching for a way out. Locke’s tight control provided a ready target.
“I see,” he said, his brow softened. “Well then, you shouldn’t travel in the public eye when there’s a chance—”
“There’s always a chance.” She stood directly in front of him. “Do you expect me to cower indoors every night when the moon rises? What kind of existence is that?”
My existence, her mind whispered. Wasn’t that exactly what she had done all these years? Except, of course, for those full-moon nights when she was able to move invisibly through the populace. Even that required a cowering of sorts . . . a cowering of touch.
“It would be difficult . . . certainly . . .” He looked away and drew a breath. “One would not need to cower, just stay out of view . . .” He hesitated, then suddenly shifted back to her, focused and intent. “What were you doing at the Farthingtons’ last night? Who were you trying to see?”
His question threw her off guard. She certainly couldn’t admit that she had been spying on him. That would make him think she was . . . what? Interested? She seated herself in the chair before the practice safe and flexed her fingers. “My sister was attending the Farthingtons’ affair. Did you see her? I wanted to see if she was properly received at the party.”
“Your sister?” He moved to her side and leaned forward as if he was inspecting her work, but as she hadn’t started there was nothing to inspect. Strange that he should make such an unnecessary gesture. He appeared distracted, as if not fully focused on her attempt to conquer the safe. It was just as well. The mention of her sister reminded her of the series of confrontations they’d recently shared.
“Wouldn’t your sister have been similarly affected by the moon?”
She glanced at him askance. What was wrong with him? She’d explained this before. Even though she’d known him only a short time, she knew it was not in his nature to forget such a thing.
“No,” she replied. “Portia is quite normal.” And angry. She had railed at Lusinda last night for ruining her first foray into society, and then again this morning over the misunderstanding concerning Mr. Ramsden. Portia blamed Lusinda for everything, refusing to forgive her for the consequences of her birth. Her sister had even forgotten that it was Lusinda who had insisted on Portia’s invitation to the recital as part of the payment for the ruby necklace.
Just as Locke must have forgotten that earlier conversation. She sighed. Sometimes she felt invisible even in sunlight. Glancing at Locke’s strong profile, she wished she could borrow a bit of his strength to buoy up her wounded spirit. “I’m the only one affected by this curse.”
“I see.” His eyes crinkled the tiniest bit. “How do you propose we prevent something similar from occurring when we return to the Farthingtons’?”
“Return?” She had been so involved with thoughts of Portia, it took a moment to register the meaning of his words. She dropped the pick and lever in her lap. “Whatever for?”
He turned full face toward her, his gaze shifting from her lips to her eyes. “Do you recall the first night I saw you?”
How could she forget? She averted her gaze. Her entire body jolted alive with the memory of him trapping her on the floor. Her hand reached to touch the brooch with the tiny bell pinned at her neck, allowing her forearm to brush the sensitive, aching bud of her breast.
“Not that night, Miss Havershaw.” His voice dipped to a husky tone.
Heat sprang to her cheeks. He knew! Her gaze racked his face, searching for confirmation, searching for laughter, and finding . . . desire. It slipped across his features in the darkening of his eyes, in the soft lift of his brow, and in his slow deep intake of breath. Then in the next instant, it was gone, leaving her wondering if she saw it at all.
“I was referring to the night,” he said, his gaze steady on her, “you robbed Lord Pembroke.”
His words didn’t register immediately, she had been so intent watching his sensuous lips mold themselves around the syllables. But when they did, resentment chased embarrassment right out of her system. “I did not rob Lord Pembroke, ” she said, grinding out each word.
“He lost a valuable necklace that night. Stolen right out of his safe.”
“I fail to see what this has to do with a return to the Farthingtons’. ” She toyed with the fabric of her skirt.
“Why did you go to Pembroke that night?”
“Mrs. Farthington said her husband lost the necklace in a game of chance with Lord Pembroke.” She glared at him. “You already know this.”
He smiled and straightened. “Both Lord Pembroke and Mr. Farthington are known to be sympathetic to the Russian cause. As it happens, I was searching for some communiqués that I thought might be in Pembroke’s possession. However, as they weren’t in Pembroke’s safe, perhaps a search of the contents of Farthington’s safe is required.”
“Do you do this all the time? Just randomly rummage through people’s personal papers hoping to find something useful?” she challenged.
“I don’t rummage randomly.” He turned his back toward the safe but remained by her side. “I only search the safes of those that harbor bad tidings for the Crown’s best interests.”
