The Scarlet Spy (21 page)

The sensations were so strange, so seductive. So wildly, wildly wonderful.

Sex was, of course, a part of the Academy curriculum. The Spanish courtesan had matter-of-factly described primal passion and how it could be used as a potent weapon. But words did not begin to describe the raw sensuality of flesh against flesh. Of limbs entwined, hands caressing, tongues tasting the smoky sweetness of intimate kisses.

Suckling her lower lip between his teeth, Osborne bit down as he quickened his caresses between her thighs. Sofia cried out against his mouth. A searing, spiraling fire was taking control of her body. The heat was almost unbearable.

“Deverill,” she pleaded, uncertain just what it was she wanted.

He seemed to have no doubts.

“Lift your hips, sweeting.” Osborne slid his strong, capable hands beneath her.
“Tesoro,
you are a vision of beauty,” he groaned as the head of his cock grazed her feminine flesh. “Lethal, lethal beauty.”

Sofia meant to reply, but the words seemed to die in her throat. Coherent speech yielded to a whispery sigh as he pressed closer and positioned himself at the entrance to her passage. He moved with a fluid grace, gentle, yet urgent. Demanding.

“Open yourself to me.” His voice was rough with need as he pushed her legs apart.

The throb of him was hot and heavy as he rocked himself against her wet flesh.
So good, so right.
She shifted in response, an instinctive arch that drove him deep inside her.

A soft yelp slipped from her lips.

The sound was echoed by his fuzzed oath. She felt his whole body tense, his muscles knotting as he braced his arms and wrenched his weight upward.

“Bloody hell.” As he fell to one side, the soft sheen of light caught the look of shock and surprise on his face. “You—you are a virgin.”

“Not anymore.” She tried to smile.

“But how … that is, you were married for several years,” he stammered.

“My husband was … incapable of consummating our marriage.” That was not a total lie, she told herself. She did not like deceiving Osborne any more than was necessary.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounded angry.

“I don’t know,” answered Sofia. “It didn’t seem … important.”

“Important?” he repeated. “My honor—and yours—is not something I take lightly, Sofia.” The fringed shadows of the potted palms did not soften the rigid line of his jaw. “I am not in the habit of deflowering innocents.”

It was not only anger she heard, but regret. She felt her insides clench. Deverill Osborne’s dismay was sincere—she saw the fine lines of self-loathing etched around his eyes and in the pinch of his mouth. She liked him even more for his vulnerability to pain, to recrimination.

“I am sorry. Forgive me for being selfish.” Clasping his hand, she pressed it to her cheek. “But I—I wanted it to be you.”

“And I—I am vain enough and weak enough to take you at your word.” His fingers slid up and twined in her tangled hair. “Though at heart, I suspect that your sweet whispers are naught but another bewitching brew of half-truths and lies.”

Rain pattered against the glass, and the rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo the warning thud of her racing heart.
Dangerous.
A physical coupling with this man would be more than a fleeting joining of flesh. Did she dare let him that close?

There was still time to pull back.

A flash of lightning illuminated the curve of his cheek, the fringe of his flame-gold lashes. The sliver of space between them crackled with sparks. Then Sofia leaned across the divide. Up close, his stubbling of whiskers looked like a thousand points of fire.

“I have been less than honest with you about some things, Deverill. But not about this. I swear it.”

“Damn me for a fool, but I’ll believe you,” he rasped. His skin was rough yet warm to the touch as he slanted a kiss over her upturned lips. “At least for the moment.”

As he touched her breast, she caressed the ridges of his ribs, reveling in the masculine lines of his body, the flat belly, the jutting hip bones, the finespun curls, lustrous as burnished bronze in the lamplight …

He groaned as her hand touched his cock, and came instantly erect.

“Make love to me, Deverill,” whispered Sofia. “Here. Now.”

Love.
Osborne had no illusions that her plea was based on any emotional need. Why she was offering herself to him was a mystery. But not one he was going to puzzle out anytime soon. His rational mind wasn’t working too clearly at the moment. As for other parts of his anatomy …

The air leached from his lungs as she feathered a delicate stroke along the length of his shaft. She was an intriguing mix of innocence and experience. There was nothing virginal about her caresses. Nothing innocent about her kisses. No maidenly blushes, no tremulous tears—it was almost as if she had been schooled in the art of pleasuring a man.

