Winter's Heat: A Nemesis Unlimited Holiday Novella (11 page)

He and Ada stared at the massive bed. At one time, it must have made a luxurious place to rest. Or use for other entertainments.

What he wouldn’t give, the crimes he’d commit, if only to get Ada on that bed and give her pleasure upon pleasure.

Mentally, he shook himself. They were scheduled to meet Marco in half an hour, and there was still the matter of ensuring the valise full of cash was where they’d left it.

She pressed a hand to her stomach. “This worry’s eating me from the inside out.”

At once, he dropped the satchel he carried, lay himself down, and slid beneath the bed. His fingers went immediately to the place where the case had been stashed.

“Still here,” he said.

“But is the money?”

He scuttled out from under the bed, holding the case. Springing to his feet, he set the valise down again on the mattress, then unlocked it.

Both he and Ada exhaled. Stacks of pound notes continued to sleep innocently in the valise, if money could ever be called innocent.

“I want to…” Her hand reached out, tentative. “Can I touch it?”

A thousand utterly filthy and wonderfully inappropriate responses sprang to his lips. He showed, in his opinion, remarkable forbearance by saying none of them. “No harm in it,” he answered instead.

Lightly, gingerly, she ran one fingertip over the pound notes, then snatched her hand back, as if burned. “Feels dirty,” she muttered.

“Soon it won’t.” He snapped the case shut and hefted it. “Marco’s waiting to make all this cash clean again.”

The window to the Gray Bedchamber stuck fast when he tried it. But after several hard tugs, he finally pried it open. Frigid December air swept into the room. Sticking his head out the window, he breathed a sigh of relief. They were only one story above the ground, without any shrubbery below.

He stuffed the valise into the satchel slung over his shoulder—an old army castoff that once belonged to Simon, and was capable of holding almost anything. With this secured, he turned to clamber out the window. Ada was already preparing herself for the climb down. No hesitation. They were far from out of danger, but he couldn’t resist giving her a wink—and she returned it—before lowering himself down.

It was a fast descent. He glanced up once to check on Ada’s progress. Aside from getting a fine view of her slim calves, he needn’t have bothered. She scaled the brick facade like a born thief.

When he reached the ground, he stepped back to give her room. She followed shortly after, then swatted him on his shoulder.

“My skirts aren’t a theater curtain for you to peep through,” she hissed.

“Impatient for the show to begin,” he answered, unrepentant.

“It’ll turn into a Punch and Judy show in a moment,” she said with a threatening gesture. A gesture she ruined when her lips twitched.

But their high spirits quickly muted. They still had to make their way to the east gate of the estate and hand the valise off to Marco. Acres, and groundskeepers on patrol, lay between them.

As silently as they could, they headed toward the east gate. The path kept them closer to the house than their trek to the ruin, so they tried to step quietly over winter-brittle grass. But it sounded awfully loud beneath their boots, like snapping bones. A few lights still blazed in the house as late-night carousers enjoyed yet more glasses of mulled wine. Michael kept away from the light thrown across the lawn, he and Ada clinging to the deeper shadows.

The heavy tread of a groundskeeper sounded, along with the whistled carol, “The Holly and the Ivy.” Michael stepped to the other side of a barren oak and pushed Ada behind him. Though the tree trunk was wide as two men, Michael didn’t move, and neither did Ada. Not until the tread, and tune, died away as the man continued on his patrol.

Michael and Ada carefully made their way onward. At last, the iron gate of Covington Hall’s eastern entrance appeared. Dead ivy clung like spider webs to the high stone wall, and the massive gate itself looked rusted shut. For half a moment, Michael wondered how Marco could possibly get himself onto their side of the gate, but then a piece of darkness detached itself from the wall, approaching silently.

Ada muttered a soft curse. “Is he made of smoke?”

“And silence, and guile,” Michael answered.

They neared closer to the wall, meeting Marco halfway. In his yearlong career with Nemesis, Michael had worked mostly with Simon, though his path did cross now and then with the other agents. Marco himself remained a bit of a mystery—an air the chap deliberately cultivated. He stood a few inches shorter than Michael, but he carried himself like the highly trained operative he was. Marco wasn’t just Nemesis’s bloke, but the government’s, too. He never said exactly
what
he did for the government, but it involved intelligence, and jobs the crown wouldn’t ever officially admit to. God only knew what secrets hid behind those dark eyes of his. Secrets Michael felt better not knowing.

