Vidia sat in her chambers, her pistol on the dressing table, debating whether to wake Maisie. She knew from long experience that it was important to tend a cut immediately so as to avoid a scar, but she was expecting a visitor and besides, she wasn’t in the mood to have to explain what had happened—not until she had straightened out the story in her mind. Brodie had the right of it, but she hadn’t been willing to tell him that the reason she knew that it was her compatriots who had set up the abduction attempt was because she had heard Carstairs’s voice in the throng, quietly urging the young man to see to her wound. He must have been disguised as a servant, and she was surprised she hadn’t spotted him; she had recognized his voice, though—even though it was only one of many. You are a hopeless case, she thought, picking at the lace on her best dressing gown. You should call Maisie, bar the door, pull on a plain cotton nightdress, and go to bed.
Instead she waited, clad in her lace dressing gown and practicing with a deck of cards—she hadn’t played in a few days and it was important to keep her hands dexterous. She did not doubt that Carstairs would make an appearance, and did not doubt that he would make his way undetected past the Frenchman stationed outside and the additional guard Brodie had posted this evening.
Her patience was rewarded when she heard a tapping on her chamber door even though she had left it ajar. He didn’t want to frighten her, she thought with irony. It was a bit late for such concerns.
“Come in,” she said, and turned to hold her pistol on him.
Raising his hands, he stood still. “I am unarmed.”
She made a derisive sound and he amended, “I am armed but I shall not draw.”
As he stepped into the room they regarded each other; he was dressed in dark clothes from head to foot—the only contrast coming from the candlelight’s exposure of his intense blue eyes. She thought about those eyes and did not invite him to sit.
“I wanted to see that you are recovered.”
“As you see.” Her tone was mild, her pistol unwavering.
He hesitated. “You were unwell, I think.”
Deus, if he only knew. She smiled. “Only a feint, to stop a quarrel.”
“Ah.”
She waited.
His gaze traveled to the cut on her arm. “Do you need a stitch or two?”
“No,” she replied in an exasperated tone. “And everyone should quit asking.”
“Then where is the binding tape?”
Weighing her options, she relented and placed her pistol on the table, produced the tape, and allowed him to draw up a chair and reposition the candle so that he could see better. He examined the cut on her upper arm and met her eyes. “I sew a fine seam.”
“Not on me, you don’t,” she retorted. “Apply the tape and begone.”
He did, asking her to hold one end in place while he carefully wrapped the tape around her arm, his head bent close to her own. “I am sorry for this.”
“Are you?” She made no effort to keep the bitter edge from her voice.
His eyes met hers, and she wondered, unbidden, whether the child would have his eyes. He insisted, “I am indeed sorry. And I am here out of coverage.”
Watching him, she decided that perhaps this was the truth. “Do you believe me tainted?”
He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know what I believe.”
Chiding him, she said, “I thought you agreed to give me warning before I was clapped in irons.”
“No,” he corrected her softly, his gaze on hers. “I never agreed.”
Struggling to control herself, she accused, “Yes—you asked me to come to you if I needed help.”
“You have not come to me,” he pointed out.
Dropping her head, she felt a sudden and surprising inclination to cry. She hadn’t cried in many years—not even when Rochon’s man held his knife to her face, discussing which of her beautiful eyes he should remove first.
“It is a damnable situation,” Carstairs said in the same soft tone. “Shall we set it aside for an hour and agree not to speak of it?”
“I suppose we can try,” she agreed, calming herself. I should tell him about the baby, she thought, but could not bring herself to do it—not in this vulnerable state, so uncharacteristic of her. Instead she asked, “Would you like to play cards?”
“I would,” he promptly responded. “I watched you at the club—you are a very good cheat.”
It was a sincere compliment. “Thank you,” she said, and began to deal.
He pulled his chair closer. “Are we playing for points or money?”
“Points,” she decided, sorting the cards with a flick of her wrist. “Then I won’t be tempted to cheat.”
With a smile, he gathered up his hand. “Every now and then,” he mused, arranging his cards before making a discard, “I get a glimpse of what lies beneath that façade.”
“My snail shell,” she replied, unperturbed.
His lips curved in amusement. “There; it happened again.”
She pounced on his discard. “On the other hand, I am not certain I have ever been given such a glimpse.”
His gaze flicked up to meet hers. “You have—you were perhaps unaware.” She knew he referred to their night together and as these were dangerous waters, she made no reply.
As they continued to play, he observed, “One becomes cynical in this business; in the end it permeates every aspect—even the personal.”
She turned over her cards to show she had won the hand. “But trust is always an issue, whether in business or the personal—wouldn’t you agree?”
