You Only Love Once (17 page)

Afterward it was the sound of the fire crackling that first penetrated the daze into which she'd fallen. It was a muted, comforting sound, reminding her of quiet days spent sewing by the hearth, with Melanie bringing her cups of lemon-mint tea. Which was a very odd thing to think of as she lay slumped over her bed with cool air drifting over her bare back and a confounding, infuriating, irresistible man between her legs, still inside her. In her right mind she would be disgusted with herself for letting things get this far out of hand with him; she hadn't wanted to let him affect her this way. It was dangerous, not just to their work but to her own peace. She couldn't afford to start daydreaming of any future beyond the next few days with him.

Unfortunately she was far from her right mind tonight. Nothing seemed more right than being where she was at this moment, and so she lay there letting her thoughts roam, while a silly smile curved her mouth.

Nate was glad she didn't move or say anything. That last climax had drained the life from him, it seemed; he had to blink to see straight when he finally opened his eyes. She was still and quiet beneath him, her hips gently curved under his palms, her slim waist rising to her rib cage, where he could
just make out the swell of her breast as she lay sprawled facedown on the bed, her arms thrown wide to clutch at the covers. Her dark curls ran riot over her pale back and the side of her face. All he could see was her profile, serene and perfect, with a blissful smile on her lips.

He was doomed.

Nate had never been a romantic, sighing over a succession of ladies. Enough women liked him as he was that he saw no reason to change his ways, to court, to pursue. If any woman he'd dallied with ever expected more from him…he was sorry for her, because he never intended more. His mother had scolded him more than once about his ability to collect hearts without giving his own, and Nate had just laughed; he wasn't that sort, he told her. Tonight he realized it hadn't been him, it had been the women. None of them had ever drawn him the way Angelique did. None of them had ever fascinated him as she did, and none of them had ever been so hard to hold. He was quite sure that in the morning, she would try to be her normal cool, efficient self. There was a hard shell around her, and he wasn't such a fool to think that two nights together—even two nights of such scorching passion as they'd shared—would be enough to melt her resistance. That meant it would be up to him to convince her they were meant to be together, not just for however many days he had left in England but for the rest of their lives. Without her, he'd end up one of those sad old men, alone and unhappy, who whiled away his life at the local tavern. He would have to win her, by stealth, by charm, by force of the raw physical attraction that drew them to each other like mag
nets. Tomorrow he would think more of how to do it. Tonight he just wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms and not think at all.

He eased back, shuddering a little as he slipped from the tight grip of her body. She moaned and stretched, arching her back again, and his cock twitched instinctively in response. She really was a witch, if she could stir a response from him now, when his legs felt as though they'd been at sea a month and aftershocks of pleasure still crackled through his bones. He rolled his palm across the smooth globe of her bottom, feeling the firm muscle beneath her skin. She wasn't soft and round like other ladies; she was almost thin, at first glance, but that delicate-looking exterior hid a lithe, well-toned creature who was neither weak nor soft. He shook his head, amused at himself for even comparing her to other women.

He braced his hands on the mattress on either side of her and leaned down. “And now to bed,” he murmured, blowing a gentle puff of air across her cheek. Her nose wrinkled, and he had to laugh at the innocent sweetness of it. He raised her to her feet, slipping his arm about her waist when she swayed. “Don't worry,” he said in amusement as he reached out to flip back the covers on the bed. “I won't let you fall.”

She turned in his grip, draping one arm over his shoulder. “How kind of you,” she purred. Nate had barely a second to register alarm before she hooked her foot around his calf and jerked, shoving with that arm placed, not so lovingly after all, around his neck. He toppled onto the mattress, caught so off guard he couldn't even brace himself. Like a cat
she was on him, her knee on his back and her hands beside his head. “I command tonight,” she whispered against his ear. Then she laughed and sank down on top of him. “And I say we go to bed now,” she finished in an easy, slumberous voice.