“Ada, this is Marco,” Michael said.

They both exchanged nods. Michael felt a petty stab of satisfaction that Ada’s gaze didn’t linger too much on Marco’s face, for there was no denying it, the blighter was handsome, olive-skinned and dark haired, with a neatly trimmed goatee, and he cut a good figure in his dark, fine clothes.

“Got a Christmas present for you.” Michael pulled the valise from his satchel and handed it to Marco. But he didn’t bother handing him lock picks.

Ada glanced at Michael with a frown, then gasped when, with just a flick of his fingers, Marco opened the locked case.

“A magician, too,” she muttered.

“No magic,” Marco replied. “Just skilled at larceny. Which is nearly the same.” But his casual tone dropped and he softly laced the air with ornate Italian curses when he beheld the case’s contents. “And a Happy Christmas to you. What’s with Barclays Bank here?”

Quickly, Michael told him everything that had happened since he’d arrived at Covington Hall, leaving out nothing—except the kisses he’d shared with Ada. From the discovery of the missing valise, to tracking down the key, to the eventual discovery of the case itself, and what its contents meant for the Larkfields.

“Can’t pin the crime on them,” Michael concluded, “but that doesn’t mean they won’t pay.”

“To the tune of one hundred twenty three thousand pounds,” Marco added.

“We didn’t tell you how much was in there,” Ada said. “We haven’t even counted.”

Marco flashed her an unnerving smile. “I did.” And he’d done so with just a glance at the money.

Terrifying bastard.

“What’s to become of the money?” Ada asked as Marco snapped the case shut.

“Time for a few dozen orphanages in London to get their own Christmas presents,” he answered. “Do a little expansion to make room for the children displaced by those Larkfield
stronzi
.”

She smiled. “A Happy Christmas, indeed.”

Michael glanced up at the sky. “Snow’s coming. We can’t stay out here, in case we leave tracks.”

Marco gave a clipped nod. “See you back in London. There’s a job waiting for you when you return.”

The thought made Michael’s stomach clench. He didn’t mind the assignment, but damn it, he wanted more time with Ada. He felt like a child given a gift, only to have that gift torn from his grasp. The same unhappiness showed on her face.

Marco turned to Ada. “I’ve been at this vengeance business for five years,” he said, “and done … other things for far longer. Takes a considerable amount to impress me.”

That’s the bloody truth.
Marco only recently started calling Michael by his name rather than “the Footman.”

“But you’ve impressed me, Ada,” Marco continued. “Nicely done.”

Michael wasn’t surprised. She
had
done marvelous work. But Marco’s praise seemed to have stunned her. A moment passed before she spoke. “Thank you, sir.”

He might be part Italian, but Marco wasn’t the most effusive bloke. At least, not that Michael had ever seen. Without another word, he turned and melted back into the shadows.

Michael looked up at the sky again. Already the first snowflakes began to fall, lightly now, so that they spun in arcs on the breeze. But soon, they’d fall more heavily, coating the ground, and revealing their tracks.

He started when he felt Ada’s hand lace with his. In silent agreement, they hurried back to the house. The mission was nearly over, the money safely in Nemesis’s hands, and the cold scraping through Michael had nothing to do with the winter’s chill.

*   *   *

By the time Ada climbed back into the Gray Bedchamber, her heart had set up a steady pounding, but it wasn’t due to scaling the wall, or fear of being caught by the groundskeeper or anyone else. No, her heart beat with a different fear. Excitement, too, and resolution made her pulse speed.

She stuck her head out the window. Michael was still standing at the base of the wall, clearly trying to decide whether or not to go back to his quarters, or follow her.

At her soft whistle, he glanced up. And when she waved him up, he didn’t smile, but went sharp and focused. It’s how she felt inside, too. Determined. The voice urging her to silence itself was silenced.

She moved back from the window, and stood in the middle of the abandoned chamber. Watching Michael lithely climb in after her, she felt herself more present in her body and mind than ever before. She saw and sensed everything, yet nothing captured her attention more than him. He slipped into the room, his long body unfolding, and shut the window. At that moment, snow began to fall in earnest—lavish, icy white flakes that outlined the lean length of Michael as he stood in the darkness of the chamber. A few snowflakes clung to the curls of his hair and along his shoulders, glittering in the dimness.

