A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) (23 page)

“I wouldn’t be so hard on him if I were you. He saved your life, retrieved your luggage, and, even now, is seeing to the livery of your horse.” She opened a jar of salve and added a tincture to a basin of water. “In your delirium, you cried out for that handsome red steed of yours.”

“Sergeant MacGregor is a stout-hearted mount. Quite the bullyboy.”

“A sergeant no less.” She wrung out a washcloth and traced over an old scar, one that started below his collar-bone and disappeared beneath a bit of chest hair. She held
her mouth open slightly—in concentration. A pink tongue swept the underside of an upper lip as she gently pressed the cloth to various scrapes and cuts.

Finn wrinkled his nose. “The smell of antiseptic triggers memories.” The water stung in places. “Four weeks spent in a field hospital south of Kandahar.” Those were just the physical injuries. There were deeper wounds that held secrets he never spoke of. The groan of bedsprings pushed the recollection aside as she sat on the edge of the mattress.

“You were very brave today,” she said. Her eyes darted up, softer and somewhat shy.

His dry throat caused a raspy answer. “Is it brave to kill another man?” When she raised a brow, he shrugged—as much as he could, tied up. “It comes down to kill or be killed. For the time being, I’d rather it wasn’t me.”

She tilted a glass to his lips. “Drink this.”

Finn clamped his mouth shut.

She kept the tumbler raised. “It’s just wine.”

“No laudanum?”

“Nothing to dull the senses.”

His first sip of claret went down well. “Ah, the honeyed blood of the grape—the bliss of dreams.”

“Shakespeare?”

“Atticus Adams. Intrepid private investigator.” Gradually, he took in more claret until he gulped thirstily. At the bottom of the glass, he sighed.

“One of your fictional characters, I presume?” She wrung out the wet cloth and studied his nude torso. Rather arousing, how she could peruse his nude body while pretending polite conversation. “Tell me, are you Agent Gunn right now, or do you prefer Curzon on the Continent?” She pressed the cloth to more scrapes and cuts, as he flinched and groaned despite the wine.

“Finn to you, Curzon to the authorities. Ah-h!” He gritted his teeth. “I can see you wish to abuse me.”

“Dancers know something about contusions.” Her fingers slipped into the jar of salve. “A bit of warmth and gentle massage encourages blood flow.”

His throbbing prick leaped at the first brush of her hands on his chest. Gentle fingertips kneaded sore muscles and soothed bruised ribs. “I find it fascinating that you’ve made no attempt to cover any part of me.”

Cate sat back and stared. “Has the royal Roger caught a chill?”

Her every touch caused either a groan or a sharp intake of air sucked between clenched teeth. “Goodness. Where does it not hurt?” She lay her hand on the flat of his abdomen, just below an outline of rib. A light drumming of fingertips captured his complete attention. Suddenly, all he could think about was the one place on his body he wanted her touch. “I’ll let you know when you get there.”

Soothing a pale green bruise, she moved lower. He inhaled a quick, sharp breath as her fingernails scraped his belly. “Here, perhaps?” The muscles of his abdomen quivered. Her eyes widened. “Dear me, I shall have to find another spot.”

So far, he had experienced few ill effects from the wrist and leg restraints. His elevated heart rate was caused as much by her ministrations as by the bindings themselves. And for the sake of this fascinating bit of love play, he would tolerate a bit of nerves in hopes of even greater arousal to come.

She quirked a brow. “A bit lower, you think?”

He met her gaze. “Not so bruised, below.”

Cate straightened. “Then I suppose a massage is not really necessary.”

Half-crazed with lust, Finn strained against his ties. “Desperately. Necessary.”

“I see.” The gleam in her eye and upward tilt of her mouth spoke volumes. She knew exactly what she was doing—driving him mad. “I am told most men enjoy this.” Warm, slick fingers traveled down the length of his burgeoning cock. “Do you . . .?” Slippery with lotion, her hand wrapped around his thickness and reversed course. Near the head, she ran a finger lightly over the narrow cleft of the tip. “. . . Enjoy this?”

Any fear of a nervous attack gave way to the surge of arousal. As pleasure rushed through his body, he released a groan that was, at least in part, rutting water buffalo. Gradually, she increased the pressure of her hold, as well as the speed of her strokes. She used her other hand to sweep through his chest hair and circle a nipple. Good God, she remembered.

She leaned close and whispered. “Do you . . . darling?”

His brain had come to reside in his penis. He could think of nothing but her next stroke, and the force of his impending eruption. Every muscle tensed, every nerve ending readied.

She removed her hands from his near-to-bursting extremity. “I’m afraid I’ve dallied far too long.” Rising from the bed, she methodically wiped slick ointment from her fingers. “I must be going.”

It took a moment for an actual thought to register in his brain. “You’re not quitting, are you?” He growled the words.

Cate backed away. “How badly do you want it?”

His eyes narrowed to slits.

She collected a man-tailored jacket and picked up his revolver. “As badly as I want to see my brother alive?” Her
eyes darted about the room. “I need that twenty thousand, Finn—for ransom or bribes, not quite sure which at the moment.”

“Untie me. I’ll go with you.” He tried softening his glare. “Be reasonable, Cate.”

She hesitated at the door. “In London you said you thought you trusted me—a little.” Rueful eyes met his briefly. “How could you ever do so now?”

She had taken him to the edge of ecstasy. And now the wicked little minx was backing out the door talking nonsense. Worse yet, she was going to get herself killed. He yanked on his bindings. “One day—very soon—I will make you pay for this, Miss Willoughby.”

