by Anne Renwick
“Healing. Nothing to worry about.” She trailed a finger downward, over the rough hair on his chest, parting the folds of his dressing gown, hooking upon the sash at his waist. With a gentle tug, the knot fell free and the two halves opened.
Nothing disappointing lay beneath, save the trousers that hung low upon his hips. And even they were admirably tented. A broad, muscled chest above ridged abdominal muscles flattened into an enticing vee, one that kept redirecting her eyes to the rather large promise of his male anatomy.
Cait hummed her appreciation.
Once there’d been a boy who worked for his father in a bookshop. Months had passed in harmless flirtation, until she’d arrived one afternoon to find the store empty and his father away. They’d made excellent use of a closed sign and a back storage room. She regretted nothing. But he’d been just that. A boy.
Before her stood a man.
“This was to be a real marriage.” She shifted a hair’s breadth closer to wrap her arms about his neck, letting the silk-covered tips of her breasts brush against hard muscle. Her blood began to warm, her toes to curl. “We had an agreement.”
“One I’ve no intention of breaking.” With a growl, his hands caught at the small of her back and dragged their hips flush. Pressing all that was hot, heavy and insistent between them. A new ache bloomed low in her groin. “But I won’t be used, then tossed aside and ignored.”
“You wish to renegotiate?” She kissed the corner of his mouth, soft lips and rough bristle. A perfect contrast.
He nipped at her ear lobe, eliciting a sharp gasp. “I want to discuss the underlying assumptions causing tension between us.”
“The animosity between you and my brother?” A hollow above his collarbone beckoned but, regretfully, she needed her mouth for words. “My exasperation on behalf of all over-managed sisters?”
“Why I object to serving as a convenient groom, one indistinguishable from any other unmarried agent, in pursuit of your career?”
Her palms drifted downward over his arms, savoring the shape of powerful muscles. “How I might feel a bit like a pawn in a game of revenge?”
“Point taken. Perhaps it should come as no surprise that an impromptu wedding conducted with alarming alacrity has created problems.” He slid the lace strap from her shoulder and the thin fabric fell way, exposing the entirety of one breast to his view. “Beautiful,” he whispered, then bent to sample its soft rise.
Her head fell back and she closed her eyes in sweet anticipation as he neared its taut peak.
Then the heat of his body was gone.
Her eyes flew open.
“Regardless, our differences must be resolved.” A hardness entered his eyes. “Separate living arrangements are not an option. As trust is the basis of any good relationship,” he drew the two halves of his robe together, “and something we’ve not earned yet of each other, this must wait.”
“It’s our wedding night,” she breathed, conflicted. Or was it confused? “You don’t want to consummate our marriage?”
“Want?” He laughed, low and bitter. “Not at all. I’d like nothing better than to toss you upon that bed and take us both to the edge of ecstasy and beyond, but first we must come to terms.”
“Terms.” His touch had reduced her mind to the reasoning capabilities of a bowl filled with pudding.
“A telegram preceded our arrival.” He stalked to the door. “To ensure our compliance with her orders, the duchess pre-arranged for us to participate in a full range of restorative spa treatments. Immediately. Our working relationship begins tomorrow when the baths open at six in the morning. Sleep. We’ll discuss our marriage later, when time and opportunity permit.”
Final words with an exit punctuated with a firmly shut door.
Sleep?
Sleep?
Little chance of that now. So much for a wedding night.
Cait flopped onto her bed. Alone. Where the hours crept at a snail’s pace toward dawn. At some point, she dropped off into a fitful slumber only to snap awake to the clanging of a steambot’s bell.
How was it his bride managed to look so rested this morning?
Garbed in red and black striped bathing attire with an oversized bow tied at her back, her regal bearing somehow managed to make the ruffly, puffy-sleeved, froufrou garment fashionable. Only the bandage at her neck beneath upswept hair hinted at the recent assault.
