The Earl With the Secret Tattoo (8 page)

She had it all wrong. Dear God, he was at
her
mercy. Love owned him. And not the other way around.

Slowly, gently, he laid a kiss on her lips.

And it was like coming home. He’d never felt so moved by a simple kiss, nor by the
hunger he felt to be near her—
this
woman. No other.

She let him caress her mouth with his own, part the seam of her lips with his tongue.
He sensed her shyness. But then she was kissing him back—with warmth and passion—their
hands gripping tightly, their tongues colliding as each explored each other.

James reeled with pleasure, drunk with the knowledge that he’d move heaven and earth
to make her his own.

If she’d ever have him.

If she ever would.

Still kneeling, he pulled back, not wanting to take advantage of her riled state and
afraid to build up his own hopes. Those, he knew, he couldn’t have—not so long as
his mission in the Brotherhood went unfulfilled. And even if he were to succeed, who
was he to hope when he knew all too well how easily tragedy could carry the day?

But she reached out.

Touched his forearm.

Laid her hand on it.

He looked down at that sweet hand enveloped in lace and then back up at her.

“I—,” she whispered. And then swallowed.

“You don’t need to say another word.” He stood and drew her hand up so that she was
forced to stand, too.

And then he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her the way he’d always wanted
to, the full length of her soft, rounded body pressed against him. “You’re exquisite,”
he said against her mouth.

She gave a little moan in her throat and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

But very gently, he pulled them down. “Let me remove your cape. Please.”

She cast her eyes to the floor. “Very well,” she said, her cheeks pink. “I’d like
that.” And when she looked up at him, he saw that she desired him as much as he did
her.

Good God, he was a lucky man. There was no luckier man on earth.

With careful fingers, he pulled the cape from her shoulders and cast it onto a nearby
sofa.

She stood before him, her body outlined by the light of the fire. He saw the dusky
rose of her nipples beneath her night rail. And when he glanced farther down to bask
in her beauty, he caught a glimpse of a darker shadow between her legs.

He basked in the sight of her, queenly yet unguarded, and lifted her in one swift,
sure motion to kiss her madly.

Ahh, how perfectly she fit in the crook of his arm!

Somehow, without looking, he managed to back up against the seat cushion of the chair
she’d only just occupied and lower himself into it. All the while, their lips never
came unlocked. She was snug in his embrace, where he wanted her to be, her soft, pliant
breasts pressed against his chest, her fingers tangled in his hair.

His hand caressed the curves that made up her hourglass figure, lingering at her waist
and inching up until his thumb brushed lazily across the underside of her left breast.

Her heard her intake of breath and ceased his explorations.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. Looking straight into his eyes, she put her hand over
his and moved it to lie directly over her heart.

He felt it beating wildly beneath his palm. His was just as fast, of course, and it
didn’t help that she was sitting directly on top of his erection, her lush weight
teasing him every time she moved even a fraction of an inch.

He cupped her breast through the thin muslin. “Perfection,” he murmured back, and
stroked her nipple.

She arched into him, their kisses growing more heated, and he slipped his hand under
her gown and caressed her calf. When his palm moved to stroke her thigh, she stopped
kissing him a moment and looked up at him. “I’ve never done anything like this before,”
she said. “Especially not with Baron Easley.”

James laughed. “I knew Clare was blowing smoke. But I quite liked imagining you teasing
the baron.”

“I knew it!” she cried. “I could see it in your eyes.”

He kissed her—the most shameless kiss he’d given her yet. “You’re the only woman I
want to kiss, Lady Eleanor Gibbs. The one and only. And I don’t want any other man
enjoying that privilege.”

“I don’t know,” she said, a warm smile on her lips. “I like this kissing business
very much.”

“Do you?” His voice was husky; he was barely in control. But control he must maintain,
even as his fingers slid to touch the warm, wet haven between her thighs.

She slowed her kissing then and moaned against his jaw. “Oh, my,” she whispered.

