Once again they were entirely alone, in a way one never was in London. She was reluctant to break the silence, which might seem magical if she were a more fanciful woman, but she had no appetite for a moment of seductive closeness followed by a reproach, for the bitterness that so often lurked beneath the sweet honey. If that was why he had brought her here, to interrogate her again, to try to trap her, she’d sooner know it now. So she said, ‘Last time we spoke, you made what sounded like a threat – you were determined to dig out my so-called secrets. Is that why we’re here, in truth? Because if it is, I’m tired…’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Enough of that. I too am tired. Tired, apart from anything else, of always being sensible and safe. Of making calculations, of having nothing at all in my life for myself. That probably sounds foolish, ridiculous even, and I have no idea why I’m sharing this with you, of all people. I know that I am very fortunate in so many ways, and yet…’
There was little of safety in Sophie’s life now, there had not been for years, and nobody could call her fortunate apart from in not being dead in a gutter, but his words must still strike home with her. She realised with a pang of unexamined feeling that really he was telling her that he was lonely. And so was she. He knew it – he had said as much.
He hesitated for a moment and then said, with the air of a gambler making a desperate throw, ‘What I’d really like more than anything in the world is to kiss you. I spoiled it last time with my crass stupidity, and every time I recall how you closed your eyes and sighed so very softly, I have been regretting it. I wonder, have you?’
‘I’m making no admissions.’ Up here, alone with him, a recklessness seemed to possess her. She was all too aware she shouldn’t have come here, and that she ought to run from him, and however much she wanted to kiss him she knew too that she shouldn’t. It was nothing less than madness. And yet… ‘Stop talking, will you, and kiss me before I come to my senses?’ she said.
He laughed, and drew her close, whispering, ‘Madam, I am at your service.’ When his lips found hers, it was less tentative this time, since they’d both admitted what they wanted, which was this. He still wasn’t rough or demanding, his mouth was soft and warm, but as she opened to him he deepened the kiss, and she met him eagerly, her tongue darting out and tracing the sensitive flesh inside his full lower lip. He groaned, and she nipped at him with her teeth, which caused him to suck on her lip, gently andthen harder. His strong hands were holding her tight about her ribcage, just below her breast, and she slipped her arms about his neck to pull him closer.
He trailed hot kisses across her cheek, and when he came to her ear he whispered into it, ‘I do have one thing more to say.’
She swore fluently in French, using his grandmother’s words, and twined her fingers in his glossy hair, tugging at it ungently, pulling his mouth back to hers. Now that they’d started this, she had no wish to stop, or hear anything unwelcome.
‘Just a few words,’ he breathed raggedly against her, ‘but important ones. Rosanna isn’t my mistress. I can’t possibly explain now, it’s a horrible story from long ago that I’d rather put from my mind, but she isn’t and she never has been. I swear it on Grand-mère’s life.’
‘Good!’ she said, and claimed him once more. Later she reflected that it was odd that she should not think to disbelieve him, but now was not the time for thought.
Time passed, though they were unaware of how much or how little, absorbed in exploring each other with growing urgency. Her impatient hands had tugged his shirt from his black satin breeches and slid under it, exploring the hot skin and the corded muscles of his chest and back. He’d run both his hands down her gown until he found her buttocks, and bunched up the thin layers of muslin to grip her tight and pull her against him. He was kissing her neck and shoulders, his clever mouth evoking delicious sensations everywhere it touched her, murmuring endearments between kisses, and she could feel his hardness pressing into her belly. Once again there was a perfect rightness and inevitability to all this, which was strange, because it was all so very wrong, given who he was, given who she was, given what she was here to do. She wasn’t here forthis.
‘Sophie!’ he gasped against her mouth, his hands still tight about her, one having crept up to her breast, his thumb justbrushing one erect nipple through the thin layers that covered it, tantalising her. She moaned softly, eager for a more complete contact, but he did not oblige her. ‘I’m sorry always to be talking, and God knows I don’t want to, but I have to ask you… what’s that pressing into my leg? It feels like…’
‘It’s a knife,’ she said.
12
‘A knife…’ he repeated, seeming a little dazed.
‘A very sharp knife, in a sheath, in my garter,’ she explained reasonably.
He hadn’t pulled away, she had to give him that, and his voice was tolerably steady. ‘And do you intend to use it on me?’ he asked with a fair assumption of simple curiosity.
‘I might, if you don’t stop talking. No, of course I don’t. I thought I might require it tonight, for protection – not from you. But I only had to threaten that horrible man in the purple coat that I’d stab him in the leg with a fork. I didn’t need the knife at all.’
‘A fork. You would have done so.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Youlooked as though you wanted to knock him down. Would you have done so?’
They were still embracing tightly, and one strong, warm hand was still on her breast, the other on her bottom. She still caressed his muscled back. Their faces were very close, and they were both breathing hard. She wanted his hands, his mouth, to continue their exploration, and she wanted to touch him as well, to kiss and taste him, without the barrier of their clothes. Butthere was something undeniably erotic, too, about this pause, about the intimacy of their low voices, their stilled hands, their racing hearts – she had a dangerous sense that anything might happen, and it was heady, exciting. Perhaps it wasn’t touching each other like this that was most perilous – perhaps the real danger came from talking, from the illusion of sharing an intimate moment across the gulf that separated them. If you didn’t speak, you couldn’t lie. Or be lied to…
He said, the whisper of his breath caressing her and threatening to drive all rational thought from her mind, ‘I was filled with rage towards him when I saw him manhandling you, and shame that such a thing should happen in my father’s house, so, yes, I think I would. And,’ he said very low, ‘what’s more, I would probably have enjoyed it.’
‘So would I,’ she said. ‘It seems we are the same.’ He was still hard against her belly, and she pressed against him, her desire equal to his, the last vestiges of caution slipping away from her. What was she doing?
‘Perhaps we are. Sophie…’
‘Mmm?’
‘Will you show me the knife? I don’t mean just take it out of its sheath… I mean show me, now.’ And as he spoke, he sank to his knees in front of her, and looked up, expectant, in the moonlight in a way that utterly disarmed her.
She did not hesitate. She bent and took up the hem of her gown, making sure she gathered up all the draped layers and petticoats too. Slowly, she edged them up, over her ankles, calves and knees, until her pale thighs were exposed. Her stockings were black, and so were her garters, and so too was the wickedly narrow leather sheath that sat in one of them. ‘Ah,’ he sighed. There was a lot of feeling in the single exhalation of breath. And then, ‘You’ve shown me this much, and I am honoured. Will you show me more?’
Deep inside her Sophie had known, in truth had hoped, that he would say that. She was still holding the edge of her gown, and pulled it higher, uncovering herself fearlessly to him until the fabric sat around her waist, and she was naked below it save for her stockings.
‘You could take your very sharp knife,’ he said, and now his voice was unsteady where it had not been before, ‘and cut me off a curl that I could treasure. And I would treasure it, I promise, Sophie.’
‘I could,’ she said, ‘or I could let you do it.’ She was on fire now, with no intention of turning back, intensely aroused by the sight of him at her feet in what felt like worship, and his hot gaze on her, and the anticipation of his touch. Some part of her still knew that he was a Wyverne and an enemy, but the faint little voice that called out a warning had no power over her just now.
