The Spymaster's Lady Page 7

  “Let’s talk about deceit, shall we?”

  “That is a problem between us, I agree.”

  Feverishly, she grappled with the nightgown, one-handed and clumsy. It was vital she get this on. She got it right side up and pulled it around her and pushed one arm into the sleeve, then the other. Here was the cord. Good. Very good. Fumbling, she tied it.

  He made his way around the table, edging her ahead of him by slow, deliberate footfalls. She was not stupid enough to think she could escape. It was no surprise to feel his hands close on her, gentle and insistent, as if he held a sack of rebellious eggs. He was being careful with her. His hunger for her vibrated between them like discordant music. His touch was perfectly impersonal. She was totally unnerved by this.

  He said, “You’ve decided then. I tie you up. It’s simpler this way.”

  “Undoubtedly.” Her voice was ragged in her ears. “But I would much rather you did not.”

  “At last. You’ve said something I believe.” He backed her toward the bed, step by step. Not roughly. Gradually. A little pressure was all he needed. “Prudent of you to put on the nightgown, even if it’s too late. Were you planning to kill me with that candlestick?”

  “I would not kill you on purpose, but I am clumsy these days and might have misjudged. Is there anything at all I can say to keep you from doing this to me?” She was trembling badly.

  “Nothing I can think of, right off.”

  “What if I promise not to try to escape again, not at all, till we reach England?”

  “No.” He was most chillingly ordinary and calm. “I have extra bandages I don’t need for Adrian. I’ll use those. They’re nice and soft.” How provident of him. Perhaps he took prisoners frequently. How would she know what the British did? “It won’t be too uncomfortable. You may even get some sleep.”

  “I am harmless, really. You should reconsider.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid,” he said. “I don’t hurt women. Not even women like you.”

  More of his incomprehensible insults. As if he did not have his dozens of women agents working for his Service. It was illogical that he should despise her.

  The mattress bumped against her thigh. He twisted the hold upon her shoulder shrewdly, and she lost her balance and fell downward onto the bed. Coverlets flapped and clung as she scrambled away from him through the treacherous softness, to the wall. That was as far as she could flee. Her back pressed to the cold plaster. Silk slicked against her skin. She drew herself together and set her face to her knees. The Fox Cub was cornered at last.

  All her clever roles had deserted her. No one was left to deal with this situation but Annique. And Annique was afraid. Afraid.

  She listened to him cross the room. The leather valise creaked. Small sounds told her he searched within it. Then his steps returned toward her.

  “Grey…monsieur…I will promise not to attack you again. I will swear it by whatever you like.”

  The bed sagged as he sat next to her. “You could offer me a couple French secrets. Maybe the ones you were discussing with Leblanc.”

  “The Albion plans.” She made herself say it lightly. “Leblanc obsesses himself with them lately.”

  “I’m obsessed with them myself. We’re going to talk about the Albion plans for a good long time, you and I.”

  She was cold inside. Cold and sick. “But this is foolish. I am a small player in the Game. I do not make the grand political intrigues. You will be disappointed if you expect important secrets from me.”

  “You won’t disappoint me.” There were many nuances in his voice.

  The bed jiggled as he worked with something in his hands. That would be the linen bandages he spoke of—the ones he would tie her with. He was preparing them. Soon she would be helpless and all chance of escape gone.

  “I do not wish to be tied up,” she whispered.

  “I don’t think you can convince me. You could try, though. Offer me just a small secret, and we’ll see.”

  Not secrets. Something else. She had known, deep in her heart, that it would come to this.

  One last plan. There is always a last plan one has hoped not to use. She gathered the silken nightdress about her and crawled toward him, to his side, till she was close. Till she could almost feel the heat from his body. She made herself kneel on the bed, her knees apart. She had seen prostitutes do this in the whorehouse her mother kept for a time in Paris. Doubtless Monsieur Grey had visited many whore-houses and would recognize what she offered.

