Page 61 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
“I would have taken that long ride down the Rue St. Honoré myself except that Robespierre was so obliging as to make himself unpopular. Shortly after he was executed, those he had had arrested were set free. I didn’t wait for anyone to change their minds. I left Paris the same day and have never been back until now.”
She rested her head against the cool pane of the glass. “I returned to England and lived the best I could until I met up with Merchant. I decided it was better to become a royalist spy than turn whore. So there you have it, the whole dismal story of my life. Not very impressive, is it? I sometimes feel as if it would have made no difference to anyone if I had not been born at all.”
Sinclair stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. He began to knead the tension from her muscles. “I doubt if those whom you helped save from the guillotine would say that.”
“Perhaps not,” she murmured, soothed in spite of herself by Sinclair’s touch. “But I so wish the good memories would outlive the bad. At least that would be something to hold on to on a long dark night.”
Sinclair turned her to face him. “You could hold on to me, Angel.”
He made no move to force her, only beckoning her with his eyes. Belle responded to that unspoken call, winding her arms about his neck. How good it felt to be held by him, his fingers stroking her hair.
Belle sensed that he would have restrained himself to just that, offering her comfort alone. It was she who sought more. Raising her face, she invited his kiss.
He brushed his lips against her brow, her temples, her cheek. Belle closed her eyes, savoring the warm contact, dreading that he might stop, draw away as he had done earlier today after being interrupted by Paulette.
“Sinclair,” she whispered. “Help me, please. Help me make it through this night.”
Never in her life had she begged, never had she asked such a thing of any man before. But she felt no shame, no wish to call back the plea that had escaped her. She knew that Sinclair would understand.
He pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss, then swooped her up in his arms to carry her upstairs.
From the beginning Belle had refused to allow herself to imagine what it would be like to make love with Sinclair. If she dared any thought at all, she supposed that because the physical attraction between them coursed so strong, they would come together in a feverish rush.
She was bemused when Sinclair’s first action upon entering her bedchamber was to tuck her into bed, pulling a coverlet snugly about her shivering form.
While she watched from the bed, he gathered logs and rekindled the fire upon the hearth until the flames crackled, sending out waves of heat to ward off the chill of the room.
A smile, part amusement, part gratitude tugged at Belle’s lips. What an eminently practical man Sinclair was. When he had the fire going, he went about the room, lighting lamps andcandles, until the chamber glowed, the shadows dispelled. It was almost as if he knew-
The flickering firelight illuminated the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes and the intensity of his eyes. Mesmerized, Belle studied his every movement as he piled on more logs, the way the muscles of his back rippled beneath his linen shirt, the striking contrast the white fabric made against his bronzed skin.
He spread out a downy coverlet and piled pillows before the hearth before returning to her side to offer her his hand.
“Milady?” he said, his teasing drawl coming out hoarse.
Belle slipped her hand in his and followed him as though she walked in a dream. They stood facing each other before the fire. Although he did no more than trace the contours of her cheek with his fingers, Belle felt the beginnings of desire flicker to life inside of her, a desire that seemed to run far deeper than the wants of her flesh. She had a strange feeling that she had been waiting a long time for this moment.
Sinclair brushed back her hair, allowing the strands to cascade over his fingers as though reveling in the feel of it.
“Belle,” he said, his face more solemn than she ever remembered. “I don’t want to take advantage of—” He drew in a deep breath. “What I am trying to say is, you don’t have to offer yourself to me to make me stay with you. I could simply hold you in my arms until morning.”
“Could you?” she challenged softly. She ran her fingers slowly up the hard plane of his chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath the crisp linen of his shirt.
His lips crooked into a reluctant smile. “No, likely not, but it was a most noble impulse.”
“I don’t want you to be noble, Sinclair.” She wound her arms about his neck, pressing close to him. “Not tonight.”
He caught her hard against him, his mouth descending over hers. He coaxed her lips apart, invading her with the fiery sweetness of his tongue, swirling in slow tormenting circles. The heat of his body seared her even through her nightgown.
As of one accord, they sank down to the coverlet. Sinclair tumbled her back against the pillows. Bending over her, he explored her face and the column of her neck with feathery kisses that sent lashings of fire through her veins.
She began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one. The material parted, falling away to reveal the crisp dark hairs matting his chest. Belle slipped the shirt down his arms, letting it drop to the floor.
She ran her hands over his hard muscled flesh and felt a quiver course through him. He undid the ribbons of her nightgown, slipping it off her shoulders until she lay naked beside him.
Then he stood to remove his breeches, easing the cloth down over the taut line of his hips, past the lean hardness of his thighs. He towered naked above her in the full glory of his manhood, leaving her in no doubt as to the extent of his arousal.
He paused a moment to stare down at her. “You are beautiful, Belle,” he said hoarsely. For once the compliment did not ring hollow in her ears.
