Beauty and the Spy (21 page)

Kit arrived home to a letter from his father, and in the mood he was in—the arm
did
hurt, Saint-John's-wort salve notwithstanding—every word of it seemed sarcastic.

Dear Christopher,

I do hope you're enjoying your stay in Barnstable. I'm eager to review your findings. Would you be so kind as to send a sampling of your notes and your sketches to me posthaste?

Warmly, Your Father

P.S. I've booked passage for you on the next ship to Egypt. It leaves at the beginning of next month.

Bloody,
bloody
hell. Thanks to the fact that someone was trying to kill Susannah Makepeace, all he had were some sketches of voles, a few ferns, and a tree or two. Oh, and of course, there was a wonderful sketch of him naked on a pier. They'd barely scratched the surface of Barnstable's flora and fauna. He didn't know whether to be amused at how well his father knew him; incensed that his father clearly didn't trust him; or ashamed that the mistrust was
warranted
, given that he'd spent the day in Gorringe with the daughter of a dead spy, for reasons both altruistic and selfish. And, coincidentally, related to Morley.

Another indication of how well his father knew him. And now when he knew something was genuinely amiss�as evidenced by someone lunging at Susannah with a knife—he couldn't tell his father about it.

He couldn't complete this assignment on his own; his pride simply wouldn't let him submit his own merely adequate drawings. And… well, he wanted to make a success of this, for if Susannah's drawings were to become known, perhaps she would have a life outside of Barnstable.

And a woman like Susannah deserved to have an interesting life.

Now all he needed to do was keep her alive long enough for her to
have
an interesting life.

She'd left her sketchbook behind in the coach again. He leafed through it, but he could never seem to do it casually. The near effortlessness, the grace and precision of the drawings still awed him a little, it was like watching someone he knew wave a wand to conjure something�and so little awed him anymore. Her drawings had been brave and passionate long before she knew that she was. The clues to her were there for anyone who'd known to look for them.

He stopped his leafing when he saw a drawing he hadn't seen before.

Me
, he thought, surprised.

It wasn't an overly handsome drawing, as he wasn't an overly handsome man, and his pride did twinge a little. But somehow, she'd seen intensity in the set of his jaw, wit and steel shaded with vulnerability in the cast of his eyes; she'd made a downright poem of his mouth.

When had she drawn this? More importantly: How had she…
seen
this? It was almost more uncomfortable than being sketched in the nude. Somehow it revealed as much about Susannah as it did him.

He liked the way she saw him.

Sunset was streaking the sky in citrus shades now, and dark would fall hard in less than an hour. He thought of Susannah alone in the cottage with Frances Perriman, and of a twig and a sawed saddle girth, of a nondescript man artfully lunging from the crowd with a knife in his hand.

And he collected blankets, a bottle of brandy, a lantern, a box of matches, and loaded his pistols with fresh powder and shot He loaded a musket, too, because one could never be too prepared. He was downstairs in minutes.

"But you've just arrived home, sir." Bullton looked confused. "And you're going out again? Is there an assem…" He trailed off when he noticed Kit's bundle and his clothing. "Will you at least take some dinner?" he asked in resignation.

"I'll stop in the kitchen, Bullton, and take some food out with me. But I've… work to do outside tonight."

Bullton stepped aside, and Kit stepped into the kitchen for some bread and cheese and cold chicken. He pumped a flask of water for himself.

And then he was out of the door and down the pathway. He knew just where to set up a little camp that couldn't possibly be seen by anyone in the cottage, but which would afford him the ideal view of it The pain in his arm would ensure he stayed awake; the brandy would keep the arm manageable.

But no one else would be able to get near her.

And if anyone tried, by God they'd rue it.

He'd waited, listening to crickets, to deer picking through the underbrush, to the first birdsong. When dawn began to light the sky, he took himself wearily to the pond for a quick swim, rinsed his mouth with water from his flask. His eyes felt as though they'd been plucked and replaced with two musket balls. He swiped a hand over his bristly face; the shave would have to wait.

