Andrea Pickens - Merlin's Maidens 03 - The Scarlet Spy

by The Scarlet Spy (mobi)

  Before he could make a move, Sofia suddenly spun forward in a blur of whirling limbs and flaring skirts. One elbow caught the nearest man flush on the throat. He staggered back with a gurgling gasp, only to have a stiff-armed jab send him careening into the brick wall. Dazed, he slid down to his knees, blood spurting from his broken nose.

  “Poxy slut!” The other man flung himself at her, but his snarl segued into a howl of pain. A flick of her wrist, a twist of her hip, and he was jerked off his feet and thrown head over heels to the ground.

  Osborne scrambled to his feet, just in time to parry the attack from the fourth footpad. Steel clashed against steel as their knives crossed. He countered with a swift slice that nearly struck home. But then a fist clipped his cheek, and the man scrambled back, circling warily to his right.

  Osborne edged along with him, eyes intent on the razored blade.

  “Osborne!” Sofia called a warning.

  He looked around to see that the leader had recovered his footing and was pulling a pistol from his coat.

  At the same time, Sofia snatched up the fallen cudgel and lashed out at the man’s head. He managed to dodge the blow, but the stumble threw off his aim. The bullet exploded against the bricks high overhead, sending down a harmless shower of shards.

  “Shoot the bloody she-devil,” he bellowed.

  Osborne had already flattened Broken Nose with a right cross to the jaw. As for the others …

  Whipping around, he saw that Sofia had followed up her first slash with a lightning flurry of sword strokes. Giroste, cavazione, contrapostura. His jaw dropped slightly. By God, the lady wielded her weapon like a Death’s Head hussar. Had the stick been a saber, the men would have been chopped into mincemeat. As it was, their upraised arms were likely purpling with bruises as they were forced to retreat in the face of her onslaught.

  A light suddenly lit in one of the town houses across the street. Then another.

  “The Charleys will soon be here,” snarled the leader. “Let’s be off.” Grabbing the collar of their fallen comrade, the two others hauled him to his feet. Hurling a last volley of curses, they fled back into the night.

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones,” muttered Osborne. He flexed his aching fist, then turned to Sofia. Both of them were breathless and bleeding from a number of small cuts. “Are you injured, Contessa?”

  Sofia shook her head and dropped the cudgel. “What about you?” Stepping to his side, she reached up and touched a fingertip to the corner of his mouth.

  “Nothing to speak of.” Looking down, he saw her gown was ripped in several places. “You are sure you are not hurt? In the heat of battle, injuries often go unnoticed …” As he smoothed at the silk, a ruffle slipped, baring her left breast.

  Osborne stared at the tiny tattoo of a hawk in flight, not quite believing his eyes. Its jet-black wings stirred a sudden recollection of strange rumors that had floated through General Burrand’s headquarters a year ago. Rumors that, at the time, he had dismissed as preposterous flights of fancy.

  Feeling a bit dizzy, he lifted his gaze to Sofia’s face.

  Her lashes fluttered, blurring her expression.

  “That mark,” he whispered. “I have heard stories about—”

  Swearing softly, Sofia hurriedly fixed her bodice. “Before you fly to any conclusions, we must talk, sir.” She darted a look around. “But not now. We must be gone from here, and quickly, to avoid being caught up in any scandal.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow at—”

  “No, it must be tonight,” he countered, determined that this time she would not evade him so easily. “I’ll slip into your garden through the back gate. Leave your conservatory door unlocked.”

  The distant shout of a night watchman drew a reluctant nod from her. “Very well.”

  Not daring to linger any longer, Osborne cut through the mews and led the way out into the adjoining side street, where he quickly flagged down a hackney to take her home.

  “Until later,” he murmured.

  “Give me an hour to dismiss my servants for the night,” she replied. “Then we shall have a … council of war.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sofia paced along the perimeter of the leaded glass walls, her soft slippers noiseless upon the slate tiles. Her thoughts, however, were a babel of curses and consternation.

  Bloody hell. Deverill Osborne was coming way too close for comfort. But the question was, what she was going to do about it?

