You Only Love Once (25 page)

“You should have sent him to Staff,” Ian said. “He could bring along his demon-faced grandfather and leave Staff on his knees groveling for pity.”

“Demon-faced?” asked Angelique, diverted. She knew Harry's grandfather was a viscount, but little more.

“I saw him once, around Bow Street. I'd not want to cross that one. All of Sinclair's cunning and none of his charm.”

She remembered again what Harry had told her: even his grandfather didn't trust Stafford anymore. A knot of tension twinged in her back, right between her shoulder blades. “Stafford cannot know I am hesitating,” she said, returning to the main point. “If I had sent Harry, Stafford would have been suspicious at once. But I hope he can tell me if Dixon's primary claim is true.”

Ian was quiet for a long moment. “You think he will.” It was not a question.

Angelique nodded. “I suspect he will.” There was too much in Dixon's story that made sense. A man rising to unexpected power and prominence becoming drunk on ambition and pride. A child suddenly not meeting his father's new expectations. A mother's fierce determination to protect her
child at any cost…yes, that resonated deeply in Angelique's heart. And Dixon seemed just the sort of man to conceive of such a plan, carry it off with callous flair—finding a dead prostitute who resembled the countess was a morbidly dramatic touch—and then go on to other deceptions in a new land. It was all too easy to imagine the panic Selwyn would have felt upon learning of Dixon's return and how he might have acted to eliminate the threat once and for all, relying on the power and position he had sacrificed so much to achieve and defend. She could see it and believe it all…assuming it was true.

Therein lay the problem. She could believe it—but how could she
know
it was true? Even if Harry came back and said Selwyn had been married before, did it prove he had sent the wife away? If Selwyn had not remarried, did that cast doubt on Dixon's claim that the earl would still want him dead? And ever looming in her mind was the question of Stafford. If Dixon's story were true, and if Selwyn had acted as Dixon charged, where did Stafford stand? The tension had crept up her neck into her head, and she rubbed her temples wearily.

“When will you talk to Harry again?” Ian broke the silence to ask.

“Soon. Tomorrow, I hope.”

Ian nodded. “And what's your American's part in all this?”

“My American?” She laughed a little. “He is not mine.”

“Only if you don't want him. You said Stafford deceived him; I assume he feels the same way. Is he a danger?”

Angelique ignored the flare of longing that Ian's
remark about Nate ignited. If only it was true, or could ever be true…“He wishes to do what is right, but he is not pleased to have been used and manipulated. His duty is to his country, not to Stafford. But he will not act without telling me.”

Ian's smile was grim as he patted her hand. “I hope not, love. For your sake.”

W
hen Nate returned hours later, Angelique almost wilted in relief. She hadn't thought he would just leave, even if he had discovered the missing fortune tucked neatly in Jacob Dixon's desk drawer, but his absence had been more wearing than expected. The house had been eerily quiet and still after Ian left, and even Lisette had made herself scarce. Feeling as though she would go mad without something to do, but not wanting to be away from the house when Nate came back, Angelique had begun packing. One way or another, her work here was nearly done. As always happened on a job, things had gotten into a terrific mess, and she spent some time sorting and wrapping various dresses and disguises. To her surprise she found the magenta gown in her wardrobe. Lisette had cleverly repaired the long rent she had made, stealing some of the fullness of the skirt from the back and draping it around the front to hide the tight, flat seam mending the tear. Angelique brushed her hand over the cool silk, and remembered Nate's hands inside it, moving on her skin. A breath of want rippled over her skin, raising the hairs on her arms, and she was
in the process of folding the gown when she heard the door.

Nate was in the hall, peeling off his dripping coat when she hurried down the stairs. “You're soaked,” she exclaimed.

“It's still raining.” He hung up his coat and hat, ignoring the drips of water falling from them. A puddle had already collected under the umbrella leaning beside the door. With a gusty sigh, he pulled off his boots, stained dark from the rain, and trudged up the stairs. Angelique hurried ahead of him to stir the fire in his room. The whole day had been dark and chilly, so she had told Lisette to lay fires in all the hearths. Within minutes it was blazing, and Nate gratefully held out his hands to it.

“Did you have any trouble?” she asked.

Nate shook his head, sending droplets of water flying from his hair. “None. I collected a large trunk full of personal effects, and some diaries and a ledger—there—that will hopefully prove illuminating.”

She looked around, spotting a flat bundle wrapped in oilskin on the table. “Have you looked at them yet?”

“Briefly. Our Mr. Dixon thinks very highly of himself, judging from what I read so far. He was clever enough to secrete the jewels somewhere outside his hotel, though, and not write the whereabouts in his journal.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I don't suppose Wallace had anything helpful to say?”

