Lord and Lady Spy

by Shana Galen

  “I’m good with a needle and thread. But I always allow the surgeon to sew up my bullet wounds.”

  “Wounds? Plural?”

  “I’ve been shot four times.”

  He frowned. “Now you’re just bragging.”

  “Do you recall the time we were at the opera about two months after we married? I went to the ladies’ retiring room and was gone about an hour. When I returned, I had blood on my gown. I told you it was jam.”

  “Did I believe that?”

  “You didn’t question it.”

  “And what really happened?”

  “An agent from Milan with orders to assassinate me showed up and shot me in the leg. I was in excruciating pain for the rest of Haydn’s La vera costanza.”

  “Oh, I remember why I didn’t question the jam. I’d just returned from Strasbourg where I’d had some sort of chemical thrown on my face. It burned my eyes, and I couldn’t see a thing for a fortnight.”

  “Chemical? I wonder if it’s similar to the burn I sustained.” She turned and shrugged his coat off then slid the sleeve of her gown down so it gaped a bit in the back. “Can you see that red mark? That’s a chemical burn as well.”

  She felt his hand on her back. “Hmm. Yes.” She liked the warmth of his hand on her skin. She felt like a naughty child telling secrets. And at the same time, she was so relieved to finally have someone to confide in. She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. Oh, she and Blue had compared stories once or twice, but the feeling wasn’t the same as when sharing them with a lover, a confidant.

  Was that what Adrian was—would be? Her lover and her confidant? He was already her husband. Could they be more than strangers sharing a house? Could she welcome him back into her bed?

  Adrian removed his hand from her skin, and she felt the cold seep in again. “Do you know what’s worse?” he asked.

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What?”

  “Snake bite.”

  “Snake bite?”

  But he was already sitting on the bench, pulling his boot off. A moment later, he had his calf bare and pointed to a mark. Sophia had to lean close to see it. Indeed, it did look like two puncture marks. “What kind of snake?”

  “Cobra. It happened in Egypt.”

  She touched the bite. He’d beaten her. She’d never been bitten by a snake. “You were fortunate to receive the antidote.”

  “No antidote. I had to suck out the venom. My leg swelled for a week.”

  She sat beside him. “I can’t best you. I’ve never been bitten by a snake.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been shot only three times. Show me the scar on your leg. The wound you sustained during Haydn.”

  Sophia raised her brow. “Why, Lord Smythe, could this be a ploy to catch a glimpse of my leg?”

  He gave her a wounded look, which didn’t fool her for a moment. “I showed you mine.”

  “Very true.” Her left leg was the one bearing the scar, and as it was closest to him, she bent and lifted the hem of her skirt. She could have done it quickly, matter-of-factly, but she didn’t. She watched him watch the silk slide up past her ankle, her calf, her knee. She heard his slight intake of breath when he saw the white garters.

  The wound was high on her thigh and toward the inside. She slid the hem higher, knowing much higher would reveal everything to him.

  “There,” she said and pointed at the wound. It was several years old but still had a reddish tinge. The skin was slightly irregular where the surgeon had sewed it closed after removing the ball.

  Adrian peered at it, and she felt his breath tickle her flesh. She let out a small moan, but if he heard, he didn’t react. “You’re fortunate the ball didn’t damage any major vessels.”

  “Yes,” was all she could manage.

  “The sewing is superb. Your work?” He looked up into her face.

  She shook her head. “Surgeon for the Barbican group.”

  “Farrar?” He was looking at the wound again, his breath tickling her. She gripped the material in her hands as though it was the edge of a cliff and she were falling. How could his breath on her skin feel so good? And wouldn’t he find her utterly ridiculous if she were to ask him to simply breathe all over her? But at the moment, she could think of little she’d like better.

  “Yes, Farrar was the surgeon.” Her voice sounded slow and thick as cream.

  “Good man. I’ve seen him at work. May I?” He glanced up at her again, held his hand up. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

  Dear Lord, he wanted to touch her. If she was this aroused from his breath, what might happen if she allowed his hands on her?