She tilted her head up to his gaze. How very substantial he appeared from this vantage point: substantial, competent, and a bit full of himself. She fought to keep her appreciation from her voice. “Determined by you, of course.”
He bent forward, surrounding her with his scent of exotic soap and rich brandy. “Determined by me.”
The arrogance in his voice and the teasing smile about his lips issued a challenge. She searched her mind for a cutting retort. However, before she could marshal her thoughts, he moved his hand to her face, sliding his fingertips down the side of her cheek and up under her chin.
The simmering tension she’d felt earlier transformed into something hot and molten at his touch. He was close enough to kiss her. She had certainly witnessed enough couples engaged in such activity during her midnight soirees. How would it feel to press one’s lips to another? Her eyes drifted closed and she lifted her face up to his, enjoying the pure sensation of touch.
“However, on this particular night I want you to do the rummaging.” His thumb rubbed her bottom lip; she touched it with the tip of her tongue. That husky note returned to his voice. “While I keep the mark occupied.”
I want you, he had said with his warm breath bathing her face and his enticing lips mere inches away. This was her chance, perhaps her only opportunity, to experience what those other couples discovered. Now, before she lost her courage. She pursed her mouth ever so slightly and pressed it to his.
Nothing. It was as if she had kissed a looking glass. Already regretting her impulsive action, she began to withdraw when Locke suddenly pressed forward. Within moments he took control and dominated her lips. There was no other way to describe it. His lips devoured hers, his tongue teasing her lips apart, tasting her.
This gave her pause. She had seen couples kiss but had not imagined their tongues engaged as well. She timidly stroked the length of his tongue with her own and felt the reward of her experiment in the deep growl that rumbled through him and vibrated deep within her.
Delicious ripples of pleasure exploded everywhere he touched: her tongue, her cheek, the underside of her chin, even her hair tingled beneath his attention. For a moment she thought she might phase based on the intense energy that invaded every inch of her body. But it was too early for moonlight, wasn’t it? It was hard to judge as time seemed to stop with each heartbeat lasting an eternity. He wants me . . .
She drew a deep breath, welcoming the scent of musk, brandy, and man into her lungs. Her heart raced, her body felt more alive than she could ever recall. No wonder those women sagged in the arms of the man. Her body felt as languid as if warmed chocolate flowed in her veins. She was grateful for the chair. She was grateful for Locke’s talented lips. She rejoiced in this bit of normalcy, this bit of heaven.
She reached, wanting to pull him closer. Her hands encountered the sides of a strong, muscular torso. When in phase, touch equaled discovery, so she had avoided the touch of all but members of her family. Now, she craved more. As did he, from the shift in his position. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He pulled her close, sliding her bottom closer to the edge of the chair.
His fingers gently explored the side of her neck. She recalled that so often a man’s lips followed the path led by the fingers. She tilted her head back, giving in to the pressure of his fingers. How she wanted to feel the press of his lips blaze a trail down her neck. Her chest expanded beneath the restrictive corset, demanding his touch. If only she hadn’t worn a day dress with a high neck and had selected instead something with a bit more décolletage.
“My God, you are beautiful,” he said before his lips seared a path along her skin.
He pressed her backward. Although the positioning in the chair proved awkward, the slight shift allowed her to explore more of Locke’s well-formed body. She let her fingers trail down his sides to his hip, that taboo part of a man’s anatomy purposively hidden from an innocent woman’s eye. But she wasn’t so very innocent. Not when she had seen the men undressed at the Velvet Slipper. She couldn’t imagine Locke in one of those places, but she very much would like to see those parts of him hidden by fabric. That thought brought a strange pooling in her feminine core.
He called her beautiful! Ramsden’s words played in her head. I can’t recall Locke ever being so enamored . . . She felt as giddy and light-headed as a hot air balloon. Could it be true? Could Locke be enamored with her as if she were a normal woman? He wants me, her mind repeated. She let her head drop back to savor the sensation of being desired. He believes me beautiful. He wants . . .
The full import of his earlier words finally penetrated her fog of desire. He wants me to break into Farthington’s safe! Alone!
Her eyes opened. She shoved hard against his hips, wrenching his lips from her body. The force of her unanticipated action landed him on his backside next to the safe.
“I . . . I can’t do it,” she huffed, trying to catch her breath.
“Surely a woman who roams the streets naked can and does.” His mouth twisted in a sly grin. He held out his palm within which lay her brooch.
She gasped then reached to the base of her throat. The tiny buttons of her high neck bodice were undone down to the top of her corset. Surprised, she clenched the edges of the fabric together. How had he managed without her awareness?