  She heard him draw in a deep, uneven breath. The bed dipped as he shifted his weight. His finger closed on her arm, but he only brought her right wrist upward. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” Smoothly, she eased her hand away from him. “It is nothing.”

  “That’s another reason I don’t want to fight you. I’ll end up hurting you again. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “I do not want you to hurt me either. Or tie me up.”

  He gave a grunt. She felt him turn away. And still his breath was unsteady.

  The Courtesan had no fear of any man living. No fear of touching and being touched. Ageless knowledge had the Courtesan.

  It was time to begin. She found the long, smooth cord and pulled the knot free. It was thin, twisted silk, very strong. Her night-robe slid open, like wind unfolding. He would feel the silk fall upon his skin. Even in the darkness, he would see her body as light and shadow. She felt herself blush.

  She whispered, “It has its own appeal, you understand—to be tied. But it is limiting. I would rather be…inventive.” It might have been the Courtesan who reached out to caress him, full of knowledge. It might have been Annique, being curious.

  The skin of his neck was dry and warm, rough in texture. To touch him did not feel like stroking an animal or her own skin. His cheek was a landscape of bristles with the muscles of his jaw bunched tight beneath. His mouth, unexpectedly, was silk. It opened under her fingertips, and she felt the touch of his tongue. She did not know what to do when a man tasted her fingers. It brought a shamed little clench of heat between her legs. If she’d allowed herself, she would have been scared silly.

  He said, “What do you want?”

  “I will not speak secrets. But I will please you, if you give me one final chance.”

  “How very tempting. Why?”

  “Perhaps I am tired of fighting. It grows discouraging.”

  “That’s not it. Tell me why.”

  So stern. He must trust her enough to let her close. In the silence, she could hear the crickets from the fields and the murmur of voices in the courtyard below.

  “I desire you.” Truth. She would tell him truth. How ironic. “I desired you when I first touched you, in Leblanc’s small dungeon. In the coach, when we fought…” She drew words from the deepest privacy of her mind. “It is a great intimacy to fight with a man as I have fought you.”

  “I’ll grant you that. It’s intimate.”

  “We fought. But you did not hurt me. You were entirely exasperated with me and you held me down, very heavy on top of me. I imagined…how it would be in bed with you.” Each word was a humiliation, stripping her mind as naked as her body. But this would fascinate a man like Grey. This would distract him. “I am…at need, inside me.”

  “Awkward for you.”

  “I do not wish to feel this way. We are enemies.” He could not begin to imagine the awkwardness it was for her. Even now, when she should be wholly involved in useful schemes and lies, a warm trickle of wanting coursed through her. If things had been different…She put the thought away.

  Her fingers, hidden in the folds of her nightdress, worked away at the cord of the nightgown. She slid it, inch by inch, out of the long casing that held it. “We need not be enemies, in the dark, where no one sees. What happens in this room…it is as if it has not happened at all.”

  “An intriguing thought.”

  “You may tie me up afterwards if you wish. You have made no promises.” Am
azing to hear that teasing in her voice. She crept an inch closer to him.

  “I can tie you up right now. I don’t trust you worth a damn.”

  “You are wise not to trust me. But sometimes I am not an agent of France. Sometimes, I am only Annique.”

  His weight shifted again. She heard a metallic click as his ring touched the table beside the bed. He was setting something there. He had turned away from her.

  She wound the silk cord quickly, three times, around her left hand. When she leaned toward him, she touched his back. She lay her forehead upon the hard prominence of his shoulder blade. “Here in the dark…I can be anything you want.” The ache between her legs, which was the ache of wanting him to be exactly in that place, throbbed.

  She kissed through the thin linen of his shirt. His muscles twitched under her lips. He had formidable control, Grey, as a man in his position must, but he was not indifferent. He was stretched taut in every tendon, ferocious with wanting her, vulnerable as a strong man is to his own passions. She moved to the bare skin of his neck and tasted that.

  “You take a lot for granted,” he growled.

  She laughed, a deep, throaty sound, copied exactly from Maman. “I will do nothing you do not desire.”

