One Night With a Spy (18 page)

Then she would burn them.

She turned to the first page of the second diary and began to read. In moments, she was completely absorbed. Heavens, she'd forgotten all about
that
intriguing scenario!

Marcus returned late and let himself into the kitchen after setting his stallion up in temporary quarters—a stall made of stacked water casks and hay fresh from drying in the field. A bag of grain and a pat on the rump was all that was needed.

Once inside, Marcus ran a hand through his hair. He'd argued with himself on the entire ride to
Barrowby, yet he still hadn't come to a decision. He was unused to such dithering. He was more the sort to make snap decisions and pay the price later, but then, rarely had his options so fought with that place inside him he was beginning to think of as his heart.

At the moment, it was his stomach that was speaking. Meg usually left some provisions available in the larder. Marcus grabbed a hunk of dry bread from the bread bin and poured a mug of milk from the pitcher in the larder. A cheese caught his eye and he grabbed that, too. His hands full, he backed from the larder with the makings for a plain meal.

The unmistakable click of a pistol being readied cut crisply through the silence.

Marcus froze.

"Drop what you've stolen," commanded an imperious voice.

Marcus let out a slow breath. "If I do that, Meg'll have my hide when he sees the mess tomorrow." He twisted his head over his shoulder to grin at Julia. "Can't a bloke have a meal after a hard day of saving lives?"

Julia tipped her pistol up but didn't relieve the hammer. Her gaze was shockingly cool. He'd thought—

"This is not the first time you've wandered my house in the dark, is it, Mr. Blythe-Goodman?"

Oh, hell. Bloody, bloody
hell
. She'd deduced he'd read her journals. God, he'd shoot him, too! He opened his mouth to save his arse, but his mind failed him. "Er…I…"

Her lips twisted to one side. "Meg told me someone has been raiding his kitchen for days. Now I know who."

"Ah…" Oh, criminy, was that all? Relief swept him, turning his alarm into a rush of something else altogether as he realized what she was wearing.

Not a great deal. Her shoulders were nearly bared by the tiny cap sleeves of her nightdress. She looked like a goddess, standing there in that flimsy gown that draped enticingly from every curve.

His mouth went entirely dry. He didn't know what it was made of but he blessed the weaver for allowing the dim light from the hall to frame her body in misty silhouette.

From within the haze of his sudden lust, he felt the round of Camembert slip from where he'd stuck it under his elbow. It rolled across the floor and spiraled to a stop at her bare feet. Marcus swallowed and grimaced weakly. "May I… offer you some cheese?"

She gazed at him somberly. "Is there any gooseberry jam left?"

To his relief, she pushed back the hammer of the pistol and set it upon the heavy worktable. Although the image of her capably holding a pistol while gowned in a translucent nightdress was going to haunt his dreams for a bit, he could tell.

Definitely his sort of girl.

They sat facing each other, tailor-fashion, on the table—"Don't tell Meg"—and devoured a picnic of bread, cheese, and jam, washed down with a shared mug of milk.

Julia ate with good country appetite, something else Marcus admired in a woman. He couldn't abide seeing ladies picking at their food as if nothing were good enough for their refined tastes.

"I left Elliot in good health," he told her. "He'll be on his way by now."

She sent him a knowing glance and swallowed. "Are you sure you didn't speed him along?"

Marcus smiled slowly, letting her see his attraction. "I might have… a bit. I cannot deny that I was glad to see him safely gone."

Her gaze locked with his, her tongue licking a crumb from her lip. "Marcus…" Her voice was suddenly husky.

It sent a welcome tingle up his spine. "I like the way you say my name," he said softly. "The way you speak slowly, as if you want to be sure every word is perfect."

She blinked, breaking the spell. She pulled back and cleared her throat. "What a thing to say."

Marcus allowed her room to breathe. He'd had enough of manipulation and seduction. His attraction was real enough, but he wasn't going to use it to win.

From this point on, he would use no weapon against her heart but his own.

