Surrender to a Wicked Spy (6 page)

Dane nodded, his own mouth a bit dry at the moment. His own arousal thundered in his blood as he fought for control. This was unexpected. She was liquid heat in his hands, so responsive to every touch and so eager for every sensation. He'd thought it would take several nights to work a sheltered virgin into her first orgasm. It had taken Olivia less than an hour.

That did bode well for his ultimate purpose, but it also played bloody hell with his self-restraint. Even now, as she lay limply and trustingly against his chest, he knew he could work her into another frenzy with his hands, for he could feel the tiny tremors still shimmering through her lower body, making her quiver slightly in his lap. Torture… and temptation. He wanted to release his throbbing erection, ached to lay her back down on the bed and push himself into her wetted body, her tight, slick, virginal opening—

Impossible.

He reached behind him to pull the coverlet down and released his hold on her, letting her slip down to the waiting sheets. She went softly and sleepily, apparently unaware that her nightdress still gaped and that her luscious breasts made him want to throw back his head and howl.

He fought back that instinct with alarm. He wasn't an animal. It was only basic lust, male for female. It was because of the way his hands still smelt of her and his mouth still felt the rough strawberry texture of her nipples on his tongue.

He covered her succulent flesh with the counterpane, beating down the beast once more, but the fight was exhausting. As Olivia closed her eyes, still smiling sleepily at him, he felt weariness weigh down his shoulders. He pulled off his shirt, for her room was too warm—or at least, something was too warm.

The bed called to him. He ought to go back to his room. He ought not to get into the habit of sleeping the night with her. That smacked too much of intimacy and dependence.

He moved, and her hand slipped from the covers to touch his. "Don't go," she whispered, her eyes still shut.

He gazed down on her curled alone in that big bed. He ought to think of her. This was her first night in a strange house. It was only… well,
polite
didn't seem like the right word. It was only
considerate
of him to watch over her for a while until she was deeply asleep. He moved to the other side of the bed and leaned his tired shoulders against the headboard. He stretched his legs out and let his head fall back against the wood. He could use this time to think about the Prince Regent. Something must be done to keep the man under control…

Dane's head slipped to one side and he slowly slid down the headboard until he rested fully on the pillows. He was completely unaware when a soft hand slid from beneath the covers to entwine its fingers with his.

Milady's bedchamber looked out over the gardens. Past the gardens there was a high wall keeping the mews and its attendant manure and other noisome smells from interfering with that of the last fading roses.

On that wall, kept in indistinct shadow by climbing ivy and the shedding leaves of a young elm, perched a watcher who had particular interest in milady's bedchamber. He'd seen the lord and the lady come together near the grand bed, he'd seen them topple together out of his sight, and he'd seen the candle die by neglected flickering hours later.

Mission completed.

It was a good match. They were two of a kind, after all. And after all, as everyone knew, blood would tell.

And such lovely, traitorous blood it was, too.

The watcher smiled. Henry Calwell had been a pleasure to suborn—stalwart and self-righteous until that pretty little French girl had been planted in his path. Then all that passion and loyalty had belonged to France, or at least to a woman who was sworn to France, which amounted to the same thing with these English sods. Really, they were so impractical about the game of love.

Losing Henry had been costly to the grand mission. Only shame before his own son could have made Henry revert, that was certain. How satisfying now, to watch the son fall beside the father. A fitting replay of history, in addition to being precisely what the circumstances called for.

There had been several losses of late, mostly due to those bloody Liars—

The hands planted on the top of the wall curled into fists, fingernails gritting against the stone. The Liars were nothing but gutter-rats or inbred aristocrats. How could they have destroyed the best of his ring so easily?

Lavinia Winchell had been a prize indeed. Lovely and heartlessly sexual, she'd had such a way of luring those English spies to their fates—until the Liars had turned one of Lavinia's own operatives, Jackham, against her.

Wadsworth, the arms maker, had belonged to France from boyhood—a man with vision, unlike his greedy son. Still, both had been useful, until those glorified pickpockets had destroyed them as well.

