A Thoroughly Compromised Lady (11 page)

She studied Jack shrewdly. ‘Do you ever get used to it? I am suddenly struck with the realisation that this is what life is like for you on any given day. How do you waltz into ballrooms and make witty conversation every night as if you've nothing more to worry about?' Why hadn't she seen it before, the duality of his life since receiving his title and what it must mean for him? It was more than the secrecy.

‘You adapt,' was all Jack said. ‘This will pass and your life will return to normal.' He was watching her in that way of his, the heat in his eyes being stoked to life. But there were things that needed to be dealt with before she could fan those coals.

‘And your life, Jack?' They moved on down the path to sit on a bench by a statue of a water nymph surrounded by greenery and ferns, water spouting from the jug she carried into a pool of pebbles.

‘My life will go on much as it has.'

‘You're awfully miserly with your conversation tonight,' Dulci scolded. ‘You said there were things that needed saying and yet we haven't said anything at all in that regard.'

‘You're the one who wanted to talk about hydrangeas,' Jack reminded her. But she sensed a challenge beneath the scold.

‘Maybe that's what we're supposed to talk about,' Dulci answered softly. Jack was leaving, never mind that he'd still be in London. He was leaving her. He would go back to his quarters and he would keep his distance in order to ensure her safety. Then he'd be off on another project for the king. What good could come from talking about other things, confusing things? Maybe she'd be better off remembering this moment
with him: a peaceful moment where they'd walked and talked together without artifice instead of clouding it with ambiguous promises.

‘You and I are a lot alike, Dulci. We've never been good at doing what we're supposed to. I know what you're thinking, what you're debating in that active mind of yours.' He shook his head. ‘Only a coward would let us leave here with nothing more than a discussion of hydrangeas and roses to remember.'

‘Jack, you don't need to explain anything. I've got it worked out. I had all day to think.' Dulci tried to stall, tried to protect herself. Jack's eyes were growing darker with desire and, Lord help her, in spite of all her misgivings, her need was rising too, the need to be in this man's arms, to let his strength surround her, to empower her, to forget the danger for a little while.

‘I cannot leave knowing that you think what occurred between us was all work, some kind of subterfuge I employed to get to the map.' Jack's voice was at her ear, his mouth nipping gently at her lobe, his hand pushing back her hair. His lips were at her neck now and Dulci arched against him instinctively, wanting to be nearer. It was awkward being side by side, she couldn't get close enough.

‘Tell me you know better, Dulci.' Jack breathed heavy and hoarse, dragging her on to his lap, helping her to straddle his thighs. ‘Tell me you know our love-making is not an act of artifice. Tell me you know it's honest.'

The desire in his darkened eyes was arresting and potent, the window to his soul open, offering a glimpse into the depths of his character, a swirling mix of the complex and the desperate. Dulci could not deny him; indeed, her need of him was greater because of it.

‘Yes, Jack. It's honest,' Dulci whispered, her arms around his neck, her breasts pressed against his chest, her mouth covering his, glorying in the taste of supper's sweet wine. Jack groaned his pleasure, letting her take the kiss where she willed, giving his mouth over to her while he worked pleasure of his own beneath her skirts, hands moving up her thighs, at their apex thumbs gently brushing damp curls, drawing back her secret lips to the tight bud hidden within, one thumb gently skimming until Dulci cried out, begging for a firmer stroke, begging for completion.

But Jack would not relent. ‘Let me worship you, Dulci,' he begged, his own arousal powerful and obvious beneath her buttocks. Dulci slipped a hand between them, answering his erotic strokes with delicious strokes of her own, finding the head of his shaft beneath his trousers.

‘You're an enchantress, Dulci.' Jack was hoarse, rocking hard against her, needing both his hands to steady himself on the bench. She reached for the fall of his trousers, releasing his hot member, glorying in the fulfilling power of arousing this man to such heights his very control was in question. Tonight
she'd
take
him
, riding him astride in the newly risen moon light.

Dulci moved to push him back on the stone bench, but Jack had other ideas. ‘No, tonight I want to cover you.' His voice was ragged, beyond desire. Dulci thought she heard a new desperation in it. There was wildness in his eyes as he rolled her beneath him, careful of the stone's hardness on her back.

He joined her intimately and immediately, their foreplay having served its purpose, both of them wet and ready when Jack plunged into her. There was no
need to be delicate. Dulci didn't want gentle tonight. On that bench, with only nature as a witness, she wanted a release to the madness that raged inside them both. She wanted a release for the anger and despair, perhaps even a release for the impotence that had roiled inside of her all day. Most of all, she wanted Jack without doubt, without the world intruding. In these moments, with her legs wrapped about him, embracing him tightly, she could protect him from the demons in his soul, from the desperation he'd let her glimpse tonight, desperation she hadn't known was there. The knowledge of such things in creased her ecstasy. Paradise was within reach, peace was within reach.

