For Your Arms Only (23 page)

She gasped. “In London! But how—?”

“Spying is little better than the army, in that regard.” He put his hands on his thighs and shrugged. “I had supposed there was less chance of being blown up, but then I was caught in the middle of an assassination attempt, and nearly didn’t escape it. If not for another agent shouting a warning to me, I would have been standing right next to the powder keg when it exploded.”

“What happened?”

“I was assigned as a footman to an earl’s household. Some rabble wanted to kill him—and they nearly did so, not fifty yards from Carlton House.” She gaped at him. Alec smiled grimly. “So you see, perhaps you have not been sent the most successful agent. They ought to have sent Sinclair to help you. He unraveled the whole plot, and saved the earl’s daughter in the bargain.”

“But the earl?”

He shrugged again. “I dragged him down the street as far as I could and then fell on top of him when the keg exploded. There’s a bloody lot of wood in a coach; I thought it would never stop falling, and finally a bit of it caught me just right on the head. Or so they told me later. I seem to have a knack for getting in the way of anything dangerous.”

She rose up on her knees and put her arms around his shoulders before pressing a long, soft kiss at the back of his neck. “I’m glad they sent you,” she whispered. “I would have shot that Sinclair man on sight in my stable.”

Alec smiled. He shook his head. Then he broke into real laughter. “I doubt it. Harry’s a better-looking chap, and he’s got the devil’s own charm with ladies—although now that he’s to be married, I’m sure his wife will be very pleased you never had the chance to shoot him at all. But enough about my misadventures.” He twisted suddenly, and the next thing Cressida knew she was flat on her back with him looming over her. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs as his brilliant blue gaze moved over her. “Do you have any scars?”

“No,” she said. “I thought I did, here”—she touched her breast, right above her heart—“but it’s small and old.”

His absorbed gaze moved from where her hand lay to her face. “The navy lieutenant.”

“Yes.” Even now she felt a twinge of humiliation. “His name was Edward,” she said. “He was very dashing, and so charming. My sister had just married, and I was left much to my own devices. When he asked me to marry him…” She paused to gather herself. “Well, it was the first time a man paid me any attention and it went to my head. I was very foolish.”

Something in her voice must have given her away, for his expression grew still and dangerous. She forced a smile. “By the time he told me we couldn’t be married after all, I feared I was with child. Granny had warned us and warned us about girls who let gentlemen have their way, and there I was, about to disgrace myself and her.”

The muscles of his arms and shoulders flexed. Something changed in his face, subtly but ominously. “Any man who leaves a woman in that condition,” he said quietly, “should be shot.”

Her heart fluttered. “That
is
when I learned to use a pistol,” she told him. “But a week later, when I knew I was not expecting his child, I was glad he had gone. I was a fool, and I learned a hard lesson, but I didn’t have to pay for years and years…”

“Like your sister did,” he finished for her.

She gave a tiny nod. “Yes.”

He touched the spot above her heart, his hand sliding naturally around her breast as he stroked her skin, almost as if to rub away the hurt. Her breath caught. “I can’t feel the scar there at all anymore,” she murmured.

He smiled, a wolfish, predatory smile. “That’s the way of it, when they heal.” He molded his fingers to her flesh, pinching up her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and sending a ripple of shudders down her spine. “Has it healed?”

Cressida arched into his caress. “Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“Are you certain? Perhaps I should check.” He lowered his head, and her hands fisted in the sheets as he kissed her there, his breath hot on her skin.
It’s healed
, she thought as his mouth moved over her breast with tantalizing slowness.
Completely, now that you’re here
. She cupped her hands over his shoulders, holding him to her. Already warmth was spreading through her as he licked her nipple, then caught it between his teeth lightly.

He rose up on his knees and sat back. For a moment he paused, surveying her spread before him with unmistakable male appreciation. Of course they had already made love and his hands had been all over her—even inside her—but it had been dark then; Cressida blushed and squirmed, self-conscious at being so bare before him.

“Don’t,” he said, catching her hand when she made a motion to cover herself. “I want to see you.”

“I’m not much of a beauty,” she said, then wished she had kept her mouth closed. Why would she want to point that out to him now?

He raised his eyebrows. His hands were running down the insides of her thighs in a very distracting manner. “I beg to disagree. No—that is insufficient. You are absolutely, utterly wrong to say that when I find every inch of you beautiful.”

“Every inch?” She couldn’t help laughing.

