For Love Alone (31 page)

A muscle in his jaw worked. “Has it come to this?”

Sophy dipped her head. “Indeed, I am afraid that it has, m'lord.”

“Dash it all, Sophy! Quit calling me m'lord in that odious fashion. I am your husband!”

“Unfortunately.”

They stood there glaring at each other, and Ives was gallingly aware that Sophy was not going to give an inch. In the mood she was in now, she
would
shoot him.

Snarling something decidedly ungentlemanly under his breath, he stalked from the room.

Reliving that ugly little scene a few hours later did nothing to make him feel any better about it. Somehow, he admitted gloomily, he had to make Sophy realize that she was all wrong in her assumptions. Robert's death, her mother's part in it, had
nothing
to do with them. His face contorted. All he had to do now was prove it to her. A bitter laugh came from him. So simple, and yet so very, very difficult when the lady had a pistol in her hand!

The day did not get any better. He was greeted stiffly by the rest of the family, and, worse, Sophy herself eluded him, disappearing almost immediately after a strained and uncomfortable breakfast for a drive with Dewhurst.

Feeling thwarted and thoroughly out of sorts, Ives withdrew to his bedroom in the hope of gaining a few more hours of sleep, and perhaps discovering a way back into his wife's good graces.

To his surprise, he slept soundly and woke several hours later feeling refreshed. As for the situation with his wife, no solution occurred to him. Not wishing to run the gauntlet of accusatory stares and stiff conversation, he remained in his room, pacing and moodily considering the future.

At present he saw no way out of the situation with Sophy. He realized it would do little good to assure her of his honorable intentions, then immediately go off to consort with the likes of Grimshaw, Marquette, and Meade. Once again, he wished to tell her of the quest for
Le Renard,
but while in his own heart he was certain that Sophy could be trusted, there were too many lives at risk to take a chance.

The rap on the door caught his attention and knowing that Sophy must have returned by now, he flung it open hopefully. He was disappointed to see only Ogden standing there before him. Ushering him into the room, he asked, “Yes? What is it? Have you news?”

Ogden scratched his bald head. “It could be nothing, but as soon as he was relieved by Sanderson, Hinckley came by with a message on his way to report to Roxbury. Said you might be interested to know that Meade spent several hours at the Horse Guards today.”

Ives's brows shot up. “On a Sunday afternoon?”

“That's what he said.”

“It is interesting, and I'll wager a wagonful of gold that I know precisely what our good colonel was doing—he had to be either copying the memorandum or stealing it.” A satisfied smile crossed Ives's harsh features. “The Fox has taken the bait!”

 

The Fox was also feeling rather satisfied with events as he strolled down the street later that Sunday evening. The meeting with Meade last night had gone just as he had assumed it would, and by this time tomorrow night he would be meeting with the Frenchman. A smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. And if his plans unfolded as they should, Roxbury would be left chasing his own tail.

A touch on his arm startled him. Swinging around, he was astonished to see Agnes Weatherby standing beside him. He bowed politely, and murmured, “Miss Weatherby, how pleasant to see you.” He glanced around and seeing no sign of carriage or vehicle, or even a maid or footman to give the impression of propriety, he asked, “Is there something I can do for you? Perhaps escort you home?”

Agnes shook her head. Her hard eyes fastened on his, she said smoothly, “I need no escort, but I do wish you to call upon me, very late this evening, at my home, after my servants have gone to bed. I shall let you in myself. Use the side door. You know which one—you've used it before when you accompanied Edward. I want, and I'm sure you'll agree, no one to know of our meeting. It shall be our secret.”

At his look of astonishment, she smiled maliciously. “In his cups Edward was, as I'm sure you already know, quite talkative. After you hear what I have to say, I think you will agree that we have much to consider, you and I.”

B
efore joining the others for another long evening wasted in gaming and other vices, Ives arranged a meeting with his godfather. They met at a small tavern.

Entering the private room Roxbury had procured for their meeting, Ives said, “Well, my lord, it appears that we finally have some progress.”

Roxbury nodded. “Indeed, I am inclined to agree with you, my boy. I've had the files checked and the document is still there, but that does not mean that Meade is not carrying a copy around with him at this very moment.”

Ives frowned. “My conclusion precisely, but I cannot believe that the French would pay very much for simply a copy. How could they be certain that the information was authentic? I suspect that at some point, the original document is going to have to disappear, at least temporarily, so that whoever the Fox or Meade is selling the information to can assure themselves that what they are buying is genuine.”

“I concur, but for now the memorandum is still safely at the Horse Guards.” Roxbury took a sip of the rum punch he had ordered prepared for them.

Ives made a face. “For now.”

He took a swallow of the punch and, frowning slightly, said slowly, “I know that in the beginning I wanted as few people to know about this endeavor as possible, but I think the time has come to bolster our troops. My men can only do so much, and they are stretched thin, thinner than I like, and if we were to lose Meade ...”

