Chapter Seventeen

Her lips were soft and cool. They trembled once, then firmed beneath his. She did not part them, nor did she angle her head to encourage him, but the loosening of the hands gripping his arms told him her fear had eased.

Then she did the unimaginable, sending a heady and unholy lust tearing through him. She rose on her toes to bring their mouths into better alignment. A simple gesture, one that probably meant very little to her.

It meant everything to him.

He could taste her more perfectly, her scent rising into the air to mingle with the rain. She stepped closer, cloak falling open to draw him between wings of expensive velvet. Her lips parted on a soft, quiet breath, body rising as if there had been a sudden shift in her awareness. Had she been kissed before? He thought not—she was a lady, not a doxy.

He would do well to remember who he shielded her from, and more, the status of the woman who had moved from a few inches away to fully within the circle of his arms.

With regret, Jones released her lips and angled his head so that he nuzzled somewhere near the graceful curve of her neck. He caressed temptation as much as regret.

“Do you see him?” he rasped, wondering if she recognized lust in a man’s voice. “Is he still there?”

“Yes, but he is not looking at us. Jones—” She broke off, lips close enough he could feel the heat of them.

She pressed her mouth to his, chastely, lips together, but hard enough he felt the hunger in her. He couldn’t read the lines of her body, the planes of her face or curves of her lips, but he felt urgency. Her hand fisted in the edge of his coat, strong, small fingers twisting the fabric.

He wanted to cup her cheeks, to taste her fully, but—

Holding firm, he let her kiss him again before she pulled back, and when she looked up at him, he was certain she’d carved out a small part of his heart.

“Is it— I was not ready for this, Jones.” There was no trembling, no fear in her. “I am not prepared for desire.”

“Neither am I,” he murmured, belly clutching.

He ought not to have touched her. He should never have begun this pretense, Wycomb or not, because he had known what it would lead to.

Perhaps in his heart of hearts, it was why he had.

She was something he could never be. No matter that he’d craved the taste of her, that the stunning blue of her eyes haunted his sleep. He could never have her, not in any reality. Under the pretense of espionage, he could pretend for only a moment—yet there was no honor in that.

He did what he should have done in the beginning. Sliding his hands around her waist, he lifted his head away from hers so there was no promise of a kiss between them. He pressed her more firmly against the brick wall of the tavern. With the right positioning, he could block her body entirely, and if he were strong, if he controlled himself, he would avoid her temptation as he should have done.

But her eyes, oh, those wide, hungry eyes, stared at him.

What had he done?

“Do you see him, my lady?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “The carriage is gone. He’s standing next to the wall, just as we are, to stay dry.”

“There is no one with him?”

“Not yet.” She shook her head, her eyes still wide, but now a light smile tugged at her lips. “Do you know, Jones, this is the second time you and I have stood in the rain like this.”

“I remember.” He had not kissed her that time, though he had wanted to then as much as he did now. “It was wet.”

“‘It was wet.’” Her smile bloomed, as bright as if the sun had pierced through the dull, variegated gray of the clouds above. A laugh slipped between her lips, the hands still holding the edge of his coat tugging slightly. “Oh, Jones, you have a way with words. Do all the ladies swoon at your feet when you speak such love-words to them?”

“I do not speak to ladies.” He did not have any experience with—what had she said? Love-words?

“Do not worry. I was only jesting.” Her lips were still curved as she flicked her eyes to Wycomb. The smile died away instantly. “Someone has met my uncle.”

“Tell me.”

“They did not shake hands,” she murmured. “They’re only talking, standing side by side. The stranger is shorter than Wycomb and his clothes are not of the same quality. He’s wearing only a coat, no greatcoat, and a cap like yours.” Her eyes returned to Jones’s face, then moved up to his cap, then back to the two men. “Yes. Just like yours.”

“Can you see their faces?”

“Only from the side. Wycomb is—” She squinted, thick lashes nearly touching. “He is not angry, but he is not happy, either. The other man is frowning, and he is quite angry. He’s gesturing with his hands and arms, and is even pointing at Wycomb.” Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open.

