Chasing the Heiress (18 page)

“Always.”

“Always?”

“Always.”

“Well, then I see that I have the great good fortune of introducing you to many new and delightful pleasures.”

“Many?”

“Many. And we begin now.”

* * *

Lucy had used the word
mistress
to gauge Colin's expectations. She would not marry; no man of rank wanted a wife who had lived in the camps as a man's lover. Perhaps had she and James married, had she been a wife, but some—like Archibald—would always call her wanton. But mistress to such a man as Colin? (No, she corrected herself, to Colin, only to him.) It held a certain appeal. She wondered if he would wait for her, wait for her to complete her aunt's plans; then, when her obligations to her aunt were done, perhaps she might seek him out. Perhaps her life might not be devoid of passion.

She splayed her fingers on his chest, lifting herself up, then pressing down on his firmness. His hands guided her hips as they rose and settled, then began again. His eyes watching her made her shy, but as his hands sought her breasts, pressing them up against her chest and then rolling her most sensitive spots between his fingers, she grew bolder. James had been kind but narrow in his passions, and Lucy had always wondered what pleasures they might be missing. But Colin, equally kind, seemed only to want her pleasure, in whatever form or position it took. She gave herself over to the sensation, to the sight of him, to the feel of his hands on her body, of his thighs between hers, of his kisses.

Their release came more quickly, sating and completing them. She collapsed onto his chest, and he ran his hand gently down her back until they both fell asleep.

Chapter Seventeen

“Porter and I turned the poachers over to your brother's men four miles away, then we returned by the back way.” Fletcher watched the house over Colin's shoulder as he spoke.

“That was wise, but it shouldn't make any difference. The porter makes regular trips through town. No one would find it unusual to see him in town, even not on his regular day.” Colin placed his hand on Fletcher's shoulder. “And the men?”

“Tied up tight and covered with hay. No one saw them.” Fletcher held out a note. “Walgrave sent a message saying that they would be dealt with. What does that mean?”

Colin read the note himself. “Apparently, the Home Office will determine whether the men are poachers with incredibly bad luck or part of the plot against William. Either way, we don't want to ask questions.”

“What do you think of Miss Lucy? That was some fine shooting,” Fletcher mused. “Some of the best I've ever seen.”

“Yes.” For the first time it gave him pause. She had used her skills to protect him and Bobby—this was the second time she had saved his life. He knew he should be suspicious, but he needed, wanted, to trust that she was what she said . . . an officer's daughter fallen on hard times.

But he'd have to remember her skill with the weapon, and he'd have to learn what other skills she might have.

* * *

“Are you as good with a pistol as with a rifle?”

He walked around the gun room, touching the various weapons in the room absently.

“Yes. Why?”

“You learned that in the camp?”

She looked at him quizzically, but not suspiciously. “Were there no families in your regiment?”

“No.” He told himself it wasn't a lie. His regiment had been tasked with missions on which no families would have been allowed. “I'm surprised I never heard of you, a girl sharpshooter in Wellington's army.”

“I was not a member of Wellington's army, and I was a well-kept secret.”

She answered easily, perhaps because she was speaking of a past that seemed far away. She walked to the wall and tested several rapiers. The way she held the blade suggested experience.

“Did they teach you to fence?” With Aidan's connections, he could readily check her story, if he needed to.

“Fencing requires no bullets, so it was a good defense. And it required agility, not necessarily strength.”

“Are you as good as you are with a gun?”

“You won't believe me if I tell you,” she averred, teasing him.

“You could show me.”

She laughed. “I suppose I could. But you must make it worth my while.”

“A bet?”

“One that makes it worth winning.” She smiled as she turned to the wall once more, picking up swords and testing their weight and balance. He watched as she pushed the tip of the blade into the floor. She let it bend into a half-circle, then released the pressure to feel it spring back straight. She discarded several, not liking the temper of the blades.

“But, my lady, you are certain to lose.”

“Ah, such confidence.” She narrowed her selection to two.

“My confidence is well merited, I assure you. I grew up among brothers noted for their skill at the blade, and by my majority, none could beat me.”

“Then what is your wager? It must be something I want very badly.”

“Whoever loses must do the other's bidding for the rest of the day . . . and night.”

“That sounds like a game one would want to lose.”

“Who said that losing should be distasteful, if the winner and the loser can both find joy in the game?”

“I prefer to win.” She turned to the wall and removed her overdress, leaving only a heavy cotton shift and pantaloons.

“Is that how you dressed when they taught you?” Colin's body grew taut with desire.

“No, then I dressed as I usually did.” She removed her shoes and stockings, and set them neatly to the side. She flexed and pointed her feet.

“Usually?”

“As a boy.”

“Boy?”

“Yes, boy.” She looked at him as if he were dim. “There was an incident. The men in the battalion decided that they couldn't always be present to protect me, so they determined I should dress as a boy. My father and mother agreed. But, after that, it was easy to insist that I learn all the skills that a boy would learn. To be convincing in my disguise, you understand.”

“Of course. One must be convincing in any disguise.” As soon as he said the words, he wondered how much of her behavior was a disguise. She was in trouble, on the run. How much was she pretending? At least, he believed, the passion between them was honest—but then he'd believed that and been wrong before. “How long did you keep this disguise up?”

She chose a blade and faced him. “Are you going to use your own blade or one of these?”

“My own.” She had avoided answering his question, but for now, he was willing to let the truth come out. The truth always came out.

“I suppose I should see the size of your blade, then.”

He choked, then laughed. “I suppose I should give you a demonstration.”

