A Scoundrel in the Making (The Marriage Maker Book 9) Page 8

  “It is of no matter. I think you underestimate his motivation.”

  She frowned. “Motivation? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Viscount Chaluim. His motivation for catching you: You.”

  The man was insufferable. “I care not. No further threats of duels, do you understand? Did no one teach you that spies do not duel?”

  She lied, of course. She had, in fact, known two spies who had done just that. But she wasn’t about to let Lord Reade die on so simple a mission—especially not a mission she was in charge of.

  He shrugged. “I was in no real danger. The man is a coward.”

  “Very funny.” She released a breath. “I thought you’d retired for the night.”

  “I did, then it occurred to me you might decide to do more sleuthing tonight. I should have realized the real danger would be another of your admirers showing up. They’re nipping at your heels like puppies.”

  “I do not have admirers ‘nipping at my heels,’” she retorted.

  “But you do.” He stared down at her. “And I suspect you’re quite accustomed to the attention.”

  She was. Men had sought her out since she’d been sixteen.

  “Of late, French men have done the nipping at my heels. They are more dramatic, but much less…antagonistic. “

  “You find all Englishmen antagonistic?”

  She studied him. “You are antagonistic only half the time.”

  He laughed and her heart warmed at the genuine amusement in his eyes. “I pray I am antagonistic at the same time you are being antagonistic with me. I would hate to misinterpret your moods.”

  She shook her head. “You can’t help yourself.”

  He flashed white teeth. “I suppose not.”

  “Would you like a brandy?” she asked.

  He shuddered. “I would not chance you leaving this room to go in search of brandy. God only knows how many more of your admirers I would have to fend off just to get you safely back to your room.”

  She tilted her head. “That would be interesting to watch.”

  “Watch? Only a moment ago, you told me I wasn’t allowed to duel in defense of your honor.”

  Abigail grimaced. “You go from one extreme to the other. A fistfight would do.”

  His brows shot up. “I believe you have a perverse streak, my lady.”

  She laughed and crossed to the wardrobe in the far corner of the room. “You are just now noticing?” She opened the wardrobe and pulled out a valise then withdrew the flask of brandy she’d packed.

  “I see you come prepared,” he said.

  She closed the doors and faced him. “Mr. Russell didn’t have the foresight to leave glasses in the guest room. If you’re willing, I will share the flask with you.”

  “French brandy?”

  Abigail smiled. “But of course.” She nodded to the chairs before the fire and caught sight of Lord Chaluim’s coat and cravat.

  “I see the viscount left his coat and cravat.” Reade crossed to the chair and picked up the coat. He felt in the pockets, found nothing, then grabbed the cravat. Abigail frowned when he went to the door. She took a step toward him as he opened the door, then tossed coat and cravat into the hallway.

  “Lord Reade,” she cried. “I planned to return those to Lord Chaluim.”

  He shrugged. “He shouldn’t have left them here. In fact, he shouldn’t have taken them off in your room.”

  That probably meant he wouldn’t be willing to remove his coat and cravat in her room. Well, perhaps that was best. Abigail seated herself in the right wing backed chair, and Reade sat in the other. She took a long swig of brandy and handed him the flask. He did the same, then set it on the table between them. Abigail took another drink.

  They sat in silence for several long moments before Reade said, “Do you feel the need to further search Russell’s bedchambers?”

  Abigail stared into the fire. “Aye. His chambers, library, and the dungeons are the most obvious places he might’ve hidden the Honors. There might even be a secret room or passageway in his private washroom. I don’t believe he would allow them very far out of his reach. If the conversation we overheard between Lord Chaluim and the other gentleman involved the Honors, then he is keeping them somewhere close enough to be able to show them.”

  “It also means that Lord Chaluim and the other gentlemen are party to the crime.”

  “Exactly. Mr. Russell told Lord Chaluim that he caught us in his washroom.”

  Reade took another drink of brandy. “I’m not surprised. Russell isn’t a gentleman.”

