“There’s nothing for it. We’ll arrange to take possession of the arms, and the Foreign Office will try again in a few weeks. They’ll be out the second half of their payment, but if he can, Melbourne will use them for the next attempt.”
“And what about the soldiers waiting on the Continent for the weapons? They’ve put themselves at risk by leaving their regiments behind and for what? No ships with arms will arrive. They will have been counting on those to help them defeat the French.”
“It’s not your fault.”
She rounded on him. “It is my fault! Men may die because of me.” She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “Why can’t I remember?” She slammed her hands on the table and reached for the bowl. Simon moved quicker than she expected and plucked it from her hands.
“Let’s not throw anything breakable.” He set the bowl on the table again, and she paced away, but he caught her hand when she paced back. “You’re frustrated.”
“Of course I’m frustrated!” She snatched her hand away and turned to pace again.
“You want to hit something.”
“I’d tear this room apart if I didn’t know I’d feel worse afterward.”
“Hit me.”
She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”
“You’re frustrated and want to hit something.” He strode to her and took up a wide-legged stance before her. “Hit me.” He pointed to his jaw. “Right here. Go on. I can take it.”
“I’m not hitting you.”
“You’ll feel better.”
“I won’t.”
“Just hit me, Marjorie. Take your best shot. I won’t even flinch.”
A red haze clouded her vision. Who knew she had such a temper? “I promise if I hit you, Burrows, you will flinch.”
“Doubtful.”
She knew what he was doing. He was goading her, and she was falling for it because he was correct. She would feel better if she hit something. And he was just standing there...
Before she even knew what she was about to do, she raised her fist and swung at him. The arc of her arm, the way she brought her fist up to connect under his jaw, felt natural and almost second-nature. She’d done this before. She’d hit a man before just like this.
And then something went wrong.
Simon caught her fist. She couldn’t process what had happened at first. It seemed impossible that he’d moved so quickly. But her smaller fist was caught in his hand, and before she could pull away, he yanked her to him. Her nostrils flared as she caught the scent of him, mingled with her own scent that still clung to him from their earlier lovemaking. She brought her free hand up, thinking she might take a shot with that one. Instead, she grabbed the back of his neck and brought his mouth down to hers. Hard.
He didn’t pull away but kissed her back with a passion she hadn’t been expecting. His fervor only added fuel to hers. She freed her other hand from his grip, put a palm on his chest, and shoved him until his back hit the wall. A table with a lamp rattled, but she ignored it. She was yanking at his cravat and freeing him from his coat. His mouth was on her neck, his hands on her breasts, and then he forcibly shifted positions so her back was against the wall. His coat fell to the floor and she all but ripped his shirt over his head. When he was free, his bare chest gleaming in the low lamplight, he yanked open her bodice and kissed the exposed flesh above her breasts.
She moaned and pulled him closer, her hands skating down his bare back. He was so warm, his muscles bunching as she tested them. She couldn’t get close enough, and she all but cried yes when his hands went under her buttocks to lift her. She locked her legs around his waist as he pushed her skirts aside so she could feel how hard he was under his trousers. And then, holding her with one hand, he unfastened the fall of his trousers, and she felt him between her thighs.
“Simon, please,” she said just before he drove into her. Her back rammed against the wall. It wasn’t painful—in fact, the feel of him inside her was glorious—but the lamp on the table rattled again. Her mouth met his as he moved inside her. He’d slowed his thrusts, and she loved him for that. He wanted to pleasure her. But in this moment, she wanted fast and hard.
“Harder,” she whispered against his lips. “Faster.”
“You’ll be the death of me,” he groaned, but he gave her what she wanted. When her head threatened to bang against the wall, he cupped the back of it to cover her injury with his hand. That tender gesture, coupled with the hard thrust of his cock, caused her body to draw inward as pleasure exploded and spread through her. She dug her heels into his buttocks, and ground against him, her breath so ragged she couldn’t seem to draw in air.
And then he was pulling away, setting her down and holding a handkerchief to his member as he too climaxed. The lamp on the table teetered on the edge, and Marjorie reached out a hand and caught it midair. Then she slumped onto the floor and closed her eyes in bliss.
SHE WAS STILL FRUSTRATED but somehow after an orgasm like he’d given her, that frustration was manageable. She was not tired, however, and she offered to take the first watch. He didn’t argue, merely raked a hand through his already mussed hair and collapsed on the couch, his breathing deep and regular within moments.
Marjorie went to the bed chamber to clean herself and returned with the blanket, covering him. Poor man. She’d worn him out these last few days. He’d taken on the double duty of caring for her and leading this mission. She could hardly blame him for finally succumbing to exhaustion. She started for the chair where she’d spent her watch last night, then spotted his coat and shirt on the floor. Simon would not like his clothing to wrinkle. She bent to pick them up, intending to drape them over the back of a chair, but when she lifted the coat, the book Simon had purchased dropped out.
She put the small volume on the table as she hung his clothing then took it with her to the chair. She wore her shift with her robe over it, and she tucked her bare feet under her as she sat. The lamp beside her flickered as she opened the book and read the first page. The author—she had never heard of him—did not have a way with words. She tried another page, but it was as dry as the first. She flipped forward, thinking perhaps the volume might be more interesting a few chapters in, but it was full of descriptions of shorelines and dimensions of smuggling vessels, and she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in either of those.
