The Beauty and the Spy (11 page)

C
harlotte kissed Nick softly at first, wanting to experience the gentleness she'd only known from him. She explored his lips a kiss at a time, each moment parting her lips more and more. With the tip of her tongue she tasted him, and then his mouth opened on a groan. Their tongues met and played, hers hesitant at first, but soon she was as caught up as he was in the frenzy of new exploration.

She leaned against his chest, then slid her knee onto his thigh to brace herself.

“Straddle me, Charlotte,” he whispered against her mouth.

She stared into his eyes and let herself drown in the emotion she saw there. Never before had a man shown this kind of desperation to possess her.

Before her sense got the best of her, she gripped his shoulders, then eased her knees across his thighs, her skirt bunching up between them, her muscles shivering as she held herself up. She felt as if she were climbing a solid rock mountain.

“Closer,” he whispered, then leaned forward and pressed kisses to her neck. He nuzzled against her, and she felt his hair brushing her ear, felt the moist warmth of his mouth.

She dropped her head back, and with a moan let herself fully settle on top of him. His hips were nestled between her thighs, and the hard ridge of his erection pressed up against her.

She kissed him again, letting herself be taken away by sensations she'd never known before. After a deep thrust of his tongue, he suddenly rolled his hips, arching against her in a shocking way that made her nerves scream inside her.

She cried out against his mouth as she clutched his head to her. He rocked against her hard, over and over, until she felt an exciting, building tension that required all her concentration.

He broke from their kiss, and his mouth found the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “Unbutton my trousers,” he said hoarsely.

It was then she realized where this was going. She had him tied to a chair, and she was riding him.

“You were married, you know what to do,” he said urgently. “You know what we both want.”

She knew what
he
wanted: a merry widow. She couldn't see herself as that woman.

Lifting her head, she slid her fingers from his hair. “What I want and what I should have are two different things.”

Nick had known when he started this game how it would end. He just hadn't thought she would let it get so far. He rested his forehead against her shoulder and tried to calm his ragged breathing, inhaling the warm, intoxicating scent of her. When had he last allowed a woman to become paramount to his every thought? It had been many years, and even now he did not often look back on his youth.

But now there was Charlotte, experienced yet innocent, captivating, maddening, and mysterious. It took every bit of his strength not to thrust against her one last time. He was losing himself in her, and he couldn't seem to stop—didn't want to stop. Surely he could control his work, his mission, and keep it separate from her. He was only feeling this way because he was closeted with her almost constantly.

But he had promised not to seduce her, so he let her climb off his lap, watching her blush as she pushed her skirts to the ground. He went on letting her think she'd tied the ropes tight enough to contain him.

But she didn't turn away. She met his gaze, and
although her face turned even more fiery, she raised her chin and dared him to challenge her.

He grinned. “Would you mind untying me now?”

She put her hands on her hips and grinned back. “You said I could leave.”

“Only if you don't believe me. But surely you can have no more reservations.”

“That's true. But what mostly keeps me here with you is knowing that Mr. Campbell might go after my family if he thinks I'm alive.”

“Good thinking.”

She went around behind him and tugged on the ropes with her fingers. She leaned over his shoulder to look at him, and he found himself again feeling overwhelmed by her nearness.

“These weren't tied very well, were they?” she asked, wearing a sheepish expression. “You could have escaped any time.”

He lowered his voice. “But I didn't want to.”

She met his gaze only briefly, then his hands were free and she stepped away. He untied his ankles, then stood up and stretched his arms high over his head.

They were too aware of each other now. For several minutes the silence between them stretched taut with the memories of what they'd done—what they still wanted to do.

“So what was that about?” he asked.

She turned her back. “I don't wish to discuss it.”

“You might prefer to forget about it, but I don't. I asked for a reward, but I admit I'm stunned by the one I received.”

She seemed to sag a bit. “I assure you, I don't usually go around kissing men.”

Taking pity on her, he softened his voice. “I didn't think you did. I assumed it was my natural charm that simply made you lose your head.”

“It wasn't your natural charm,” she said dryly, glancing at him over her shoulder. “It was—” Then she stopped, frowning.

“My handsome looks?”

“Appearance is not everything.”

“Then it was my sparkling conversation.”

He could see her fighting a smile.

“Since you try not to tell me anything substantial,” she said, “it was hardly that.”

“Then why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to,” she breathed. “I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm doing all sorts of things—stupid things, like following you from a ballroom. I've never been like this—reckless, unthinking.”

“You've never been a widow before.”

“And you know so much about it?” she asked sharply. “Are you trying to tell me that you understand my motivations better than I do?”

“I wouldn't presume such a thing. But I know what it feels like to be uncertain of one's place in life, to wonder what decisions one should make.”

Her lips thinned. “So while other widows at
tend society functions for camaraderie and the chance to marry again, I foolishly choose to kiss a stranger?”

“I'm not exactly a stranger.”

“Oh, my mistake. You're my kidnapper. You've worked for my father—in a dangerous, unstable profession, I might add.”

“But you trust me,” he said simply.

“I believe your story,” she countered. “There's a difference.”

“So can I hope that you'll kiss me again?”

“No.”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Then if we cannot kiss, here is a book and newspaper. Which do you want?”

 

When the day's shadows lengthened, and the last of the sun hid behind low clouds, Nick looked up as Charlotte set the book down with a thump.

“Nick, can we go down to supper this evening? Surely I've proven myself. I could have tried to escape, but I believe you now. And I'm feeling rather…trapped.”

He stood up. “Let's go.”

