His Sinful Secret (36 page)

“No,
I
owe her your life. Now, if I have sufficiently answered your immediate questions, perhaps we could change the subject?”

“What do you wish to discuss?” Her fingertips drifted into the parted cloth of his robe and touched his bare chest.

Despite his resolve to simply hold her until she fell asleep, he lit on fire. Michael caught her chin and brushed his mouth against hers. “Us.”

“Hmm. An interesting topic.” Julianne’s hand trailed downward, over the taut muscles of his stomach in a slow, tantalizing journey. A few more inches and she would encounter his growing erection.

Michael sucked in a breath, the heat of arousal spreading over his skin. “This marriage has not turned out as I anticipated.”

“How so?” Her fingers skimmed the tip of his hardening cock.

This was difficult enough without the distraction of her touch. Michael caught her wrist to still that teasing touch and looked into her eyes—those beautiful eyes with the thick fringe of sable lashes and the delicate, arched brows above—and what he saw there was not just the physical beauty of the deep blue color and the shape and size . . . no, what he saw was compassion, intelligence, and, yes, he believed it, love. “I never imagined I could share my life with another person,” he admitted. “In name, yes, but that is just a ceremony in a cathedral and a piece of paper. Pledging my name and protection is one matter, but my heart another.”

Had he really just spoken of pledging his heart?

Just when she’d imagined the evening could not become more memorable, apparently Julianne was wrong. Michael Hepburn was not romantic. At least not the distant, aloof, complicated man she’d married. Physically, yes, and from the state of his arousal, she imagined he was going to be extremely romantic in that sense very soon, but he didn’t ever whisper endearments or soft, poetic phrases, or give lavish compliments.

Much less mention his heart. Next to her, his tall body offering solid warmth and comfort, he cradled her close, the searing intensity of his gaze holding her prisoner.

“I know nothing of falling in love,” he went on, the honesty evident in the halting struggle to find the words. In the light of just the fire, his fine features were thrown to angles, emphasizing the structure of bone, the line of his mouth, the shape of his nose and brow. “I’ve been a lover, but only in one sense of the word. But with you it is different. It has been since that first night. I desire you, but that is obvious.” His smile was rueful and there was also a hint of roguish male as well. “But I have come to the conclusion that is not the extent of it.”

“What
is
the extent of it?” Julianne knew she was taking a chance asking, but this seemed the night for it.

“The other evening, when you were so late, I was frantic. It was enlightening.”

That was roundabout enough for the Marquess of Longhaven, but she wasn’t willing to accept evasion.

Not at what could be the most important moment of her life.

“Care to define how it enlightened you?” She gently freed her wrist from his grasp and tugged the sash on his dressing gown loose, pushing the material from his shoulders. “I promise you it isn’t so difficult to say.” Julianne kissed his throat. “I have said it to
you
. Here, let me demonstrate again: I love you.”

“You are far more idealistic,” he said on a growl, and abruptly rolled her over to her back. “Not to mention you are wearing far too much.”

She didn’t protest as he tugged the ribbon on the bodice of her night rail free and slid the garment down her body to toss it away. His robe was discarded with equal speed. He covered her then, deliciously so, and a swell of both desire and exuberant joy possessed her as she wound her arms around his neck and lifted her mouth for a ravishing kiss. Flames shot through her body, inundating her senses, and Julianne arched against him, skin to skin. When he bent his head to suckle her breasts, she moaned freely as he lavished attention on one and then the other. Perhaps he would never say it, she reconciled herself, the brush of his hair erotic on her sensitized skin, as was the abrasion of the faint stubble on his clean-shaven jaw.

When he shifted, lifted, moved with smooth, muscular strength to adjust position, she opened her thighs in willing welcome, inhaling swiftly as he fused their bodies in one sure thrust.

“I love you,” Michael whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “This seems the appropriate time to say it, and you are right—it wasn’t so difficult after all.”