Against the cool sheets of her bed, with her warm weight covering his back, Nate grinned. Oh yes, he was doomed—and God save his wicked soul, he exulted in it.

I
t was raining when she woke. The steady patter against the windows sounded almost like a command to stay in bed where it was cozy and warm. Although perhaps that was due more to Nate's presence in her bed than to the rain. He hadn't left last night, but still slept behind her, one arm draped over her waist. Without opening her eyes Angelique sighed in bliss and relaxed into him. Let the world go hang, for one morning at least.

The door creaked as Lisette opened it, coming in to stir the fire and lay out her clothes for the day. Normally Angelique would already be awake and dressed by now, ready to do her exercises. Today she should be especially awake and alert, planning their next step. They had a strong clue where to find Jacob Dixon, and it would be best to act on it as soon as possible. If she or Nate had slipped and left any sign that they'd read Dixon's letters, Hurst might hasten to warn the man, and Dixon could vanish again. If she had any sense at all, Angelique would roust Nate from her bed at once and tell him to be ready to leave for the Pulteney in half an hour.

Instead she lifted her head an inch and waved one hand in dismissal at her maid, who had stopped short. Not only was Nate still in her bed, their clothing was scattered all over the room. Lisette looked shocked, and no wonder; it looked rather like a whirlwind had gone through.

Lisette met her gaze, her expression dubious. “When shall I come back?” she whispered.

“When breakfast is ready,” said Nate in a sleep-roughened voice. Angelique started at the sound. He'd woken without any movement or change in breathing.

Lisette drew herself up. “When shall I return, Madame?” she asked again, pointedly stressing the last word.

“When I ring,” Angelique told her. Lisette's mouth pinched, but she turned and left without a word.

Nate rolled over and stretched his arms above his head. “Ring and tell her to bring breakfast.”

“How romantic you are,” she replied, sitting up and swinging her feet over the side of the bed. “It is time to get up.”

“Not quite.” He caught her around the waist and pulled her back beneath the blankets, then beneath him. “It's damned cold in this room,” he said, kissing her after every few words. “Let me stir the fire first.”

“I am used to rising in the cold,” she said, even though her arms had gone around his neck and she lifted her face unabashedly for his kisses.

“So am I. But let me spoil you this morning.” Without warning he threw back the blankets and jumped out of bed. Angelique just had time to register the rush of cold air before he tossed the blankets
back over her. “Don't move,” he said with a grin. “Keep the bed warm for me.”

She laughed, and obediently snuggled into the sheets again. Nate strode across the room to the hearth, seemingly unbothered by the chill in the air even though he was completely bare. She watched as he knelt down to stir up the fire, coaxing a small flame from the embers, then building it into a merry blaze. By the time he returned to the bed, she could feel warmth streaming across the room. It would be nice to rise to a warm room.

“Where was I?” he muttered, sliding beneath the sheets again and tucking her against him. “Ahhhhh…”

“You do not seem overly chilled,” she said. He was still as warm as the well-stocked fire behind her. Even his feet were warm. The cold hadn't done anything to dampen his morning erection, either, to judge from the hard length pressing against her belly.

“You warmed me so thoroughly last night, I'll be hot for days,” he murmured.

“But still hungry.”

“Bloody right,” he growled, biting her earlobe lightly.

“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Then let me”—she shoved his shoulder and rolled on top of him, sitting up to straddle his hips—“satisfy you.”

“Be gentle,” he rasped as she took his member in her hands. She just raised an eyebrow as she ran the pad of her thumb down his length to his ballocks, and he bared his teeth in a grimace of pleasure. “Or not…I'll repay you tonight, though…”

But she had given up torturing him, just as she
had abandoned hope of keeping some part of herself removed from their affair. She told herself, as she sheathed him inside her body, that she could withstand this intimacy; it was only her body being pleasured, and she would be a liar to deny that Nate pleasured her exceedingly well, especially now as his clever fingers found their way between her legs, to where his body joined hers, and stroked with unerring skill while she rode him. There was no reason this lovemaking had to result in love, she thought, even as Nate's gaze grew fixed and fierce, and she knew he was fighting back his own release, waiting for her to find hers. The pleasure she found in his arms, in his bed, was a fleeting thing—but oh
God
, was it powerful. Her climax rolled through her in strong waves, leaving her spent and gasping as Nate seized her hips and then came with a shout of his own.

