No Proper Lady (19 page)

“And I’d hardly deny a lady any pleasure. I would offer you my escort home, Mrs. MacArthur, but that might cause problems.” He bent over her hand, touching his lips to her knuckles. “So we’ll have to be content with the future. The very near future.”

By the time she got into the carriage, Joan was almost unbearably turned on. Whatever Reynell had put into her drink had kicked in all the way. She felt every inch of her clothing as it rubbed against her skin, every motion of the carriage on the way back to Simon’s. If Betty hadn’t been there, she might have at least started to take care of it herself.

She wondered if Reynell had thought of that. Was the drug designed so you could be satisfied only with a partner? With a man? Or did he assume that she, like the fainting morons of this time, wouldn’t think to handle the problem on her own?

Hard to say. Joan wished desperately that she could at least experiment.

Instead, she clenched her fists and looked out the window, watching the stars overhead and thinking about anything but sex. The drug would work its way through her system. She just had to wait it out.

It wasn’t even worth using the antidote.

Joan slipped into the house, handing her cloak to the sleepy boy who came to meet her, and sent Betty away. She’d get herself out of the dress somehow. Having someone else undress her right now would be a really bad idea.

She hurried through the dark hallways, and she didn’t see the light under the study door until it opened just in front of her. Joan jumped backward.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said, retreating back a step. “I heard footsteps. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not your fault,” Joan said, cursing at herself silently. Lust was no excuse to get stupid.

He looked her over for a second. Shadows fell across his face, making it unreadable, and Joan swallowed hard. Even his gaze seemed to brush tangibly across her skin.

“Will you come in? I’d like to hear how the evening went.”

If she were smart, she’d say she was tired. Oh, sure, debriefing came before her needs, even when those needs had been boosted by magic or alchemy or whatever, and it was important to share information as soon as possible. But it wasn’t like Simon would disappear in the middle of the night.

“Sure,” said Joan, and followed him back into the study.

I’m not sleeping with him
, she reminded herself.
I shouldn’t. He won’t.

Then I don’t have anything to worry about, do I? And there’s no harm in looking.

Simon waited for her to sit down and then dropped into the chair next to her. Now Joan could see his face and the lines of tension on his brow. “Are you all right?”

He’d waited up for her. He was worried. Joan felt a sudden warmth in her chest. It didn’t match the sensations lower down, but it was more disturbing in its own way. She’d been trying to forget that she loved him. “Yeah. Things are coming along pretty well.”

“Ah. Are they?”

Had his voice gone flat there, or was she imagining things? They were both tired. Joan shrugged. “He suggested meeting in private sometime soon.”

“If he went that far, he must be fairly certain of your interest,” Simon said, and this time Joan definitely heard the flatness in his voice. “Unless he’s playing some deeper game.”

“Possible. But I doubt it. I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m really drawn to him.” Joan shifted in her seat. Embarrassment and lust made a great combination.

“Ah.” Toneless. Whatever bee he had in his bonnet was buzzing louder. “You’re going to take him up on the offer?”

“When he makes it,” said Joan. Annoyance was starting to shoulder its way in among her other feelings. Honestly, it was a relief. She raised a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you your chance to talk to him. Though the logistics could be a problem.”

“Could they? How so?”

Joan shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll come by here. He’ll invite me over to his house instead. If he wants to do more than talk, I’m going to have a hard time finding the book. We’ll have to think up some distraction.”

“Before or after?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Of course. Stupid of me to ask, I suppose.” His mouth twisted with distaste.

That was it.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Joan snapped her head up and glared at Simon. “You were there, weren’t you? You saw what the world becomes. Do you think for a goddamn second I’m going to turn down a chance to stop it just so I can act like one of your innocent little ladies?”

That got through, and he winced. “No. I—”

“Let me be perfectly clear,” she said, imitating for a second the snottiest of the well-bred women she’d met. “First of all, this was your idea. If you didn’t think it through, if you have a problem with it now because it’s not proper or modest or whatever, too bad. If there’s a chance to save this stupid world, I’m taking it. If that means I have to sleep with Reynell or the whole damn city or a herd of goats, then I’m going to do it. And I’m going to smile about it if I have to.”

Thanks for that mental image, by the way. Ass.

