Every Time with a Highlander (13 page)

“If Simon were to see me newly married without my wife… Don't you see? He'd know everything my father said about me was right. Please, you must come.”

If she went, she would be without friends, without recourse, and without Kent. But if she said no, there was no telling what Bridgewater would do.

“Please,” he begged.

“John.”

“Please.”

“All right. If it means that much to you.”

He held her hand against his sopping cheek, then pressed it to his mouth in a kiss. “Thank you. Thank you. You are so good to me.”

Morebright's home.
She shook her head. If Bridgewater had something in his possession here that would prove the army was involved in an attack, she'd best find it tonight.

“I'm glad you're here, sir,” said a young servant to Bridgewater when he and Undine stepped into the towering entry hall. “There's a man here. In the drawing room. The housekeeper is looking for you.”

“'Tis the priest,” Bridgewater said with far more excitement than Undine was feeling. “I sent for another.” He squeezed her hand and ran a few steps ahead to the drawing room doors.

“Wait.”

He paused, hands on the knobs. “Aye?”

“I'm not feeling well,” she said, which wasn't a lie, though her unsettledness was more of the spirit than body. “I think I shall go to bed.”

“Come in just for a moment. He can marry us in the morning, but you should greet him. I insist.”

He opened the doors, leaving no room for argument. The man warming his hands before the fire was not a priest. He wore a dark blue frock coat, and the straightness of his spine spoke of an overage of pride. He pulled at a cuff fastidiously. A green tricorne hid his eyes, but Undine expected to find a meanness of spirit there, and the closely trimmed beard in the latest manner of Parisians suggested their visitor was a man more intent on his appearance than his character.

The solicitor, without a doubt.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, Bridgewater said, “You must be from my solicitor's office. Thank you for coming.”

The man removed his hat and dipped an abbreviated bow, clearly in no way moved by nobility. “I apologize for my late arrival. The bridge at Wooler was out and my associate's carriage couldn't make it across, but I happened to be working for another client close by, which he knew, and he sent word to me. I'm Charles Beaufort, by the way. At your service, sir.”

“Welcome, Mr. Beaufort.”

Undine started. The man's eyes were beady and sharp, but a hint of something else lived there as well.

“Do I have the honor of addressing your fiancée?”

“Aye, you do. Undine, may I introduce Mr. Beaufort. Mr. Beaufort, this is, well, Undine. She has no surname—at least not yet.”

The man took her hand and kissed it. It was if the touch of his mouth lit the fuse of a Chinese firecracker. When he lifted his lips and met her eyes, her half-distracted perception of events turned inside out.

Mr. Beaufort was
Kent
!

She started so hard she nearly gave herself away. She couldn't have been more dumbfounded if he'd turned into a goshawk and flown out the window. But how had he done it? It was like one of those trompe l'oeil drawings that look like one thing one moment and another thing the next. Now, so clearly Kent, and before, so clearly—

“…must be tired, don't you agree, Undine?”

She shook her head to remove the cobwebs. What had Bridgewater been saying to her? “I am tired,” she murmured uncertainly.

Kent chuckled, that same enchanting rumble that seemed to vibrate through every bone in her body. “It seems as if your fiancée is as tired as I must look,” he said. “Perhaps we should all go to bed, aye?”

The charged gray of his eyes made her breath catch, and she realized her hand was still dangling midair from the kiss. She thrust it under her arm. He shouldn't be here, and the plans she'd laid so carefully were being rearranged like a deck of cards being shuffled.

“We should,” she said.

This time it was Bridgewater who laughed. “My dear, if I didn't know better I'd say Mr. Beaufort has transfixed you. Beaufort, take care now. I would not like any solicitor of mine to steal my fiancée.”

“I should never attempt such a thing.”

And just like that, he was Beaufort again. She stared at him as if to nail his persona in place. But she couldn't. It was inexplicable—and maddening.

“Come, Undine,” Bridgewater said, “let me escort you to the stairs.”

