by The Spy
“Oh, we do? What mission is that, pray tell?”
She tilted her head back to look into his warm brown eyes. “Our mission is to repopulate the Liar’s Club, of course.” She slipped his hand over her belly. “Single-handedly.”
James’s triumphant whoop rang through the hall. He kissed his pretty red-haired wife hard, making everyone present grin knowingly.
The Griffin was back in good form.
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK
AT THE NEXT BOOK IN THE LIAR’S CLUB SERIES
The Charmer
NOW AVAILABLE
FROM ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS
Rose couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see, couldn’t move. For a single second, her mind went circling in panic. Then she focused with a will.
She couldn’t see because the candles had gone out. Something heavy crashing to the floor . . . added to darkness permeated with the smell of smoking wick . . . equaled a narrow escape from Death By Chandelier. She’d been standing directly beneath the giant wheel if she recalled correctly.
Which meant that something had cut the rope.
Collis. And the reason she was lying here with the breath knocked from her lungs?
Collis. And the great warm weight that even now pinned her limbs to the floor?
Collis.
She forced her lungs to expand. The first painful breath was followed by another, less so. Above her she felt Collis sucking in a great breath as well.
“Are you injured?” His breath brushed her face. His arms tightened around her, pressing her to his hard bare chest.
“No,” she breathed. She didn’t think so . . .
Distracted, she realized that she seemed to be embracing him as well. Her arms were looped under his and her hands clasped the back of his broad shoulders.
His muscles flexed beneath her hands. Momentarily charmed, still dazed, Rose dug her fingertips lightly in response. He’s so strong. Holding me so close, as if I were as dear as dear could be.
Breathing still wasn’t easy. In fact, it was becoming more difficult by the moment. He covered her like a lover, with his knee pressed between her thighs and her breasts crushed against his broad chest. He smelled so good—man and sandalwood and just a hint of clean sweat.
Deep inside her a tiny voice sighed in pleasure. Don’t move.
Collis couldn’t move. Wouldn’t move. His senses were full of sweet aromas, warm sensations and tiny breathless sighs. His arms were full of sweet female.
It had been so damn long . . .
He was a liar. Every conquest he’d hinted at, every lady he’d flirted with, every night he’d returned to Etheridge House so late it was more likely early—all part of a nest of lies he’d feathered with his self-doubt.
Collis Tremayne hadn’t had a woman in over a year.
And he wanted one.
In particular, he wanted this one. She was supple and strong beneath him, not soft and compliant. Firm and lively and very, very arousing. His arms tightened. For a moment he forgot everything but his arousal and the feel of her hands spread on his bare skin. They were already alone, already lying down, already in darkness . . .
She made a small noise. She writhed a bit in his arms. The squirm of her hips beneath him fired his erection further. He forgot his impairment, forgot that he couldn’t feel how tight he was—
“Squeezing me!” Her voice reached a squeak. His arms loosened instantly. With horror he realized that he was as hard as stone.
Over Rose.
Quickly, he scrambled backward, his feet scuffling in the scattered straw.
He stood slowly, his hands fisting and releasing. Think of cold water, old man. Damp and snowy days when the fire only reaches so far and the water in the washbowl is like ice . . .
His towering erection began to subside. Thank God it was dark, although he suddenly realized it wasn’t as dark as it had been. He blinked.
Rose was standing. “I can see you now. A candle must have survived, or perhaps a—” She stopped with a gasp. “Fire!”
Collis whirled to gaze at the wreckage in horror. She was right. The wax-soaked straw had smoldered under their inattention. Even as he watched, the tiny tongues of flame licked farther along the ruined mat as thickening smoke began to rise.
“Oh, God,” he breathed. Not a curse. A prayer.
There was no time to run three flights of stairs to wake the other students—no time to run for help at all. The desiccated straw would burn like—like straw.
“The kitchen,” Rose said quickly. “The pump!”
The school kitchen lay directly behind the salle. In a breath Rose and Collis were inside, fumbling in the dark. She pushed him to the left. “The pump, by the sink.”
He felt around frantically. He’d never stepped foot into this kitchen. Kitchens were for servants and—at Etheridge House—for stealing a late-night bite from the larder.
Right now he was wishing mightily that he had lowered himself to step foot into the school kitchen.
He found the rigid metal handle of the pump. He knew how to use a pump, thank God. It was like the one in the stables, and he’d always taken pride in the fact that he knew how to care for his own horse. Not that he did it often—
He found a small pitcher full of water below the spout that likely always remained there, just as in the stables. He primed the pump with a careless splash and began pumping with all his might.
Rose bumped him, shoving a large pot beneath the stream of water that gushed from the spout. In an instant it was full and she replaced it with another. Without a word, she ran with the two full pots into the next room. Collis continued pumping with his deadened arm, watching it closely in the unfortunately increasing light flickering from the other room. Now he could smell smoke, even in here.
They were going to burn down the school. Dear God, they were going to burn down London! With the other hand he reached blindly over his head for any container in reach that he could fill.