“Well, you certainly haven’t had a problem…smiling…so far.”

“Is that what this is about?” She felt like a giant ball of spikes now: weariness and revulsion, anger and thwarted desire combined. “This is my duty. Do you really think I’m going to bitch about it every chance I get?”

“No.” Simon looked down at his hands and then back up. “I’m worried that you might be getting too fond of your…duty.”

It took a moment to sink in.

“
You son of a bitch
.”

Joan almost hit him. She was on her feet, her fists clenched, before she was even conscious of moving, and stopping herself was an effort that was almost physical pain. “I could kill you for that back home. There are maybe four things I could kill someone for, and that—”

She broke off and spun toward the fire, pulling the knife from her sleeve.

Simon made some kind of incoherent sound and stood up fast, knocking over his chair. Ignoring him, Joan held her arm out over the stone hearth and put the blade against her open palm.

“I give you my oath by blood and iron,” she said, and the words came back to her as clearly as when she’d made the vow to the priest, with her mother crying in pride and fear. “I give it by the fixed stars and the wandering, by our dead and our lost, by all we have left behind and all we still hold. I am a warrior of the free people, and I will fight to my death against the enemies of humanity. Let me be broken, nameless, and voiceless if I ever forsake my duty. Let men and Powers both abandon me if I turn against the light or show favor to the darkness.”

“Joan—”

She didn’t even feel the cut. “This is my word. This is my will.”

In front of her, the fire went on crackling away as if nothing had happened. Joan stared at it.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Simon said behind her.

“I didn’t.” The clarifying anger had ebbed, leaving Joan dog tired and still, stupidly, horny.
As my honored ancestors would say: oh, what a world, what a world.
But the oath had left her feeling less polluted, both by Reynell’s touch and by her own reaction, like she stood on solid ground again. “Though I guess I thought I did at the time.”

He sighed. “For what it’s worth, I never really thought you wouldn’t stop him, regardless of your feelings. I just didn’t know what they were.”

Joan laughed, harsh enough to hurt her throat. “Ask Betty. She knows how many baths I’ve taken in the last couple weeks and how hot they’ve been. Among other things.” There was really no need to mention throwing up. “For five years, he’s been in every nightmare I’ve had. The ground turned to ash where he walked. He’s not like he was in my dreams—but do you really think I could look at him and see anything but a monster?”

“But you’d been so eager to kill him, and then you started hesitating…”

“I’m scared, you moron.” It came out half choked. She didn’t turn. “Not of dying. I’m going to die here no matter what, and maybe it’s better if I go down fighting. But I only have one chance. If I make a move too soon, if I don’t do everything just right…then there was never any point to my coming here at all.”

The words hung in the air; the fire itself seemed to shape them.

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “I was a cad and stupid, and I’m sorry. Will you let me see your hand?”

“Sure.” The cut was shallow, just beginning to sting now. Joan turned away from the fire and sat back down. Simon dug a handkerchief out of his pocket. There was a little pocket of silence between them and a sense of healing there. “At least I’ll be wearing gloves tomorrow, I guess.”

“There’s that. And this doesn’t look bad at all.” His touch was warm on her wrist.

Joan nodded, trying not to feel. “It should be okay. I heal fast.”

“You’re fortunate.”

“Partly. There are spells we get once we take the oath.”

“Oh?” He wrapped the handkerchief around her hand and tied it deftly.

Joan nodded. “It’s a dangerous business, but we do what we can.” She watched him: the long lines of his body, the way his hair fell as he bent over her hand, the sudden glint of his eyes in the firelight. “I’m an assassin, Simon,” she said abruptly. “I’m pretty good at pretending to feel things. Or not to feel things. You should remember that.”

“I do,” he said. “That’s part of the problem.”

“What do you mean?” She knew what he meant. It sang through her, sending the arousal she’d almost managed to bank into bright flame again.

Simon looked up at her, his eyes very dark. “I wanted to know how you felt about me,” he said. His voice was low, ashamed but excited. “Not a very worthy impulse, I understand, but—”

Joan held up her hand, its improvised bandage white in the dim room. “Let me clear that up for you,” she said, and leaned forward.

