Midnight Mistress

by Ruth Owen

  His low chuckle rumbled through her like thunder. “Trust me, Princess. Wonderful is just beginning.”

  He moved inside her, slowly at first, but building in speed with each powerful stroke. He drove into her, sending sheets of white-hot energy crashing through her with the force of a tidal wave. Her world became a red haze. Her body accepted him again and again, caressing him intimately, firing his passion by drawing him deeper with every thrust. Tenderness was discarded. Gentleness was a memory. She arched wildly beneath him, destroyed and remade with every thrust. The only thing keeping her from breaking apart was the burning intensity of Connor’s ice-and-fire eyes.

  They moved together, two bodies and one heart, forged together in their love. She clung to his sweat-sleek body, knowing that this was what she was made for, what they’d been made for. He pushed her to the edge of madness, driving her into the oblivion where nothing existed but her love for him. Then, after he’d watched her fulfillment blaze and die in her eyes, he shattered her again with the power of his own release.

  “You are damn lucky,” Connor growled as he toyed with a strand of her wildly disheveled hair. “If I’d had any idea what that body of yours could do, I’d have had you locked away in a convent school, with nuns, and high walls, and large dogs.”

  Juliana sighed and snuggled against his chest. “Yes, and you’d have had as much luck at that as you did ordering me not to climb the volcano on that South Sea island. You were always such a bully. But I might have gone to the convent, if”—she peeped up as him, her voice laced with wicked mischief as she added—“if you had kept a key.”

  He threw back his head and gave a lusty laugh. God’s teeth, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this content. Cradling Juliana against him, tenderly stroking her hair and laughing with her, pleasured him almost as much as taking her. Almost, he thought, closing his eyes as he savored the memory of being inside her. In his vagabond life he’d known dozens of women in countless ports, and had foolishly believed that he was experienced in love. But nothing had prepared him for what he’d found in her arms.

  What had previously been a simple act of physical release became an act of worship and discovery. For the first time in his life he had made love instead of just having sex, the difference as vast as the ocean to a drop of rain. She’d been heaven in his arms, paradise to his soul, so giving, so sweet, so pure … and, if her hand on a strategic part of his anatomy was any indication, she was also one hell of a fast learner.

  Gathering his wits, he reluctantly pushed her away. “Be still. We have already done it twice.”

  Silvered moonlight slanted through the window, illuminating her expression of disappointment. “So two is the usual number?”

  Usual? Nothing was usual when it come to Juliana. If he’d allowed her clever fingers to work their magic a moment longer she’d have discovered that his body was more than willing to make her his a third time. But he was still captain of their course, and right now he needed to think with his mind, not his body. “Juliana, I want to make love to you the way I want my next breath, but I can’t because—” He gritted his teeth, wishing like the devil that he didn’t have to say the words. But someone had to say them, and he was still her pledged protector. “We cannot make love again because it is very nearly dawn, and I have to … well, the particulars do not matter. What does matter is that in a few days I will have to leave you.”

  The killing truth cut deep into his soul. However, it did not seem to bother Juliana one bit. Instead of dissolving into tears, she tilted her head and laid a finger alongside her cheek. Connor knew the look, and it filled him with almost as much dread as the coming morning. Christ, she’s plotting again.

  “Yes, I have been pondering this situation,” she said thoughtfully. “You stole the dispatches because you wanted money. Well, I have a way for you to gain a fortune and not break a single law in the process.” She lifted her chin, obviously vastly pleased with herself as she pronounced, “I am going with you.”

  “The hell you are.”

  “Don’t take that patronizing tone with me, Connor. I have made up my mind. I am going with you because I belong by your side. We shall be married at once.”

  Connor gaped at her, her words catapulting him into heaven and hell at once. “That is … impossible.”

