Lord and Lady Spy (13 page)

Of course she would have known all about his father. She was a spy. Her father had been a spy—he’d been the bloody Black Baron. Hell, Sophia probably knew more about his father than he did.

“What does your father have to do with this?”

He cut his eyes to her. What did his father have to do with this? Was she blind? He had everything to do with this. She held up a protective hand. “We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

“He didn’t just betray his country,” Adrian said, pacing in front of the bench. Hearing the words, making himself utter them made him cold and angry. A man with less control might hit a wall or rip out one of the rosebushes. Instead, he said calmly, “He betrayed my mother. I heard them arguing once when I was about three. She was crying, asking him not to go to one of his mistresses. He laughed at her.”

Adrian could still remember the hard pit of sickly fear in his belly as he’d peeked through the cracked door of his father’s bedroom. He hated to see his mother cry. Her face was blotchy and uncharacteristically unattractive. Adrian wanted to hug her, comfort her as she so often comforted him.

But his father’s face was hard and—Adrian hadn’t known the word then, but he did now—impassive. Her tears meant nothing to him. He had merely straightened his cravat in the mirror and made to leave.

Adrian had jumped back, prepared to hide before his father caught him eavesdropping, but his mother went to his father and put her hand on his arm. “Please, James. I need you. Your son needs you. That woman doesn’t need you.”

He took her hand and removed it from his sleeve. “But I need her. Good night.”

Adrian would have hit his father then if he hadn’t been so afraid of him. Instead, he’d ducked behind a statue in the corridor until his father was away. Then he’d sat outside the bedroom and listened to his mother weep.

Adrian looked at Sophia, wondering how many times he’d made her cry. Was he no better than his father, after all? “I vowed that night I would never be like him. When I make a vow—to my country, to my King, or to my wife—I keep it.”

“I didn’t know about your father’s mistresses. I’m sorry. And of course you keep your vows. I always just assumed… I never thought… but it was my mistaken assumption. You’re very loyal. The most loyal man I know—even before I knew you were Agent Wolf. You’re nothing like your father.”

He felt some of his anger fade. These were words he’d wanted to hear. “I’m far from perfect.”

She reached up and took his hand. “Neither of us have been model spouses. We can still change that.”

Adrian squeezed her hand, wishing he felt her optimism. “Can we? One of us is going to win that position in the Barbican group. The other will lose it. How will you feel if I’m reinstated and you’re not? I know how I would feel, sitting at home while you’re in Geneva, hunting down some assassin or chasing a traitor in Cádiz.” He released her hand.

She rose, tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “I see now. You think you need this position to prove you’re not him, you’re not your father.”

“I proved that long ago.” But did he believe that?

“You had to work hard to attain your position, as hard as I, a woman, did, I’m sure. Melbourne would have watched you closely. Ridiculous, but people still assume like father, like son.”

“I can hardly blame them. My father’s treachery is legendary.”

“No worse than Benedict Arnold or any of the other traitors to the Americans.”

He started to argue, but she cut him off. “James Galloway wasn’t an operative for the Crown. He was a general who forgot what side he was fighting for. The American conflict was complicated. Who was a loyalist, who a rebel?”

“He knew what side he was fighting for.”

Sophia may have known the stories about his father, but she knew nothing of the man.

Adrian continued, “He gave the Americans information that cost lives. British lives. His confusion—as you put it—resulted in the death of several hundred British soldiers.”

“I don’t condone his actions, but I can understand how it might have happened. Still, he was punished—as he should have been.”

Adrian might have said his father was made an example of. He was publicly hanged, drawn, and quartered as crowds cheered. Adrian’s mother had not wanted him to attend, but her brother had insisted. They had to show their loyalty was to Britain, not James Galloway. Adrian would never forget the sight of his father sliced open, his bloody bowels being pulled out of his body as he screamed.

He’d been five when his life had changed, when his mother and the rest of Great Britain learned of James Galloway’s treason. Adrian’s father had never expected to get caught. He thought he’d covered himself well, but as Adrian knew from years as an operative, there are no secrets. Someone always sees, always knows. His job as a spy was to find that someone.

In his father’s case, the someone who had witnessed James Galloway’s treason found him and tried to blackmail the viscount. Galloway wouldn’t pay with money and ended up paying with his life, his honor, his son’s honor.

“I know how he paid,” Adrian said. “I was there.”

Sophia’s head jerked up, and she grabbed his arm. “No, Adrian, you couldn’t have been more than five or six.”