He teased the small nubbin of flesh he found in the midst of her curls with his thumb.

“Oh,
my,
” she said again, a look of wonder on her face.

The longer he explored, the more her head fell back—an inch at a time, seemingly against
her will—against the chair arm. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her lips parted.

James ran his tongue over the hollow at the base of her neck while playing with her
womanly core, his fingers slipping in and out of her while his thumb continued its
sensual ministrations.

“Relax,” he said. “Simply…let go.”

And she did. Moments later, she cried out, her back arched like a bow, her slick femininity
pulsing around his fingers, all while he marveled at her unbridled beauty.

When she sank back down, her cheeks were rosy and her eyelids heavy. Much to his delight,
she gave a great sigh, as if she’d been on a long, wondrous journey and was reluctant
to return.

And then she sat up, gently took his face in both her hands, and kissed him hard on
the mouth. “Thank you,” she said earnestly. “I didn’t know it, but that’s just what
I needed.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad. I want to do it again.”

She smiled and shook her head. “I can’t. Not now. You need to look at the talisman.”

She was right, of course. It was a damned shame she was, but she was correct, nonetheless.
And because he loved her and wanted to keep her safe, he ignored the throbbing in
his loins, stood with her still cradled in his arms, and put her down.

“All right, then,” he said, aching for her. “I’ll look at the talisman.”

<#>

You did the right thing,
a breathless Eleanor told herself, and watched the earl examine the copper token
closely.
On both counts. Not just about the talisman but about the kiss—and about what happened
afterwards.

Oh, the afterward!

It was her very first encounter with a man…and not a boy.

She’d had her share of youthful
tendres
—a few stolen kisses behind the rosebushes or a shady tree—but never before had she
experienced something that made her feel as if she’d lost control, was no longer directing
her own fate but was instead being whisked away by a powerful force that defied logic
and time.

Something that was eternal and mysterious and much bigger than herself.

It frightened her. It frightened her so much, she sat primly with her hands laced
and her heart leaping willy-nilly within her chest, like a playful colt.

“This is it,” Lord Tumbridge murmured. “This is what we need.”

“For what?” she managed to say. She’d forgotten all about…everything. She needed her
head back. But it was difficult when she was dealing with the man who’d brought her
to the greatest pleasure she’d ever known.

He looked down at her, his expression keen with purpose, concern, and something else—something
warm and wonderful that made her lace her fingers even tighter even as she longed
to lean forward and kiss him again.

“I don’t want to tell you tonight,” he said. “You’ve already been through enough.
But I will, eventually. I promise. Meanwhile, you’ll have to stay here.”

“Here? I can’t do that.”

“You’ll have to trust me. You can’t go back.”

“Please—before you start making outrageous plans, I need to hear the truth. I can
bear it, whatever you have to say. Tell me now. You owe me that.”

And it will distract me. It will distract me from how much I want to land in your
lap again and return to what we were doing before.

“Lady Eleanor, believe me, it’s much too—”

“Enough, Lord Tumbridge. Tell me.”

“Very well.” He paused. “It won’t be easy.”

“Lord Tumbridge.”

“As you wish, my lady. But I’ll need you to take a seat again.”

“Very well,” she said, feeling impatient as she did so.

The earl fixed his gaze on hers. “The talisman you brought me is what was needed to
bring down the man we believe responsible for the death of several people doing their
duty to the Crown, his last victim being—” He paused again, looking terribly grim.

“Who?” She was getting impatient now.

He sighed and held her gaze. “Your father.”

“My—my father?”

“Yes.”

Tears blurred her vision. She’d gone from utter fright to absolute happiness and was
now in the depths of misery and shock.

“Lady Eleanor, I’m so sorry.” Lord Tumbridge’s expression was anguished when he handed
her a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket.

She gave a little sob and accepted it. “I—I thought he’d died in his sleep.” She wiped
her eyes with the linen square. “Oh, Papa. You poor, poor man.”

