Naughty or Nice? Page 23

  “I’m sorry,” he said, releasing her hair. “I forgot myself.”

  Seizing the bottle, she sat up before she forgot herself and kissed him. “So, is there a Mrs. Maxwell waiting for you at home?” she asked, draining the last of the wine from the bottle into her glass. She wanted him to be married so she could put a stop to these shameless thoughts.

  “No,” he replied with a shake of his head. “There was a girl, but I doubt she waited for me.”

  “Why not?”

  His gaze was clear and open beneath those slashing brows. “I imagine she thinks I’m dead.”

  Elizabeth remembered what that was like. Going weeks, months at a time with no word, only to think the worst and then get a letter from some godforsaken part of the world proving her wrong. It wasn’t an existence she would wish on any woman. It was part of the reason she’d eventually started to work with Thomas. Being with him had been easier than not knowing. Most husbands wouldn’t have wanted their wives to endanger themselves in such a way, but Thomas had mistaken her fear of losing him for loyalty to the crown—a misconception she’d never had the courage to correct him on.

  “If she loves you, I’m sure she’s waited.” She made the mistake of patting his shoulder when she said it. His flesh was smooth and warm beneath her fingers. She snatched them away before she could embarrass herself by actually caressing him. What the devil was wrong with her?

  He captured her fingers in his, holding them until the heat from his hand chased the chill from her bones.

  “Some women won’t wait, Mrs. Vail. Not even for love.” His gaze bored into hers. “But you’re not like that, are you? You’ve been waiting a long time.”

  Elizabeth’s heart stopped. How could he tell? How could he know these things?

  “I—” She didn’t know what to say.

  He took pity on her discomfort. “Why do you do these things? Why do you risk your life for people you don’t know? Are you still in mourning for your husband?”

  Mourning? For Thomas? No, that wasn’t it. She mourned many things about her marriage, but sadly her husband’s death was no longer one of them. That pain had passed a long time ago. She’d never told anyone why she continued Thomas’s work. She doubted anyone would truly understand. She let them all believe it was out of love. Out of devotion.

  “I made a promise,” she whispered. “I promised my husband that if anything happened to him I would do what I could to prevent England from falling into French hands.”

  He smiled. For a moment she almost thought he envied her. Why? “You loved him enough to risk your life.”

  Elizabeth took a drink of wine to wash the bitter taste out of her mouth. “That was part of it.”

  His head tilted to one side. It gave him a boyish look. “What was the other part?”

  She met his gaze, surprised by her need to confess her sins to him. “Have you ever been cuckolded, Mr. Maxwell?”

  He looked surprised by her question. “Not that I know of.”

  She shrugged. “I suppose I had a need to get as close as I could, to learn as much as I could, about the ‘other woman.’ Yes, I loved my husband, and I know he loved me, but England always came first, and I had to know why she meant so much that he’d die for her.”

  Mr. Maxwell frowned. “I’m sure he would say he died protecting you.”

  Elizabeth’s smile twisted. It was humiliating to admit the truth, but at the same time, it felt as though a great weight were being cast off her shoulders. “It wasn’t me he went to war for, Mr. Maxwell. It wasn’t my virtue he sought to protect, trust me.”

  “I’m so happy that the fate of England means as much to you as it does to me, Lizzie. Our country has stood proud and regal for centuries. She must not fall to France. You must promise to protect her at any cost . . .”

  Thomas’s words rang in her head. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken of England as a lover or a child, to be protected “at any cost.” At the time, she’d believed it was the price to be paid for marrying a soldier, but Mr. Maxwell was a soldier . . .

  “Would you have been proud to die for your country, Mr. Maxwell?”

  He shrugged those magnificent shoulders and drank his wine. “Dying in a prison cell wouldn’t be much of a hero’s death. I suppose dying in battle would be a better choice, if one had to choose. To be honest, Mrs. Vail, I’d rather die an old man snug in my bed than die for England.” He drained his glass. “On the other hand, I’d give my life in a minute if it meant my loved ones would be safe.”