***

Kissing Joan was like drinking neat rum—almost uncomfortably hot and thoroughly, almost instantly intoxicating. It wasn’t like kissing any other girl in Simon’s experience. There was nothing naive or submissive about her, as there had been with Society girls. There was nothing practiced or seductive either, though he didn’t doubt she had experience. She was all wild demand and hunger, bordering on greed.

It was agony to push her away, even a little. He struggled to find the breath to speak. “Do you really think this is wise?”

“I don’t think it matters.” Her lips were a little bruised now, and her smile was bright and hot.

“Joan—” he began, feeling the obligation.

Her eyes met his. Behind the lust, they were essentially clear. “Do you really think it’ll help anything if we stop now?”

God help him, he didn’t.

Simon rose from his chair, half pulling Joan and half lifting her into his arms. He tried to be gentle for a moment. Then Joan wound her hands in his hair and pressed her body against his, her breath hot against his neck, and his control snapped.

He claimed her mouth with almost painful violence, startling himself—but not pulling away. Not when Joan didn’t. Not when she groaned instead and writhed, rubbing her breasts against his chest and her hips against his aching erection. He couldn’t have stopped himself then for anything.

All he could do was step away a little, not enough to stop kissing Joan but enough to bring his hands upward and stroke her breasts. The corset was a damnable barrier, too stiff and too thick to permit much contact, but above it, where there was only thin silk between Simon’s hands and Joan’s skin—ah, there was warmth and firmness, and he couldn’t bear even the silk any longer.

It ripped easily. Joan did tense for a moment when she heard the noise, and Simon started to pull back, to reassure and inquire. Her hands were on his shoulders, though, drawing him to her and pulling downward at the same time so that they were both settling to the floor. He went willingly, kissing her neck and the smooth skin of her breasts, clearly visible now above the shredded neckline of her gown. Joan tilted her head back and caught her breath.

God, she was gorgeous, and, God, she was enthusiastic, and Simon didn’t have anywhere near enough control to do her justice. Another few minutes of this, and he was going to spend in his trousers like some clumsy sixteen-year-old with his first woman.

When one of Joan’s hands dropped to the buttons of his flies, Simon almost did. His hips thrust forward toward her palm, almost of their own volition, and his cock bucked against her fingers. The world began to go white around him. He pulled himself back from the brink, barely, and somehow caught her hand.

“No. Not like that.” It was amazing that he got the words out. He was yanking his trousers open as he spoke, heedless of snapped buttons. They opened, after what felt like an eternity, and he shoved them down. When his swollen cock sprang out, Joan made a low, appreciative sound in her throat.

Hunger.

Simon shoved her skirt up and out of the way with one hand, a clumsy motion that Joan, thank God, either didn’t notice or didn’t mind. He slid his other hand up her leg, feeling the firm muscle through the thin cloth of her drawers, and then farther up. Joan parted her thighs for him almost at once. She was soft and hot and astoundingly wet.

Oh, God, yes.

At his touch, Joan thrust her hips upward, circling them. Her breath was coming fast now, her face flushed. Simon moved over her and forward, just nudging at her sex with the head of his cock.

Somewhere, he found the presence of mind to speak once more. “Tell me yes.
Please
.”

She opened her eyes. The rim of hazel around the black pupil was very thin now. “Yes,” she said, husky and impatient and feverish. “Hell, yes.”

The first thrust forward was ecstasy in itself. Tight, wet—and Joan rising to meet him, her mouth on his neck and her hands low on his back now, urging him on. He went again, and the world began to diminish, to center itself in his plunging cock and the woman beneath him.
Good
, he thought, and
good
again, and then there were no more words.

Joan cried out into his neck, a shout of pure primitive triumph. Simon felt her climax beneath him. Her nails scored his back, creating a dim pain that only increased his pleasure. He might have shouted at the end himself. He neither knew nor cared.

Smell was the first part of consciousness to return: sweat and arousal, strangely pleasant with a touch of lemons and roses. Simon realized that he had his face buried in Joan’s neck and that her hair was spread out beneath them. Her skin was silky against his lips, and her body felt wonderful beneath his, all firm and warm with just a touch of softness. Already, renewed lust began to make itself known.

But they were still on the floor, he thought, and still mostly dressed. Simon remembered his urgency then and his violence. When he opened his eyes, he saw the beginnings of a bruise on Joan’s neck and didn’t remember how it had gotten there.

