Lady Alexandra's Excellent Adventure: A Summersby Tale (20 page)

She couldn’t begin to imagine what he might be thinking, but if the thrill of excitement in his eyes was any indication, then his thoughts as he crawled onto the bed, his eyes riveted upon the ultimate prize, must have been very wicked indeed. It sent a small shudder down her spine as heat poured through her. “So beautiful.” His voice was but a low murmur as he lowered his head and stroked his tongue against her.

A million sensations buzzed like tiny sparks of electrically charged energy, assaulting her all at once. She clutched his shoulders with all her might as he licked her, afraid she might die if she let go. “Oh, Michael . . .” She dug her nails against him. “I feel . . . oh God I . . .”

“Soon,” he promised as he broke from her grip and climbed on top of her. “Very, very soon.”

She knew what would come . . . partly at least—she felt terribly close already. But this time would be different. This time it wouldn’t be just about her, but about them, together, and it was suddenly terribly important to her that he should find fulfillment too . . . not that she knew exactly how she might facilitate that, or if it was even possible for them to share in the experience simultaneously, but she would definitely try her damnedest to please him. Accepting his mouth in a hungry kiss, she felt his weight as he lowered himself between her legs and entered her welcoming warmth. On a sigh of pleasure, she felt herself expand around him as he eased his way forward.

He paused, as he took a deep breath, then lowered his head and began placing small, searing kisses upon her cheek. His fingers stroked the softness of her breasts as she moved her body restlessly beneath him. Why was he torturing her like this? If she could only . . . she tried moving her hips toward him, but he remained quite still, his whole body frozen in place.

“Please, Michael,” she whispered as her hands splayed across his back. “You mustn’t stop now. Please . . . not now. Take me Michael, for the love of God, just—”

“This might hurt a little.” He warned her. “But the pain will be brief. I promise.”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was as desperate as the need she felt roaring through her veins. If he didn’t claim her soon . . . Her train of thought faded as he covered her mouth with his own, thrusting his tongue inside her, just as he plunged forward, burying himself to the hilt. Whatever cries she might have made were never heard—not that it hadn’t hurt like blazes, but the pain she’d felt was quickly forgotten by the sense of fulfillment that followed.

“God, you feel so good,” Michael muttered against her parted lips. “How are you, Alex? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Her voice was close to a gasp. “I feel . . . full . . . complete . . . and about a thousand other things that I can’t possibly begin to describe.”

“How about now?” he asked, pulling back a little, then plunged back inside again.

Her legs wrapped themselves around him in a silent response while a soft moan of pleasure escaped her lips. This was what it meant to be alive.

With slowly increasing speed, Michael drove in and out of her, his steady beat, lifting her upward and coiling around her until he drove her over the edge, and she fell, spiraling downward in a dazzling burst of light.

Hot ecstasy poured through her, gripping every particle of her body as she shuddered beneath him. She cried out his name and felt him tighten, a wave crashing over him as he groaned between clenched teeth before finally collapsing on top of her in a heap of heavenly bliss.

It took a while before either one of them made an effort to speak. “Do you know, I believe you’ve turned me into a very naughty woman indeed.” Her voice had a mischievous edge to it.

Michael grinned openly and pressed a kiss against her cheek. “Oh, Alex, I think you were always naughty. You just needed the right man to help you express it.”

“Well, I do feel as if I could get quite used to expressing it.” She giggled while she hugged him against her, her lips meeting his in a tender kiss.

Rolling them over until she was on top of him, he gazed up at her face, and she looked back, seeing there, the same stirring of passion that she suddenly felt swamping her once again. “I thought you might like a different perspective,” he said, waggling his eyebrows in a most teasing fashion.

“Why, Lord Trenton,” her voice was thick with her newly awakened hunger. “I do believe you’re a very wicked man.”

“Perhaps . . . with the right woman.”

A
lexandra lay awake later that night, still unable to sleep. All she could think about was Michael and their wondrous experience in his bedroom a short while earlier. She didn’t want to think about him right now, but she couldn’t help herself. He’d awakened something in her—a longing of some sort. She’d already acknowledged to herself that she cared about him, but since their coupling, she was no longer sure that her feelings for him weren’t developing into something more—something much more powerful.

Once again she felt that familiar fear tugging at her soul as her mind’s eye focused on the dreaded abyss. They were all moving toward it, some faster than others. But no matter how much she wished it, she could not stop them from falling into it. Sooner or later the people she loved would die and her heart would break. Wasn’t it better then, not to love at all and to save herself from misery? It was a question that she was too afraid to answer.