She raised her hips, feeling his own hips grind against hers, the tempo of Jack's rhythm speeding towards completion, the pressure growing in his body, his muscled arms trembling as they held his weight, and knew his crisis would soon be upon him. Her own release neared, so very close she thought she'd scream from the wanting of it. Then they were there together, Jack's climax thundering deep inside her, pulsing in waves, releasing the most intimate of tides at the shore of her womb. This was completion.

They lay still, letting their breathing return to normal, their excited hearts regain their usual pace. Dulci relished the feel of Jack's head at her shoulder, his hand lying quiet on her stomach. Something intangible marked tonight. Their love-making had taken on a different cast, driven by something she couldn't name yet.

After a while, Jack rose and adjusted his clothing. He reached down to help her up and straighten her skirts. The desperation she thought she'd viewed in his eyes was effectively driven back. His eyes, his face, held a
look of firm resolve as if something had been decided and there was no going back.

His teasing smile was on his lips. But his voice was soft, a near-whisper full of sincerity. ‘This will definitely be more memorable than a conversation about hydrangeas and roses.'

At the intimate sound of his voice, something warm blossomed in the feminine core of her. She felt complete, wrapped in the shared memory of their passion conjured up by his voice. She was well and thoroughly seduced. But it was more than seduction. What she felt for Jack in that moment was far beyond the abilities of lust to sustain.
She loved him.
The realisation nearly brought her to her knees. All her defences, logic and hard cold reality, had failed to protect her. Against her better intentions, she'd fallen in love with the most unlikely of candidates for her heart: a man who would not give her his.

‘You're trembling, Dulci. Don't worry, you're safe now.' Jack lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss upon it, his eyes holding hers with a million unspoken messages tumbling in them. That was when Dulci understood; Jack thought he was going to die.

I
t was empirically true that one never feels more alive than when faced with imminent mortality. Jack dressed in preparation for the opening negotiations, life surging through him, his senses imbued with a sharper, more vital quality. Jack worked a gold cuff into place, his eyes moving outside past the heavy curtains drawn back to let in the morning light.

The sun shone brilliantly. It was going to be a nice day in spite of the fact that nice things weren't going to happen. It was hard to believe anything bad could happen on sunny days. Hard to believe anyone could die on a sunny day. Those sorts of things ought to be reserved for rainy, gloomy days.

Jack reached for the second cuff link, remembering. He'd believed such fantasy as a child. Growing up just outside Manchester, there were plenty of grey days and in his house there'd been plenty of bad things that happened on them. Sunshine had meant freedom. Nothing bad happened on sunny days. Sunshine meant running
in the meadows and fishing in the rivers with Brandon, perfect days in an imperfect life.

Satisfied with his cuffs, Jack reached for a long strip of white linen and wound it around his neck, beginning the laborious process of tying a cravat. He'd dreamed of her last night, not surprising considering the circumstances and their rather torrid farewell.

Even now in the morning light, Dulci haunted him. He could not name why or how the endless wanting of her had started, but he craved her with the intensity of an opium addict. After the madness at Christmas he'd taken the necessary precautions. He'd tried long absences. He'd tried other women. All to no avail. His methods only seemed to increase the craving and he'd ended up right back where he'd started from.

And why not? Dulci was a rare treasure to be appreciated for far more than her fairy-tale princess beauty: the dark hair, the pale skin and cherry lips. He was drawn to her wildness, to the sub stance of her. Perhaps he was drawn to her because she was like him. He might not know her favourite colour, or know the name of her dressmaker or any of the mundane little facts that besotted fools who imagine them selves in love know about their beloved. But he knew her elementally. He knew what drove her wildness.

She was like him in all the ways that mattered. She
knew
him. She knew his family home, an awkward cold place devoid of familial love. She knew stories about him growing up. And she still cared for him, although he was playing fast and loose with that affection.

Jack tied a firm knot at his throat with a strong jerk of his hands. She knew him and he knew her, perhaps not in the traditional way people knew each other in London
society, but in a way that spoke to the core of him. He might still be attempting to name this depth of feeling Dulci invoked in him, but he knew with a certainty that he was willing to die to save her. If Ortiz harmed her, a light would go out of the world, and Jack knew a part of himself would go out of the world with it. As long as one of the two survived… If given the choice, Jack preferred it be Dulci.

