by Lavinia Kent
The sound of another set of steps echoing down the hall had her scurrying up the stairs. The click of heels was strong and authoritative, not the quiet slide of a servant’s feet. Reaching the top of the stairs, she peered down.
Lord Thorton.
Her belly clenched. She’d had a difficult experience with him at a house party early in the autumn, and although he would not recognize her huddled in the heavy cloak, he still gave her the shivers.
His face turned up and she stepped into the shadows.
He paused, his jaw clenched, then grabbed his hat and greatcoat from the young footman. Not waiting for the footman’s help, he yanked the door open and stepped out into the blowing snow.
Angela drew in a deep breath, her body relaxing, glad the near encounter had passed. There were some complications she did not have any desire to face.
Peering down the long hallway, she wished it were better lit. She rounded the corner, noting the green trim against the cream walls, and proceeded toward the end.
Suddenly she felt a grab from behind, and the hood of her cloak was pulled forward until it covered her full face. Darkness descended. Breathing became difficult, heavy and damp.
What? She opened her mouth to scream. Simms knew she was here. Ruby knew she was here. Colton could not be far away.
Before the call could leave her mouth, the man behind her spoke.
“Calme, mon petite espionne.” The voice was low with a growl.
Her heart sped.
She tried to fight, tried to press back. How could she be attacked here?
“Calme, je dis.”
She knew that voice. It was familiar.
“That’s a good little spy,” the voice continued in French. “The lieutenant will be most pleased with you.”
Granderson. It was Granderson. Her heart rate dropped, but not entirely. Colton had sent him. Colton had to have sent him. But why?
Trust him.
Trust Colton.
She went limp in Granderson’s arms. Let him march her down the hall. She heard the door at the end open, felt herself pushed through it.
Her cloak was yanked off, but the room was still dark; a single candle burned high on a mantel on the other side of the room. It was light enough only to make the outline of other shapes visible.
“The lieutenant likes his captives ready for his interrogation. He does not like the bother of clothing to come between him and his pleasure. Do you understand?” His hands rose to her laces.
She nodded but swallowed deep. Granderson was going to strip her? Her whole body grew stiff. This was not at all what she had in mind when she’d hinted to Colton that she’d like a return visit to Madame Rouge’s. Her trust wavered. Her fingers clenched at her sides.
Granderson stilled and stepped around until he was facing her. His gaze met hers and he peered at her in the dim light. “Or perhaps I should leave you in your corset and chemise. The lieutenant does like white linen.”
That she could handle. She gave the tiniest nod.
He slipped behind her again, and in a moment her gown was over her head and gone. She was glad she had chosen such a simple, if warm, dress for the evening, something easy to remove. While having Granderson touch her was not truly distasteful, it did not give her tingles the way Colton did. It left her feeling embarrassed and slightly uncomfortable.
But perhaps that was part of Colton’s game. She’d told him her fantasy of being captured by the French and how she’d been left waiting for her French lieutenant. There had been anxiety and anticipation in that waiting. A feeling not far from what she felt now.
“Give me your hands.”
She held them out, shaking slightly. Granderson wrapped a length of soft and thick rope about them tightly and then fed the other end of the rope through a metal loop that hung from the ceiling.
Her mouth grew dry.
He pulled the rope, drawing her arms up over her head.
He pulled again. Her arms grew taut.
One more slight pull and she was forced to the balls of her feet, not quite on tiptoe but definitely not at rest.
Granderson tied off the rope, leaving her stretched.
He stepped back, looked her over, and smiled. “You make a very pretty captive, ma petite. Colton is a lucky man.” Reaching out, he ran a finger down her cheek, then turned to leave.
He stopped, reached into his pocket, and produced a large linen handkerchief. “Ah, I was forgetting.” He folded the handkerchief and stepped toward her. “We wouldn’t want you to scream while you waited.” He placed it against her lips, worked it between them, and then tied it tight.
It was done before she could protest.
He gave her one last smile and then walked around her. She heard the click of his boots on the floor as he exited the room.
And she was alone.
Alone and helpless.
Where was Colton?
He knew how she felt about the waiting, how the nervousness and anticipation built in her belly.
Where was he?
Her thighs pressed tight together and she could feel the dampness between them. The chill of the room penetrated the thin cotton of her chemise, and her nipples drew tight.
It was uncomfortable standing when her heels did not quite reach the ground.
Her shoulders felt the beginning of strain.
Where was he?
Where was the lieutenant? Surely he would not leave her here all night.
Shifting from foot to foot, she tried to let her imagination roam, tried to let herself get involved in the fantasy Colton had built for her. She tugged again against her restraints. Tonight he was not holding back. He was working to fulfill her deepest fantasy.
Her French lieutenant. She’d told him of her fantasy early in their relationship but never thought he’d follow through in such a manner, never thought he’d so immerse her in it.
Swallowing, she played with the linen in her mouth. Granderson, the French soldier, had tied it loosely, but it did not slip. She shifted feet again, trying to find a comfortable position, trying to let her imagination free. When was he coming?
