If I Fall (39 page)

Her eyes met his with a smile, and Jack stared. She was naked. Gloriously, wonderfully naked, her hair still pinned up in a ridiculously sleek arrangement that had his hands itching to let it down, let it drape across her shoulders in a golden curtain, reaching the tips of those high, upturned peaks…

“I lied,” he breathed. Her smile faded into a question. “You
are
perfect,” he answered.

The look she gave him convinced Jack that his trousers were as extraneous as his boots had been.

He lurched up to meet her on the bed, grabbing her about the waist and pulling her to him. They fell back together, Sarah under him protected from the air, from the world. His trouser buttons were undone, by him, by her—it didn’t matter, it was lost in a frenzy of movement and feeling that burned their minds into one single being, both intent upon the same purpose. And when he finally sprang free of his trousers, it was as if Jack himself came free of his moorings, and he gave up on trying to distract his mind with thoughts of yardarms, daily bells, and the undulations of the sea (which did not work), and for the first time, let himself sink slowly into bliss.

She opened for him naturally, her body knowing things her lady’s education had left out. This was what she wanted; she knew it to her core. Her nerves were raw, on fire. Her body slick with need. His fingers danced in places she barely allowed
her
fingers, bringing her past thought, only to action. She wanted it—wanted him—so much, she held herself back from stopping him when he nudged himself inside of her, and the pain she knew would come.

She froze beneath him, which brought him out of his passion-fueled haze.

“I’m sorry,” he said, raining light kisses down on her face. “I should have been gentler.”

“It’s … it’s all right,” she breathed, her voice slightly strained. “When … when I was engaged, my mother told me about it. I knew it was supposed to hurt.”

“I bungled it,” he cursed.

“No! It’s just … well, rather obviously, it’s my first time.” She thanked the gods above that relatively little light from the candelabra penetrated their cocoon of bedclothes and draperies, else he would see that she was blushing
everywhere
. But instead, he looked off to the side, and said something that shocked her to her core.

“Mine, too,” his voice was barely more than a grumble.

“Truly?” she said, once she finally found her voice. “But, no, that can’t be.”

“Why can’t it?” He shrugged—well, as much as one could shrug when on top of another person. “I’ve been on a ship for nine years. There were no women on deck. Trust me, I looked.”

She smiled slightly at that. “But you’re…” She wanted to tell him that he was too handsome, too well formed to be without female company, but somehow it seemed wasted. He was too beautiful, too resplendent in his uniform. He should have had a woman under each arm every day. And she would’ve believed it if he told her as much. There was no reason to lie … therefore, he had to be telling the truth.

Bewildering.

“Surely you had opportunities…” she ventured. “You came ashore occasionally.”

“I did,” he agreed. He thought for a moment about the dusky, sloe-eyed beauties of the Indies, whose colorful garb wrapped tight around feminine forms, giving Jack plenty to dream about on long nights at sea. And he thought about the doxies of the London ports, tied and pushed and painted into what men were supposed to want, their skirts always itching
to come up. A drink or two and any man could lose themselves in a raised hemline, Jack included. But … “But none of them,” he ventured, trying to explain to her, to himself, “none of them had any light.”

“Oh,” she breathed. It was as if that light that he spoke about began to emanate from her being, making her feel warm and safe … and loved.

“Well,” she said, moving her body, nestling against him, “how will we know what to do?”

“What do you want to do?” he asked, his head dipping down so he could better lavish attention on her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. When he took the tip of her breast into his mouth, she arched up to meet him, her insides aching for him.

“This,” she whispered, shifting her body so he came into her deeper.

He sucked in his breath; she could see the strains of muscle in his neck as he fought to hold himself still, keep himself in the moment.

“In that case, I think we will muddle through.”

She laughed at that, and brought his face back to hers, holding him there, kissing him with more power and longing than could be expressed in words.

Slowly he began to move within her, her body fitting with his, spreading for him, taking him in, all the way to the hilt. Her hips demanded what her brain could not articulate, moving with him in a rhythm they did not need to learn.

Giving in to gravity’s pull.

His lack of experience was not a detriment—indeed, the number of times he had imagined himself in this situation, the dance of it, the feel of skin on skin, only made him more aware of the steps he had to take to bring her as much joy as she was bringing him. And while feeling built in her, growing with the force of a tidal storm, he held fast, touching here, touching there, until he felt her break beneath him, riding wave upon wave of pleasure into oblivion.

Then and only then, did he allow himself to join her.

And in that moment, Jack knew that Sarah had been right about it all.

They found their way there crookedly, but there they were
all the same. And as he kissed her deeply, truly, he knew one thing with complete certainty.

There was no one else. No other time or place he could inhabit. This was it for him.

There was nowhere else he would rather be.

T
HE
next day, when the carriage bumped along in the rain toward Whitehall, Jack could only think that there was very much somewhere else he would rather be. And that place was back in bed, with the woman who sat primly next to him—a full two feet away.

“Why are you so far away?” He smiled at her.

“Because … we’re in public,” she replied, her voice staying low. “And I don’t want the world to know that we spent all night … doing that.”

If possible, his grin grew wider. “Do you think people can tell?”

If possible, she blushed deeper. “I could barely look at you over breakfast this morning. Bridget kept asking me if I was feeling well.”

“Strange, I could barely stop looking at you,” he teased. “Now, we are in a carriage, not in public. And we will be for some minutes,” he reminded her, as she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. His hand reached over and pulled hers out of her lap. Slowly he pulled at the kid that covered her fingers, freeing her hand from its trappings. And then trapped it securely in his.

