For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  Suddenly he knew he was going to climax. He felt like the inexperienced fool he was, too untried to hold back the torturous pleasure coursing through him.

  “Barnabas!” he cried out, desperate to connect with him as he came like this.

  “Yes, yes, Ambrose,” Barnabas said, his voice rough and breathless. “Yes.”

  It was the permission he needed, and he let the orgasm take him in its grip and fling him into ecstasy. He was still shuddering with it as Barnabas threw back his head in the throes of his own release.

  Chapter 17

  Mel crept into the kitchen, careful not to step on the creaking floorboard outside Cook’s room. She was sure that floorboard was deliberate. The new cook she’d hired would hardly say anything about Mel’s nocturnal wandering. The last one was more spy than cook. It was no wonder Barnabas had hardly eaten anything before. But he’d certainly seemed to enjoy the soufflé this morning.

  When she pushed open the kitchen door, she nearly shrieked in surprise. Wetherald looked just as shocked to see her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her hand on her pounding heart.

  Wetherald blushed to the roots of his hair. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. That was all. He wore nothing but trousers and an open shirt and his feet were bare. The implications were clear. She blushed for him, and for the wayward thoughts he inspired.

  “Of course,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen. “I was going to get a cup of chamomile tea. My old nurse used to swear by it.”

  “I wasn’t sure what to get,” Wetherald said, sounding a bit lost. “I rarely go into a kitchen.”

  “Never have trouble sleeping?” she asked sympathetically.

  “No,” he said with a rueful chuckle. “And the irony is not lost on me that Barnabas is sleeping like a babe.”

  Mel bit her lip as she grabbed the teakettle. For some reason the entire evening—listening to the two men together as they shared a passion she had never known, and now, hearing that his lover’s presence had finally brought Barnabas the sleep that had eluded him before—made her want to cry. She sniffed as she filled the kettle and lit the stove. When she went back to the counter to spoon out the tealeaves, Wetherald came up behind her and placed his hands gently on her upper arms.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” he asked quietly. She shook her head, afraid to speak for fear her voice would give away her distress.

  “Tell me what’s wrong, Mel.” The way he said her name, so natural compared to his awkwardness of the past, made her choke on her tears. She turned in his arms and pressed her forehead to his warm, muscular chest.

  “I’m so tired,” she said brokenly. “I’m just so tired.”

  “Of course you are, dear heart,” he said softly, rubbing her back. “Come over here and sit down.”

  He guided her to the table and sat her down on the long bench beside it, then bustled back to the counter and finished preparing the tea. He brought a cup over to her.

  “Here now,” he said. “This should help.” He sat down beside her, straddling the bench so that he faced her and urged the cup up to her lips. She blew on the hot tea. “How long since you’ve slept?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I sleep a little bit each night, on the floor by the window.”

  “Why are you sleeping on the floor?” he asked, his brow wrinkled in concern. She reached up and ran a finger over the lines of worry, smoothing them away.

  “I don’t like to be on a bed.”

  He closed his eyes and swallowed at her response, but he didn’t show her pity or horror, and she was grateful. After a moment he opened his eyes, his composure intact. “Drink your tea,” he said, as if she were a child.

  He looked devastatingly handsome, all disheveled from Barnabas’s lovemaking. His hair was mussed up and there was a sheen of sweat on his chest. She’d felt it when she’d rested her head on him. He was far more muscular than she would have thought. His usual somber attire hid that. No wonder Barnabas was infatuated with him. He picked up his tea and sipped it, and Mel was fascinated by his smartly trimmed beard.

  “What?” he asked, looking down at himself. He tried to close his shirt, but without a cravat it was open down to his stomach. “I am sorry for my present state,” he apologized. “I didn’t think I’d see anyone in the kitchen in the middle of the night.”

  “I didn’t either,” she said, her voice a little breathless.

  Ambrose went still at the sound and looked up at her with far too perceptive eyes. He let go of his shirt and reached one finger out to trace the high collar of her nightgown.