  During the ride back to her town house, she had reviewed her options, none of which offered an easy way out.

  She stared at the fogged panes, the blur reflecting her own misgivings. Osborne was not only courageous, but also clever. He would not be fobbed off with farrididdles.

  Heaving a sigh, she pressed a hand to her breast. How much did he really know about the Merlins? And how much was just wild rumor or speculation that he had overheard?

  The latch clicked and a sudden swirl of night air stirred the moist warmth of the conservatory. Sofia turned to see Osborne slip in and shake the rain from his caped overcoat.

  “I wondered whether you would keep your word.” He stomped the water from his boots. “At least it is a step in the right direction. But we still have a long way to go, Contessa.”

  “You don’t trust me?” she asked.

  “Should I?”

  Rather than answer, Sofia moved closer and feathered a hand against his cheek. His skin was still chilled from the night air, but the throbbing pulse at the base of his jaw sent a tingle of heat through her fingertips. Fire and ice. Both could be dangerous.

  “You are hurt,” she whispered, the scrapes rough against her palm. “There’s a cut on your chin.”

  “It’s naught but a scratch.” Osborne touched the corner of her mouth. “There’s blood on your lip.”

  “It’s naught but a drop.”

  “This time, yes. But what of the next?” His thumb gently traced the curve of her lip. “Sofia, enough of secrets and lies. Why are you taking such terrible risks? Explain this devilish mystery that surrounds you, and what—”

  She stopped his halting questions with a long and lush kiss.

  Her Academy training had taught that sex was the most powerful weapon she could wield against a man. An act of desperation? Perhaps. But duty demanded she use every means at her disposal to avoid discovery. Deception, distraction. She told herself that she had no choice but to use her body to seduce him from asking further questions.

  Easing the coat from his shoulders, Sofia let it fall away. Osborne started to pull back, but she tugged open the fastenings of his shirt and slipped her hand beneath the sweat-dampened fabric. “You are also cut here, cara.” The chiseled contours of his chest were solid, sculpted planes of whipcord muscle. The finespun curls of hair, glimmering gold in the starlight, tickled against her palm. “And here.”

  He stood still as a statue as she continued to explore his body. In stark contrast to his fair skin, his flat nipples were intriguingly dark and textured. They pebbled beneath her stroking.

  A groan—or was it a growl—slipped from his lips.

  Emboldened, Sofia leaned in and flicked her tongue over one taut nubbin and then the other. He tasted of salt and some mysterious male essence. The effect was … intoxicating.

  “God help me.” His voice was hardly more than a stirring of air. In contrast, the stiffening of his arousal was hard against her thigh.

  She licked again at his ruddy flesh.

  “Did you save me from the footpads just to slay me with your own hand?” he rasped.

  “There is a question as to who saved whom.” Sofia teased a trail of nipping kisses to the base of his throat. “I haven’t yet properly thanked you for risking your neck.”

  “It is not my neck that is in danger; it’s my sanity.” His eyes fell half-closed, but through the fringe of lashes, she caught a glimmer of naked desire. “Keep going—you are becoming more eloquent by the moment.”


  Duty. Did that explain the tingling heat in her hands as she pulled the torn linen up over his head?

  The shirt slithered down to join the coat on the slate floor, leaving him bare to the waist.

  Osborne leaned down and drew aside the tattered remnants of her bodice. He kissed the hollow of her throat. Then his lips strayed lower, covering the tiny tattoo. A moment later, he was suckling her left nipple.

  Heat flared deep within her. Breathing in, she felt herself enveloped in the musky, masculine scent of bay rum, brandy, and an earthier note that was all his own.

  “Osborne.”

  In answer, his mouth moved to her other breast, lapping liquid kisses over her taut, tingling tip. The warm weight of him against her belly teased an aching need inside her.

  Sofia moaned, hardly recognizing the husky pitch of her voice.

  It seemed inevitable that she would give up her virginity somewhere along in this mission. Suddenly she wanted her first experience at lovemaking to be with Osborne, rather than any other man.