Somehow, the distance between them had closed. She had leaned into him while he gently stripped her hand, seducing her more effectively with that removal than he could have if he’d stripped her naked.

“Would you stop grinning at me like that?” she asked, likely unaware that she was grinning foolishly, too.

“Sorry. Shan’t. Happy.” He laid a light kiss on her temple.

“How many minutes do you think we have?” she asked, her whisper a breath, her eyes emerald with anticipation.

“Enough to … muddle through,” his voice was a grumble, his hand coming up to pull that last inch to him. And as Jack knew, Sarah rather enjoyed muddling through.

Last night, they had managed to muddle through, quite marvelously. In fact after they had exhausted themselves, and reveled in each other the first time, they went back for seconds. And thirds.

The second time he was more careful of her, and she of him, each exploring, finding their way to what they liked, what they wanted. They giggled, laughed, sighed into one another. The third had been a blind grope in the hours just before dawn, their minds hazy with sleep, but their bodies, having slept for hours next to each other, recognizing the heat, the desire in each other. Jack woke up fully as she clung to him, panting in passion. It was beyond erotic. It was ecstatic.

When the morning came, he was reluctant to leave her side—and she to let him go—but in their whispered conversations in between kisses and caresses it was decided that perhaps Lord and Lady Forrester would not take well to having placed their trust in him, if it was discovered he had deflowered their daughter. Therefore, he sneaked out of her room before the servants were up and back to his own room, with nothing to do but spend hours trying to figure out how to get Sarah alone again.

God bless Sir Marcus,
Jack thought, as his hand found its way to the sensitive spot on the backside of Sarah’s knee,
for summoning us to Whitehall
.

And goddamn the Forresters’ carriage driver
, he groaned inwardly as they pulled to a stop in front of the Horse Guards, the official offices of the War Department,
for being so bloody good at his job.

“Well, this was a muck up of extreme proportions,” Marcus said, from behind his desk. They had been escorted through the labyrinthine halls of the Horse Guards to the security section of the War Department by Sir Marcus’s secretary. While in the wake of Lord Fieldstone’s death, Sir Marcus had been asked to take on his responsibilities, the efficient man with an armful of papers explained as they walked briskly, but he still hadn’t taken that as far as moving out of his old office.

“Er, it was?” Jack asked, with a quizzical look to Sarah.

“Oh, not you two. You actually did as well as could be expected under the circumstances,” Marcus replied, waving away their perceived concerns. “One of the most important aspects of this line of work is the ability to cover your feelings and improvise when necessary. Which both of you did quite adequately.” Then his face turned into a glower. “Even though I still cannot be happy with the way things turned out.”

Sarah scooted forward to the edge of her seat. “Can you tell us what happened when you escorted the Comte away? If there is still some danger—I have to imagine that his sister, Georgina, must be sick with worry.”

“The Comte is still in our custody, and has not as of yet mentioned his connection to Lord Fieldstone’s death, and in fact has admitted to nothing more scandalous than having danced twice with Miss Forrester. However, he did let it slip that his friend Mr. Ashin Pha would not be found—apparently they planned for this eventuality. According to the Comte, Mr. Pha is safely at sea, halfway back to India by now.” Marcus summarized, taking off his spectacles and rubbing his temple. “That information alone warrants another few days stay with us. If only there had been some proof found in the Duke of Parford’s…”

“But Mr. Ashin Pha—I told you, he is not truly Burmese. Surely that is proof of the Comte perpetrating a fraud,” Jack argued.

“Mr. Pha fled before we could confirm that. And the Comte de Le Bon is a crafty fellow.”

“How do you mean?” Sarah asked.

“We needed to bring him in having the upper hand. Unfortunately,
we didn’t and he knows it. The minute we pulled up to the Horse Guards he knew he was in trouble. He denies any involvement in Fieldstone’s death, but keeps dropping hints of information about the perpetrator—the person giving him orders, he says.” Marcus smiled ruefully. “He’s trading these bits of information for material comforts. He’s already traded himself up from the holding cells downstairs to his own more spacious accommodations in the attic tower. But I doubt anything short of amnesty will get him to reveal his master’s name.”

Marcus stopped rubbing his temple, dropping his hand to his side. Jack was struck by how very tired Marcus looked, and he suddenly felt very guilty for it. While he and Sarah had been celebrating the end of their mission and the beginnings of their love, Marcus had been dealing with problems larger than either of them could conceive.

“Don’t worry about Miss Georgina,” Marcus said to Sarah. “I’ve had a protective guard placed around her house, and had her informed that her brother is helping me with some issues of international importance. Unfortunately, there is little I can do to combat the rumors that are going to emerge from yesterday’s fracas.”

“Oh, poor Georgina,” Sarah murmured, sitting back in her chair. Her hand lay limp on the armrest, and instinctively, Jack reached for it, and squeezed.

This did not go unnoticed by Sir Marcus. His eyebrows went up, but he did not comment.

“I asked you here to get a full accounting of yesterday’s mission,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just to make sure that nothing was missed.”

And so they told him. Sarah began, stating how she lured Georgina and Mrs. Hill away. Then Jack, going over the details of searching the house, the trouble getting behind the wall, and his fight with Mr. Ashin Pha. He then turned over the letters the Duke of Parford had hidden away behind the wall, which Marcus read, a frown crossing his face at first, as he realized the letter was worthless, but then the slightest of smiles as he recognized the sentiments.

They brought up every detail they could think of, from Mrs. Hill and Georgina’s eagerness for the Comte to join them
at the shop to the lower-class accent Mr. Pha spoke English with.