“Indeed.” He took hold of her ankle. “Lovely ankles, trim and neat.” He stroked her calf. “Slim, strong legs, well-turned with exercise.” She laughed as he palmed her hips in his hands. “Lovely hips,” he said fervently. “A perfect waist.” She tried to push his hand away, and he brought her fingers to his lips. “Elegant hands, but strong and capable. Also very steady, which is helpful when aiming a pistol.” Cressida cringed, and he grinned. “Arms, the perfect length and diameter. Beautiful breasts…” He cupped one lightly. “More than beautiful, now that I consider the point.” Still fondling her, he cocked his head. “Stunningly beautiful.”

Cressida smiled, knowing her face must be four shades of red. She was not used to being admired, let alone so brazenly. It was arousing and awkward at the same time, but he stole another piece of her heart with his playfulness.

“And I could look at your face for the rest of my life and never grow tired of it.” She gaped at him, and he leaned down to press a kiss on her mouth. “Even if you will persist in looking at me as if I’ve just gone mad.”

“Perhaps you have,” she exclaimed.

“Ah.” His eyes twinkled at her. “If this is madness, there is method in it.” Now he lowered himself until they were face to face, her breasts pressed into his chest, his arms tucking around her shoulders to hold her snugly under him. She felt cocooned in his strength, and the warmth in his eyes made her heart stutter. “But the most beautiful part of you,” he murmured, “is here.” He laid one finger on her lips.

“My mouth?”

“Your spirit.” He kissed her. “Your wit.” He kissed her again. “And yes, your mouth, which drives me to distraction daily.” This kiss was deep and long, and fairly melted her bones. She ran her hands over him, exploring his body with no less enthusiasm than he explored hers until they were both short of breath.

He grabbed a pillow and pushed it under her hips. Cressida started to sit up, not knowing what he intended, but Alec pressed her back into the mattress, his face harsh. He sat back on his heels and caught her knee in one hand, taking a quick, nibbling kiss of the soft skin at the inside before hooking it over his elbow and dragging her closer to him.

Cressida watched, hardly daring to breathe, tensed in anticipation as he licked his thumb and then brought it to that tender, throbbing place between her legs. At the first touch, her hips jerked up and she gasped. Alec held her knee in an iron grip, refusing to let her wiggle away from his maddeningly soft touch. Cressida whimpered in ecstasy, trying to push against him, but he held her still.

Heat began to course through her. She tossed her head from side to side and writhed on the sheets, clutching at them since she couldn’t reach him. And every time she looked at him his electric blue eyes were trained on her, fierce with want.

Then he moved, sliding forward and slowly entering her. She was almost sobbing now, waiting for him to plunge into her and ease the ache, but he didn’t. He rocked in and out, slow and hard, and the whole while his fingers stoked the fire in her blood until she felt herself coming apart. He must have felt it, too, for he drove deep inside her then, holding himself tightly against her as her climax broke.

He released her knee, and she curled her trembling legs around his waist as he lowered himself to ride her with deep, powerful thrusts. He sucked in his breath and she felt him surge and swell within her, sparking a few lingering contractions of her own release. The tension went out of his back, but he moved once, twice, three times more before settling on top of her with a drained, sated sigh.

“Pure beauty,” he mumbled, nuzzling her neck.

Cressida smiled, stretching like the well-satisfied woman she was. “Pure madness.”

His chuckle was a rumble in his chest. “Perhaps, but I said there was a method in it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, indeed.” She waited, but he said no more. Some of the blissful daze cleared from her mind. What did he mean?

But she was afraid to ask. And when she opened her eyes, she realized the sun was rising. It would be day soon, and she was still lying naked and wanton in his bed.

“I—I had better go,” she whispered. “My sister will wake soon.”

He raised his head and squinted at the window. “Ah.”

In silence he moved, letting her get up. She had to hunt for her nightdress, finally locating it under his boots. Alec said nothing as she pulled it on; he lay back on the pillows and watched her with that stare that had once so unnerved her. Now she just smiled at him and pulled on her dressing gown as she went to the door.

But it was locked, and the key was not in the lock. She looked around, but it was not on the floor by the door, or anywhere else she could see.

“What is it?”

“The key,” she whispered.

The bed ropes creaked as he got out of bed. Cressida peered anxiously under a table, and then the key appeared in front of her, lying on his outstretched palm. “Thank you,” she said softly, reaching for it.

“Until later,” he said, holding tight to the key. “Will you walk with me this afternoon?”

She wet her lips. “Didn’t I tell you last night? I would go anywhere with you.”

His mouth curved. “Thank you.” He leaned in to kiss her as he dropped the key into her hand.

Cressida could only smile dreamily back at him. She had never realized love could make a person so happy about the slightest thing. “Thank you,” she said, “for the most beautiful night of my life.” She turned the key in the lock and slipped out of the room, before she forgot herself once more.