He strapped on an arm sheath and slid a small dagger into it. He leaned down and slid another knife into his boot. Ortiz was coming. Jack just hoped he had guessed correctly and Ortiz was coming for him. He would be ready. He had no intention of dying simply because Ortiz meant him to. Still, he'd played this game long enough to know death came in many forms: a hired thug on the street, a discreet poison in a glass. Some attempts could be thwarted with a quick blade. Other attempts could not.

Jack reached into his dresser drawer and rooted beneath a pile of cravats until he found what he wanted: travel ling papers and a packet of money. He faced himself in the mirror, slipping his arms into his jacket of blue super fine.

He studied the reflection, deliberately forcing his mind to slow and focus, reviewing. He'd taken all the precautions he could. He'd left Dulci in her home, surrounded by the finest bodyguards the Foreign Office could provide. He'd armed himself for a physical attack. He had money and papers in case he had to flee, a ruby ring on his little finger and a matching stick pin in his cravat to pawn. If it came to it, he could sell the buttons on his coat one by one. He was an expert when it came to survival.

Satisfied that he'd taken all measures possible to ensure Dulci's safety and his own survival, Jack grabbed up the ornate walking stick from the stand by the door and strode confidently out into the morning to face life or death, come what may, with only one regret. He knew men who had died with more.

 

There were no regrets, only choices, Dulci re minded herself force fully, struggling to concentrate on the artefacts spread out before her. She'd set up a temporary workshop in an old green house at the back of the garden while she waited for new cases to arrive and the windows to be repaired. But her energy was divided between the items spread before her and the items on her mind—the shocking revelations of the night before.

Jack was worried, so worried he'd attempted to draw Ortiz's fire and divert attention from her. She was not sure how she felt about that. She was used to fighting her own battles, but never had she faced a battle like this. This was not a battle over social acceptance, but about life and death. She was out of her depth when it came to secret assassins and hidden maps.

She'd spent a restless night and a restless morning trying to put the image of Jack out of her mind without success. The guards placed around the house had told her the negotiations started today.

Jack would be there by now, seated at the long table with other men, Calisto Ortiz across from him just a few feet away, close enough to strike with a dagger if Ortiz didn't mind the publicity. Why should he if he had immunity and the argument of honour on his side? Not that it was any better assuming Ortiz would refrain from a public spilling of blood. Covert activity was far
worse, where even the simplest cup of tea became a weapon in an expert's hands. One sip and Jack would be gone, taken from her, sacrificed for her, just when she'd discovered she loved him.

She loved Jack.
The realisation was so fresh, so new, she hardly knew what to make of it. But she did know where to start and that was with the question: Did she dare give in to it? She wasn't exactly sure she had a choice. Could you control whom you loved? But assuming she did have a choice, Dulci wasn't sure she could afford to love Jack. In the end, it might cost more of herself than she was willing to give. She would not tolerate living on the periphery of his world, even if that was the only way she could have him.

There were terrible consequences to loving Jack, she was beginning to realise with a new level of clarity. He might die. She might have to give him up and not act on her affections for the sake of saving her own soul. Either way, she'd be left alone with her love—alone and apart from Jack.

Dulci's pen slipped, smearing ink on the care fully written card. At this rate she wouldn't get any work done. Dulci flopped down into an old wicker chair that had been left or forgot when the green house had been abandoned. A little cloud of dust puffed up from the faded cushions and she sneezed. Damn. She allowed herself the luxury of swearing. Would nothing go right today? Even the simple act of sitting down irritated her.

It was all Jack's fault. She'd never asked him to protect her, never asked him to stand between her and Calisto Ortiz. He did not owe her anything. But he'd stood her champion none the less and it had complicated
things immensely. The thought she didn't want to think surfaced, unable to be contained by denial and anger—why had Jack done it? Had he done it out of fraternal affection for Brandon? Because Brandon would want him to protect her in his absence? Or maybe this wasn't about Brandon at all, but because there was something more between the two of them? Was it possible that he might reciprocate the intensity of feeling she carried towards him?

Dulci picked at a loose seam on the pillow. She wondered if it had ever been just sex for her, no matter what logical justifications she applied. That day in the artefact room, she'd trusted Jack with her body and he'd not let her down. Even now, he was protecting her body with his distance, his bodyguards, his attempt to direct Ortiz away from her. Jack had never pre tended to offer more than a few nights of unconditional pleasure.

Yet if she knew one thing about men, it was that they protected what they loved. Was it possible that, against the odds, Jack had fallen in love with her? Had he slipped into it just as she had? If so, what did they do now? Anything? Nothing? Was it possible to be in love and do nothing? Someone would have to be brave enough to make the first move, declare their feelings and weather whatever storm came.