  But before she could do the sensible thing—throw the dress down to cover herself and tell him they should return inside—she said, “Of course.” She didn’t even recognize her voice.

  Oh, but she recognized his touch. His touch was, as she remembered it, light and sure. His fingers had calluses. She’d never understood why before. How did one obtain calluses when one spent all day in the library or at the club? Now she knew where those calluses came from. She wanted to kiss them, wanted to kiss every part of him, because it was all new to her.

  “Does it still pain you?” he asked, running his fingers over the wound then placing his warm hand on her chilled thigh.

  “Yes. I mean, no.”

  He glanced up at her, and she saw the smile on his lips. He was playing with her.

  She tossed the silk down and began to rise. “I think we’d better return inside. We shall be missed.”

  He pressed her back on the bench with his hand. His touch was light, not forceful, and yet she found herself unable to rise. “We won’t be missed. Cordelia is probably relieved you aren’t stealing her share of the attention.”

  Sophia couldn’t argue with that logic. “But Edward—”

  “My brother has a cigar, port, and a few moments without his wife and children. He’s not thinking about me.” The hand on her thigh moved lower, and she felt him trace the garter holding her stocking in place.

  “Very well, but the other guests might wonder to where we’ve disappeared.”

  “We’re married. No one is worried about your virtue.” His hand dipped into her stocking, and one finger tickled the back of her knee. It was an extremely sensitive spot, and he obviously remembered she’d liked to be touched there, kissed there. But surely he wouldn’t attempt that in the garden.

  “I’m worried about my virtue,” she breathed.

  “You should be.” His mouth met hers, and the feel of his lips on hers was like putting on her favorite chemise or stays and realizing someone had made adjustments so that what once fit comfortably was now perfectly contoured for her body alone. She knew his mouth. She’d kissed it earlier today, and yet she didn’t remember his lips being this tantalizing. She didn’t remember the way he gave so freely and then took from her so effortlessly. She didn’t remember the shock of his tongue meeting hers and all of her nerves jumping into awareness. She didn’t remember the sound of his groaning… no, wait—that was she.

  He surfaced, and she realized his warm hand was now on her bare hip. “I don’t think you really want to go inside.”

  “Don’t I?” She allowed her fingers to explore—just for a moment—the open vee of his shirt. His skin was so bronze. How did he manage that?

  “No.” He dipped his mouth to her chin and kissed a light path to her ear. “You want to stay out here with me,” he whispered.

  “I don’t think that’s the sensible thing to do.”

  “You’re not sensible.” He took her earlobe between his teeth, and she dug her nails into his shoulder. The skin under her hands flexed, but he didn’t protest.

  “I’m perfectly sensible.” She angled her neck so he could kiss the spot—yes, there—just under her ear. How good of him to remember she liked that.

  “You’ve been shot four times,” he murmured against her skin. “A sensible person would have quit after the first time.”

  Sh
e reached down and pulled his shirt from his waistband. She needed to see his chest. She might need to touch it, taste it. “Most spies are poor marksmen. I wasn’t in any danger.”

  “Oh, yes, you were.” His hand was in her hair. She knew he was freeing it, and she really should protest. Everyone would know what they were doing out here if she returned to the dinner party with her hair loose. But she liked the feel of his hands in her hair, and it was so heavy, it was giving her a headache. “That’s why you didn’t quit. You like danger.”

  “Is that why you’ve been an operative for so long?”

  He had to pause before answering, because she pulled the shirt over his head. Oh, my. Yes, she was certainly glad the moon was full tonight. He was as magnificent as she remembered. “I like danger. I like taking risks. I’m going to take one now.”

  She put her hand on his chest, traced the muscles. “Are you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He tugged at the bosom of her gown, revealing more of her breasts. The material was flimsy and the stays she wore underneath little better. She would be half-undressed in mere moments. “I’m going to make love to you here, in the garden.”