Later, after he had washed and shaved, Alec left his room, feeling as though he had opened a door to a new life. The scars of his past still marked him, but not as before. It wasn’t the physical wounds that had pained him as much as the wounds on his soul, and Cressida’s understanding and acceptance spread salve on those. He would never be the same man he was before Waterloo, but that was beside the point. He had been chasing a ghost, telling himself that if he could only prove his innocence, everything would be restored as it was before. Finally, at long last, he realized—and acknowledged—it was a lie.
He
knew he had not spied for the French, Cressida believed him, and that would be enough. A long life stretched in front of him, hopefully a happy one. He would be a fool to ruin that chance by clinging to anger and despair about a fact he could not change.

He met his mother at the bottom of the stairs. “Good morning, Mother.” He kissed her cheek.

She blinked in astonishment at such a warm greeting. He resolved to be a better son, one she deserved. “Good morning, Alexander. May we have a word?”

“Of course.” He extended his arm and they went into his study.

Mother clasped her hands and drew herself up. “I am very sorry to have to say this to you,” she said gravely, “but I must. One of the maids said she saw Miss Turner leaving your chambers early this morning, in her nightclothes. I do not wish to interfere in your affairs, but Miss Turner is still an unmarried woman, and our guest. It pains me to reprove you, dear—”

Alex grinned. “Then don’t. Mother, rest easy; I hold Miss Turner and her reputation in the highest possible regard.”

She looked uneasy. “The servants will gossip. I scolded the girl at once for spreading tales, but I am not sure I can stop them from whispering about it among themselves…”

“They won’t for long,” he told her, still grinning like a schoolboy. “I intend to marry her.”

T
hat day was one of upheaval, as John and his family left. Even Marianne, who spent most of her time in the nursery with her children, came to bid them farewell. Alec shook his cousin’s hand, recognizing how much he owed the man. Without John, Penford would have been sorely neglected for the last several months, and no man could have been more gracious in the face of such crushing disappointment.

“Thank you,” he said.

John’s grin was wry. “Think nothing of it. I could do no less for my aunt.”

“I am forever in your debt, and for far more than the comfort you gave my mother.”

“I am sure you would have done the same, had our positions been reversed.” Too late John realized what he said; his face flushed, and his eyes veered away.

Oddly, Alec didn’t feel the sting this time. In fact, it might have been the greatest compliment John could have paid him, presuming Alec’s honor equal to his own. “Of course. I hope you still consider Penford partly your home. Your family will always be welcome here.”

John cleared his throat, still awkward. “We do, thank you. Good-bye, Alec.”

Alec walked with him to the waiting carriage. He helped his aunt inside, then stood back to wish them all safe journey, and the coach was off. His mother and Marianne went back into the house, but Julia waved her handkerchief until they had turned at the end of the long drive.

“The house will be so quiet now,” she remarked when all that remained was a cloud of dust to mark the passing of the coach. “First John, Aunt Hayes, and Emily, and soon Cressida and her sister and grandmother will be gone.”

Alec smiled to himself. “Oh?” he murmured. “Will that bother you?”

She sighed. “Yes. Perhaps it would bother you as well, were you ever here.” She turned and went back into the house.

Alec let her go; he planned to be around much more in the future, but not, he hoped, to be bothered by Cressida’s absence. He stood in the sunshine for several minutes, just admiring Penford. It was his home again, where he would bring his bride, and, God willing, raise his children. He had never thought of all that. Penford had not been his house, and he hadn’t thought of marriage until now. The prospect was a very pleasing one. He took a full breath, and set off to hurry through the daily business before meeting Cressida.

Callie was just rising when Cressida slipped back into their room. She looked shocked for a moment, but said nothing. Cressida was sure every sinful pleasure had left some sort of mark on her, but when she looked in the mirror it was more a glow of happiness. In fact, she looked remarkably well for such a wicked woman.

“Will you come see Granny this morning?” Callie asked her.

“I do every morning,” Cressida exclaimed.

Her sister pursed her lips. “I thought you might have other plans today.”

She gaped at her sister in hurt, then looked down. “You can tell, can’t you,” she said quietly. “What I’ve done.”

“No,” said Callie after a moment. “I have a strong suspicion, though…”

Cressida rubbed her toe over a vine woven in the carpet. “I’ve gone and fallen in love.” Callie gasped. “And I spent the night with him.”

“Are—Are you—? Cressida, do you know what you’re doing?”

