It took many assurances from Bian before the suspicious driver curtly nodded and climbed back up to his seat. Stuart had seen the outline of the blackjack in his pocket and knew the driver was ready to physically protect her. He was impressed with the man’s loyalty.
So as the carriage pulled away and Stuart led Bian toward the house, he felt absurdly like letting out a whoop of joy, right here on the street. Perhaps even jumping, with it. Bian trusted him. More, perhaps. This wonderful creature of such startling contrasts and mysteries consented to being with him. Had the Queen herself pinned a medal to his chest, he would not have been more euphoric. Certainly, he would not have been aroused like he was now.
His body with thick with it. The need to possess her completely and thoroughly had been driving him for the last three days, to the point where eating and sleeping had held little interest. Now…in the next few moments, he would achieve the vision that had haunted him.
He could have taken her in the carriage. He was utterly sure of it. Bian’s surrender had been complete and he could have done anything he wanted with her. But instead he had found himself pleasuring her to the exclusion of anything else. Yet he had stepped out of the carriage in a deeper state of excitement than any he had ever experienced.
He opened the door with his key and at Bian’s lifted brow, explained, “I sent the servants home for the day. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.” He could not help the smile that formed. “I had no idea it would prove to be such a benefit.”
But she did not smile in return. Her black eyes held no mirth at all. Instead, she brushed his hand from the door handle, shut the door behind them and threw the latch. Then she grabbed the lapels of his coat and drew him to the middle of the oriental carpet in the front hallway.
He let himself be drawn, curious to see where she would take this. Then, as she drew his coat from his shoulders, he realized that this was the spot where she intended to lead him. Right here in the hall.
“There is no sofa here,” he pointed out. His voice was thick with the almost overwhelming need surging through him.
“But there is a warm rug.” She dropped the coat over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and stopped in front of him again. This time she tackled his shirt buttons with her small, swift fingers and pulled it from him. Instead of draping it over the post, she tossed it in the general direction of his coat. It fluttered to land on the stairs.
The haste and indifference to which she treated his clothing added to his excitement.
She was already tackling his trousers, with an effectiveness that told him she was familiar with the workings of a man’s pants.
“You are not a maiden for true,” he said.
“You already guessed that truth, days ago,” she chided, working at the last of the buttons on his trousers. “Besides, you are no gentleman, either. Not if we are to judge by what you have done to me these last few days, or by what will happen in the next little while.”
“I’m glad you are not a maiden,” he said swiftly. “Virgins hold few attractions. Their minds are too narrow and they are too swift to judge.”
She smiled up at him, as she slid the last button on his trousers free. The smile did not reach her eyes but the little flash of concern it raised in him was wiped clear as she dropped his trousers to his ankles and exposed him to her gaze.
“Wonderful,” she breathed, staring directly at his stiff and throbbing member.
He tried to hide his smile. He had not known until now how much female appreciation of his cock would please him so.
“Remove the rest of your clothes,” she commanded.
He stripped himself of shoes and stockings and the puddle of trousers and threw them in the same general direction as his shirt. There were no other garments to remove.
When he stood still once more, she circled him slowly. The velvet of her gown swished over the floorboards, until she came to a standstill in front of him. Then she laid her small hands on his chest. “In one act I was a maiden,” she said. “I have never allowed another man the liberty you enjoyed in the carriage.”
“I appreciate the honour.”
Her fingers were stroking his chest and although he had considered that to be one of his least receptive areas, her movements were sending small ripples of pleasure through him. He tried to ignore it so he could finish his thought. “Yet you have surprised me once more,” he accused her. “So often, you seem to me to be as old as God…and as wise. How can any act of man be new to you?”
She smiled again. “This is another act from which I have held myself aloof,” she told him. And she leaned forward the few inches necessary to plant her lips upon his abdomen. They swiftly trailed downwards and his cock pulsed hard as he realized her intentions, sending a thrill through him. He sucked in his breath as her hot hands cupped his testicles and her breath blew on his cock. She examined it closely, then carefully wrapped one hand around its girth. Watching her do it was more arousing than his imagination had ever painted it.