Yes, she thought weakly; she could withstand it. If she wanted to.

Nate opened his eyes and looked up at her with the dazed expression of a lost man, as if he had come as unmoored from his carefully built persona as she felt from hers. She had known he wanted her from the very first day they met, when he stared at her with such frank interest in the carriage outside Bow Street. She was used to that, and dismissed it as the same passing desire she'd seen in other men's faces. It had given her some callous comfort to think he only wanted her for an affair, that he would leave for America in a few days or weeks and never think of her again. It was the way men were, and she was well aware of it. She knew how to use that fever of desire for her own purposes, whatever they were,
and then walk away when it was over. Her affections remained safely locked away at all times.

But in Nate's expression there was far more than just desire. With shaking hands he tugged her down to lie atop him, her head cradled against his shoulder. His lips touched hers in a gentle kiss. The longing in his kiss wasn't just to seduce her. Without warning that kiss slipped right under her guard and straight to her heart. Whatever she told herself about his intentions, Nate cared for her. In spite of everything he had seen and heard from her, he felt more than lust. For the first time in a very long time, Angelique felt wanted for
herself
.

In that light, maybe she couldn't withstand this after all.

Unnerved, she cast about for something to say. “Where did you get a scalping knife?”

“From a woman,” he murmured.

Her eyes opened wide. Angelique fought off the unreasonable spike of jealousy. “What an odd gift to get from a woman,” she said evenly. “I wonder what you did to deserve it.”

His laugh was low and knowing. “Do you wonder? No doubt you also wonder what you did to merit such a gift from me.”

She stiffened. “Let me test the blade to see if it is good enough for my purposes—”

He dragged her back when she started to slither away from him. “Calm yourself,” he said in the same lazy tone as before. “No need to see if it's sharp enough. You've no need of it anyway.”

She said nothing, but her rigid posture said volumes. Nate grinned. “A settler's family was kidnapped by the Indians and held captive during the
last war. The man managed to ransom his wife and daughters, but the Indians kept the son. The man had known my father, years ago; he wrote asking for any help possible in retrieving his son before it was too late.”

“They would kill a child?” she asked, her opinion of that practice clear.

“Likely not,” Nate told her. “They would raise the boy as their own. The Wyandot were decimated, losing many of their young warriors to the wars and their women and children to raids. They needed men, and they often made captives part of their tribe. Once the boy was grown, he could be married to a Wyandot girl, with Wyandot children. Sometimes captives forget their old lives; they do not want to return to their parents.

“My father wanted to help. The man had once worked for my family, before he went west, and my father had seen what could happen to captives of the Indians during the wars. The next time a ship of ours went down the St. Lawrence, he sent me with it to see what could be done. Through some lucky chance, we located the boy—a monumental task in itself—and I bought him.”

“Bought him?” she said sharply. “Like a slave?”

“Exactly like a slave,” Nate confirmed. “He was a wild thing by then, but I got him home to Boston, and in time he was reunited with his parents. His mother, who had somehow kept the knife from her captivity, gave it to me in gratitude.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You do not approve of slavery.”

“No,” said Nate flatly. “It's a vile and immoral practice.”

“Your man Mr. Chesterfield said your father plucked him from a revolution in his country. He was a slave there, was he not?”

He looked at her in surprise. “Prince told you that? Well, you knew he was a slave. My father used to trade with a few planters on Saint-Domingue…not perhaps entirely legally, you understand…but he didn't realize he was sailing into a slaughter that time.”

She gazed up at him, endearingly solemn. “Mr. Chesterfield said they were killing the slaves, and your father nailed him into a barrel.”