  “I’d choke in one of these,” he teased.

  “It is less constricting than a cravat,” she observed, not taking his to task for his gentle caress.

  “I’m sure you are correct,” he said. “But lately I find myself choking on those as well.” He moved closer to her, so that she was tucked in between his legs. “Here, lean on me while you sip your tea,” he said softly. “Perhaps it will make you sleepy.”

  With an awareness that alarmed her, she leaned back against the hard wall of his chest. He was ridiculously warm and firm. He smelled like Barnabas, which was wicked and delicious, two descriptions she’d never ascribed to Wetherald in the past.

  “You are the best bed I’ve rested on in ages,” she said. She knew it was highly inappropriate, but the entire evening had been inappropriate.

  When she turned her face up to thank him, he was a breath away. Without thinking it through she cupped his cheek and pulled him down for a soft kiss. He let her, neither resisting nor trying to take over. His lips were sinfully soft and plump and damp. She could almost taste Barnabas on them. Instantly she regretted her actions and pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly feeling awful about eavesdropping on him and Barnabas. She was forcing him to be unfaithful hours after he’d become lovers with Barnabas. What kind of woman was she?

  “For what?” he asked,

  “I heard you,” she whispered the confession, blushing as she tried to pull away from him. He wouldn’t let her. His eyes were soft and warm, an appreciation of her as a woman clearly showing in them.

  “Heard me? Why whatever are you talking about? Of course you did. I’m right next to you.” He smiled indulgently as he leaned closer, as if to kiss her again.

  “I mean, earlier. In Barnabas’s room.” She licked her lips as comprehension dawned on his face. Again she tried to pull away, but he held her tightly in place.

  “How?” he asked, his voice gravelly with dismay.

  “He shouldn’t leave his window open,” she told him. “I’m right below and I always leave mine open. I can’t stand to be closed in.”

  “Christ,” he whispered. She was shocked again. That was twice in one day he’d cursed in her presence. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. Even his body had gone stiff behind her. She turned partway on the bench to face him, reaching for his arm.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “It was beautiful. Really it was. I’m the one who should be sorry for eavesdropping on such a private moment.”

  “I suppose you know then that I was…that I hadn’t done that before.” She nodded. He looked grim. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Don’t say anything,” she begged, turning around and snuggling back into his arms. “We shall pretend I didn’t hear a thing and I will close my window from now on. See? Problem solved. It needn’t bother us again.” She held her breath, hoping he would play along with the subterfuge.

  “Drink your tea,” he said. “It’s getting cold.” He wrapped his arm around her again, tucking her into his chest. She drank her tea as instructed and let the quiet of the house sink into her along with Wetherald’s warmth.

  * * *

  “She’s asleep,” Barnabas said quietly from the kitchen doorway.

  “I know,” Ambrose said. He looked down at her. “Did you know she could hear us?”

  Barnabas didn’t let his s
urprise show. He hadn’t expected Mel to confess as much to Ambrose. “You two have gotten to be quite close in the last few days.”

  “Yes.” Ambrose cut his gaze from Mel’s sleeping face to Barnabas. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Yes, I knew.” He entered the kitchen. “I wanted her to. After all, our being lovers is what settled her mind and made her trust me. She gave me the list yesterday.” He hoped the change of topic would distract Ambrose. He didn’t seem angry, which was far worse than if he had been.

  “What list?” He readjusted her in his arms slightly and she curled into him, turning to press her cheek against him, one closed fist resting on his bare chest.

  “The list of men that de Vere brought to her room.”

  Barnabas leaned his hip against the doorframe and studied them. They looked good together. Strange that it was Barnabas and Ambrose’s love affair that seemed to have brought Ambrose and Mel closer.

  As he watched them, Ambrose’s hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles turned white, and yet he was careful not to disturb Mel in her sleep.

  “Who?” he demanded in a low voice that practically vibrated with rage. “Who is on the list?”

