This spy bit wasn’t as difficult as he’d thought. Until he found the wall. A monstrosity that stood between the alley and the neighbor’s rear yard. He was on the wrong side, with mortar and stone between him and the Flower.
“I’m unprepared to climb a wall.” He hadn’t intended to say it aloud, but there it was. An immutable fact.
“It is not so difficult.” A pointed chin appeared above him, displayed by the line of pale stone mortared atop the barrier. “If you are going to join me, monsieur, you must hurry. I do not have time to waste. If the ambassador leaves while I am arguing with you, we will both be dead by my commander’s hand.”
Her cap was meant to hide her identity, yet with her head angled to the side the moonlight shone white on her face and illuminated her features. Aggravation rather than pleasure at his arrival flitted over her features. Well, the wall irritated him. So did she, even if the silvery moonlight made her look like a starlit goddess.
Bloody hell, she was making him daft. Starlit goddess, indeed.
“Isn’t there another way around?” he asked.
“Find a foothold,” was her only answer. “A handhold. There are many in the ivy.”
The ivy. Yes, that would hold his weight—if he were her size. “That won’t work.”
She huffed out frustration. “I cannot wait for you.” Her hands moved on the top of the wall, and she was gone.
He stared at the empty space where her face had been. Nothing but darkness appeared above curling vines and a rough wall that seemed a foot taller than a moment ago.
“Confound that woman.” He would have to climb the wall if he was going to help her. Hopefully he did not fall and make an ass of himself.
Ivy for his left hand, rough stone for his right. Digging his boots into the uneven surface, Maximilian hoisted himself up, feet scrabbling to find purchase. He braced himself, shifted his weight, and continued. Fingers reaching the edge of smooth, evenly chiseled stone at the top, he used his feet and arms to hoist himself up.
There he was, sitting at the apex.
“You are much faster than I thought.” Her words floated to him from the darkness.
“Huh.” It wasn’t hard to climb. Rather easy, in fact. He likely wasn’t as quiet as the Flower, but—
“Quick!” She sounded spitting mad.
He grinned, feeling much more at ease with this Flower.
She was at the head of the alley, peering around toward the front corner of the house. Pantaloons and boots were just visible in the night. Even in the shadows, her legs had a lovely shape. He jumped to the ground and gritted his teeth against the jolt. When it faded, he crept along the side of the wall, hunched over and trying to make as little noise as possible.
“It is too late to be small and quiet.” She did not look at him but continued to peer around the building. “Like a great elephant, you make so much noise. If anyone were to hear you, they would have already done so.”
The assumption was likely accurate, which was why he preferred codes over covert assignments.
He set a hand on the wall above her head and leaned over her to see the house. She was the perfect size for leaning over, fitting below his arm and shoulder. Looking down, he saw the top of her cap, the feminine shoulders covered in a man’s coat. He imagined setting his hand on her shoulder, just to see if her muscles were tensed, but she seemed confident and quite in control of herself.
She looked up at him, eyes large beneath the brim of her cap. Lips parted on an exhale. He felt it then—her awareness of him. Just as he was aware of every part of her body. The tilt of her head, the measure of her breath, each eyelash in the faint light cast by the oil lamps.
It was her mouth he focused on now. He could kiss her, here in the dark. They were only a breath away, the heat radiating from her body drawing him in. His need for her was suddenly blinding. Did she feel it, too? This primitive pull?
There was still right and wrong, however, and she was with another man.
“What are you planning to do?” He whispered it in the most matter-of-fact of tone he could summon, but it didn’t sound like him at all.
Tipping her head back to look at him, her gaze steady beneath the cap. A moment passed, so full of her thoughts he could pluck one from the air.
Deciphering it would be impossible. Irksome, that.
Finally, she said, “I was not planning for you to arrive.” That tone he knew. The cross Flower when he did not provide the result she expected. She peered around the corner again, her whisper floating up to him on the night air. “Why are you here?”
“I thought you might need my assistance.” It sounded foolish, so he added, “To read something.”
“I do not require your assistance. I manage on my own.”
Her body bumped against his as she turned back to him, which sent lust spiraling through him. The contact seemed to catch her off balance, and she staggered, boots rasping on gravel. He gripped her waist before he could think, curved his fingers around her hips. Her body was delicate and feminine beneath his hands, branding his fingertips despite the chilled air.
Everything in him burned at the contact.
He should back away. Leave her be.
Her arms came up to settle on his shoulders.
They stood there, not moving. The night swirled around them, layered by darkness and the sound of carriages and occasional voices. They did not move, as if a spell held them still and silent. It pulsed between them. Her lips parted, breath slipping out as both sigh and gasp.
He had to have her.
Pressing her mouth to his, he reveled in the heady power of her. Soft lips were chilled from the night air. They opened beneath his, revealing the taste of woman and night. He slid a hand up to cup her cheek, tangling his fingers in the hair beneath her cap.
She gripped his shoulders as if she needed an anchor to steady her. Rising on her toes, she met him and angled the kiss herself. Longing was sweet on her lips and dangerous in his heart.
