Touch of Steel: A Novel of the Clockwork Agents (9 page)

He was still hard.

Sighing, Alastair knew there was no point in denying the damn thing. It was determined to poke against the sink, chafe against the front of his trousers, and make an all-around nuisance of itself until he literally took it firmly in hand.

It was all Claire’s fault that he was reduced to servicing himself in the bath like a horny boy. He braced one palm flat against the wall as he loosened the drawstring of his trousers and let them fall to the floor; then he wrapped his fingers around the rigid length of his erection and set himself to the task of ridding himself of the damn thing.

But as his hand moved, he began to think of all the things Claire might do to him if given the chance,
and all the things he might do to her. For a few moments, until bringing himself to climax, he forgot about the fact that she was the wrong woman, that he couldn’t completely trust her, that there could never be anything between them, and he indulged in what might have been under different circumstances.

The result left him trembling, weak in the knees, feeling guilty as hell, and surprisingly sad.

Chapter 7

What the hell was that?

Claire sat up right in bed. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was; then memory came flooding back. She ^rusus="-1" facwas alone, but the pillow beside hers held the indent of having been slept on, and there was a familiar cinnamon hair on it.

“Alastair?”

She heard the sound of taps and then running water. He must be in the standing-bath. The thought of him standing naked beneath a spray of hot water was a fleeting but effective one. Now was not the time for distractions.

In a few hours Stanton Howard’s throat would be at the mercy of her blade, if she could get her hands on one. Or perhaps she’d stab him in the ear with a hat pin. Or shoot off bits of him with her gun—provided Alastair gave it to her.

Alastair. He was going to end up one of her biggest regrets; she could feel it. It was bewildering, as she had known him only a short time. How sad that the first man she felt a real . . .
connection
with was the one she could never have. Fate had a perverted sense of humor.

Her stomach growled. She was ravenous. Surely he wouldn’t object to breakfast? She climbed out of bed and slipped into the wrapper draped across the footboard. Then she went to the call box on the wall. There was no dial or crank on it, so it was useless for outside calls unless the inn had a switchboard—which she doubted. She brought the handset to her ear and waited.

“Good morning! What might we do for you?”

Claire smiled. Thick as mud was the woman’s accent, but at least she understood it. “I’d like to have some breakfast sent up to my room if that’s possible.”

It was, and she rattled off what she would like. The woman assured her it would arrive “in a tic” and hung up. Claire began choosing her clothing for the day while she waited. The Wardens had supplied several gowns for her to wear, each of good quality. Not the best, of course, but they were well-made items suitable for a successful American actress who didn’t like her clothing to overshadow her looks. Simple but elegant. There was a small assortment of cosmetics packed in a vanity case as well. They truly had thought of everything.

She selected a lovely day gown that wouldn’t be too injured by travel. It was a rich violet that would complement her eyes and complexion. The gown was in need of an iron, however. She shook the garment out and draped it over the back of a chair. Perhaps the rest of the wrinkles would fall out. A knock sounded upon the door just as the water shut off in the bath. Perfect timing. Two maids bearing trays loaded with food and a coffee service entered without triggering Alastair’s lock. The food smelled so good, Claire’s mouth watered. One of the maids spotted her wrinkled gown and immediately offered to take it away to have it pressed. Claire thanked her and let her take it. It wasn’t as though she could do it herself.

The maids closed the door behind them, and Claire pounced on the food trays, left on a small table near the window.

The door to the bath opened, and Alastair stuck his head out. “Who was that?”

Claire glanced over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. Wet, his hair was darker, and it curled about his nape. And the towel he held about his waist rode even lower than the trousers he’d worn to bed—it was shorter, too, so now she was treated to a glimpse of well-shaped and muscular calves.

“For God’s sake, man, put some clothes on. I ordered us breakfast.”

He came into the room. “Oh good. I’m starving.” Claire was thankful that he stopped and grabbed a dressing gown from the same chair where he’d draped his outerwear last night. She watched, her breath held as he lifted his arms and slid them into the arms. The muscles in his stomach shifted. Any second that towel was going to let go. . . . The heavy velvet brocade settled across his back, hugged his shoulders, and tied snugly about the waist.

