While You Were Spying (Regency Spies Book 0) (46 page)

Ethan flattened himself against the wall again, hands bunched into fists. White hot rage coursed through him, and he began to sweat despite the dropping temperatures.

Had he come all the way from France to see his wife with her legs spread for another man? Had he been so much the fool to think she would never betray him, to think she was nothing like Victoria?

He heard her gasp again and closed his eyes. His fingers tightened on the pistol as the image of George Leigh, shot and bleeding, flashed across his mind.

Ethan relaxed his grip. No, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He tucked the pistol in his waistcoat, and drawing his hand away, saw the blood on his fingers. The footman’s blood. He stared at his hand for a long moment.

No, he
wouldn’t
make the same mistake twice. Francesca was
not
Victoria.

Ethan stuck his head through the opening in the wall again and saw Francesca—saw clearly this time. She was not embracing the man he now recognized as Roxbury, but fighting him. The gasps and moans were sounds of her struggle. As he watched the two, her eyes met his.

She ceased her struggles and stared at him. In her face he saw the quick flash of hope, replaced by the dawning realization of how she must appear. She blinked and met his gaze directly, willing him to think and do as he would.

Ethan stepped forward. “Get your hands off my wife, Roxbury.” He lifted the pistol and pointed it at the earl.

Roxbury turned, his lips curled in a snarl. Francesca took advantage of Roxbury’s momentary lack of attention and scrambled out from under him.

Ethan saw the earl reach for her. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He waved the pistol, and Roxbury let her go, smiling.

Before Ethan knew what was happening, Francesca dove for the earl and knocked his hand away. The pistol Roxbury had pulled from his waistcoat tumbled across the ground, making a thunk as it collided with a rock.

“Francesca, get back!” Ethan ordered.

Roxbury lunged for the fallen weapon and Ethan rushed him, knocking the earl over and sending him sprawling. Unfortunately, Ethan lost his grip on his own pistol, and it fell out of his hand. With a growl, Roxbury kicked it away then caught Ethan’s leg, tripping him. Ethan went down and rolled, taking Roxbury with him.

Ethan’s punch went wild, and Roxbury shoved him off, rolling on top. He grabbed Ethan’s head and smashed it against one of the stones, and for a moment Ethan saw only black. When his vision cleared, the earl had his fist drawn back. Ethan closed his eyes, instinctively preparing for impact.

The blow never came. There was crack and Roxbury fell, groaning, on top of him.

Ethan blinked, then Francesca was kneeling beside him, pushing Roxbury off his chest. She was saying something, but he couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in his ears. Her features swam before him, and he closed his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

He opened them again when he felt her hands on the side of his cheek. Looking up, he focused on her cocoa eyes. They were filled with concern.

“Ethan, say something.”

“You shot him.”

She sighed, closing her eyes in relief.

“You shot him!” Ethan repeated in disbelief.

“I know.” Opening her eyes, she glanced at Roxbury, almost apologetic. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m glad,” he croaked. “But I wanted to do it myself.”

She gave a short laugh. “You can do it next time.”

Ethan levered himself onto his elbows, his head finally clearing. “Next time? I don’t think my heart can survive a next time.” He pulled her into his arms, crushing her to him. Burying his face in her hair, he savored the smell of cinnamon and chocolate enveloping him. He pulled back, cradling her face in his hands. “Did he hurt you?”

Tears wet her cheeks. “I’m fine. Now.” She squeezed him, then her gaze slid sideways. “You don’t think I killed him, do you?”

“I hope to God you did.” He tightened his arms around her once more to assure himself that she was really there, really safe, then released her and knelt over Roxbury.

The earl was lying on his side, eyes open and watching them. “A touching scene, Winterbourne,” he rasped.

“I see you’re still breathing,” Ethan drawled. He helped Francesca rise and pushed her behind him. “Where did my wife wound you?”

The earl raised an eyebrow and glanced down. Ethan saw the circle of blood growing on the man’s left thigh, just below the buttock.