  “Your friend Hargraves.”

  Ambrose’s head jerked up and he stared at Barnabas in disbelief. “Surely she is mistaken.”

  “Perhaps,” Barnabas said with a shrug. “She didn’t know his real name. But she described him perfectly. Said he used the name Master Graves when he came. He was there at least twice, perhaps three times. She wasn’t sure. He was rather brutal, according to her. No details. Just that he liked violence and struck her several times.”

  Barnabas had to fight to keep an even tone as he relayed the information. He’d had time to come to grips with his anger. Ambrose had not. Instead of lashing out, Ambrose pulled the sleeping woman in his arms tighter to his chest.

  “Who else?”

  “Meeks. I found that interesting. From all appearances they are mortal enemies in the Lords, on opposites sides of the chamber at all times. Yet they are two of a select few who were taken to visit Mel. Odd, don’t you think?”

  “What are you going to do about it?” Ambrose asked, ignoring Barnabas’s observation.

  “Well, I’m going to either kill or ruin them all, of course,” Barnabas said, offended that Ambrose even had to ask.

  “If it is true of Hargraves, then he must die.” Ambrose looked up at him as he made the pronouncement calmly.

  “You have become very quick to pass sentence,” Barnabas noted. “I used to consider you a peaceable man.”

  “I am a peaceable man,” Ambrose said. “That doesn’t mean that I don’t think some men need to die for the greater good.”

  “The greater good, or Mel’s good?” Barnabas asked. “Does she know you’re in love with her?” Barnabas’s chest felt tight as he asked the question dispassionately.

  “She does not wish me to be in love with her,” Ambrose said. “It is, I think, the last thing she desires.” He ran his hand down her short braid, lightly wrapping his fist around it as he did so. One moment Mel was sound asleep, the next she was rolling frantically out of his lap and scrambling across the floor.

  “No!” she shouted, looking around with the wide eyes of a cornered animal.

  Ambrose had been knocked backwards and had fallen half off the bench at her abrupt movement. “Mel!” he cried. “Are you all right?”

  She crouched there in the corner panting for a moment as she gathered her wits and Ambrose righted himself. Barnabas had jumped at her mad scramble and now stepped forward slowly.

  “You are in the kitchen at my house, Mel,” he said slowly. “It is I, Sir Barnabas, and Wetherald.”

  “I know,” she said, still out of breath. “Yes, I know.” She stood up looking quite shaken and took several wobbly steps toward the door. “I’ll go now. To my room.”

  Barnabas stood in her way and didn’t move, forcing her to stop. “Tell him why you reacted that way when he touched your hair,” he told her quietly.

  “No,” she said, her voice regaining strength.

  Barnabas stepped up to her and grabbed her braid roughly, yanking it. Before he could blink she grabbed his wrist and twisted around so that he had to let go or injure his arm. He let go, and she pushed him away angrily.

  “I see those lessons with Hastings have paid off,” he commented lazily.

  “What is going on?” Ambrose demanded.

  “If you don’t tell him he’ll make himself sick with guilt over upsetting you,” Barnabas explained to her. “He’ll worry about what he said or did to cause you distress. Is that what you want?”

  “They grabbed my hair,” she said, angrily staring at Barnabas, not Ambrose. “They held me down with it, and dragged me and used it against me.”

  “That’s why you cut it,” Ambrose said quietly. “I wondered.” She cut her gaze over to him. “I didn’t care. You are beautiful with your hair long or short. But I wondered.” Barnabas was inordinately proud of him for not showing the pity and horror that he surely must be feeling. He was incapable of hearing something like that and not crying inside at the injustice of it.

  “Yes, that’s why I cut it,” she said, her shoulders drooping. She put a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry I acted like that. I know you wouldn’t do that. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “You were asleep and I startled you,” Ambrose said. “I won’t do it again.”

  She walked over to him and hugged him and Ambrose wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her back. “I’m sorry.” Her words were muffled against his chest.