“I’m not ready,” she insisted. “You said so yourself.”
“On the contrary”—he took a deep breath—“I’ve not kissed a woman more . . . ready.”
His replies weren’t making sense, but with her own heartbeat still thundering in her ears perhaps she misunderstood. “I haven’t successfully managed to pick the practice safe.” She concentrated on threading the tiny buttons back through their holes. “How can I succeed at the Farthingtons’?”
He cocked his head and studied her. She couldn’t read his expression but she knew that behind his intelligent eyes, thoughts were falling into logical order like the tumblers in a lock. He grimaced, then looked toward the window where rain beat against the panes.
“That won’t be a problem.” His lips tightened. “I have a plan.”
Eight
WHAT THE HELL WAS HE THINKING? IT MUST HAVE been that scent, that strange floral scent that permeated her skin. Even now, it still resonated on his tongue. He shook his head, hoping to clear the remnants of her seductive taste. Whatever it was, it certainly nullified good judgment. Espionage and entanglements simply did not mix. He should be grateful that she pushed him away. If she hadn’t, he would have had her on the floor with her skirts hitched up, giving her what she so blatantly requested, and he so desperately desired. Then what? Even with an experienced woman like Lusinda who had no hesitation about taking to the streets as naked as the day she was born, there would be complications, expectations, attachments. Until that list of agents was secured, logic insisted this was not the time to become involved with a female.
Of course, his frustrated manhood was not interested in logic. He glanced to where Lusinda batted her skirts to shake out the creases formed by their interlude, and felt his shaft ready to finish what had been interrupted. Bloody hell! Keep your wits about you, he lectured himself. They had best recover that list soon before the delectable Miss Havershaw became too much of a distraction. He picked himself off the floor and stepped to the window. The overcast skies darkened the room as if it were already twilight. A tingling sensation high in the bridge of his nose alerted him the moment she stepped behind him. It was as if she had imbedded a piece of herself within his body to signal whenever she drew near.
“Like a bell on a brooch,” he murmured under his breath, fisting his hands in the pockets of his jacket to keep them from pulling Lusinda into another kiss.
“There won’t be much moonlight tonight,” she observed. If he wasn’t mistaken, she sounded relieved.
“Yes, I suppose that means I shan’t use your assistance tonight.”
“Tonight? You can’t seriously contemplate going about in that.” She nodded toward the window that tapped with the first raindrops of a hard storm.
He turned, schooling his features to hide the powerful urge to pull her into his arms. “The weather does not reduce the imperative for information.” He turned back to the window, her close proximity almost too much to bear. “I’ll just continue without benefit of your assistance as if we
had never met.”
Had never met. Was there such a time? She occupied so much of his thoughts these days, it was hard to remember. Or perhaps it was just easier to forget those long days of solitude, days without a shared conversation, days without laughter. His fingers brushed against the hard lump of his pocket watch and he removed it from its resting place. This watch had brought them together that first night in this very room. His groin tightened.
“But you said you had a plan and I had assumed I was to be part of it.”
“And you shall, but not tonight.” Was that disappointment in her voice? He had thought she felt more the unwilling partner in their espionage. When had that changed? “I will share the details later, but now I must go.” To clear my head. “Pickering will see to your needs.”
He turned to leave, but she placed her hand on his arm. He paused.
“What am I to do until you return?”
He turned his gaze to her and at once regretted it. Her blue eyes looked luminous in the dimmed light, wide and beseeching. She moistened soft lips, and he thought she might initiate another kiss. Lord help him, he wanted that kiss and much more. He squeezed his pocket watch to the point of pain. With effort, he lifted his gaze from her lips to the safe behind her.
“Practice.”
PRACTICE! THAT INFURIATING, INSUFFERABLE MAN. HOW dare he leave her alone in this stranger’s house while he went off to do who knows what. She had half a notion to seek an umbrella and follow him out in the rain. Of course, after she had followed him the last time, she had agreed to trust him, or at least, to try to trust him.
“He doesn’t make that a simple matter,” she muttered, stepping to the window to see if she could catch a glimpse of his broad shoulders huddled against the driving rain. He hadn’t seemed to be in such a great hurry when she had arrived earlier today. He hadn’t been in the best of moods either, but that had changed. She smiled. Indeed, that had changed. Who would have thought her impulsive experiment to sample a simple kiss would have left her tingling and breathless? Did this happen with every kiss? With every man? Or was this a quality unique to Locke?
The Trouble With Moonlight Page 11