  She wrapped the silk line around her right palm. Once, twice. Again. In her lap, two feet of slack stretched between her fists. She pressed close to him. She must be very close to do what she intended.

  Oh, but it was hard for her. Touching him unnerved her beyond bearing. Her naked breasts brushed warm cloth, heated by the muscles beneath. The shock of it struck through her like twin lightnings. She could not remember to breathe. She was wholly the stunned rabbit.

  He rumbled deep in his chest, like a mountain, grumbling before an earthquake.

  Somehow, the Courtesan within her knew what was to be done next. There was the back of his neck to be kissed, again and again, working her way upward along leathery muscles. The sudden taste and texture of his hair against her mouth made her quiver, it was so surprising.

  He would feel that shiver through her. It would make her seem more harmless. If only her mind did not skip and skitter so. She opened and closed her hands, where they held the wrapped cord.

  She rose up, kneeling, and took his ear into her mouth to lick it and swirl it with her tongue, finding it bitter and salty and oddly shaped. She bit down gently. She had wanted to do this to a man for some time, to see what it was like.

  Almost time…almost…The silk cord was damp in her hands. I will not hurt you, she promised silently. I will take immense care.

  “I was wrong. You can be blatant.” Grey’s touch came to her thigh. He would push her away in a moment, or pull her to him. She was not sure which. But she knew he could stand no more. “What happened to that finesse of yours?”

  Now. It had to be now. I do not want to do this. I do not want to do this at all.

  She whispered, “I am all finesse.”

  One so-slight pull on the silken cord between her hands. She crossed her arms and made a loop of it and leaned forward. She kissed him softly, just under the ear. With the kiss, she flipped the cord over his head and circled his neck. She snapped it closed and jerked hard, cutting off his air.

  Six

  HIS LUNGS CONVULSED. A DEMON WEIGHT CLAMPED HISback, locked at his throat, choked him, pulled him down. He grappled at it with numb hands. He couldn’t…

  He threw himself back and forth, trying to beat off the enemy that held him. Black alternated with red flashes. He twisted. Punched out with his last strength. He didn’t feel the impact when he hit.

  Too late. The thought spiraled with him, down into nothingness. This was what it felt like to die.

  Suddenly the intolerable pressure on his throat was gone. He sucked air. Agony swept through his chest. The world washed blood red as he kicked and pushed free. He rolled away fast, ran into a wall, and wedged his back against it. Gasping, he waited for the next attack.

  It was dark when he opened his eyes. Night. That was why he didn’t hear guns and horses. The battle was over. He’d been left behind, wounded, for the human vultures that scavenged the death fields. Where were his men? They wouldn’t have left him. They’d lost then. Disorderly retreat. A rout.

  Beside him, someone was choking. Maybe dying.

  There was softness under him. Not dirt. He bunched up a handful. It was…cloth. The disorientation was so great it made him dizzy. Then he knew. He was in bed, not on the battlefield. In France, at Roussel’s inn.

  Fighting Annique Villiers.

  The death rattle beside him was Annique. He remembered now. He’d hit her. Hit her with fists that could kill a grown man. What have I done?

  It was too dark to see, but he could hear her. He found the curve of a hip and ran his hands up and down her body. She was naked and she shook like she was breaking apart. Hell. Oh, hell.

  He needed light. He staggered up and blundered across the room. In the hearth, the embers were alive under the ashes. He kicked, flat-footed, at the logs till orange showed through. The candle was on the mantelpiece. He held it to the ember, snarling with impatience, for the long second it took the wick to catch fire.

  She was on the mattress, bent double, clutching her stomach.

  He slapped the candle onto the spike of a holder. She was pale as the sheet, gasping for air. When he took hold of her, her skin was cold and clammy. He flipped the whole defensive ball of her onto her back. Eyes wide and blank and blind as a doll’s slid past him with no recognition. It scared the hell out of him.

  Where did I hit you?

  There was no blood on her face, no mark on her throat. Thank God for that. He’d hit her only once—he was almost sure of it. Only once. If he’d battered into those fragile little bones on her face, she’d have shattered like glass.

