Page 47 of The Devil in Her Bed
Chandler’s dry mouth flooded with moisture. Had he been able to sample any parts of her flesh before the tonic had pulled him under? His unrequited passion told him no.
She extracted a wicked-looking blade from a sheathin her décolletage. “You’ll tell me the truth, of course.” She stood, her pistol in one hand and her blade in the other, rising like a goddess of the dark, of war and desire and needful things. Approaching, she pressed each one of her weapons rather painfully against his kneecaps. “You’ll tell me now as you are, or under duress, I care not.”
Christ.His cock stirred, thickened. In moments she’d be able to see what was becoming a vicious erection. “Some men appreciate duress,” he answered. “As I’m certain your bawd friend—Cecelia, is it?—could tell you. Duress is a sexual commodity. She sells it with some frequency, I imagine… illegally.”
“You keep Cecelia out of this.” To his utter astonishment, she reached out and struck him across the cheek with the butt of her pistol.
His head swung to the side, and he tasted blood from a split on the inside of his cheek.
“I swear to you, if you threaten her, I’ll fucking send you to hell with only half your bits attached to your body, do we quite understand each other?”
Chandler wiped at the blood on his lip, staring at her mutely. Magnificent. Impressive. Brilliant. He couldn’t find enough words to describe the sheer stunning gloriousness of her.
He decided to be done with deception, to a point. “I’m not Crimson Council. But, like you, I’m after them.”
“Why? Why, then, pretend to be a Scottish marquess?” she demanded.
“The same reason you pretend to be a countess, I expect. It opens doors.”
She wound her arm back, preparing to strike himagain when she paused. “But people at Cecelia’s ball knew you. They recognized you as Lord Drake. How did you—?”
“IamLord Drake—”
“But—”
“I am also Lord Andrew Barton of the Cambridge Bartons.”
Her brow quirked, and she lowered the gun to merely point at his chest. “The reclusive baronet who only shows up for his seat in Parliament?”
“I’m Nathaniel Butler, merchant of Drury Lane, James Lancaster in the East End. And you’ll recognize this one.” He scrunched up his left eye and talked out of the right side of his mouth. “Me wife, Mildred, thanks yew, kind lady, for your generosi’y.”
Her features instantly brightened, suddenly shining with astonishment, though her weapons never moved. “Edward Thatch! I cannot believe it.”
“Thank you.” He summoned a smile. “Can I trouble you to fetch me some water there, I’m halfway to dead with thirst.”
She sheathed her knife in its enviable scabbard and backed to the sideboard. Selecting the entire pitcher with her free hand, she returned, plunked it on the nightstand, and backed away. The pistol’s barrel never left his vitals.
Chandler sat up to reach for the water, ignoring the swimming in his head as he cooled his throat with a few healthy gulps.
“Do you fancy yourself a pirate?” she asked when he finished, wiping away a drop from the corner of his mouth with a sleeve.
“I’m a spy,” he confessed.
She shook her head. “You’ve distinctly picked your monikers from famous—or infamous—pirates.”
“Privateers,” he corrected. “And I cannot very well name myself after spies, now can I? If they’re famous, then they’re obviously terrible at their jobs.”
At that, Francesca laughed.
And the world paused to hear it.
Chandler stared at her, gun in hand, head tilted back and a little to the left, exposing the white column of her elegant neck. Her face crinkled from somber to adorable in the space of a smile.
Something about that laugh twisted inside of him a feeling of fondness he’d not had since he was a boy, enjoying the only carefree years he’d experienced before the fates turned on him.
Could it be…?
“Are you anyone else?” she asked almost gleefully.
