Sweet Deception (26 page)

Then her face crumpled and she fisted her hand. “Why would you
say
all those things?” she cried, striking him in the chest. He welcomed the sharp pain, would gladly stand and let her whale upon him until her strength gave out. “Why would you try to make me believe I was beautiful? That you cared for me?”

Each word flayed him worse than the lashes he’d received in the early days of his imprisonment by the French. He knew they flayed her, too.

“Ah, Emma,” he groaned and reached for her. He crushed her to him, perhaps meaning to comfort her, perhaps meaning to alleviate his own guilt and pain. He buried his nose in her hair, breathing in her scent—breathing in his own scent upon her, and a primitive longing like he’d never experienced permeated every inch of him. “I meant all of it,” he whispered.

The truth of those words pierced Derick. He couldn’t deny them. He could blame his lack of control until Napoleon stopped lusting to rule the world—even from exile—but he would be lying to himself. He wouldn’t
have taken her if deep down, some part of him hadn’t wanted Emma more than he’d wanted anything in his life. He couldn’t let her believe otherwise, even if there was no hope of a future for them.

He pulled back and cupped her face. “Every word, every kiss, every touch.”

Emma’s eyebrows dipped, the corners of her lips quivered, as if they couldn’t decide whether to frown or tip up in a tremulous smile.

“Which is why you should hate me.” He might be able to admit to himself that he wanted her, but if she knew who he truly was, what he’d done, what he might yet still have to do…

“Hate you?”

“You have every right,” he pointed out, absently rubbing a thumb along her cheekbone. “I took your innocence, Emma. It can’t be undone. And I can offer you nothing in return.” She needed to hear at least that much of the truth, mission be damned. “Nothing that you’d want.”

Emma stilled and pulled away from his embrace. And though he’d expected that reaction, hoped for it and worse, the loss still ached. She didn’t look at him, instead stared at some point behind his shoulder, rubbing her thumb against her fingers.

She looked him directly in the eye. “You didn’t take my innocence, Derick. I gave it to you.”

“Gave it to me…” he repeated.

“Planned it, even. Warm pastries…” She winced, followed that with an endearingly wry grin. “Though admittedly, those didn’t have the effect I’d hoped.
Two
bottles of wine,” she added, holding up the corresponding number of fingers. “A secluded picnic…”

Derick gaped.
Planned it, even.
He knew she’d been trying to entice him, but he hadn’t expected such aggressive pursuit. He should have, though—after all, Emma was nothing if not tenacious. Still, he should have
stopped her. He wouldn’t have her believing the fault lay with anyone but him.

“Well, if that’s true, you gave it under false pretenses,” he said. “I know you’d hoped I’d come to live in Derbyshire, that we’d become partners initially, more eventually.”

Her lip quivered again…just minutely, but he saw. She didn’t deny it.

“But that will never happen, Emma,” he informed her gently. “It can’t. Therefore I never should have taken…something of such value from you. Something that wasn’t mine to take.
That
is why I said what I did, not because I regretted one second in your arms.
That
is why you should hate me. Because even though I can give you nothing, I took you anyway.”

Her chest rose and fell on a deep sigh. “I’m not a child, Derick. I’m nine and twenty—my virginity a long ago devalued commodity, worth nothing save to the man I chose to give it to.” She stepped toward him, laying her open palm against his chest, where it seemed to burn his skin, even through the cambric. “And that man is you. It has
always
been you.”

Derick stopped breathing. He clapped his hand over hers, pressing it harder to his chest. “Emma.” He swallowed, struck by a fierce possessiveness that wasn’t his right to feel. He wished to hell he were worthy of her, but he was so far from it. “You undo me,” he whispered.

She placed her other hand upon their joined ones, her skin warm and soft on either side of his hand now. Her eyes locked with his. “You undo me, as well.” She shifted on her feet, her tongue coming out to wet her lips. “You say you can offer me nothing that I want. But what if all I want is you?”

Derick pulled his hand from between hers. “Emma, you don’t want me.” He turned from her. “You want the boy I once was. The man you
think
I am. You know nothing of the man I truly am—if you did…”

She wouldn’t let him turn away. She followed, placing herself squarely in front of him. “If I did, I would still want you.” She reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling it to her own heart this time.

