My Lady, The Spy Page 14

  Her brown eyes sparked. “You will not have long to wait.”

  Self-restraint in tatters at her innocent declaration, Dirk all but ran for the safe haven of his quarters. Crossing the room in mere strides, he untied his cravat and dropped the linen to a nearby chair, and then paused to splash cold water on his face at the washstand. After shrugging out of his jacket, he flung it aside. Closing his eyes, he inhaled and exhaled, inhaled and exhaled, and rolled his shoulders. When that had not born serviceable results, he vented a long-drawn groan and marched to his bed. Sitting at the edge, he yanked off his boots, flinging them one after the other to the floor, and then toppled to the mattress. Sleep would be hard won, because visions of a chestnut-haired beauty danced in his head.

  How he wanted to reverse course and spend the night in Rebecca’s arms, to nurture what he hoped would be a deep and abiding love, but he’d promised himself that he would wait until they had spoken the vows. While he wanted her, ached to claim her, he wanted something more than seduction. Dirk hadn’t known why it mattered to him, why he cared, he just had.

  Filling the bed at his bachelor lodgings had never been a problem, but the activity in which he had previously engaged involved experienced women, superficial attachments, and basic human needs. Although he was keenly aware that his intended bride was not an innocent, which she confirmed in a most elemental fashion that spectacular night in his study, that should not mean they couldn’t make a virgin start together, as husband and wife.

  A soft click caught his ear, interrupting his internal dialogue, followed soon after by padded footfalls. Dirk sat up--and froze.

  Standing in the center of his room, a silk-encased goddess, with long flowing locks draped effortlessly about her shoulders, seemed to float in the air. Only a single mother-of-pearl button at the throat fastened the diaphanous robe, more an afterthought than a functional garment. He blinked repeatedly, hoping that his mind, no, not his mind, but another more insistent aspect of his anatomy was playing an exceedingly cruel joke.

  “Rebecca?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “My lord.” Swimming in nervous anticipation, the heights of which she hadn’t experienced since her first mission, Rebecca licked her lips and took two tentative steps, yet she was making a giant leap toward the future she dreamed to share with her own personal knight in shining armor. “I hope I did not keep you waiting too long.”

  “My God, woman, just what are you about?” Dirk averted his stare, and she halted. Was he angry? “I do not recall granting you free access to my chambers.”

  “I misunderstand.” What were the roses, dinner, and paperweight if not a prelude to seduction? Confused and hurt by his hostile response, she clutched the folds of her robe in an attempt to cover herself. “Do you not want me?”

  “It is not a question of what I want.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It is a matter of honor. I do not wish to be another one of your conquests.”

  She flinched, as though physically struck by the weight of his statement.

  “How dare you.” The floor beneath her feet shifted, as his words cut a lethal wound deeper than the sharpest dagger.

  “Rebecca, get out of here.” His tone bespoke ire and something she could not identify, and still Dirk would not look at her. Was she so repulsive? “We can discuss this in the morning.”

  “No.” Wild horses couldn’t drag her from his presence. “You’ve made an accusation, and I would have you explain yourself, now.” To avoid further miscommunication, she added, “Tonight.”

  “I made no accusation.” He paced like a caged lion and then stopped. “I merely stated a fact of which we are both aware.”

  Mentally, she replayed their brief courtship, the none-too-subtle stares, the provocative caresses, and the passionate kisses. Was hers an unsuccessful seduction? What had she missed? She inched closer. “And that would be?”

  Dirk faced forward, steadfastly refusing to meet her gaze. “That you are no innocent.”

  Bullet to the heart with deadly precision. Overwhelming shame traipsed her spine, and seething anger sprinted in its wake. “Draw breath to define what you refer to as innocent.”

  On a groan, he dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “You have known other men.”

  What had he expected of the lone female spy in the Counterintelligence Corps? “There are many men of my acquaintance--”

  Once again, he paced. “That is not what I mean, and you know it.”

