The Scarlet Spy (20 page)

Perhaps she had other plans—an amorous assignation, another clandestine bit of thievery. It was none of his business, but curiosity kept him in place.

He had not long to wait. The town house door soon opened, and Lady Sofia—unmistakable in her stylish scarlet-trimmed hooded cloak—came down the marble steps. She was alone, and as she reached the curb and looked both ways, it seemed clear that the absence of her horses and driver was unexpected.

She waited a moment or two, a slim silhouette in the mizzle of moonlight, then turned for the alleyway leading back to the mews. Keeping close to the garden wall, Osborne shadowed her steps. The contessa was just disappearing into the gloom when out of the corner of his eye, he caught a sudden ripple of movement from up the side street.

A pack of men materialized from the mists, running swiftly, silently over the slick cobbles.

Footpads.

Calling a warning, he raced into the alleyway and shoved Sofia against the wall. “Stay back,” he ordered, squaring himself to meet the attack.
Four against one.
Not the best of odds, especially as he was unarmed. He tightened his grip on his walking stick and dropped to a defensive crouch. Like them, he had no intention of fighting fair.

“Run, Lady Sofia,” he muttered. “To the mews or out to Queen Street.” Surrounded as they were by walled gardens on either side, there was little chance of anyone hearing a cry for help.

On spotting him, the lead footpad slowed to a walk. “Get out of the way, lest ye want yer fancy throat slit from ear te ear.”

“And leave the lady alone with you filth?” replied Osborne. “I think not.”

The footpad’s cohorts closed ranks to block any escape. “Filth?” snarled one of them. “It’s yer golden locks that will soon be soaking up the muck.”

Osborne saw a glint of a knife.

“Jem, you and ’arry see to the bitch. Me and Bill will take care of this toff.” The leader flicked a menacing slash.

“Use yer blades rather than yer barking irons. No need to risk waking the street with a shot.”

Likely not, thought Osborne grimly. But perhaps he could hold them off long enough for the contessa to raise the alarm. He fell back a step and let his hands drop, feigning a look of fear.

Damn. Why wasn’t the lady running for her life?

He shifted sideways, hoping to give her an extra second to slip away, but as the leader lunged out with a vicious slash, he had no more time for reflection. The sharpened steel was only inches from his chest when Osborne jerked up his stick and swung it down hard. Wood cracked against bone, sending the weapon flying. He ducked under the outstretched arm and smashed his knee hard into the other man’s groin.

A scream shattered the silence, and the leader dropped like a stone.

Osborne hit the ground as well, rolling to avoid a flailing kick. As his hand closed over the fallen knife, he saw a flash of red.

“Run, dammit!”

Sofia had flung off her cape and wrapped the thick wool around her arm. Using the makeshift shield, she was fending off the feints and slashes of her two assailants. Osborne swore again. Was she mad? Pitted against the two hulking brutes armed with cudgels and knives, she had as much chance of survival as a lamb being led to slaughter. In another instant …

Before he could make a move, Sofia suddenly spun forward in a blur of whirling limbs and flaring skirts. One elbow caught the nearest man flush on the throat. He staggered back with a gurgling gasp, only to have a stiff-armed jab send him careening into the brick wall. Dazed, he slid down to his knees, blood spurting from his broken nose.

“Poxy slut!” The other man flung himself at her, but his snarl segued into a howl of pain. A flick of her wrist, a twist of her hip, and he was jerked off his feet and thrown head over heels to the ground.

Osborne scrambled to his feet, just in time to parry the attack from the fourth footpad. Steel clashed against steel as their knives crossed. He countered with a swift slice that nearly struck home. But then a fist clipped his cheek, and the man scrambled back, circling warily to his right.

Osborne edged along with him, eyes intent on the razored blade.

“Osborne!” Sofia called a warning.

He looked around to see that the leader had recovered his footing and was pulling a pistol from his coat.

At the same time, Sofia snatched up the fallen cudgel and lashed out at the man’s head. He managed to dodge the blow, but the stumble threw off his aim. The bullet exploded against the bricks high overhead, sending down a harmless shower of shards.

“Shoot the bloody she-devil,” he bellowed.