  Boneless with too much wine, Elizabeth slouched in her chair and regarded him with open admiration. “I should like very much to be one of your loved ones, Mr. Maxwell.” The instant the words left her mouth, she realized how they sounded, and so did he.

  He stared at her, the ferocity of his expression making her tremble. “At the risk of being bold, Mrs. Vail, I dare you to find any man who wouldn’t gladly die for the privilege of loving a woman like you.”

  Did he mean love in the emotional or in the physical sense? Elizabeth didn’t really care. His words thrilled her right to the very core of her. She shivered as parts of her body she’d long forgotten tightened and tingled under the weight of his gaze.

  Dear heavens, what was happening? She’d never reacted to a man this way before, and she’d easily met hundreds during the last few years, while working with Thomas and after his death. She’d seen so many of them, brave men like Thomas, fighting for their country; or cowards, desperately trying to find a way to save themselves no matter what the cost. And she’d seen so much death, almost touched it a few times herself. She’d thought she’d hidden that vulnerable part of herself, thought she was as cold and hard as the war itself, but this man saw through her façade as if it were made of gauze.

  In her soul, it was as though she’d known him her entire life.

  God, she just didn’t want to feel alone anymore. Even if it was just for this crossing, just until they reached wretched England, she wanted to feel as though she were all that mattered, that she was the most wanted, cherished thing in a man’s—this man’s—life.

  He saw it. He saw the desperation in her eyes. She knew because for one split second, she saw it reflected in his own. They were both mature, experienced adults, there was no reason for them to fight their attraction. They both knew that this moment was a chance to unleash all the fear and cold the war had heaped upon them, to share it with someone who understood what they’d gone through—what they would continue to go through until families were safe and promises fulfilled.

  He could fill her emptiness, fill her body with his own, and make the numbness go away, if just for one fleeting moment.

  Silence stretched between them as he rose to his knees before her. Her legs flanked his ribs as he pulled her closer. He was solid and warm between her thighs as his body pushed her skirts up as high as they would go. He didn’t even seem to notice the difference between her stockings and flesh, or the pretty flowered garters she always wore for luck when on a mission.

  His hands gripped the arms of her chair, tension making the muscles and sinews from his wrists to his shoulders stand out against the reddish hair and golden skin that covered them.

  Mouth dry, Elizabeth raised her gaze, past the bold line of his jaw, past the jut of his cheekbone, to the molten, earthy green of his eyes.

  “In fact,” he murmured, pulling her closer as he eased further between her thighs. “I think I just might die if I don’t love you.”

  Elizabeth’s moan of surrender was lost as his mouth seized hers. How could she possibly resist? She didn’t want to resist. She wanted him to make her whole again.

  Her lips parted at the first gentle probing of his tongue. He tasted of wine and man and something Elizabeth had feared she’d never taste again—warmth, compassion, and desire. She opened her mouth to him as she pressed her body to his, eager to give as much as she wanted to take.

  His back was smooth and firm beneath her palms as he deftly
unhooked the back of her dress. Had Thomas ever felt like this? Had Thomas ever made her want him this badly? Did it matter? Poor Thomas didn’t exist anymore. She was no longer Lizzie the wife, or Mrs. Vail, the spy. She was Elizabeth, the woman.

  A woman who wanted—no, needed—this man so badly she wanted to weep.

  She lifted her hips when he tugged, allowing him to lift her skirts and pull her gown over her head. Her shift followed, and soon, she was sitting on the chair, the cool, worn wood smooth against her bare flesh, in nothing but her garters and stockings.

  Mr. Maxwell—God, she didn’t even know his name—looked at her. Really looked at her. Never in her life had she felt so open—both physically and emotionally—to a man’s gaze. His eyes were everywhere, lingering on the roundness of her thighs, her belly, her breasts.