S
he woke the following morning to a loud knocking at her door. “Time to rise, sleepy head!” It was Ryan’s voice, shouting so loud he was likely to raise the dead. Alexandra groaned. She was confident she hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours—three at most. Throwing back the covers, she sat up and stretched.

Five minutes later, she entered Ryan’s and Michael’s room, her disgruntled mood only marginally better. Feeling like she’d just been whacked over the head with a sledgehammer was doing very little to supply her with a cheerful disposition.

“You certainly look affright,” Ryan remarked as he sipped what Alexandra could only presume to be tea. This was confirmed a second later when William offered her a cup of her own. “Didn’t sleep much?”

A quick retort sprang to her lips, but she forced it back and drank her tea instead. No sense in rising to his bait this time. Besides, all she had to do was cast one look at Michael who was seated in the opposite corner of the room, and all that had transpired between them in the early hours of the morning, came flooding back to her. She looked away, hoping that her tired expression would deter her brothers from jumping to conclusions.

“I certainly enjoyed a good night’s rest,” William said with an annoyingly pleased smile. “Not much space, but perfectly comfortable all the same. Wouldn’t you agree, Ryan?”

“I would indeed,” Ryan said. “Though I did find myself awoken at one point during the night—it was almost as if somebody was screaming, or shouting . . . I’m not quite sure which.”

Alexandra’s cup clattered noisily against her saucer as her eyes flew to Michael’s. He was watching her with the most appalling look of amusement on his face as if he was truly enjoying her show of anxiety. “Re— really?” she asked, clamping her mouth shut at the sound of her broken voice.

“What sort of a scream?” Michael asked, a look of mischief bobbing about his eyes as a crooked smile slid its way across his face.

“A stray cat, no doubt.” Alexandra’s voice was clipped, her jaw clenched as she glared across the room at Michael, silently willing him to put a stop to the topic immediately.

“No . . .” Ryan grinned suddenly while a steady blush of crimson rose to his cheeks. “This was not the sort of sound one might expect from a feline. In fact, I imagine it must have been one of our neighbors having a rather good time, if you know what I—” He blinked and turned to Alexandra, her mouth hanging open as she gaped at her brother in disbelief.

“Forgive me, Alex,” Ryan said. “That was thoughtless of me. I have the tendency to forget that you are a lady. We ought not discuss this sort of thing when you are present.”

He doesn’t know.

She’d never felt more relieved in her life. “That’s quite all right, Ryan,” she muttered, with a hint of embarrassment as she dropped onto a chair. “But perhaps we ought to talk about something else instead.”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” William ventured.

“I doubt you would have woken if the roof had fallen on your head,” Ryan said. “I dare say I’ve never known anyone to sleep so soundly.”

“Yes . . . well,” Alexandra interjected. She was quite determined to steer the conversation on a smoother course. “Shall we discuss our plans instead? We’ll need horses and provisions.”

They spent the next hour trying to determine how they might best go about thwarting Napoleon. Given their experience, William and Michael did the most talking while Alexandra and Ryan patiently listened, only occasionally adding their opinions. Through it all, however, Alexandra remained painfully aware of Michael. His whole countenance and bearing were different somehow—he seemed . . . content. And each time his eyes met hers, there was a knowing look behind them that made her heart flutter.

That evening, as she was combing out her hair in front of the mirror in her room, she saw her door open. Michael stepped inside, closing the door silently behind him. She watched as he walked toward her, a steady warmth rising within her with every step he took.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t knock,” he said as he came to stand behind her, his eyes locking onto hers in the mirror as he placed his hands upon her shoulders. A soft wave of heat rippled through her at his touch. How was she ever going to be able to walk away from him?

“What are you thinking?” He brushed away her hair with his fingers and proceeded to press soft kisses against the side of her neck. His hands left her shoulders in search of her breasts.

“Nothing.” Her voice was breathy in response to his caress, her skin already tingling while her stomach flipped in anticipation. She couldn’t say no to him. Not tonight when she so desperately wanted to feel his touch. She would allow herself this final luxury, because tomorrow, she would start rebuilding the wall around her heart.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

B
ertrand paced about his study with wild agitation. Damn Sandrine Laurant—if that was even her real name, which he by now very much doubted that it was. She and her cohorts had made a complete fool out of him. How could he have been so stupid? He’d had his suspicions, yet she’d still managed to help his prisoner escape, right under his very nose. If word got out about his inexcusable lapse in judgment, he’d be the laughingstock of Paris, if not all of France. Fortunately, he’d managed to shoot the man, though it might have served him better if he’d have lived so he could at least have questioned him. What a dratted nuisance.