Then the Liars had snatched the codemaster's daughter up before she could be captured, leaving the emperor without leverage to force her father to work for France—an embarrassing failure indeed.

To have such victory yanked from him just when he was about to take down the Liars themselves… he burned for vengeance, but he needed a new cell of operatives. He'd set everything aside to pursue Dane Calwell without end.

His current minions, a mealy handful of worthless younger sons and devious servants, could bring him nothing but more of the same. Sneak thieves and perverts would not ultimately serve his cause. He needed Lord Greenleigh, a man of impeccable reputation—aside from the secret of his father's treason. Yet he was rather lazy and non-political for one who could wield such power in the government.

Well, if England could not win his devotion, then France would.

And to ensnare the king, he would use the queen.

Carefully, for limbs tended to stiffen while crouching on cold stone, the watcher uncurled and dropped back behind the wall. In the wooden stable building, a few horses stirred, nickering softly in hopes of an early breakfast.

The watcher moved quickly down the alley before a groom could investigate the horses' unrest, fading into the shadows with the ease of long practice.

When Olivia woke, the room was dark and the coals were only a glow in the hearth. She stretched out languorously, preparing to turn over and go back to sleep, when her toes touched a hard, cloth-covered surface.

A leg. A man's leg. A husband's leg.

A husband who still wore his trousers while she slept nearly naked. How embarrassing. Except that the thought sent a startling ripple through her body. What would it be like to be naked before him, like a… a slave princess before the barbarian king?

The ripple increased to a tremor of arousal. If he should wake to find her bare to his touch, would he finish what he had begun earlier this night? There was more to come, she was sure of it. She'd seen stallions breeding mares and hounds breeding bitches—although she suspected that humans didn't do it quite like four-legged creatures.

She closed her eyes against the dimness and tried to imagine Dane mounting her like a stallion. Him behind her, golden muscles rippling and gleaming in the sun—

A violent shudder went through her at the thought.
Oh my
.

Her movement must have wakened Dane, for he rolled toward her. "Are you all right?" he asked, his deep voice husky with sleep. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Olivia pulled her mind from her depraved imagination with violent speed. "Ah, no. It was not a bad dream."
No, not bad at all
.

He wrapped a big arm around her midriff and tugged her closer. His large hand was hot on her skin and she shivered at the contact. "Are you cold?" he murmured.

No, she was quite the opposite. Before she could answer or kiss him or do any other of the twenty-odd things she would have liked to do to her brand-new Viking-god husband, her stomach gave a ferocious growl. Olivia clapped one hand over her mouth in stark mortification. Her mother would be so shocked. Her mother would go completely ashen with horror. Her mother would—

Dane chuckled, a gentle rumble in the dark intimacy of their draped bed. "That is my fault, is it not? I never rang for your dinner."

He rolled away from her to reach for the cord at the head of the bed to ring for a servant.

Olivia put her hand on his bare shoulder. "Must we wake them? They worked so hard today."

He turned to look at her quizzically. "It is their job to come when I call. That is what I pay them well to do."

Olivia frowned. "Servants are human beings, my lord. Human beings who need rest in order to 'come when you call.' I feel the urge to foment a rebellion."

He rolled back toward her, rising up to rest his chin on his raised fist. His broad outline looked like a mountain range in the dimness. "What do you propose I do, my Lady Greenleigh—service you myself?"

Olivia decided that once she got her breath back, she would like precisely that—

She shook her head sharply. Her imagination was beginning to interfere with her thinking. "No, of course not. I'm perfectly able to go down to the kitchens and sort out something to eat."

"Alone?"

She shrugged. "Why should I not?"

"In that?" His tone reminded her that the ties were undone on her gown.

She pursed her lips. "Well, no. I would dress, of course."

He chuckled. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

Being ordered to remain nearly naked ought to have bothered Olivia at least a little. The fact that it didn't should have bothered her a lot. Mother had never touched on this particular topic, but Olivia was fairly certain that undress on command was not something a lady should tolerate.

