A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  “Where are you meeting him?”

  “The White Swan.”

  His eyes widened in amusement. “So that’s why you’re in this fetching ensemble.” He must have seen her confusion because he elaborated. “The White Swan is a house of ill repute. A low-class brothel.”

  “Oh,” she gasped, and he nodded, enjoying her embarrassment. She was horribly aware of the delicious scent of him; it made it hard to concentrate. “Let me go.”

  “Not until you promise not to do anything stupid. You will work with me, Sabine, or you won’t go in there at all.” He shook his head. “God, I wish you’d trusted me with this earlier. I could have had my men here and captured him. As it is, I promised Castlereagh I wouldn’t confront him alone. Bloody hell.”

  “So now what?” Sabine asked.

  “I can’t go in there with you. At least not where Visconti might see me, but I need to know what he wants. It might give us a lead on his plans.”

  He pulled out a pocket watch, and she noticed with a flash of pleasure that it was the gold one she’d bought the other day. “It’s ten to ten. I’ll go inside. You wait five minutes and follow me in. And when you meet Visconti, stay in the main rooms. Don’t go off with him alone.”

  Sabine gave him a level look. “I know all the tricks men like Visconti use.”

  “Just because you can take care of yourself doesn’t mean you should. It’s not defeat to let someone help you,” he said. “Being part of a team doesn’t make you weaker—quite the reverse. You don’t get lazy or complacent because you don’t want to let down the rest of your team. They’re your men. You love them. You’d die for them.”

  His impassioned words hung in the air between them like a promise. A declaration. Then Hampden shook his head, dismissing the moment. “Don’t ask me to stand by and do nothing if someone under my protection is in danger,” he said gruffly.

  He reached forward and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, a casual gesture that nonetheless spoke of possession. “You don’t have to do this alone, Sabine. I will be there, even if you can’t see me.”

  Her throat constricted. He would always be there for her, she realized. She knew his tenacity, his sheer bloody-mindedness. Such traits had been a curse when he was tracking her, but as his ally they were a blessing. It was comforting to know he was at her back.

  He bent and kissed her hard on the mouth.

  “What was that for?” she breathed.

  He looked deep into her eyes and she felt the intimacy and connection of it all the way to her toes, in a bloom of painful pleasure.

  “I don’t know. Good luck, maybe?” He shrugged and stepped back. “Wait five minutes, remember.”

  “What about Argos?”

  He glanced down at the dog. “Go home,” he said, pointing out of the alley. “Find cake.”

  Argos barked once and trotted off down the street.

  Sabine watched Richard enter the White Swan and prayed Visconti wasn’t already inside.

  Chapter 46

  The bored-looking doorman barely spared Sabine a glance. She tightened her grip on the pistol in her pocket and peered around the crowded taproom. There was no sign of Visconti, so she took a place at an unoccupied table with a clear view of the door. Richard had positioned himself near the bar, huddled in the far corner.

  Visconti entered a few minutes later. He saw her, and smiled thinly in greeting. Sabine’s stomach roiled as he slid into the seat opposite her.

  “Good evening, madame,” he said in French, keeping his voice low.

  Sabine decided on a direct attack. “Why am I here, monsieur?”

  His smile widened. “Because I have a little job for you, ma chère. I need you to make me a new passport and travel papers.”

  Sabine raised her brows.

  Visconti continued. “Not only that, but you’re going to give me the fake fortune you promised to those English fools.”

  Ah, so that’s what he was about. He meant to double-cross his English allies. Sabine almost smiled. Visconti reminded her of General Malet; both were predictably consistent in their treachery.

  Visconti leaned back, entirely at his ease. His dead eyes roved her face. “You will put your fake money into two traveling bags and have it ready for me on Thursday, along with the papers.”

  “That’s the day of the royal wedding,” Sabine clarified, hoping to prompt him into saying more.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Am I to meet you somewhere, then?” she probed.

