Leigh Sparrow

by In Pursuit of the Black Swan

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Because if you were mine, I would never for a moment allow you out of my sight.”

  A soft gasp escaped her lips. She stared up at his face with confused wonder. “Who are you?”

  He pulled her back into his arms. “Your future,” he murmured, and captured her mouth with his.

  Alexandra’s hands reached up to cling to his coat. Confusion and fear shot through her, and she made a feeble effort to push him away again. Torrents of sensations overwhelmed her, washing through her entire body like with hot tingling waves. Her head spun. Her knees felt like jelly. His arms were iron bands around her, solid and steady.

  Tears pooled in her eyes. “I should go. I must find him.”

  Exhaling harshly, his arms dropped and he broke away. “Cherie. Forgive me.” His voice caught in his throat. “I am no gentleman, but rather a crude rakehell, alone in this wretched city, and you have utterly bewitched me.” He took a step back and stared down at her through the darkness.

  Her shoulders sagged and she pressed her hand to her throat. “I am at my wit’s end. I don’t know where to search. If I do not find him soon, I fear he will be lost to me forever.”

  His eyes probed her face. “Is this man truly worthy of you?”

  She bit her lip and looked down. “I’m not so special. It’s complicated. He despises me.”

  His silent astonishment crackled in the darkness.

  “The last time I saw him,” she continued, “we exchanged terrible words. If he dies, I don’t want those to be the last words I ever said to him. Yet if he knows I am the one searching for him, he may not wish to be found.”

  “I see.” His tone contradicted his words. “Is this why you were weeping when I first found you, cherie?”

  She gave a stilted nod.

  He stared at her and pressed his lips together, as if torn by indecision.

  “Farewell, Monsieur. This has been…interesting.” Exhaling slowly, she gathered her skirts and turned to leave.

  He reached for her arm. “Perhaps I can be of assistance. I know people here. But there is nothing I can do for him tonight. Tomorrow morning I can make inquiries if you wish it.” His voice dropped to a husky plea. “Just allow me hold you tonight a short while longer.”

  His weathered hand slid down her harm to envelop her own hand, and she longed for the comforting warmth of his arms back around her.

  “Yes,” It was all she could say.

  He led her to the small bench where he sat and tugged her onto his lap. His deft fingers pulled off her gloves. As the slid off her arms, he trailed them with slow lingering kisses, sending hot tingles through her.

  He removed their masks. His face was planes and shadows in the night.

  “Hold me, cherie,” he whispered.

  Alexandra sighed. Unable to stop herself, she slipped her hands inside his cape. Her arms slid shyly around his waist and she rested her head on his shoulder. His solid heat immersed her. His musky masculine scent flooded her senses. She was drowning in the decadence of him. He is dangerous, her mind echoed. Yet she felt oddly safe with him. Instinctively she sensed a vulnerability in him. And her body sizzled with yearning.

  A soft breeze rippled around them, causing the shrubs and trees to rustle as if they were whispering their own secrets.

  His lips found the sensitive skin on the side of her neck. “Good God, cherie, what are you doing to me?” he murmured into the darkness. Then his mouth found hers, this time plundering her with his tongue.

  She squirmed in his lap, suddenly overheated.

  He sucked in a quick breath and swore in French.

  Ahh. So this was desire, she thought. This was what all the fuss was about, the scandalous whisperings in the withdrawing rooms, the secretive laughs and knowing giggles. Hot restless wanting pulsed through her, pooling in her belly. She longed for comfort, escape, and something indefinable.

  Then longing changed to need. She sensed his sadness, his pain, and yearned to banish it. Perhaps for these few moments, they could console each other.

  His trembling hands slid down, reaching for her skirt. He found his way beneath her volumes of petticoats and caressed her legs. He squeezed her ankles, stroked her calves, inching higher, his touch setting her afire. She gasped at the wave of urgency building inside her.

  Then he froze. His mouth broke away. His ragged breathing filled the darkness and she felt his hot breath on her face.