  She pretended to be shocked. “But, my lord, what if someone comes looking for us?”

  “It’s a risk.” He tugged her bodice again, freeing her breasts. Oh, she felt deliciously sinful now, sitting on the garden bench with the cool night air on her skin.

  “Do you think,” she said as she traced his muscles down to his hard stomach above his waistband, “everyone would be appalled if they saw us right now, in this state of déshabillé?”

  “Moderately.” He cupped her breasts, ran his thumbs over her nipples. She was playing a dangerous game now, she knew. She did not intend to allow him to have her, not fully. Even in her state of arousal, she hadn’t forgotten her fears. But she wanted to see how far they could go. The very real possibility of discovery made her want him all the more.

  “Only moderately?” she teased. “And is there something we might do to truly appall them?”

  “Yes.” His voice was rough as he bent his mouth and took one of her nipples inside it. She arched her back, feeling his tongue lap at her, feeling his mouth suck at her, feeling her legs go weak and a slow burn begin low in her belly.

  She groaned and then quickly stifled the sound. She did not want to be discovered. She did not want this to end. How had she survived eleven months, two weeks, and five days—or was it six now?—without Adrian’s touch, without his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin?

  His hands moved lower, and somehow he loosened the gown and slid it down to her hips. Her stays were loosened next, and she was glad, because they were biting into her skin. He’d always been able to undress her quickly.

  He bent her back, laying her down on the bench. The stone was cool against her skin, a delicious contrast to his hot mouth on her neck, her breast, her belly. Her skirts were shoved up, and his hands were on her hips, her buttocks, her thighs. His mouth met hers again, and she murmured, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

  He laughed against her lips. “I’m not taking my boots off.”

  “Oh, yes. Bare feet would be scandalous.” She unfastened his waistband and allowed his erection to spring free. She shoved the material over his hips and slid her hands over his skin. He tensed at her touch, but he didn’t stop kissing her. And then as she stroked his erection—there was that groan in the back of his throat; she loved that sound—he opened her legs and slid his fingers along the tender flesh inside.

  Now she was the one who was groaning.

  “I want to be inside you,” he murmured as she stroked the length of him. He was so hard. Hard for her.

  “Use your fingers,” she whispered, opening for him.

  He slid his finger into her, and she arched her back. He knew exactly how to touch her. He hadn’t forgotten what she liked—the pressure, the long strokes, the teasing. He spread her legs farther and tossed her skirts over her belly so she was bared to him. She liked seeing his eyes darken as he watched her writhe at his touch.

  He jumped in her hand, and their gazes met. Now was the moment. She had to allow this to go farther or stop it altogether. Or might he allow a compromise?

  “I want to be inside you,” he said again.

  “No.” Though her thoughts swam, she was firm. Her voice wasn’t breathy or quavering. She didn’t falter. “I can’t.”

  She saw him swallow, saw him struggle for what to say, what to do next. “Do you want me to stop?” he said finally.

  She shook her head and made to sit up. He stepped back, but she took hold of his hips. “Let me show you what I want. Then perhaps, if you’re a good student, you can reciprocate.”

  She pulled him to her and heard his gasp of surprise. They had never done this. She had never put her mouth on him like this. He—the perfect gentleman—had never asked it of her, and she—disguised as the drab little mouse—had not wanted to seem too adventurous. But now he knew she was Agent Saint. She didn’t need to hold back.

  She took him into her mouth, stroked him with her tongue, her lips. She let his reaction guide her, learning quickly how to touch him to please him. Within moments, he was gripping her shoulders. “Sophia, I’m going to…”

  She gripped his hips, pulled him close, and felt his climax. She’d never realized how powerful it was before, how consuming for him.

  A few moments later, he sat beside her and pulled her against him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  She shrugged. “Curiosity has always been my downfall.”

  “Downfall? Hardly, madam. Bloody hell, your shoulders are ice.” He rubbed her arms up and down.