He shifted closer, wanting to feel more of her. To taste more. Her body, with its dancer’s strength, pressed against him. Hot in the cool night air. Feathering his fingers over her cheeks, he tangled his tongue with hers, then slid his hands down to grip her waist again.
He could stay this way for a bit, he thought. Just a bit longer. Maybe a lot longer.
It did not last. She stopped, whirling away from him, breath harsh on the late-autumn air.
“Do not kiss me here, like this.” Shrinking from him, she crossed her arms over her breasts. “Not now. I cannot think when you—” She broke off, shaking her head.
She was afraid—not of him, but of what the kiss would mean. The thought flashed through his mind in a moment of utter clarity. Well, it sure as bloody hell scared him, too. He jammed his hands in his coat pockets and cursed fate.
Why was it that the first woman he’d wanted with such intensity in years had to be a spy with a body promised to another man?
She shook her head again, eyes wide with emotions too numerous to name. “I have an assignment, monsieur. You are not—shh.” Stiffening, she set her fingers to her lips as the front door opened.
A couple descended the front steps, preceded by a footman. The Flower watched, still and inanimate as her namesake, body wound tight and ready to spring. Then she relaxed, her shoulders loosening and breath sliding out in a long exhale.
“Not the ambassador,” she said. “Guests are beginning to depart, so it will not be long before he appears.”
“What are you planning to do?” he asked again, looking down at the top of her head. The cap seemed colorless in the dark, but he guessed it to be a light brown. Lighter than the rich black of her hair, certainly.
“Now that you are here, I do not know.” She pushed away from the wall and swung to face him. “I do not require your assistance. You will only get
in the way.”
“You didn’t think that way when I read the note for you,” he said, unsure if he aimed for her pain because he was angry or hurt that she didn’t want him.
“Salaud!” Hissing it, her fist came up quick as a striking snake, but she held back. At the last moment, her hand dropped away. “I do not expect you to understand.”
“That you are practically illiterate?” Damn it all, she’d called him a bastard—in flawless French. Breathing deep, he wrestled with the fact that she could kiss him, but she did not trust him. Shoving that aside, he said softly, “My apologies. That was inexcusable. I don’t think less of you, Flower. It’s simply fact.”
Shock and temper warred on her face as she started to speak, then she spun away as the door to the town house opened again. Two men this time, one walking a little behind the first.
“It is he.” Her whisper shot through the dark.
He reached for her, not sure what he was trying to do. His hands landed on her shoulders, slid down to her upper arms. The lean muscle shifting beneath his fingers was feminine, yet not. Her body bowed up, and the strength in her amazed him. Shrugging off his hand, she faced him with eyes darker than he’d ever seen them. Reaching for his top hat, she tipped it askew.
“Pretend to be drunk.” Her fingers mussed his cravat, tugged his greatcoat so it hung crooked. Her eyes widened as they heard a good-night call. “Please, be a drunk peer. I am your servant. Please.” Desperation glazed her voice, and he could not fight it.
“Very well,” he bit out. He didn’t plan to leave her alone, at any rate.
She slipped out onto the walkway, and he followed, though he could not explain how his feet moved. He staggered, pretending to be drunk, with the Flower a respectful step behind him.
“Ho, there!” he shouted to the street at large, not having the slightest idea what her plan was.
The ambassador and his companion paused and turned to look at them, as if determining what danger was heading their way. Light from the carriage lamps shone on the companion’s solemn, craggy face.
“Bloody hell.”
“What?” The Flower was instantly stiff, shoulders and head snapping to attention.
“It’s the Bishop Carlisle.”
“He will not recognize me, but you must avert your face,” she whispered. Impatience nearly rolled off her shoulders. “We must continue.”
It was easier to issue the instruction than for Maximilian to comply. A man couldn’t talk to another man without showing his face.
He jerked when the Flower’s arm slipped around his waist as if she were steadying him. Thinking quickly, he put his arm around her shoulders and listed a little to the side. She must be playing at being a sturdy little servant helping her master home—though she was supposed to be a he, given the pantaloons she was wearing. He must remember that.
Damned difficult given the slim, curved, female body pressed against his side.
“Come along, sir,” she said, as though he were a child she was leading along the walkway. “Not too much farther now.”
She guided him down the street toward the watchful ambassador, the bishop, and the carriage. Inquisitive gazes were aimed in their direction. Uncomfortable, all those eyes.
“Do something!” she hissed at him. “Be drunk.”
Be drunk, she commanded. Be drunk. What did a drunkard do? Be loud. Stumble. Chase women and issue improper advances, if his brother was any evidence.
“Oh ho! A nish night!” he shouted, raising an arm to wave at the ambassador. Had he slurred properly? He could not tell. He leaned harder on the Flower, pretending to stumble over the—unfortunately quite even—walkway.
The ambassador looked down a long nose at them. “It is a cold night. Sir.”
“But ishnot raining,” Maximilian responded cheerfully. They were nearly to the ambassador and the bishop—then they were there, so close Maximilian could smell the faint scent of sweat beneath bay rum.