He was standing at Mrs. Perriman's gate, rumpled, weary, but strangely satisfied when Susannah ventured out the door, basket on her arm, looking posy-fresh in pale, striped muslin. The sight of her was bracing. He was suddenly glad she'd threatened a cockney workman with a vase for her dresses.

She saw him and stopped. "You look as though you engaged in a debauch last night," she said lightly. "You've rings beneath your eyes, and…" She trailed off, and her gaze became something uncomfortably like concern.

"You're familiar with the look of debauchers, are you, Miss Makepeace?" Which effectively disconcerted her, displacing her concern, as he'd intended. "The arm is still attached. We'll see what today brings, however, as fate seems determined to separate me from it Are you ready to put in a day's work?"

"Are you?"

"I've no choice," he said grimly. "Duty calls. And I've your sketchbook."

"Oh." She looked uncomfortable. "I didn't mean to leave it."

He would have teased her about the drawing, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It seemed somehow as intimate to her as his revelation about Caroline was to him, and suddenly, he felt a little shy.

So he shrugged, and handed the sketchbook to her.

"Are we riding or walking today?" she wanted to know.

"Walking. Today I thought we'd finally sketch the Hellebore."

"And do you have your pistol?" She'd asked it almost matter-of-factly.

"Wouldn't dream of going anywhere without it." And he wasn't the least bit wry about it.

"Well, then. Shall we?" She squared her shoulders. A soldier in striped muslin.

He wasn't in the mood for conversation—he wasn't certain he could string words together at all, weary as he was, though his thoughts were certainly active enough—and Miss Makepeace was quiet, too.

She was working up to something, however, he could almost feel it.

"Will you take me to London?"

Ah. And there it was.

"You're not one for circumspection, are you, Miss Makepeace?"

"No, but you are."

"You wish to get a late start on the season, is that it?" He said it over his shoulder, and he saw a little shadow pass over her features. He silently cursed himself. He doubted voles and adders made up for Almacks.

"I wish to see Miss Daisy Jones," she said.

So did he, for that matter. He
wanted
to take her to London. He wanted to talk to Daisy Jones, both to attempt to unravel the mystery behind Susannah Makepeace's life… and behind the reason someone wanted her dead.

But of course, if his father knew of his presence in London, Kit wouldn't be in London for very long. He'd be waving good-bye to London from the deck of a ship bound for Egypt or some other godforsaken place that lacked countesses and gentlemen's clubs.

"I'll think about it," he told her gruffly, and kept walking. On past the white oak, beyond the pond, deeper into the wood, where trees prevented the worst of the heat from beating down on them. He could scarcely think now. There was a clearing, mossy, where hellebore grew, and by God, despite everything, he still wanted to document the hellebore.

Then he heard a little shriek, and spun. He watched Susannah stumble, her arms windmilling slightly; she fell hard on her rump hard before he could catch her.

Kit dropped to his knees next to her, his heart in his throat. "Good God. Are you hurt?"

She laughed up at him. "It's all right… I merely stumbled over a stone. And I'm not made of glass. Just clumsy."

He wasn't amused. "Forgive me, but I'm a little sensitive to
shrieking
, Miss Makepeace, given the events of the past few days." He thrust out his hand.

She ignored his outstretched hand in favor of propping herself up on her elbows and throwing her head back to study the sky, as if surprised to find such a thing above her. Her hair was coming a little loose of its pins; her dress had hiked up a little, too, revealing a hint of long, calves, lyrically curved, tapering into slim ankles. All of it covered in pale stocking. Susannah the siren.

"That cloud?" she said suddenly, gesturing skyward with her chin.

"Yes?" He crouched next to her, ready to help her up when she was ready to be helped up, and tilted his head back to see what she saw.

"Looks like a unicorn."

