Bronwyn Scott (2 page)

Chapter 3

The plying of liquor was going well. St. Simon was well into his sixth glass and umpteenth story. “Jonathon was all dressed up as the finest of Venetian courtesans and waving his fan faster than a fainting matron at Almack’s.”

Ronan leaned close over the table, a trace of his cologne catching her nostrils—sandalwood and vanilla. His smile was wide, his glass of Zubrovka empty once more. “Jon puts his hand on his stomach and says to the guard at the gate, ‘I’m expecting and in a very delicate condition.’ The guard lets us through with a gallant bow to Jonathon and well wishes for a safe confinement, but he stops the wagon right behind us and makes them unload their entire cargo while he searches under the floorboards for a suspicious diplomatic pouch. A pouch, I might add, which was playing the part of Jonathon’s ‘delicate condition’ underneath his skirts and halfway to Amsterdam.”

“I can just imagine it!” Lucia laughed. It was an honest response. There was no playacting here on her part, and that worried a small part of her very much. In her dealings with men, she’d always been able to hold a portion of herself back, the portion that was just for her.

That piece of her was under attack tonight. Ronan’s stories touched an intrinsic part of her soul. These were her experiences too, and when he talked of Jonathon dressed as a pregnant Venetian courtesan, she could indeed imagine it. No gambit had ever been too large for Jonathon. His smooth-cheeked élan and his long golden lashes would have served well paired with Ronan’s dark masculinity.

There would have been no question of Ronan playing the pregnant traveler. Dark stubble already peppered his strong jaw and dusk had barely fallen. But she could picture him perfectly in the role of protective husband, an image that sent a tremor of desire skittering through her. To have such a man at one’s side would be heady and empowering. If one could claim St. Simon’s loyalties, nothing would be impossible.

Lucia poured them another glass. It would be Ronan’s seventh, not that he was counting. But she was, and she was certain St. Simon had lost track quite some time ago.

Amid the stories and the endless glasses of Zubrovka, late afternoon had passed to twilight and twilight to the darkness of a summer night. In such company it was easy to forget so many things, not the least being the potential danger posed by St. Simon’s presence. Ronan reached for his newly filled glass, slopping a bit over the rim as he lifted it. The vodka was getting to him. Her own hand held steady. It was time to ascertain whether he’d come as friend or foe.

She held his eyes. “Here’s to the danger,” she said softly in the dusky intimacy of the parlor. “It is easy to laugh now with the peril behind us. But we were all just steps, minutes, away from discovery at any given point. And we know how that would have ended.”

They drank their toast and Ronan sobered. “We
do
know how such a fate ends, in fact.”

Yes, she knew. Death, but not before torture to extract every piece of what they might know. Was that what had happened to him? She thought to draw him out. “But not for us. You and I are the lucky ones. We survived. We escaped.” She hoped he would contradict her here, argue that he had indeed paid a price.

When nothing was forthcoming, Lucia rose to stand in front of him to press her case. “Jonathon and the others would not have wanted us to mourn unduly. They’d want us to celebrate life, to take our pleasures where we could. Perhaps we might take those pleasures tonight.”

She felt his eyes travel up to meet her face at the bold invitation. She was close. She nearly had him. She knew the words that would free him, that would give him permission to act on whatever veiled thoughts he’d carried all these years. “After all, there is no game to stand in our way now. There is no need to worry that this evening will tangle feelings with the goals of those who would build empires. Tonight can be just for us.”

Lucia saw the naked want in his eyes and the slightest of hesitations too, confirming that he’d come for more than sentimental reasons. Well, she might be disappointed, but not surprised. She’d just have to ferret out what those other reasons might be. His hand reached out to pour the last of the bottle and he knocked his glass over in the attempt.