  He flicked her chin lazily with his finger. It was all she could do not to flinch. “Don’t worry your pretty head over the details, chèrie. I will find you when the time comes, fear not.”

  Sabine suppressed a shudder. Visconti rose. “Until Thursday, then. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Philippe Lacorte. And don’t forget what I said about your friend. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to him or his family, would you?”

  Sabine cocked her pistol beneath the table. She could shoot him now. She’d probably be arrested for murder and hanged, but even so, it would be worth sacrificing herself to stop this monster. She thought of the girl he’d killed in Paris. Thought of Richard, Heloise, dead or wounded. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  But Visconti stepped away, and the chance was lost. Sabine watched him leave with a combination of relief and regret. She glanced over at Richard and saw him slip through a door leading off the main taproom. She rose and followed.

  It was a private room. Sabine cast an interested glance at the shabby bed with its gaudy array of pillows and the battered velvet chaise longue that had clearly seen plenty of action. It barely looked robust enough to support one person, let alone two.

  She related her conversation with Visconti. Richard nodded. “Well, at least that’s confirmed our suspicions. He means to kill someone at the wedding, then flee the country.”

  He stepped closer and Sabine tilted her head to look into his face.

  “Christ, seeing you with Visconti made me sick,” he growled. “I wanted to run over there and murder him with my bare hands.”

  Sabine’s heart pumped hard at the fierceness of his expression, the simmering tension so close to the surface. Relief and excitement coalesced inside her, and suddenly all she could think about was kissing him.

  Almost as soon as the thought formed, his lips were on hers. Sabine didn’t know if she’d been the one to initiate it or not, but she didn’t care. Their mouths met in a kiss that was hot and hungry. Richard pulled her body hard against his, and without the encumbrance of her skirts she felt every part of him against every part of her. His chest crushed her breasts. His knee slipped between her breeches-clad thighs and rubbed against her in a maddening friction that made her want more. And more.

  Sabine moaned into his mouth and slipped her hand down his body to investigate the front of his breeches. She curled her fingers around him tentatively. His hissed expletive could have been an expression of agony or delight. He rocked against her hand.

  The click of the door opening had them springing apart like guilty schoolboys. A woman stopped dead in the jamb and gave a throaty, knowing chuckle. “Ooh, sorry, gents! Didn’t know the room was taken.”

  She thought she’d disturbed two men, Sabine realized dazedly.

  “You two carry on.” The tart sent them a cheeky wink and retreated.

  Sabine glanced at Richard, horribly aware that her breathing was irregular and her entire body was throbbing with desire. He returned her look with a simmering one of his own. Her knees turned to water.

  She backed up a few steps, her mind churning. She was so tired of denying her desire for him. There could be no future for them, but what was to stop her from taking him as her lover?

  She’d never slept with a man. Not because she valued her virginity overmuch, but because she’d never met a man she trusted enough to give her body into his keeping. Until now.

  It wasn’t for want of offers. Most of the men she�
�d met in Paris had been on the shady side of respectable, and some of them had been downright crooks. She had a soft spot for a rogue, but she’d hardly have shared a drinking glass with most of them, let alone allowed them access to her most intimate areas. Richard was the first man she’d ever been truly attracted to. Was it a result of their forced proximity? The ridiculous situation they were in? Probably. But she wanted his cunning mind and his dry wit and his beautiful body beyond anything.

  She moistened her lips. “I’m eligible.”

  His brow puckered in confusion. “What?”

  “According to your rules. Heloise told me about them. I’m not a wife. Or a virgin.”

  She didn’t even blink at the lie. If he thought she was a virgin he’d never sleep with her.

  The intensity of his look made her breath catch in her throat. A potent silence stretched between them, a moment’s suspension full of bright unspoken possibilities, emotion held savagely in check.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, Hampden?” she said when he didn’t answer. “I want to be your lover. Now. Tonight.”