Pleasure was enhanced by joy, she found, clinging to him as they moved faster and faster, rushing toward a common goal, breathless in their communion. Ecstasy peaked, hung suspended, and then Julianne fell, but Michael was there to plummet with her until they lay panting and entwined.

They didn’t speak, and Julianne gave in to the drowsiness, the firelight now just a glow, her exhaustion pleasant despite her climatic day.

“Would you like to know a secret?” Michael asked her, his fingers tangled in her hair, his shoulder solid under her cheek.

The offer brought her out of her descent toward sleep. Her lashes lifted and Julianne looked at her husband’s face. A small smile curved his lips. She said, “Tell me.”

“Before you I didn’t realize it, but happiness was an abstract concept to me.”

That was no secret at all. He might be capable of many deceptions, might have changed the course of history with his service to his country, might command the respect of some of the highest officials in England, but he hadn’t been able to keep that hidden from her.

Julianne didn’t tell him. Instead she drifted into a contented sleep in his arms.

T
he park was cold, fallen leaves rolling under a crisp wind. Michael strolled toward a solitary figure standing on one of the paths, the normal riders and pedestrians forgoing an afternoon outing in favor of a warm fire and hot cup of tea.

Charles had the collar of his coat turned up, his hat shielding his eyes. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“Charles.” Michael was bareheaded, his hair ruffled. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice. We are departing tomorrow morning for Kent.”

“Hence the urgency. I see.” There was a hint of cynical amusement in the other man’s voice. “Off to bury yourself in the country. I don’t picture it.”

Only a few months ago, Michael would not have either. With Julianne, however, it took on a whole new light.

But there were a few details to be tidied up before he left.

“When, if ever,” he said with neutral inflection, “were you going to tell me Lawrence is, in fact, Roget?”

For a moment, they just faced each other in silence.

“Shall we walk?” Charles indicated the path. “Keeps the blood flowing. Bloody cold out today.”

“Fine.” Michael fell into step next to him.

“So, you figured it out.” His old friend sent him a sidelong glance. “I never doubted you would eventually.”

Eventually. It had taken him too damn long, Michael knew, but then again, he’d been fed false information at every turn by his own government. No wonder he hadn’t been able to put the pieces of the puzzle together earlier. “Why?” he asked simply.

“He was valuable. We needed to protect him. A double agent is a risky commodity at any time, for we all know that their loyalties could be to the other side. It is a game, Michael, and we couldn’t have you catching him. So you were . . . deflected a time or two.”

A time or two. That was putting it mildly. The chill breeze brushed his face, carrying with it the smell of decaying leaves and chimney smoke. “I couldn’t be trusted with the truth?”

“I knew.” Charles spoke with no apology. “And the war secretary. No one else. Not even the prime minister. It was integral that it be kept extraordinarily quiet.”

“I chased him all over Spain.”

“And in the course of doing so, sent back a lot of valuable intelligence.”

“Damn you, Charles. Do not try to justify the means by the end.”

“I never try to justify anything
—
you know that. Besides, it was rather amusing to put him to work with you once the war was over.”

No doubt,
Michael thought wryly. Once he’d begun to suspect, he found some ironic humor in it also. “He’s persuaded Antonia to sell the town house and leave with him for the tropical islands off the coast of the Americas. If she ever finds out . . .”

“He didn’t have a direct hand in the killing of her family. His sole crime was providing a safe route for the French troops to avoid British lines, which was part of his duty.”

“Trust me, she wouldn’t see it that way.”

“It is his choice if he ever tells her. As I understand it, he is rather devoted to your fierce Senora Taylor. Since she is willing to go away with him, the devotion doesn’t seem to be one-sided. They will work it out together. It isn’t your concern.”

True enough. His concern was Julianne, his little niece, and any future children, if they should be so blessed. Antonia belonged under the sultry sun, and she needed adventure. He had his family.

Odd, how life took its twists and turns.

