Napoleon's Woman (6 page)

Lord Reynolds moaned, obviously kissing the objects of his adoration. "You fit perfectly in my hand…and my mouth," he said, and the woman cried out in delight.

The traitor in his arms tensed, her breathing becoming low and shallow. The back of Aidan’s thumb grazed her breast, and he pulled her closer to his body. He could feel her backside against his groin, but when her nipple hardened at his touch, Aidan forgot why they were voyeurs to this little scene.

"Take off that damn gown," Lord Reynolds demanded, his breathing ragged. "I want to feel your skin warming mine."

Aidan’s hand slipped from Lady Rivenhall’s mouth to her throat so that the woman might breathe, or so he told himself. But when his fingers felt the heat of her throat, his hand continued to descend until he found himself reaching beneath the bodice of her gown to cup her breast.

Her slow intake of air was only audible to him, but it spoke as loudly of her desire as her nipple hardening against his palm. His movements were languid and silent as he began kneading her. He rolled her peak between his fingers and felt her head fall back against his shoulder in silent encouragement.

"You like that, don’t you?" Lord Reynolds asked.

Aidan could only imagine what the man was doing to the lady on his bed, could only imagine what sensual caresses would stir Lady Rivenhall to scream with carnal satisfaction.

"Oh, yes, Jonathan. Don’t stop, please," the woman cried.

"I’m so hard for you, Fiona. Oh, that’s it, yes."

Aidan gritted his teeth. He had been to bordellos that were less stimulating than this. His hand continued cupping Lady Rivenhall’s breast as he rocked his arousal against her delectable derrière.

"I need to be inside of you, Fiona. Now," the man begged.

Aidan’s lips fell to Lady Rivenhall’s neck as Lord Reynolds thrust into his paramour, eliciting a sensual moan. The feel of her breast in his hand and the taste of her warm flesh set Aidan’s heart to pounding.

He kissed the length of her elegant neck, but when he felt her backside rubbing rhythmically against his shaft, he nearly came undone. Aidan bit his lip to stifle a moan of pleasure, and began moving with her, against her.

Lord Reynolds shouted, "Oh, God," when he reached his peak and then fell silent. The only sound in the room was the huffs of exertion from the lovers and Aidan’s own heartbeat as it pounded in his ears.

"Fiona, you are the most wanton piece I have ever bedded," their host panted.

"Thank you, Jonathan. Oh, damnation, is that the time?" The woman asked anxiously, accompanied by frantic rustling. "My husband will be looking for me. I was to meet him in the garden at midnight."

"Turn round and I’ll lace you." More shuffling. "I want you all evening on Thursday."

A kiss and a giggle. "Very well, my lord."

The door opened and closed, leaving Aidan alone with Lady Rivenhall. He withdrew his hand from her bodice and closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of control. His breathing was becoming steady, but he realized his other hand still held her crushed to his aching body.

The woman was so damn desirable. He trembled with the overwhelming need to drag her to the rumbled bed and make love to her, trembled just as Napoleon must have shaken.

She was the emperor’s mistress, Napoleon’s woman.

Aidan grasped her upper arm and spun her to face him. "We seem to have a knack for escaping detection. However, I’m afraid I must insist you accompany me to His Majesty’s Foreign Office."

He began to step away from the armoire when her hand flew to his chest in frantic appeal.

"Wait."

Aidan looked down at the fair woman and was startled to see desire lingering on her refined features.

"Not yet," she whispered. "Take me in a moment, but not yet." Aidan stood frozen as her crimson lips pressed to his. Confusion, desire, and rage battled for rule of his mind, but then she pressed her exquisite body to his, and desire won the day.

He could delay for a moment, after all how could she escape if she were in his arms, if she were beneath him? Aidan surged into her mouth, stroking the soft heat with his tongue and reveling in the taking of Napoleon’s woman.

She tasted just as he remembered and spent long nights trying to forget. It had taken nine days to find a British regiment, and nine nights of being haunted by his ethereal capture. His desire for her was reprehensible, and he had convinced himself that it was his months of celibacy that were to blame.

But now, as he held her in his arms, the women that had warmed his bed since his return vanished from his mind. He circled her tongue, echoing his own spiraling desire. One hand drifted to her breast and the other fell to her rounded backside. He kneaded and caressed, pulling her against his throbbing shaft.

Lady Rivenhall’s hands roamed over his chest and abdomen. She stood on her tiptoes, kissing him eagerly, hungrily. The armoire shifted beneath their arduous embrace, and her hands drifted to his neck so that she might have a better taste of him.

