TheCharmer (23 page)

Stop it!

Collis watched Rose cover her face and sighed in disappointment that her pert bosom was bidden by her forearms. Ah, well, back to those long legs perfectly revealed by the firelight. Elegant legs, trim and traced with supple muscle like a high-blooded horse. Long, elegant legs that led up to a firm bottom he knew well from Rose's many hours spent in boyish trousers.

Ah, those lovely, worn old trousers that had clung like the finest silk to her pert, curved rear. A man could learn to appreciate a less curvaceous form, it seemed. All it took was a bit of keen observation. An eye for the subtler signs of femininity—a taut, supple waist, a high, small bosom, and a pair of legs that went from here to Paris.

Those legs around him, wrapping tightly to his waist like heavenly bonds that no man in his right mind would try to escape… those lean thighs astride him, riding him athletically, tirelessly, forever… oh, dear God, he was in deep trouble here.

"There is one thing that I would like to know," Rose said slowly. "What is it like to be in battle?"

«
^
»

Whatever Collis had been expecting, it wasn't that. The question hit him like a blow in the belly. With all she knew, didn't she also know about the silent agreement never to mention the war? Once he'd come home from Chelsea Hospital, no one in the Etheridge household had ever asked him about it.

But for Rose, of course. Too forthright by half. Perhaps it was time he acknowledged that last battle in his own mind. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words to explain.

"Did you hear about how I was wounded?"

"You fell from your horse?"

He laughed shortly. "I was blown from my horse." He rubbed the shoulder of his numb arm with his good hand. "The battlefield isn't like the stories, you know. It isn't grand. It isn't stirring. It isn't anything but awful, loud, and dangerous. Cannon booming, muskets firing, horses and men screaming and screaming…" He put his hand over his face. Then he raised his head, blinking quickly. "The first time I went into battle, I was worried about losing my favorite horse. Five minutes into it, I was worried about losing my friends. Then I forgot to worry about anything but losing my life."

"Yet you stayed and fought."

"I did. I made it through that battle, and the next, and the next. I lost count really, with all the big battles and minor skirmishes… I don't even know how many weeks passed. I'm sure I was keeping count somehow, but I don't remember. There was a great deal of drinking going on at that point." He drew in his breath and tried to send her an impish grin. He was fairly sure it came out gruesome.

"And then the cannonball bounced this way instead of that—they bounce, you know. Just like great India rubber balls. They don't even look all that dangerous, as if they were too slow to hurt anyone. Yet one cannonball can take out twenty men and horses before it comes still." He sat up straighter and looked into Rose's sympathetic hazel eyes. "I woke up in a tented wagon, jostling my way off the line. I remember the hospital tent, and the surgeon, and then they started giving me the poppy syrup and things were properly blurred after that. I tried to tell them my arm didn't hurt, although my ribs were cracked and it hurt fiercely just to breathe. But I kept thinking, if my arm is broken, it ought to hurt.

"I woke up in the Chelsea Hospital, back in London, and the first thought I had was that they had cut it off, because I couldn't feel a thing." He laughed shortly. "Ironic, because when I spoke to a bloke who'd truly lost his arm, he claimed he could still feel his."

Rose was watching him still, her hands gone quiet in her lap and her eyes shining damply. She opened her mouth to speak. "I—"

From the other side of the nearest wall came a great moan. Then another, louder. Rose pulled back, alarmed, as the moans multiplied and amplified, accompanied by a great rhythmic slamming of the bed to the wall, culminating in a thunderous orgasm that shook the very flames in the candles.

Sudden silence descended, leaving only the faint tinkling of the settling glassware behind. Rose's expression was priceless. Her jaw hung open and her eyes were wide and a very hot flush had crept over her cheeks. Collis threw back his head to release a great shout of laughter, feeling suddenly freed from a black and choking darkness.

Rose put both palms to her hot cheeks. "I—I was going to say," she raised her voice over his laughter, "that I'm sorry for asking so many questions. I must be making you feel like an insect under a quizzing glass."

Collis let his laughter go with a relieved sigh and relaxed back into his chair. "Stop apologizing. You are damn clever at gathering information and putting together clues, and you've a memory like a poacher's trap, for God's sake! These are valuable gifts and you should be proud to own them."

"Gifts?"

He laughed. "Even that alleged invisibility of yours, if you like. Being ignored has definite advantages." He looked her over with a puzzled air. "Damned if I know how anyone could ignore you, though."

The remark was meant casually enough, in relation to his current state of semi-arousal, that he was surprised by the intense look of longing that came over her face. She looked so lost, so hungry. He was on his feet in one beat of his heart. He was standing before her by the next one. "What is it?" Damn the betraying hoarseness of his voice. "What is wrong, my Briar Rose?"

She blinked once, hard, then again, but she was not able to fight back the sheen of tears in her eyes. "You never have, have you? You've never ignored me, not for a single moment."

That surprised a low laugh from him. "Never." Ignore that fire, that sizzling suppleness, that flash of shadowy rebellion within her that matched his own so well?

"Why you?"

"You and I—we are the same," he whispered.

With a swift duck of his head, he kissed her. Her lips parted in surprise. He could feel his own breath invade her with her sharp gasp. He turned his hand free upon her. That hair—that skin—

He would never get enough.

Rose couldn't breathe, didn't care, couldn't even remember the importance of breath—
Collis
. He pulled her close even as she stepped closer. She was quivering, still shocked into stillness under his assault. "Kiss me," he murmured into her mouth.
Please. Kiss me now. Kiss me back. Kiss me hard
—

She kissed him back. Her arms wrapped themselves around his neck and she threw herself into the kiss as if he were saving her from drowning once again. He stumbled, she followed, and they arrived together on the carpet as if by design.