  He had risked his life for her, showing courage and honor, despite the shabby treatment he received from her. From the first, she had sensed there were hidden depths to his character. Lord Sunshine was far more than a fair-weather friend. He was a man worthy of respect, worthy of—

  No, she could not afford to let herself think in those terms. He was a useful ally, that was all. One who must, at this moment, be distracted from her true mission.

  “Sofia?” The word feathered against her cheek, leaving the rest of the question unspoken.

  In answer, she found the top button of his trousers. His arousal pressed hard against the placket, steel sheathed in soft merino wool. One by one, the fastenings slipped from their slots. Her fingers tugged at his drawers, allowing his erection to spring free.

  What a beautiful man he was, she marveled. Like a classical deity, a pale, perfect form of masculine grace. She traced the flared crest of his manhood before circling his shaft. He was smooth as marble, yet throbbing with life. His breathing hitched up a notch as she stroked its length. From within the crumpled linen flashed a tantalizing gleam of golden curls. She fumbled at the fabric, wanting to see him in all his glory.

  Slowly, silently, they stripped each other naked.

  Kicking open the folds of his fallen coat, Osborne took her in his arms.

  Dizzy with desire, Sofia was hardly aware of him lowering her to the floor. Then her hips lay hard against the unyielding stone, and the press of his body was atop her. She gave a keening cry as his hands ran a little roughly up her thighs and coaxed her legs apart. The intimate awareness of her own feminine heat was overpowering. As was the unyielding fire of his male arousal against her skin. She was too amazed to feel embarrassment.

  Osborne slipped his fingers through her Venus curls, finding the pearl hidden within the folds of flesh. Pleasure pulsed through her with each slow, circling stroke. She felt as if every bone in her body were melting into a pool of warm honey.

  The sensations were so strange, so seductive. So wildly, wildly wonderful.

  Sex was, of course, a part of the Academy curriculum. The Spanish courtesan had matter-of-factly described primal passion and how it could be used as a potent weapon. But words did not begin to describe the raw sensuality of flesh against flesh. Of limbs entwined, hands caressing, tongues tasting the smoky sweetness of intimate kisses.

  Suckling her lower lip between his teeth, Osborne bit down as he quickened his caresses between her thighs. Sofia cried out against his mouth. A searing, spiraling fire was taking control of her body. The heat was almost unbearable.

  “Deverill,” she pleaded, uncertain just what it was she wanted.

  He seemed to have no doubts.

  “Lift your hips, sweeting.” Osborne slid his strong, capable hands beneath her. “Tesoro, you are a vision of beauty,” he groaned as the head of his cock grazed her feminine flesh. “Lethal, lethal beauty.”

  Sofia meant to reply, but the words seemed to die in her throat. Coherent speech yielded to a whispery sigh as he pressed closer and positioned himself at the entrance to her passage. He moved with a fluid grace, gentle, yet urgent. Demanding.

  “Open yourself to me.” His voice was rough with need as he pushed her legs apart.

  The throb of him was hot and heavy as he rocked himself against her wet flesh. So good, so right. She shifted in response, an instinctive arch that drove him deep inside her.

  A soft yelp slipped from her lips.

  The sound was echoed by his fuzzed oath. She felt his whole body tense, his muscles knotting as he braced his arms and wrenched his weight upward.

  “Bloody hell.” As he fell to one side, the soft sheen of light caught the look of shock and surprise on his face. “You—you are a virgin.”

  “Not anymore.” She tried to smile.

  “But how … that is, you were married for several years,” he stammered.

  “My husband was … incapable of consummating our marriage.” That was not a total lie, she told herself. She did not like deceiving Osborne any more than was necessary.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded angry.

  “I don’t know,” answered Sofia. “It didn’t seem … important.”

  “Important?” he repeated. “My honor—and yours—is not something I take lightly, Sofia.” The fringed shadows of the potted palms did not soften the rigid line of his jaw. “I am not in the habit of deflowering innocents.”

  It was not only anger she heard, but regret. She felt her insides clench. Deverill Osborne’s dismay was sincere—she saw the fine lines of self-loathing etched around his eyes and in the pinch of his mouth. She liked him even more for his vulnerability to pain, to recrimination.