“Good. You’ll live. I’ll have the pleasure of watching you drawn and quartered after all.” He turned to Francesca. “Take one of the horses and ride to the house. We’ll need the doctor and help to bring the footman and this traitor—” He glanced back at Roxbury. “To the house.”

Francesca nodded and started for the yard and the horses.

“Traitor?” Roxbury goaded Ethan. Ethan saw Francesca pause in the keep’s opening. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You might be able to try me for attempted rape,” he snorted, “but who can say that the lady didn’t welcome my advances? After all, we were
intimate
once.”

Ethan clenched his jaw at the earl’s insinuation.

“It will be her word against mine. She’ll never live down the scandal, nor will you. The Marquess of Winterbourne cuckolded again.” Roxbury laughed, a hard, bitter sound. “Wasn’t George Leigh also wounded in his left leg?” Roxbury laughed again and raised himself onto his elbow.

“I don’t intend to bring you to trial for attempted rape, Roxbury.” Ethan glanced at Francesca. She was still standing in the crumbling opening, but it was too dark to read her eyes. “I intend to charge you with treason.”

“Treason?” Roxbury sounded amused. “And pray tell, how precisely have I betrayed my country?”

“You’ve been in charge of an operation smuggling arms to France for the last year and a half.”

“And how will you prove that? I think you’ll find witnesses difficult to come by.”

“You mean you killed them,” Francesca said from across the ruins.

“Once again, your powers of deduction amaze me, madam.” Roxbury’s lips curled, the gesture matching his snide tone.

“I have a contact in Paris—” Ethan began.

“Gagnon? The Frenchman?” Roxbury snickered. “Oh, this I would like to see. A French peasant, a state enemy, testifying in the House of Lords against a peer of the realm.”

In the growing darkness, Ethan could barely make out the earl’s face, but he could hear the smirk in his voice. And the devil take him if Roxbury wasn’t correct. As Alex had pointed out in Paris, Ethan had no hard proof.

Ethan glanced at Francesca. Roxbury was right about the scandal as well. Ethan’s behavior during the episode with Victoria and Francesca’s former relationship with Roxbury meant few would believe the earl had attempted to rape her. If word of the incident today got out, the scandal would taint the Winterbourne name for good.

He’d figure it all out later, Ethan decided. Right now he needed to fetch help for the wounded footman and, he supposed, Roxbury as well.

“Francesca,” he began, his voice weary.

She cut him off, stepping away from the opening and back into the keep.

“Do you need proof, Ethan? Is that the problem?”

“Quick-witted as usual,” Roxbury sneered. She kept her gaze locked on Ethan.

“We’ll discuss it later,” Ethan said.

“Is that why you were in France?” She ignored his dictate. “To find proof?”

“Yes. But what I found instead was that you were still in danger.”

“So you rushed back to save me.” She smiled. “Again.”

“Oh, this is a lovely scene,” Roxbury snickered. “But I’d like my leg seen to. I may press charges myself.”

Francesca took a step toward him. “That will difficult when your intestines are being ripped out.”

Roxbury sighed dramatically. “Are we back to this again?”

“Ethan, you said you needed proof. I think you will find exactly that in Dover. There’s a ship—” She glanced at Roxbury. ”The
Parvenu
, correct?—with the last load of smuggled arms waiting in Dover now to take Roxbury to France. I don’t think you’ll make it, Roxbury.”

“You stupid bitch!” Roxbury lunged for her, but his reach fell short, and he gripped his wounded thigh, crying out in pain. “This isn’t over!”

“Oh, yes, it is.” Ethan pulled Francesca out of the earl’s reach and into his arms. He tilted her head back and whispered, “Quick-witted, as usual.” With a smile, he kissed her.

“C
lose your eyes.”

Francesca closed them, shutting out the tempting image of Ethan, naked and reclining on the thick burgundy rug before the fire.