He gathered up the cards to redeal while she marked the points. They were very evenly matched, she decided, and tried to control that yearning feeling that always seemed to rise up within her when she was in his company.
Thoroughly shuffling the cards, he offered, “I agree—but that is not what I meant. We are trained not to trust anyone in order to survive, but it creates such a disadvantage—it poisons the atmosphere so that we are unwilling to take a chance on trust.” He met her eyes. “Even when it means we forfeit a chance at happiness.”
“Do you think it possible to trust another person to such an extent?” She was genuinely curious. “And how would one know, in any event?”
“True—we have seen so much duplicity. And it is against our natures, you and me, to be made vulnerable.”
She nodded, pausing to finger the cards in her hand and thinking him very astute. “So the manner in which we live our lives has taught us that reposing trust in another person is not only foolish, but dangerous.”
“It is a shame,” he agreed, taking her discard. “I wonder if we could change our natures.”
“You had a wife,” she reminded him. It seemed an opportune time to make the reminder; she could practically feel the heat emanating from him across the table.
“I did,” he agreed, and did not elaborate.
She decided that for the briefest instant she had seen beneath his façade and wanted to follow up. “Do you miss her?” The question was sincere—she had always had the impression they were a devoted couple but his willingness to pursue her—and so soon after Marie’s death—didn’t mesh with that impression.
Studying his hand, he chose his words with care. “Marriage is not always easy; even the most compatible couple may not have a smooth road at all times. It is hard to explain to someone who observes it only from the outside.”
“You mistake the matter,” she said calmly. “I am widowed, myself.”
His gaze flew to hers, startled, and there was a pause. “I did not know—I am sorry.”
Watching his reaction carefully, she decided his surprise was genuine. Interesting, she thought—he was not in their spymaster’s confidence.
Carstairs’s eyes still rested upon her, assessing this revelation. “How did he die?”
“On the Peninsula—during the war.” With a monumental effort she forced herself to relax and curtailed any more questions by asking her own. “How long were you married?”
“Six years,” he said. “And you?”
“Nearly two.” Realizing she had bitten off the syllable, she tried to make up for her lapse of composure. “A very tumultuous time.”
He nodded slowly. “I can well imagine. Will you wed again?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation, drawing a card. “You?”
With gentle amusement he replied, “I regret to say it appears not.”
She glanced up in surprise and met his gaze, fixed upon hers with teasing warmth. Smiling and shaking her head, she tried to control those butterflies again. “Come now, Lucien—if we were wed we would be afraid to swallow our breakfast tea and would be forced to sleep with one eye open.”
“There wouldn’t be much sleeping,” he corrected her, “and therefore even if you poisoned my breakfast tea, I would die a happy man.”
Dangerous waters, she reminded herself. Don’t start thinking about being abed with him—too much is at stake.
But he had no such qualms as he reached over to take her hands in his, the cards falling to the table. “Allow me to demonstrate,” he said softly, pulling her up with him as he stood and brought his mouth down to hers. I shouldn’t, she thought—I have no idea if he means a word he says. But almost against her will, her mouth softened beneath his as he kissed her gently and began to untie the ribbons on her dressing gown.
“Vidia,” he whispered, his mouth moving to her throat. “Sweetheart—I have wanted this ever since that first night.”
Ah yes—that first night, she thought as her hands came up to caress his shoulders. I’ve already paid the price—there seems little point in holding him at arm’s length at this late date.
The dressing gown fell to the floor as he lifted her in his arms to carry her to the bed, his head bent to hers as he traced his mouth across her cheeks. Laying her into the luxurious featherbed, he followed her down and lay atop her, shrugging out of his coat in between kisses.
“Aren’t you going to take off your boots?” she whispered in bemusement.
He did not pause in his endeavors, but confessed, “I am afraid if I give you a moment to think, you will change your mind.” He rested with his forearms on either side of her head and moved his mouth to her throat.
Placing a hand on his cheek, she chuckled. “I won’t change my mind—may as well be comfortable.”
Lifting himself off her, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots as she knelt on the bed and embraced him from behind, nuzzling the nape of his neck and reaching around to unbutton his shirt buttons.
He seized her hands and kissed them, one at a time, then stood to peel off his shirt and breeches. Her hands tracing his ribs, she said, “You will have to tell me of your scars, sometime.”
“Not now,” he muttered, his need urgent as he lifted her nightdress over her head. His warm hands slid down the sides of her breasts, her waist, her hips. “You are so beautiful—and I don’t care how many times you’ve heard it before.”
Murmuring into his mouth she replied, “Then tell me again.”