  “I am sorry. Forgive me for being selfish.” Clasping his hand, she pressed it to her cheek. “But I—I wanted it to be you.”

  “And I—I am vain enough and weak enough to take you at your word.” His fingers slid up and twined in her tangled hair. “Though at heart, I suspect that your sweet whispers are naught but another bewitching brew of half-truths and lies.”

  Rain pattered against the glass, and the rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo the warning thud of her racing heart. Dangerous. A physical coupling with this man would be more than a fleeting joining of flesh. Did she dare let him that close?

  There was still time to pull back.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the curve of his cheek, the fringe of his flame-gold lashes. The sliver of space between them crackled with sparks. Then Sofia leaned across the divide. Up close, his stubbling of whiskers looked like a thousand points of fire.

  “I have been less than honest with you about some things, Deverill. But not about this. I swear it.”

  “Damn me for a fool, but I’ll believe you,” he rasped. His skin was rough yet warm to the touch as he slanted a kiss over her upturned lips. “At least for the moment.”

  As he touched her breast, she caressed the ridges of his ribs, reveling in the masculine lines of his body, the flat belly, the jutting hip bones, the finespun curls, lustrous as burnished bronze in the lamplight …

  He groaned as her hand touched his cock, and came instantly erect.

  “Make love to me, Deverill,” whispered Sofia. “Here. Now.”

  Love. Osborne had no illusions that her plea was based on any emotional need. Why she was offering herself to him was a mystery. But not one he was going to puzzle out anytime soon. His rational mind wasn’t working too clearly at the moment. As for other parts of his anatomy …

  The air leached from his lungs as she feathered a delicate stroke along the length of his shaft. She was an intriguing mix of innocence and experience. There was nothing virginal about her caresses. Nothing innocent about her kisses. No maidenly blushes, no tremulous tears—it was almost as if she had been schooled in the art of pleasuring a man.

  What an addlepated notion, of course. She was a wellborn lady. Or was she? The tattoo seemed to say other
wise. Its winged shape, stark black against the creamy coloring of her flesh, was a vivid reminder of how little he knew about her, save for a name. And even that was suspect.

  The Contessa of Conundrums.

  She was a puzzle, a provocation. A penance for his past sins? If she wasn’t a real lady, the alternative was even more shocking. The more he tried to make sense of it, the more he felt lost. All he knew was that he wanted her passionately, no matter who or what she was.

  “Deverill?” Her smile was sweetly tentative. Seductive. “Am I doing this right?”

  He gave a hoarse laugh. “You are an expert in swordplay, sweeting. Indeed, you handle a blade with consummate skill.”

  She looked away quickly, the silky strands of her hair falling to obscure her expression. “Please, let us not talk about what happened earlier.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I’ve no intention of engaging in a verbal duel with you, Sofia. Your thrusts and parries have kept me at arm’s length for too long. Tonight let us declare a truce of sorts.”

  “Lay aside our weapons?”

  Osborne pulled her closer, skimming the flat of his palms along her legs. “Oh, yes. I shall sheath my sword,” he murmured.

  Her cheeks turned a beguiling shade of pink. “I fear there are certain maneuvers in which I may prove clumsy. As you discovered, I have no experience in lovemaking.”

  “You appear to be a quick study, sweeting.” Rolling onto his back, he pulled her atop him. “Riding astride allows you to start out slowly and set your own pace.” Osborne eased her legs apart until she was straddling his hips. Her thighs were warm and wet, the scent of her essence swirling up to meld with the humid perfume of the potted flowers. The effect was earthy, erotic.

  “Relax, I won’t let you fall, Sofia.” His fingers found her warmth and stroked gently through her feminine folds. He watched as her eyes widened and turned a luminous, liquid green.

  “Hold me, Deverill.”

  “Yes, sweeting,” he whispered as she pressed up against his cupped hand. He slipped a finger into her honeyed passage, groaning again as she clenched around him. It was all he could do to rein in his desire. Slowly, slowly, he told himself. Whatever else happened between them, he wanted this moment, this memory to be right.