She bit her lip, still concentrating on the vine. Callie alone knew the extent of her indiscretion years ago with Edward, and Cressida heard the worry in her sister’s voice. No doubt this appeared much the same as that circumstance to Callie, but then, Callie didn’t know Alec and how completely unlike Edward he was. “We are to go for a walk this afternoon.”

“For what purpose?”

Cressida shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t know.”

Callie closed her eyes and said nothing for a long minute. “Then I shall reserve judgment until you return.” She drew herself up. “I must know whether I should hate him with every fiber of my being and send Mr. Webb to fight him, or love him as my brother.”

Cressida blushed, then she laughed. “I certainly hope it is the latter!”

Her sister smiled wryly. “So do I. For your sake, so do I.”

After breakfast with Granny, Cressida couldn’t sit still. She and Callie had agreed they would say nothing to Granny, who was still enraptured over Callie’s engagement and didn’t notice Cressida’s quiet manner. What
did
Alec want to say to her on this walk? She wasn’t so bold as to expect a marriage proposal, and he had already invited her to stay at Penford. She would rather go to Portsmouth with Callie than stay with fanciful hopes that had no firm basis. Then she thought of leaving, and wanted no part of that, either, but after that the alternatives grew sparse. What would he say to her?

To keep her mind from running over and over it until she drove herself mad, she turned back to Papa’s journal, carrying it to the warm, bright conservatory to work. Her speed in translating steadily increased, even as her dismay mounted. There was no doubt now in her mind that Papa had been a sly opportunist, at best. He still wrote of the conditions of the army in Spain, but more and more described crimes and sins. He never used proper names, but referred to people by various nicknames, like the Scottish officer he called Owl and another man he named Hedgehog. Papa had discovered Owl abusing a Spanish boy, and Hedgehog had been stealing from the payroll funds—a portion of which ended up in Papa’s pocket for his silence. Her stomach turned as she read on; Papa was quite unconcerned about his venality. More than once he wrote of his disgust for their activities, a sentiment Cressida shared. But it made her sick to her stomach to read how blithely he received money to keep other men’s secrets despite that.

Callie came to share tea with her at some point, and asked how she was progressing with the journal. Cressida knew her sister asked more out of politeness than because she was truly curious about the journal, but she wouldn’t have wanted to tell Callie anyway. Since her engagement to Tom, Callie had been so happy. This news about Papa would only upset her and make her worry. Now Cressida realized how right Tom had been about it not bringing her peace, and when Callie had gone, she even considered putting it aside. Unfortunately, it had become a splinter in her mind, nagging to be exposed no matter how much pain it caused. She kept at it, but resolved to burn every translated page when she had finished.

It wasn’t until she reached the autumn of 1812 and Burgos, though, that she read the worst. That year the British army had marched through Spain in pursuit of the French army, and Wellington had set his sights on Burgos, a fortress in French hands. The army laid siege to the town, but only lost men by the dozen as every attempt at storming it failed. Cressida remembered Alec calling it a complete waste. Now here was her father, laboring to dig trenches that only brought them under the range of French sharpshooters. Papa cursed the general who put them there, and then one night he made only a small note.

“Met an interesting man today,” he recorded. “Charming fellow from the other side.”

Cressida frowned at that. What other side? Surely not the French side…She worked on, in deepening dismay. By the time Alec tapped on the door, she felt physically sickened by her father’s actions, no matter how long ago. But when she looked up at Alec and saw the warmth of his smile, she managed to smile back.

“I came to claim our walk, but I fear the rain may spoil it,” he said, coming in to sit beside her.

“Oh?” She turned to the tall windows. The sky had grown dark, as if evening had fallen early. “I didn’t even notice.”

He grinned. “Caught up in ciphering, eh?”

Her smile faded, and she fiddled with the pen before putting it down. “I wish not. It hasn’t been very rewarding.”

“I shall steal you away from it, then.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Perhaps you will walk with me in the gallery instead of the outdoors.”

“Anywhere,” she said.

He was kissing the inside of her wrist, brushing his lips across the tender skin there. “What has distressed you?” She hesitated, and he glanced at the journal. “Something in there?”

Cressida nodded, then held out the pages she had just translated. “It’s dreadful. I don’t know what to do about it.” Alec gave her a curious look, then released her hand and took the pages.

She knew what he would learn. Her father had somehow met a French officer, and been lured into sharing what he knew of the British army’s disposition. Then, in pursuit of additional funds, he had persuaded another soldier, a man of superior rank, to do the same with his greater store of knowledge about Wellington’s army.