She had him right where she wanted him: seated before her, his physical desire rising, inebriated to a point where only the most straightforward of thought took priority. “Shall we take our pleasure, Ronan?” She had never used his name out loud like this before, and her use of it now only served to heighten the intimate web they were spinning. Her own body was feeling the effects of unexplored desire and vodka; heat ran through her veins, a sensual warmth pooling low in her belly.

She wanted this as much as she felt the need to give it. Kneeling before the handsome spymaster was no chore. She went down on her knees, her hands high on his legs where thighs met groin, her eyes not leaving his. She wanted him to see that she was entirely without shyness when it came to the giving of such frank pleasure. A man like Ronan would want a bold woman. He would revel in knowing there were other sensual experiences beyond this in which they might engage, that this might be merely a prelude to darker intimacies, if he desired.

He questioned her intentions with his eyes only briefly as their gazes held. “I am not one of your European princelings.”

Lucia shook her head slowly, her hand sliding beneath him, cupping him, gently squeezing through his trousers. “No, you most certainly are not.” Only the most naive would classify the shrewdness, the hardness of Ronan St. Simon with the courtly fops who merely played at espionage. Something flickered in his eyes and she wondered for a moment if he would refuse her, even with the help of Zubrovka. In the courts of Europe, he’d not lacked for available bedmates, but rumor held he’d been discerning in his choices. Was the secret game he currently played so significant as to demand he overrule the preference of his body? She would not give his mind and body a chance to debate it.

She undid the flap of his trousers, gaze unwavering, daring him to stop her. Nimble fingers slid inside his smalls, closing over the rod of him, long and hot in her hand. The smalls made it more difficult. “I want to take your trousers down,” she whispered, rising up on her knees, her hands already busy pushing the garment down around his hips. He raised his buttocks in silent acceptance of her request and she had the trousers free. It was the work of moments to go back and relieve him of his smalls. He was all hers now, gloriously aroused, an erect shaft jutting upward from a nest of dark hair. It should have been enough to have him spread and ready for her, but the sight of him only partially nude was a frustrating sight indeed. She wanted all of him revealed.

Lucia moved her hands beneath his shirt, caressing up the hard planes of him, taking a moment to thumb a rough welt beneath his left breast. When he tensed, she moved on. “Do you have other shirts?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed the shirt and tore, making a jagged rip down the center. He was magnificent with his shirt falling away from his torso, the white cloth a stark, erotic contrast to the tanned body, rippling with muscle in the fading light.

“You’d better hope I do,” Ronan growled hoarsely above her, but he shifted slightly in his chair, giving her better access to him, a subtle invitation if ever there was one. Lucia placed a hand on either of his lean hips and bent to kiss his navel, feathering a soft breath against it before trailing kisses to the root of his shaft. She ran her mouth the length of him, tonguing the hard ridge that led to his tip, moist with evidence of his desire.

She heard Ronan groan, felt his hands anchor in her hair with an almost painful grip as her tresses were pulled free from their pins. She felt the muscles in his thighs harden as he braced himself, boots planted in the parlor carpet, hips surging up to her. She took the tip of him in her mouth, sucking hard and laving in gentle strokes by turn until his groans became a series of gasping vocalizations, his breathing coming in heavy pants as he pulsed in her mouth.

His arousal was her arousal. This was heady stuff indeed, and perilous too. Nothing rivaled the thrill of coaxing a man like Ronan, a man who never lost control, to release. But therein lay her own peril. So great was the thrill, she risked losing herself in it as well, letting the thrill sweep her away too. The space between her own legs was damp and aching at the sight and feel of Ronan’s approaching climax. She splayed her hands on his inner thighs, her mouth working hard, and ran a fingernail lightly over the sensitive skin high on his inner groin where thigh joined buttock. He bucked then, giving a harsh cry, his head thrown back against the chair back, his body tight and throbbing. She waited until the very last of moments and removed her mouth, his climax spending in her hand.