He sighed. “At present any chance of success rests solely with the colonel leading us to the Fox, and while I do not want our men tripping over each other, I would feel better if two men were assigned to watch Meade at all times, with a few more held ready in case of need. Could you arrange it?”

Roxbury nodded. “With little effort. What about Grimshaw and Coleman?”

“I don't know,” Ives replied moodily. “If there are too many people following our suspects about they are bound to be noticed. I think for now that we had better continue as we are. Meade, however, is the key. We cannot lose him.”

“Very well,” said Roxbury, rising to his feet. “I shall have two more of my best fellows to help you. When do you want them to start?”

“Immediately.”

 

While it seemed that things were finally moving along in connection with the Fox, Ives was still not a very happy man when he left his godfather a few minutes later and set out to meet with Meade and his friends to dine at Stephens's. Joining the others at their table, he could not help but remember the night he had brought Sophy here with the Offingtons ... and that passionate kiss in his coach. He scowled fiercely at his claret glass. If things continued as they were, all he was going to have were memories.

That notion did not sit well, and though he tried to pay attention to what was going on around him, the moment he let his guard down his thoughts turned inevitably to his wife. And as the evening progressed and he drank glass after glass of liquor, a strong sense of ill usage sprang up within him.

The little baggage had feathers in her brain if she thought for one moment that he would be so stupid as to marry her simply because of a desire for revenge for some long-ago tragedy. It was true he had sworn vengeance, but dash it all, he had not meant it! At least not recently.

He glared at his glass, his feeling of betrayal and of being poorly used growing with every minute. How dare she aim that dashed pistol at him! He had done nothing wrong. Bloody hell! She was his wife! And she had as good as thrown him out of her room.

By the time the evening ended, half-drunk and feeling that Sophy had served him a great injustice, Ives departed from the other gentlemen. As he walked home, a hazy determination to set her right began to build within him. He was
not
Marlowe! And she had no cause to treat him in this fashion. No cause at all!

Arriving home, he entered the house. Moving with the extreme care of a man who has imbibed too freely, Ives shut the door, locking it behind him, and walked up the stairs to his room.

Shedding his clothes, he shrugged into a robe of maroon silk with tiny golden dragons scattered across it. He poured himself a snifter of brandy and drank it slowly, glaring at the door which separated him from his wife.

She was, he knew, no doubt sleeping sweetly in her bed. The bed in which he should be at this very moment....

The thought of Sophy's soft curves and the pleasure they had shared sent a shaft of longing through him. And the idea of spending the rest of his life this way suddenly became insupportable.

Not precisely drunk, not precisely angry, but stubbornly determined, Ives carefully set down his snifter and walked to the door that kept him from what he wanted most in the world. He tried the door and was not surprised to find it still locked.

Did she really, he wondered with a half smile, think that he would allow a mere partition of wood to separate them? Not giving himself time to consider the consequences, he aimed one big shoulder at the offending barrier and, with one powerful lunge, smashed the door.

As arrogant and unruffled as a jungle cat, he stepped into the room. Sophy had not been asleep. Sleep did not come easily to her since their confrontation. She could tell herself that Ives was a deceiving libertine, a mendacious beast, a vile knave, but somehow that knowledge did nothing to stop the ache to feel his arms around her.

She had never longed for a man before, had never known the frank hunger that could build within one for the touch of one certain man, and she was aghast at the way not only her body but her thoughts had begun to betray her. Her initial fury had faded, and she found herself making excuses for him and wondering if perhaps she had judged him too hastily. Or if she wouldn't have been wiser to let him explain.... Her mouth twisted. Attempt to explain.

Restlessly she tossed and turned in her bed, aware of her body in a way that was queer and unnerving. Her breasts seemed unusually sensitive; just the brush of her delicate gown made her nipples swell and an odd sensation flow through her. And low in her belly, she was uncomfortably conscious of a hot ache, not exactly unpleasant, but markedly persistent.

She was not stupid. She knew what her body was telling her, but she pushed that knowledge away. She was not going to allow herself to be dominated by simple carnal desire.

Except in her heart she knew that it was not simple, and it was not just the desire to have Ives in her arms again. She missed his teasing eyes and laughing mouth, and perhaps most of all, the comforting sensation of not having to face the future completely alone.

She not only wanted him in a purely physical sense, but in a distinctly intangible way, too. Miserably, she admitted that she loved the wicked rogue, and that made everything all the more complicated. If she could hate him, despise him as she had Simon, nothing he did would matter to her. She could sleep alone a thousand nights and never give him a single thought. But with Ives ...

A lump grew in her throat. Oh, damn and blast! she thought furiously. How am I to get through the rest of my life, loving him so desperately with all this ugliness between us?

Though the hour was very late, neither sleep nor answers came to her, and she lay there staring blindly at the silken canopy of her bed, alternately damning Ives and longing for him. She was still awake when he returned home, and she heard his steps in the hall as he passed her door. Her heart had thudded painfully.