Alec smoothed the sheets and began to read. As she watched, the thoughtful crease between his eyes vanished. Faster and faster his eyes raced, and his fingers grew clumsy as he turned the page to read to the end. “Are you certain of this translation?” he demanded hoarsely. “Absolutely certain?”

“I—Y-Yes,” she stammered, thrown by his demeanor. She had expected disgust, even anger, but he was as pale as snow. “Why?”

“This was in your father’s journal?”

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “It is horrible. I cannot bear to think of it—”

Alec lurched to his feet and strode across the room. The door flew back and hit the wall behind it when he threw it open, making Cressida jump again. Shame suffused her. Her father was a traitor, a liar, and worse, he had enticed someone else into doing the same…

Her mouth fell open as the obvious conclusion came to her. Dear Lord. She had been so miserable thinking of her father’s sins, she had completely forgotten about Alec. But her father was in the infantry; Alec was in the cavalry. And he had said he never knew her father at all. She shoved her hands into her hair and gripped her head, trying to physically hold back her thoughts. Alec had never told her exactly how he came to be thought a traitor, and the events Papa wrote of happened almost a decade ago, years before Waterloo. She couldn’t see the connection…but something had sent him storming through the halls.

She jumped up and ran after him. He was striding through the corridors and calling his mother’s name. “What is it?” she cried.

He shook his head, walking past her. “Mother?” He raised his voice and called again. A footman rushed up. “Where is Mrs. Hayes?” he demanded. The flustered servant stammered that he did not know. Alec motioned him away impatiently and continued down the corridor, pulling open every door he passed.

“Why are you shouting?”

Alec swung around to face Julia as she stepped out of the music room. He ignored her question. “After Waterloo, my things were sent home. You told me that.” Julia frowned, but nodded. “Where are they? Did Mother dispose of them?”

“No.” She glanced at Cressida, hovering anxiously behind him. “She refused to look at them, and had it all put away.”

“Where, Julia?”

“In the attic,” she said, her voice rising in surprise at his urgency. “Why?”

He pushed past her into the music room and came out a few moments later with a pair of lit candles. He shoved one at her. “Show me.”

Julia looked at Cressida, who knew she must look as astonished as Julia did at this command. “It will be as black as Hades in there, and filthy, too. What do you need so desperately?”

He closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. When he opened them he looked right at Cressida. “I need to find my trunk,” he said, a little more calmly. “Now.”

After a moment Julia nodded. Without another word she led the way through the house, up a flight of stairs and through a series of corridors to a narrow door. Alec pulled back the bolt that held it closed, and then heaved the door open with a screech of the hinges.

The other side was indeed as black as Hades, and the air was hot and thick with dust. Cressida stepped carefully, staying close behind Alec as they followed Julia past old furniture, trunks, heaps of discarded clothing, and other detritus accumulated by the Hayes family over the decades. She stumbled into him when he stopped abruptly, and he took her hand in his for a moment and gave it a quick squeeze. Just that touch gave her heart. Whatever her father might have done to him, directly or indirectly, he wasn’t blaming her.

Yet.

“It should be here somewhere,” Julia said, holding her candle high and turning in a circle. “No one will have touched it since then, so we may have to—” She broke off with a gasp as Alec heaved a trunk over onto its end and bent down to examine the one beneath it. The crash shook the floorboards.

“What did they send back? My campaign trunk, the small brown one, or just the larger ones?” Alec fought down the urge to toss over everything in the attic until he found his trunks. There was a good chance what he sought wouldn’t be here. Most of his baggage had been left in quarters in Brussels before the battle; only his smallest trunk had been near the battlefield, carried along with the other officers’ private belongings. That trunk might have been lost, or looted, or simply forgotten in the confusion. But George Turner’s words, leaping off the page in Cressida’s neat writing, had finally shed light on the accusation of treason that had dogged him since Waterloo.

Turner didn’t name his British officer, but he described him. With a mixture of elation and horror, Alec recognized the man in Turner’s account. He didn’t want to, but he did—and the sickening feeling jarred a recollection from the crevices of his memory. The night before the battle, he had seen Will Lacey. They had huddled together in the rain and shared a smoke, trying to keep warm and talking of what the morning would bring, not knowing it was the last time they would ever see each other. At the end, Will had given him a letter, a common practice among soldiers before a battle. No doubt someone had sent his mother the letter Alec had written for her in the event of his death. But Will’s letter…With unnerving clarity, he remembered taking it and promising to see to it. Of course he hadn’t been able to, but that letter…that letter might still be in his things. One way or another, it might answer his questions, about himself and now about Will. It also might not, but he had to
know
.

Julia, though, knew none of that, and Alec was too wild with impatience to explain. “Stop it,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”