Relief and disappointment drifted through Claire’s mind. “Did you drop something in the bath earlier?”

Alastair removed the silver cover from a plate and sat down at the table. “No.”

“Oh, I thought I heard you cry out.”

He hesitated, just for a second, as he reached for the salt. “Not that I recall.”

“My mistake then.” Was that a flush in his cheeks? What the hell . . . ?
Oh
. To her astonishment, heat flooded her own face as well. She sat down opposite him and busied herself with her own breakfast. Men. Couldn’t keep their hands off themselves.

She was so tempted to tell him she would have gladly taken care of that for him, just to see his reaction. He didn’t seem the type to blush often, but given what she’d seen, he was magnificent when he did.

Instead, she poured a cup of coffee for them both from the silver pot. It was hot, and she had to pull the sleeve of her wrapper over her palm to keep from getting burned.

“There’s something I don’t understand,” she said.

He barely glanced up from slathering strawberry jam on his toast. “What’s that?”

“The woman you were involved with. Why did she try to kill you? If she got the information she wanted, why not just leave?”

He looked as though he’d rather chew nails than discuss it. “I didn’t give her any information during our affair. I’m better than that. And she wasn’t the one responsible for the carriage falling on me. He was.”

Claire nodded. “That makes more sense to me.”

“Oh? Pray, then explain it to me.”

She plucked up a piece of crispy bacon with her fingers and took a bite. Heavenly. “Obviously he was jealous. She probably started to fall in love with you, if she hadn’t already. She had to go along with him to save face and her relationship.”

“She didn’t care about me. It was her idea to leave me with the carriage.”

Clearly he didn’t like this turn of topic, but he hadn’t told her to shut up, so she pressed on. “I reckon he wanted to put a bullet in your skull?”

“Yes. She said leaving me as I was would make it a slower death. A more painful one.”

Claire snorted. “Or give you plenty of time to be discovered.”

He frowned at her crowgiv. “You women will look for a shred of romance in anything, won’t you? Leaving me for the buzzards was not an act of feeling.”

She pointed the bacon at him. “When you made love, did she let you kiss her?”

“That’s none of your business.”

Claire smiled, not the least bit offended. Oh, but she loved poking him. And maybe she wanted to show him that not all women in her profession were untrustworthy, as easily bought as a three-cent whore. “She did. Women do not kiss men they don’t like—not much. Did she look at you when you made love?”

It was temper, not embarrassment, that flushed his cheeks now. “Have you no shame whatsoever? Not even a shred of decorum?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a prude. I’m an actress, remember? And a spy. I know all the lies and truths women use. If she looked into your eyes while you were inside her, she cared about you, my lord. You were not the one who made the mistake. It was her.” She bit into the crisp bacon.

“I’m not a prude,” he grumbled. “I don’t want to discuss it because I’m mortified of having made the mistake of believing her affection for me was true.”

She made a face. “Because that was her
job
, and she was good at it. Then she began to believe it as well. That was when she should have gotten out. You would not have been hurt, and she and her lover would not have been hunted by the fox like baby rabbits.”

Alastair set aside his toast as she devoured another piece of bacon. “Does the Company train its women agents to be skilled in seduction?”

“Yes. Some of the men as well. It’s not all about sex, you know. It’s about making the target feel good when you’re around. It’s about making them want to connect with you, think about you, even when you’re not there. You become what they need you to be.”

“Like a well-trained whore.”

Ah, who was poking at whom now? “Doesn’t pay as well, though.”

“Have you been trying to seduce me?” His lips tilted mockingly. “Because you’re doing an excellent job of it.”

Both of her brows rose, but she refused to be baited. “You told me you’d rather stick your cock in a rudder than in me, remember? No, I’m smart enough to know better than to try to seduce a man like you.”

“But you pity me for being stupid enough to be seduced by her?”

“No, because you’re the kind of man who makes it easy for a woman to lose her wits. You try to be so hard and tough, but beneath that you are a good man, and no woman can resist that. I don’t care how well-trained or determined she is. You will make her want to please you, to win your trust and the ultimate prize of your heart, and then she’s lost.” It was an honest answer to his question, but he looked as though she had slapped him. “That’s not an insult. Merely an observation from a woman who has met enough bad men to know a good one when he takes her shackles off.”