“Five.”

Her face was white. “Why? Why were you made to attend?”

“My uncle demanded we show solidarity and loyalty to England. We cheered with the crowds.”

She put a hand on his face, ran it through his hair in a distinctly motherly gesture. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. No one ever told me you were at the execution.”

“Why would they? You weren’t even born yet.” He took her hand, kissed her palm. She was beautiful, standing there in the moonlight with flowers surrounding her. “I don’t want to speak of it anymore. It doesn’t change anything.”

“No, it doesn’t, but—”

“I don’t want your pity, Sophia.” He parted the collar of the coat he’d given her, stroked her collarbone. “I’ve seen worse since then. I’ve done worse.”

“And I haven’t?” Her eyebrows arched, her curiosity obviously piqued. “What have you done?”

“What haven’t I done?” He smiled. “More than you, I guarantee.”

Oh, so he wanted to play that game, Sophia thought. Well, she could play as well. “Knife fight?” she asked, beginning small.

He raised a brow, indicating the question was beneath him.

She smiled, liking the challenge. “Sword fight?”

“Of course.
You’ve
been in a sword fight?”

“Rapier and cutlass.”

He looked down at the hand he still held. “Such small, delicate fingers.” He kissed them, one by one, and even though she wore gloves and couldn’t feel his lips, she shivered. “I can see these fingers wrapped around the hilt of a sword. I can almost picture you in your pirate garb, wielding a cutlass.” He winked. “Perhaps the next time we’re alone, you might help me solidify the image.”

She laughed. She was
not
dressing up as a pirate for him. But the thought of being alone with him…

“What about pistols?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I’ve shot a man.”

“Killed him?”

Her smile faded. “Yes, when I had to. I don’t enjoy killing.”

“I don’t either. I do it if necessary.”

“Yes.” She understood completely. She leaned toward him, raised her eyebrows. “Ever been shot?”

“Madam, please.”

“Really?” Her voice rose in mock disbelief. “That many times?”

“At least three. One shot grazed my temple. Don’t you remember that ball we attended at Carlton House? I had to wear a bandage, and I told everyone it was the cure for a headache.”

“I knew that was ridiculous. But then I was actually hoping it might work, so I could try it myself. I had a horrible headache that night, as I’d had a vase smashed over my head the day before while in pursuit of a French operative.”

“Ming or Meissen?”

“Nothing so valuable or easily shattered. It was thick, heavy peasant stock, and my head ached for days.” She touched her forehead, remembering the pain. “Where else have you been shot?”

“Back and shoulder.” He loosened his cravat and unfastened his shirt.

Now this was interesting. She’d been wanting a glimpse of him without his shirt, wanting to see if his chest was as muscled as she remembered. Unfortunately, his shirt didn’t unbutton enough for her to see much more than his throat. He pulled the material aside.

“Here’s the scar.”

She peered closely, traced the skin of his shoulder with her finger. It was thick but smooth. “Hmm. I never noticed it before. The surgeon did good work.”

“Surgeon? I sewed that myself.”

“I did this one.” She pulled down her glove and showed him a scar on her forearm. “Dagger wound.”

“You sewed that?” He stared at the small, even line on her skin. With one finger, he traced it, mimicking her earlier exploration. “It looks clean.”

“I’m good with a needle and thread. But I always allow the surgeon to sew up my bullet wounds.”

“
Wounds
? Plural?”

“I’ve been shot four times.”

He frowned. “Now you’re just bragging.”

“Do you recall the time we were at the opera about two months after we married? I went to the ladies’ retiring room and was gone about an hour. When I returned, I had blood on my gown. I told you it was jam.”

“Did I believe that?”

“You didn’t question it.”

“And what really happened?”

“An agent from Milan with orders to assassinate me showed up and shot me in the leg. I was in excruciating pain for the rest of Haydn’s
La
vera
costanza
.”

“Oh, I remember why I didn’t question the jam. I’d just returned from Strasbourg where I’d had some sort of chemical thrown on my face. It burned my eyes, and I couldn’t see a thing for a fortnight.”

“Chemical? I wonder if it’s similar to the burn I sustained.” She turned and shrugged his coat off then slid the sleeve of her gown down so it gaped a bit in the back. “Can you see that red mark? That’s a chemical burn as well.”