Jack had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, razor in hand. There were bags beneath his eyes that could hold the entire contents of his pockets. Which might be useful, given the difficulty of concealing his weapon beneath the tight fit of his ridiculous bathing costume. Not that he ought to complain. One glance at him had sent blood rushing to Cait’s cheeks. A response that had fired his own blood.
No matter their differences, the magnetic pull between them was strong. A promising sign.
Together, they padded down the long hall, each pretending to focus on the riveted back of the rolling steambot as it led them through a maze of corridors before throwing open a final door and waving them into the Turkish bath.
A man wearing loose pants, an embroidered vest and a maroon fez consulted a clipboard, found their names and nodded. “The baths are open to mixed couples for one hour.” He handed them both towels. “Please proceed through the bath chambers. When you reach the end, your therapist, Ceyda, will escort you to your treatment room.”
One hour, perhaps two. That would satisfy the duchess’ commands. Then they would be free to seek answers of their own.
Lord Saltwell had been a known womanizer. Men had been castrated. A loose woman killed for a portion of her brain.
Would they manage to link his brother and his band of morally corrupt friends to the venomous woman of London here, hours north, inside a spa dedicated to carnal hedonism?
They might.
Though the connections were tenuous, Aubrey’s stupidity and self-centered behavior knew no bounds.
Moorish arches soared overhead and lamps with leaded, colored glass hung, suspended from long chains. Every last surface was glazed or tiled, though the patterns were hard to discern beneath the billowing clouds of steam. The hot scent of eucalyptus met his nose as he watched the soft cotton of his wife’s bathing costume grow damp and cling to her skin.
At the far end of the room, another couple lounged. Quite enamored of each other, given their entwined limbs and roving hands.
He ran a hand down Cait’s back, then caught her hand to draw her to a nearby bench built for two. Reclining, he teased, “Can you feel the tension melting way? Muscles relaxing, pores opening?”
“As if a lady would admit to possessing such things as pores.” She sat, leaned back. But the steam failed to work any magic. Her silence lasted all of a minute. “It’s true, our meeting was fortuitous. But I had no intention of marrying the first available agent. I do have standards.”
“As do I. Revenge did not factor into my decision to speak wedding vows.” He closed his eyes. “And, upon reflection, I cannot hold Mr. Black entirely at fault. My sister waited to launch her campaign to become a societal liaison while I was out of the country for a reason. She has a devious streak.”
Cait snorted. “And you expected my brother to ask your permission to give away your sister’s hand?”
He popped an eye open. “No. I expected to be informed of her decision in a timely manner that I might deliver input. His silence was underhanded, if not out of character.”
“Your sister made her own decision, as did I. Though I suppose there is a certain poetic justice to our marriage.” His wife sighed. “Is it possible to move past our suspicions of each other?”
“Shall we try?” Tired of her distance, both mental and physical, he scooped her legs upward to drop them across his thighs, before slipping an arm about her waist.
For a moment she stiffened, then sighed in capitulation, relaxing against him. “Terms?”
“Fidelity was agreed upon, but I also wish for loyalty.�
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“To the Crown or to you?”
“To each other. Before the Crown.” Personal loyalty. Such an abstract concept. In his life, few had proved steadfast, Angela among them. Until she’d married without launching so much as an invitation in his direction.
“Does that encompass personal secrets?” Cait twisted her poison ring.
Was she conscious of her habit? Every time the topic of secrets arose, her thumb swept over the black stone of her omnipresent ring.
Jack tipped her chin upward and met her gaze. What wasn’t she telling him? Ought he worry? He couldn’t protect what he didn’t know about. “I’d prefer there be none, but I’ll settle for no lies.”
Cait gave a short nod, then took a deep breath. But whatever she’d been about to say was forestalled by the arrival of new patrons.
The door opened and Lord Churlton leaning upon a cane and wearing naught but a towel about his waist shuffled inward. Wisps of white hair sprang from a scalp spotted with age. At his side was a young woman, similarly clad. Bathing attire, it appeared, was optional.