  Icy stillness hung over them for an endless moment.

  “It seems you are not alone after all, cherie.” His voice had turned cold and lethal.

  She looked at him, confused and dazed from his kisses.

  He brought up his hand with a pistol in it. It flashed dimly in the moonlight and a pang of terror shot through her. She hurled her body forward, struggling to stand, but he held her down firmly in his lap.

  “And to imagine I thought you were merely jesting when you suggested killing me,” he drawled. The chilly sarcasm in his voice terrified her more than the gun.

  She peered at him and then back to the pistol, bewildered. Then suddenly it registered that this was the pistol Bertha had given her. The weighted pinching from the holster no longer bothered her leg. He obviously had found it while his hands were feeling about down there, and now he was assuming the worst of her. Her fear instantly transformed to relief.

  “Oh, Monsieur,” she chided. “This should bloody well teach you not to put your hands under a woman’s gown.” An odd sort of mirth filled her and she burst into laughter. It felt so good to laugh. “But if you don’t kiss me again, I shall very well shoot you.”

  Chapter 13

  Her hearty laughter rang through the air and she pressed her face in his shirt to subdue her snickers.

  He held her close, attempting to recover from his shock as her body shook in his arms with glee. She attempted to restrain her chuckles, then she would snort and laugh again. He had never felt more disarmed in his life. His groin ached with rock hard arousal.

  Deuce take it, she was skilled. She was very, very skilled. If she was a spy, if this truly was a deception, then she was a master charlatan.

  But there didn’t seem to be a bit of guile in her, not even the normal airs that beautiful women aware of their own power usually possessed, as if she did not even know she was beautiful. Her kisses were utterly intoxicating, yet unlearned. He would wager his right arm that she was an innocent.

  She looked up at him. Even in the shadows of the night, he knew her incredible eyes were dancing with merriment and her lips had curved into a contagious smile. Unable to resist, he found himself also laughing, much to his own astonishment. He could not remember the last time he had laughed or been so delightedly caught off guard.

  Carefully he set the pistol down out of the way, thinking of his own leg holster, which he was sure was far less pretty. He was definitely falling off the edge, utterly defeated, bewitched by this beautiful, amazing, funny female—wearing a muff flintlock pistol beneath her petticoats.

  In reality, she was probably a French spy. She was undoubtedly France’s ultimate weapon. He would be the helpless victim of her tangled snare.

  Gathering her back into his arms, he held her closely. Her womanly scent of lilacs and fresh air filled him. He reeled, hoping he would survive this night, knowing this time he was playing too close to the flame, that he could be easily swept into a deadly firestorm.

  Shifting her around so she straddled his lap, he wondered if she would be shocked by his solid erection pressed against her through the thin layer of her undergarment. Instead of shyness, she seemed strangely emboldened, awkwardly unbuttoning his shirt, curiously exploring his chest with her fingers. His skin burned from her touch.

  He tipped her head so his lips could again find hers, and coaxed them apart with his tongue. When her tongue met his, the kiss exploded. He molded her body against him and wrapped his black cape around them both.

  “You are incr
edible,” she whispered in awe.

  “No, cherie,” he murmured sadly. “I’m a lecher.” Pressing his forehead against hers, he said, “Perhaps we should end this before there are regrets.” He could not believe he was saying this. Being noble was generally not in his repertoire.

  She shifted in his lap and clung closer. He sucked in a sharp breath and groaned as the floodgates of his restraint crumbled. His fingers tugged at the stays of her dress and he shoved her jeweled bodice down to her waist. Leaning her back in his arms, he stared. “My God, you are gorgeous in the moonlight.” His mouth lowered to her breasts, teasing and sucking each nipple.

  Her heart pounded against him as fast as his own. She gasped, raking her fingers through his hair. She arched into him and pressed against him harder.

  Then she froze and her back stiffened. “Oh God. What am I doing?” A confused sob escaped her.