“I would like that.” She looked his body up and down, then ran her tongue across her slightly opened lips. “After we fence.”

He groaned. “You are a sweet torment.” He walked to the wall where he had hung his sword and lifted it from its scabbard. He held it upright before him, point to the floor, his hands on the hilt.

“Hmmm. That will do nicely.” She let the entendre hang in the air between them. She lifted the blade to her face and took her stance. “
En garde
, sir.”

“First, how do we know who wins?” He made a wide circle around her, watching her feet, her hands, the tip of her blade.

“First blood.” She smiled.

“No. Something else. I won't draw your blood.”

“Why not, sir? I would draw yours, just as I shot that man in the garden. When necessary, we can do a great many things we do not expect we would do.” Her voice grew sad and hard.

“But it's not necessary here.”

She lunged. He parried. She danced away. He moved toward her. She stepped in, then back. She played well, thoughtfully, letting her stamina balance his power.

But then abruptly she changed the rules of the game. She backed away from him, giving herself some distance from his parries. Then she lowered the arm that did not hold the sword. She placed her hand on her breasts, and then, meeting his eyes, she drew her hand across her breasts, down the flat of her stomach, and back up the side of her hips. He felt passion rise suddenly, and his movements slowed as he watched her seduction.

With her hand back at her breasts, she pulled the drawstring at her bodice. The material released just enough to reveal the soft curves of the tops of her breasts.

He lowered his sword in surprise, and she lunged, tapping his sword out of his hands.

“I win.”

He crossed the room in two steps and pulled her into his arms.

* * *

Morning broke through the window, and Colin was still at her side. As he lay on his back, his arm held her around her shoulders as she curled into his chest. She did not move for a few moments, enjoying the lean power of his muscles, the firm definition of his chest and arms.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” He turned his head to kiss her forehead.

“Have you been awake long?” She rolled up on her elbow and traced imaginary figures on his chest with her fingers.

“Long enough to write a poem to commemorate our liaison last night.”

“A poem?”

“Yes, even an old soldier can have hidden talents.”

“Then recite it for me.”

“I would prefer to polish it up a bit. I can give you a demonstration though—but you must be a good audience. Do you promise?”

She grew warm at the hungry look in his eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. It begins with a long section detailing the many beauties of your body.” He took a single finger and oh-so-lightly traced the path of his description. “Starting with the fire in your eyes, then the subtlety of your nose, the welcome of your lips, the impertinence of your chin, the elegance of your neck.” At the base of her throat, he opened his hand, one finger becoming five, each one skimming, tantalizing her flesh. “At your breasts, I consider how dizzying their beauty is for one who has been long alone.” He began to draw circles with his fingers, across the plain of her chest above her breast, then slowly moved to tease each soft mound, until he joined his lips and tongue in the play, moving slowly and deliberately from one breast's peak to the next. “And I rejoice in their soft generosity, allowing me to take my fill.” His head bowed over her breasts. He took the bud of her flesh between his lips and the ridge of his teeth, sending a thrill of heat through her body as he pulled gently.

She arched into his mouth.

Then, as his tongue flicked and his mouth sucked, his hand moved lower, across the plane of her stomach in a provocative series of narrow circles. “At this point in the poem, I quote John Donne.”

In one quick motion, he rose above her. Then, opening her thighs, he settled between them. His sex, fully aroused, pressed at the opening of her body.

“‘License my roving hands and let them go.' Let's see, the next part of that line is ‘before . . . behind . . . between . . .'”

And as he said each word, his hands followed the direction. At
before
, he placed both hands on the flat of her stomach, then, using the barest touch of his fingertips, raked up and back, stopping at her breasts to hold each one to his mouth for a deep kiss. At
behind
, he brought his hands back down her belly and slipped his hands under her buttocks and squeezed them with a rich pressure. At
between
, he drew his hands down, and let them palm her inner thighs from her hips to her knees and back. Then he pressed his fingers into her swollen lower lips and, parting them, used his thumb to rub circles as his forefinger sought the darkness of her warm heat. He remained there for several minutes, slowly stoking her desire, until she moaned his name.

“Oh, I seem to have become distracted.... Do you wish to hear the rest?”

She nodded, biting her lower lip, and arching her hips into his hands.

“Oh, no, if I am giving you my words, you must give me yours.” He increased the pressure slightly on her flesh, pushing his finger farther into the heat of her body. “Is that a yes? Or a no?”

“Yes” she breathed between strokes. “Please, yes.”

“Let's see: we've done
before, behind, between
. Ah, yes next is
above
.” He removed his hand and fingers, and she cried out in frustration. He moved from his position between her knees and stretched out over her body, giving her the satisfaction of his weight settling against her breasts, belly, and thighs. “For
below
, there is just one possibility, my sweet. He pressed his erect sex against her entrance. “Do you wish me to complete the poem?”

She opened her eyes and gazed directly into his. “Yes, now.”

And he obliged her, first slowly, then more insistently, until they both found the poem's completion together.

“I've never liked poetry as much as I have this morning,” she said afterward.

“I will have to recite it again for you, if you wish.

“I wish.”

Sometime later, she turned toward him, her face intent.

“What? So serious. I would have thought I'd loved every serious thought from your head.”

“How long do you think we will remain here?”

He grew suddenly alert. “Why, my angel?”

“Because I was wondering how many more poems you could recite to me before we have to move on.”

He smiled, once more reminding himself that she was not a threat. “As many as you wish.... I could recite poetry to you ten times a day if you wish.”

“Really? You know that many poems?”

“If I don't already know them, we can discover new ones. Or we can repeat your favorites as you wish.”

“I would like that.”