To Kiss A Spy (17 page)

“In an orderly fashion, as is my invariable custom,” he responded. He leaned forward and placed his hand over hers, exerting just enough pressure to hold her hand still on the table.

Once again Pen was aware of that strange sense of losing the definition of that part of her body that touched his. It was enclosed and melding with his, his warmth becoming hers.

“Pen?” he said, making of her name a soft question.

“No,” she stated. “No, I do not want to, Owen.”

He moved his hand from hers. His expression was intent, his eyes as piercing as ever, and she felt stripped bare, as if there was nowhere to hide, as if her true thoughts and emotions were laid out before him.

“Do not lie to me, Pen. You may tell me that you choose not to make love, but you may not tell me that you don’t want to.”

She had lost her husband and her child. She could not endure any more hurt, she had borne enough for one lifetime. She could not love a spy, a will-o’-the-wisp who would lead her into the marsh of hurt and betrayal.
She could not.

“Very well,” she said quietly. “I choose not to.”

He was very still, his hands now resting lightly on the table. “Will you tell me why?”

So many reasons, such a confused morass of reasons. Pen seized upon the one she could easily explain, the one he would have to believe.

“Don’t you know?” she demanded with a spurt of welcome anger. “You forced a repellent choice upon me, Chevalier, but it’s almost over now. Once you’ve fulfilled your side of the bargain I will not willingly see you again.”

“Now wait a minute—” he began, but she swept his protest aside with a violent gesture.

“I don’t trust you, Owen. I don’t know that you’re telling me the truth when you say the French are supporting Mary. I don’t trust you not to lie to me just to get my cooperation. And even if you weren’t lying, your government could change its position at any moment.”

Impatiently she brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen over her face as she spoke. “And would you tell me?” she challenged. “Would you tell me if suddenly I was betraying the princess? No, of course you would not.” She answered her own question, scorn lacing her voice.

“I cannot possibly make love with a man I don’t trust an inch . . . a man who has used me and my despair for his own ends. You are despicable, Chevalier.”

She heard the bitter, hurtful torrent as if it were detached from her, coming from some distance. She had told herself that if they once again joined in love, it was inevitable that they would part in bitterness, in anger and disappointment. And now she had made that happen anyway. But better now.

Owen rose to his feet. Without a word he left her, closing the door very softly behind him.

Pen buried her head in her hands as hot tears stung her eyes.

Owen strode from the inn. The door banged shut on his departure. He walked down the main street with an almost desperate haste, as if he could leave behind the rage and the hurt and the confusion.
How dare she?

How dare she say such things?
He had always been honest with her. True, he had struck a bargain, a devil’s bargain certainly, but he had never tried to deceive her. And she knew it.

She had been lying. That torrent of accusation had come from somewhere but not from her heart. Did she really think she could fool him? Or did she think that if she made him angry enough he would give up?

What was she afraid of?

He stopped at the far end of the village street and looked up into the cloudy sky. A gust of icy wind tore at his bare head but he didn’t feel it.

Perhaps he should take his dismissal and be glad of it. Perhaps he was getting in too deep with this woman.

Perhaps he too should be afraid.

There was no place in his life for an enduring union, for the love and commitment that Pen deserved. Such a relationship would endanger both him and her. It had happened once, it would happen again. It was the price he paid for the life he had chosen.

He took risks all the time, calculated risks, never careless ones. Everything he did had some purpose behind it, a purpose that would advance his own work. What he was about to do now was reckless, and far from aiding his work it could well hinder it.

And he didn’t give a damn.

He spun on his heel and strode back to the inn. The door banged again behind him and the landlord popped his head out of the crowded taproom. “Everything all right, m’lord?”

Owen didn’t answer. He mounted the stairs two at a time.

The maid Mary was coming out of Pen’s chamber carrying a tray of dirty dishes and the remnants of their supper. She looked startled as the chevalier caught the door before she could close it behind her.

She stared up at him. “Lord love us,” she mumbled. The lady’s brother had a full head of steam on him and no mistake.

He marched past her into Pen’s bedchamber and the door closed in Mary’s face.