Rose came back, pushed the empty pots at him and disappeared with the ones he’d filled. They worked like this in panicked and breathless silence for what seemed like hours. Collis felt the sink run over into his boots but never let up the pumping. Rose blew past him, tossing empty pots into the water with a splash that soaked them both, and pulling full ones dripping from the sink.
Collis wanted to help but stayed where he was. Rose was faster, he was stronger. This was the best way to do it. He could only carry one pot without spilling it—his dead hand never seemed able to keep a grip unless he was looking at it.
Finally, he felt a small cold hand rest on his good arm. “Stop,” she breathed. “It’s out.”
Sure enough, there was no more dangerously flickering light, although the kitchen was choked with smoke. He reached one arm to support her, letting his dead hand slide from the pump handle. She sank against him for a moment.
Now that they weren’t in a panicked frenzy, Rose realized how cold and wet she was. Her gown was soaked through, especially where she’d been forced to douse her own hem after getting too close to the flames.
But Collis was warm and he felt as solid as a tree in the smoky darkness. She wanted to rest her head on his shoulder and cry with all the relief and leftover fear welling inside her.
Surely he wouldn’t mind, just after what they had just gone through together? To lean on someone strong . . . just for a moment . . .
“Bloody HELL!” The roar came from the salle.
Kurt had come in early.
AND NOW . . .
THE FIRST BOOK
IN
THE ROYAL FOUR
To Wed A
Scandalous Spy
NATHANIEL “THE COBRA”; STONEWALL,
LORD REARDON’S STORY—NOW AVAILABLE FROM
ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK
IN THIS EXCITING NEW SERIES
Every ruler needs a few men he can count on
to tell him the truth<
br />
—whether he wants to hear it or not.
Created in the time of the Normans, when King William the Conqueror found himself overrun with “advisors” more concerned with their own agendas than with the good of the whole, the Quatre Royale were selected from the king’s own boyhood friends. Lords and warriors all, bound by loyalty rather than selfish motives, these four men took on the names of ruthless predators while acting as the Quatre, keeping their lives and identities separate from their true roles . . .
. . . to act as the shield of deceit and the sword of truth in the name of the king.
Courageous as the Lion
Deadly as the Cobra
Vigilant as the Falcon
Clever as the Fox
The appointment is for life—the commitment absolute. Bonds of family, friends, and even love become as insubstantial as a dream when each hand-selected apprentice takes the seat of the master. All else is merely pretense, kept for the sake of secrecy and anonymity. For it is true that the iron bars of duty cage the hearts and souls of . . .
. . . THE ROYAL FOUR.
BUT SOMETIMES LOVE PREVAILS.
“But he is a stranger to me! Do you genuinely expect me to wed—”
The rest of Willa’s protest was cut off as John Smith’s wife Moira drew the ancient wedding gown over her head. Apparently they did expect her to. The old silk smelled of benzene and dust. Willa sneezed twice as soon as her head popped out.
“There now, Miss. He’s a fine fellow, I can tell by the cut of him. He might even be as high as a lord. John says his horse is an expensive beast, and those boots were made special for him on Bond Street, mark my words. I’ve been to London, you’ll remember. I know about these things.”
Willa didn’t bother to remind Moira that her journey had been over twenty years ago and had lasted mere weeks. Even that little excursion was more than Willa had ever traveled, at least since she had come to Derryton as an infant on that same trek.
Besides, Moira had been dining out on that story all these years, and in the woman’s mind London had become a mystical place of gold-paved streets and confectioner shops on every corner. Surely it was even more fascinating than that.
“But he could be anyone! A—a highwayman, or even a gypsy!”
“Pish-posh. He’s a fine and handsome gentleman. That means he’s perfect for you. You’re no common village lass, don’t forget. You’re as much a lady as any in London, by my way of thinking. Your dear mum certainly was. And didn’t she look a treat in this gown?”
Moira sniffled as she tugged the dress into place, and Willa regretted bringing up sad memories. Her mother had been a lady, no doubt about it, and Moira her loyal lady’s maid until her death.
“But Moira, a man off the road?”
“Well, he was good enough to spend the night lying beside, wasn’t he?” Moria put fists on each wide htp and glared at Willa. “You mind me, Miss! You’re fortunate no one in this village would speak against you, or your reputation would be in ruins sure enough! Even so, it’s a fair thing you never kissed him!”
Willa didn’t answer that one, but obviously her blush spoke for her because Moira’s scowl turned to open-mouthed shock. Then the woman rushed to the window and threw open the shutter.
“James Cooper, aren’t you finished with that archway yet? And where’s that cleric from Edgeton?”
There was a pause in the hammering and James Cooper’s voice drifted up from the square. “John should be back with him by noontide, Missus. You want I should skip the benches?”
“Mercy, yes. We’d best get this done spot on!”
She turned back to Willa and gave a disapproving shake of her head. “You mind me, Miss. The man spent the night with you and lived to tell the tale. Wed him and bed him and be quick about it.”
“Bed him? I scarcely know his name, let alone love him!”
Moira sighed and her expression softened. “You’ve been reading too many romantic stories, my girl. Love comes after, I’ve told you that time and again. You pick yourself a likely fellow, you make your mind up, and you marry.”
“But you love John. I know you do.”