  “You’re perfect,” he told her, sliding his hands up her ribs to cup a breast in each palm. His thumbs brushed her nipples, sending a hot jab of sensation spiking between her thighs. She stared as he teased the pink flesh into dark, hardened pebbles that ached for his mouth. She wanted him to make her cry out. She wanted him all over her until nothing else existed, until the world didn’t matter anymore.

  He took a nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue, nipping it with his teeth until Elizabeth’s head spun. She held his head in her hands for fear that he might stop. His hands had gone to the falls on his trousers, and her knees clenched against his arms as the itch built deep inside her, making her squirm in the chair. She felt him push at his trousers, peeling the snug fabric down his thighs to his knees.

  She reached down and brushed the head of his sex with her fingers. He was hard and hot against her palm. A bead of moisture greeted her curious caress. He was ready for her, and wanted her as much as she wanted him.

  “You’re so lovely,” she whispered brazenly against his ear. “I want you inside me, filling me.”

  He groaned against her breast, his hand slipping between her thighs, to the heated, damp flesh that craved him.

  Elizabeth gasped, her face still pressed against the smoothness of his cheek, as he slipped a finger inside her. His flesh was cool against her heat. The intrusion was sweet, but only increased the frustrated ache inside her. Even as her hips moved with every languid stroke she wanted more. Even as his thumb parted her slick folds to rub the swollen hardness within, she gasped for breath and pushed against him. It wasn’t enough.

  “I can’t . . .” It came out as a sob. “I want . . . please.”

  He withdrew his hand. Whimpering, she clenched her muscles, trying to keep him inside her. She failed.

  His mouth left her breast, and he stood, leaving her restless and bewildered.

  She stared at him as he kicked off his trousers. He was naked and beautiful, hard and desirable. God, please don’t let him be leaving her. She couldn’t bear it if he left her now!

  He held her gaze as he offered her his hand. “Come here.”

  Even if she wanted to refuse him, the hypnotic timbre of his voice would have made it impossible. Rising as quickly as her trembling legs would allow, she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the table.

  He swept their supper dishes to the far end of the cloth and lifted her up onto the other side. Their faces were level.

  He didn’t speak. He just caressed her, his fingertip tracing the embroidered flowers on her garters.

  “Delicate,” he murmured, that same finger trailing along the inside of her thigh. He raised his gaze. “Just like you.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she was anything but delicate, but as his finger slipped inside her again, she realized just how close to shattering she truly was.

  Leaning back on her hands, Elizabeth tried to focus solely on his face, but she couldn’t help but glance down at the hand on her breast, and at the one between her legs. Heat flooded her cheeks at the sight of the glistening wetness on his fingers, but despite her embarrassment, she spread her legs further when he nudged them with his wrist.

  God, it felt so good, so urgent. Moving her hips, she closed her eyes and thrust against his hand, sweat beading her brow as she fought to ease the growing ache deep inside her.

  He released her breast, removed his fingers from inside her. Frustration reared its head, making her want to scream.

  Then she felt it. Felt the table shift as his hand gripped its side, felt the blunt head of him push against the entrance to her body. She arched toward him. He pulled back.

  “Please.” She didn’t care if she had to beg. She’d beg if that was what he wanted. Just as long as he gave her what she wanted, she didn’t care what she had to do.

  “Please what?”

  Her eyes flew open. He was right there, looming over her, his face just inches from her own. His gaze was hot and heavy-lidded. There was no denying he was as far gone as she was.

  Angling her hips closer to the edge of the table, Elizabeth wrapped her arms around his neck at the same time as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She didn’t look at him as she pulled him to her. “Please come inside me.”

  He closed his eyes, his mouth parting in a silent moan. Elizabeth thrilled at his reaction. It was so intoxicating to know she affected him as deeply as he affected her. Roughly, he pulled her against him, as though his fine hold on his control had snapped. Her heart pounded in anticipation rather than fear. She didn’t want loving and gentle. She wanted hard and pounding. The only thing she wanted to feel was his body inside her, and afterward, she would revel in the exquisite tenderness his lovemaking left upon her flesh.