  She was wrapped around her belly, so that must be where he’d hurt her. Her rib cage. Had he broken her ribs? He felt down her sides, probing fast, line by line. He’d feel a break in her ribs, wouldn’t he? She had thin, delicate bones with no flesh on them. He’d feel a break.

  He pulled her into his lap. It took only little force to pull her arms away, a little more to unroll her enough to see what was what.

  Little breasts. Pale skin. Just below her heart, surrounded by old bruises, was a red mark the size of his fist. He’d slammed her dead center in the solar plexus. No wonder she couldn’t breathe.

  “Lie still. You’ve had the wind knocked out of you. That’s all.” Dear God, I hope that’s all. Her diaphragm was hard as a board. She was fighting her own lungs. “Easy now. There’s plenty of air.”

  “C…c…aa…”

  Nothing broken on the arch of her rib cage. Nothing he could feel. “Your chest’s clamped down where I hit you. You’ll be fine in a minute.” He pressed in with the heel of his hand, pushing those locked muscles, telling them they better damn well get back to work. “It’s already getting better.”

  She scooped a breath in. Coughed. Every muscle spasmed.

  “I’ve got you. Easy now.” He kept up a flow of meaningless words, massaging the rock-hard diaphragm while she arched back, dragging at air with her whole body. “Everything’s fine. Steady. Steady, girl.” He sounded like he was talking to one of his brother’s high-strung mares. But it was working. She hauled in a sharp gasp and held it. Let it go. “That’s better. That’s right.” Her hand clenched tight around his. He could feel her hanging on to the certainty in his voice.

  Her head fell back against him. She pulled in long, jerky sobs. Let them out. Breathing. It sounded like she’d keep at it.

  “You’re going to be fine.” Unless he’d cracked one of those ribs. Unless he’d hurt her inside where it didn’t show. He pressed deep, hand by hand, across her belly, and she didn’t wince any place in particular. That had to be a good sign.

  He stroked from her breasts downward, again and again, over that abused diaphragm, down the flat plane between her hips. Her muscles were tight bunches, distinct a
nd hard under his palm. She lay in his arms with her eyes closed, twitching hard about every third breath. Her breasts quivered when her breath rasped in and out. The nipples were lighter pink than he would have expected. That’d be because her skin was so white.

  He kept stroking her belly, feeling her loosen and relax, muscle by muscle. She had satin skin with not an ounce of fat under it. The hair between her legs was ebony black and curly. Luxuriant as a little sable. Looked soft there.

  “No! Let me go.” She jerked away, flung herself to the far side of the bed, turned her back to him, and tucked herself tight as a hedgehog.

  That was good. She wouldn’t twist up into a pretzel if she had a broken rib. “You’ve got your breath back.”

  She faced the wall, taking deep breaths. “I guess we’re no longer being friendly in the dark where it doesn’t count,” he said.

  No answer.

  Rags of the flame-colored nightgown wrapped around her, like she lay in the middle of a shredded exotic orchid. Her hair was inky black, stark on her white skin. She hadn’t had an easy time of it lately. He could count her ribs. The shadow of old bruises marked her everywhere, a whole collection, in all stages of healing. Under the damage was a truly lovely body. Not lush, but perfectly shaped. If they’d made naked china figurines at that factory at Dresden, they’d have looked like her. Trust the French to find something this beautiful and make a spy of her.

  The garrote she’d used snaked over the edge of the bed, absurdly red. That made it part of her nightgown and something he’d ordered into the room. Stupid of him.

  It was twisted silk, unbreakable. An elegant and lethal weapon. If she’d wanted him dead, he’d be dead.

  “One of us,” Doyle had called her. “One of the best.” Grey had her naked and battered and so weak she didn’t even brush her hair back off her face. Utterly defeated. All he’d had to do was catch her starving and exhausted and on the run from every police agent in France. And knock her half-conscious. And outweigh her by seven stone and be a trained killer. Simple, really.