‘Lady Dulcinea!' One of the bodyguards burst into the green house, the door banging behind him. ‘There's news from the negotiations.' Ah, even love would have to give way in the wake of the empire's needs. Jack wasn't even here and she was being interrupted, her thoughts called away from their feminine daydreams to Jack's world.

The man was breath less and the look on his face was
not one of excitement. ‘What has happened?' Dulci's anxiety rose.

‘Viscount Wainsbridge has been accused of framing Señor Ortiz in regard to presenting a forged map of boundaries.'

‘It's not true,' Dulci said in consternation. The in credible claim was wildly untrue; a bigger lie she could not imagine, especially when the exact opposite was true. ‘Who accuses him of such a thing?' She was on her feet, pacing. She had to do something, take some action. Jack would need her.

‘Señor Ortiz himself.'

Ah, like the witch trials of old where only the afflicted was able to bear testimony against the accused. A cold thought indeed.

 

Calisto Ortiz was inordinately pleased with himself. This plan had hatched itself flawlessly. The negotiations had opened and the British had asked he be excused from the negotiations. They had concerns about his ‘objectivity', that he was associated with the murder of an importer who'd carried cargo from Venezuela and had been in possession of a certain map. That map had fallen into the hands of a British citizen and been the source of an attempted burglary of the citizen's home. Since the map was a forgery, it appeared Señor Ortiz had a hidden agenda to swindle land from the British government. It would be best to excuse him due to a conflict of interest.

It had been nicely said, but Vargas had clearly understood the message. The old diplomat had sputtered, voicing embarrassed protests to save face. Then he'd jumped in, adding to Vargas's protests. He'd merely said, ‘I've
been set up by Viscount Wainsbridge, who is in possession of the map and who has a personal grudge against me over a woman. It seems to me that if I were trying to pass off a map I would have the map in my possession. Yet it is Wainsbridge who “found” the map, not in my quarters, I might add. In fact, not once has the map been in my possession since arriving on English soil.'

His claims were audacious, but the bigger the lie, the more easily believed. He didn't have to have anyone believe him. He needed only to cast enough doubt to cloud the discussion. He watched Gladstone spear Wainsbridge with a look of disgust. Ah, good, a potential ally then. Wainsbridge showed no emotion, managing to look cool, as if people levelled charges of this magnitude against him daily. For all Ortiz knew, maybe they did.

Señor Vargas turned to Ortiz. ‘You swear this is the truth?'

Vargas was so damned honourable he couldn't conceive of dishonour in anyone. Ortiz stifled a smile and manufactured a look of chagrin. He laid his next layer of argument, the layer meant to distract and confuse. ‘I swear this is the truth. I would encourage you,
señor
, to ask yourself why would Britain want to put a forgery into play that shows them losing land? It is to start a war.' There was a general outcry at the table. Ortiz raised a hand for silence.

‘I posit Britain wants to use the false map as a chance to whip up public support for a war in which Britain is fighting to take back what Venezuela has “cheated” them out of. It would be no difficult feat for Britain, an empire with an enormous army at its disposal, to defeat Venezuela and in the end grab
more
land. These talks
are merely a prelude to war. We've been called here to be straw men. These talks mean nothing. Britain is using them for a larger, more sinister purpose and Viscount Wainsbridge is at the heart of it.'

 

So this was how it was going to happen. Not with a knife in the alley or poison in the tea, at least not yet. Jack watched Ortiz spin his case with steely eyes. There would be discrediting first, the maligning of a reputation, the casting of doubt until people might believe with enough certainty that he'd commit suicide over the shame of it. Of course, it wouldn't truly be a suicide. That would be when Ortiz would arrange a violent end and his body would float up from the Thames a few days later. People would whisper knowingly behind their fans that he'd had no choice really, disgraced as he was, and what could be expected when one came from such lowly antecedents, a squire's son after all?

The difficulty came in making his case. He could not say Britain had advance warning that a map might exist without exposing the intelligence network that had brought the news. He could not say Ortiz had gone to the warehouse without exposing that he'd followed Ortiz and spied on him. There was only one piece of evidence he could legitimately draw on.

Jack steepled his hands. ‘Your claims are outrageous. There is no interest in starting a war with Venezuela. Your scenario is intriguing, but it does not account for the testimony we have from the one burglar who says he was paid, by you, Señor Ortiz, to retrieve a map from Lady Dulcinea's residence.'

Ortiz shook his head sadly. ‘That was poor judgement on my part. I was so distraught over the news of
such a map and Señor Vasquez's death. I had just heard and I was desperate to preserve my reputation. I acted hastily and foolishly. I thought if I could get the map, I could destroy it and none of this nastiness would materialise.'