Aidan winced at her touch, hissing in pain.

Lady Rivenhall pulled away from his lips, asking, "What happened?"

"Your ring cut my neck," he said as he looked down at the enticing woman’s swollen lips, at her full breasts and the pain retreated into the far recess of his mind. "No matter. Where were we?"

He took her mouth and invaded her. She made soft mewling noises as her hands stroked his back and then descended to his backside. Undone by her bold caress, Aidan tore away from her lips and kissed down her neck to the delightful mounds of flesh revealed by her lavender gown.

It would not be long before her tightened nipple was in his mouth as she lay naked beneath him. The thought made him lightheaded, and the candles flickered. He blinked several times in confusion and then looked at the stunning woman before him.

"You bitch," he mumbled, and just before sinking into unconsciousness the Earl of Wessex remembered that Lady Rivenhall was a traitor…and quite deadly.

"Well?"

"Nothing," Celeste said with a shake of her head. She stripped her hands of her white gloves and allowed Madame Arnott to unlace her demure gown. "I searched his study as well as his bedchamber and dressing room. There was nothing. And after meeting Lord Reynolds, I would say the man thinks of nothing more than horses and whores. I would be astonished if he were the man we have been asked to find."

"But you cannot be sure."

"I will not be sure of any of them until we have the traitor in custody," she answered, stepping out of her petticoats and laying them on the brocade chair. "However, I’m afraid we have a much bigger problem on our hands."

Madame Arnott picked up the gown, examining the crushed flounces as if trying to understand how so much damage could have been done in one evening.

"Yes, and what is that?"

"The Earl of Wessex."

"What?" The crunch of black taffeta erupted in the room as Madame Arnott walked to stand in front of Celeste, the damaged gown forgotten. "He was reported to be recuperating at his estate in Wessex?"

"Well, he is here, and I can assure you the man is fully recovered." A flash of heat skidded up her spine and deposited itself in her cheeks. "He discovered me searching Lord Reynolds’s bedchamber and was quite determined to turn me over to the authorities."

"How did you escape him?" Marie’s eyes widened with concern.

Celeste’s cheeks turned positively red. "I drugged him," she said. "He should awake in two or three hours." Celeste sat at her dressing table and began unpinning her golden hair, trying not to remember the feel of his warm lips, his masculine hands on her body. "I shall need to contact Falcon. I see no other alternative, do you?"

"No." Madame Arnott picked up the sterling silver brush and stroked the blonde strands that fell to Celeste’s waist, her intelligent blue eyes considering the possible effects of the Earl of Wessex on their mission. "You are in a great deal of danger, ma petite. We must devise a plan to neutralize Wessex."

"I know," Celeste answered, staring at Marie’s reflection in the mirror, but she could not imagine any action that would turn the powerful earl from his course.

However, one thing was certain, she would see the Earl of Wessex again, and Celeste wondered if she would be able to resist her attraction to the very man that threatened her mission and her life.

***

Aidan Duhearst woke at half past three in the morning thoroughly delighted to be alive. His mathematical cravat had dissipated into an incongruous mass, and his normally tidy black hair was as rumpled as his cloths.

He pushed himself to a standing position, but had to lean against the armoire when the room began to spin. Aidan waited for the ride to cease before staggering out into the dimly lit hallway, where he found himself face-to-face with Lord Reynolds. The young lord’s coffee colored curls hid eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Had a bit of a romp, did you, Wessex?"

Aidan smiled while raking his fingers through his hair, forming a makeshift comb. "Excellent event, Lord Reynolds," he replied, hoping the evasive answer would satisfy.

"Quite," the dark man chuckled, "had my own sample of muslin a few hours ago."

"If you don’t mind, Lord Reynolds," Aidan said, affecting an exaggerated yawn. "I believe I shall retire to my own home."

"Not at all, old man, I’m for bed myself. Good evening."

The men parted company, and Aidan found himself walking out of the large double doors and onto St. James Street. The earl sent up a silent prayer of thanks when he spotted his landau some twenty yards down the road.

"Home, please," he grunted, pulling himself into the luxurious conveyance, and ignoring the widening of his coachman’s eyes at his master’s less than meticulous attire.

Aidan sank into the sage squab, touching the cut on his neck. It was sore, and he could feel the blood that had pooled at the wound. Whatever drug she had used was very powerful, and had most assuredly been used before tonight.