  —

  Richard inhaled sharply, certain his ears deceived him. The way she was looking at him made his head spin. He could still taste her on his lips. Her scent curled around him, heady and exotic, like opium. It made him crazy. Just the sight of her long legs encased in those breeches made him itch to touch her.

  “This isn’t anything to do with me paying you for counterfeiting,” he said slowly, needing to clarify that, at least, between them. “This is just you and me.”

  He held his breath, unable to recall the last time he’d been so anxious to hear an answer. God knows what he’d do if she refused.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He resisted the urge to howl like a wild animal. Anticipation had the blood pounding thickly in his veins and he took a step back from her, afraid if he touched her again he wouldn’t be able to think straight.

  “Not here,” he growled. A fleeting expression of disappointment crossed her face and he smiled with a twist of dark amusement. “Oh, I am going to have you in every possible way, Sabine de la Tour,” he clarified gruffly, “but we are not doing it here, in the back room of some seedy tavern.”

  He strode to the door and yanked it open, practically taking the doorknob with him, and indicated for her to precede him. When they got outside, he put a good two feet of space between them. “Stay on your side of the pavement.”

  She speared him with a gaze both innocent and thoroughly wicked. “And why is that?”

  His mouth went dry. “Because if I touch you, I’ll be inside you,” he said baldly. “Up against a wall or no.”

  God, his voice was low. It had dropped at least an octave, was gravelly with need. Her eyes widened in shock and he had to look away. They would be home soon. He forced his legs to keep on walking.

  A tense silence stretched between them as they crossed Oxford Street and started down New Bond Street. Richard kept his gaze resolutely ahead.

  “We are going straight up to my bedroom,” he said quietly. “I have wanted you since the moment I saw you, and possibly long before that. I am mad for you.”

  His body was rigid with tension. He risked a glance at her and saw her cheeks were pink with anticipation. Her lips were still puffy from his kiss. He prayed for strength.

  “It’s six minutes until we get home,” he said tersely. “In six minutes I am going to strip you naked and lick every inch of your skin.”

  Chapter 47

  Sabine could hardly draw air into her lungs.

  “I’m going to touch you,” Richard continued silkily. “All over. And you’re going to touch me.”

  There really was no air in London at all. Around them carriages rattled by and people bustled to and fro, blithely unaware of the unbearable anticipation twisting inside her.

  “You’re going to scream out my name,” he said darkly and smiled at her gasp. “And then you’re going to beg me for more.” He glanced toward the end of the street. “Three minutes.”

  His eyes met hers. They were glittering, almost feverish. Her own body was burning up. Between her legs throbbed. And he knew it. Knew what he was doing to her, the beast. She was out of breath, but whether it was from the brisk pace or desire she didn’t know.

  They turned into Upper Brook Street.

  “Two minutes.”

  They reached the house. He caught her wrist and ran up the short flight of steps, pulling her with him. The door opened, but he didn’t spare the night porter a glance. Sabine caught a glimpse of Minton’s surprised face and then she was running across the tiled foyer, hurrying to keep up.

  Richard strode up the stairs, down the corridor, his fingers still encircling her wrist. And then they were in his bedroom. He pulled her through the door and closed it with his back, leaned against the mahogany, and tugged her into his arms. “One minute,” he whispered.

  In a lightning move he reversed their positions so she was the one up against the door. He trapped her hands, entwined their fingers, and bent to take her mouth.

  The hot kiss swept her away. Sabine lost herself in the tempest, craving the sinful thrust of his tongue. He groaned at the same time as she did and released her hands. He shoved his fingers into her hair, imprisoned her face between his hands, and kissed her as if the world were ending. Sabine explored the muscled slope of his shoulders, the sides of his neck, the hair at his nape.