  Abruptly, he stopped and peered at her through the shadows. “Darling, are you alright? If you wish it, I’ll stop.” He didn’t recognize his own ragged voice because he was sure he was lying.

  She stared at him and exhaled. Her trembling hands clutched his arms. “No. No. Don’t stop. This is amazing; you are amazing. Never before have I felt this incredible…I trust you.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Too late. I already do.”

  With that, he groaned. His hands stroked her legs and reached farther under her skirts, up between her thighs. He found the opening in her undergarment, and stroked her damp folds.

  She jolted at his touch.

  “Shhh, love. Relax. Allow me to pleasure you.” His lips pressed against her forehead. Then he gently kissed each eyelid.

  Instinctively, she raised her hips, silently demanding.

  His finger sank inside her. Then another, stroking into her again and again while his thumb caressed her feminine nub.

  He thought he would go mad with need. Never in his lecherous life had a woman sent him this close to the edge of insanity. He had only to open his trousers to take her, slip his cock inside of her. He was so hard and she was so wet and ready.

  But she was an innocent. That fact was a now a certainty.

  He couldn’t do it. Not this way. Not with her.

  When he did take her, he wanted her to look him in the face, unmasked, with no darkness, no secrets. He would leave no doubt that she belonged to him alone.

  Her body erupted, trembling in his arms. She screamed in wonder at her release, and he muffled her screams with his mouth. Still enveloped under his cloak, she wrapped her legs around him. Her body shifted closer, pushing down against his swollen member in his trousers, rubbing against him.

  He was in heaven and he was utterly in hell.

  He wanted her. He wanted her badly. He wanted her forever.

  Who the hell was she?

  They were testing their luck at not being discovered. He tore his mouth away from hers and forced himself to tug her bodice back up. Then he guided her arms back through the delicate sleeves while he recovered his wits. His heart hammered against his ribs and his hands shook. Gently, he lifted her to stand, smoothing her petticoats and skirt back down over each long silky leg.

  In a wobbly effort to stand, she turned so he could refasten her stays. She rearranged her gown and slid her gloves back on. Then she placed her mask back over her eyes and did the same with his. “How’s my hair?” she asked, patting her wig.

  “I’ll let you know more when we get under the torches.” He smiled, warmed by such a simple female question. He handed back her pistol, halfway expecting her to shoot him. Thoroughly mesmerized, he watched her pull up her petticoats to replace it back in the ornate holster just below her knee.

  He knew he should let her to walk away. He knew he should forget he ever met her. “I need to see you again—very soon,” he said, attempting to regain his composure “We have much to discuss.” He blew out a slow breath, thinking how much he needed an ice-cold bath.

  “Yes. Tomorrow, remember? You said you would help me search for him.”

  “Where shall I call upon you?”

  “At Madame Marche’s boarding house on Rue de Vienne in Champs Elysees. Do you know where it is?” Her voice held a hint of fear that he would abandon her.

  “I’ll find it,” he answered with certainty, attempting to reassure her. He pulled her close and kissed her brow. “By the bye, what is his name, this man you are searching for?”

  She paused as if weighing his trust one final time. Leaning forward, she whispered, “He goes by the Black Swan.”

  His gut twisted as if he was punched. “Bloody sodding hell.”

  Gunshots blasts suddenly thundered in the air, followed by shrill shouting and screaming.

  “Keep next to me,” he said, guiding her on the stone pathway back towards the chateau.

  A plainly dressed man in his early twenties strode quickly towards them.

  “Sir,” he said in French, “there is trouble. You are needed.”

  Taking her hand, he gave it a squeeze and lifted it to his lips. “Go with him. You’ll be safe.”

  Turning to the young man, he said, “Please escort Mademoiselle Demerre to her lodgings. Do not allow her out of your sight until she is safely inside.”

  Alexandra glanced around the grounds. “But I came with an escort. He will be worried.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with Monsieur Jonteau. I shall inform him.” His jaw clenched.

  Francois Jonteau would never have her.