“No,” Owen declared, standing with his back to the door. “No, Pen, I will not accept this. I will hear the truth, if indeed you know it yourself, but I will not stand for one more word of a nonsense that insults us both.”

Fourteen

Pen sat on the bed and gazed at him in stunned silence.

“I don’t understand,” she managed finally.

“Oh, yes, you do.”

He sounded angry and yet she felt no anger surrounding him. His gaze was steady and quiet although she could see the tension around his mouth, in the set of his jaw.

He saw the slight redness of her eyes, the sheen of tears in their hazel depths, and he was filled with an emotion he couldn’t name but he knew it was not as simple as lust. It was sympathy, pity even; it was love, and it was a deep hunger to hold her, to kiss away the grief and confusion . . . to heal her.

He came over to the bed and knelt before her, taking her hands in his. He lifted them to his lips, kissing her palms. “My poor Pen. How much you’ve had to endure,” he whispered.

“I don’t mean to add to your troubles, sweetheart.” He smiled at her, releasing one hand to stroke her cheek, to brush away a strand of hair, sticky with tears. “Nothing will happen that you don’t wish.”

He came up to sit beside her on the bed, and drew her into his arms. He heard her sigh, a deep exhalation that seemed to carry from her a world of pain and confusion. He felt her relax against him, her head resting against his shoulder.

Pen was aware of the steady beat of his heart, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body. This was not the wild impulsive passion of Twelfth Night, this was simply a delight in his closeness, a need for his closeness. She let the wretched doubt and uncertainty slide from her. This would not hurt her. This that she needed so much, this that would bring her so much pleasure and joy.

Her fingers moved over the buttons of his doublet, unfastening it so that she could slip her hand inside to feel the strong, rhythmic beat of his heart that seemed now to become one with her own.

Owen shrugged the garment off as he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Deftly she loosened the laces of his shirt, exposing his throat. She laid the beating pulse of her thumb on the pulse in his throat. For the moment there were no words, only the silent communication of their hearts beating as one.

Moving his lips from hers for a moment, Owen kicked off his shoes. Then he uncurled his long, lean frame and stood up in his stockinged feet.

Pen’s eyes were riveted on the taut lines of his body in the tight-fitting hose, the swell of his sex, the strong column of his throat, the broad expanse of his chest exposed by the opened shirt.

Her breath caught in her throat, and now a current of pure lust struck deep in her belly, banishing the lyrical quality of the last moments. She tightened her thighs as her loins seemed to open and fill.

She unclasped the robe at her throat and let it fall open. She stood there, her hands at her side, waiting for his touch on her skin.

Owen took her hands, holding them in his for a minute before turning them up and pressing his lips once more to her palms. He ran his hands up her arms beneath the loose wide sleeves of the robe, cupping her elbows, before sliding up to trace the flow of her shoulders into the rounded point of her upper arms.

He kissed her, his tongue moving delicately in her mouth; her own joined with his in the slow, measured exploration of cheeks and lips and teeth. The tip of his tongue touched hers, licked it, and she chuckled with pleasure at the strange sensation, her own tongue curling around his. It seemed as if nothing else existed now but the two of them in this firelit chamber, lost in the entrancement of love and desire. It seemed as if nothing could break the spell, nothing could intrude.

She freed the last of the laces of his shirt, pushed it off his shoulders and brought her mouth to his chest, her tongue flicking at his nipples until they were hard, tight buds. She kissed them, ran her tongue along his breastbone, up into the hollow of his throat. Her hands clasped his hips, her thumbs pressing into the hard points of his hipbones. Slowly she slid down his body until she knelt in front of him. Her fingers worked at the lace of his hose and her tongue darted into the deep indentation of his navel. She slid the hose over his hips, down to his ankles, and over his feet, sure, so sure of what she was doing.

He stood very still as her tongue trailed down over his belly, following the dark path of hair. She took his penis in her mouth, lightly flicking the tip with her tongue, her teeth grazing the shaft as her hands cupped his balls, kneading gently but firmly.

Owen’s fingers curled in her hair, ran down over her bent neck, slid beneath the loosened robe to press into her shoulders. He gazed down at her, watching her mouth move over his sex, the dark circles of her lashes resting on her pale cheeks. And he thought he had never seen or experienced anything more erotic.