She came to stand beside him, even though the fire was too hot. After a day alone with her thoughts, she craved his presence. As if he knew all that, Nate turned his back to the fire and drew her into
his arms, sheltering her from the blasting heat. He laid his cheek against her temple, his skin cold and clammy against hers.

“Not much,” she replied to his question, leaning into him. Angelique had never known a man she wanted so simply and physically before; just standing here in Nate's embrace eased some of her worries and fears, and made her feel stronger and steadier. Nothing had changed except her, she realized. Always before she had worked essentially alone, even with other people around her. She had been the director, responsible for the safety of others and she had acted with commensurate reserve and cold-eyed calculation. With Nate, it was different. She was not alone; he was every bit her equal.

“Ian said someone is driving Stafford to finish this,” she went on, “someone highly placed, although he could not learn who. Stafford is sufficiently moved by this person's concerns that he sent Ian to speed us along, even though he would not tell Ian any details of what is to be done.”

“That's not terribly reassuring,” Nate said. His voice was muffled against her hair.

“It is bad,” she agreed. “But still does not answer the main question.”

He was stroking her back, drawing soothing circles right over that tight, anxious spot. “It may be impossible to know for certain,” he said, echoing what she had said the other night.

“I am believing in damning circumstances more and more,” she replied.

“If any circumstances deserved to be damned, it would be these.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. She could feel the
wet of his clothing soaking into hers, a creeping, insidious chill. He should get out of those wet clothes at once. “Ian asked what I shall do if Dixon's story turns out to be a lie.”

For a moment Nate didn't respond. “I suppose that's what he believes.”

“I do not know,” she said. “But it is a valid question.”

“Of course it is.” He released her and turned back to the fire. Without his body pressed to hers, Angelique felt abruptly cold and wet. “And it neatly avoids facing the question of Stafford, which must be uncomfortable for both of you.”

“If Dixon's story is a lie, it does not matter why Stafford acted as he did.”

“Yes, because then I'd be the only one disappointed.” Nate stripped off his jacket and dropped it on the hearth with a wet plop. “I have no doubt Wallace would prefer that outcome above all others.”

“You are wrong about Ian.”

He gave her a wry look. “Of course I am. He believes I'm in good faith. That's why he won't say a damned word in front of me and looks as though he'd like to pummel my face in.”

Angelique's temper, already strained by the secrecy and unease that had weighed on her for several days, began to fray. “That is because you put a knife to his neck.”

“I put a knife to his neck because he snuck into your room and then drew a blade on you.” He was fumbling at the buttons of his waistcoat, his fingers stiff and clumsy, probably from the cold.

“I can take care of myself,” she said evenly. “I am not your property to defend.”

A dull flush rose in his face. “Then there was no cause for concern, when one of Stafford's men showed up unexpectedly, alarming even you, and snuck into your room to lie in wait for you.”

He was right, of course, but somehow she seemed unable to calm down and admit it. “There was no danger from Ian,” she said before she could stop herself.

Nate cursed under his breath and ripped the waistcoat open, sending a pair of buttons bouncing along the floor. He peeled off the garment and tossed it aside, and Angelique saw that he was soaked right down to his skin; the white linen of his shirt clung to his arms and chest. “Forgive me if I don't share your trust in him.” He dropped into the chair facing the fire and sighed, running one hand over his face. “I spent the day worrying that you might not be here when I got home.”

She jerked. “Why?”

He threw out his hands. “Because Wallace was here, most likely trying to persuade you not to trust me, perhaps with some new directive from Stafford—and you clearly value Wallace's opinion and trust him a great deal—”

“So you thought I would just
leave
?”

“And maybe take Dixon with you, if Wallace could talk you into it. That's what Stafford would want him to do, isn't it?”

Angelique felt her patience snapping, one thread at a time. She didn't want to fight with Nate, but the strain of the day had decimated her usual control. She felt trapped and tense and now even Nate questioned her. “If I wanted to leave, I would leave,” she retorted. “With Dixon or without him, no matter
what Stafford preferred. If this is how much you trust me, perhaps I
should
go, now that your true feelings are clear.”

“The hell you will,” Nate growled, lunging after her as she whirled toward the door. His weight crashed against the door a moment before she could fling it open. “That is not what I said!”

“No?” She arched her brow in contempt. “I have defied my employer because I want to help you, and this is how well you trust me—to think I would just walk away with your prisoner?”

“I said
Wallace
—” he began, his teeth gritted.

“And I said I trust Ian,” she shot back. “Do you believe my word or not?”