And she began to cry in earnest, thinking of all that was wrong with the world.

Lord Tumbridge hovered over her and smoothed her hair back from her eyes while she
cried. “I knew it was too much.”

“No,” she said fiercely, and wiped at the tears brimming over. “It was not too much.
Tell me
everything,
and I mean, everything.” She felt angry now. “Don’t dare hold a single fact back.
Papa would want me to know.”

The earl kept smoothing back her hair, over and over, his gaze troubled and fixed
on the wall behind her.

“My lord?”

He finally looked down at her.

“You can stop now,” she said, not really wanting him to but needing him to—so she
could think clearly.

“Very well.” Lord Tumbridge’s eyes were sad. He dropped his hand but not before gently
fixing a loop of hair back behind her ear.

“I’m grateful for your sympathy,” she said, “but I need to hear more about my father.”

“You’re his daughter,” the earl replied softly, “his legacy to the world. So I’ll
be glad to speak with you about him.”

He resumed his seat on the floor in front of her.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling more collected. “What do you mean, Papa was doing his
duty to the Crown? Who killed him? And why?”

Over the next few minutes, it was as if Eleanor had entered another world, a world
she never dreamed existed. She couldn’t believe that her sweet, docile father had
founded an organization whose mission was to track down any threats to the security
of the those who served the Crown in the diplomatic corps.

She felt pale and shaken. But the longer she thought of it, the more she realized
it would have been very like her father. He was a man of principle—and action, when
he felt the need.

He was a hero, not only to her but also to their country.

That thought brought her tremendous comfort. And pride.

“And you’re in this clandestine organization?” she asked the earl.

“Yes, I am. Although if you asked the English government, they’d say we didn’t exist.”

“Goodness. So
you’re
a hero, too.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” His modest rebuttal sounded perfectly sincere. “I’m only doing
my duty. Your father was the visionary, the one who uncovered the enemy within our
ranks, and the one who sacrificed his life.”

“One who does his duty is a hero, whether he makes the ultimate sacrifice or not.”

Lord Tumbridge began to speak, but she laid a finger on his mouth. “I must beg you
not to contradict me on that point.” Her tone was firm, even as he grabbed her finger
and placed a soft, sweet kiss on it. She blushed and pulled her hand back. “Now, please
tell me more about my father’s heroics. I shall bask in them, as it is only right
that a daughter should.”

“I’ll be happy to,” the earl said kindly. “Ever thorough, your father left behind
two matching talismans with codes that when put together would lead to documents implicating
a high-ranking peer as a double agent during the war with Napoléon. One of them he
gave to me to hold until he was sure of his case. When he realized he was in serious
danger, he wrote me a letter alerting me to the location of the other talisman, but
it was too late on all counts. The double agent managed to kill him, and the Sherwood
boy found the other talisman first.”

“Yes, in the cave by my stepfather’s house. It was before he was my stepfather, of
course.” Eleanor was getting a very bad feeling. “Why ever would Papa have hid it
there?” She leaned forward. “Who, pray tell, is this double agent and murderer?”

Although she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

The earl’s mouth thinned. “Pritchard.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

Eleanor swallowed. “Heaven save us,” she finally managed to say. “Mother and I—Clare—have
been living with a traitor and…a murderer? And not only that, he killed Papa?” It
seemed incomprehensible. “I’ve been sitting at a table with him. And Mama shares his
bed—”

She put her knuckles to her mouth. Perhaps all this horrible news
was
too much. It was terrible, ghastly, so devastating that Eleanor wasn’t sure she knew
up from down anymore, black from white—

Good from evil.

Yes, you do,
a voice in her head told her.
You do know
. When she’d had to decide whether Lord Tumbridge was good or bad, she’d made the
right decision, hadn’t she? And hadn’t she known in her heart that there was something
very, very wrong with Lord Pritchard?

And as a result of her stepfather’s diabolical actions, Papa wasn’t here to speak
for himself.

She would have to be his voice.