  “I am rather cold.” She gazed into his eyes. “Do you think you could warm me?”

  He bent, kissed her lips gently. “Don’t let it be said I’m not a good student.” He tossed his coat on the bench, and kissing her again, laid her on top of it. She was glad now for the garment’s warmth, glad as his body covered hers, as his mouth traced a trail of kisses from her neck to her belly. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against her ribs. “Our first night together, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. Under all those drab gowns, you were hiding a body like this.”

  She didn’t know what to say in return. When she’d met him, she’d thought him the most handsome man she’d ever known. She couldn’t believe he would want to marry a mouse like her. True, she wasn’t as hopeless as she made herself appear, but she took no great pains with her appearance. She hadn’t cared what she looked like then. It was only after years of learning to play one part after another that she found she could appear beautiful when necessary. She learned she was beautiful.

  But Adrian had thought so their first night together, and she didn’t have words for how much that meant to her. She’d been so young, so inexperienced, and so overwhelmed by him. She’d wanted to do everything right, and she feared she was a disappointment to him. He hadn’t even stayed with her a full day.

  “A mission!” she said now.

  He looked up at her. “What?”

  “That’s why you left after our first night together. You had a mission.”

  He kissed her belly again, and she struggled not to arch into his lips.

  “Surveillance in France. It was the mission that proved my worth to the Barbican group. Why are you thinking of that now?” His fingers played over her skin, dipped under her skirts, and stroked her thigh.

  “I… no reason.” She could hardly concentrate with his fingers stroking her leg like that.

  “Tell me.” He stopped touching her for a moment. “I want to know.”

  She shook her head. “It seems foolish now. It was so long ago. You don’t have to stop.”

  He laughed. “I’m not going to stop, but I don’t want secrets between us anymore.”

  He bent and kissed her again, and somehow it was easier for her to speak to his dark blond hair. “I thought you left because you were… unhappy with me.”

 
; His head jerked up. “What do you mean?”

  She struggled to sit, but he levered himself over her, keeping her down. “I told you, it’s foolish. I was so young. I was a little infatuated with you, and when you left, I thought…”

  “You didn’t please me.”

  She looked away, focused on the spiky purple delphinium growing beside the bench. His hands cupped her face tenderly and drew her gaze back to his. “You never said anything,” he murmured.

  “What should I have said?”

  He kissed her eyes, then her cheeks. “You’re right. I should have said something—not about the mission—but something to reassure you. I didn’t think.”

  “Of course you didn’t. It’s the nature of the job. I know when I have a mission, it’s all I can think of as well.”

  “But you were a new bride. I should have taken that into consideration.”

  She reached up, pushed the lock of hair fallen over his forehead back. “We can’t apologize for every wrong we’ve done one another,” she said. “It would take months, perhaps years. And these are old wounds. I hardly feel them anymore.” Not anymore. Not tonight. “I don’t feel them at all when I’m with you like this.”

  “Sophia.” His mouth was on hers again, and she drank in the taste of him. Agent Wolf was kissing her. Agent Wolf was making love to her. Adrian was making love to her. But as much as she was enjoying it, she feared the night was growing late.

  “We really should go inside. Someone will be looking for us shortly.”

  “I hope they don’t find us like this.” He tossed her skirts over her legs and belly and dipped between her legs.

  “Adrian…” She really should stop him. They had been missing too long. But then his mouth was on the inside of her thigh, and she couldn’t seem to make her mouth work. “Adrian,” she whispered as his tongue touched her, swirled against her center. Her body went into shock. She was hot and cold, shivering and burning all at the same time. She couldn’t seem to still her hips or stop her thighs from falling wantonly apart.

  Half of her mind was on the path, her eyes focused on the agapanthus near the walkway. She knew someone would come down that walkway any moment—Cordelia or Edward or one of the guests. But Adrian seemed in no hurry at all. He teased her until she was moaning and fisting her hands in the silk of her dress, and then he pulled away, leaving her gasping for more.