Her mouth slid over the head and he was bombarded with impressions. The heat of her mouth, the thrill as her lips slipped over the ridge of flesh. Moisture. The touch of her teeth on his vulnerable flesh. It melded into such an incredible rush of bliss that he groaned and his knees weakened. He reached for the newel post but it was too far away, so he fisted his hands and squeezed tight.
Her mouth moved upon him, sending another bolt fizzing through him. Then another. He closed his eyes and heard himself panting and groaning. She was orchestrating the most intense pleasure he had ever experienced. He knew he would never forget this moment. Ever.
“Stop. Stop, if you care at all, Bian,” he ground out, as the point of no return threatened to spill through him.
She stopped immediately and he sank to his knees, recovering. Bian simply smiled, her dimples dancing. Her lips were moist and red. “Did I attend the matter correctly?” she asked.
“I have no basis for comparison,” he confessed, his voice hoarse with the strain his excitement was putting upon him.
She looked startled—perhaps for the first time since he had known her. “Truly?” she whispered.
“Truly. But if I am to judge by effectiveness alone, then I judge you a master of the art.” He cleared his throat. “Undress for me. This time, you take them off.”
He rested, feeling his runaway heart begin to beat more evenly, as Bian swiftly removed her jacket and the shredded camisole, baring the small, round, full breasts that had filled him with such delight when he had first seen them. They still moved him and his hands twitched to touch them. But he forced himself to immobility and watched instead. The skirt was next and she removed it over her head, which dislodged her hairclips and combs. When she emerged from the velvet, she swiftly discarded the rest of her hair accessories. Her hair tumbled down to her waist and swung in a heavy black waterfall. She tossed the velvet aside and tugged at the drawstring on her petticoat, pulled the waist open enough to push it down her legs. He already knew she wore no underclothes beyond the petticoat but it still thrilled him to see her nakedness as she stepped out of the petticoat and threw that aside too.
She bent to reach for the laces of her high-heeled boots and he held out a hand. “No, enough,” he said quickly. “The hose, the shoes—leave them on.”
She straightened, then and stood with her hands at her side, not at all embarrassed by his study.
She was petite and utterly feminine, with full breasts and the waist that he had proved he could reach his hands around. Her hips flared out beneath and her abdominal muscles were unusually well defined for a woman. Stuart had only ever seen such muscles on women who spent a great deal of their time doing hard physical work. It was strangely arousing to see such signs of strength in such a womanly shape.
But then, everything about Bian was arousing. Or provoking.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” he said simply. Truthfully. He reached for her, bringing his hands around her waist. It was a delightful pleasure to grasp her in such a way.
Gently, he brought her down so that she was on her knees just as he was, then he tugged on her hands until she was on her hands and knees, facing him.
“Roman style, hmmm?” she murmured.
“This time,” he promised her.
In reaction, her eyes seemed to darken even more and the lids slid lazily half-closed. She swallowed. “You ensured I was more than ready in the carriage. Why do you linger?”
“To look and appreciate,” he assured her, as he moved behind her. She was spread open to his gaze and glistening with moisture.
He lowered himself down behind her, his body already starting to thrum in anticipation. He grasped her hips and slipped the tip of his cock into her folds. The heat radiating from her cleft was surprising. As he marvelled over it, she opened up to receive him and his cock slid a little inside her. At once, firm muscles closed around him, rippling with their own pleasure. It was more than he could stand. Quite without planning it, he thrust into her as deeply as he could reach and was enclosed by her. She gave a deep groan in response and thrust back.
For a moment he grew still, savouring the delight.
Her muscles tightened around him, with the same rippling stroke. It encouraged him to thrust into her again. He grew aware of the swiftly building explosion in him and knew that the climax was mere heartbeats away.
Prompted by the pleasure his unselfish service in the carriage had produced, he summoned enough discipline to halt his movements. It left him quivering and Bian glanced at him, puzzled.
“Trust me,” he assured her, renewing his grip on her hips. He brought her back with him as he tucked his feet under him and sat upon his calves, with Bian’s bottom against him. He was still buried within her but now she was spread across his thighs, her knees against them. She gasped as he nudged even deeper inside her.
