The Duchess and the Spy (13 page)

“Duchess, you may stay up all night if you like, but I shall be retiring shortly.” He moved over to the side of the bed, and began stripping his clothes off.

She quickly shielded her eyes with her hands, and let out a long shuddering breath. Bastard, how much did he expect her to take without completely losing it?

“No, I will retire to my bed as well, which just happens to be this one,” she said, painfully kneeling by the side of the bed, while she averted her eyes, from his manly torso that he had just revealed.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart stalled. But she would not commit a sin by staring at him in his half nakedness. She bent her head, and began to pray in a low voice that she knew he would not overhear.

“What in God’s name are you praying for?” he inquired, as she glowered at him.

“That is between me and God,” she muttered, dismissing his question, as she pushed herself up. She took the laudanum tincture and shuddered. Then, she climbed into bed. He still stared at her with those glorious sparkling eyes of his, and her mouth went dry. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, and closed her eyes determined to drift off to sleep.

She stiffened, when she felt him climb into bed beside her.

“What in the blue blazes do you think that you are doing?” she demanded, bolting upright, grateful that he had still not blown out the candles on his nightstand.

“I am going to sleep, or at least I was trying to.”

“Not beside me, you are not.” She was outraged that he would try such a scandalous and improper action.

“Yes, I am actually,” his voice was serene, and it made her want to hit him with her pillow.

“You should sleep on the floor or the sofa like a true chivalrous gentleman,” she pointed out, casting her gaze toward the other side of the room.

“I don’t feel like it,” he drawled out lazily. “And,” he continued, as candlelight illuminated his chiseled features. “I happen to be paying for these lodgings.”

She let out an outraged snort, and reached for the extra pillows that had been placed on the bed. Leaving them each one pillow, she lined the others to provide a barrier between them.

“Do not remove those pillows, or I shall be forced to commit the unthinkable.”

“Like what? Beating me to death with them?” he asked sarcastically. He reached for something from his nightstand, and she gasped when he carefully placed his pistol beneath his pillow.

“You are unbelievable.” She turned her back to him, she inched her way as far as she could go to the edge of the mattress. It was a good thing that she was not a mover in bed, or she could quite possibly roll right off while she slept.

He muttered, as she felt him roll to face the middle of the bed.

“These pillows are a bloody nuisance,” he grumbled.

“Ah, that is a pity,” she murmured, repressing a delighted giggle.

“What on God’s green earth were you praying for anyway?” he demanded curiously, his voice lowering to an almost gentle tone.

“If you must know, I was praying for you.” She resisted the urge to roll over and face him. “And I prayed for my family, but that is none of your damn business. And you can trust me…I shall never betray you…the question is…would you betray me?” she whispered softly, closing her eyes. She listened closely as he lapsed into silence and began breathing deeply.

Then, he spoke in a loud voice that made a jolt run through her, causing her heart to beat erratically.

“I would never betray the woman that I loved.”

She was dying to turn back to him, and pray that he would pull her into his arms, but she knew that if he did she would be forever doomed.

She had nearly fallen asleep when a loud rapping sounded at the door. Muffling what she could only suspect were curses, Christopher flung the bedclothes back, and padded across the floor to the door.

Wrenching it open, she heard his long and exasperated groan.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here at this ungodly hour? Have you lost your wits, man?”

“I’ve brought these,” Merryville said, shoving a wrapped bundle into Christopher’s hands. “I found them at one of the dress shops here in town earlier, but I got waylaid in the pub, and nearly forget that I had them, until a Lieutenant pointed out that I had them. The lady who owned the shop said that she had made them for a local Squire’s wife, and the lady decided she didn’t want them after they were made. I…I’m not sure if they will fit her but they’re better than nothing. The woman in the shop said she’d send someone to make alterations if needed. She said the woman was about her size, and well, I told her that Isabella was about the same size.” She heard something hit the door and could only assume that Merryville had lost his balance in his foxed state, and crashed against the doorjamb.

“How much ale have you been having this night?” Christopher asked.

Isabella sat up in bed and watched the exchange at the door with the assistance of the dim candlelight.