He smiled at her, suddenly sure of himself and of her. Whatever might happen, this amazing, valiant, brilliant woman was more than able to hold her own against any man, including him.

"Hold still," he told her. He reached out with his thumb to caress a smear of jam from the corner of her mouth. He let his thumb linger, then slowly slid it across her lower lip, enjoying the texture of her full mouth.

Her eyes were very wide and she looked as if she might bolt, so Marcus pulled his hand back. He couldn't resist licking the jam from his thumb, however—an action that made her swallow hard.

Julia couldn't bring breath into her lungs. His touch—his smile—oh, heavens, those eyes…

Her heart was racing and her body ached with longing. She let her tongue slip out to clean the sticky place on her lip and watched him watch her.

Then she whispered, "Good night, Marcus," and slipped off the table to flee to the safety of her room.

«
^
»

The day that I look into his eyes, I will know him for mine.

Once in her bedchamber, Julia pressed her hands to her heated cheeks. That abrupt departure—very well,
escape
—from the kitchen hadn't been prudence, or caution, or anything but naked, panting terror.

Oh, she truly shouldn't have read every single page of those diaries! She was stimulated almost past bearing, as if her body hummed like a hive of bees!

Yet, for all her fancies and longings, for all her dreams and wicked, sensuous thoughts, Julia had abruptly realized that she was scarcely more practiced than a virgin. Here was this man, this virile, worldly male, who would have expectations of her. She was a full-grown woman, a widow.

What if she fumbled it? What if he laughed? What if she couldn't please him? What if he expected her to get
completely
naked? Oh, she wished now she'd resisted her daily enthusiasm for Meg's iced lemon seed cakes.

What if she couldn't catch her breath and died of unquenched lust right here and now?

She ran to the balcony doors, hitting the latch with one hand and springing them wide. The cold night air swept into the room, cooling her cheeks but not the heat in her body. She stepped out into the night and leaned both hands on the balustrade, gulping the icy air into her lungs.

She was a fool. Marcus wanted her. He'd made it entirely clear. She wanted him—oh, sweet heaven, she
wanted
him!—and there truly shouldn't be such a fuss over the matter. She could take a lover if she wished… and she wished with all her heart.

What if the Three find out?

Bugger the Three, that's what. The Lion and the Cobra had their brides, the Falcon must have
something
—a sword collection, or Restoration codpieces, or some such cold-blooded passion—and even Liverpool had his sweet, shy lady whom he was deeply devoted to.

Well, then, she would have Marcus… if she dared.

The cold was finally dimming the glow of her lust and allowing her to think. She wrapped her arms about herself and tipped her head back to stare at the endless night sky. She was sorry she'd left Marcus in the kitchen—he must think her an idiot! Still, when he returned to his room, if she could keep from making a fool of herself again, then perhaps, just perhaps—

She smelled sandalwood.

"Can you not sleep, Julia?" His voice was deep and soft in her ear. He was so close she could feel the warmth of his body behind her.

Without thought, she turned and wrapped her arms about his neck, pulling his mouth down to hers.

If Marcus had thought stealing a kiss from Julia in the garden had been exciting, then being wantonly, abandonedly kissed by her was a revelation! Her supple, delicious figure was pressed fully to his body, her hands were buried in his hair, and her lips and tongue were passionately trying to dismantle his.

Unfortunately, he had something to tell her before he could allow himself to partake. It was time to tell her who he was and why he was here… that is, if he had the courage.

He took her by the shoulders and detached her, inch by inch, though it cost him dearly. "Julia, I—"

"Marcus Blythe-Goodman, make love to me at once," she panted. "Or I swear I'll fetch that pistol again!"

He laughed, a lust-hardened bark. "Much as I love your sweet talk, darling, I cannot—"

She reached for him again and he weakened. She was so hungry and he'd wanted her for so long—only days, but it felt like a lifetime. Then he shook off the spell and pressed her back again.

"Julia, I need to—"

She shoved away from him and turned around. With her hands pressed over her face, he couldn't hear what she said, but it sounded something like, "Idiotidiotidiot…"

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms about her waist, tugging her into the warmth of his body. "Darling, you're freezing. Come inside and we'll… talk."