  His body pressed hers against the door and his fierce gaze caught hers as he pulled back. “I don’t care if you’ve had one lover or a hundred,” he panted. “You’re going to forget every single one of them. You’re going to think only of me. What I’m doing with my hands. And my mouth. And my body. You’re mine.”

  Above her was a gilt metal wall sconce holding two candles. He ran his hands down her arms, then drew them up over her head and folded her fingers around the curved metal bars.

  “Keep your arms there. Don’t move.”

  Sabine shivered as he slid his hands down, skimming her armpits, traversing the bumps of her ribs. He shaped her waist and molded her hips as though trying to memorize the shape of her by touch alone. She made a low sound of yearning. Her fingers tightened on the metal sconce as she resisted the need to explore his body in the same greedy, shameless way.

  He slid his hands around to cup her bottom, indecently outlined by the tight fabric of her breeches. He clasped her waist and lifted her up, using the strength of his arms, until they were nose to nose.

  “Wrap your legs around me.”

  It was easy without skirts. She released the sconce, twined her arms around his neck, and reclaimed his mouth. Her body was on fire, aching, hot. She could feel him between her legs, the marble-hard muscles of his abdomen, the aggressive jut of his erection rubbing between her thighs that both thrilled and frightened her.

  He pushed off from the door, carrying her easily, and strode toward the bed, but stopped before his shins hit the mattress. He lowered her to the ground, a tantalizingly slow slide of her body down his.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it away, heedless of the expensive cloth, then pulled his shirt over his head. It went sailing to the floor and Sabine hid a smile. His urgency was oddly endearing. This was no leisurely, planned seduction. She’d made him fou—mad. Finally!

  Her eyes roved over him, drawn to the absolute perfection of his form. He was even better than she’d imagined, one of Raphael’s Greek warriors brought to vibrant life. Unable to help herself, she slid her hands over the ridges of his stomach, the bulge of his biceps, enjoying his sharp intake of breath and the way the muscles leaped under her explorative touch. His skin was perfection, tawny and smooth, raw sienna mixed with gold. A little thrill ran through her at the thought of how much physical power he wielded. He was much larger than herself, but she wasn’t afraid that he would hurt her.

  He reached up and undid the tie at the throat of her linen shirt. It fell open in a deep V and Sabine stood motion
less, fighting for breath, as he tugged it from the waistband of her breeches. She raised her arms to assist him and he pulled the shirt over her head. She wasn’t wearing a corset, only a thin silk chemise, and her nipples peaked in the sudden chill.

  “Christ,” Richard muttered reverently under his breath. “You have been driving me insane.”

  His eyes lingered on her breasts. They felt full, aching, crying out for his touch. He reached out and cupped her, then bent his head. His breath pebbled her skin in a warm exhale she felt all the way down to her bones. His mouth found her through the silk. He sucked.

  Sabine’s knees buckled.

  “Take off the breeches,” he ordered huskily, and she complied, unfastening the front so the fabric fell down her legs. In one frenzied move he divested her of the chemise, and before she had time to become self-conscious over her nudity, he bent and recaptured her nipple.

  This time there was not even a scrap of silk between his mouth and her skin. Sabine gasped as his tongue did wicked things, swirling and flicking. She grasped his hair to keep him there as he lavished attention on the other breast, while his hands skimmed up the long line of her back and down over her buttocks and thighs.

  He made an animalistic sound of deep longing, a groan of pleasure that vibrated against her skin. Suddenly impatient, she wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him backward, toward the bed, and he half-fell on top of her as he lost his balance. She laughed against the skin of his shoulder.

  He loomed over her, trapping her within the cage of his arms, holding his weight off her while he plundered her mouth with a sense of rising urgency. The taste of him made her blood rush and her head swirl.

  He urged her leg up to curve around his hip and she could feel his cock pressing at the junction of her thighs…those other words she and Heloise had laughed about, stick and rod and cigar, were utterly inadequate to describe something so potent. A sudden, dismaying thought struck her. Something that size was never going to fit.