“I-I…” She wanted to protest, but her tongue couldn't work fast enough.

Bridgewater took her arm and called over his shoulder, “Let us confer in the morning, Beaufort. One of my servants will show you to your room.”

“I'm certain I shall find everything I need.”

She'd simmered long enough in her chamber, she thought, waiting for the house's occupants to adjourn to their rooms for the night. Now she stood at the corner of the main upstairs hall, waiting for the inexorably slow footman dousing the sconces to finish his rounds.

When the hall fell dark and the last footsteps receded, she ran silently to Kent's door, opened it, and slipped inside.

“You have
magic
,” she said, shutting the door with an angry
click
.

He was sitting in candlelight, by a heavily draped window, a book in one hand and a glass in the other. His beard lay beside him on the table. “I'd advise you for both our sakes to keep your voice down,” he said, standing.

“You have magic,” she whispered. “You're a wizard or a conjurer or a magus.”

“I told you I work in the theater.” He tossed the book on the chair and went to a table, where a decanter and pistol sat. He certainly hadn't been carrying a pistol before.

“You changed today,” she said. “Before my eyes.”

He grinned. “Did you like that?” He filled a second glass with something the color of burnished gold.

“He couldn't tell it was you. Neither could I.”

“I can see you didn't care for that.” He placed the glass in her hand and drank from his own.

“Mr. Kent—”

“Michael, please.”

“Michael…Mr. Kent…I am not a woman who's easily beguiled. 'Tis clear you've used a potion on me—and possibly Bridgewater as well. And we aren't even addressing the foolish risk you've taken in coming back here against my instructions, using a pretense that may ruin the plans I already have in place.”

“I'm your best option at this point.”

“
The potion
, Mr. Kent. I demand you explain yourself.”

“Fine. Let me see, if I fooled you, then I am, by definition, a sorcerer. Is that right?”

“Aye.”

“Is it possible that when confronted with a bit of skilled acting, you were simply taken in, just as Bridgewater was? He may be a bloody awful man, but you could hardly argue you're more observant than he is, could you?”

“Aye, sir, I could. And I insist you tell me what sort of dark art you've practiced on me.”

He rubbed his cheek, amused, and his amusement infuriated her.

“Dark art, is it? What makes you so sure I've ‘practiced' anything on you?”

“Because I couldn't tell it was you, and it explains why—” She caught herself.

“Why what?”

Her cheeks grew hot. “Why I'm behaving so ridiculously.” She tore off the earrings and threw them on the bed. “You put a spell on me.”

“A
spell
?”

“A love spell. I'm well versed in the ways of potions. I know exactly what you've done. Remove it instantly. I insist.”

He downed the rest of his liquor and put down the glass. He stepped closer, so close in fact she could see a tiny bit of glue stuck to his cheek. Then he pointed to her glass. “I suggest you drink that.”

“Why?” She brought the glass to her lips and noticed her hand was shaking. She downed a generous gulp.

He took the glass from her and put it on the table next to his. Then he put his hands on her waist.

It was as if her body were a crucible in which a chemical reaction had begun—proof, if any was needed, of his damnable magic.

He stared at his hands, as if deciding what to do next. She marveled at the delicate black fringe around his eyes and the planes of his cheek, dotted with stubble. He was a skilled magus, for his touch held a powerful inducement. She knew this was how love potions worked, though she'd never experienced it like this herself.

There was important information to be gathered if she used this as an opportunity to observe and—

Ooh!

His thumbs brushed her hipbones. The magic was hard to monitor objectively.

His eyes found hers. “Let's say for the moment I am a wizard—I'm not—but let's say for the moment I am. What would you do?”

“I-I would make myself immune to your methods. You are, and I have.”

He bent his head so that his mouth hung just above hers. She could smell the whiskey, earthy and rich, and the soapy scent of his skin. The electric charge was the strongest she'd ever felt. She was surprised to find her fingers in the short, soft waves of his hair.