  Abigail laughed. “Nae, he is not. The fact he chose to tell Lord Chaluim is interesting, however. I wonder what part the viscount plays in Mr. Russell’s scheme.”

  “Russell has to have some friends in high places; otherwise, King George will simply imprison him for stealing the Honors.”

  She turned her head and met his gaze. “Wouldn’t it be amusing if King George wasn’t one of the few who know of the Honors’ existence?”

  He grimaced. “God have mercy. Do you ever tire of being a spy?”

  She released a breath. “Aye.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Why? No one with any sanity likes living a lie.”

  “You’re not living a lie now,” he said. “You’re simply searching for the crown jewels of Scotland while attending a party.”

  Abigail shook her head. “But it is a lie. As Abigail Matheson, I would never attend this party.”

  “Really? You don’t like parties?”

  “I like parties hosted by my friends—or, at least, by people I don’t dislike.”

  “Abigail, you are a contrary woman.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “A gentleman never points out such things to a lady.”

  He canted his head. “You are right, of course. Forgive me.”

  Abigail took another drink of the brandy. “If I drink enough of this brandy, I’ll forgive you almost anything.”

  His expression sobered. “Most ladies don’t carry a flask filled with brandy.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not most ladies. “

  He gave a slow nod. “I have noticed. I’ve also noticed you enjoy your spirits.”

  Abigail stiffened. “That I enjoy my spirits is none of your concern.”

  “It is my experience that when someone makes a habit of drinking too much, it is often because they are trying to forget something.”

  Abigail reached for the flask. His hand covered hers.

  “What are you trying to forget, Abigail?”

  Ire flared, then vanished as quickly as it came. She removed her hand from the flask and took a deep breath. “On my last assignment, I mingled in Napoleon’s court. There was a young man, Victor--a boy, really--only nineteen years old. He was the nephew of a minor nobleman. You know the French, to them—especially the young—everything is about love.” She gave a low laugh. “It’s lust, of course, but youth doesn’t know the difference.”

  “Many adults don’t know the difference,” he said.

  “True,” she murmured. “This lad pursued me. I flirted—no woman in France would be taken seriously if she didn’t flirt with a young buck who pursued her—but I had no interest in him, of course. One night, I met with another agent. Victor followed me. I was such a fool,” she added bitterly. “I was so confident that no one suspected me that I didn’t take the proper precautions. Victor showed up and, at gunpoint, insisted my contact and I accompany him to Napoleon.”

  “You stopped him, I assume?”

  “I did.”

  “You had to protect yourself, as well as your contact,” Reade said.

  “A French woman with two small children.”

  “Good God,” he muttered. “She would have been hanged.”

  “And her children would have been put into an orphanage,” Abigail said. “Those places are littler better than prisons.”

  “You had no choice.”

  Abigai
l stared into the flames. “No choice but to shoot a boy fighting for France, just as I fought for England.”

  “War is heartless,” Reade said. “It isn’t your fault, Abigail. You saved three people.”

  “And sacrificed one.”

  She shifted her gaze to his. “It is worse than that.”

  “How?”

  “I would do it again.”

  * * *

  Reade insisted that he sit by the fire until Abigail fell asleep. She hadn’t said it, but he would wager she suffered from nightmares. He’d divested himself of his coat, cravat and boots in anticipation of an uncomfortable night in the chair. He should have known that it wouldn’t be her cries that woke him, but the now too-familiar click of a secret passageway door opening. Curse all medieval castles to hell. Did every damn room in Caithis Castle have access from some sort of secret passageway?

  Reade jumped to his feet and hurried around the opposite side of the bed from which he’d heard the sound. The canopied bed hid him from view of that side of the room. He pulled back the curtain and discerned Abigail’s form by the thin light that leaked from the hearth. She knelt on the bed.

  “Remain quiet,” he whispered, and eased onto the bed.