  Dumbfounded, Rebecca spread her hands. “Actually, Lord Wainsbrough, I am at a loss to comprehend your allegations.”

  “Oh, come now. Must we play this game?” With fists at his sides, his amber eyes impaled her on the spot. “If you prefer I be blunt, then so be it. What have you done in the line of duty? How many men have you pleasured, or can you say with any real accuracy? Have you any children? If not, then what do you use, a patent shield or a womb veil? Is your conscience so unencumbered, madam, as to pretend a virtue you no longer possess?”

  She gasped at his brutal charge but recovered, setting her jaw squarely against his attack. As realization dawned, the relevance of his interrogation sank in, and L’araignee stood tall and uninhibited by her lack of dress. “Are you quite finished?”

  “My apologies,” Dirk said in a low voice. “I have no right to ask such questions.”

  “But you have, and I will answer them,” she said with calm determination.

  “No.” He turned his back on her. “I do not wish to know.”

  “Ah, but you do, my noble Captain,” she purred. “And answers you shall have. So, where to begin? Perhaps, as I started out, so you may understand my gradual degeneration from lady to spy.”

  “You do not have to do this.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I do not wish to know the gory details.”

  “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Tell me.”

  With a long drawn sigh, L’araignee wrung her fingers, because hers was not an easy task. She had hoped to avoid comingling her past with her future, but Dirk left her no choice, so she prayed the benign inception of her career might temper the later, more lurid details. “As the only female in a branch of the government with approximately eighty sworn personnel, I learned the invisible but nonetheless valid rules of espionage one mistake at a time, because my male counterparts had no interest in my excuses or me. But, as I proved myself in the field, I gained a measure of respect from those who knew of my existence.”

  Dirk looked at her. “Were you trained prior to your first assignment?”

  “Yes, I received the standard protocol.” L’araignee nodded and arched a brow. “But, as you are a Navy man and can, no doubt, relate to my situation, the common texts of counterintelligence provide only the most general knowledge a spy uses in trade. The practical lessons learned in the back alleyways or during the seduction of a particular French general constitute survival training, at its best.”

  Lips compressed, he frowned. “Were you afraid?”

  “Every minute of every day, but fear is one aspect of which no agent speaks yet every agent understands.” A chill settled in her chest, as sordid images flashed before her.

  Countless bodies bearing various wounds.

  Hand-to-hand combat; fighting to survive.

  Nameless male enemies licking their lips in anticipation.

  The young girl lying abed, still clutching a stuffed toy, as though fast asleep--if not for the multiple stab wounds in her chest.

  “It is the reason I vomited repeatedly in the twelve hours following my first kill. It is the reason I strap a dagger to my thigh. It is the reason I had once thought I would never marry or have children. It is the reason I hesitate to plan beyond today.”

  His gaze traveled the length of her body, and at last he moved in her direction. “You are not wearing one now.”

  “No. I did not think I needed protection from you.” Neither cowering nor retreating, L’araignee held her ground
. “Another grave mistake, I am afraid.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Dirk stilled. “I would never hurt you.”

  “My lord, you already have.”

  For several minutes, they simply stared, eyes locked. His features hardened, and she summoned all her strength. He exhaled audibly, and she lifted her chin a fraction higher.

  His brow a mass of furrows, Dirk shifted his weight. “Becca, I am sorry. I am so sorry and so very ashamed. In haste, I spoke out of turn. You see, I want us to begin our life together as husband and wife, if only to distinguish our marital bed from your prior liaisons for the Corps.”

  “My prior liaisons?” On the heels of an apology he added further insult? “You must think me truly despicable.”

  “It is not your fault, really.” Again he paced. “I am certain your tenure as a spy has required great sacrifice, as I am equally positive that you surrendered your body under the gravest of circumstances.”

  “How easily you judge me.” Her knight hadn’t known it, but he had just fallen from his horse, and she would die before she told him. “And how quickly we return to the question foremost on your mind.”

  Dirk faced her. “I rescind my queries.”