“So it's not possible to be lured into doing something you don't innately want to do?”

“No,” she said. “I'm glad.”

Their lips met. The effect was dizzying. How did mere humans fight it? This wouldn't be the first time she'd entangled herself physically with a man—and while she acknowledged the appeal of the ancient, primitive rite that was so desired by their sex, the effect had been too fleeting to have the same impact on her. What would it be like, she wondered, to combine the stultifying emotional drunkenness of the spell with the physical response?

They parted and he touched her chin. Her face lifted without thought, a marvelous effect. She must ask him when they finished if it was flag root or anise.

His eyes, so soft and warm, crinkled at the corners. “What
are
you thinking about?”

“Is the effect the same on you as it is on me?”

He smiled. “Yes, actually, it is.”

“Odd. A spell that works on the recipient as well as the giver. You're very talented.”

“Okay, I'll allow myself to take credit but not in the way you think.”

She lifted her mouth again and kissed him deeply. She broke away, awed. “The spell grows in power.”

“It's not a spell.”

Not a spell? 'Tis as if a team of oarsmen were racing through my belly.
All she could think about was his hands on her, loosening her gown, lifting her breasts, spreading her thighs.

“What happens next?” she whispered.

“What happens next is up to you.”

“Use your magic. I'm not afraid.”

He took her cheek in his sturdy, warm hand. “I have no magic to use on you, Undine, except for the magic any lovers have when they're attracted to one another. I wasn't lying when I said I'm not a wizard. I'm just a man who wants to know you better.”

“Know me?”

His eyes twinkled. “You're going to make me say it, are you? I'd like to take you to bed.”

She nearly laughed. What did people think they learned in that ridiculous, brief, awkward tangle? And yet the look on his face made it seem as if his understanding of her would grow tenfold. Suddenly she felt her experience had been lacking. She'd never learned anything in bed worth the trouble, but with Kent—solid, unchanging Kent—she thought she might.

“I think we should,” she said.

He removed the pins in her hair and loosened the strands with his fingers. “Those eyes,” he said in wonderment. “I swear I see the ocean in there. When I taste you, will you taste of salt?”

“Naiads are river creatures, sir.”

“Ah. Then earth and iron.”

She wanted to remind him he had just finished tasting her and that any question he had concerning her taste should have been answered, but it dawned on her with a rush of heat that may not be what he meant.

He led her to the bed and undressed. The absurdly bright loin cloth he slipped off made her smile. His body was lithe and his arms and thighs ropey. And he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Lovemaking was a foolish pastime—ungainly, risky, especially for a woman and even more so for a spy—and filled with small embarrassments. But she found she wanted to be a fool.

He helped her with her ties and gown, and she removed her chemise.

His gaze brushed her body appreciatively. Unlike many men, his eyes hid nothing. In them lived a heady mixture of desire, anticipation, and joy. It was far more revealing than seeing him naked, and yet he did nothing to hide his feelings. And not a single ounce of need to own her existed in his gaze.

The magic coursed through her veins, tickling the roots of her hair and the inside of her knees. Some of these things she'd felt before, but this occasion had a gravity to it that was new to her. It glided around her heart, warming it like a velvet cloak on an October night.

She wrapped her arms around him, her palms coming to rest in the smooth divots of his buttocks.

“Shall we lie down?” he said, his voice coming muffled through her hair.

“Aye,” she said. They crawled in side by side.

The linens smelled of wood fire, and the hairs of his chest rubbed her cheek. Using touch alone, she tried to draw out any lies or falseness in him, to bring them to the surface so that she might assess them in the candlelight, but all she found was the same Michael Kent she'd known since he arrived. He might be a priest or solicitor or actor, but the man beneath the costume was exactly the man he'd always shown himself to be.

The heat of their kissing scorched her. Their mouths roamed. He lived up to the implied promise in his earlier question, and she writhed, his tongue against her bud. The potion was so strong and her desire to shield herself from its powers so weak.