“I . . .” He ran a hand through his damp hair. “I know it’s not, but the Warden in me can’t hel ce cno Lp but see it as a fault.”

“Then the Warden in you is an ass,” she retorted, strangely angry at him. “If you can’t bring yourself to use it as a weapon, then you need to avoid missions that put you up against women.”

His gaze was the color and intensity of a thunderstorm. “Such as this one?”

“Well, yes.” She spread jam over her toast. “I asked for Huntley, remember?”

“Huntley has retired and has a pregnant wife.”

“She’s pregnant?” The news surprised her, but that was the extent of it. “Well, he’s come out of all this all right then, hasn’t he?”

“You’re not jealous?” He sounded surprised.

“Of course not.” Claire picked up another piece of bacon and placed it on the toast; then she took a bite of both, savoring the sweet and salty delight on her tongue. “I’m happy for him.”

Alastair didn’t look convinced. Claire regarded him as she chewed. “Why don’t you just ask me what it is you want to know?”

His eyes narrowed as he lifted his toast. “And just what is it I want to know, oh omnipotent one?”

She moved forward, leaning over the table. “If I loved him.”

He leaned closer as well. “Did you?”

Where was all this anger coming from? How did they inspire each other to such intensity? “No. I never loved him, and he never loved me. We were both too good at the game. Does that make you feel better? Or do you feel even guiltier about wanting his wife?”

For a second she swore she saw lightning in his eyes, but it was more likely a flash of sunlight coming in the window. “Woman, you need to learn when to shut that fucking mouth of yours.”

A thrill—perverse and hot—raced through her once she knew she had inspired such coarse language. For a moment, she’d made him forget honor and duty and propriety. She pushed harder, knowing full well she might push him way too far. “You’d like to teach me, wouldn’t you, Lord Wolfred?”

“Yes, I would.” Before she knew what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed her by the back of the neck, hauling her onto the table. Claire’s heart hammered against her ribs, not in fear, but in anticipation. The tines of a fork dug into her knee and she didn’t care. She reached out with both hands and seized the front of his dressing gown. The bare flesh of his chest scorched her thumbs. Their gazes locked.

“Do it,” she whispered. Commanded. Begged.

He growled low in his throat, and his mouth claimed hers.

* * *

Claire’s mouth felt exactly as Alastair had known it would, though he had imagined her tasting of berries or spice rather than of bacon and sugary jam. It really didn’t matter, because her full lips yielded beneath his, letting him inside without hesitation. Her mouth was hot and wet, inviting. Her fists held him just as tight and close as h cnd his, le held her, and the table be damned.

He was already hard for her, despite having relieved himself of the same affliction not long ago. Christ in a dirigible, he felt as if he were eighteen again. If he slipped his hand beneath her nightgown, would he find her equally enthusiastic for him?

If he took her to bed, would she look into his eyes? He would keep his open just to see.

The thought was exactly the shock of reality he needed. He released her, then pulled away. He sat back in his chair and made a show of brushing toast crumbs from the rumpled front of his dressing gown.

Claire slowly moved off the table and sank into her own seat. She had a smear of jam over her left breast. It looked almost like blood against the ivory silk of her wrapper. She lifted a hand to her mouth, the pads of her long, slender fingers pressing as though to check for bruising or injury. Had he hurt her?

“That . . .” She cleared her throat. “That was . . .”

“A mistake,” Alastair blurted before she could. “My apologies, Miss Brooks. I forgot myself. It won’t happen again.”

It was undoubtedly his male pride and wishful thinking, but he thought he saw disappointment flicker in her eyes.

“Of course,” she replied softly, her sultry voice a little strained. “Obviously we were overtaken by the moment.”

Alastair frowned. That sounded more like something he’d expect out of an Englishwoman rather than this bold American. What had he expected? That she’d declare her lust for him after he had said his for her was an error in judgment? It was, but no woman wanted to hear that.