Page 81 of The Devil in Her Bed
The storm of her temper died just as soon as it hadrisen, and she regarded him from a guarded, careful gaze. He’d pleased her with his confession, and yet… he sensed he’d made her melancholy as well.
Lowering his head, he took the robe from her grasp and dropped it to the floor. “Dream with me awhile longer, Francesca?” He whispered kisses over her sharp cheekbones, eyelids, nose, brows. “Let me have tonight, and tomorrow will be… what it will be.”
She went to him with no qualms, following him back to bed almost like a contrite child. He spread her beneath the moonlight and proceeded to worship and discover this new woman. With his hands. His mouth. Courting her properly this time. Taking his time and discovering all the curves and hollows of her.
She didn’t let him linger on her scars, but she found a few of his, running her hands along his body as if she could memorize every line and groove.
And then, as the dawn licked the sky with silver, their bodies moved together, making new memories in the dark.
CHAPTERTWENTY
In a world where the Crimson Council existed, Francesca never expected to find the records pertaining to the Mont Claire Massacre, and yet, here she was.
Her fingers trembled as she exclaimed her unbridled victory with a very unladylike whoop. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the subterranean records room and frightened a few pigeons that had gathered around the grimy windows above her head. What little light the solitary line of thin portals allowed into the warehouse-sized space was consistently interrupted by the legs of passersby.
“Kindly return to me my five pounds,” she called as she hauled a dusty box away from a shelf and dropped it onto a grimy table.
“Bollocks,” Chandler answered, closer than she’d expected as his footsteps were muffled by the packed-earth floor and his own brand of light-footed spy magic.
They’d disembarked for the records warehouse early, deciding to pick locks and trespass rather than ask for permission from bureaucrats they couldn’t trust.
If they were caught, she had her pistol and Chandler had not one but several official identification papers that would get them out of just about any trouble with the local constables.
In an attempt to make a boring search interesting, they’d wagered over who would find the files first.
And they both hated to lose.
She’d learned this because it wasn’t the first wager of the day.
As they’d lingered over coffee in bed that morning, Francesca had suggested that they ride their horses through the London throng rather than take a carriage. She preferred this mode of transportation, and her thoroughbred mare, Godiva, was in dire need of the exercise. Furthermore, should they need to make an escape from the law, from the council, or for any other reason, a horse was better equipped for a swift getaway than a coach.
He’d agreed enthusiastically and, as she dressed, they’d quibbled over the fastest route to take through London to Southwick. He’d insisted the Tower Bridge was likely to be the least populated at this hour, and she stubbornly contended London Bridge would dump them right into the neighborhood of the warehouse.
They’d split up as they shot from the gate of her stables, Chandler seated expertly on a charger named Porthos he’d selected from her fine stock. The sheen of his sandy hair rivaled the brilliance of his arrogantgrin as he allowed Porthos to dance on the cobbles, lifting his hand in a salute. “May the best man win!” he called.
“Don’t count on it!”
Experiencing some nominal discomfort in her newly unvirginal nether regions, she’d regretted her decision a mere five streets away. Regardless, she’d flown through the city only to find herself frustrated at Derving Square by an upturned cart. Clearing that, she’d encountered the bridge traffic he’d alluded to, and was stuck for a good ten minutes longer than she’d anticipated.
Finally, she’d clopped up to the warehouse, distressed to find Porthos already hitched, the door lock picked, and a handsome-as-sin spy for the crown standing in the threshold wearing a victorious smirk.
“How kind of you, Lady Francesca, to allow me the time to change my suit.” He gave her an exaggerated bow over a fresh-pressed vest and jacket he must have donned at his Drake residence a few lanes over from her.
Scowling, Francesca kicked her leg over the saddle and hopped to the ground. Reaching for the billfold she’d tucked into the breast pocket of her riding jacket, she extracted the applicable notes and shoved them at his chest. “We’ll rematch on the way home, of course,” she panted. Her mood, color, and spirits were high, despite everything.
“As you wish.” Once divesting her of the money, he kept her gloved hand and lifted it to his lips before pulling her in for a playful but searing kiss.
Her irrepressible smile frustrated the length of thekiss, but he was a sport about it as he motioned for her to lead the way into the dank warehouse.
His breath on the back of her neck had been a warm memory of their previous night as he’d followed her closely down the stairs, his entire body a conduit for scandalous flirtation. “Promise you’ll protect me if we encounter brigands in here?” he asked in an exaggerated whisper, fondling at the pocket in which she kept her pistol.
“Youare the only brigand I expect to find in my company.” She swatted at him as he investigated the seam of her split riding skirts from behind before pinching gently at her backside. “I insist you stop that, or we’ll never get anything done.”
“Yes, my lady.” He nibbled at her ear, causing her to hop forward. “You’re a peer of this realm, and I a lowly civic servant. I am, of course, yours to command and dispose of at your leisure.”
“Oh tosh,” she laughed, shooing at him to no avail as his hands continued their delicious wanderings.
“I’ve always found skirts more convenient,” he remarked, shaping his hand to the cup of her bottom. “But I confess I like you in trousers. They display your…assets to great effect.”