  “Ah, but that I will not allow. Let me see, how many men have I pleasured?” L’araignee tapped her fingers, as if calculating the sum. “I cannot say, as I stopped counting in a selfish undertaking to save my sanity. But I can tell you of the first, though I do not recall his name.” Fresh in her mind in all its depravity, it seemed like yesterday, and she shook her head. “On a terrace, overlooking a manicured garden, I knelt at his feet. It took mere minutes, but the effects lasted days.” She folded her arms across her chest and quivered. “I could not eat or sleep, and I scrubbed my flesh raw in an effort to rid myself of the ensuing revulsion and self-loathing.”

  Dirk cast her a piercing glance, and what she saw there cut to marrow. She had not wanted his pity. “But, you were only doing your duty.”

  “Yet you have instigated this rather insightful exploration of my past, but I digress.” Desperate to break the intimate connection, and in need of refuge, she peered out the window. A crescent moon, partially shrouded in clouds, beckoned the spectral demons that haunted her without mercy. In a morbid waltz they gathered, forming a visual tapestry of horrors. “Some months later, my assigned target resisted my attempts at seduction, as his tastes inclined to more violent pursuits.”

  “What happened?” he inquired softly. Too softly. As if he cared.

  “He broke my jaw.” Venting a half-sob, she brought a hand to her throat. How unfair it was that the memory, so vivid after all that time, could travel with lightning speed, reach through to the present, and hurt her again. “You see he gained pleasure in the pain that he gave. I cannot convey the relief that washed over me, despite excruciating agony, when Colin burst in and helped me fight my attacker. However, my relief was short-lived when, a few days later, I learned of our loss at the Battle of Maria de Huerve and our subsequent defeat at Belchite.”

  “But that was not your fault.” Her errant knight sounded so sincere.

  “I might have prevented it, or at least given our fighting men a chance, but we will never know, because we killed my quarry before gleaning any tactical intelligence.” L’araignee carried that stain, one of many, on her conscience.

  “Becca, you take too much on yourself.”

  “Perhaps, but my job is to ferret information, and in that I had failed. Yet I learned a valuable lesson. I discovered how insignificant I am in the grand scheme,” she stated flatly. “From that day forward, I learned to distance myself, to detach myself from the actions of L’araignee, but I could not escape the filth.”

  “I do not follow,” he whispered.

  “I felt dirty.” A torturous vise locked tight about her chest, as she prepared to impart her most embarrassing secret. “And as I despaired that I might never be clean again, a group of crusty sailors rowed me from shore to sea, whereupon I met you, and you taught me otherwise.”

  “How so?”

  “You made me believe in that which I had thought existed only in fairy tales. You gave me hope as I had never known, and how I hoped.” The walls closed in, imprisoning her in an invisible hell. With a heavy sigh, she rested her head in her hands. “At least, I did. Yet nothing seems clear. How could I have been so wrong?”

  “You were not wrong.”

  “Oh, but I was, my lord. I am a fool, and I deserve to suffer.” Rejection was a bitter pill. L’araignee turned and made for the door. She had to get away; she had to return to the familiar, the underworld of espionage, where hope was an exercise in futility, and the steely spy ignored said emotion. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must wake the servants and have my things packed.”

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “Home, I suppose.” With a gallantly mustered air of nonchalance, she shrugged. “I will not stay where I am not wanted, nor will I spend another night under your roof.”

  “Rebecca, wait.”

  “Make up your mind, Viscount Wainsbrough,” she said over her shoulder, as her imaginary spy’s cloak, her conjured armor, fractured. “Not long ago you ordered me out of your room, a command I now obey.” And then L’araignee was running, straight for the door. Her hand on the knob, cool metal against her moist palm, she twisted and pulled.

  “It is your turn to listen.” Dirk reached from behind her and slammed the oak panel shut.

  “I am not interested.”