“Not ale,” Merryville said, belching loudly. “Oh, I must apologize for that affront.” He teetered and Christopher put out a steadying arm to keep Merryville from falling flat on his face.

Isabella stirred beneath the covers, and Merryville emitted an outraged snort, as he pushed his way into the doorway.

“It was bloody indecent of you to make the Duchess stay with you, Wyndham. You’re fully aware of the blight that you are pressing upon her honour,” Merryville whispered, still swaying from side to side. “I don’t want to be in your boots when this bloody cockup of yours blows up in your face!”

“Her honour is as safe as your precious Nellie’s,” Christopher snapped.

Isabella almost pulled the covers over her head, she was so mortified to have been discovered in such a shameful situation, but she wouldn’t be able to listen to their discussion if she was beneath the covers.

“You asinine fool,” Merryville remarked, glaring at him, as if he wanted to punch him straight in the nose. “If you weren’t my ranking officer and I didn’t admire you so much I’d bloody your lip for that remark.” He hiccupped, and once again, fell against the doorjamb. “The Duchess is a sweet young woman, and you sir, are behaving as if you were the most jaded libertine. I always knew that you were a rake, but I believed that your mother had raised you to be more respectful of ladies.”

“Merryville, I believe that you have said quite enough for one night. You never were that great at holding your alcohol. And tonight, you’ve failed bloody miserably. You are making a right fool of yourself!”

“No, I am not! I am only trying to save your hide,” Merryville argued. “She’s a duchess, well, ain’t she? Her title still does count, doesn’t it? So, you should be calling her Duchess, or Your Grace, and even if her title doesn’t count, she’s still a lady, and she was the daughter of a duke, a dead duke, but a duke nonetheless,” he rambled, “you don’t just treat her like a common trollop! She isn’t made to be your pretty piece!” he mumbled, running his hand through his damp hair. “I won’t be responsible for saving your blasted ass when Elphinstone wakes up and discovers that you have mistreated his cousin.” Merryville let out another loud belch, and then, straightened proudly.

“I hope that Her Grace shall be pleased by the dresses I bought. I tried to buy her what my sisters and my dear Mama favour.” Then he fixed his hat, and leveled Christopher with a somber gaze. “Take care of the Mademoiselle, or you’ll not only answer to Elphinstone, but you’ll be beholding to me as well.” Merryville’s threat would have been taken more seriously by Christopher, if he hadn’t chosen that exact moment to let out a hideously prolonged belch. He staggered out into the hallway, and walked haphazardly down the hall to his own room.

As Christopher eased the door shut, Isabella scooted beneath the bedclothes, and feigned sleep.

“Don’t fret, Your Grace,” he said mockingly, as he climbed back into bed. “I won’t touch you at all, for fear of catching something. And, never fear, Merryville isn’t an elbow-crooker. He just feels the need to get drunk whenever something is aggravating him—he has propensity to feel for women of your class. I can’t have you thinking that we Englishmen, wallow in spirits every waking hour of the day.”

Anger sparked through Isabella, and she resisted the urge to start hitting him with her pillow.

“You, sir, are a disgrace to your sex,” she whispered, pulling the covers up to her chin, and snuggling further down into the bed.

“Well, then my dear, we are two peas in a pod,” he shot back, turning away from her, as he blew out the bedside candle.

Isabella hardly ever dreamed. And when she did, she inevitably had nightmares that shook her down to her very soul.

She fled from the black hooded man, and scrambled to push her way through the bramble of trees. One wayward branch flew back and connected with the side of her face. Tears stung her eyes, as blood spattered down her cheek. In her haste and distraction, she nearly tripped over a jagged stone.

Her breath was coming in short little gasps, and her feet were as sore as they had ever been. Her head was rushing, and she feared that she would pass out before she made her escape.

He was coming for her.

Death pursued her. She tried to use her magic. Nothing happened. Her magic had still not returned. She was helpless. She could not protect herself from death, without her powers, and even then, she had her doubts.

Crying out in agony, she tripped and fell to her knees. Her dress tore as the gnarly root from an ancient oak, cut into her skin.