She was such a small thing, that her head was even with his despite her elevated seat. It pleased him and he pushed aside the curtain of her hair and kissed the nape of her neck. It sent a shiver through her and she smiled at him, her eyes sleepy with arousal.
“And now what, my lord?” she teased. “I am to ride you like a jockey?”
“It would be the end of me if you did,” he murmured and nibbled at the soft, warm skin that dipped down to her clavicle. As he plundered her flesh, he skimmed his hand over her thigh, to dip between them and cup the heart of her. He was pleased at the deep shudder that went through her in response. She was slick with juices and her womanly nub was rigid and exposed to his fingers. He gently stroked it and was rewarded with her sharp, hard arch back against his chest, as her hips thrust forward.
“Oooh!” Her gasp had a helpless quality. She was at the mercy of her body, now.
Her out-thrust chest gave him another idea and he reached with his other hand to cup her breast and tease the nipple, tweaking and stroking it, in time to the rhythm of his right hand.
Her small hand gripped his wrist, clutching as her excitement built. From her hand, her laboured breathing and the stroking massage of her inner muscles around his cock, Stuart could tell her climax approached.
Finally, she threw her head back against his shoulder and bucked hard, as the waves of the orgasm washed through her. Her muscles clenched him and he gave a hard groan as, astonishingly, the ripples and clenching drew from him his own long-delayed climax. It thundered through him and for a moment the world seemed to grey out, sound ebbing in his ears, muffled by the pounding of his heart.
He propped himself up as she fell against him weakly.
“You…you are accomplished,” she said at last.
“A virtuoso is only as good as the instrument he plays.” It was utter truth. “You are my inspiration, Bian.”
He carried her to the big, silk-covered lounge with the unfashionably high back and laid her upon the cushions. A delicious, sleepy satiation had her in its grip and she was in no hurry to disperse it, for to do so would bring her face-to-face with the ugly dilemma she had made for herself.
“Very wide,” she judged, measuring with her hands. “But not long enough for you to lie upon with any sort of comfort.” She lifted her brow at him. “Or are you about to tell me you have never seduced a lady upon it before this day?”
“That would be an easy boast, as I have never allowed a lady inside this house before today.”
She frowned. “For a hunter, Stuart, you have surprising…”
“Limitations?” he suggested.
“Qualms,” she finished. “You abhor your prey impinging upon your real life so much?”
He sat on the edge of the cushions next to where her ankles lay crossed. “You misunderstand,” he said, gripping his hands together. “My prey are a part of my so-called real life. I refuse to allow them in here, where the life-that-might-have-been still lingers.” He looked at her sharply, the blue eyes raking over her face, looking for judgment. “You’re a part of that life. You gave it breath again.”
Abruptly, he stood to dispel his awkwardness at the confession. The muscles and tendons of his body flexed with the vigour of a healthy, strong man and as her heart and mind staggered under the impact of his announcement, she found herself studying with pure feminine appreciation. He was broad across the shoulders, large in every department.
He was hers, to do with as she pleased. He had just told her so. She had him exactly where Richard had wanted him to be: vulnerable and completely at her disposal.
Suddenly she hated her life and all the values and principles that shaped it. She hated Richard. Her duty. She hated it all with a passion that made her bite her lip to prevent a moan from escaping.
The one straw of comfort she could find, the one truth that gave her life meaning, was the inarguable fact that this man was a traitor to his country. No matter what he said, or how vulnerable he might be to her, he had betrayed everyone else with his actions. She sat up and hugged her knees, suddenly cold. It was becoming more difficult to remember that Stuart was a master dissembler. He had fooled prime ministers and heads of state. He had a knack for…well, for doing exactly what she was doing -- finding the vulnerability in others and exploiting it. While she did it for the sake of duty, he did it for personal gain.
And she would see his true colors revealed.
She watched as his shoulders lifted in the way that told her he was drawing a deep breath. Then he turned back to her. “Are you hungry, Bian?”
“A little.”
“I have a three day fast to break.” He hesitated, then asked, “Do you know how to cook?”
The servants were all dismissed for the day. Of course. She grimaced. “Do you like your charcoal well done or disintegrated?”