  For a few uncomfortable minutes, an awkward contest of wills ensued, as L’araignee fought to flee Dirk’s company, and he steadfastly refused to let her go. They pushed and pulled, grunting and panting, as they waged a tug of war. When she could stand no more, she elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Oomph.” He doubled over, and as he attempted to recover, she planted a heel to his bare toes.

  Lightning quick, she opened the door, but he kicked it shut before she could escape. So she tried another shot to his midsection, but he deflected it.

  “Rebecca, stop.” He caught her wrist.

  “Unhand me.” Then she recalled her successful maneuver during their swordplay, but he anchored himself stubbornly to the rug, so she resorted to kicking his shin.

  “You know, it would have been much easier to take you to bed.” Dirk wound an arm about her waist, lifting her, leaving her feet dangling.

  “No, thank you. And put me down this instant.” With his chest pressed to her back, her targets were limited. As he carried her to his four-poster, which was fast approaching, she bent her knees and tangled her legs in his, sending them tumbling to the floor, her facedown and him sprawled atop her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, the coarse stubble of his jaw grazing the crest of her ear.

  “I would be fine if you would kindly remove yourself from my person.” Wound tight as a clock spring, she bucked as an unbroken horse, ever aware that each thrust exacted payment in the precious coin of self-control.

  “Not until you calm yourself.” Dirk eased to the side, lifting much of his weight but keeping her firmly in check.

  “What do you mean? I am calm.” She squirmed to no avail, and black desolation welled in her heart, spreading slowly, weakening her already tenuous defenses. “If I lose my temper we will both be in trouble.”

  He chuckled, deep and throaty, which only compounded her misery. “Very well, but first I would have you promise to hear me out.”

  “No.”

  “Then we shall stay here all night, love.” Nestling close, he draped an arm possessively across her hips, and the contact left her trembling. “My, what a delectable pillow you make.”

  Helpless, at last L’araignee shattered.

  With a wresting sob, and despair so compressed the most brilliant sunlight could not penetrate it, Rebecca yielded. Black ice surged in her veins, enveloping her in cold, dense sorrow as thick as London fog. In seconds, the dam burst, and she let forth years of anguish.

  �
��Becca, please, do not cry.” Dirk swore under his breath and massaged her shoulders. “I am not worth the salt in your tears.”

  As he whispered words of regret and begged forgiveness, she could not elude the unutterable melancholy that imprisoned her. Face pressed to the carpet, Rebecca conjured magical vignettes of the life to which she had dared aspire, and in the next second mourned her short-lived fanciful hopes and dreams, as they whirled in a dark vortex of desolation, before scattering like so much dust in the wind.

  “No more.” Unbearable tension clawed at her nerves, and she shuddered. “I can take no more.”

  In a single swift move, Dirk rolled her over, cradling her head in one hand and cupping her chin with the other. “Hush,” he said against her lips, and then added, “Hold me.”

  And Rebecca obeyed, just as his mouth covered hers.

  Surrounding warmth suffused her limbs, relaxed her muscles, and melted the oppressive chill beneath her flesh. Unfailing strength beckoned, anchoring her, drawing her from the murky shadows of endless dejection. And then she was floating in blissful oblivion, her mind vacant of a single gloomy thought.

  When a palm settled on her breast, long fingers caressing, sending her senses reeling, she opened her eyes and met her rescuer’s amber gaze. What she saw there, undeniable passion, sent her spiraling ever higher.

  Dirk wanted her.

  The knowledge worked on Rebecca in ways she could never have imagined, and just when she entered the fray, suckling his tongue, intensifying their kiss, he lifted his head.

  “Are you sure you are all right?” He gave her a cursory glance. “Did I injure you?”

  She frowned. “Not as you might think.”

  “Darling Becca.” He sighed so heavily that she felt it to her core. “What am I to do with you?”

  She traced the curve of his cheek. “You know what I want.”

  “My dear, I understand that your profession has encouraged a certain boldness of spirit.” The planes of his face hardened, and his jaw locked. “Perhaps that is why I would have our marital life distinguished by observing all strictures.”