And what would he do?
No matter what happened she would never reveal her secrets, never betray England. Even if he tortured her, she would stay true.
Her mind began to fill with the possibilities of what he might do. Would he whip her? Mark her? Force her? Oh God, what was she in for? Was she ready? Could she keep her secrets?
Her thighs pressed tighter.
Where was he? Waiting was so unbearable.
She pulled in deep breath after deep breath, feeling her breasts press against her chemise, her light corset allowing her some ease.
She turned her head as far as she was able, trying to see about the dark room. Could he be near already? Was he even now watching her? Was this already part of the interrogation?
Her eyes had become more accustomed to the dark, but still she could see little. That might be a cloth screen in one corner. Could he be behind that? There was no bed she could see as such, but that high table looked like it might have padding. She couldn’t be sure. Her thighs pressed tight again, images flooding her mind. And was that a chair next to it? And that was only the half of the room she could see. What was behind her? She’d had the hood over her head when she entered. Could the bed be back there? She hadn’t taken that many steps.
Was he going to leave her hanging here? For how long?
Could she bear it?
Her breathing was shallow now. What was he going to do?
The question ran through her mind again and again. Another quick breath. Another. She was almost dizzy.
The creak of the door sounded behind her. Her every muscle stiffened.
Was it he? Was it the lieutenant, come to steal her secrets?
A footstep.
Another footstep.
Those sounded like boots. Riding boots.
Another step.
Was it he?
It h
ad to be him.
The scrape of chair legs. Was he sitting?
If only she could speak. She tried to spit the linen from between her lips, but it held tight.
Would he have sent someone else? Had the French soldier returned?
No, it had to be the lieutenant, about to begin his questioning.
There was no more sound. Her ears strained, trying to hear even the slightest sound.
Nothing.
Had she heard the steps, the scrape? She knew she had, but now she began to doubt herself. Was she imagining things?
She pulled against the ropes, tried to turn her head.
Who was behind her?
There was the scrape of a chair being pulled. The sound of a body shifting. And then, again—nothing.
How could he be so quiet? Shouldn’t she be able to hear his breathing? And what was he doing? Was he looking at her? Staring at her?
The light was dim. Could he see anything?
Was he examining her? Was her body silhouetted by the candlelight? What could he see through the thin linen? What was he thinking? Assuming he was there at all.
Why couldn’t she hear him? It was maddening.
She tried again to twist around, tried to get some clue as to what was happening.
It was only a rope. If she took little steps she should be able to turn.
Blast. Why couldn’t she manage it?
Was he enjoying her struggle?
The chair slid slightly behind her. Had he stood? Or merely leaned back?
What did he want? Why didn’t he just ask her his questions, get this over with?
Her breasts rose and fell against her corset, the soft linen suddenly feeling abrasive. The floor was cool beneath her feet. Every muscle in her toes strained. Her calves felt tight. Her thighs rubbed against each other, each movement sending a frisson of awareness through her.
She wanted more. She needed more.
She was aware of every inch of her body, of the brush of air against an arm, of the soft rope tight about her wrists, of the taste of linen in her mouth, of the dryness of her tongue, of the feel of a single curl brushing against the back of her neck. And of her breasts. Had the French soldier somehow changed the fabric of her chemise? It chafed and rubbed. She shifted again, trying to find some relief.
Only, was relief what she wanted? A familiar ache was growing deep in her belly. An ache for which there was only one cure.
She wanted him. She needed him.
No. She must be strong. She would not be so weak. She would show him what she could withstand.
Again she tried to twist.
The chair scraped.
What was he doing? He had to be watching her. She could almost feel the weight of his gaze, feel it moving from her raised feet, to the legs only partially visible through the thin linen, up over her behind, her waist still held in by the corset, her shoulder blades, the straining muscles of her back, her neck, her hair, those stretched-out arms—and down again to her behind, to her ass. Colton loved her ass, loved to kiss it and bite it, loved to rub it until she melted like a pool of wax, his fingers slipping between her legs, seeking her heat, her moisture.
But this was not Colton. This was the French lieutenant. He would show her no mercy.
It was getting hard to breathe. The cool of the room had worn off and her whole body felt hot. She shifted again, trying to find a comfortable position, but every movement made her aware that he was watching her, studying her.
A slight sigh echoed behind her.
So he was there. Was he ever going to move, going to do anything?
She shifted from foot to foot, feeling her buttocks clench.
The chair moved, scraping on the floor.
The click of a boot heel.
He was coming. It was about to happen. Angela pulled in one quick breath after another. Her head grew light. She hadn’t thought she could be more nervous, could have a greater sense of anticipation, but with each footfall a dozen more butterflies took flight.
He paused, and she heard a light clatter of something dropping; then he came forward and stopped just behind her. The delicate hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she felt his breath against them. Her buttocks clenched and she forced them to relax, forced her body to relax. It would only be a few seconds and then she would know, would know what he had planned.