“Ah. The flambé style. I hear it is popular on the continent. We’ll have to put up with my cooking, then. I have a spare robe you could wear. I remember you like them over-large.”
She stood up. “I can see you really haven’t shared domestic experiences with a woman.”
He looked at her, puzzled.
“Do you have a clean shirt?” she asked.
It took a little negotiation before Stuart could disengage from his upbringing enough to allow her to have her way. But the sheer novelty of the idea won the day. Finally, he took her upstairs, showed her his bedroom and the drawer with the stacks of clean, old shirts that would no longer hold starch properly. He belted himself into a robe and finally, with some reluctance, left her to fend for herself without a maid, while he went to the kitchen to prepare a meal.
Bian was thankful to be alone. She needed time to gather her courage and her wits.
She spent the time reminding herself of what Stuart really was before this matter was too far out of hand for her to reverse it, while she thankfully stripped her garters and stockings and bathed herself using the room-temperature water in the jug beside the basin. After his time in the southern parts of Asia, Stuart was clearly more comfortable with heat, for the morning’s fire in the fireplace was radiating with a good supply of glowing coals and the room was still quite warm.
She selected the oldest and softest shirt she could find. It was nearly transparent with age and without the cuffs, it rolled up to her wrist without trouble. The front of the shirt came down almost to her knees. She looked in the cheval mirror quickly, to check. With her hair down and the abbreviated garment revealing her legs, she might have been back in Vietnam as a girl among women, soaking up feminine gossip along with political strategy, unnoticed and unwanted by all except her mother.
But the man waiting for her downstairs did want her. And he did not underestimate her.
She unfastened the next button on the shirt, so that the open neck lay against her breasts, showing the valley between. A casual movement would pull the shirt aside to show the swell of flesh and draw the eye.
As she went down the stairs to find the kitchen, she wondered if she had slipped the button undone to distract Stuart as her duty demanded, or to help herself to more of his wonderful attention.
She carefully avoided considering why she had not searched his room while she had been alone.
It was easy to find the kitchen. The smell of burnt toast was an unerring guide and closer, she could hear low curses—mild ones—that told her she had found the right spot. The rest of the house was utterly still and silent.
She stepped into the kitchen and saw Stuart at the woodstove, blackened toast in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. He was peering into the stove, trying to find a way to push the small log into the fire he had lit beneath a big, black kettle.
“I may not be able to cook but I do know you should have waited to toast your bread until you had coals,” she said.
He looked up and grinned. “Too hungry,” he confessed. “And I craved toast and marmalade.”
“Very English of you,” she said approvingly and sat upon the big wooden table in the middle of the room. It was scoured clean and white with age and use.
He thrust the log into the fire and shut the door on it with a sigh. “After four years in China, I find that three months back in England isn’t nearly long enough to catch up on those foods I craved while I was away.” And he bit the soggy bread with relish.
“Did you not eat as you do at home, while you were in Peking? I have known many diplomats at their postings and I did not see them stint themselves of the pleasures of home. They would have them shipped as they needed them. Certainly marmalade would have survived the length of the voyage.”
“Ah, but at a price. And such a price.” He frowned. “Yes, there were colleagues who ordered freely and without thought. It was because of them that I did not. And I confess I did not enjoy the delights of their table when asked to join them. Food does not transport well over such distances.”
He was opening cupboards as he spoke, searching for and placing items on the table by her, his attention not fully on her. It allowed her to hide her surprise. “So you ate as the Chinese eat?” she said carefully.
He opened the big pantry in the corner and studied the shelves. “I did not eat as the Chinaman in the streets ate. I had resources enough that I could maintain the diet of a high official. In fact, I had a Cantonese cook and he spent three years trying to find a recipe I would refuse to eat.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “He failed.” He went back to digging through the cupboard. “Ah, yes! Pork pie. I knew there must be some left.” He pounced on it and put the deep, round dish covered in linen on the table with the plates and cutlery he had already chosen.
“Did your colleagues accuse you of lack of patriotism?” she asked. “For eating Chinese and letting down the side?”
He was staring at her, the food abruptly forgotten. She grew conscious of her bare limbs, her heels swinging as she sat. The shirt preserved her modesty but the buttons she had loosened were revealing nearly all of one breast. From Stuart’s angle, he could probably see all of the breast through the billowing opening.