She felt his hand on her back. “Hmm. Yes.” She liked the warmth of his hand on her skin. She felt like a naughty child telling secrets. And at the same time, she was so relieved to finally have someone to confide in. She hadn’t realized how lonely she’d been. Oh, she and Blue had compared stories once or twice, but the feeling wasn’t the same as when sharing them with a lover, a confidant.

Was that what Adrian was—would be? Her lover and her confidant? He was already her husband. Could they be more than strangers sharing a house? Could she welcome him back into her bed?

Adrian removed his hand from her skin, and she felt the cold seep in again. “Do you know what’s worse?” he asked.

She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What?”

“Snake bite.”

“Snake bite?”

But he was already sitting on the bench, pulling his boot off. A moment later, he had his calf bare and pointed to a mark. Sophia had to lean close to see it. Indeed, it did look like two puncture marks. “What kind of snake?”

“Cobra. It happened in Egypt.”

She touched the bite. He’d beaten her. She’d never been bitten by a snake. “You were fortunate to receive the antidote.”

“No antidote. I had to suck out the venom. My leg swelled for a week.”

She sat beside him. “I can’t best you. I’ve never been bitten by a snake.”

He shrugged. “I’ve been shot only three times. Show me the scar on your leg. The wound you sustained during Haydn.”

Sophia raised her brow. “Why, Lord Smythe, could this be a ploy to catch a glimpse of my leg?”

He gave her a wounded look, which didn’t fool her for a moment. “I showed you mine.”

“Very true.” Her left leg was the one bearing the scar, and as it was closest to him, she bent and lifted the hem of her skirt. She could have done it quickly, matter-of-factly, but she didn’t. She watched him watch the silk slide up past her ankle, her calf, her knee. She heard his slight intake of breath when he saw the white garters.

The wound was high on her thigh and toward the inside. She slid the hem higher, knowing much higher would reveal everything to him.

“There,” she said and pointed at the wound. It was several years old but still had a reddish tinge. The skin was slightly irregular where the surgeon had sewed it closed after removing the ball.

Adrian peered at it, and she felt his breath tickle her flesh. She let out a small moan, but if he heard, he didn’t react. “You’re fortunate the ball didn’t damage any major vessels.”

“Yes,” was all she could manage.

“The sewing is superb. Your work?” He looked up into her face.

She shook her head. “Surgeon for the Barbican group.”

“Farrar?” He was looking at the wound again, his breath tickling her. She gripped the material in her hands as though it was the edge of a cliff and she were falling. How could his breath on her skin feel so good? And wouldn’t he find her utterly ridiculous if she were to ask him to simply breathe all over her? But at the moment, she could think of little she’d like better.

“Yes, Farrar was the surgeon.” Her voice sounded slow and thick as cream.

“Good man. I’ve seen him at work. May I?” He glanced up at her again, held his hand up. He wasn’t wearing gloves.

Dear Lord, he wanted to touch her. If she was this aroused from his breath, what might happen if she allowed his hands on her?

But before she could do the sensible thing—throw the dress down to cover herself and tell him they should return inside—she said, “Of course.” She didn’t even recognize her voice.

Oh, but she recognized his touch. His touch was, as she remembered it, light and sure. His fingers had calluses. She’d never understood why before. How did one obtain calluses when one spent all day in the library or at the club? Now she knew where those calluses came from. She wanted to kiss them, wanted to kiss every part of him, because it was all new to her.

“Does it still pain you?” he asked, running his fingers over the wound then placing his warm hand on her chilled thigh.

“Yes. I mean, no.”

He glanced up at her, and she saw the smile on his lips. He was playing with her.

She tossed the silk down and began to rise. “I think we’d better return inside. We shall be missed.”

He pressed her back on the bench with his hand. His touch was light, not forceful, and yet she found herself unable to rise. “We won’t be missed. Cordelia is probably relieved you aren’t stealing her share of the attention.”

Sophia couldn’t argue with that logic. “But Edward—”

“My brother has a cigar, port, and a few moments without his wife and children. He’s not thinking about me.” The hand on her thigh moved lower, and she felt him trace the garter holding her stocking in place.

“Very well, but the other guests might wonder to where we’ve disappeared.”

“We’re married. No one is worried about your virtue.” His hand dipped into her stocking, and one finger tickled the back of her knee. It was an extremely sensitive spot, and he obviously remembered she’d liked to be touched there, kissed there. But surely he wouldn’t attempt that in the garden.

“I’m worried about my virtue,” she breathed.

