Mad for Love (17 page)

“Forgive me a moment.”

Mignon opened her eyes to find him checking the time on his pocket watch.
 

“It’s about a minute before nine o’clock, when the guards should make their first rounds. And they may check this closet. And being caught out as trysting lovers doesn’t suit my plans so well now. So I think it best we reposition ourselves where we can’t be seen, and squash up there”—he nodded his head at the dark low space at his feet—“under the stair.”

Perhaps he felt the instinctive shiver of anticipatory dread that sketched across her skin, or perhaps she bit down on her lip the way she always did when she had to do something she didn’t like, but either way, he very kindly tried his best to ease her way.
 

“Now, this, I reckoned, might be a problem.” He chatted in that calm, matter-of-fact way he had when he had been attempting to rob her—all breezy charm. “Because it will be tight and close—even tighter and closer than already. But strangely enough, the thing I want now, more than anything else in the world, is to be closer to ye. To lie down with ye in my arms, and hold ye tight. And kiss ye senseless. And have ye kiss me silly.”

When he put it like that, it didn’t seem daunting, or frightening at all. It seemed like a wonderful idea. Because what she wanted more than anything else in the world was to be closer to him.

And he was already kissing her senseless, because she didn’t seem to feel any distress in the least when he laid her down in his arms, and pressed her up tight against his chest with his legs tangled in her skirts.

“So soft.” His breath fanned across her skin, as he kissed across her temples. “So sweet. So beautiful.”

She felt beautiful, even though she knew he could not see her. She felt soft and sweet and carefree with his lips on her skin. She felt warm and safe and wonderful, and she wanted to burrow into the lean strength of his chest and keep herself there. The dark pressed in around her, impelling her into his arms. Impelling her to feel. And taste. And dream.
 

“Mignon,” he whispered, as if it were an invitation.

And invitation she wanted to immediately accept. She did not know how wonderful, how pleasing her name would sound on his lips. “Yes,” was all she could think to answer. Yes, she was there. Yes, she wanted the lovely feelings he was creating in her body with his hands and his mouth and his tongue. Yes, she wanted more.

She gave him that answer with her lips on his, tasting the salt tang of his skin, feeling the rapid pulse of his heartbeat under the surface, hearing the way his breathing changed when she gave into the temptation she had felt earlier, and put her teeth to his neck, and bit down ever so gently while she poured her fingers through his hair, disrupting the smooth queue. Tugging him closer. Holding him still.

He kissed her back with the same growing ferocity, the same need and heat and passion, and nothing else existed. Nothing but his warmth and his texture and his fresh clean scent enveloping her, holding her together and pushing her apart, and always, always making her feel safe.
 

He pulled her flush against the length of his body, his lovely large hand spanning the small of her back, and she fitted herself to him, pliant and accommodating, filling the last breath of space between them. His other hand was at her nape, cradling her head, angling her jaw so he could take her mouth, and fill her longing with the sweep of his tongue.
 

Warmth spread throughout her body, covering her like a blanket, soft and secure.

Mignon closed her mind to all other thoughts and concentrated only on the feelings dissolving along the surface of her skin, on the pleasure sinking into her bones.
 

Beneath the layers of clothes her body grew restless and dissatisfied by the constraints of fabric and fashion. Her breasts grew sensitive and tender, longing for his touch. And his hand was there, skimming up the side of her stays, sliding over the intervening layers of fabric, easing her need with the warm weight of his palm.
 

She arched into his hand, angling her body to appease the low ache that began deep in her belly and spread outward until it reached the surface of her skin. Her breath came fast, but she didn’t need air—she only needed him, and his hand and his care and the pleasure that was almost pain.
 

“Mignon,” he said again. “My Sweet Mignon. We must stop.”

“No.” She heard the disappointment in her whisper, and could not seem to make herself ease her grip upon his neck and his lapel. “Not now. Not when—”

“We must. For now. We must be quiet.” There was promise enough in his words that she objected no further when he laid his finger across her lips, and whispered. “Hold tight.”

She heard it then—the tramp of the guards as they stomped out from their room at the back of the gallery. Closer and closer they drew, and Mignon practically held her breath as a heavy footfall sounded upon the stair mere inches above their heads.

If she had been able to move she would have clamped her palms over her ears so she might try to block it all out.
 

But he blocked it out. By quietly, silently, stealthily kissing her once more, by sinking his fingers deep into her hair, cradling her skull and holding her tight, until there was nothing but him, and his lips and his breath.
 

And want. Growing, unfathomable want.

And she definitely wanted more.

But he was edging his way backward out of the space, and opening the glim to check his watch. “That took about three minutes from start to finish. And they came out just after the turn of the hour, so they’re not exactly chomping at the bit. Good to know.”

It was also good to know that Rory Andrews could still think and kiss. Unlike her, who had been lost to everything but the comfort and distraction he offered. Surely this must be her tainted blood rushing to the fore, this liking ruinous behavior. “I do not know what came over me.”

His smile started in one corner of his eye and spread, like English marmalade, all across his face. “I rather think it was me that came over ye. But next time, perhaps ye will want to come over me. I think I should like that.”

“Next time?”

“Oh, yes. Next time. We’ve got a very long night ahead of us, my Mignon, and I mean to make the most of it. I hope ye do, too.”

“We are still going to steal the statue at the end?”

“Oh, yes, but let’s see if we can steal a little something else while we’re at it.” He pulled her back into his arms. “Perhaps not yer virtue”—he raised his eyebrows to show her he was joking, a little—“but perhaps maybe a tiny little piece of yer heart. But really, it’s more like to be a not-so-tiny piece of my heart.”