What an addlepated notion, of course. She was a wellborn lady.
Or was she?
The tattoo seemed to say otherwise. Its winged shape, stark black against the creamy coloring of her flesh, was a vivid reminder of how little he knew about her, save for a name. And even that was suspect.

The Contessa of Conundrums.

She was a puzzle, a provocation. A penance for his past sins? If she wasn’t a real lady, the alternative was even more shocking. The more he tried to make sense of it, the more he felt lost. All he knew was that he wanted her passionately, no matter who or what she was.

“Deverill?” Her smile was sweetly tentative. Seductive. “Am I doing this right?”

He gave a hoarse laugh. “You are an expert in swordplay, sweeting. Indeed, you handle a blade with consummate skill.”

She looked away quickly, the silky strands of her hair falling to obscure her expression. “Please, let us not talk about what happened earlier.”

“No,” he agreed. “I’ve no intention of engaging in a verbal duel with you, Sofia. Your thrusts and parries have kept me at arm’s length for too long. Tonight let us declare a truce of sorts.”

“Lay aside our weapons?”

Osborne pulled her closer, skimming the flat of his palms along her legs. “Oh, yes. I shall sheath my sword,” he murmured.

Her cheeks turned a beguiling shade of pink. “I fear there are certain maneuvers in which I may prove clumsy. As you discovered, I have no experience in lovemaking.”

“You appear to be a quick study, sweeting.” Rolling onto his back, he pulled her atop him. “Riding astride allows you to start out slowly and set your own pace.” Osborne eased her legs apart until she was straddling his hips. Her thighs were warm and wet, the scent of her essence swirling up to meld with the humid perfume of the potted flowers. The effect was earthy, erotic.

“Relax, I won’t let you fall, Sofia.” His fingers found her warmth and stroked gently through her feminine folds. He watched as her eyes widened and turned a luminous, liquid green.

“Hold me, Deverill.”

“Yes, sweeting,” he whispered as she pressed up against his cupped hand. He slipped a finger into her honeyed passage, groaning again as she clenched around him. It was all he could do to rein in his desire.
Slowly, slowly,
he told himself. Whatever else happened between them, he wanted this moment, this memory to be right.

Sofia arched and cried out softly.

“Look at me, Sofia,” he whispered. “Did your husband never touch you like this?”

“N-no. Never.”

“Selfish oaf,” he said through gritted teeth, though a part of him was fiercely glad of it. “Lovemaking is meant to be pleasurable for both man and woman.” He left off his caressing to slide his palms over the rounded curves of her derriere.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered.

“Not if the devil himself demanded I do so,” he replied, lifting her up a fraction.

Purring like a hungry kitten, she twisted against his grasp.

His hands fell away and then he was inside her.

Sweet Jesus.

Sofia stilled for a moment, then her hips began to rise and fall. Holding back a grunt of triumph, Osborne willed his body to match her rhythm. He felt her breasts grow aroused, the tips like points of fire against his fevered hands. She cried out again as he teased them with slow, circling caresses. How perfectly she fit in his palms, as if made for him.

It was all he could do to keep from coming completely undone. There was a sinuous, sensuous beauty to the sleek stretch of rippling muscle, the hint of callus on her fingertips. A Goddess of War, leaving a trail of sparks in the misted moonlight.

Osborne shivered, awash in her liquid heat. He had experienced a good many sexual trysts, but nothing quite like this. The connection seemed more than fleshly, the need more than casual lust. Something about her strength, her spirit, touched him in a place he had always kept private.

As the tempo increased, their bodies seemed innately in tune. He was acutely aware of her wonder—and his own—at what was happening between them. A poet might describe it in a lilting ode to love.

That word again.

Closing his eyes, Osborne willed himself not to think of such things. Friendship he gave freely to his lovers—it was, he knew, a part of his charm. Up until now, he had never felt the need for anything more. Need was rather frightening.