Dark lashes fell over a violet-blue gaze. “Oh, I do hope so, Mr. Gunn.”

Chapter Seventeen

C
ate ducked her head as the bullying anarchist prodded her belowdecks. She did not know this man who had tied her arms behind her back.
“¡Vaya!”
He shoved her past several men in the galley of the ship.

Admittedly, she’d gone after the anarchists without much of a plan. Dé Riquet had mentioned a sloop anchored in the harbor with the name
El Gato del Mar
—The Sea Cat. Eduardo’s prized possession, and his one pleasure. She should have waited for Dé Riquet to return to his hovel. Instead, she bolted out of the flat and hired a local to take her out to the ship—a man who turned out to be a paid lookout for
Los Tigres.

There appeared to be very few anarchists aboard, either that or Finn had reduced their numbers by half. Could
Los Tigres
actually be down to a handful of men? How could her brother have associated himself with such ruffians? Or was this crew the last remnants of a better time—a nobler cause? The guard with the pistol at her back pushed her into a forward cabin.

The hatch slammed shut behind her and she leaped into deep shadow. A single porthole illuminated a space
that was small—suffocatingly so. She squinted in the dim light. Nothing but a built-in berth and a compact writing desk. A chair sat by the door.

Something in the air shifted. Her heart jumped into an erratic rhythm. She turned and ran straight into a hard chest. Arms grabbed hold and held on. She looked up into an angular face and cold black eyes. “Alonso.”

The chill in his smile, though familiar, still sent a tremble through her. “An enchanting beauty who is also tenacious. I am impressed.” He tilted his head, assessing her figure. “As well as stimulated.” He pressed her to him with one hand as he explored her body with the other.

Dear God, why did it have to be this reprobate again? As of this moment, she hated every member of
Los Tigres
for this, including Eduardo. Had he any idea what kind of lowly muckworms had taken over his beloved brotherhood? And how dare he resurrect himself from the dead and put her through this. More than ever she was determined to find her brother again—so she could wring his neck. She tossed her head back. “Where is Eduardo?”

“Patience, Catriona. As soon as the captain returns, we will make our departure.”

“To where?”

“Once . . . we are away,
mi ángel
.”

“
Usted sabe mejor
. I am not your woman.” She wrenched away but he lunged after and pressed her against the bed. Without her hands free to catch herself, she fell back onto the mattress.

“Trousers, Catriona?” His gaze raked up and down her body—an amused twitch to one side of his mouth. “Let’s get rid of those, shall we?”

Alonso stood above her, smirking. Obviously, what remained
of
Los Tigres
was the dregs. “You have no intention of helping Eduardo.” She raised her chin in defiance. “I no longer believe he is alive. How could he be—when you dare assault the sister of
El Primer Tigre?”
She dug her heels into the bedding and pushed away. He grabbed hold of her lower limbs. Pain shot though both legs as he landed across her knees, pinning her down.

He leaned over her, into a shaft of moonlight. His black gaze flecked with pale blue steel. “Your brother is alive—but not for long, I’m afraid.”

“How do I know that you have not made this up—this story that Eduardo is imprisoned? It would not be the first time you tricked me into funding your exploits. More bombs—is that what you want? And if he is in prison, why can’t I see him—speak to him?
¿Cree usted que soy una idiota . . . que soy estúpida? ¿Una mujer sin sentido?”

The slap across her face struck with such force, a spray of tears instantly covered her burning cheek.

  *  *  *  

FINN TOOK AIM. Nothing but the sound of lapping of water. A hundred yards from the pier, a dusky sky outlined the silhouette of the anarchists’ sloop moored in the bay. Two lookouts, fore and aft. He wagered at least four or five more men below. And one Catriona de Dovia Willoughby. Captive or accomplice? He still wasn’t entirely sure.

Lifting the gun barrel, he angled his rifle against a stack of old tea chests and threaded on the silencer. Dé Riquet peered over his shoulder. “Fancy rig, that.”

Finn ignored the mercenary operative. “I have a lengthy and personal involvement in the design of this sound suppressor—along with a considerable investment
of cash.” He squinted through the site, but not before he glared at the smallish Frenchman. “Untie the skiff and get ready to scull us over.”

“
Ne me blâmez pas!
How was I to know she’d tie you up?” Shaking his head, Dé Riquet backed away. “I come home to find you with this cockstand—
éléphantesque.”
Finn resisted the urge to point his rifle at the scalawag. Dé Riquet shrugged bony shoulders and disappeared down the ladder. “I don’t suppose you enjoyed it any—?”

Finn braced his leg against the stack of tea chests and took aim on the lookout standing portside. The watchman peered over the side of the deck and Finn squeezed the trigger. A gentle pop from his rifle and it was over. Barely any recoil. The man dropped into the net under the bowsprit. No splash—a spot of luck there. He moved the barrel and sighted on the other guard. He held his breath.

  *  *  *  

ALONSO PAT TED DOWN the outside, as well as the inside, of her thighs. “Tell me where the rest of the ransom is, and I might leave you less”—he ripped into the trousers at her hips and pulled them off—“bruised.”

“Get off me.” Cate tried to wriggle out from under him. “Eduardo will kill you for this.” Her chemise barely covered the tops of her thighs. He grabbed both of her legs and roughly dragged her back.

Now her chemise was well up her torso. She lay there completely exposed—but not humiliated; she was too scared think about modesty.

“In a few more days, your brother will be shipped off to the penal colony at Devil’s Island. Word has it, his health is failing.” Alonso leered down at her. “Pray he doesn’t survive the voyage.”