A part of Derick longed to believe. Believe that in spite of everything he’d done, people he’d hurt, people he’d sent to their deaths—either by his own hand or by the information he gathered about them—that he deserved the love of someone like Emma. But he didn’t. His soul was black, his blood even blacker, and he could change neither.

And that didn’t even take into consideration the fact that he was leaving England behind as soon as this mission was complete. Emma would never consider leaving her home for the wilds of America. Nor would he wish her to.

“No, Emma,” he said tenderly. “You wouldn’t.” He could see she didn’t believe him. The hope in her eyes, the earnest press of her lips, the tremble in her hand where she still held his against her told him so.

If he wasn’t already going to burn in hell for all he’d done in his life, he surely would now for tainting such an innocent. Such an angel. And for breaking her heart, for disillusioning her—which was what he was about to do. He consoled himself with the knowledge that it was the kindest thing he could do for her.

“All right, Emma. I’ll tell you what kind of man I am, and then we’ll see how you feel.”

A shiver went through Emma at the ominous tone in Derick’s voice. And yet relief coursed through her as well. She’d been shocked when he’d shown such remorse after their lovemaking. Hurt, angry, not to mention rejected.

But then she’d seen the pain in his glittering eyes, had heard it in his broken voice and knew it wasn’t she he was rejecting. There was something else behind his renunciation. So she’d suppressed her own pain and tried to think logically about it.

Sometimes when working with complex equations, it was necessary for her to break the components down, remove them if she had to, solve them one by one and then put them back together again. She’d decided to try that method here.

He’d admitted he wanted her, which had gone a long way toward assuaging her feelings—one part solved. She could see his guilt over the fact that she’d been an innocent, so she’d done her best to remove that from the equation by telling him she’d intended to give herself to him—another part solved. Now, she needed to get at what really held him back from her and see what she could do to solve that.

Derick tugged his hand away and walked over to the spread blanket. He picked it up and shook it out, then carried it a little farther up the hill, away from the creek. He doubled it over, then quartered it before placing it on the ground in front of a massive sessile oak, so large that the span of her arms wouldn’t reach around a quarter of its trunk if she tried to hug it. Derick motioned for her to join him.

When she reached him, he held out a hand. Emma placed hers in his, amazed at the jolt even that simple touch sent through her. She lowered herself to the blanket, using his grip as support until she was settled.

The corner of his lip curled up. “No rocks this time, my little mermaid princess?”

She smiled in return, though she felt her cheeks pinkening as she remembered throwing herself into his lap, and everything that had happened after. But she couldn’t regret it. “No. Nor any peas, for that matter.”

Derick’s mouth spread into a half grin then. But when he was seated beside her, with his back leaned up against the trunk, feet flat on the ground, legs bent with his hands resting on his knees, the smile faded from his face.

Emma scooted herself until she was perpendicular to him, near his thigh. She crossed her own legs, folding
them toward her body and hooking them at the ankles tailor style. She leaned toward him, just slightly.

Derick turned his head to look at her then. He seemed to stare at her face for an endless moment. “You must realize, Emma, that I’m no saint. I’ve done things…” He turned his face forward, and his hands stretched out, though his palms remained on his knees. His jaw tightened and his face became hard, wiping away the man she knew and showing her someone else entirely. Emma held her breath.

“As an agent for the government, my superiors found I had a knack for ferreting out secrets. Over the years, it became my primary mission to uncover traitors, and other double agents like myself.” He slid a glance at her. “Occasionally I was called upon to terminate them…and those who’d divulged England’s secrets.”

Emma pressed her lips tightly together, doing her best to show no reaction. She’d expected something like this—after all, she knew that true spy work would be ugly, not a childlike game of cloak and dagger.

“I’ve taken lives,” he said more loudly, as if she hadn’t understood. When she said nothing, he returned his gaze to his outstretched hands. “By my own hand. Men’s lives, women’s lives. So many that I’ve lost count.”