  The thick curtain fell closed behind them, leaving them in darkness. The secret door scraped on the floor as he ripped his shirt open. Buttons landed soundlessly on the blanket. His cuffs followed, then he sloughed off the shirt and shimmied out of his breeches. He pulled Abigail close. Her palms flattened on his chest.

  Reade gritted his teeth against the exquisite warmth of her fingers on his flesh, and whispered in her ear, “This endless procession of would-be lovers is over.”

  He heard her barely stifled laugh in the instant before he kissed her.

  Abigail melted against him. He hadn’t imagined her response, after all, when he’d kissed her in the hallway. She wanted him.

  She whimpered softly, and his cock rose from the half-hardened state it had been since their kiss. He yanked back the blankets, then lowered her onto the mattress and pulled the blankets over them as he covered her body with his. She released a sigh that sent the blood pounding through his ears. Concentrate on the intruder, he mentally ordered.

  A ghastly thought struck. What if the intruder wasn’t a prospective lover, but someone who had guessed she was searching for the Honors? Hardly! Abigail had been at Caithis Castle less than twenty-four hours, and half a dozen men had already vied for her attention—even for her hand in marriage. No doubt, Chaluim thought he could sneak in and force himself upon her. Fury swept through Reade. He would beat the bastard to within an inch of his life.

  At the creak of a floorboard, Abigail stiffened.

  Reade pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered, “When he pulls back the curtain, I will play the angry lover. You stay in bed.”

  She nodded.

  Reade strained for sound of the intruder’s approach. Abigail slid the fingers of one hand into his hair. His heart thundered. She would drive him mad in the few seconds it took the intruder to reach the damn bed. The scrape of a boot on the wooden floor registered. Abigail shifted beneath him. Reade gritted his teeth against the desire to rock against her. He had no intention of his first climax with her to be on her belly in the instant before a rival discovered them in bed together. She shifted again, bumping his hardened cock. Reade sucked in a breath at the pleasure that streaked through him.

  He tightened his hold on her and whispered, “For God’s sake, lie still.”

  Light bootfalls padded on the carpet beside the bed.

  Abigail stilled. Reade lifted onto his elbows and kissed her.

  The curtain yanked back.

  Reade shoved up and looked into the eyes of a stranger.

  * * *

  Abigail drew a sharp breath. It couldn’t be.

  The young man’s eyes widened and he backed up as Reade leapt from the bed.

  “Who the bloody hell are you?” Reade demanded.

  The young man’s eyes flicked to Reade’s erection, then back to his face. He looked at Abigail.

  Reade yanked the curtain closed. “Never mind her. Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  Abigail shoved to her knees and threw back the curtain. “Liam, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

  Lord Reade’s head snapped onto her. “For God’s sake, Abigail, get back into bed.”

  Even in the dim light, she discerned the fury in his eyes. He started toward Liam.

  She jumped from the bed and lunged between them. Her gaze caught on Reade’s erection, bold, beautiful and pure male, before she stopped his forward momentum with two palms to his chest.

  “Stop,” she cried. “He’s, my cousin.”

  Reade halted. “Your cousin?” He looked at the lad. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Despite his obvious fear, Liam said, “I demand to know who you are, sir, and what you are doing in my cousin’s room in that…condition.”

  Reade looked at her. “Condition?”

  Abigail faced Liam. “What are you doing here, Liam?”

  He glanced at Reade, then said to her, “I must speak with you in private.”

  “Enough,” Reade snapped.

  “Be still,” she ordered. Then to Liam, “Liam, just because we are cousins doesn’t give you the right to sneak into my bedchamber in the middle of the night. Wait. How did you know of the secret passageway?”

  His eyes widened more.

  “Answer the question,” Reade growled.

  His eyes remained on Abigail. “Father has known Mr. Russell for years. I learned you were going to be here, and I had him put you in this room so that I could speak with you.”

  “Speak to me? About what?”

  “This is a private matter.”

  Reade stepped around her, seized Liam by the collar, and started toward the door.