  “Of course it isn’t. I love you. You love me. And when I marry, my entire fortune, including the Marquis Line, becomes the property of my husband. ’Tis not a law I’ve previously favored, but now I see a use for it. By marrying me you would gain more money than you could ever make as a privateer. So it makes perfect sense that we should be wed at the earliest opportunity.” Once again she laid a thoughtful finger to her cheek. “Hmm, I suspect there is a priest somewhere nearby. Or perhaps a local magistrate of some sort. And I could borrow a wedding dress from one of the village women. One should really be married in a proper dress, don’t you think—of course, I should have to come up with some sort of a reason to—”

  He gripped her arms. “Juliana, we cannot marry. I am …” He cast his mind about for something to dissuade her. “I am a cowardly, dishonorable traitor.”

  He might as well have told her that he’d stained his shirt for all the effect it had on her. “You will have to do better than that. You would not have given me the dispatches if you were a traitor. You would not have saved Raoul and the rest of the men on his uncle’s ship from the French if you were cowardly. And you would not have given up your naval career for your sister if you were not honorable—”

  “Peace,” he cried. He bolted out of bed and paced the floor in consternation. “We cannot marry. I will not dishonor you in such a fashion.”

  She stretched on the moon-bright sheets like a contented cat. “Tonight you’ve dishonored me in a number of fashions. I rather like it.”

  He closed his eyes against the vision of her enticing body displayed in wanton glory in the moonlight. God’s teeth, she could make a saint hard, and he was no saint. “I cannot many you. I am not free.”

  She went still. “You are married?”

  He was a consummate liar, but even he could not manage-that one. “No.”

  She let out an audible sigh. “Well, that is fortunate,” she replied as she scooted off the bed and padded to his side. “If you were married, I would have had to become your mistress. And while I do not personally mind the notion of a carte blanche, I fear Meg and Mrs. Jolly would be quite scandalized, and the poor commodore might be forced to call you out.”

  “Sweet heaven, will you be serious?”

  “Believe me, I am perfectly serious. I am no blushing schoolgirl, or starry-eyed debutante. I know you are mixed up in some sort of intrigue, but I also know that you would never do anything to betray me or our country. You are not capable of such a thing.”

  He turned to the window and muttered, “Trust me, Princess. You have no idea of what I am capable of.”

  She smoothed a shock of hair from his forehead. “Darling, I cannot pretend to know what you have been through during the past few years, but I know the hell that I went through when you left. There is no life for me without you. If you face danger, I mean to face it with you. If you go, I go with you. For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, till death us do—”

  He stopped her words with a kiss so passionate that it left them both trembling. He wrapped her in his arms and buried his face in her hair, drinking in her intoxicating scent as he groaned, “Beloved, I can’t damn you to my life. Tell me something, anything, that I can say to make you leave me.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “Tell me you are a liar.”

  He scared a cherishing kiss against her temple. “I am a liar.”

  “Tell me you do not desire me.”

  He cupped his hands around her backside and pressed her belly against his fully aroused manhood. “I don’t desire you.”

  She sank her fingers in his hair and brought his mouth close to hers as she whispered, “Tell me
you have never loved me.”

  “I never … God forgive me, I love you more than life.” With a feral ground he devoured her in a firestorm that burned them both alive. Tongues and teeth feasted together in a desperate lavish banquet that echoed the hunger in their souls, the yearning of one heart for its mate. He started to move toward the bed, but they didn’t reach it. Instead, they fell to the braided rug with Juliana straddling his body.

  He stroked into her and she arched back, reaching her own fulfillment in a few powerful thrusts. He watched as the glory broke her in pieces, knowing that he alone could give her this wonder, this loving madness that was theirs alone. He delved his finger into their joining, coaxing her into a new fulfillment before he sated his own need in her welcoming body. And when the storm was over and he cradled her against him with cherishing tenderness, he brushed a soft kiss against her brow and murmured, “I love you. Whatever happens, believe that I love you.”