This was not her mother's house. It was
her
house, hers and her lord's. And if her handsome, astounding lord husband wanted her barely dressed, then barely dressed she would willingly be!

"I can wait until breakfast," she amended.

Dane rose from the bed. "Then I believe I'll return to my room now."

Olivia really wished he wouldn't, but she could hardly beg him to sleep with her. Although she doubted she'd be able to go back to sleep with him there within reach. Begging was beginning to look better and better.

So, purely in the spirit of good manners, of course, she spoke. "You're welcome to stay if you like."

He didn't turn to look at her. "I think not."

On his way from the room, he took a fresh candle from the decorative box on the mantel and lit it in the glowing coals. After he affixed it in the silver candlestick, the flame stabilized and filled the room with a golden glow.

Olivia caught her breath as the light revealed him in all his bare-chested magnificence. The glimpses she'd caught of his body when he'd… taught… her had only hinted at the rippling breadth of his torso. The candle glow highlighted every hill and valley of his muscled chest and all the lean power of his rippling abdomen.

He turned at her faint gasp, raising the candle in order to see her better. Olivia realized that she had sat upright at the sight. She had also forgotten to pull her nightdress closed to cover herself. Suddenly shy, which was ridiculous considering what he had done to her—and what she wanted to do to him—she grabbed her neckline.

She thought she saw his jaw clench and she was sure his eyes could scorch steel. It looked as though his lordship might not be leaving after all.

Then he blinked and took a breath, and the flash of male ferocity left his features. He smiled easily in the way he had, as if he were just an ordinary fellow, easygoing and congenial.

What a ridiculous notion! As if a man like him was ever ordinary!

He wagged one finger at her. "Tut-tut. Play fair."

Hiding her disappointment, she tugged the nightdress closed and tilted her head at him. "Did you actually say 'tut-tut,' my lord?" she asked him teasingly. "I thought only ladies of a certain age used that phrase."

His jaw dropped and he stared at her for a long moment. "You truly aren't afraid of me, are you?" he asked, shaking his head in bemusement.

Olivia drew her knees up under the covers and rested her arms across them. "You keep asking me that. Why would I be afraid of you? Are you a bad man?"

The question caught him up for some reason. He stood there, a half-naked god of a man, and actually seemed to ponder his answer. She frowned at him. "It was not meant to be a poser, my lord."

"I do not like to think of myself as less than honorable," he said slowly. "I do have rather high standards of behavior for myself and others."

"Of course." She nodded easily. "You are a gentleman."

He gazed at her soberly. "And for you, as my wife."

An uneasy tremor went through Olivia. His tone was suddenly severe. She nodded again, slowly. "Of course. I am a lady." She truly tried to be, anyway. She must take care to prove it to both of them.

He seemed to relax then, for he smiled slightly.

"Then I bid my lady good eve." He bowed and strode from the room, taking the light and Olivia's previous contentment with him.

«
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The next time Olivia awoke, pearly daylight streamed in through the high arched window, turning what had been dark and intimate now quite commonplace, if luxurious.

A flutter of cloth drew Olivia's attention toward the dressing-area door where she saw a maid shaking out one of the gowns from Olivia's trousseau.

"Good morning," Olivia said brightly, expecting a smile and a comment on the day, the way the Cheltenham servants would have responded.

The maid stood and turned, bobbing warily. "Good morning, milady."

She was a nice-looking girl of perhaps seventeen. Olivia smiled to put her at her ease. "What is your name, please?"

The girl went entirely still. "I am called Petty, milady." Her voice was flat and her gaze was anything but friendly. "The housekeeper presented me to you yesterday."

Olivia faltered. "Well… thank you for the fresh coals, Petty." She gestured toward the now-blazing fire. "My room turned quite chilly overnight and I'm glad for a fire."

If possible, Petty became even more stiff. "That was the chambermaid, milady. We was instructed not to wake you any earlier. If you want your fire freshened before ten, milady, you must speak to Mrs. Huff, the housekeeper."