Simon flushed and winced a little inside, even as his body started to respond again. If he hadn’t remembered how wet Joan had been, or how quickly she’d come once he’d thrust into her, he would have damned himself for the worst kind of brute.

As it was, he found himself absurdly embarrassed when Joan turned her head to look at him and absurdly relieved to see her languid smile. “I didn’t think about the floor,” he said, apologizing nonetheless. “I hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

She laughed, rippling and easy. “There’s a floor?”

It was all right. Any remnants of tension fled, leaving Simon relaxed as he hadn’t been in months. “There’s supposed to be.”

“Oh, well.” She shrugged. It was quite a diverting movement. “I don’t think I could’ve made it to a bed.” Firelight spilled down over her face, making it glow, turning her hazel eyes luminous and her hair to molten gold.

“Would you like to try now?” Simon asked.

Joan shifted under him and then lifted her eyebrows and laughed again. Her laughter fell around Simon like the fire’s warmth. “
You’ve
been eating your Wheaties, haven’t you?” Incomprehensible statement. It didn’t matter, though, because she leaned up and kissed him, long and hard. “Absolutely.”

***

It had been years since Joan had felt so comfortable in anyone’s presence. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so much like laughing as she did sneaking through the house behind Simon, neither of them quite daring to turn on a light and both of them wincing at every squeaky board. Not since she was a kid, anyhow, and maybe not even then. Her childhood hadn’t ever been safe enough to be silly.

She did start laughing when she got to Simon’s room.

“You’ve seen it before, you know,” he said. He was standing beside her now and sliding his hands slowly up her back. Heat followed them: a more comfortable sort of heat this time, though, now that the first clawing desperation had been sated.

“Yeah, but I didn’t notice.”

“Notice what? I never thought you’d care so much about interior design.”

Joan shook her head and turned, grinning at him. She gestured to the bed with one hand. “How many people do you usually fit in this thing?”

Now Simon laughed. His hands ran up her neck and then back down, light touches that made her squirm against him. “No more than five or six a night. I’m a moderate man, you know.”

“Uh-huh,” she teased back. “I hope I can live up to your standards then.”

Simon bent and kissed her neck. “Oh,” he said. His voice was low and husky. Against her back, she could feel that he was doing very well on the recovery front. “You’ve already done that and more.”

There was only one way to answer a comment like that.

This time, it was slower and gentler, as far as either of them could manage, without the bruising force there’d been earlier. This time, Joan slid her hands through Simon’s hair as he kissed her, rather than tangling and pulling. This time, when his mouth moved back to her neck, it was with no hint of teeth. She felt her lust building quickly, but it was building, not already at the point of no return.

They had time. Time to get undressed, for example, though that took longer than either of them would have liked. There were too many hooks on the back of Joan’s dress and far too many knots on her corset. By the time Simon had gotten both of those off, Joan was fairly well used to hearing him swear.

But at last it was off. The flashgun came with the corset—Simon must have noticed but didn’t ask. Nor did he ask when Joan slipped off the garter and the knife it held. He had his priorities straight, after all. And besides, when the weapons came off, so did the rest of the goddamn complicated underwear, and Joan stood naked before him in the dancing firelight.

For a moment, she was conscious of her scars, here in this time where women were supposed to be white and unblemished. For a moment she was glad of the shadows. Then pride rose up. Joan straightened, tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and met Simon’s eyes squarely. There might, she thought, have been a moment of tenderness in his gaze. More importantly, there was plenty of desire. She heard him catch his breath, and smiled.

The view from her end was pretty spectacular too. Simon’s clothes had come off with relative ease—men had it good here—but he’d been too busy trying to remove Joan’s for her to take a good look. He deserved one. Naked, his body lived up to every promise it had made under his clothes and more. Not a warrior, no—he had more than a hint of softness about him, and now that made the men back home seem too thin, too sharp and desperate—but an active man. His chest was broad, his stomach was flat, and his cock jutted upward from between lean, strong thighs.

She might have taken a step forward, or Simon might have. Joan wasn’t really sure and she didn’t really care. His skin felt amazingly good against hers. The sparse hair on his chest rubbed against her hard nipples, and she made a quick involuntary sound of pleasure. Going slowly began once again to seem hard.