  She was sitting upright, perched on the very edge of the table, her breasts against his chest and his hard sex pushing insistently against her. Reaching down, she guided him to her, pushing against the small of his back with her calves.

  He slipped inside her, filling her, stretching her so deliciously that she couldn’t help but cry out.

  He stilled. “Are you all right?”

  Unexpected tears burned the backs of Elizabeth’s eyes. He shouldn’t care if he hurt her. She was nothing to him, nothing but warm, wet comfort. That was all he was to her—a little sanity in an insane world. They were using each other. Just because they were sharing their bodies didn’t mean there was any deeper bond between them.

  If she kept thinking it, perhaps she’d eventually believe it.

  “Don’t speak,” she whispered, her voice low and thick as she began moving her pelvis against his. “Just take the emptiness away. Please.”

  Clinging to each other as though they were drowning, their bodies moved together, slowly at first, then faster, more desperately, until the tablecloth bunched beneath her hips and the rough edge of the table dug into her upper thighs. Sweat beaded above her lip as every muscle—muscles that she hadn’t used in two years—in her body flexed in time with the movements of his body. With each thrust of his hips Elizabeth felt as though he filled her a little more, until the emptiness inside her was gone and all that was left was pure, sweet pleasure aching to be released.

  The arms around her tightened, lifting her into every plunge his body made into hers. Faster he moved, their moans merging into one solid gasp of pleasure as her flesh clung to his, shuddering as the ache grew. Mouth open, brow furrowed in an attempt to keep from crying out, Elizabeth clung to him, numb to everything except the sweet, fast friction where they were joined together.

  And then the ache exploded into breath-stealing, heart-stopping rapture as spasm after spasm of release shook her. Grabbing her by the hair, he forced her mouth to his, swallowing her cry as he fed her his own. Slowly, he released her as they both began to breathe again.

  Opening her eyes, Elizabeth glanced up to find him staring at her. He smiled. Tentatively, she smiled back.

  “Is there a bed on this boat?” he asked, gingerly withdrawing from inside her.

  Elizabeth nodded, already mourning the loss of him. “In the cabin where you bathed.”

  “Good.” With one fluid
movement, he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the floor, leaving their discarded clothing where they’d tossed them. “Can we get there without being seen?”

  “Of course. What few crew I have are either on deck or with your friend. What are you doing?” Elizabeth demanded, even as she marveled at his strength and reveled at his confidence.

  “I’m taking you to bed, Mrs. Vail,” he replied in a light, yet determined tone. “We’ve still got some time before we reach England and I intend to spend it making love to you in a proper manner.”

  In a proper manner? Elizabeth raised a dubious brow. “You mean you can do better?”

  He grinned as he carried her down the corridor, kicking open the door of the room where he had bathed earlier. “Much.”

  They laughed together as the door swung shut behind them. Elizabeth allowed him to take her to bed. She gave him her body as many times as he wanted it, did things with him that she had never done with any other man and might not live to do again. She took everything he offered her and gave him everything she had.

  Even her heart.

  “I want to see you again,” he told her later as they prepared to dock.

  Elizabeth’s heart froze. Whether in joy or dismay, she didn’t know. “I have to leave again soon.”

  He cupped her face in his hands, smiling even though she frowned in return. “I want to see you again. Meet me tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t wise. In her line of work she couldn’t afford . . . “Where?”

  “The Pultney Hotel,” he told her. “We’ll take it from there.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “All right. I’ll meet you there.” And as he kissed her good-bye, she dared to let herself dream that they actually had somewhere to take it to.

  CHAPTER TWO

  My second is universal. Placed by God in all our hearts.

  For its favor, wars have been fought and empires shaken.

  But no army on earth is powerful enough to claim it

  For though it can be given it can never be taken.