The soft click of his bedroom door shutting firmly behind him came to her, and though she listened intently, the thickness of the walls prevented any other sound reaching her. After straining to hear sounds of him for several minutes, she gave it up and tried to go sleep. It proved useless. Thoughts of Ives kept drifting through her brain. It was sheer torture, she finally admitted bitterly, to know he was so close and yet so very far away.

At his sudden explosion through her shattered door, Sophy jerked upright in her bed, hardly daring to believe that he had the audacity to break down her door. Not even Simon at his worst had behaved so outrageously. Instinctively, she reached for the pistol and, slipping from her bed, faced him.

The room was in near darkness. Only the light from his room filtered into hers, yet Ives had no trouble discerning her slim form near the bed. It was obvious from her stance that she held the pistol, and he wondered, half-amused, half-regretful, if these would be his last moments of life. If his last memory would be of Sophy firing her damned bloody pistol at him.

He stopped where he was, the candlelight behind him outlining his tall form and broad shoulders, the golden dragons on his robe winking brightly against the maroon silk.

“Are you really going to shoot me?” he asked, as he stared at her across the distance which separated them.

Sophy's mouth went dry, and she was conscious that the pistol suddenly felt slippery in her hand. “I will,” she said stoutly, “if you come any nearer.” She was dismayed at the lack of conviction in her own voice, shocked to feel her entire body start to tremble, and not with fear or anger.

Ives smiled crookedly, and took a step in her direction. Sophy backed up slightly, but could not go far; the bed was blocking her retreat.

“Stay where you are,” she said desperately.

His heart beating like a war drum, Ives shook his head slowly, a lock of gleaming, raven black hair falling down across his forehead.

“I cannot,” he said huskily. “I am under your spell, sweetheart, drawn to you like steel to magnet, like blossoms to sunlight. I can
not
stay away from you. So if you are going to shoot me, go ahead. That, and only that, will stop me from making love to you tonight.”

The pistol wavered, but she did not drop it. The light from his room suddenly illuminated his face, and seeing his devil green eyes fixed warmly on her, seeing that unbearably attractive brigand's smile on his mouth, something inside of her splintered.

“Damn you!” she whispered helplessly, the pistol falling uselessly to her side.

Ives closed the distance between them, dragging her unresisting form into his strong embrace. He kissed her roughly, all his despair and fear, his pent-up passion in that one kiss.

“We are, it seems,” he said thickly, when he finally raised his lips from hers, “damned together.”

Sophy did not argue with him. Her blood was singing, her body wildly rejoicing to feel his touch once more. Lifting her mouth to his, she said crossly, “Oh, shut up and kiss me again!”

Ives chuckled and, swinging her up into his arms, said, “Oh, that I shall, sweetheart. That and more.”

Laying her on the bed, he gently removed the pistol from her slackened grip and shrugged impatiently out of his robe. Ives joined her immediately on the bed, his big body pressing intimately into hers. He was hard and warm on her, the shaft between his legs thick and solid, its weight seeming to sear right through the thin material separating them. The desperate hunger between them exploded, and Ives's mouth crushed hers. His hands made short, violent work of her delicate gown.

Sophy moaned as she felt his hot skin against hers, the muscles of his broad back beneath her questing fingertips. His mouth was magic as it tasted and ravaged her own, his mere touch blatant sorcery as his hands shaped and explored her body. She was ready for him in an instant, damp heat flooding between her thighs, the primitive need to have him banishing every thought but that one. She wanted him.
Now.

But Ives had other ideas, and though Sophy twisted up enticingly against him, he ignored the unmistakable invitation and continued to kiss and fondle her. When his lips finally left her mouth and traveled in stinging little bites to her breasts, she was certain she would go mad if he did not soothe the demanding ache which consumed her. But he did not, his dark head sliding lower, his hot mouth touching her in places that astonished her, sliding down low across her belly until he reached the juncture of her thighs.

Blood pounding feverishly, her heart beating as if it would leap from her breast, she cried out in shocked pleasure when he kissed her there between her legs, his tongue seeking that most intimate of all places. He held her prisoner beneath his teasing mouth, his thumbs holding the tender flesh apart as he feasted, long and with great hunger. At that first probing kiss, Sophy's entire body clenched, fire streaking up through her. The maddeningly sweet sensations wreaked by his famished mouth only incited her more, making the demanding ache within her stronger, more intense ... unendurable.

She thought she was going to die of pleasure. Her fingers fiercely gripped his dark hair, and she was uncertain whether she was trying to pull him away or guide his warm mouth to where the ache was worst. His tongue suddenly stabbed just where she wanted it, and a soft scream was torn from her as sharp, powerful pleasure erupted through her. She shuddered wildly as her entire body seemed to explode into a thousand splinters of sweet ecstasy.