She turned to search for something to defend herself with, and sighed when her hands closed around a particularly large stone. She threw it at him, and hit him. It didn’t deter him one bit, and he continued to bear down upon her.

He looked like some devilish highwayman, though she knew that he was far more dangerous. He didn’t want to steal a few trinkets and baubles from her. He wanted to take her life!

She screamed, and raised her hand in to protect her face. He pulled the pistol from the folds of his black cape, and leveled it steadily at her.

“God help me!” she pleaded desperately. At that exact moment, his hood fell back, revealing his handsome features.

Moonlight cast an ethereal glow across his face. She squinted, as she tried to see his face through the stars that exploded in front of her eyes.

She let out a blood-curdling scream, as he discharged his pistol. The shot pierced the uncanny silence of the night.

When she screamed in her nightmare, she also screamed in the waking world as well. Shaken, sweating and gasping for air, she bolted upright. Glaring wildly around her, she strained to focus her eyes, and accustom them to the blanketing darkness. She heard him, before she saw him. Cringing, she waited for something to strike her.

He had pulled his pistol, and was madly trying to light the candle with his other hand. Blinking rapidly, she stared over at him in dumbfounded amazement.

“Why the bloody hell did you scream like you were being murdered?” he demanded, sweat glistening across his forehead. “I don’t see any intruder in our room.”

In the dim light, he looked cross to have had his sleep disturbed in such a way. She, however, was still struggling to regain her breath and to formulate her wild thoughts into something coherent to say.

Realizing that she could think of no plausible falsehood, she cut straight to it. “I was having a nightmare if you must bloody well know.” She hadn’t realized that she was shouting above the blood rushing in her ears, until he frowned and placed his index finger across his lips, urging her to be quiet.

“You shrieked like you were a bloody banshee,” he said, lowering his voice. He still held his pistol unwaveringly in his right hand, but thankfully, he was no longer pointing it in her direction.

Pounding against their door, caught both of their attentions, as Isabella tried to compose herself.

Bounding angrily across the room, Christopher unlatched the door, and yanked it open. “What do you want?” he barked, staring at the landlords, and about half a dozen of his men.

Merryville’s face was a bright crimson red, and a murderous glint had entered his normally cheery eyes.

“Her Grace is fine,” Christopher proclaimed, glaring at each of them in turn. “She had a nightmare.” Refusing to elaborate more, he slammed the door in their faces, and slid the lock into place. “How are you feeling?” he said, in a softer voice as he moved toward the bed.

But Isabella had fallen back asleep. He smiled, and tenderly pushed a wayward curl off of her forehead. He carefully climbed back into bed, moving slowly so that he wouldn’t jar her awake. He began listening to her soft breathing, and within minutes, he was asleep, bewitched by the sweetness of her sighs.

*****

Christopher’s eyes opened as something indescribable awoke him. Instantly alert, he stared around the room, and then felt something extraordinarily soft underneath the palm of his hand. That was when he finally noticed that the carefully erected barrier of pillows were unmistakably absent. Suddenly, his mouth went dry…if this didn’t test his ability to restrain himself, then he didn’t know what would. Talk about being on the precipice of having the forbidden fruit.

Smothering an oath that would have certainly scared the wits out of Isabella, he tried to withdraw his hand. He had no idea how her shapely bottom had become pressed up against him, or how his hand had managed to find her breast, but unless he did something soon she would be startled awake and she’d let out one hell of a scream that might just make his ears bleed. And, as it was, he was awfully uncomfortable in his current situation. He wanted so desperately to just pull her to him, and take her. He’d have her wet and willing in two seconds flat. Slowly, he flexed his fingers gently against her breast, hoping to wake her up with his slight movement. She continued sleeping like the dead. How unfortunate.

His tumultuous emotions wreaked havoc upon him. He gritted his teeth, as he tried to keep himself from reacting out of impulse, and pulling her closer to him.

He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone else in his life. He wanted her more than he had even wanted Ashley.

“Oh, Ashley,” he murmured softly, becoming overwhelmed by nostalgia. He needed to touch and taste Isabella, so badly. At the sound of his husky whisper Isabella came alive beneath his hand.