The gentleman dropped onto a nearby bench. His female companion nestled close, and Lord Churlton’s hands began to wander. “That you, Tagert? Never thought to see Aubrey’s brother here.” He waggled his eyebrows at Cait. “Wife or…”
“We married a few days ago,” he answered, contemplating Lord Churlton’s patronage of the spa accompanied by one of his many hussies. Fertility treatment? Ha! He already possessed half a dozen children. His visit here was nothing more than an indulgence in carnal hedonism.
The gentleman squinted at Cait’s neck, eyeing the bandage. Then barked a laugh. “Had your wife partake of a treatment? Smart move. But don’t be so quick to dismiss the wondrous effects it can have on male anatomy. If it can keep me standing—”
“We’ve a schedule to keep.” Jack stood, depositing Cait upon her feet. “Good day, sir.” He tugged his open-mouthed wife along as laughter, both masculine and feminine, followed them.
In the next room, a long, narrow pool awaited. A vigorous massage and scrubbing would have preceded their entry into the plunge pool in a traditional Turkish hamman. However, here in Britain, it appeared prudery had won out.
“Lord Churlton spoke of the treatments,” Cait resisted. “We should go back and ask—”
“No.”
“Jack, I’m no delicate flower.” She yanked her hand away and glowered. “My ears can handle lewd commentary. If he’s willing to detail the process, the effects of this treatment, we ought to let him speak. Better to arrive at our appointment informed.”
“Fine.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away the beginnings of a headache. “You’re right, I’m being overprotective.” Of his wife’s non-existent sensibilities. Though he managed to bite off those final words, his voice was, regretfully, sharp. Years of acceptable behavior in the presence of ladies had been drilled into him, not something that could be overcome in the space of mere hours or days. “We’ll wait here, float for a bit until they catch up.” Jack dove into the pool and swam its length. Quickly, for the icy shock drove the air from his lungs.
When he surfaced and turned back, she stood ankle deep, arms wrapped across her chest. “It’s freezing!” she called.
“The better to improve your circulation.” A dare he called from the far end of the pool. “Consider it your first physical challenge as an agent.”
Not to be outdone, Cait proceeded down the stairs, but stopped waist-deep, shivering and gasping for breath. “This is torture.”
Jack dove. Several strokes later, he surfaced before her and grinned. “Not up to it?”
She pulled a face and plunged into the water. Only to surface milliseconds later, sputtering and cursing as water streamed in rivulets from her hair. “I hate you.”
Laughing, he slipped arms about her waist and gathered her against his warmth. “Now about those terms, are we agreed? The past is past. From now on, loyalty to each other first. No lies. And all mission-relevant secrets must be shared.”
“Only under the condition that you not block me from participating in any part of our assignments, citing feminine sensibilities as a convenient excuse.”
“Done.”
“Excellent.” She dragged in a shuddering breath, pushed at his shoulders. “This is torture. Please tell me there’s a warmer room where we can wait for Lord Churlton.”
“The very next chamber.” He let her go, following far enough behind to admire the curves revealed by clinging cotton as she sloshed through the cold water and lunged up the stairs. A few minutes later they were wrapped in thick towels and reclining upon chaises in a room hot enough to send billows of steam toward the ceiling. “Better?”
“Much,” she exhaled the word on a sigh of relief. “Tell me, what do you suspect led your brother to invest in this spa?”
Mission-pertinent details.
Jack blew a long, slow breath through his teeth. “Friendship.” He filled Cait in on Aubrey’s ties to Carruthers, to Dr. Oakes. “Money.”
“You think his sudden interest in matrimony is related?”
“Most certainly. What better promotion than to strut about like an oversexed rooster expecting a dozen eggs to hatch?”
“With a smirk and a suggestive nod at his spa.” She snorted. “Nudge-nudge, wink-wink.”
“That’s about the sum of it.” He let his gaze fall upon the bandage at her neck. “Your turn. What is it you’re not telling me that I ought to know?”
Cait shifted upon the chaise, wrestling with some internal dialogue. How much would she reveal? What level of trust had he earned?