Osborne had already flattened Broken Nose with a right cross to the jaw. As for the others …

Whipping around, he saw that Sofia had followed up her first slash with a lightning flurry of sword strokes.
Giroste, cavazione, contrapostura.
His jaw dropped slightly. By God, the lady wielded her weapon like a Death’s Head hussar. Had the stick been a saber, the men would have been chopped into mincemeat. As it was, their upraised arms were likely purpling with bruises as they were forced to retreat in the face of her onslaught.

A light suddenly lit in one of the town houses across the street. Then another.

“The Charleys will soon be here,” snarled the leader. “Let’s be off.” Grabbing the collar of their fallen comrade, the two others hauled him to his feet. Hurling a last volley of curses, they fled back into the night.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones,” muttered Osborne. He flexed his aching fist, then turned to Sofia. Both of them were breathless and bleeding from a number of small cuts. “Are you injured, Contessa?”

Sofia shook her head and dropped the cudgel. “What about you?” Stepping to his side, she reached up and touched a fingertip to the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing to speak of.” Looking down, he saw her gown was ripped in several places. “You are sure you are not hurt? In the heat of battle, injuries often go unnoticed …” As he smoothed at the silk, a ruffle slipped, baring her left breast.

Osborne stared at the tiny tattoo of a hawk in flight, not quite believing his eyes. Its jet-black wings stirred a sudden recollection of strange rumors that had floated through General Burrand’s headquarters a year ago. Rumors that, at the time, he had dismissed as preposterous flights of fancy.

Feeling a bit dizzy, he lifted his gaze to Sofia’s face.

Her lashes fluttered, blurring her expression.

“That mark,” he whispered. “I have heard stories about—”

Swearing softly, Sofia hurriedly fixed her bodice. “Before you fly to any conclusions, we must talk, sir.” She darted a look around. “But not now. We must be gone from here, and quickly, to avoid being caught up in any scandal.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at—”

“No, it must be tonight,” he countered, determined that this time she would not evade him so easily. “I’ll slip into your garden through the back gate. Leave your conservatory door unlocked.”

The distant shout of a night watchman drew a reluctant nod from her. “Very well.”

Not daring to linger any longer, Osborne cut through the mews and led the way out into the adjoining side street, where he quickly flagged down a hackney to take her home.

“Until later,” he murmured.

“Give me an hour to dismiss my servants for the night,” she replied. “Then we shall have a … council of war.”

Sofia paced along the perimeter of the leaded glass walls, her soft slippers noiseless upon the slate tiles. Her thoughts, however, were a babel of curses and consternation.

Bloody hell.
Deverill Osborne was coming way too close for comfort. But the question was, what she was going to do about it?

During the ride back to her town house, she had reviewed her options, none of which offered an easy way out.

She stared at the fogged panes, the blur reflecting her own misgivings. Osborne was not only courageous, but also clever. He would not be fobbed off with farrididdles.

Heaving a sigh, she pressed a hand to her breast. How much did he really know about the Merlins? And how much was just wild rumor or speculation that he had overheard?

The latch clicked and a sudden swirl of night air stirred the moist warmth of the conservatory. Sofia turned to see Osborne slip in and shake the rain from his caped overcoat.

“I wondered whether you would keep your word.” He stomped the water from his boots. “At least it is a step in the right direction. But we still have a long way to go, Contessa.”

“You don’t trust me?” she asked.

“Should I?”

Rather than answer, Sofia moved closer and feathered a hand against his cheek. His skin was still chilled from the night air, but the throbbing pulse at the base of his jaw sent a tingle of heat through her fingertips.
Fire and ice.
Both could be dangerous.

“You
are
hurt,” she whispered, the scrapes rough against her palm. “There’s a cut on your chin.”

“It’s naught but a scratch.” Osborne touched the corner of her mouth. “There’s blood on your lip.”

“It’s naught but a drop.”

“This time, yes. But what of the next?” His thumb gently traced the curve of her lip. “Sofia, enough of secrets and lies. Why are you taking such terrible risks? Explain this devilish mystery that surrounds you, and what—”

She stopped his halting questions with a long and lush kiss.

