UNDER A CHRISTMAS SPELL (6 page)

She stood again. “You planned this escapade.” Fury bubbled up.

“Only the military part,” Val said. “The rest—you running about upstairs instead of merely clinging to me—was fortuitous. Incubus’s luck.”

She huffed. “The brazier? The chairs?”

“Westerly comes here at night. There used to be only one chair.” He winked. “I wonder where the second one came from?”

She wanted to punch him. “Not content with playing a stupid trick and depriving me of enjoying a Christmas tradition, now you lie to me.” She stomped to the edge of the pit and heaved herself up onto the turf, getting tangled in her skirts.

He leaped up beside her. “I didn’t lie.” He offered a hand.

She refused it, sorting out her skirts without his help, getting to her feet and brushing herself off. “You took advantage of what you know of me.”

“Come now, Lucie. You were a spy for years. It’s what spies do.”

“We’re not spies anymore,” she cried. “You’re the one who said the war was over.”

“It is, my lovely, but I am the same Val.” He pulled her into his arms, kissing her hard, nipping at her ear, nuzzling her neck, his hot breath burning her in the chilly night. She melted into his heat, throwing her head back, shivering as his tongue trailed lower and her nipples hardened in response. “I will always do whatever it takes,” he whispered.

She wrenched herself away. “Wasn’t it enough punishment to torment me for years? To follow me and have me watched and constantly threaten me with death?” She stormed away across the meadow.

He pursued her. “What choice did I have? I couldn’t let a French agent continue to operate.”

He’d thought she was a French agent? Of course he had. What other conclusion was he to draw? “Then why didn’t you kill me and get it over with?”

“Unfortunately, I was in love with you. I couldn’t just cold-bloodedly murder you.”

She knew he didn’t love her anymore, but this hurt. She would never regret falling in love with him.

“You think
you
were in torment?” he said. “What about me, waking up every morning wondering if this was the day I would find that I no longer had a choice? That you had handed some information to the French, and therefore I had to kill you.”

“I—I never thought about it that way.”

He blew out a breath. “I had nightmares about it, Lucie.”

“I’m sorry, Val. I had nightmares, too.” She imagined them in their separate beds filled with bad dreams. “For an incubus and a succubus...”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” His grin was lopsided and rueful.

She nodded sadly. “But the war is over now. Everything is over. Why can’t you leave me be?”

“I
was
leaving you be,” he said. “But here we are, each with a ridiculous mission. Don’t you want to know why?”

“Not particularly. I’m done with playing games.” Thank God they were approaching the house. “But I apologize for causing your nightmares. You are right to despise me.”

“I don’t despise you,” he said cheerfully. “Admittedly, I was disappointed, even broken-hearted at the time, but now I’m all admiration. It’s not easy to play both sides. I mightn’t have caught you at all if you hadn’t avoided me so pointedly, and I never did catch you again.”

She opened her mouth to correct him, but they had already arrived at the house. Val rapped on the great front doors.

Too late
, she thought. She had never played both sides and wouldn’t have even if she’d been as clever as he supposed. How cool and unemotional he was. How practical. He had left heartbreak and war behind as if neither had ever mattered. She couldn’t be like that. Everything she’d done, she’d done out of passion or obligation.

She gathered his cloak about herself and her composure with it.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Theodora said when a footman opened the doors and let them in. “I was worried about you. They couldn’t find you anyplace upstairs.”

“We were possessed by evil spirits,” Lucille said, laughing as she entered. It was a very good laugh, worthy of a former succubus and spy, not a confused, lovelorn fool.

“But we outwitted them,” Val said. “We brought them to Lord Westerly’s ruins.”

“Where there was a chair for each of them,” Lucille said, passing Val’s cloak into the footman’s hands.

“To sit by the brazier and keep warm,” Val said. “And there they stayed.”

Everyone laughed and cheered, and Lord Westerly narrowed his eyes at Val, but Theodora served them hot, spiced ale.

* * *

So far, so good, thought Val, but not good enough.

But in many ways it was very good indeed. Lucie had spoken to him, and not only that, she had worked with him even though he’d overset her. When they’d entered the house, she’d taken the lead like a professional. This was the Lucie he knew of old.