Bishop Carlisle was peering at him, mouth turned down in disapproval, deepening the lines around his face. Oh, yes, the bishop recognized him. He shifted stiffly in his coat, and Maximilian could almost hear the man chastising him for being drunk in the same manner he had chastised him for reorganizing the family library by author rather than by topic.
What did the Flower want him to do now?
Fall, apparently, as she stuck her foot out and tripped him.
Then she let go.
The walkway rose up to meet him. It was flat and rigid, as his nose quickly informed him. Blinding pain shot through his head as something in his nose crunched. Stars whirled behind his eyes. “Bloody hell,” he groaned.
“Signor!” The ambassador’s shocked voice rang in his ears, bouncing around in time to the throbbing in his nose.
“Sir!” The Flower was all apologies, her voice rising above the men’s, though it didn’t sound quite right to Maximilian’s ears. “I’m ever so sorry, sir!”
Multiple pairs of hands drew him up to sitting. Small ones there on his right, larger on his left and another set on his shoulders. One of the hands flashed a ring he knew to be the bishop’s, but he couldn’t tell exactly where everyone was. Lights still hazed his vision.
The blood began. It trickled down his upper lip. He swiped at it, soiling his gloves beyond redemption, and mentally cursed the Flower in every language he knew.
“Are you well, Maximilian?” Bishop Carlisle’s stern countenance frowned down at him. “This isn’t like you.”
No, it was Highchester’s usual form of entertainment. Maximilian made a point of doing the opposite. Sitting on the walkway, with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and the disapproving words of the clergyman hovering in the air, he could only hope the Flower was able to steal the documents.
“Come, you shall ride in our carriage, signor.” The ambassador crouched beside him, the concern in his voice as audible as the hairs on his beard were visible. “I shall see you home.”
Maximilian waved away the assistance with one hand while attempting to stop the blood with the other. “No, shir. I’m almosht home.” This time he didn’t have to pretend to slur the words. Tipping his head back, he tried to ignore the taste of blood.
She would pay for this.
“Boy!” he shouted. “Boy, help me up.”
The Flower was already in front of him. Her eyes glittered as she set her hands on his shoulders. Satisfaction, he could see. She’d accomplished her goal. Damned if he could determine how. Must have been when he was facedown on the walkway.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. It’s my fault,” she said.
“So it is.” He was going to wring her delicate neck when he had her in private. He’d made an ass of himself in front of the man who was as close to a father as he’d had since the age of eight.
The Flower’s hands latched onto his arm and began to pull him up. Maximilian lurched to his feet, balanced, then tipped his head back again, pinching his aching nose.
“That will sober a man up,” he said to the street in general.
“’Ere, put yer arm around me, sir.” She slid that strong little arm around his waist again. “There y’are. Steady, sir.”
He realized she spoke with an English accent. Not the modulated tones of an aristocrat, but English from the streets. Consonants dropped. Butchered Hs. By Christ, she spoke it like the language of her birth. Gone was the fluid Gallic accent he was accustomed to.
“Enshoy your evening, gentlemen,” he said through the fingers pinching his nose. He sounded like a goose and felt like one, too.
He and the Flower staggered off, the stagger not being entirely contrived this time.
Springs creaked as the ambassador climbed into his carriage. They creaked a second time as the bishop stepped in. Maximilian wondered what the bishop would tell his mother the next time she invited them
both for tea. Nothing flattering, for certain. The driver clucked at the horses, and they were off in the other direction.
It was done. The mission was over.
“Did you steal the documents?” Anger and embarrassment churned in his belly, an unsettling mixture.
“Oui. While they were helping you to stand.”
Oh ho, she was back to the French accent. He looked down into that exquisite face. It might be her profession to blend truth and lies and identities, but it left him wondering who was under the characters she played. When a woman became someone else in the blink of an eye, a man could never puzzle out the intricacies of her soul.
Irritation blossomed, though he wasn’t certain if it was because of her or himself. “Did you have to break my nose?”
“It is not broken, Monsieur Westwood.”
“It bloody well hurts.” He jerked away from her and leaned on the nearest area fence. “Am I covered in blood?”
She did not answer at first. He flicked a glance at her. She was very serious and sober. The wide, sensual mouth was neutral. Not angry. Not sad.
“You did not flinch.” She said it flatly. “You did what I asked.”
“What else was I to do? I didn’t follow you to abandon you at the end of the assignment, for heaven’s sake.” He was in desperate need of something cold for his nose. A slab of meat. Something. He couldn’t smell anything—let alone the Flower.
He missed that clean soap. She was right there, and he could not smell her soap.
“I’m going home.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Vivienne watched Monsieur Westwood stride up the steps of his town house. He’d walked home alone, though she had not been far behind.
Guilt had settled in her chest at the way she had used him. Yet he had not complained. Oh, he was angry about the nose. It was not broken—probably—but he had not railed at her as she’d expected. Or lashed out, which was a distinct possibility. Men did those things. She knew that of old.
Monsieur Westwood simply cursed at the world. When she assisted him, he did not put his full weight on her. It was as though he were caring for her. Protective, even. She did not understand it. The men she knew—Henri, spies, other men who wanted only her body—they were not gentle. Not hard, of course, but they did not treat her as if she needed delicacy.
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