He studied it: That white, spiraling, vertical puff was the horn, he supposed; the wisp behind
could
be a tail.

"So it does."

She lowered her head and gave him a wry look. She knew he was humoring her.

The next thing he did was absently, and truly almost innocently done, born of the playfulness of the moment, perhaps, or simply because the purity of the line begged for it. He reached out and drew his finger lightly from her ankle right up the curve of her calf.

When his finger reached the crook of her knee he stopped. Astonished to see it there.

Silently, a little frantically, he considered excuses:
An insect was crawling up your stocking, Susannah. I was checking to see if you were injured, Susannah. I was
—

"Don't stop." It was her voice. Husky, abstracted.

And the words roared like a brushfire over his senses. He briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the very quality of the day had changed: thickened, slowed, enclosed the two of them.

He slowly lifted his head. He found a dare in Susannah's eyes, and a heat easily the equal of his own, and the sweetest sort of anxiety. She wanted this, or thought she did, and was afraid she'd be rebuffed again.

And yet he wasn't sure she truly understood what it was she wanted.

He was all too sure what
he
wanted.

A breeze, mindless of the significance of the moment, gaily tossed a streamer of her hair across her forehead.

Just a little
, a voice in his head urged him. He could show her just a little of passion, he reasoned; he could show her gently, skillfully, give her just a taste. Because lord knew what would become of her, and what sort of man would ultimately have the taking of her. He was certain he could give her pleasure, and she deserved that.

He was distantly amused, even a little alarmed, at how reason and lust had conspired to make his desire to crawl beneath Susannah's Makepeace's skirts seem noble.

And so he did it: He drew his finger as slowly as he could bear along the length of her practical stocking, up over the curve of her calf, and he could feel the warmth of her skin beneath it, hear the stuttering catch in her breath, and her mounting excitement flowed into him. He reached her garter, a surprisingly plain one, given that this was Susannah Makepeace: a pink ribbon, no satin rosettes, just a bow. And with his finger he leisurely traced, once, twice, again, the satin of it, deliberately postponing for both of them the moment when he would touch the skin above it.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

"No," he commanded softly. "Open them."

She did, but her lips parted slightly with breathing that was growing ragged with anticipation. Slowly, slowly he uncurled his fingers and laid his open hand against the top of her thigh, over her stocking, just below her garter. He left it there, resting at that threshold between stocking and skin, for as long as he thought they both could withstand it, and smiled down, a crooked, slow smile. A silent declaration to her that he would be leading every moment of this interlude, that he would determine the start and finish of it.

At last, he slid his hand smoothly upward to touch the skin of her thigh. His smile vanished.

The vulnerable, silken heat of her skin… quite simply, it undid him.

Kit understood men that he'd been fooling himself, had been fooling himself for days. It was she who owned both this moment… and him.

And when he eased his body down alongside her, her hand rose up as though the air had become as viscous as honey, and she cradled his lowering face as though they'd been lovers forever.

Forever
. He found himself wanting to stretch each second, to heighten each moment, to make distinct memories of them all:
Now I'm touching her skin
…
now I'm kissing her lips
… His lips touched hers, just a brush, once, twice, over the full softness of her lovely mouth, discovering what she knew of kissing. With devastating instinct, she echoed him, dragging her lips softly across his, with his, until the desire in him was coiled so tightly his limbs trembled from it.

"
Susannah
." A ragged whisper. She sighed a warm breath out against his lips and brought her other hand up to hold his face; in her hands he could feel her tension and urgency. And he'd meant to linger over this kiss, to take it deeper with delicacy and finesse, and then to end it, but he found he could not His desire was suddenly untenable; he was convinced only the taste of her could ease it. He touched an impatient tongue to her lips and coaxed them open. When she parted her mouth he sought her tongue, and discovered, with a low sound in the back of his throat, the hot, silken sweetness inside her mouth. Her tongue tentatively moved, tangled with his.
Oh, God
.