Time was slipping away, as surely as the snow fell from the sky, marking the passage of each moment. She crossed the room and stood directly before him, only inches away. They stared at each other in the reflective glow of the snowfall, neither speaking. Words seemed a small and finite thing, as finite as time itself, and she didn’t want to waste anything. Not a moment. Not a breath.

Instead, she ran her hands up his torso. The fabric of his coat was cool beneath her hands, but she felt the warmth of him beneath that, and the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Her hands slid higher, to rest right over his thundering heart.

He clasped her hands against him, pressing her closer. His gaze continued to hold hers as he let her feel the beat of his heart.
This is what you do to me
, his eyes told her.

She rose up on her toes at the same time he bent his head, and their mouths came together. His lips were cold at first, as she imagined hers must be, but soon they grew warm. He tasted like winter and the faintest bite of whiskey. Their mouths grew bold, opening to each other, tongues sweeping in velvet gloss and growing need. The night’s chill melted away from her with every touch of his lips to hers, and the low rumble of appreciation sounding deep in his chest.

Her hands were trapped between their tightly pressed bodies. She pulled them free and plunged her fingers into his hair, bringing herself even closer to him. One of his hands cupped her chin. His other hand was even bolder, curving around her behind and bringing her snug, hips to hips. She arched into him, the energy of his athletic body reverberating through her. When he pulled his mouth from hers to scrape his teeth along the small exposed part of her throat, a fuse lit within her. She wanted it to burn. Burn until it exploded.

She walked backward, pulling him with her. Until the back of her legs met the mattress of the giant, ornate bed.

Lifting his head, he glanced from her to the bed and back again. Hunger sharpened his features. Yet he rasped, “Be sure, Ada. Be sure this is what you want.”

“For the first time,” she answered, breathless, “I know exactly what I want. It’s
you
, Michael. Even for only a night.”

He went still. His muscles tense, drawn into themselves as if in waiting. Both she and he knew what this moment meant. A housemaid and shopgirl couldn’t be free with her body, not without consequence. But she didn’t care about consequence. Not with time drifting away in swirling eddies of snow.

“Then we’ll have our night,” he growled. “And I’ll use precautions.” He glanced around the cobweb-shrouded chamber with a scowl. “Wish it didn’t have to be here. I’d give you a room at Claridge’s.”

“Doesn’t have to be Claridge’s. Or a hayloft. Just us together. Wherever we are. For as long as we have.”

Another moment’s stillness from him. And then he was all action, undoing the buttons of her dress with ferocious intensity. He wouldn’t even be distracted by kisses. But she couldn’t blame him, and wondered why she wasted precious time by standing still when he was fully clothed. It was a furious, awkward tangle of hands as they pushed and pulled at each other’s clothing, shoving the garments aside and to the ground, heedless of the dust graying the floor.

They broke apart long enough for him to pull off his shirt and for her to wriggle out of her dress. She attacked the hooks up the front of her corset, and peeled off her stockings, until she wore only her chemise and drawers. Despite the coldness of the room, she found herself motionless, staring at him, as she finally saw him naked from the waist up.

Naturally, she knew that footmen had to be physically fit, and she also understood that Michael was especially so, given his skill at climbing up and down buildings. And she’d caught sight of laborers without their shirts, learning what made up the male physique. It had always fascinated her, the differences between men and women, their brawn to women’s softness. But now she found herself transfixed by the sight of Michael, snow-filled light sculpting the muscles of his tight, sinewed body. He wasn’t burly, but long and rangy, making each flex and shift sharply defined. The lightest sprinkling of hair scattered over his chest. She watched with appreciation as the contours of his arms sleekly bunched while he tugged off his boots and unfastened his trousers.

And then he stood before her, completely nude. He was lean muscle everywhere. She couldn’t help it: her gaze arrowed right to the thick curve of his erect penis. Heat bloomed through her at the sight. She dragged her gaze up to his. He watched her, his eyes bright and sharp with desire in the dim chamber. She could’ve sworn that his erection gave a twitch when she and Michael stared at each other. Fueling each other’s need.