But she wanted to, so she stepped back, took Simon’s hand, and led him to the bed. He followed, briefly surprised but not at all shocked, watching her with a combination of desire and curiosity. “Lie down,” Joan said.

She began with his neck, trailing her mouth downward from the sensitive spot behind his ear—there was a pressure point there that would make men curse and stumble back if you jabbed it, but the light touch of her tongue just made Simon moan—and pressing her body against his, her hands light on his shoulders again. His hands were nowhere so innocent. They grasped her buttocks and pressed her against him so that she could feel him hard and hot against her stomach. By the time Joan reached his chest, she was slick again, not quite aching for him but getting damn close.

Slowly
, she told herself, and tried. She even sat up to touch him, running her fingers through the dark hair on his chest, flicking them over his nipples, and grinning when he drew a breath that was more of a hiss. Then Simon sat upward and captured one of
her
nipples in his mouth, and Joan did more than hiss. She groaned and wriggled her hips against him, lust racing through her now. When he moved to the other breast, she threw her head back and closed her eyes, blind for a second to anything but that pleasure.

It took a hell of a lot of willpower to swing off Simon, but she did. He started to reach for her and then stopped, as if frozen, when Joan slid a hand between his legs. Slowly she moved upward, stroking his thighs and then cupping his balls gently, her fingers moving in small circles over the soft hair and softer skin. It had been a long time since she’d touched a man. She had never, she thought, touched one with so much pleasure.

“God,” Simon said hoarsely. His eyes had closed somewhere in the process. Joan wrapped her fingers around his shaft, and he said, “God,” again. This time it was considerably more emphatic. His cock pulsed in her hand, thick and rigid. When she slid her fingers upward, she found wetness at the head.

When she ran her tongue around it, Simon cried out, and his fists clenched on the sheets. “You—ahh—don’t have to—”

Joan laughed and slid downward, taking him into her mouth. He tasted musky, far from unpleasant, and she wanted to make him come that way sometime soon. Not now, though. Whether it was the aphrodisiac or Simon himself, she was hot again, wanting again, and she couldn’t wait much longer. She gave the head of his cock one final flick of her tongue, making him moan again, and then sat up.

Straddling him again was wonderful. Taking him inside her was damn near mind-blowing. She cried out this time—once in pleasure and then startled when Simon caught her hips before she could begin to move.

When she looked down, she saw that he was smiling up at her. “My turn now,” he said, and his hand, big and warm, moved down. He ran his fingers through the curls between her thighs, found the place that was stiff and eager for his touch, and slowly began to rub it. “Don’t move.”

His voice was low, almost a whisper, a caress itself. And his touch was patient. Light. Skilled. Joan might have been surprised if she’d been able to think. Instead, she held very still, biting her lip, fighting the urge to arch forward and rub against Simon’s hand. All her attention focused on his touch and on making sure it didn’t stop—more so as he rubbed faster, a little harder, and suddenly the conclusion wasn’t just likely but fucking inevitable.

Joan didn’t notice him leaning up, but suddenly his lips had closed over one of her nipples again. Then his hand was moving even faster, and she threw her head back, biting her lip. That time she managed to come without screaming, though she’d never in her life know how.

As the surges inside her died away, she and Simon started moving. Now there was urgency. Simon seemed at the end of his patience, and that was fun too. His hands gripped her hips again, but this time they urged her on, faster and faster, with his eyes on her face or watching the way her breasts moved with each thrust. At the end, his eyes closed again, and he thrust upward one final time, letting go and taking Joan over the edge again as he went.

***

“You don’t have any scars,” Joan said, sometime later. She was lying on one side, trailing the tips of her fingers over his chest. Even after two rounds of sex—and those quite the wildest Simon could remember—it felt wonderful. He thought he might start purring. “None. It’s pretty impressive. Didn’t you ever fall off anything?”

“I did. And I do. Have a scar, I mean.” He wiggled his right foot and then caught Joan’s arm. “No, don’t get up. It’s not worth looking at.”

She grinned. “What happened?”

“Nothing terribly romantic. I slammed it in a window trying to sneak out of school one night.”

“Why?”

“I was twelve.”

This time, her smile was rueful. “Okay, fair enough.”