“Stuart?” she prompted.
“You really are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.”
She smiled a little. “The names your colleagues called you must have been terrible indeed for you to try to distract me so.”
He stepped closer to her, a tiny furrow between his brows. “But when you smile, it doesn’t reach your eyes anymore.” His big hand cupped her jaw and the thumb caressed her brow. “Why is that?”
Her heart began to flutter. “Perhaps I have recovered some of my maidenly sensibilities and regret the position in which I find myself.”
He shook his head absently, his thumb following her cheek. “No, it disappeared before today. I noticed it in the conservatory.”
She tried hard to control her uneasiness and not let any of it appear on her face. He was watching too closely for her control to slip even a little. Instead, she gripped the ties of his robe and tugged on them. “Really, Stuart, did they think you unpatriotic? I know what diplomats can be like. Such a habit would mark you as slightly peculiar in their eyes and they would pressure you with such names in order to bring you back into line.”
He refocused on her eyes, his mind drawing away from whatever distant thoughts possessed it. And he gave a small laugh. “If they called me names at all, it would have been for my zealousness.” The smile that came with his laugh faded. “There are too many men in the service who think loyalty is only a word and a faded, sentimental one at that.”
“But you do not?”
“No, I do not,” he said stiffly. He straightened, his hand falling away from her. “I know it’s fashionable to be world-weary and cynical but there’s too much of that. The Empire is tottering toward ruin because of it.”
How can this man be a traitor to England? She stared at him, unable to spot any sign that he was merely play acting. He seemed more genuine than any other man of her acquaintance.
Her heart was thundering now. How did Stuart live with such a strong belief and manage to betray his country at the same time? Why did it not break his soul in two?
For the first time in her life, Bian could not see her way forward. She knew her duty, knew what she had to do next. The proof against Stuart was circumstantial but beyond dispute of all but the highest court in the land. Before he left China, Stuart had been selling England’s military and intelligence secrets to the highest bidders among Chinese and international officials in the diplomatic circles within which he moved. The trail of meetings and documents had led right to him.
Bian’s brief had simply been to collect the sort of proof that would hold up in a court. Stuart’s guilt was already established.
She stared at him, recalling Richard’s voice giving her the outline of her assignment. Now she had met Stuart and with each crumb of knowledge she gathered about him, she grew increasingly confused and doubtful. Yet Richard had never been wrong before.
Stuart was staring at her hands as they hung from the ties of his gown and she knew his mind had turned to the carnal, to lust. She shivered and her body grew warmer. Her doubts fell away. She would take what she could and enjoy it, before doing her duty. And she would not stop to consider what that made her. Later – afterwards – she would worry about the consequences and her morals and soul. She would make amends to her conscience and whoever wanted to call her to task. Only, she would do it later.
For now, she would not think about it. She could not think about the incredible hole she was digging for herself with each caress and stroke and mindless murmur and moan.
Bian tugged the ties so they loosened and fell apart. Stuart’s eyes narrowed but he did not protest, despite his hunger.
She pushed the robe aside, revealing his naked body beneath and a shiver of delight ran through her. “Shrug it off,” she commanded, her voice rough with abrupt lust.
He shrugged and the gown dropped down around his ankles. He was already ramrod straight and hard and she shivered again and leaned back on the table and spread her legs. “Come here.”
He stepped between her knees and his thighs bumped against the edge of the table. “You must come forward,” he said, his own voice a rough burr.
She reached for him but he grabbed her hands. “Not yet,” he said. “Pass me the jar of marmalade, there. And open your shirt.”
She gave him the jar, her own hand trembling. Then she slipped the last of the buttons on the shirt undone and pushed the shirt fronts aside. The tips of her breasts were sharp, hard peaks.
He dipped two fingers into the marmalade and let dollops of it drop onto her breasts. She hissed in a breath. “Cold,” she murmured.
“Good.” He held out his smeared fingers. “Suck them.”
She let him slide his fingers into her mouth and licked them clean. She did a thorough job, working her tongue between them to get it all. Stuart was watching, his eyes narrowed. And his breath was shortening.