Lucia sat back on her heels, taking in the sight of a sated Ronan St. Simon, near naked and sprawled in the straight-backed chair, his sleek hair unruly and loose about his face, his body open to her gaze, giving him the look of a Celtic warrior. She needed only a kilt and the shadows of a highland fire to make the image complete. He’d been well and thoroughly used, to the pleasure of them both. Between the pleasure and the vodka, he’d not last much longer. Even now, his lids threatened to drift shut. Lucia took his eyes with her gaze, willing him awake a moment more. Without a word, she lifted her wet hand. She took her fingers one by one into her mouth and licked.

“God have mercy!” Ronan rasped. She could see the impressive first stirrings of another arousal already, but his body was done. She licked her last finger and his head lolled back, eyes shut, body slack in sleep, a sleep that would restore him and that would not last indefinitely. She needed to act fast.

Now, where had she left that rope? It was much easier to trust a man when he was tied up.

Chapter 4

Ronan could feel her hands on him. He’d dreamed of such a thing for so long it only seemed right that the sensation be so vivid, so real, even in sleep. The woman he’d silently hungered for over the years had claimed him with her mouth and with her touch in the most intimate of ways, a fantasy come true. There was this one last commission for Jonathon’s family, one last evil to root out, and he’d be able to claim her at last without complications, without fear that emotions would betray them both, clouding their judgment at a critical moment.

A moan escaped him, his body savoring the feel of her, the dream so real he could smell the soft lemon fragrance of her. There was a jerk and his dream morphed into something darker. He was with his captors again, bound and vulnerable in the dark. He fought against the restraints that had held him for punishment night after night.

“
Who were you supposed to meet?
Was it the woman?
”
The lash fell across his bleeding skin yet again.
Once more
,
twenty times more.
He’d lost count.
“
We know there’s a woman.
Who is she?
”
Ronan gritted his teeth.
Regardless of what they did to him
,
he would not give her up.
It did not matter how many times they beat him
,
or how many times Marcus Troy came down to watch his degradation.
Jonathon was dead
,
as were the others.
He would not give them Lucia too.
She was his—his to protect whether she knew it or wanted it
. Ronan thrashed, fighting an invisible foe, his own exertions waking him from the dream.

His eyes flew open to find the dream was not far from reality. Darkness filled the room and his limbs were held immobile, tied to the chair that had so recently been the site of great pleasure. He knew a moment’s panic as he tugged against the knots that held him fast. They were the knots of a master. But the rope was not the rough hemp of his tormentors. Silken cord held his legs spread-eagle to the chair sides and his hands anchored to the back. His mind began to register this was not the doing of those who wished to torture him, but the efforts of his raven-haired seductress.

His mind began to register other things too; he was feeling the effects of the Zubrovka, though not intensely. He’d never been one to suffer from unduly from overindulging. He remembered too late Lucia’s own capacity for the drink. Unhampered by any resistance from him, she’d stripped and bound him.

He almost wanted to reach up and touch his hair to reassure himself she hadn’t cut it too. Except of course in his current state, he couldn’t raise much. Which in turn reminded him he was naked and exposed to the woman sitting across from him. She’d moved the chair to oppose him directly. The summer moonlight streamed through the window, limning her in its glow. She looked ethereal and wicked all at once and in spite of his unusual predicament—he didn’t make a habit of waking up bound and naked in a woman’s presence—he felt his body begin to stir, rousing to her gaze as he wondered what she’d do next. Was this seduction or protection? Did she play a new game of aggressive
amour
, or was she still playing
the
game?

“Lucia, what have you done?” he purred in tones that rivaled the silken cords about his ankles. He might be tied and naked, but he was not without his resources. He excelled at impossible situations. One did not need hands and feet to seduce a woman, to cajole intentions or secrets. Still, hands helped. Discreetly, he set to work on the knots at his back.