Nate stared at her furiously. “Goddamn it,” he muttered. “What a waste of time.” She opened her mouth, drawing an outraged breath to lash out at his dismissal of her words, and he kissed her. Nate had kissed her many times before—with gentle yearning, with playful affection, with hungry seduction. None of those kisses compared to this one; his mouth claimed hers forcefully, almost harshly. She started to twist away and he grabbed her arms, dragging them above her head and pinning her wrists to the wall. In spite of her anger, she found herself kissing him back, her body arching toward his. She didn't want to think those wretched thoughts, let alone fight with Nate about them. Without him at her side, she would be lost, caught in an impossible situation with no idea which way to turn. As long as she had him, at least her ultimate goal was clear.

“I don't want to argue with you.” He kissed his way down the side of her neck with sharp little nips of his teeth that stung with erotic pleasure.

“Then don't,” she said, her voice gone husky with desire. He was still holding her hands, so she hooked one leg around his, pulling him closer.

He shuddered against her, and released her wrists. He dragged up her skirts as she reached for his shirt, yanking on the wet linen to pull it free of his trousers, sliding her hands up his cool, damp skin. His cravat was still tied, preventing her from removing his shirt, and she hissed her disappointment in profane French. Nate laughed under his breath as he slid both his hands under the bunched-up fabric of her dress, and then Angelique gave a little scream as he cupped her bottom with one hand and stroked her with the other.

“Your hands are like ice,” she gasped, even as his wicked, freezing fingers ignited a fire inside her.

“You'll warm them up.” He pushed two fingers up inside her, and she moaned, digging her nails into his shoulders to keep her balance. The cold of his flesh inside her heightened every sensation. She let her head fall back and pushed her hips forward, moving against the every stroke and thrust of his fingers. “God, yes,” Nate muttered roughly. “That—just like that…”

Shaking with desire, she pulled blindly at his trousers until they gave way, and she could stroke him. This part of him wasn't cold at all, and a moment later he knocked her hands away and crowded closer, lifting her thighs to curl around him. He kissed her, stroking her at the same time until she teetered on the brink of ecstasy, and then finally he thrust high inside her. Angelique came apart as he entered her; she gave a low, keening cry, her body moving instinctively as Nate surged into her again
and again until finally he climaxed with an almost feral growl.

They stayed where they were, wrapped around each other, for several minutes. Angelique didn't want to move. This was what she needed—not just this contentment flooding her, but Nate in her arms, holding her, loving her. Now she didn't feel alone, and that made all the difference. Nate must have felt the same way, for he didn't move for several minutes, either, and when he spoke, his voice almost startled her.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered. “For losing my temper.”

She stirred, remembering the terrible things she had said to him. “No, I was at fault as well. I am sorry.” She sighed. “You are not wrong to keep a wary eye on Ian; he works for Stafford. I know there is a chance I am wrong about him, but still I trust him.”

His lips brushed the curve of her shoulder. “Apology accepted.” He heaved a sigh and raised his head. “And now I've gotten your dress all wet.”

She smiled. “It is nothing. I shall just take it off.”

Even his grin looked weary. “Let me help.”

They undressed each other, and Nate threw another log on the fire before tucking her into bed beside him. His skin was still cool, but Angelique curled herself against him anyway. He held her close and dropped his head on her shoulder as if exhausted.

She ran her fingers through his still-damp hair. The tension in her back and neck had melted away under the heat of their lovemaking, leaving her mind refreshed and clear but not sleepy. She watched the firelight cast shadows on the ceiling, and listened to
the slow rhythm of Nate's breathing, and thought.

She would do anything to keep this. Whatever she had to do to stay with Nate, she would do it and count it worth the sacrifice.

“What are you thinking?” he murmured without moving.

She laughed. “How do you know I am thinking?”

“I can tell by the way you hold very still and barely breathe,” he said, a smile lurking in his voice. “I can practically hear the air vibrate when your mind is working on something. And since my own mind seems unable to function at the moment, I thought I would like to hear what you are thinking.”

She turned her head and pressed her lips against his forehead. “I was thinking,” she said softly, “that I would like to stay like this with you forever.”

Nate rolled onto his back. The arm that had been draped over her waist fell away. “Ah,” he said.

She felt a sudden chill. “Nothing lasts forever, of course,” she said stiffly. “I did not mean—”

“You said you didn't know my true feelings.” His eyes were wide open now, staring at the bed canopy above them. “The truth is…I love you.”

Mouth still open indignantly, Angelique gaped at him. Finally he looked at her, his eyes as clear and sparkling as emeralds. “I have been too afraid to say it,” Nate confessed, “but I love you, Angelique. Since the night you threw a damned knife at me. Since you promised to cut my throat that first day when I followed you from Bow Street, perhaps. You have fascinated me and confounded me from the moment I saw you, and I would go quietly mad if I had to leave you behind. That's why I want you to come to America with me.” He shrugged, looking
somewhat helpless. “But this grows more tangled by the day, and more dangerous for you. I can't ever forget that.”

“And so you think I would just
leave
you—”