Pen looked up at him, holding his sex in the palm of her hand. Her lips were moist, her cheeks now faintly flushed, her eyes deep and bright. “That pleasured you?” The sound of her voice was shocking after the long silken silence of their bodies.

“Immeasurably.” He drew her to her feet. He slid his robe from her shoulders and tossed it aside. He looked at her body and she made no move to conceal herself from the intense gaze.

She felt herself beautiful to his eyes, the imperfections of her body unimportant. And when he touched her, her skin glowed beneath the long smooth strokes of his caressing hands. Her thighs parted as he pressed them open, and when his mouth found the full, opened lips of her sex and he pleasured her as she had pleasured him she yielded to wave after wave of exquisite delight.

They fell together onto the bed, and Pen felt they were moving as if in the slow, graceful steps of a pavane to the soft lilt of a lute. He lay facing her, touching her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, her lips with tiny strokes of his fingertips. She put her arms around him, pressing her loins against his but without urgency, allowing that familiar sensation of their bodies merging to flow slowly through her. He curled a leg over her hip and with a leisurely twist of his own hips entered her as they lay facing each other. He cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand, tracing the curve of her mouth with a finger as he moved within her.

It was a slow, honeyed slide into delight.

After, they lay unmoving, gazing at each other open-eyed, both smiling slightly, savoring the deep satisfaction of their joining.

Owen touched the corner of her mouth with a fingertip. “You’re tired, sweetheart. You should sleep now.”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Thank you for not believing me.”

He said nothing, merely kissed her eyes, and then reluctantly but with determination he left her bed. He lifted her against him for a moment as he pulled back the coverlet and then tucked her beneath. “Sleep, Pen.”

“Must you go?” Her eyes were already closing as a glorious languor crept over her.

“I have work to do,” he said with a rueful smile.

“Oh, yes,” she said dreamily. “I remember. And I told you you would have plenty of time for it as I would not be in your company this evening.”

“So you did,” he agreed solemnly as he pulled on his clothes. “Well, we all make mistakes.”

Pen’s chuckle was barely audible.

Owen put on his shoes and snuffed the candles before he left. He strode to his own chamber, realizing that his own fatigue had disappeared. He felt fresh and rested, filled with energy.

In his chamber he found Cedric huddled by the fire, the pigeon silent in its covered cage.

Owen greeted him cheerfully. “Did you find a decent supper, lad?”

“Aye, sir. I supped in the kitchen with the servants. Pickled tongue and a dish of sheep’s brains,” Cedric told him with an enthusiasm only slightly modified by a deep yawn.

“It sounds delicious,” Owen murmured. “Did you enjoy the company?”

Cedric blushed. “That Mary’s a right sauce box, sir. She gets quite above herself sometimes.” He sounded disapproving but Owen was not deceived. Cedric was at an age when he noticed girls but found it easier to manage the puzzlement they caused him by criticizing them. Give him a year, Owen thought, and the lad would see the opposite sex with new eyes.

“She was probably trying to impress you,” Owen suggested.

Cedric’s blush deepened and he turned aside to busy himself turning down the coverlet on the canopied bed.

“Shall I help you to bed, sir?”

“No, no, I have work to do. Get you to your own rest.” Owen gestured to the truckle bed beneath the poster bed.

The page kicked off his shoes, pulled out the cot, tumbled onto it, hauled the blankets over him, and was instantly asleep.

Owen smiled as the boy’s even breathing filled the chamber. He had rescued Cedric five years ago from the streets of Le Havre. The lad had been six at the time.

Six.
Andrew would be six this year.

Owen stood still and waited for the pain to die down. It would eventually, it always did. One day he would be able to go to his children. One day it would be safe enough. But he would be a stranger to them. He would have missed their growing.

He sat at the table beneath the window. He took from the inside pocket of his doublet a small round silver case, snapping open the clasp to reveal a double-sided miniature. He drew the candle closer and looked upon the sweet faces of his children, curly-headed babies with grave dark eyes and snub noses. A year separated them. Estelle had been annoyed when she conceived Lucy so soon after giving birth to Andrew. She had complained that it would spoil her figure.

