Page 28 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“This is not how respectable married people behave,” she said, her heart beating erratically.
“No? This is how I would behave if you were my bride.”
He was teasing her, as he was so fond of doing. Perhaps it would have ended there if their eyes had not chanced to meet. A spark of attraction coursed between them as undefinable as it was irresistible. Sinclair’s easy smile vanished, his expression becoming more intent as he drew her closer. Her hands suddenly seemed too weak to hold him at bay.
As his mouth slowly descended to claim hers, a tremor shot through Belle. His lips tasted of the salt sea air. Her resistance melted, and her lips became soft and pliant, allowing his questing tongue to explore the sensitive recesses of her mouth in slow, fire-wrought circles. Desire flickered to life, stirring a sweet ache deep within her, a need that she had denied for far too long.
She retained enough sense to break free of Sinclair’s all too seductive kiss and turn her head aside. “No,” she said as his lips caressed her temple, the side of her cheek, his breath hot upon her skin. “We agreed that we should not- This is not wise— I—oh!”
Her protest ended in an exclamation of dismay. She found herself staring deep into a pair of wide gray eyes that peered up at her from beneath the brim of a straw hat. Bare yards away, a small boy with wind-tossed sandy curls watched her and Sinclair with unblinking fascination.
“Sinclair!” Belle wrenched out of his arms. “We have an audience.”
“Hmmm?” Sinclair’s ardor appeared to wax too hot for him to make sense of her words. Then he saw the boy, too, and grimaced as though just doused with cold water. A blush surgedinto Belle’s cheeks. If their passionate embrace had attracted ribald comments from one of the dockhands, that would somehow have been less embarrassing than the child’s innocent regard. For once, even Sinclair seemed at a loss for words.
It was the boy who broke the tension. His snub nose crinkled like a rabbit’s. He scratched it and broke into a grin whose charm was enhanced by a missing tooth.
“I like kissing pwitty girls, too,” he announced.
After a moment of stunned silence, Sinclair flung back his head and gave a shout of laughter. Belle’s lips curved into a reluctant smile.
“But I like sweets better,” the boy added.
“Do you indeed? That will change when you grow a little older” Still chuckling, Sinclair slipped his hand inside his coat. He produced a small tin of peppermints, which he flicked open to share with the child.
Not in the least shy, the little boy dipped into the tin and crunched down upon one of the drops. “It’s hawder to eat when your tooth gets knocked out by a wock,” he confided, his mouth full.
Sinclair solemnly agreed, popping a peppermint into his own mouth and savoring it with the same boyish relish as the child did. When he noticed Belle’s surprised stare, he said, “I have a sweet tooth, Angel—another of my vices.”
“You appear to have so many of them, Mr. Carrington.”
“At least this is one of my harmless ones.” He cast her a wicked look, his gaze lingering on her lips, which yet felt tender from his kiss.
A kiss that would not happen again, Belle vowed. Deciding to ignore Sinclair, it seemed by far safer to concentrate upon the child, who was emptying Sinclair’s tin. She stooped down so that she was at eye level with the boy’s piquant features. She straightened his straw hat, which had been buffeted by the wind.The boy reminded her of an element there had never been any place for in her life—children. Once soon after her marriage, she had hoped, but a fall from a horse had taken care of that. A son like this with bright gray eyes and sandy curls was but one more thing that would forever be denied her.
Brushing aside a wave of self-pity, Belle asked, “What is your name, young sir?”
She had to wait several seconds until the boy chewed and swallowed, “John-Jack.”
“And how old are you, John-Jack?”
The boy proudly held up all the fingers on one hand. Then as though smote by conscience, he looked a little sheepish and tucked under the thumb.
“Four years old,” Belle said, feigning amazement. “I am sure that is quite grown up, but still a little young, I think, to be wandering these docks alone.”
She made a closer inspection of the boy’s attire. Although smudged with dirt, his trousers were woven of the softest fawn cashmere, his close-fitting jacket of crimson velvet studded with brass buttons, his collar of exquisite white lace. Obviously he did not belong to any of the rough dockhands or fisherwomen who sat mending their nets.
“Are you lost, child?” she asked.
John-Jack’s small chest puffed out with indignation. “No such stuff. I give Nurse Gummwidge the slip.”
This statement provoked another laugh from Sinclair. “The young rascal appears to have a promising future ahead of him in intelligence work, wouldn’t you agree, Angel?”
Belle glared up at him. “You should not encourage the child to think such behavior amusing. His poor mother will be quite distracted with worry when she discovers him gone.”
“My mama’s gone to heaven.” The truculent set of John-Jack’s chin was betrayed by a quiver. “And now Papa’s going,too. On that boat.” He pointed toward the Good Lady Nell. “He’s going all the way to Fwance. That’s fawther away than heaven, I think.”
The catch in the child’s voice tugged at Belle’s heart. But what astonished her was Sinclair’s response. His roguish eyes softened with tenderness as he scooped the child up in his arms.