She held her breath and waited.
And waited.
He didn’t move. She could feel his breath, feel the heat of his body, feel him—but still he did not move.
She exhaled slowly, waiting.
It must only have been seconds, but it seemed endless.
She murmured against the gag, wanting to beg him, but barely any sound emerged.
He gave no response.
The air shifted.
A sudden thin feeling of cold against the back of her neck.
She jerked slightly.
“Chut, ma petite. Ne t’inquiet pas. Soyez très calme. Je ne voudrais pas vous couper,” the lieutenant’s deep voice whispered to her.
It was a knife. He was holding a knife against her.
Her whole body froze. Her breathing stopped. A knife. He had a knife.
The blade traced across her skin, slowly but with no pressure. A single line of cold. A single line of steel.
Terrified. Trusting. Terrified.
Excited.
Her mind flashed back and forth between the words even as her entire awareness focused on the thin line.
It was all she could do not to give in to tremors.
The blade reached one shoulder and she could feel him tilt it, feel the blade rock until only the tiny pinpoint of the tip rested against her. It didn’t penetrate her skin. She knew there would be no mark, and yet she could not breathe, could not move.
What was he doing?
And then there was a sudden jerk and pull—and release. The straps of one side of her corset fell free as the cords that bound it at the shoulder were severed.
The knife slid across her skin—this time the band of chill wider, as he moved the flat of the blade against her.
Had she ever been so focused on such a tiny area of her own flesh?
Again the roll of the knife, the prick that didn’t quite puncture, the quick slash, the falling of straps.
She drew a deep breath in and held it. Her breasts pressed tight against chemise and corset. The corset slipped slightly, but only slightly, tight enough that her breasts and ribs held it in place. The swollen peaks of her breasts rubbed against the roughness of the cloth, easing and teasing at the same time.
A sudden pull on her corset, she felt the tie give—and then the next, and the next.
After the first he could easily have unthreaded the entirety of it, but instead she could feel the tug on her ribs as he cut down her back lace by lace. He had almost reached the bottom when she felt the whole thing pull free, the weight of the corset dragging along the string until it gave way. It fell to the ground before her.
He leaned close. She could feel his weight against her. “Now tell me, my little spy, what secrets do you have to tell?”
She murmured against the gag.
“Not ready to talk yet, are you?”
Again she tried to speak, but no sound leaked out, save for a tiny gasping noise.
“You are a difficult one, aren’t you? But I’ve always been good at making women talk.” One of his hands slipped down her back and ran over the curve of her behind, cupping it, then squeezed tight. The length of his index finger brushed over her chemise, the fabric abrading the tender skin of her inner thigh, sending a thousand tingles up and down her leg.
“Still not saying anything?” His fingers opened then closed again, hard and tight.
She tried one last time to form any type of word.
“Oh dear. This may be more difficult than I thought.” His hand opened and slipped between her buttocks, pressing the linen into her as his fingers drew closer to her core. His finger
s pressed in deeper, but she could feel them also gathering the fabric of her chemise, lifting it, the thin lace of the edging slowly easing up her leg.
She swallowed.
“Who is your partner?” he whispered in her ear. “Who would send such a sweet thing on such a dangerous mission? Or does he not care? Is he willing to risk you to accomplish his goal?”
The lace edge slipped past her knees.
“Are you ready to speak to me, my little spy?” he whispered against her damp skin.
She wanted to nod but held herself back, not ready to reveal her secrets.
The lace edging continued its journey. Mid-thigh. Another inch. Another inch. She sensed the moment when his long fingers caught the lace and slipped beneath. And then his fingers were on her flesh, smoothing along moist skin, higher and a little higher.
His other hand stopped its upward journey and rubbed back and forth in the moisture that marked her upper thighs. “You like this, don’t you, my little sweet? You want to tell me everything, to share your deep secrets—but not quite yet, I imagine. You don’t want things to be too easy, do you?”
She swallowed, and it was the loudest noise she’d achieved since entering the chamber.
“Yes, you like it very much.” His fingers slid higher, teasing the edges of her nether lips, pulling lightly upon her curls. “And what should I do to a little spy who will not talk?”
Every inch of her was alive. The pressure of the gag against her lips. The feeling of those fingers, almost there, so close. The brush of linen against breast and belly. The heat of his body, not touching hers, but so, so close. The ache of shoulder and the arch of foot. The strain of legs.
His fingers moved another fraction of an inch, slipping ever closer to her core. A single finger straightened and circled, drawing her full attention. Every other sensation in her body seeming to focus toward that one point. Each bit of strain and ache adding to the sensation, to the build, to the coiling of the spring within her belly, to the tightness between her legs.
The single finger moved farther, circled once, twice, then slid home, filling her.
She wanted to move, to push down, to ease up. Even the inch or two of movement her feet would allow would have been enough, would have been something, but again she felt the blade press against her.