“That I do, but I’ve had twenty years to know him, and find out what a fine man he is. Not that he doesn’t have his bad side. I’ve not had a good night’s sleep in two decades sharing a bed with that great lout and his snores.” The fondness in her voice belied her complaint. “But, for the most part, a man is what you make of him.”
Willa was none too sure of that. “But still, perhaps he won’t mind waiting a bit for the bedding part. I certainly don’t, and I have been waiting all my life.”
Moira frowned again. “Miss Willa, you know very well that poor man’s life is in danger every minute you delay. My mum told me, and I’m telling you. The only way to break that Bindersham Curse is to get yourself wedded and bedded. If you don’t do it now . . .”
Her voice trailing off warningly, Moira gave Willa a significant look and sailed out of the room.
After her guardian and best friend left, Willa sank to a seat on her childhood bed and leaned her cheek against the bedpost. Marry a stranger, or likely never marry at all, that’s what Moira had meant.
The older Willa got, the fewer young men gazed her way. Not because she was losing her looks, but because word was getting out about the dangers of taking a fancy to the “Mishap Miss” of Derryton village.
An hour later, Willa peered through her mother’s veil at the gathering of villagers before her.
Yes, they were all there, from the baker’s wife to the cooper’s daughter. Every woman from the village stood facing Willa from the other side of the square.
Behind them stood the men, shuffling shamefaced and uncomfortable, but there all the same.
Willa let her gaze travel over every beloved face, every pair of callused helping hands. These people were her only family in the world, really. She loved them all.
The traitors.
“I can’t believe you would do this to me. What would Mama say?” muttered Willa.
“She’d say high time. Now smile, Miss.”
With a loving peck to Willa’s cheek and a reproving pinch to her arm, Moira gave her a push toward the archway where four men waited. The twin sons of John and Moira, the cleric from Edgeton and the man called Nate Stone.
Clutching her fistful of garden flowers, Willa walked toward them, the traditional hesitant pace of the bride suddenly making a great deal of sense.
Who wouldn’t hesitate to take such a step? For the rest of her life, she would be in the hands of this man that she didn’t even know.
True, they were large and shapely hands. True, he was a good-looking fellow and well-spoken. Actually, it entered Willa’s mind that she may have made a fortunate shot with that sling after all.
That is, as long as he didn’t murder her in her sleep, or sell her to white slavers.
Worse yet, what if he snoredl
Standing in the center of the square, Nathaniel was filled with well-being, floating on the tide of a great deal of fine country ale.
The sun shone down on the picturesque village square, birds chirped a lively tune from the trees, and chubby village children ran laughing in circles around the arch. A lovely day for a wedding, actually.
Then all eyes turned to the figure in satin coming down the lawn. A pretty picture indeed. And not a bad-looking bride. The little miss from the lane washed up nicely.
The thought swam through the brew in his brain that this wedding was quite real and that the bride was his. This was not a good thing, but for the life of him, Nathaniel couldn’t recall why.
The girl was certainly pretty enough, in her fresh country way. Not his type at all, but what the hell. His type wanted nothing to do with him anyway.
It occurred to Nathaniel that he had forgotten to tell anyone the annoying little detail of his disgrace. Pursing his lips and folding his hands behind his back with concentrated effort, he decided to wait until the moment
when they were asked to “confess any impediment.”
Yes, perfect, the very moment for such disclosure.
He must have begun to weave a bit, because his left side came up against one of the teenaged giants who never seemed to leave his presence. Bodyguards or keepers?
The young man gave him a genial shove and straightened him out. Nathaniel nodded serenely in thanks. Capital bloke, that.
Truly, it was a lovely day for a wedding.
“If ye discern any impediment to be lawfully joined in matrimony, do ye now confess it?”
Now. Say it. Nathaniel struggled to gather his thoughts. How should he put it exactly—
A whisper came. “Pardon me, sir, but do you snore?”
His concentration thrown, Nathaniel peered down at the lace-covered head below his chin. She wasn’t looking at him, but her head was cocked in such a way that she was clearly waiting for an answer.
Snore? The very idea.
“Absolutely not!” he whispered loudly into the lace where he thought her ear might be.
“Thank you.” She gestured for the clergyman to continue.
As the man droned on, Nathaniel had the feeling that he had missed something. He tried to remember, but his brain began to fog.
To be frank, he was beginning to feel a mite ill. He hadn’t meant to drink so much, but Giant Number Two had kept the tankard at such an enticing head for him.
“Sir? Wilt thou?”
The Giants poked Nathaniel simultaneously.
“I will!” hissed the one that talked.
“I will?”
“I now pronounce thee man and wife!” The minister snapped his book shut, and the villagers burst into applause all around them.
No. Wait. Nathaniel stepped forward to protest.
Unfortunately, his feet didn’t get the message. He pitched forward to the ground. Bleary-minded, he looked upward to see four faces peering down at him in surprise, one veiled in white, like a plump and rosy angel.
“Aren’t ye going to kiss the bride?”
Oh, God, please let me pass out, and then wake to find this all a bad dream.
Only half of his prayer was answered as his mind mercifully darkened.