“You should be.” His mouth met hers, and the feel of his lips on hers was like putting on her favorite chemise or stays and realizing someone had made adjustments so that what once fit comfortably was now perfectly contoured for her body alone. She knew his mouth. She’d kissed it earlier today, and yet she didn’t remember his lips being this tantalizing. She didn’t remember the way he gave so freely and then took from her so effortlessly. She didn’t remember the shock of his tongue meeting hers and all of her nerves jumping into awareness. She didn’t remember the sound of his groaning… no, wait—that was she.

He surfaced, and she realized his warm hand was now on her bare hip. “I don’t think you really want to go inside.”

“Don’t I?” She allowed her fingers to explore—just for a moment—the open vee of his shirt. His skin was so bronze. How did he manage that?

“No.” He dipped his mouth to her chin and kissed a light path to her ear. “You want to stay out here with me,” he whispered.

“I don’t think that’s the sensible thing to do.”

“You’re not sensible.” He took her earlobe between his teeth, and she dug her nails into his shoulder. The skin under her hands flexed, but he didn’t protest.

“I’m perfectly sensible.” She angled her neck so he could kiss the spot—yes, there—just under her ear. How good of him to remember she liked that.

“You’ve been shot four times,” he murmured against her skin. “A sensible person would have quit after the first time.”

She reached down and pulled his shirt from his waistband. She needed to see his chest. She might need to touch it, taste it. “Most spies are poor marksmen. I wasn’t in any danger.”

“Oh, yes, you were.” His hand was in her hair. She knew he was freeing it, and she really should protest. Everyone would know what they were doing out here if she returned to the dinner party with her hair loose. But she liked the feel of his hands in her hair, and it was so heavy, it was giving her a headache. “That’s why you didn’t quit. You like danger.”

“Is that why you’ve been an operative for so long?”

He had to pause before answering, because she pulled the shirt over his head. Oh, my. Yes, she was certainly glad the moon was full tonight. He was as magnificent as she remembered. “I like danger. I like taking risks. I’m going to take one now.”

She put her hand on his chest, traced the muscles. “Are you?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He tugged at the bosom of her gown, revealing more of her breasts. The material was flimsy and the stays she wore underneath little better. She would be half-undressed in mere moments. “I’m going to make love to you here, in the garden.”

She pretended to be shocked. “But, my lord, what if someone comes looking for us?”

“It’s a risk.” He tugged her bodice again, freeing her breasts. Oh, she felt deliciously sinful now, sitting on the garden bench with the cool night air on her skin.

“Do you think,” she said as she traced his muscles down to his hard stomach above his waistband, “everyone would be appalled if they saw us right now, in this state of déshabillé?”

“Moderately.” He cupped her breasts, ran his thumbs over her nipples. She was playing a dangerous game now, she knew. She did not intend to allow him to have her, not fully. Even in her state of arousal, she hadn’t forgotten her fears. But she wanted to see how far they could go. The very real possibility of discovery made her want him all the more.

“Only moderately?” she teased. “And is there something we might do to truly appall them?”

“Yes.” His voice was rough as he bent his mouth and took one of her nipples inside it. She arched her back, feeling his tongue lap at her, feeling his mouth suck at her, feeling her legs go weak and a slow burn begin low in her belly.

She groaned and then quickly stifled the sound. She did not want to be discovered. She did not want this to end. How had she survived eleven months, two weeks, and five days—or was it six now?—without Adrian’s touch, without his hands on her body, his mouth on her skin?

His hands moved lower, and somehow he loosened the gown and slid it down to her hips. Her stays were loosened next, and she was glad, because they were biting into her skin. He’d always been able to undress her quickly.

He bent her back, laying her down on the bench. The stone was cool against her skin, a delicious contrast to his hot mouth on her neck, her breast, her belly. Her skirts were shoved up, and his hands were on her hips, her buttocks, her thighs. His mouth met hers again, and she murmured, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

He laughed against her lips. “I’m not taking my boots off.”

“Oh, yes. Bare feet would be scandalous.” She unfastened his waistband and allowed his erection to spring free. She shoved the material over his hips and slid her hands over his skin. He tensed at her touch, but he didn’t stop kissing her. And then as she stroked his erection—there was that groan in the back of his throat; she loved that sound—he opened her legs and slid his fingers along the tender flesh inside.

Now she was the one who was groaning.

“I want to be inside you,” he murmured as she stroked the length of him. He was so hard. Hard for her.