  Someone was knocking on the door. Juliana raised her head from the pillow, blinking against the unexpectedly bright light pouring in the bedroom window. The last thing she recalled was Connor carrying her to the bed just as dawn was breaking. From the sun’s height now it must be nearly mid-morning. Still groggy, she turned over. “Darling, we’ve overslep—”

  The bed was empty.

  The knocking started again, and she heard Senhora de Varzim’s voice from the other side. She could not make out what the lady was saying, but the agitation in her voice, and the fact that Connor was missing, propelled her out of bed. She grabbed the first thing at hand—the senhora’s oversized dress—and struggled it over her head as she went to the door. “I’m awake, senhora. What is the matter? And where is Con—?”

  Senhora de Varzim covered the girl’s mouth with her hand. “Con-air,” she warned, shaking her head firmly. “No Con-air.” And with that she took the girl’s hand and drew her along the narrow hallway.

  “Yes, I can see that. But where is he? Are you taking me to him? Oh blast, I wish you could understand—”

  She stopped as they came out into the sunshine of the senhora’s courtyard. Decorated in the brightly glazed azulejos tiles of the country and blooming with a hundred spring blossoms, the place was like a little piece of paradise. But Juliana felt as if she’d entered Hades the moment she stepped into it. Next to the corner shrine to São Goncalo stood two English soldiers bearing muskets. And between the redcoats stood a man she recognized instantly. She had not seen him in years, but there was no mistaking the finely styled dark hair and well-cut clothes or the classic lines of a face that had grown even more handsome over the years. He swept off his hat with an elegance that Connor could never hope to match. “Hello, Cousin.”

  “Grenville? What are you doing here?”

  He started to speak, then glanced at the glaring senhora. “ ’Tis a long tale, my dear, and one best not told with prying ears, even ones that understand so little of our language. We had best leave this peasant to her own devices.”

  “This peasant was uncommonly kind to me,” Juliana replied tartly. “To me, and to—” She bit her tongue. “In any case, ’tis fortunate you arrived. I … fell overboard. In a battle. I was washed up on shore, and—”

  The new marquis of Albany smiled grimly. “You needn’t lie, cousin. We know what has been going on here. We probably know more than you do.” He nodded to the soldiers and asked them to step out of the courtyard for a moment. Then he spoke to Senhora de Varzim in her native tongue, apparently asking her to do the same. The woman let go of Juliana’s hand reluctantly, then backed out of the courtyard, mouthing a final silent “No Con-air” as she left.

  “Juliana, would you take a seat?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “No Rollo, I should rather like to stand, I think.”

  Grenville gave a smile. “Well, you’ve got spirit, I will give you that. I expected to find a terrified debutante. Instead, I find a bold woman who believes she knows her own mind.”

  “I do know my own mind,” she fired back. “I had to discover it when my father died, and my only living relative could not even bother to leave his own selfish pursuits to comfort me in my grief.”

  Her cousin had the grace to look sheepish. “I had my reasons.”

  “Fine. Then you will understand my reasons for not being all that pleased to see you.” She walked stiffly past Grenville and glanced surreptitiously out the courtyard entrance at the hills beyond. If Connor knew of the soldiers’ arrival, why had he left her behind?

  “You look for him in vain, Juliana. He is gone.”

  She spun around. “I … do not know who you mean.”

  Grenville’s mouth ticked up in grudging respect. “You’ve spirit, and you are loyal. ’Tis a rare combination in a woman. Unfortunately, your loyalty is sorely misplaced. I told you that we know what has been going on here. You have been staying here in this village for the past few days in the company of one Captain Gabriel.”

  Juliana swallowed, remembering the senhora’s warning. “You are mistaken. True, I have been here several days recovering from wounds, but I have been here alone—”

  “Oh, enough of this.” Grenville snapped his fingers. Immediately one of the redcoats appeared at the courtyard door, holding a small, flailing boy in his arms.

  “Jamie!”

  The soldier released the struggling child and the boy ran into her open arms. “I didn’t tell ’em nothing about the captain. Nothin’, I swear.”