Her Academy training had taught that sex was the most powerful weapon she could wield against a man.
An act of desperation?
Perhaps. But duty demanded she use every means at her disposal to avoid discovery.
Deception, distraction.
She told herself that she had no choice but to use her body to seduce him from asking further questions.

Easing the coat from his shoulders, Sofia let it fall away. Osborne started to pull back, but she tugged open the fastenings of his shirt and slipped her hand beneath the sweat-dampened fabric. “You are also cut here,
cara.”
The chiseled contours of his chest were solid, sculpted planes of whipcord muscle. The finespun curls of hair, glimmering gold in the starlight, tickled against her palm. “And here.”

He stood still as a statue as she continued to explore his body. In stark contrast to his fair skin, his flat nipples were intriguingly dark and textured. They pebbled beneath her stroking.

A groan—or was it a growl—slipped from his lips.

Emboldened, Sofia leaned in and flicked her tongue over one taut nubbin and then the other. He tasted of salt and some mysterious male essence. The effect was … intoxicating.

“God help me.” His voice was hardly more than a stirring of air. In contrast, the stiffening of his arousal was hard against her thigh.

She licked again at his ruddy flesh.

“Did you save me from the footpads just to slay me with your own hand?” he rasped.

“There is a question as to who saved whom.” Sofia teased a trail of nipping kisses to the base of his throat. “I haven’t yet properly thanked you for risking your neck.”

“It is not my neck that is in danger; it’s my sanity.” His eyes fell half-closed, but through the fringe of lashes, she caught a glimmer of naked desire. “Keep going—you are becoming more eloquent by the moment.”

Duty.
Did that explain the tingling heat in her hands as she pulled the torn linen up over his head?

The shirt slithered down to join the coat on the slate floor, leaving him bare to the waist.

Osborne leaned down and drew aside the tattered remnants of her bodice. He kissed the hollow of her throat. Then his lips strayed lower, covering the tiny tattoo. A moment later, he was suckling her left nipple.

Heat flared deep within her. Breathing in, she felt herself enveloped in the musky, masculine scent of bay rum, brandy, and an earthier note that was all his own.

“Osborne.”

In answer, his mouth moved to her other breast, lapping liquid kisses over her taut, tingling tip. The warm weight of him against her belly teased an aching need inside her.

Sofia moaned, hardly recognizing the husky pitch of her voice.

It seemed inevitable that she would give up her virginity somewhere along in this mission. Suddenly she wanted her first experience at lovemaking to be with Osborne, rather than any other man.

He had risked his life for her, showing courage and honor, despite the shabby treatment he received from her. From the first, she had sensed there were hidden depths to his character. Lord Sunshine was far more than a fair-weather friend. He was a man worthy of respect, worthy of—

No, she could not afford to let herself think in those terms. He was a useful ally, that was all. One who must, at this moment, be distracted from her true mission.

“Sofia?” The word feathered against her cheek, leaving the rest of the question unspoken.

In answer, she found the top button of his trousers. His arousal pressed hard against the placket, steel sheathed in soft merino wool. One by one, the fastenings slipped from their slots. Her fingers tugged at his drawers, allowing his erection to spring free.

What a beautiful man he was, she marveled. Like a classical deity, a pale, perfect form of masculine grace. She traced the flared crest of his manhood before circling his shaft. He was smooth as marble, yet throbbing with life. His breathing hitched up a notch as she stroked its length. From within the crumpled linen flashed a tantalizing gleam of golden curls. She fumbled at the fabric, wanting to see him in all his glory.

Slowly, silently, they stripped each other naked.

Kicking open the folds of his fallen coat, Osborne took her in his arms.

Dizzy with desire, Sofia was hardly aware of him lowering her to the floor. Then her hips lay hard against the unyielding stone, and the press of his body was atop her. She gave a keening cry as his hands ran a little roughly up her thighs and coaxed her legs apart. The intimate awareness of her own feminine heat was overpowering. As was the unyielding fire of his male arousal against her skin. She was too amazed to feel embarrassment.

Osborne slipped his fingers through her Venus curls, finding the pearl hidden within the folds of flesh. Pleasure pulsed through her with each slow, circling stroke. She felt as if every bone in her body were melting into a pool of warm honey.