He raised her up some, kissing along her neck to confuse her, to quiet that busy mind of hers. She bent her head to watch him while he touched her, watched her nipples squeeze up into hard little buttons between his finger and thumb. She’d already started breathing fast. She was responsive as hell. Good. With a woman like Annique, he needed all the advantage he could get.
He kissed the top of her head. “Seventy thousand’s a lot. Maybe I can convince you to settle for a few less. How about a hundred? Or a dozen?” He lured her chin upward, drawing her jawline. “Or one?”
When she lifted her eyes, they were deep blue and vulnerable as spring flowers. “One?”
“Me.”
“Oh.” She breathed onto his shoulder. “Well.” He could feel each separate breath. Neither of them moved. Slowly she let her forehead lower till it rested against him. Her tongue—a soft, warm touch—tasted him. Tasted his skin.
He knew for sure, then. This hit her as hard as it hit him. They were both lost. No way back for them.
His hand shook with the effort of keeping control. Slow. He had to go slow. He didn’t trust himself to touch her anywhere but her hair. Her neck. The shell of her ear. Let’s not roll her over and dive in like a sailor on shore leave, Robert. She’s new at this, and more ignorant than she wants you to know.
He took her face in light, outstretched fingers. Finger to flesh, tied together by the current between them, he drew her up and up until she was kneeling on the bed. And he was kneeling. Hunger and magic danced in the air. He set his lips to her lips. He’d never had a chance to enjoy her slowly, to savor her when there was nothing ahead but a night of lovemaking. Now, he did.
Her mouth was soft and hot. Hungry. The gateway to a universe of desire. She shuddered as he licked and bit and demanded.
He broke away and whispered, “Who are you thinking about, Annique? Those seventy thousand men? Or maybe a Gypsy boy?”
Dear God, but she was ready for him. He knew it by the slick of sweat on her skin, by the quivering of those sleek, beautiful muscles, even by her smell. Her whole body was his for the asking. Nothing held back. Nothing forbidden.
“I am not thinking of any Gypsy boy, my Grey.” Her voice was husky. “I am thinking of no one but you.”
She put her arms around him and drew him down beside her on the coverlet. She whispered, soft in his ear, wickedly, “And Robert, of course.”
Thirty
ONE FEELS FOOLISHLY JOYFUL THE MORNING after taking a lover—tired but exhilarated, as if one had danced all night and successfully stolen a Prussian dispatch or two.
She considered herself in the mirror of Grey’s bedroom. She looked smug, she thought. “Maman did not tell me not to let men buy me dresses, as other mothers advise their daughters. She told me not to let men pick them out.”
“A wise woman.” Grey had told her to wear the lavender walking dress for the activities of this morning. The color made her look fragile. The excellent plainness of the design was, on her, entirely jeune fille.
More puzzling was the knife he handed her. She tossed it from hand to hand a few times, then slipped it into its place in the sheath he himself strapped onto her wrist. He acted as if it were altogether normal to make love to a captive spy at dawn and then arm her in this deadly fashion. She could not imagine why he did this.
“This is Adrian’s,” she said, because the knife was flat and matte brown and balanced precisely as Adrian’s other knife had been.
“He says to take better care of it.” He rummaged in the armoire. “Wear this, I think.” It was a straw bonnet with lavender ribbons, which meant she was going outside. Truly, this was an altogether odd first morning of captivity.
She pondered this as they left the room and headed for the top of the stairs. Voices came from below. Soon enough she could look over the banister and see Galba in the hall on the ground floor, being courteous to a skinny old man, very fashionably dressed.
“…my nephew, Giles,” Galba said, which was something she had not known about Giles. “He’s assisting us till Devlin recovers. Giles, this is Lord Cummings.”
“New doorkeeper, eh? That’s keeping it in the family.” The visitor spoke in the high-pitched whinny of an English aristo. “I’m sure you do a fine job holding off the villains, young Giles. Fine job. I imagine in a week or two you’ll be back to Eton, telling them all about your adventures in London.”
“Harrow, sir,” Giles said.
“Umm. Yes. Best years of your life. Cricket and…so on.” He tucked his cane under his arm. “See here, Anson, we must talk.”
Galba walked around him and continued toward the parlor. “You’re here on a Sunday, Cummings. It must be a matter of urgency.”
The aristo trotted in his wake. “What’s this nonsense Reams brought me? You’re refusing to hand over a French agent?”
She was engulfed in a mad instant of fear. She was to be given to Reams. That was why she had been dressed to go out. Aristos still ruled here in England, and they had immense power.
Then Grey poked her in the back, which told her she was to continue walking and for some reason dissolved the foolish panic altogether. Grey would not give her up. Not for a thousand English aristos.
Galba said, “Essentially, that is correct.”
“Nonsense. Oh, I know what happened, of course.” The aristo gave a fruity, aristo chuckle. “Reams barged in and made an ass of himself. Offensive to everyone in sight. Not quite a gentleman, the colonel. But useful. Useful. We have to tolerate men like him in wartime.”
Galba said, “I will tolerate Reams. What I will not tolerate is his interference in Service affairs.”
The popinjay’s noisy suit swished with each step. “Quite right. Quite right. Here your men snabble themselves up a bit of French crumpet. Reams goes blundering in, ruffling feathers, demanding a taste. Nuisance of a man. Now you and I have to smooth the whole fracas over. Tell you what. I’ll bundle our bit of French fluff off where she won’t be fought over. I brought a couple marines with me, don’t y’know. I’ll drop our game pullet off on my way home, and we’ll call that the end of it.”
Grey continued down the stairs and along the hall, pushing her ahead of him with the greatest sangfroid.
In the parlor, Galba stood in front of the mirror over the heavy and hideous sideboard and put on his gloves. “Miss Villiers remains with us.”
“Devil take it, man. This isn’t one of your political games. This is a military matter.”
“And I say it is not. Will you dispute prerogatives with me, on behalf of Colonel Reams?”
“Are you claiming jurisdiction over a piece of French tail your Head of Section has a fancy for?” The aristo stabbed his walking stick into the rug. He looked, every minute, less the peevish fool. They played a game of power, these men. “When this gets out, your Service is going to look—”
“Is this going to get out? We had hoped for an end to the leaks in your office.”
Grey chose this moment to push her forward.
“Ah, Robert. In good time.” Galba reached out. She had no choice but to let him bring her forward and place her firmly under the nose of this aristo and into the midst of their game. “Annique, allow me to present Lord Cummings to you.”
“Your niece? A charming child. Charming. Anson, we should continue this in your office.” The Lord Cummings was not interested in her, except to be polite a moment because she was pretty.
“But no.” She gazed upward through her eyelashes and curtsied like a schoolgirl. “I am Anne Villiers, my Lord.”
“Villiers. Villiers? This is…?” The aristo’s face hardened. Oh, most excellent. He had been made to appear ridiculous by the Colonel Reams. “Reams said she was a…Reams said she was…older.”
“Reams was mistaken,” Galba said, very dry. “I hope you slept well, mademoiselle.”