For an instant, a wild, desperate laugh rumbled deep in his throat. He used laughter to guard against the unknown. To give himself completely seemed daunting. Perhaps because it required him to look deeply into his own soul, and he wasn’t sure he liked what he saw. Everyone else did, because they saw the surface, the good humor, the bon mots.

He had never shared the darker side, the doubts.

“Deverill!” Sofia’s smoky plea roused him from his mordant reveries. Her voice sounded stretched to the breaking point.

Time enough later for introspection.
A truce.
With his own demons, his own doubts. For now, he would surrender himself wholeheartedly to the strange alchemy that Fate had forged between them.

Perhaps it was only fool’s gold.
But for the moment, it was exquisitely real.

“Ohhh, I feel I am about to shatter into a thousand shards,” she cried, her eyes aglitter in the flickering candle flame.

“Hold on to me, Sofia,” he rasped. “I will keep you safe and whole.”

She clutched at his shoulders, her hair falling over his chest like a shower of silky soft midnight rain. His hips surged up from the stone, meeting her need with his own. She was riding him hard and fast now. Whipped to a frenzy, his heart was pounding at a furious pace.

A last rise and fall, and Osborne felt the tension within her crescendo into a shuddering release. He heard her wordless wonder and his own voice joining in hoarse exultation.

Somehow, a small vestige of reason remained, allowing him to pull her off of him in the nick of time. He rolled on his side, his body spent, his lungs heaving as his climax spilled onto the rumpled wool of his coat.

For a lingering instant, a single drop of his seed clung to the tip of his manhood, a pale, perfect reminder of what they had shared. Two bodies, coming together as one.

“Cara.”
Sofia was touching him, stroking his shoulders, his neck, the length of his spine.

Osborne turned back and kissed her lightly on the forehead before gathering her into his arms. Moonlight danced over their sweat-sheened limbs. Closing his eyes, he was suddenly aware that he hadn’t ever felt such profound peace in his life.

It was exhilarating—and frightening.

Her whisper, a teasing, tantalizing mix of English and Italian, tickled against his ear.

Truth and lies.
Who was she, this lady who was stealing not only expensive baubles but also his heart?

So many questions. But mystery could wait until morning. For the moment, he would savor the quicksilver magic of these midnight hours.

Sofia awoke to the sound of rain pattering against the glass. Or was it simply the lingering thrum of her heart, beating a soft tattoo against her ribs? She shifted on the coat, only to find the curve of her spine nestled against Osborne’s chest.

The intimacy felt oddly comforting. As if that made any sense. In truth, she wasn’t sure she was thinking all that clearly. Had everything changed? Or nothing at all? Every inch of her body felt somehow different. She was no longer a maiden, but a …

She was a Merlin,
she reminded herself. With a difficult, daunting mission to complete. She flexed her bruised knuckles. Not that she needed a mental scold to remind her of the dangers she faced.

“Awake, are you?” Dawn was just beginning to tinge the night sky, so Osborne’s expression was impossible to discern as she turned in his arms.

“Yes,” replied Sofia, grateful that the shadows hid her own face. “And we had best dress quickly and be gone from here. The servants will soon be up and about their daily chores.”

“Not so fast.” He shifted his body to block her escape. “We have yet to talk, Sofia.”

“There is no time—” she began.

“There’s time enough for certain explanations.” He touched the tiny black hawk above her breast. “Beginning with this.”

Sofia parried with a question of her own. “How much do you know about my tattoo?”

“Ah, are we back to being at daggers drawn?”

Was the edge in his voice disappointment? She let out a sigh. “I—I don’t want to fight you, Deverill.”

“But you don’t want to trust me either.” The curve of his lips hardened. She wished to reach out and soften the sardonic twist.

“It’s not a matter of trust,” she replied. “I don’t want to draw you into danger. You were forced to risk your life because of me tonight.”

He hesitated, looking uncertain of what to say. When finally he spoke, it was half question, half statement. “You are involved in a ring of thieves.”

“Yes,” she admitted, deciding there was no point in denying it. “I’ve been sent to steal some valuables.”

“By whom?”

“That is not important,” she said quickly. “What does matter is that it is a difficult, dangerous job.”

The rain had stopped, and for an instant the only echo off the glass was of silence. Then his gaze locked with hers. “Perhaps I can help.”