When she would have hurried past him in her eagerness, he took her upper arm to stop her. The spark between them caught fire again, and he was suddenly breathless.

“Just remember who I am,” he said, fighting
the effect of her nearness. “I'm Mr. Black, a London clerk in the employ of a duke. You're my wife. We're going north to visit relatives. We haven't been away from London in many years, so you can be excited.”

She smiled. “I'll remember.”

He pulled her closer. “Be careful, Charlotte. This isn't a game. Over a year's worth of work has gone into these final days.”

Her expression grew serious. “I understand.”

The public dining room of the inn was faded and drab, with only hints of the former glory it had enjoyed before the railroads had taken customers away. But the dozen or so locals and travelers made the most of the hot food and good company. As Nick guided Charlotte to a table, he was reluctantly impressed by the change in her manner, the sedate, pleasant expression on her face, the unhurried way she moved. She did not look like a woman imprisoned for the last several days.

A serving maid took their order, and there was something so subtly different about Charlotte that it took him a moment to place it.

And then he realized she'd changed her accent, coarsening it just enough for the middle class.

He stared at her. When she took notice, she lowered her head modestly, and while spreading a napkin across her lap, murmured, “My maid speaks just like this. How did it sound?”

“Excellent. Your father would be impressed.”

She blushed with pleasure.

During the meal he allowed his gaze to linger with heartfelt earnestness upon her, as he would a wife. It wasn't difficult to do, for she was so easy to watch. She had a timeless, classical beauty that made him ache to possess her. She was curved in all the right places, so delicate and feminine. Yet she had a spine of steel, going toe-to-toe with him when not many men would.

When she was finished with dinner, she looked at him hopefully and asked, “From our window I glimpsed a walled garden. Might we go walking?”

How could he deny her? Soon they were strolling down gravel pathways as dusk became full dark, listening to the quiet voices of the servants as they lit torches to illuminate the garden. The rich scent of roses wafted through the air, and Nick, with Charlotte on his arm, glimpsed a contentment he'd never felt before. What would it be like to really be Mr. Black, with a wife like her waiting at home for him?

But he was Nick Wright, with a duty to his government that had kept him out of his home country for many years. He loved his exciting life. How could he ever think a quiet home with one woman would be enough?

Wasn't it his weakness for women he'd been trying so hard to get rid of?

And his family would make sure he never had a quiet, simple life.

Charlotte felt the warmth of Nick's body as she slid her hand deeper into the crook of his arm. She let her mind float with the contentment of a good meal, with freedom, with fresh air—and Nick.

She tried not to think about him, to just enjoy the beauty of the well-tended garden and the night air. But he was there at her side, and hard to keep from her thoughts—especially when she still felt tender between her thighs, still tingled with a frustrated need she'd never felt before.

She wanted him.

It was as if, now that she knew he was an honorable man, she'd given herself permission to think about being with him.

She shivered at the thought, and when Nick said, “Cold?” she shook her head and leaned closer against his arm.

He could be a considerate man.

She withheld a giggle at the thought that a man who'd kidnapped her could ever be called considerate.

But he was. He saw to her bath, he cleansed her wounds, he thought of her pleasure as well as his.

Oh, he was a rough sort of man, too, but there was a line of chivalry that he didn't cross. He could easily have tried to seduce her with their first kiss, but he hadn't.

And today it had been such fun to tease him, to taunt him—and to know she was safe. She
could explore the feelings that burned hot between them.

But would she dare? Could she live with herself after a night of passion, only to be left alone when he went on with his life?

Yet her time with him might be the only tender moments she ever shared with a man.

He looked around the garden constantly, his gaze sweeping from side to side. He was always alert, always ready for danger. She should be flattered that he protected her.

But she was uneasy, wondering if he ever really left a mission behind.

“So,” he said quietly. “This morning when we were talking about Jane and Will, you said couples should get to know one another before they get married.”

She groaned. “We both know you don't subscribe to the institution, so why are you mentioning it?”

“We're portraying it as we speak, so I feel I should know how my character would think.”

She only rolled her eyes.

“Since I don't have much experience, how am I supposed to act as a husband?”

“You've done just fine tonight,” she said grudgingly.

“But not this afternoon?”

In her memory flashed the image of herself writhing on top of him. She couldn't control a blush. “I wouldn't know.”

“But you've been married.”

“There are private things between a husband and wife that should never be discussed with another.”

“But a husband can be playful,” he continued, tugging a little on her arm.

“I would imagine.” But she didn't know.

“I tried to look into your eyes with adoration during dinner. Did I do it correctly?”

Reluctantly she met his gaze. “You made me feel special, and I guess that's very important. You don't often see a husband show affection for his wife in public.”

She waited for him to ask why she never felt special before, but he didn't. He only studied her face, making her feel foolish as much as grateful.

She took a deep breath and tried to hurry the conversation on. “Did I look suitably besotted when I stared into your eyes?”

“Besotted?” he echoed, frowning thoughtfully. “Come to think of it, you did. I must admit, I don't often remember seeing open affection with many married couples.”

“And it's sad.” Her whisper sounded so forlorn that she forced herself to smile brightly up at him. “So if we seem too happy together, will we look like lovers instead of a married couple?”

“I don't know.”

“We'll just have to take that risk, because I like seeing you suffer.”

“I'm not suffering. And a husband wouldn't
suffer either, because I imagine he and his wife don't spend much time together. She would live mostly in the country, wouldn't she, while he does business in town?”

“But what if she loves London society?” she countered. “Would you force her to stay in the country?”