  Chapter 14

  Before she had time to think, Alexandra was whisked away to a coach waiting a block away. She still reeled from his touch. Yet she was stunned to hear him address her as Mademoiselle Demerre. Had he heard her name when she was announced upon her arrival? Or had he come to the masque looking for her, already knowing her name? And how did he know about Francois?

  Despite the bizarre circumstances of the evening, she truly did trust him. She hoped she wasn’t being a blithering idiot simply because he was extremely good with his hands. Still, she couldn’t help but feel optimistic and a bit relieved. After all, he had promised to help search for Edward.

  And then she realized he never told her his name.

  A young man with carrot-colored hair was sitting across from her in the coach. He smiled uncertainly. Removing her mask, she smiled back.

  A strange look came over his face as he saw her. “So yer an English…and an acquaintance of the captain’s?” His voice lilted with a light brogue as he spoke in English.

  “Aye.” She answered, sitting straighter, trying not to seem like a charlatan. But a wave of relief hit her; this man was Scottish—not French. “And you?”

  His face broke into a boyish smile. “Oh, we go way back. Went to school together.”

  She stared at him. “Really. You seem younger than him.”

  “People tell me I look younger than my true age. The captain was an upperclassman and I was a year behind. But we were friends. Actually, all the mates liked him.”

  Could she have possibly stumbled upon a military detachment that was–British? Dared she hope they might know Edward? She smiled softly, careful not to reveal her nervous excitement, knowing she needed to tread cautiously, especially if her suspicions were wrong. “…Which school did you and your captain attend?” she asked, quite certain her voice had croaked.

  “Pardon me, miss?” He looked at her curiously, furrowing his brows. “Oh, yes. Oxford. Went to Oxford together.”

  Oxford? Had she truly heard correctly? She was scared to breathe, scared to hope. She clenched her hands to keep them from trembling. “A very good friend of mine went to Oxford. Perhaps you met him.”

  The young officer pursed his lips together. “I don’t mean to be untoward, miss. But with the war and all, ‘tis best we don’t speak of other people. Who we know over here can be used against us.”

  Her heart sank. “Yes, of course, I’m sure you are quite right.”

  He looked at her and a sad crooked sm
ile crossed his face. “I’m sorry. Just following orders. We’ve had so many leaks and so much tragedy. Captain Devon says we can’t be too careful, you see.”

  Captain Devon? Alexandra’s breath seized in her lungs. Her heart froze. Oh, God! Could it be Edward? Finally she drew in a slow breath and collected her tangled wits. She tried to modulate her voice to hide her hysteria. “Is Captain Devon how you always address him, given you have known each other for so long?”

  The officer leaned back in his seat. “Mostly I call him Capt’n. ‘Tis easier. But sometimes I call him Eddie just to get his goat.” He chuckled. “Only when it’s the two of us, you know.” He winked.

  Alexandra feared she would swoon. She swallowed and forced herself to take slow, steady breaths. Her mind raced back to him in the garden. He was taller. Broader. His voice was deeper. But she should have recognized him, even with his mask. Shaking her head, she recalled his taunt, “Has the puss stole your tongue?”

  It was him, it really was him!

  What an utter ninnyhammer she was. How could she not have guessed? Her eyes closed to hold back the tears.

  Oh God, oh God. Edward was—her lover. This is just bloody capital, as Ashford would say. Bloody hell, what would Uncle Ash say?

  “Miss? Are you feeling unwell?” the soldier asked.

  She opened her eyes. His face was filled with polite concern. She gave him a stilted nod. “I’m quite well, thank you. It’s just been a very long night.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Aye. That it has been. It has indeed.”

  “You speak with a brogue. Where are you from?”

  “Glasgow, in Scotland. But my mum’s an English, from Kent. It’s none of my business, but what’s a bonnie English lass like yerself doing over here in the middle of France right now?”

  She pursed her lips and then decided to trust him. “I came over to search for a dear friend. He went missing. I simply couldn’t remain home and do nothing.”

  His brows rose. “Ye came alone? Did ye find ‘im?”