“Now, open your mouth.” His voice stroked her like plush blue velvet.

She raised her eyebrows but obeyed, parting her lips slightly. Her heartbeat sped as his arm brushed against her breast.

She wondered what sensual surprise he could possibly have for her now. They’d been locked in his room for hours as it was, making love, sleeping, then making love again. Outside, the storm unleashed snow and ice; inside, the atmosphere simmered.

She felt Ethan’s fingers caress her lips, then his touch was replaced by something else—something moist. She darted her tongue out and tasted sweetness and spice. The item was withdrawn, and she frowned, touching her tongue to her lips to taste it again. She heard Ethan groan and was pleased she was having as much effect on him as he was on her.

“Open your mouth wider,
cara
,” he murmured.

Curious, she did so, obediently keeping her eyes closed. The warm, moist object was pressed against her lips again. She took it into her mouth, biting into the sweet gingerbread, exclaiming with delight as she tasted the hint of cinnamon and, surprisingly, chocolate. She opened her eyes. “Chocolate?”

He was watching her, pupils black with desire. “Mmm.” He traced a finger against her lips. “I told Cook to add it. She was skeptical, but I know what you like.”

“You’re a bad man, my lord, tempting me like that.” She smiled and leaned toward him. “But you
do
know what I like.” She kissed him, running her tongue along his lips before delving inside to taste him.

“You taste like gingerbread,” he whispered into her mouth.

“And you taste even better.” She kissed him again, with more passion, but instead of deepening the kiss, he pulled her fiercely against him.

“God, I love you. Have I told you how much I love you?”

She laughed into his chest. “A dozen times now.”

As they’d had to deal with the doctor, the magistrate, and the distraught servants, they hadn’t managed to be alone together until almost midnight Christmas Eve. Daniel was recovering. Thunder had been found and coaxed back to the warm stable. Roxbury was gone, his fate sealed. But from the first moment she and Ethan had been alone, she hadn’t thought of Roxbury. She hadn’t been able to think of anything but Ethan’s soft voice—telling her that he loved her, that he’d been a fool to leave her, asking for her forgiveness. He’d repeated it over and again, showing her with his mouth and body how much he meant every word.

And she knew it was true, knew something had changed within him. The wall he’d kept between them was gone, a heap of ruins like the old Norman castle. In his eyes, there was no hint of suspicion or fear of betrayal. Only love

He finally saw
her
. He trusted her. And she trusted him. Not that the pain of their pasts was forgotten but, with love and that trust, she knew they could overcome it together.

“Should I stop saying it?” Ethan murmured into her hair now. “Stop saying I love you?”

She pulled back. “Don’t ever stop saying it. In fact, tell me again how miserable you were without me. Tell me how you were desolate in France and could think only of me.” She grinned. “I like that part the best.”

He gave her a wry look, and she bit her lip to keep from laughing. It seemed all she wanted to do now was laugh.

“I believe, madam, you are making fun of my suffering.”

“Never.” She shook her head. “I’m just glad you suffered as much as me.”

“More,” he said.

Her heart swelled when he pulled her back into his arms, whispering the words of love again and again.

She wore only a satin wrapper, and he stripped that away, spreading it beneath her. His mouth claimed hers and his warm, solid body covered her. Her nipples peaked and hardened, and she moaned when he slid his hand between her legs to caress her already slick folds. Seeming impatient now, he rose to his knees. He hadn’t bothered with a shirt, and now he reached for the fall of his trousers. Francesca stopped him, covering his hand with hers.

She somehow managed to wobble to her own knees and ran her hands down his sculpted arms, moving his hands away and sliding her fingers over the waistband of his trousers. His gaze bore into hers as she slid the material apart and freed him, her fingers skating over the swollen flesh of his erection. He closed his eyes while she slid the trousers over his hips and down his buttocks.

He stood and stepped out of the garment while she admired his muscled form. “You’re beautiful,” she murmured.

He raised a brow. “I believe that is my line.”