“Who is Ashley?” He heard her voice, but it took him a moment until comprehension dawned. Perhaps she hadn’t been asleep after all. If that was the case, than that meant that she didn’t mind the positioning of his hand whatsoever. And if he had interpreted the tone of her voice correctly, he almost could have sworn that she was jealous.

If he played his cards right, maybe this would be a sweet morning after all. He knew he was acting like a cad, but he still wanted to throttle the life out of her when he imagined her in Napoleon’s bed. Why and how she could have brought herself to be seduced by him—he’d never understand. It almost made his blood boil, almost.

“Ashley was my lover, and now, she is dead.” The finality of his words stung him, and he raised his eyebrow as he felt a shudder wrack her body. “Now I remember why we always called you the little duchess even though you seemed too little to hold such a grand title. You are quite the haughty chit, even for a Frenchwoman.”

“Stop calling me that!” she yelled, squirming beneath his hold. He pulled her toward him, and he knew that she was yearning to pummel him black and blue, but for the moment, she would have to be denied her true heart’s desire.

“Certainly, Your Grace,” he drawled out, sarcastically, as she stiffened in his arms. “It would be very easy for me to seduce you in our current situation.” He ever so gently caressed the silky swell of her breast. He felt a delighted thrill race through her. A self-satisfied smile spread across his face, as he realized the strong effect he had on her. “That nightmare you suffered last night, are they a regular occurrence?” His curiosity was piqued, and he wanted to change the subject before she began prying about Ashley. He didn’t want to remember Ashley when he had a Frenchwoman in his bed. The bloody frogs had killed his beloved Ashley, and he would never forgive them. Not ever!

“Yes,” she admitted, in a soft voice. He realized that she wasn’t willing to elaborate, but he needed to know more. “My nightmares should not concern you. After all, it isn’t as if we shall ever be sharing a bed again.”

“Life has many possibilities, my little Duchess. Do not make assumptions when uncertainty still lingers around the next corner.” He felt her try to move away from him again. As she continued to squirm his hand slipped, and he went with it. She ceased her struggling, and let out a horrified shriek. Unfortunately for her, and not so unfortunately for him, his hand now cupped her plump breast. And he felt as if he were touching what dreams were made of.

“Sir, I do not wish to trouble you,” she began coldly, “But would you pray remove your hand, from where it is nestled?”

Her nipple was hard against the material of his dressing gown, and he gently flicked his thumb against it, teasing it to rise to its full perkiness.

“My Lord!” she nearly panted. “Have you no shame?” Her question hung in the air, as if it were a loaded pistol waiting to be discharged. He pondered her question, as he savoured the moment. He let out a low throaty chuckle, and caressed her nipple once more.

“My lack of shame does not seem to be troubling you overly much. Let’s have a merry dance in this bed, Duchess. You will not regret it.” His words were honeyed, and he carefully raised himself up on his left elbow, as he tried to peer down into her face.

From what he could see, her face was flushed with either embarrassment, or excitement. The titillating circumstance they were in could be inspiring either. Or perhaps, her expression was a mingling of both reactions.

How easy it could be for him to show her the sweet tender touch of an Englishman. Though she’d probably had a wide range of suitors in France, he highly doubted that anyone of them could have been English.

He was always been up for a challenge. Never one to shirk hard work or duty, he knew that Isabella was a prize worth winning. And God, how he wanted her. Even if she was a French spy…he wanted her. Damnation.

“My lord, I must insist. Remove your hand, or I shall show you what a great healthy set of lungs I possess.”

In this instance, he knew that she would prove to be a woman of her word. He slowly withdrew his hand, and as he did so, he gently caressed the side of her cheek. She shivered, and he smiled. No matter how much she wanted to fight him, he wouldn’t be deterred. He’d only be satisfied, when he had the prize, and it belonged to him, and no other.

Besides, he didn’t think that her voice would sound like a siren’s sweet song. Though he knew that if he did involve himself with her, he could possibly face the same fate as all of the men that were lured by the siren’s song. Instead of him ruining Isabella, she just might be the death of him. But hell, at least he would die a happy man.