Gallant Scoundrel (31 page)

No, not a joke, he realized. An opportunity. A chance for her to recapture the excitement her life had apparently lacked these past few years.
 

He hadn’t missed the light in her eyes, the smile she couldn’t quite suppress, both while he’d recounted last night’s adventure and while arguing her case. It was an expression he’d recognized from the Xena he’d known of old, with her insatiable thirst for adventure. She’d also been exceedingly stubborn, which suggested she would be difficult to dissuade from this dangerous course—though of course he must do so anyway.
 

Tired as he was, Harry spent some time rehearsing various arguments he might use on Xena before finally falling asleep. As he drifted off, however, what he found himself remembering was the unmistakeable respect in Xena’s eyes as he’d told her about his escape—a respect he hadn’t won from her since the Peninsula. His spirits lighter than they’d been in a very long time, he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

That a night’s sleep had dimmed Xena’s enthusiasm for becoming the Saint’s “assistant” not at all was apparent at breakfast the next day.

“Good morning,” she greeted Harry smilingly when he joined her downstairs. “I trust you slept well?”

He regarded her suspiciously. “Well enough, considering…everything. You seem unusually cheerful this morning.”

“Because I’ve come to realize that the future may be full of exciting possibilities after all. Coffee?” She gestured to a footman to fill his cup.

“So you’re quite looking forward to more balls and such, are you?” he asked casually, spreading butter on a piece of toast.
 

“Not balls, particularly. In fact, as neither of us is fond of dancing, I don’t believe we’ll attend any more of those. Another visit to the theatre might be nice, or perhaps a musicale. However, I referred to more…private activities.”

Harry choked on his first sip of coffee and the footman disappeared as if by magic. “You…what?”

Still smiling, Xena continued. “It occurs to me that the strategy you yourself suggested two nights since might be the perfect way to divert all suspicion should we wish to, ah, disappear from the social scene occasionally. Perfect, because it will seem to confirm what most of the ton wishes to believe of us anyway.”

“Oh. Then you didn’t actually mean…?” He hadn’t
really
believed she’d meant what she’d first implied, but still felt a pang of disappointment.

She shrugged. “What matters is what Society thinks we are up to, not whether they are correct or not. They wish to portray us as a pair of calf-eyed newlyweds, so why do we not let them?”

“So that you can pursue that ridiculous plan you mentioned last night?”

Taking a dainty bite of shirred egg, she nodded.
 

“I already told you I won’t allow it,” he growled.

She swallowed, then dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “Yes, you did. As if that might affect my decision. It does not. But come, you’ve barely touched your breakfast.”

“Xena, I’m warning you…”

“And I thank you for your concern. Consider your warning taken under advisement.”

With a last glare, he gave up the argument for the moment and devoted himself to his meal, furiously trying to come up with an argument—any argument—that might sway her.
 

The moment he finished eating, however, she immediately began asking question after question about his activities as the Saint of Seven Dials—most of which he grudgingly answered.

“So you were actually living right in the heart of Seven Dials before coming here to Grosvenor Street? Wasn’t that terribly dangerous?”

“Less for me than it would be for you,” he replied dampeningly, for there was more of eagerness than worry in her eyes. “A former Saint has a flat there and gave me the use of it, along with the guidance of his original assistant.”

Her face fell. “Oh. Then…you already have an accomplice?”
 

“Flute doesn’t help me steal, any more than he did for L— for the previous Saints. But he is thoroughly familiar with Seven Dials, to include which denizens are most in need of—and deserving of—the Saint’s assistance. He’s also suggested a few likely targets, along with sharing which methods the previous Saints found most successful.”

“So this…Flute? He essentially trained you to become the Saint? At whose behest? You can’t have simply run across him by chance.”

Harry grimaced. It was far too easy to slip in talking to Xena. Already he’d accidentally mentioned Flute by name, then had nearly blurted out Lord Hardwyck’s name as well.
 

“A, er, friend of the last Saint felt I might be a good successor, so arranged to have Flute sent my way.”