Owen gazed for a long time at the portraits before folding them back into the little silver case. He replaced it in his pocket, then reached for a quill. He sharpened it with his dagger, then drew a very small tablet in front of him and began a coded report to the ambassador on what Pen had told him of Mary’s concerns and her faked illness.

He had intended to visit de Noailles that morning and carry his information in person, but Pen’s importunate arrival at his bedside had forced a change of plan.

He laid down the quill for a minute and tried to retrieve the glorious afterglow of their loving. But the images in the little silver case in his pocket intruded now. And with them the knowledge that he had let down his guard, allowed emotion to rule his head, and as a result possibly endangered Pen as he had endangered Estelle.

Resolutely he took up his quill. Work was always an anodyne and the code sufficiently complex to take up all his concentration.

Once or twice as the night wore on he rose to throw another log on the fire or to trim the lamp, but his thoughts remained engaged on his task. As the false dawn showed through the cracks in the loosely shuttered window, he sanded the small sheet of paper with its series of letters and numbers on both sides, rolled it tightly, and inserted it into a bronze cylinder.

He took the pigeon from her cage, attached the cylinder to the ring around her leg, and carried her to the window. He opened the shutters onto a blast of frigid air, but the clouds had lifted and there was no sign of snow. He released the bird and watched as she flew arrow-straight, following her mysterious homing instinct. She would be in London by evening.

He lay down on the bed in his shirt and hose, arms linked behind his head, and let sleep claim him.

Pen slept as deeply as she had ever slept in her life. In sleep she curled her body into a tight ball, as she did every night when Nutmeg shared her bed. The cat, every night since age had put an end to his nighttime hunting and carousing, inserted himself beneath the covers to press himself against her belly.

In her sleep she felt soothed by the animal’s regular breathing, his warmth, his need for her, and the comfort he brought her. And when she awoke in the dark chamber where the fire had burned down to gray embers she found herself smiling at the thought of how the cat had deeply resented Philip, who would not permit him to get under the covers, although after one failed attempt to banish him altogether from the bed he had wisely yielded and Nutmeg had taken his place at the end of the bed on Pen’s feet.

The dream tangles faded. Pen remembered Philip now with a piercing intensity. It was as if he was with her once more.

She sat up, wondering if guilt had awakened her. Had she, by loving Owen, truly betrayed Philip? She probed the question, nagging at it as if she were exploring an aching tooth with her tongue. And yet she could set no nerve jangling.

Philip would not have wanted her to spend the rest of her life in mourning. It was time now to lay aside her grief. Once she had discovered the truth about their child, then she could lay her memories to rest.

She hugged her knees, resting her chin atop them. Philip’s death had been so cruel, so sudden, she mused. One minute in the peak of health, stronger than she had ever known him, the next . . .

There was a knock at the door and it opened immediately. Owen came in carrying a large bundle of what looked like material.

Pen smiled dreamily at him. “I missed you. Did you finish your work?”

“I did. I even managed an hour’s sleep,” he responded. “I didn’t expect you to be awake so early, though.” He set his burden on the chest at the foot of the bed and went to throw back the shutters on the windows.

Sunlight flooded the chamber. “I hadn’t realized it was so late,” Pen contradicted.

Owen came over to the bed. He leaned over her, gently caressed the curve of her cheek, a flicker of anxiety in his questioning gaze. She reached up to cover his hand with her own.

“No regrets, Pen?” he asked softly.

“No,” she said definitely. “No regrets and no guilt.”

She was so honest, so upright. And she had been right that he had compromised that upright honesty by forcing his bargain upon her.

Pen slid off the bed and put her arms around him. She could feel his heart beating beneath his bare chest as she inhaled the deliciously rich male scent of his skin. It was just a hug, she was asking for nothing more, and Owen responded, wrapping his arms around her, kissing the top of her head.

Finally she drew back and looked up at him. “You look troubled.”

“I am,” he replied with a rueful smile. “Very rarely do I question my decisions, once made, but you, sweetheart, are turning my life inside out.”