He felt her shake her head violently.

"Julia, stop being an ass. Come inside."

Her head came up sharply and she twisted to stare into his face, fury shining through her damp embarrassment. "Did you just call me an
ass
? How dare you!"

Relieved to see a spark of the Julia he knew, he grinned down at her. "If you don't like the name, then don't act the part."

Her mouth opened and shut, then she pushed past him and stalked back into her bedchamber. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to think quickly. He didn't know what the hell he was doing, he didn't know what the hell he meant to tell her.

All he knew was that if he made love to her now, it would be wrong. He'd spent the last week being the man of her dreams, using her diaries against her. She was too good and too fine to be made a fool of like that.

Of course, if he told her that he'd broken into her manor and read her diaries, that he'd come to discredit her and win the seat of the Fox, she'd likely fetch that pistol back in truth! Not to mention that she'd never look at him the way she had over the bread and cheese—as if she wished she could spread
him
on a slice of bread.

And as if he were her hero.

God, what a thing to live up to! He wasn't feeling any too heroic at the moment. He was feeling like a fool and a sneak. The worst of it was, in order to keep her, he might have to tell her the very thing that would lose her!

He couldn't do it… yet, perhaps there were some things he
could
tell her. Things that might make it easier for her to understand and forgive… someday.

Coward.

Oh, yes. That I know.

When he reentered the bedchamber and closed the balcony doors behind him, she was clad in her wrapper and seated in the big chair before the fire. He joined her to lean one elbow on the mantel. They both stared into the fire for a long moment. Finally she stirred. "Was there something you wished to say to me?"

You're lovely. You're astounding. I lo
—

He blinked and shook off that thought. Then he took a deep breath.

"You're not preparing to leap off a cliff, are you, Marcus?"

He turned to see her gazing at him with wary curiosity. He blew out that breath and smiled slightly. "Perhaps I am." He went to one knee before her and took his hand in hers. Her eyes widened and she drew back in surprise.

"You're not planning on proposing, I hope. I do think it's a bit much to announce
another
early engagement."

He realized he was indeed in the classic pose of the entreating suitor. He laughed and stood, then pulled her to her feet. He took her place in the chair and swept her into his lap. "There. That's better."

She went rigid and leaned away from him. "Marcus, you needn't—"

"Julia, you're an amazing woman and I admire you enormously. But for once, let me be in charge, I beg of you."

"This is my house." She scowled at him. "I think I—"

He kissed her protest silent. At first, she pushed at him irritably. Then after a long moment, she went warm and soft in his arms.

And then she uttered that throaty sound, the one she'd made in the garden, the one that sent his mind vague and buzzing with lack of blood flow as his groin swelled…

He pulled away. She clung to him, gasping, still supple and compliant in his grasp. He settled back in the chair and cradled her. It felt very natural to do so.

"Before you and I embark on this… affair, I want to tell you something."

She let out a long unenthusiastic breath that tingled his neck and then settled her head on his shoulder to listen. "Go on."

He stroked her hair with one hand. "I am a second son, as you know. I am also a bastard-in-wedlock. My father is not my father and my brother is only my half-brother… and all my life, the two of them never let me forget it."

He waited for the bitterness to rise, but the scent of her hair distracted him. "Ah… yes." He went on. "The family secret was never common knowledge, never even openly discussed, but there are a thousand ways to make someone feel like an outsider. Being blamed for someone else's mischief, for instance. Learning through the years that no matter how hard you try, no matter how you scrap and study and fence and ride and run faster than any other boy, you will never be anything but second best."

He felt her take one of his hands in hers. She nestled it between her breasts and held it like the child he'd been. Oddly, it seemed to help for he didn't feel the sharp ache that always came with those memories…

"The worst of it was that I didn't understand why. If I'd known about my parentage I think I might have given up years earlier. It wasn't until I found my mother with her lover—a tall man with green eyes and my chin—"