  “I am, too.”

  “Go ahead and touch it,” she said. “I won’t mind.”

  Tentatively he reached up and made the same motion, petting her braid and wrapping his hand around it. She looked up at him trustingly and Barnabas was struck again by how small and delicate she was. The top of her head barely reached Ambrose’s shoulder. She and Ambrose stood there staring at one another for several heartbeats, and then he swooped her up in his arms.

  “You need to go to bed,” he told her. “Come on.” She didn’t argue, just wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek on his shoulder.

  “You smell like Barnabas,” she said, sounding weary. “It’s delicious.”

  “Do I smell delicious?” he asked Ambrose.

  “You know damn well you do,” Ambrose said without rancor. “Now come along,” he said as they passed Barnabas. “You need to go to bed, too.”

  Barnabas stumbled at Ambrose’s words. Was that where they were headed? All three of them? It seemed a course had been inadvertently set tonight, but Barnabas wasn’t at all sure it wasn’t headed toward disaster.

  Chapter 18

  “Did you send someone to his apartment?” Barnabas asked his assistant, Gaithers.

  “Yes, sir. McKenzie went. He said the place was a shambles, looked to have been tossed a day or so ago.” His voice was carefully neutral. He’d worked for Barnabas for years and Barnabas hadn’t shot him for being the messenger of bad news yet. He wasn’t sure why the poor man continued to fear for his life.

  “Check every hell and brothel and gaming room you can find. And the rivermen as well,” he said grimly.

  After Gaithers left, Barnabas gripped his pen so tightly it was a wonder it didn’t break in half. An image of Simon’s dead body floating in the filthy water of the Thames made him sick to his stomach. He was supposed to have sent an update yesterday. Even for Simon, being over twelve hours late was unusual and signaled trouble. Now the mess in his apartment. Barnabas had a very bad feeling about it. Damn it, he never should have sent him after de Vere.

  “I’ll show myself in.”

  Barnabas closed his eyes and grimaced at the familiar voice. In the outer office, Gaithers didn’t even bother to protest. The poor man probably had no idea what to do. At one time Daniel Steinberg had been an agent, then Barnabas’s lover. Barnabas needed to clarify Daniel’s new po
sition with his staff.

  Daniel threw open the door and glared at Barnabas with narrowed eyes. He was dressed nattily in a bottle-green coat and buckskins, his gold waistcoat setting off his light brown curly hair nicely. He had always been a fine dresser. “What have you done to Simon?” he demanded.

  As he marched in, his lover Harry Ashbury followed on his heels. Ashbury looked like the blackguard he was with his eye patch and muscular frame, dressed all in black clothes. He reminded Barnabas of Ambrose a bit. Ashbury was more even-tempered than Daniel, thank God, and just tipped his hat at Barnabas. They’d settled on being politely cool with one another after a ridiculous knife fight at a dinner party not long after Ashbury returned to England from America. Barnabas still regretted losing his temper that night.

  “What do you mean?” he asked calmly, trying to delay the inevitable.

  Ashbury stopped halfway into the office and turned back to the door with a frown. He motioned someone in. A pretty woman with dark hair and a beautiful porcelain complexion came hesitantly into the room. Barnabas stood politely. He vaguely remembered meeting Mrs. Ashbury at that disastrous dinner party, and again at Daniel’s house, after a fire.

  “Mrs. Ashbury,” he said in greeting.

  “Sir Barnabas,” she said with an awkward curtsey. “It’s Mrs. Manderley now. I’ve recently married.”

  “Of course you did,” Barnabas said smoothly, indicating the tiny chair. “My apologies. I’d forgotten you and Ashbury went to Scotland for several months to obtain a divorce.” She blushed at his remark, which irritated Barnabas for some reason. If she thought divorce so scandalous then why had she sought one out? She could have stayed married to Ashbury. He wouldn’t have cared as long as she didn’t interfere with his love affair with Daniel.