“Might I meet this Flute? Oh, please, Harry,” she pleaded when he immediately shook his head. “I already know about you being the current Saint, so what harm can it do? You can’t deny I have the strongest of incentives to keep your secret, as well as those of anyone else connected in the business.”

“I’ll, ah, have to speak to the last Saint before I’d feel easy doing that. If…that person—” Blast it, he’d nearly said
she
— “feels it would be appropriate, then perhaps it can be arranged.”
 

It would never do for Xena to learn the last Saint had been a woman, or there’d be no dissuading her at all from the dangerous course she seemed so determined to pursue.

*
       
*
       
*

Unfortunately, Sarah was delighted at the prospect of bringing Xena into the entire secret when he broached the subject. An hour after breakfast she stopped by, ostensibly to borrow Xena’s translation of a particular Greek manuscript they’d discussed on a previous occasion. But the moment Xena went upstairs to fetch the translation, she turned to Harry.
 

“In truth, Harry, I came to see you, on Peter’s behalf as well as my own, for we were both frightened to death when we read of the Saint’s supposed demise in last night’s paper. I can’t tell you how relieved I am—and how relieved Peter will be—to know it was not you who was shot after all!”

Harry gave her a wry smile. “It
was
me, as it happens, but I luckily received little more than a scratch. Xena saw me arrive home wet and wounded, however, so when she heard the story yesterday evening, she drew the obvious conclusion.”

“Then she knows?”

He nodded. “And has been peppering me with questions ever since. I made the mistake of mentioning Flute and now she wants to meet him, as well. I put her off, of course, saying I’d have to ask the previous Saint—but without mentioning any other names.”

“Oh, but of
course
she must know all, Harry, she is your wife!” Sarah exclaimed. “Indeed, I’ve felt almost underhanded becoming her friend while keeping something so very important from her. Surely you don’t believe she would betray you? Or any of us?”
 

“No, no, of course not. It’s just—” He broke off at the sound of Xena’s light step on the stairs, with a warning frown at Sarah.

Which she blithely ignored.

“Xena!” Sarah exclaimed the moment she re-entered the drawing room. “Harry tells me you have discovered his big secret. How wonderful!”

Xena stared at her in blank astonishment. “His…you knew? That is—” She sent a questioning glance at Harry, who grimaced and shrugged.

Sarah laughed gaily. “Of course I knew! ’Twas Peter who suggested Harry take over as Saint, as I only took on the role long enough to prevent my young brother—I believe Harry mentioned him to you as Flute?—from doing so.”
 

Harry watched with a sinking heart as Xena’s expression changed from shock to perplexity to pleased comprehension.
 

“
You
were the last Saint of Seven Dials, Sarah? Truly?” At Sarah’s nod, Xena turned an accusatory glance on Harry. “So much for your protestations that a woman cannot so much as
assist
the Saint in his pursuits!”

“I, ah, never said that precisely,” he protested, with a wary look at Sarah. “I simply said I’d prefer
you
not do so.”

Xena raised one dark eyebrow. “Because I am uniquely less capable than the average woman?”

His huff of exasperation disguised a hint of a laugh. “Of course not. You know very well the reverse is true, particularly if you’ve kept up your wartime skills. It’s just—”

“That you don’t wish to share the glory?” she suggested.

“Don’t be absurd. That’s not it.”

“Then—?”

“Blast it, Xena, it’s bloody dangerous and I won’t risk losing you again so soon after getting you back!”
 

The words were out before he could stop them—and as great a revelation to himself as to Xena, who looked every bit as astonished as she had upon learning Sarah had played the Saint.
 

“Harry.” Her voice quavered slightly on his name. “I…I didn’t think…that is, I didn’t realize—”

Abruptly, Sarah stood. “Thank you so much for this translation, Xena. I’ve just recalled that I’m expected elsewhere, so if you two don’t mind, I’ll show myself out.” With a barely-suppressed grin, she disappeared.