“But if you wish to discuss it with him, please be my guest. Keep in touch, and if you begin to tire of the bucolic countryside, fresh air, and all that rubbish, send me a message. I am sure I’ll find something interesting for you to do.” Charles swung on his heel, and just as he turned to go back the way they’d come, Michael spotted a man walking toward him on the path.

He recognized the broad build, the dark hair tugged at by the wind, and, of course, the signature scar.

He stopped and waited, the raw day suitable to this meeting. The first thing he said when Lawrence joined him was, “Charles thinks he’s so damn clever.”

“The trouble is he
is
damn clever.” Lawrence agreed, his eyes wary. His face was ruddy from the cold.

“I hadn’t told him until just now I had figured out who you were, yet he planned this meeting.”

“When I explained to him our conversation over Mrs. Stewart last evening, he simply gave me a time to meet him here. I assume he knows you well enough to guess you’d finally have the information to put the pieces into one cohesive conclusion.”

So like Charles to arrange the confrontation ahead of time. Michael said sardonically, “I was manipulated. But then, with Charles, I tend to feel that way at all times, my quest for Roget aside.”

“If it is any consolation, it was somewhat of a blow to my pride to realize they were so confident you would catch me that they deliberately misled you whenever you were close.”

“How did you come to work for the French?”

“Impressed into service . . . and I so resented it, I began at once a plan to insinuate myself at the highest levels, taking the most dangerous of jobs.” Lawrence shrugged. “Truthfully, if I was killed, what did it matter? Eventually I was trusted enough to be a courier and then an operative. I had to do a good job for the French, you understand, to aid the English. I think you now understand both why Alice Stewart so adamantly refused to reveal my identity and why I let her board the ship for France instead of banishing her to India. I was standing right there during the interrogation and she didn’t betray me. I might have killed her to protect myself, but maybe not. She evidently didn’t want to take the chance, and besides, once you let her go, I felt I owed her for the loyalty. I had no idea she would seek revenge on you with such tenacity.”

“Had Mrs. Stewart not pushed me with her desire for my demise, I might never have known you and Roget were one and the same.” Michael turned his collar up against the stinging breeze.

“That,” Lawrence said, as if he understood the concept very well, “is how fate works. Tell me, at what precise moment did you draw the correct conclusion?”

“I would say that your explanation about letting her board a different ship didn’t exactly convince me, but it might have been possible. You certainly have a decided weakness for dangerous females, if your involvement with Antonia is any indication. But, quite frankly, it wasn’t the definitive moment I knew.”

Lawrence looked at him with studied inquiry.

“It was when we were in the carriage on our quest to find Alice Stewart last evening and you informed me if Roget truly wanted me dead, I would be.” Michael’s smile was full of irony. “I sensed you were telling the truth from a unique personal perspective.”

“I have been pointing out all along, while trying to be as understated as possible, that whoever wanted your blood was not Roget.”

He had, and Michael now knew why. “You also told me Roget was a ghost, yet rumors of him still being in England are filtering through.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.” The Serpentine lay ahead, gray under the fall sky, brilliant leaves floating on the surface here and there. “That is because the French would like nothing better than to find me. I thought I had escaped cleanly, but apparently not. I think that Mrs. Stewart, in the end, also did me for a favor, for leaving England as soon as possible is no doubt for the best. When you started actively seeking Roget again, I realized there were others looking as well. I assume Charles told you Antonia agreed to go with me?”

“He did.” Michael glanced at him. “Will you tell her the truth?”

“I haven’t decided. What would you do, Longhaven?”

“Make sure I was well-armed, for one. And it might be best done at sea, when she can’t escape you, though there still is the nasty prospect of being devoured by sharks when she tosses you overboard. I wish you luck, whatever you decide.”

Lawrence gave a rueful chuckle. “My thoughts exactly.”

“I’m resigning, too.” Michael skirted a pile of wet leaves, his hands deep in his pockets.

“Conditionally? Charles will not let you go easily. You are too valuable.”

“Unconditionally.”

“It must be love, then,” Lawrence observed, “for you to be so certain.”