With a decisive tug, she peeled away the damp gauze of her bandage, exposing the mark at her throat. The skin was puckered and twisted. But also pink and new. All but fully healed.
He gaped. “That bite felled several men twice your size. You should have died.”
With a deep breath, she began, “My immune system acts faster and more decisively…”
“Than most humans.”
Cait looked away. “I prefer not to cast myself as ‘other’. That path invites narrowmindedness.”
Standing, she abandoned her towel and paced to the doorway, beckoning him into the next room, one warm enough that beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
In the morning light that slanted through a window, she turned over her forearm to reveal a faint crosshatching of scars and puncture wounds.
“Drugs?” Jack swore as memories of his father’s weakness for opium stabbed a knife into his heart.
“It’s not what you think.” She caught at his arm. “I’m not an addict, seeking to set my mind adrift. I use my unique biology to study toxins.”
“Study?” He leveled her a look demanding a detailed explanation.
“Their precise effects. How my blood neutralizes biological poisons. I’ve evidence that it’s a kind of protein. Imagine if it could be produced in large enough quantities to save another’s life. Do you have any idea how many people die each year from snake bites alone? If I could develop an antivenin—”
“By letting snakes bite you?” His eyebrows slammed together. “Is that what these marks are from, fangs?”
“A few,” Cait admitted. “I’ve managed to catch a few snakes in the countryside…” She waved a hand. “There have been many projects. Should you wish to needle my brother, ask him about the time I borrowed his weapon.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.” A playful look danced upon her face. “Pufferfish are no longer a threat to me.”
He blinked. “That’s insane.”
“It’s not. I can demonstrate if you’ll hand me the TTX pistol you’ve strapped beneath your suit.” She held out an open hand and crooked her fingers.
“Not a chance. Continue.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m always careful to start with a low dose, gradually building my resistance. Unfortunately, that not-a-vampire’s bite was a complete envenomation. Not a con
trolled experiment, but a full-on, frenzied attack. It’s the closest I’ve come to—”
“Death.”
“That.” She pressed a hand to the scar at her neck. “Suffice it to say, I expect I am immune.”
Jack’s mouth opened, shut. “I’ve married a delusional woman.” He shook his head, took a step back. “You intend to hunt her, recklessly, under the assumption that you’re invulnerable.”
“Because I am.” Cait turned her back on him and stalked into the next chamber.
“I won’t allow it,” Jack said, close upon her heels. A suffocating heat poured from the walls.
She threw up her hands and kept walking. “So much for our agreement. For our partnership.”
“I won’t work with a reckless agent.” Cold words, calculated to cut through the haze of her anger.
“Fair enough.” She drew up short and threw him a glare. In this third heated chamber, temperatures approached those at the gates of hell. Steam rose from the wet cloth of her bathing costume. “What if I offer you proof of my immunity to her venom?”
He pulled a face. “How could you possibly?”
“We’ll return to our suite before our appointment. I’ll show you the double immunodiffusion biogels that tell quite the tale.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. “Where’s the exit?”
“Double what?” He strode along beside her. Finally, a cooler room. “Is that what you had in your reticule? The reason you were clutching it so tightly?” Not once had she relinquished her hold on that silly purple bag the entire train ride. He’d written off her tight grip to mere irritation.
Stupid of him.
“As it so happens, yes.”
He sighed. “Fine. Let’s go have a look.”
No point in standing about, arms crossed and throwing each other glares waiting for Lord Churlton and his floozy.
There was nothing worse than a delusional partner. Better to ignore the duchess’ commands and reschedule their treatments after interviewing the lusty lord.
“Mr. and Mrs. Tagert?”
A dark-haired woman wearing a gold-embroidered, green kaftan with flowing chiffon sleeves stepped into the doorway before them. “I’m Ceyda, your therapist.” She took their angry frowns in stride. “Not to worry, many of our visitors have difficulty relaxing upon their first visit to the baths. My treatments are designed to help couples… unwind. If you’ll follow me.”