But why hadn’t she killed him?
He could identify her. And while she might not have had a lethal poison on hand, she certainly could have used her knife once he had lost consciousness? She must have been interrupted, for he was sure that Napoleon’s mistress would not hesitate to kill a man.

The woman was deadly and if he did not find her soon she would pass on information that would condemn British troops fighting the French. He did not doubt her ability to extract information from men since she was willing to use her body to lure and entice.

He himself had been weak, overpowered the moment he pulled her body to his. The moment he felt of her breast, her backside, his lips against her silky neck, he had been lost.

Bloody Hell!

Aidan shook away the wave of desire that washed over him and settled in his groin. She was beautiful, but she was a traitor, a woman that bedded Napoleon himself, a woman that betrayed her country and led its young men to slaughter.

Blood surged through his body, but this time anger was its cause. He vowed that when he saw her next he would remember his men. Men that fought for England, brave men that lay dying in the filthy streets of Albuera while Napoleon’s troops walked among them, skewering the wounded with their swords.

Aidan would never forgive himself for surviving, for being taken captive while his men were robbed then mercilessly slaughtered. Men that gave their lives to defend the Earl of Wessex; men of lesser title, men of lesser ancestry, but men far more worthy of God’s grace.

Yet, he knew why he had survived.

God had given him Lady Rivenhall. Given him the opportunity to avenge his men and protect the crown. And in that moment and before God, he swore that she would not pass information to the French…even if he were forced to kill her to stop it.

***

A banging on his front door awakened the Duke of Glenbroke from an exceptionally peaceful rest. He carefully withdrew his arm from beneath his wife’s head in hopes that she would remain asleep. Not that there was much danger of her waking, for his duchess slept like the dead.

The silk of his dressing gown felt cold as he shrugged it over his nude body and stepped into the darkened hallway.

"Who is it, Simkins?" he asked his loyal servant who had managed to appear in pressed trousers and jacket as if he had never retired.

"The Earl of Wessex is awaiting your presence in the study, Your Grace."

"Thank you." Gilbert’s bare feet padded down the stairs and across the marble floor to his study.

He tried to still the anxiety that was pounding at his heart. It was four o’clock in the morning, and Aidan was not the sort of man to interrupt his rest without a damn good reason. The only question remaining, what was that reason?

"Aidan, what is so important…" The duke broke off and pulled at Aidan’s loose cravat with his fingers. "What the devil?" Gilbert’s smile broadened as he observed the rumbled hair and disheveled attire of his handsome brother-in-law. "Damnation, Aidan, you disappeared, and your sister spent half the evening searching for you. She would not be pleased to know that you have been tumbling a lady in Lord Reynolds’s own--"

"Gilbert, I must speak with you." Glenbroke’s eyes narrowed at the severe tone of his brother-in-law’s voice. He waited for Aidan to continue.

"What have you heard of a Lady Rivenhall?"

Gilbert shrugged his large shoulders. "Which one? There are several."

"Blonde, blue green eyes, young?" Aidan searched his eyes as he searched his memory.

"Sorry." Gilbert shook his head. "But she does not sound familiar." He raised both brows, a large grin spreading across his face. "Why do you wish to know Aidan? Did the lady perchance make this mark on your neck?" he chuckled, but stopped abruptly when his brother-in-law’s eyes became as cold as the emeralds they resembled.

"Yes, however, not for the reason you have assumed. Do you recall the details of my escape from the French encampment?"

The Duke of Glenbroke straightened to his full height. Gilbert’s jaw pulsed with tension as he waited for him to continue, his eyes sharpening to give his full attention to the subject being discussed.

"Most of them, yes."

"Napoleon’s paramour who questioned me at Albuera was none other than Lady Rivenhall." Aidan’s lip curled with contempt. "An English born lady who was searching Lord Reynolds’s bedchamber not more than four hours ago."

The duke’s eyes narrowed with shock. "Are you sure?"

"Positive." The men stared at one another until the duke’s head began to nod.

"Very well, then," Gilbert said, his demeanor hardening. "Give me the details of the lady in question. Tomorrow, I am meeting about another matter with a man who might be able to answer our inquires pertaining to the Lady Rivenhall. In the meantime, stay on your guard. At present you are likely the only person that can identify her as a French agent." Gilbert held his eyes, both men understanding the seriousness of the situation.

"I shall await your summons, Your Grace." Aidan bowed and left his sister’s home in favor of more elusive game.