She hadn’t risen to his other bait yet. Yes, he had a certain admiration for cleverness, but he wasn’t bereft of honour, nor had he forgiven the past. If he let himself dwell on it, he was as furious as the day she’d let the French spy escape.

Had she truly been working both sides? She hadn’t denied it...but had she been on the verge of doing so when he’d knocked on the door?

There were at least two other possibilities. Option One, that she’d been entirely on the French side—but he found that hard to believe, because her excellent work for the English had far outweighed the one mission she’d spoiled for Val. Not only that, why hadn’t she returned to France after the war? Why was she still accepting missions from her English spymistress?

Option Two, that she’d been working only for the English, in which case destroying his mission had been a personal matter. Either she’d wanted revenge on him—although for what, he had no notion—or she’d fallen in love with the French agent he’d planned to kill.

He laughed at himself—an incubus fussing because a succubus had been unfaithful. He was thinking like an ordinary, jealous man.

Could he trick her again? He rather doubted it, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.

He settled into getting through the evening. Strange how pleasant the Christmas season could be without one’s father making autocratic pronouncements and insisting on being obeyed whilst one’s brothers meekly acquiesced, one’s mother attempted to keep the peace, and one’s sister, who wasn’t allowed to play an evil spirit, ran to her bedchamber in tears.

Lord Westerly had got over his ill humour and now put himself out to deal cordially with his dependents. Unlike Val’s father, whose haughty manner magnified the distance from the lower classes, Westerly’s genuine concern lessened it. Merriment and... Val could think of no word for it but Christmas joy—filled the Great Hall.

An unexpected and entirely unfamiliar contentment came over him. The greenery was truly festive, the plum pudding and mince pies a savoury delight, the hot, spiced ale superb, and when he raised his cup to Lucie in a silent toast, she didn’t turn away.

* * *

Lucie toasted him in return. Whatever had come between them in the past, they were old friends, and it was Christmastide.

Besides, she wanted him. In bed. Again.

This was one of the great inconveniences of a being a succubus. Not that ordinary women didn’t experience lust—of course they did—but it was an integral part of a succubus’s being. She invited it when she didn’t want it, and when she did, it got in the way of common sense.

Rather like many men, actually. It must be even more difficult for an incubus. She glanced at Val. The redhead was fluttering her eyelashes at him. Even the sensible Miss Wedgewood’s lustful thoughts were written on her face. Val rolled his come-and-save-me eyes at Lucie. She huffed.

He’d infuriated her regularly, and in spite of the risks to both their missions, she’d just as regularly ended up in bed with him.

At last the revelry ended, the wassailers left, and everyone retired for the night. She donned her nightclothes, tiptoed down the passageway and tapped on his door...no answer. Was he asleep? Not there?
With another woman
?

How disconcerting. In wartime, she would have taken his seduction of another woman for granted. One did whatever was required. Now the very idea appalled her.

She mustn’t allow herself such feelings. He certainly had none for her, and an incubus liked his pleasures. He might have decided to give in and deflower the redhead or that progressively less sensible Wedgewood girl.

He opened the door just enough to peer through. “Oh. It’s you.” He motioned her in with a jerk of the chin.

Desire slammed into her. How could a simple, insouciant movement of his chin have such an effect?

“Who were you expecting?” She tried to sound cool and unaffected, while her heart thudded and heat pooled in her core.

He shut the door. “That redhead is making a nuisance of herself.” His lip curled as if both jealousy and desire were written on her face. How annoying, regardless of whether he saw through her or merely pretended.

“Which would you like tonight, my love?” he drawled. “Shall I be at your mercy, or you at mine?”

She was completely at his mercy, and his eyes showed he knew it. Pride reared up within her. “Neither. I have come to set matters straight.” Damn him, it took all her control to remain still. She was well nigh writhing with desire.

His brows rose. “Oh?”

“I have a confession to make,” she said. “I am not as clever as you think me.”

“My cock is indifferent to cleverness.” He pulled her hard against him, making his member’s priorities scintillatingly clear. “It prefers tight, wet heat.”