  “I know. It’s all right, sweetheart,” she said, smoothing the trembling boy’s hair. She looked at Grenville, seething with fury. “How dare you? He’s only a defenseless child.”

  “Defenseless? He nearly broke the shins of two of my best men.”

  “That does not give you the right to arrest innocent children!”

  “No,” he agreed smoothly. “But this does.”

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a letter. Unfolding it, he handed it to Juliana. “You will recognize Wellington’s personal seal and signature. However, if you have any remaining doubts, the dozen men under my command would be able to vouchsafe its authenticity.”

  Juliana stared at the commission, stunned by what she read. It stated that Grenville was with the Horse Guards, a network of agents working in secret in the Peninsula under the direct command of the duke of Wellington. It was an important and dangerous position—one that fit her image of her wastrel cousin not at all. “I do not understand. How can you have a commission? You always gave more thought to your cravat than to your country.”

  “Men change, Juliana,” he replied with something that sounded surprisingly like honesty. “Some change for the better, others …” He let his words trail off as he folded the letter and stuffed it back into his coat. Then he waved to one of the soldiers. “The lady and I have matters that are best discussed in private. Take the boy. And see that you have more care with him. He is, as my cousin rightly points out, only a child.”

  Jamie, however, had other ideas. He planted himself squarely between Juliana and her cousin. “I ain’t goin’. Told the captain I’d protect her. Got my orders.”

  Juliana reached out to defend the boy, but halted in astonishment as Grenville hunkered down before the child. “I, too, am following orders. Doing my job, just like you. But you have my assurance that I will not harm Lady Juliana. Here is my hand on it.”

  Jamie eyed him warily, but he accepted the marquis’s hand. Then, with a final encouraging glance at Juliana, he let the soldier take him from the yard.

  “That was kind of you,” Juliana acknowledged.

  “I told you that a man can change, cousin.” He rose to his feet, and faced Juliana squarely. “Unfortunately, others only appear to change their nature. So when I received Mrs. Jolly’s most recent letter, I—”

  “Mrs. Jolly has been writing to you?”

  “Regularly. I asked her to keep me informed of your circumstances while I was away. I had hoped … well, it is no matter what I hoped. The point is t
hat the letter that arrived a week past related that you had hired a new manager, Captain Gabriel, who might have designs on you. A few well-placed inquiries told me that Gabriel was none other than the base-born cur who betrayed your father’s trust. And when I heard that half the fleet was searching for the traitorous dog—”

  Juliana’s hands balled to fists. “Connor is not a traitor. You always were ready to believe the worst of him.”

  “True enough. I always hated him for taking the lion’s share of my uncle’s affection—and an equal portion of yours. But I am not a liar. Connor Reed has been in league with Napoleon for months.”

  “But he was fired on by French ships. They … sank the Pelican. Connor fought bravely to save us. I saw him.”

  “You saw what he wanted you to see. But the truth is that he kidnapped you, seduced you, and then abandoned you in order to fulfill his mission of delivering stolen Admiralty dispatches to Napoleon’s troops.”

  “You know nothing of the truth! He loves me. And as for stolen dispatches—” She patted the oilskin packet hidden in the folds of the senhora’s voluminous skirt. “I have not the first idea of what you are talking about.”

  Grenville shook his head. “You are a poor liar, cousin. I can only guess at the tales the man told to you to win your affection. Did he perchance mention the battle in which he gained his ship?”

  “I heard how French dogs fell upon them under a flag of truce.”

  “There was no truce. And the ships he fired on were English—his own country. I have read the eyewitness report myself. You, my poor, trusting innocent, have been played for a fool by a duplicitous traitor.”

  “ ’Tis not true,” she stated, though her words carried less force than before. Where was Connor? Why was he not here to counter these vile accusations?

  What if Grenville was right?

  “No,” she cried, as much for herself as for him. “I do not believe your accusations. He is a good and honorable man. Whatever he has done, I am sure there is a noble reason for it.”