  “Reade, stop. For God’s sake, Liam, what do you want?”

  “I want to marry you.”

  Abigail halted. “What?”

  Reade reached the door and yanked it open.

  “Marry me,” Liam shouted as Reade shoved him into the hallway.

  Reade slammed the door, locked it, and swung to face her as Liam began pounding on the door. Reade crossed to the hearth, lit a taper, then went to the wall to the right of the wardrobe and began examining the floor.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  More pounding on the door. “Abigail,” Liam shouted.

  “Oh, go away,” Abigail shouted back. She hurried to where Reade stood and saw the slightly ajar door to a secret passageway. “Good Lord.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Reade said.

  “Abigail,” Liam shouted again.

  Reade handed her the candle, then stalked to the door. He twisted the lock, yanked the door open and Liam fell into the room. Reade yanked him to his feet and gave him a quick punch to the nose.

  “Reade!” Abigail rushed to the door, but he had again tossed Liam into the hallway.

  She glimpsed Liam’s wide-eyed shock—and Lord John standing in his doorway across the hall—as Reade slammed the door shut. She reached the door and grabbed for the handle, but he gently moved her hand aside and clicked the lock into place.

  “What have you done?” she demanded.

  “It was a light tap to the nose, Abigail. I received worse sparring with my cousins.” He took two steps, then looked over his shoulder and said, “Do not open that door.”

  Abigail stared, open mouthed, torn between uncertainty at being ordered about by a man and unable to tear her gaze from his naked body. She didn’t know how it was possible, but his cock still jutted straight as a rod. The man clearly suffered not the slightest bit of embarrassment. Why should he? He was magnificent.

  He crossed to the secretary that stood to the left of the hearth, dragged the desk over to the wall next to the wardrobe and shoved it against the secret door. He pulled both wing backed chairs over and placed them
against the desk. She knew the chairs were of no use--and felt certain he knew that, as well. Still, hands on hips, he surveyed his handiwork for three heartbeats, then faced her.

  “Are you ready for bed?”

  “Bed?” she repeated.

  He strode to her. “Bed.” He pulled her to the bed, drew back the curtain and helped her onto the mattress. He crawled in beside her and she scooted over in order to avoid him laying on top of her.

  “I am tired of pretending,” he said.

  “Pretending? What are you talking about?”

  “Lady Elana wants everyone to think we’re lovers. I wasn’t meant to pretend.”

  “It’s been less than a day,” she said. “Twelve hours, at most.”

  “A lifetime,” he said and rolled on top of her.

  Abigail had no intention of arguing. His body felt heavenly on top of hers. There was just one problem. “Wait,” she said. “She pushed him off.

  “Abigail, did I misread your interest?” he asked.

  Good Lord, he thought she didn’t want him. Abigail planted a hard kiss on his mouth, then pushed to her knees. She pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. She flopped back onto the mattress and pulled him onto her. This time, his flesh made contact with hers, and his delicious warmth enveloped her. A sense of contentment wound through her. She pulled his face down to hers as she wrapped one leg around his hip and kissed him.

  His hard length pressed into her abdomen. How wonderful it would be when he drove his cock inside her. He thrust against her stomach as he slipped his tongue between her lips. Their tongues sparred. Slowly, she ran her flattened hands down his back and over the curve of his firm buttocks. She squeezed. He groaned a heavenly male groan that sent a ripple of pleasure through her. He nipped at her lips, her chin, her neck…her breasts.

  When he began to suckle, she arched into him. It had been so long since a man had held her like this. And Reade…tossing Liam out of the room. She had many men fight over her, and had even a dual fought in her honor—that had terrified her. But there was something different about Reade. For the French, everything was about passion. For the English, control. Reade kept a tight rein on his emotions. What had he said? I am tired of pretending. He was tired of pretending to be her lover? Most people preferred to live their entire lives in some sort of lie. She had lived a lie the last four years. Yet Reade hadn’t lasted twelve hours.