Nate laughed. “I'd forgotten that part! I remember now. Prince popped out of that barrel as skinny as a stick and as black as coal. And as loud as a ship's bell; for an uneducated slave child, he knew an impressive amount of French and English, and all of it profane. My father weighed anchor at once and we didn't go back to Saint-Domingue for years. I'd never seen him drive the crew so hard as he did to get away from there, as if he felt the brimstone breath of the devil on his back.”

“You said you were a sailor, last night,” she said, a line forming between her brows. “You must have been a child when that occurred.”

“My father was a sailor, and he took me to sea with him as soon as my mother allowed it. I was a twelve-year-old cabin boy when we snatched Prince.”

“Snatched,” she echoed.

Nate's mouth flattened. “They weren't selling those slaves. They were burying them alive.” She frowned. “To quell the rebellion,” he added. “There
were some rebels fighting the French, natives and escaped slaves, mostly. The French commander wished to make a point.”

“By burying them
alive
?”

“Prince's mother was one of them,” he said quietly. “She all but threw her child at my father, screaming for help. Only by luck did she choose a white man who cared enough to do something.”

“And she herself was buried alive.” Angelique's face might have been carved from stone.

“As far as I know. It was hard enough to smuggle one small boy out; we couldn't stay to know what became of her. Just taking Prince could have gotten all of us thrown in jail or executed.” He watched her curiously. Something about this story had touched her deeply, he could tell, but she gave no clue what. Slowly Nate went on. “We took Prince home with us. By the time we reached Boston Harbor, he was nearly fluent in English and had started drawing rough star charts on old pieces of sail. My father said he'd never seen such voracious intelligence in a child so young, and he deserved an education.”

“Your parents raised him,” she murmured. “He treats you as a brother.”

Nate shrugged. “He practically is.”

Her face softened, saddened. “How fortunate for him.”

“He's earned his keep, I would say. Prince's passion is chemistry. He mixes gunpowder for us, and various other potions that have been invaluable. Some solution of his keeps moss from growing on the decks.”

“And he makes ether.”

“He's a scientist,” Nate said with a grin. “He makes what he wants to make. But your maid can rest easy now; he's moved his laboratory back to the ship.”

“Ah.” Some reserve crept into her voice, and she avoided meeting his eyes. “We should get up—there are plans to be made. We must begin monitoring the Pulteney—”

“Let it wait.” Nate didn't give a damn about Dixon right now. This was the most open he'd ever seen Angelique, and it was entrancing. He wanted to prolong it, to discover who she really was. “Now that I've told you all about my life, what of yours?”

“You have not told all about your life.”

“What would you like to know?” he asked, stubbornly keeping his arms around her even as she began squirming to get up.

“Nothing,” she snapped. “We have spent too much of the day lying in bed.”

“Answer one question first,” he parried. “What would you do if you weren't Stafford's agent?”

She stopped trying to wriggle out of his arms and looked up at him with surprise. “If I had never been, or when I am no longer?”

“When you no longer are.” The other choice was impossible anyway.

“I don't know yet,” she said softly. “I always thought I would go to Mellie, but now that does not seem wise, given what happened in Vauxhall.”

“Who is Mellie?” he asked.

She smiled, her face luminous with affection. “Mellie was my mother's servant. My parents were killed in the Terror in France, and she carried me to England in her valise. She told the soldiers I was
hers, the child of a French partisan. She raised me as if I were her own. I owe everything to Mellie; she is my only family. I only see her a few times a year, before I take new assignments from Stafford. If only I could visit her more…”

Abruptly Nate recalled a quiet graveyard, where she sat pensive and still, as if waiting…waiting for the rector's wife. The warmth of her smile hadn't been mere politeness but familiarity. She knew Mrs. Carswell, even loved her, unless Nate missed his guess very badly. “Mellie is Mrs. Carswell,” he guessed aloud.

She paused, her eyebrows arching slightly, then shrugged. “Yes. You need not have followed me there.”