“You like that,” she judged.
“Your tongue, on the inside of my fingers…” He slid his hands beneath her bottom and brought her closer to the edge of the table. His hands were large and his strong fingers dug into her flesh. One hand was hot and the other had cold fingers from the marmalade.
“Put your legs around me,” he ordered.
She wrapped her legs around him, leaning back so that the marmalade did not dislodge from her breasts. The juice was trickling down the slope and circling her nipples. She shivered again at the cold touch.
Stuart leaned over her and licked at the small drops of marmalade, lapping them up. It seemed liked an odd sensation, but only for a moment. Then the heat of his soft tongue and the continual stroking across her breasts began to register on her nerves. He moved from one to the other, gathering up all of the marmalade, leaving the juice until last.
His hands were still under her bottom and she could feel his penis nudging at her open folds as he moved.
She slipped her hand between her legs and by feel alone, curled her fingers around the sacs beneath. They too, were hot to the touch and at her contact, Stuart murmured against her breast. “Higher,” he muttered.
“Not unless you go lower,” she returned.
His lips immediately began to follow the rivulets of juice to her nipples. She slipped her hand higher, gripping his shaft. He throbbed under her hand with a potent beat. As his mouth fastened onto her nipple, she could not help squeezing her hand.
She was rewarded with a nip of his teeth and it electrified her. She let her head roll backward, her eyes closing. The ascent of pleasure was building swiftly now. She could not wait.
With a deft movement, she impaled herself upon him and by pulling with her legs, made him thrust deep within her. His fingers pressed in upon her buttocks and he lifted his head to look at her. “That was devious,” he protested.
“You could have stopped me,” she pointed out.
He gave a tiny thrust within her, to show that he actually did have control. “True,” he agree, with a smile. “But I won’t touch your other breast until you bring your own hand between your legs.”
“W…what?”
“You know of what I speak.”
She licked her lips, her heart thundering. She did know. But this, too, was something she held away from the world.
“Bian, do you not know how arousing it is for a man to see it? To feel you climax around him?”
“I…I did not.” She could feel her cheeks flaming and that made her embarrassment complete. She stared up at him, unable to find an answer.
“Very well,” he said, relenting. “A small compromise. I will begin first.”
“Begin what?” she asked quickly.
He lowered his head to take her other breast into his mouth, drawing it deep, while his tongue lashed against it, stroking the nipple with relentless, delicious caresses. She let her eyes close and the waves of intense passion ripple over her and take her thoughts.
Then he lifted her hand to her pelvis. His intent was clear. She let her fingers slide into the moist channel. She was slick with juices and when she found it, her nub was thick, swollen and throbbing with its own heat. Her first stroke against it made her buck and she knew she would not last. “Oh, Stuart…quickly,” she warned.
“I know,” he said against her breast. “Keep going.”
“I won’t last!” she warned again.
“Come,” he encouraged. “Come with me inside you. Let me feel it.”
She kept up the familiar stroking with her fingers, feeling the orgasm build in her. She did not try to halt it. Instead she immersed herself in the quickening sensations, enriched by having him inside her. Consciousness, the world itself, fell away. All that remained was her pleasure, and Stuart. She was conscious of him watching her face, watching her excitement.
She climaxed with a gasping cry that tore at her throat. Her body bucked. The orgasm had not nearly ebbed when she felt Stuart’s fingers on her hips, as he thrust hard into her. She forced her gaze to focus and saw what looked like both pain and pleasure twisting Stuart’s features. His gaze was locked on her, the hooded blue eyes glittering with intensity.
“Yes, come for me,” she whispered.
It was all he needed. He came with a roar, the tendons on either side of his neck straining against the flesh. And with every nerve in her own body still twitching and sensitive, she could feel his hot seed spill into her.
He propped himself up against the table, breathing hard, still watching her. Still buried in her. “And yet I want more,” he said hoarsely.
She caressed his cheek. “I would not have these moments end,” she said honestly. But she did not voice the other half of the thought—that once these few precious moments with Stuart were over, she must return to her duty and find the evidence Richard needed to pronounce Stuart guilty of treason.