He was hot to the touch, hot to the taste. Rose slid her hands beneath the open collar of his shirt even as his right hand slid to the nape of her neck. Her shawl fell to the floor, freeing her breasts to press to his broad chest with only two thin layers of fabric between. It was two too many.

She was not soft and pliant beneath him. She was supple steel on fire and he was her blacksmith. The taste of her mouth was wild and unexpectedly hot, as if all her prim competence was a shell around a molten core.

He had made her so. She had melted at his hand. Possessive satisfaction flooded him, like hot brandy over the fire of his need. The heat rose within him, burning up every thought but one.
My Rose. Mine
.

Then she uttered a small, broken noise. Unmistakably one of pain. Collis realized that he had embraced her with both arms, the good and the bad, and he was gripping her with bruising force. He released her instantly. Chagrin nearly doused his desire as he scrambled back from her. He stood and backed away, knees nearly shaking from interrupted desire.

"I'm sorry."

«
^
»

Louis Wadsworth stood at the window, surveying the kingdom of his factory from the tower of his office. Wadsworth & Son, Munitions, was spread out before him like a feudal keep of old. His father, the unlamented Edward Wadsworth, had entertained delusions of nobility, declaring that if he had been born centuries ago, he would have been made a lord for the power and wealth he'd accumulated. It had been promises of just that sort of reward under Napoleon that had lured Louis's father into treason in the first place.

Frankly, Louis couldn't care less about such things. Oh, he admired Napoleon's initiative and sheer nerve and certainly considered the British aristocracy to be a vast pool of leeches. His own king and prince were beneath his disdain. All that rampant emotionalism— Prinny with his ladyloves and his art and music.

Louis truly respected only one thing. Money. There was only one reason that he'd bothered to continue his father's plotting. For the shipment of "George IV Commemorative Carbines" he was going to be paid very handsomely. Twice.

He very nearly smiled at the thought. He only wished he'd had time to sound out other bidders. The Americans likely would have chipped in as well. Ah, well, his father had never possessed any real vision.

The thought of being caught had never entered the picture until he'd seen the mangled mahogany case on the floor of his study. But nothing had come of it yet. The men responsible could be mere thieves or might be holding out for some sort of blackmail.

Unless it truly had been Collis Tremayne in his study in the night. The heir to Etheridge… no, he was no common parlor thief. Etheridge was on the side of justice and right. Incorruptible, Louis's father had said. Louis wasn't sure. Every man had a price, after all. It was merely a matter of being willing to pay it.

A tap came at his door. Louis clasped his hands behind his back. "Enter," he called without turning.

"Sir?"

Ah, it was the minion with initiative. Louis exhaled. "Back so soon? Did you bring me something nice?"

"Yes, sir. I caught a boy just before he knocked on the door to the house. He had him a message from a gent what was staying at Mrs. Blythe's."

Mrs. Blythe? "How… coarse."

The minion didn't quite snicker. "Yes, sir. The note came in two parts. One for the manservant, and another for him what to pass on to Lord Liverpool."

Louis hungered for that second message. He closed his eyes and savored the anticipation. "And where are the two messages now?"

"I let the boy deliver the one to the valet bloke. It didn't say nothing but where the man was. I kept the other for you."

"And the boy won't talk?"

"Not anymore, sir."

"Excellent. You may put the letter on my desk." Louis didn't turn until he heard the man shuffle from the room and close the door. Then Louis turned to regard the folded missive with cool restraint and hot, avid eyes.

After a moment, he allowed himself to open the letter to Lord Liverpool and read. It was lovely. It was everything he'd thought it would be. Of course, it mentioned no names or definite facts, but when one knew more than the letter writer, one could read between the lines. After all, he was the one telling this story, wasn't he?

Mrs. Blythe's. Louis knew of her, of course, although he'd never entered her establishment. His tastes were much more refined now. So Mrs. Blythe had an influential guest, hmm?

With precise pleasure, he rang for his secretary. "That fellow who was just here—I wish him to be silenced. And send me someone else… someone thorough. I have a bit of work to be done."

"I hurt you," Collis blurted from his safe and lonely distance. "I'm sorry."

Rose was still sprawled on the floor, but now half-risen on her elbows. Her expression was part aroused smolder and part confused irritation, all directed at him. Her never-terribly-modest gown was rucked up to her knees and hung half off one ivory shoulder. Her hair was mussed and her lips swollen from his kiss.

She looked a proper mess. She'd never been more beautiful to him. He held out his hand to aid her to her feet. She batted him aside and rose on her own. "Don't be an ass, Collis."

"I'm sorry. I never should have—I should know that I can't—"

Something in his tone caught her attention. She looked up swiftly. "You can't?" Her fine brows drew together. "Does that mean you haven't, ah," she waved a hand vaguely at the floor where they had just lain, "since you were wounded?"

He shook his head. She had a right to know. "No."

For some odd reason, she smiled. It was a swift, happy expression, gone almost before he registered it. She then folded her arms over her barely covered bodice and regarded him somberly. "So all the flirting?"

He shrugged. "Smoke without the fire."

"No fire at all?"

He growled. "None! Satisfied?"

"Oh, not nearly." She tapped her fingertips meditatively. "I happened to have observed that all the pertinent equipment is in working order, yes?"

Her wording surprised a bark of laughter from him. "The equipment is working, yes." Oh, God yes. The way her crossed arms braced her pretty bosom was providing abundant fuel for the "equipment," even now. It was very nearly enough to encourage furthering the conversation, if only to continue the utterly delectable view.