Emma swallowed. Somehow she knew from the bleak look on his face, from the way he stared at his hands, that his words weren’t completely true. He remembered every one.

She turned her gaze to his hands as well. Lean, elegant, long-fingered. Strong hands. She realized her own palms had gone clammy and her heart had sped up. Even though she’d known he would say something like that, the reality of knowing that the hands that had touched her so tenderly, that had brought her such pleasure, had also snuffed out life—lives—shot a cold shiver through her.

Would she ever be able to look at him the same?

Emma swallowed again, trying to wet her dry throat. “You did what you had to do. It was war, Derick. And those…people were betraying our country. It’s not as if you took innocent lives.”

The ghost of an expression that wasn’t quite a smile flitted over his face, which was still in profile. “Most likely not.”

“M-most likely?” she asked, bewildered.

He looked at her then. “In the majority of cases, the evidence was irrefutable. But there were times, in the field, when things weren’t so clear. When I had to go with only what knowledge I had and with my gut. With instinct and probabilities.”

“But probabilities are just that,” she said, shocked. She wasn’t one to rely on instinct, so she couldn’t speak to that, but as a mathematician she understood probabilities. And knew they weren’t always accurate.

“Just so,” he said grimly. “You’re appalled now, aren’t you?”

“I…” Emma gathered her scattered thoughts. “No, I’m just taken aback.” The more Derick spoke about his past, the paler his complexion had grown. Brackets had appeared around his lips, which had thinned. He clearly suffered over things he’d done—most likely more than he’d told her, or might ever tell her. Only a good man would agonize so. She knew in her heart Derick hadn’t taken anyone’s life lightly.

She reached a hand out and placed it on his forearm, squeezing gently. Muscle flexed beneath her fingertips, rippled as if seething emotion roiled beneath his skin. “I can’t imagine having to make such a decision. Having to carry out such an act. But I am certain that the things you did saved British lives, and if you think I would condemn you for that—that I wouldn’t want you because of it, you are wrong.”

Derick let out a harsh breath, his shoulders slumping,
his gaze sliding to where her hand rested upon his arm in support. “I can see I shall have to tell you more.”

Emma involuntarily squeezed him harder. She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear more. But his words confirmed her suspicion that he was trying to drive her away. She firmed her jaw as she released his arm. Well, she would hear anything he had to say, but nothing would sway her.

“Most spies, the best ones anyway, are the ones who don’t stand out in any way. Average height, average build, no distinguishing features,” he said. “People who can slip in and out of places unnoticed. Who are forgettable.”

“Then you must have been terrible at it,” Emma said, only halfway joking. If ever there was a less average-looking person, it was Derick. His superior height alone made him stand out in a crowd, and that was before you took into account his thick black hair, his stunningly perfect features and his arresting emerald eyes. She couldn’t imagine anyone, male or female, who would forget seeing him.

A dark smile touched his lips. “No, I was a very good spy. I was just given a different type of mission than most.” He scrubbed a hand over his face then, as if he didn’t wish to tell her the rest.

“I told you that the French noticed me because my heritage was obvious, and because of my position as heir to a British viscountcy. That was true. Part and parcel with that was my ability to move in and out of very elite circles throughout Europe. Where some of their other operatives might have to spend weeks working their way into a household as a servant or such, I would be welcomed right in because of my wealth and status. An agent in plain sight, one no one would expect.”

“That makes perfect sense,” Emma said, wondering what could possibly be so terrible about that.

“Yes, well, what else made perfect sense was to use the other thing people notice about me.”

Emma waited for him to elaborate, tapping on her thigh with her fingers.

Derick cocked a raven brow and gave her a sardonic smile. “What most
women
notice about me, then.”

“Oh!” Emma exclaimed, understanding practically smacking her in the forehead, much as it did when she’d stared at an equation so long that she missed the obvious answer.

“I see you begin to comprehend,” Derick murmured. “My role was that of the dissipated young rake, suffering from ennui, sleeping my way through the ballrooms of Europe. A life of gambling and drinking, with a different woman in my bed every night. Some I seduced because they actually had secrets I was commanded to get from them—their own or those of someone close to them. Some I took to my bed just to maintain the facade.”