He let go of her to angle the glim more to his liking. “And this time, I should like to see ye. To look at ye and see the beauty that feels and tastes so fine. I should like to see how my kisses make ye feel.”

This time she did not mind the flush of color that was surely racing across her skin, because he followed it with his fingertips, painting sensation on top of warmth. Making awareness seep deep under her skin, soaking into her bones.

She melted into him, into his warmth and surety and light. Into his care.

Mignon gave him a soft, happy sigh of capitulation when he covered her fingers with his lovely long, lean hands. His fingers were beautifully articulated—aristocratic, she would have said, had she not known better—and covered her smaller hands completely. But they were as gentle as they were strong—though he held her lightly, she could feel his strength of his muscle and bone.
 

“Do ye like that?” he asked quietly. “The way it feels—the heat and fit—when our palms touch? The way I am making ye feel?”

Mignon nodded her answer, afraid she would not have the right English words to describe the strange combination of lust and trust brewing within like a potent
tisane
.

“Good.” He smiled that smile that was all in the corners of his eyes, soft and drowsy, and spread their hands wide, before he dropped then gently at her side. He left her hands to their own devices while he placed his palms softly on either side of her neck. His thumbs grazed along the line of her jaw, but just when she thought he would pull her close and kiss her, he did the opposite. He leaned her back into the wall opposite. “So I can look at ye.”

Mignon found her breath coming fast and shallow against the tight binding of her stays, and within, under the layers of lacing and linen, her breasts grew tight and heavy, and she felt as warm and quivery as a custard, waiting for his touch.
 

The quivering intensified when his thumb slipped along the sensitive line of her collarbone. Mignon held herself still, the better to feel the rush of anticipatory sensation race across the surface of her skin like a hot wind across the water.

He pressed a hot kiss to the hollow of her neck, and she closed her eyes to better concentrate, to feel every feeling at its most intense. His soft, sandy hair brushed against her chin and jaw, tickling her, making her spear her fingers through the silky slide of his warm locks. Holding his head, and tethering him to her, so he would kiss her there, where her breasts were tight and full and aching with need.
 

He kissed along to the curve of her shoulder, wetting the skin, before he began to peel back the fabric from her shoulder, pushing her bodice down incrementally to expose the bare rounds of her shoulders, and the soft tops of her breasts.

His touch was feather light and exquisite, careful, as if she were delicate or fragile, but sure, sending shivers of pleasure streaking under the surface of her skin. He stroked up the side of her neck to her nape, and she tilted her head into his hands, wanting more of the breath-stealing sensations, offering herself up to the attention of his left, which he turned so he could trail the backs of his fingers across the flushed flesh at the very edge of her bodice.

Once, twice. Back and forth he stroked, lightly, so lightly, until she was arching toward him, pulling the fabric down with her own hands to expose the ruched peaks of her breasts.

“Mignon,” was all he said, but his voice was a combination of delight and wonder that filled her with something more than mere pleasure. More than anticipation.

With want.

And he did not disappoint. He swooped down to cover the pink tips with his lips, kissing her with exquisite skill. She fisted her hands in his hair, holding him to her, wanting more of the need that spiraled deep within. She felt tight and full and unsatisfied, because she was sure there was something more, something that would appease the needy hunger growing within in a way that all his kisses could not.
 

And then she could not say if it was she or he who grappled closer—but they were kissing, lip to mouth, fierce and purposeful, holding nothing back. He kissed her with heat and passion, with tongue and teeth and lips, and a hunger she was beginning to understand was want.

And oh, how she wanted. How she wanted this tall, dangerous, elegant English man.

Who pulled away from her, gasping for breath just like she. “My God, Mignon. Ye make me lose my head. We must stop. We must stop before I can no longer call myself a gentleman. Before I completely forget what it was we came here to do.”

“To steal,” she reminded him. “Stealing a little piece of my heart, along with my Verrocchio.”

There must have been something funny in the English words that she did not yet understand, because he began to laugh, and pulled her close to plant a kiss in the middle of her forehead, before he set her away. “We must put ye to rights.”

He pulled her sleeves back onto her shoulders in an attempt to set her clothing to some semblance of order. She did the same for him, pulling his collar straight, and smoothing his lapels. It was all so domestic and intimate and easy it was almost frightening.

Frightening because her mind was already casting itself into the future, wondering if it would be like this to wake up next to him every morning. To lie on a bed with him every night.

She had to shake herself to remember other, more pressing fears. “Are we still locked in?”

“Aye. However, it’s a very good thing ye brought along a thief, because I have a simple remedy for that.” He shook his hair out of his eyes, and then produced a pair of sharp, wicked looking pieces of pointed metal from his waistcoat. “Picklocks.”
 

She could not hide her astonishment. “Do you always keep a set of picklocks hidden in your extraordinarily well-tailored clothes, or is this occasion special?” There had been no rumple or bulge in the smooth flaring seams to indicate otherwise. He certainly had a talented, and discreet, tailor.

“Everything about this occasion is special. But one must always plan for contingencies.” He flipped up the tail of his coat with a flourish worthy of a magician performing tricks to reveal a second hidden pocket. “So I have not one, but two.”

Her astonishment became admiration. “Well, I will say this for the criminal class—at least you are prepared.”

“Didn’t learn it from the criminal classes. Quite the opposite. Picking locks was the only useful skill I ever learned at school.” He applied the two probes to the keyhole with the precision of a surgeon letting blood from a particular vein, and in no time at all the latch on the door quietly snicked open. “There. It’s too early to go out, but just for the fresh air.” He pushed the door open enough to reveal the dark emptiness of the exhibition spaces. “Better?”