*
       
*
       
*

Xena barely noticed Sarah’s departure. She was still staring at Harry, wondering if she had perhaps misheard him. His expression, half sheepish, half startled, told her she had not.

She took a step toward him, for his admission required one of her own. “I can’t bear the thought of losing you again either, Harry. That’s the real reason I want so badly to help you, to make certain you are not caught or killed. Two nights ago you nearly were and knowing how very close I came to never… I’m not willing to risk that. I won’t.”

“Truly, Xena?” His eyes were beseeching but wary, as though he wanted to believe her but didn’t quite dare.

Suddenly shy—a feeling totally alien to her—she nodded. “Truly, Harry.”

Swiftly he stood, closing the distance between them to place a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Then…why have we both been so stubborn about admitting it?”

Unable to break away from his mesmerizing gaze, she gave an embarrassed little shrug. “Both too fearful of looking foolish, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.” His mouth quirked up in a smile, drawing her gaze from his eyes to his lips.
 

She put out her tongue to moisten her own, which had gone suddenly dry. With a groan, Harry slid his hand from her shoulder to her back and pulled her against him for a fierce—and achingly welcome—kiss.

Xena did not hesitate this time but returned it wholeheartedly, memories of all the passion they’d once shared flooding back as though it had been only yesterday. As he deepened the kiss, her blood heated, her pulse quickening. She had missed this—missed him!—so much more than she’d allowed herself to acknowledge.
 

“Harry, I—” she murmured against his lips, but he shook his head slightly.

“No words. No apologies or second thoughts. Not now.” And he was kissing her again, as though he were drowning and her lips were his only chance of survival.

Her arms went around him almost of their own volition and she pressed her body tight against his, heedless of the open drawing room door or any servants that might be passing. His hand slid up her back to tangle in the hairs at the nape of her neck, inflaming her senses further.
 

Suddenly her clothes felt far too confining and his far too bulky between them, separating her from the insistent evidence that he wanted her as desperately as she wanted him. She began tugging at the lapel of Harry’s coat, only to have her senses return just far enough to realize she could scarcely disrobe him here in the drawing room.

A low chuckle escaped Harry’s throat and he tilted his head to regard her quizzically. “Perhaps not the best venue, eh? I find I could use a nap to aid in my healing. Would you care to join me?”

Silently, she nodded. There were surely a multitude of reasons she should demur, but her body was clamoring too loudly for her to hear them. With a sultry smile that promised all manner of delights, Harry moved his hand from her nape to her waist and guided her out of the drawing room and up the stairs to his bedchamber.

Once there, they could scarcely remove each other’s clothing quickly enough. It was as though neither wished for time to reconsider. Harry made short work of the tiny hooks down the front of Xena’s day dress while she fumblingly unbuttoned his coat and pushed it from his shoulders. He then went to work on the laces of her light half-corset while she undid the front of his breeches. In moments they were separated only by the thin fabric of his shirt and her chemise.

Seven years ago, in Spain, their clandestine couplings had been by necessity both hurried and mostly clothed. Now, however…

Harry shrugged his shirt off over his head in one fluid motion and Xena untied the top of her chemise so that it slipped down to pool around her feet. Then, bare skin to bare skin, they resumed where they had left off. His mouth again covered hers and now he was able to trace his fingers directly over her curves while she similarly explored his body, so much harder than she remembered, with her hands.
 

Pressing herself against him with increasing urgency, Xena was dimly aware that she still had another, bigger confession to make, but she was far too aroused to risk spoiling this moment by blurting out that she and Harry had a son. That revelation could surely wait until…after.

Taking two quick steps backward, Harry pulled her onto the bed—another luxury they’d never experienced on the Peninsula. By now Xena was nearly panting with her need for him, but despite his quite-evident eagerness, he took the time to pleasure her almost to the point of release so that when he finally entered her, she climaxed at once.

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed as she crested her peak. “I—”

Again, he silenced her with a deep kiss that intensified as he reached his own zenith.

A long, blissful moment later, as her breathing and heartbeat finally began to slow, he tilted his head back to smile at her. “You were saying?”