“You’re far too dangerous, Ronan, to be loose.” Lucia’s gaze did not waver. She was not ashamed of what she’d done. Then again, she was running a “gentlemen’s club.” Perhaps she was in the practice of tying up her clientele on a regular basis. He rather hoped not. War widow or Italian count’s daughter, whatever Lucia was or had been, she’d never been a whore. He couldn’t believe she would have invented such role for herself to play in her latest incarnation.

“I’m no danger to you. I’ve assured you of that.” He willed his muscles to relax in their bonds as a show of his acquiescence.

“Forgive me if I am unconvinced. You show up after five years, dangling Jonathon’s watch from your fingers, and expect me to believe you come for the sake of nostalgia and remembrance. I might not have been the spymaster, but I can still make valid deductions. You want something badly enough to permit me to take all nature of liberties with you.” She rose and approached him, his body quickening as if to say,
take more of those liberties
. “We both know you could have disarmed me before I’d even been aware of what you intended. There’s no one faster with a knife or more accurate. Besides, in the years I’ve known you, Ronan, you’ve never allowed a weapon to be aimed in your direction.”

Oh.
That
liberty. He’d been hoping... “What do you propose, Lucia? We are at an impasse if you do not believe me. I have given you my trust. What else can I give you?”
My body
,
my name
,
a
lifetime.

She stopped in front of him, tapping a long finger against her sensual mouth in thought, mischievous speculation lighting her eyes. “You can give me answers.” She ran fingernail down his bare chest, sending a shot of hot desire straight to his core. He subdued it. It wouldn’t do to appear too avid. Lucia would capitalize on such male eagerness. He’d watched her reduce a Russian count to stammering idiocy at a dinner party in front of twenty guests with only a wineglass at her disposal. He would not allow her to treat him so callously.

“Nothing comes without a price, Lucia.” He perused her with his eyes as if all the control rested with him. Perhaps it did, cords notwithstanding. He was the one with answers and she would pay for this business with the ropes. His gaze rested on her full lips. She licked them, momentarily self-conscious. Good, let her realize she didn’t hold all the weapons in their little duel.

Her eyes flared to pale-green flames, like a cat’s in the dark. Her hand rested temptingly on the bare skin revealed by the square cut of her neckline, her fingers gently stroking the space above her breasts as she feigned contemplation. “What do you want, Ronan?” she crooned.

You.
I
want you.
I
would suffer anything at your hands for you.
He had in fact done exactly that for a month in the dungeons of a castle outside Vienna, pitting his mental and physical fortitude against Marcus Troy’s tortures in a cruel game of Rumpelstiltskin. One name, his tormentors would cajole from the opposite end of the whip, and it could all be over. He had no illusions they meant to grant his freedom. They meant a quick death just to end the suffering. If he’d thought his death would protect her, he would have taken that too.

“A game, Lucia. I want to play Reciprocity,” Ronan drawled as if he were reclining on a sofa at one of Vienna’s more risqué salons, tortures and tormentors the furthest items from his mind. “You ask the questions. I will answer them, every one of them. In return, you’ll do what I ask of you.” The clock was running. Danger was coming. He was not beyond using every weapon at his disposal if it meant saving her.

“I will not untie you. Not yet.”

Ronan laughed. “That’s not what I had in mind.”

She gave a half smile, coy and knowing. “A little revenge, is it, Ronan? I should have guessed. A few ropes could never really hold you.”

But you could.
You and you alone held me in that dungeon as long as I could endure it.
As long as they came to me each night trying for your name
,
I
knew you were safe.
It was when they didn’t come to torture me that I began to worry
,
that I made my own bid for freedom
,
but not until then.
It had been an obscene and twisted security by which he’d kept his mind and body together in the darkness.

“I shall go first.” Ronan shifted in his bonds, amused by the fleeting glimpse of intrigue on her face as she pondered what he might ask her to do. “Light a lamp. I want to see you as we play and I want you to see me.”

Ronan St. Simon smiled in the darkness as the match flared to life.