And the doctor!

He’d been given direct access to the Imperial Majesty himself. It was outrageous! To think of what he might have heard—every aspect of the Emperor’s plan of attack in Brussels might reach the Coalition armies at any moment. He glanced across at Pierre Dupont. The lieutenant sat perched on the edge of his seat—ready to jump to attention the minute he was given the order to do so. He looked about as nervous as a young lad waiting to have his bottom smacked. Served him right. If it weren’t for him, Bertrand wouldn’t be in this mess.

“Explain yourself.” The command was barked, Bertrand’s face was red with anger as he turned on Pierre who was looking more and more ashamed and embarrassed by the second, his eyes flickering hopelessly toward the door. “How can it be, that one of my finest soldiers allows for something like this to happen? Do you have any idea of the ramifications? I gave you a simple order to keep an eye on one prisoner, and instead I find you locked up in a cell wearing nothing but your underthings. It’s disgraceful!”

“I was attacked, my lord,” Pierre stammered.

“You were attacked?”

Pierre shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Speak!” Bertrand yelled, becoming increasingly enraged from just looking at his lieutenant. “How did this happen?”

“There was a woman . . . she looked distressed . . . hurt. One minute she was running toward me and the next . . . I suspect she must have been aided by one of her friends, but it’s difficult for me to say, my lord.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, because I was unconscious at the time, my lord,” Pierre told him regrettably.

“Unconscious?” Bertrand stared at his lieutenant with complete and utter dismay.
“Unconscious?
How the bloody hell did you manage to render yourself unconscious?”

“Oh no, my lord, you misunderstand,” Pierre quickly added.

“Oh?” Bertrand pinned the man with a stare. “Then by all means, please enlighten me.”

Pierre took a deep breath, somewhat shakily. “As I was saying earlier, I was attacked. The woman practically lured me toward her with her deceiving ways—as I said, she looked injured. I thought it prudent to try and help her, and before I knew it . . .” He gave a helpless shrug.

“No no no . . .” Bertrand raised his hand to silence him. “Please, for the love of God and all that is holy, do not tell me that you—one of my finest lieutenants—was bested by no more than a mere slip of a woman.” He turned to glare at Pierre, hoping that he might deny it, but he could not. Indeed it did seem as if Sandrine Laurant, or whoever she was, had not only deceived this man, but that she or one of her companions had also knocked him out cold before humiliating and disgracing him in the worst possible way by stripping him of all his clothes. This did not reflect well on him. Indeed, it was an outrage that Bertrand could not allow to go unpunished.

“She must have been a very skilled actress to pull it off,” he muttered as he sank down into his armchair.

“She was quite believable,” Pierre remarked.

“I should certainly hope so—for your sake. As it is I’ve a good mind to have you stripped of your duties for the foreseeable future. Perhaps, it will do you good to scrub a few floors as a reminder of your irresponsible actions.”

Pierre paled, but said nothing, apparently, reluctant to anger his commander any further.

Bertrand groaned. The woman was most likely English if her primary objective had indeed been to find the spy and aid him in his escape. But the fact that she’d escaped together with the doctor was unnerving to say the least. He’d ridden all the way to the bloody Bois de Boulogne before he’d realized that the carriage he’d been pursuing had long since been abandoned. It was deplorable.

Bertrand raked his fingers through his hair and considered the matter once more. They were up to something, and he could only hazard a guess as to what that something might be. She had to be found immediately and stopped before she could do more irreparable damage.

“You may leave,” Bertrand told Pierre with a wave of his hand.

Visible signs of relief flooded the man’s face as he scrambled to his feet, only too eager to escape any further punishment that he might receive.

“Oh, and Lieutenant Dupont?” Pierre froze—his hand already on the door handle. “Have Colonel Martinet sent for, will you? I wish to have a friendly word with him.”

Affirming the orders he’d just been given with a curt nod, Pierre departed from the room.

Bertrand reached for his carafe and poured himself a glass of red wine, then leaned back in his chair to await the colonel. He had made his decision, and could not help but feel as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders—in spite of whatever reservations he might have. The fact of the matter was that Sandrine Laurant would soon be dead and would trouble him no more. He couldn’t help but smile.