He was practiced and deeply attentive. She needed only think a thing before he was doing it or allowing her to do it. They were like seals swimming together, flipping and turning in a perfect, spellbinding unison. She felt free of earthly bounds, as if the world beyond his arms had disappeared.

His mouth trailed down her neck, between her breasts, and down deep, deep, to where he'd begun their journey.

The magic, near to boiling, threatened to unleash the last of its powers. She gasped. But the release, satisfying and expansive, didn't slake her thirst as it usually did—not even close. She folded her hand around his cock, and he groaned.

Her heart was leaping like a stag now. The foolishness of men and women. Stupid, ridiculous, enthralling foolishness.

She surprised herself by taking the length in her mouth—black art at its most potent. She'd seen the pictures in books, heard the grunting cries, witnessed the couples in empty closes, but she'd never done it herself. If he'd reached for her head, she'd have stopped immediately, but he merely twisted and panted, palms over his eyes, while she savored the pleasure she bestowed.

“You're going to kill me,” he said.

And it was a sort of death. A death and a rebirth. But she'd never felt it until now. Oh, the lightning strike, aye, with its attendant cries and arching back and grasping fingers. That part had been familiar enough. But not the sense that her heart had been momentarily stopped, or even that she'd wish it to be.

She was drunk under the spell now, and she touched and tasted whatever her exploring hands found.

He brought her mouth back to his and held her in a hungry kiss until her toes curled.

Then he climbed between her legs and slipped inside her. His hand found the place where their bodies joined, and he moved in a steady rhythm, his chest brushing hers. This joining eye to eye flustered her, and it was only his gentle
shhhh shhhh
that held her in the moment.

He asked if she was ready with the lightest press of his fingertips, and she assented with a squeeze. His release lifted her nearly from the bed with a force beyond magic. They fell into each other's arms.

“I have a number of questions.”

He chuckled. “I feel like I should be surprised, but I'm not.”

“You're quite practiced.”

“That's not a question. I'm not sure it's even a compliment.”

“Does the magic impact your performance?”

He smiled. “Yes. Very much so.”

“Why? Is it the reverse action of the agent, possibly when you were handling it?”

He brushed his lips along the inside of her elbow, and she inhaled, surprised. “Yes,” he said.

“The spell didn't dissolve after I experienced my release. Was it supposed to?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Did yours?”

“No. I want you even more now, if that's possible.”

She stretched against him. “We could…”

“We will,” he said, bringing her hand to his lips, “but for now I just want this.”

“What?”

“Us. Here. Talking and touching.”

“Oh.” The idea offered its own mystical power, and she entwined her legs with his.

“
Ow.
” She rolled away, looking beneath her, and he chuckled.

“You were lying on a thistle,” he said, “two of them, to be exact. No wonder it hurt.” He cupped the earbobs in his palm.

“They're Abby's.”

“The symbol of her clan?” he asked.

“Aye. And all of Scotland, as you know.”

He clasped her lobe and slid one of the earrings into place. “They're quite eye-catching,” he said, tapping the dangling stone with his finger.

The skin on her arms prickled into gooseflesh.

“Come now.” He touched her chin, and she turned her head as if he'd tugged a string. The second earbob went on. She felt a bit like she'd just been clapped in chains, but the sensation was not entirely unpleasant, especially given the dancing light in his eyes.

“When will it wear off?” she asked.

“The earrings?”

“The spell.”

He wrapped a skein of hair around his palm and held it to his nose. “Never, I hope.”

“
Never?
” She sat up, gathering the cover around her. “That can't be.”

“It's not the sort of thing either of us can answer.”

“Mr. Kent, 'tis one thing to exercise a spell of short duration on me. 'Tis quite another to make it irrevocable. And, in any case, I've never heard of a spell that can't be reversed.”

“Michael,” he said plaintively. “Please. I promise if you wish it to end, it'll happen, even if I wish otherwise. Please lie down. There's something you need to know, and our time here must be short.”