She shivered at the thought of his cock thrusting inside her and her answering throbs. She slid her hands up his chest and twined her arms about his neck. Perhaps she should simply give in and forget about the truth. Their lips touched, their breath mingling. “Is it entirely amoral?” she asked against his mouth, her voice husky.

“Sadly, yes,” he said. “Do you mind?” He raised her nightdress slowly to her hips.

“My wet heat is as bad,” she said and then blurted, “but I never played both sides.”

A pause, barely perceptible, and then he asked, “Shall I play
you
from both sides?” His hands slipped between her legs, one in front and one behind, spreading the evidence of her desire.

She writhed and panted. His sliding, stroking fingers drove her mad... Which was precisely what he wanted, for he whispered, “Which side did you play, love?”

She twisted away but flew at him immediately, tugging his shirt from his breeches. “What does it matter? The war is over now.”

He tossed his shirt over his head. “So they say,” he said between his teeth, and removed her nightdress. He kissed her hard, an assault to the senses and to her control. As if he owned her. As if she was wholly his. “Darling Lucie, delight of my heart.” He cupped one breast and fondled it. “Sweetest Lucie, treasure of my soul.” He stroked her nipples until both breasts swelled and tingled and ached. Until her heart and soul swelled, as well...

“Which side?” he asked again. No, not asked—demanded, even as he kissed one breast and then the other, sucked one nipple and the other, back and forth, murmuring, “This side...or that?”

Fire with fire. She undid his buttons and took his member in her hand, arousing him to insanity in return. “Surely that is obvious to a clever man.”

He freed himself from her stroking fingers, shucked his breeches, and pushed her onto the bed. “Not if the woman is far cleverer,” he growled and kneed her legs apart, nudging her privates with one powerful thigh. “Not if her work for the French is not only invaluable but invisible.”

She guided him into her core with a moan of ecstasy. “I already told you,” she panted. “I’m not that clever.”

He began to move in and out of her with slow, strong strokes. “No? Then what are you, my love, my angel, my soul?”

She kissed him, caring so much it hurt, and told him the truth. “I am a woman who pays her debts.”

He let that ride for a while, let them ride one another, and then said, “What else?”

“I am loyal.” She answered his thrusts, caressing him with her core, willing him to understand.

“To whom?”

To you
,
always and forever.
But if she said it, he wouldn’t believe. She tried to show him with her every move, her every cry of pleasure. “Oh, Val.” In the throes of ecstasy, she’d never been able to say anything but his beloved name.

His thrusts quickened. His breathing grew harsh, his voice insistent. “To whom?”

She writhed beneath him. She thrust at him.
To you.
Thrust again.
You
,
Val
.
You.

He was racing to climax and so was she. “To whom?” Racing hard, racing to win. “Tell me, Lucie. Tell me
now
. To
whom
?”

“To those I love,” she said, and soared.

* * *

He gave up and let go, burying himself wholly inside her. There would never be any other woman for him, but at least he hadn’t said so.

Stalemate. A tie. Damn, she was good.

Those she loved
. He rolled off her and pulled himself together. “Did I do something to upset you? Was that when it all went wrong?”

She turned to face him, her brow furrowed. “You upset me often, but it was good for me. A challenge. It’s one of the things I love about you, Val.”

Love, not loved?

“But you loved someone else more.” He sounded to himself like a spoiled, sulky child. He almost rolled over and away, almost covered himself with the blanket and forced himself to sleep. To forget—at least until morning.

“No!” she said. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You betrayed me,” he said, turning onto his side to face her instead, determined to dig out the truth once and for all. “You told that accursed Frenchman that I was on to him. You let him get away.”

“You were going to kill him. I had no choice.”

“No choice? It was my job to kill him.”

“It was mine to save him,” she said. “I pay my debts.”

He stared at her. She hadn’t been in love with the French spy? “What damned debt?”

“Life,” she said. “I owed him mine. He was the servant who saved me when the soldiers took my parents away. Not only that, he took me to his mother, who fostered me, who found me a safer haven in Spain, and who eventually arranged to have me sent to England. I owed them everything.”