“What?” Rain poured from the slate roof above, tiny waterfalls pounding onto his shoulders rather than craggy rocks.

“He poked Wycomb in the chest with his finger.” Incredulity swelled in her tone. “And Wycomb took a step back.”

“Does he look scared?” He wanted to see for himself—needed to see it for himself—but doing so would risk exposing her.

“Not scared. He’s furious.” She frowned as she studied the scene.

“What is he doing?”

“Nothing. It is how I know he’s furious.” She rose up to see better over his shoulder. “He’s not moving, and his head is angled to one side as though he’s amused at the other man’s ranting. When he stands so perfectly still, he is beyond furious. And, well, he becomes colder and colder as he becomes angrier—which sounds ridiculously foolish.”

“No.” Jones shook his head, looking down into the pale face beneath the hood. A faint, embarrassed flush tinged her cheekbones. “You know him, how he reacts.”

“I don’t recognize the man, but, Jones, he’s no dock worker or sailor. He’s not dressed in the same quality of clothing, yet his mannerisms, the way he moves and his skin, his teeth—he’s not lived a rough life. He’s of the aristocracy, or at least a merchant or of the gentry.”

“You’d make a passable spy, my lady.”

Her smile was quick, showing that she, too, had good teeth. “Thank you, Jones. I find that quite a compliment.” There was silence for a moment as she carefully studied Jones’s face, leaving him wondering what she saw when she looked at him. Then she turned back to the scene unfolding behind him, again squinting through the rain. “The other man is right in Wycomb’s face, leaning very close, and—can you hear it?”

“Oh yes.” The words were clear enough, though the wheels of a passing hackney did their best to drown out the noise.

“One week, Wycomb! One week is all you’ll get from us!” the stranger shouted.

Jones needed to see the second man’s face. He might be a spy or an informant. It would be exceedingly negligent to the mission—not to mention detrimental—and his commander would tan his hide if he found out.

He tugged her hood forward, fingers brushing against damp red tendrils.

“Keep your face turned down toward the ground. Do not look up.” When the baroness did as he’d instructed, Jones turned his head and upper body enough to get a good, clear look at the men behind them.

The stranger stepped back from Wycomb, though there was nothing defensive or submissive about the movement. Jones saw his face at three-quarter view and committed the brown hair, wide set eyes, and thin lips to memory. Then he turned back to the baroness, quickly hiding his own face again.

“I don’t recognize him, either.” But Jones wouldn’t if the man were of the ton.

The baroness tipped her face up again and the hood fell back slightly to reveal a loose curl flirting with her jawbone. Before the idea solidified in his brain, Jones reached up to twine the lock about his finger. The red was bright against his skin, soft against the calluses of his fingers.

When he realized what he was doing, when he heard the sharp intake of her breath and her eyes met his, he dropped the curl and tugged the hood back up.

“What are they doing now?” he asked, trying to pretend he could not still feel her smooth, silky hair on his skin.

“The other man is leaving and my uncle is looking around.” She averted her face, then a moment later flicked her gaze back up. “Now he’s walking toward the Thames. He’s—yes, he’s walking down the dock toward a ship.”

“Which one. Can you read the name?”

She shook her head. “It’s too far.”

“Is Wycomb facing us?”

“No.”

Jones turned only his head to confirm Wycomb was where he expected—jogging up the gangway and slipping over the side of a ship. He disappeared, but Jones needed nothing more.

The ship was the Anna Louisa.

“Hell.” He needed to follow, quickly, but he couldn’t leave the baroness leaning against the side of the building. Alone.

The rain had slowed to a sprinkle, but dusk had grayed the air. Still, the blue of her eyes was bright.

“Come with me.” He held out a hand for her, palm up. “I’ll protect you.”

She looked at his fingers, then his face, and set her gloved hand in his ungloved one. The fine kid leather was softer than anything he could think of.

Except, perhaps, her skin.

Jones pulled her along with him toward the Anna Louisa, moving at a half jog. She kept pace with him easily, half-boots lightly pounding the cobblestones. Water sloshed around her skirts, turning the remaining bits of dry fabric a dismal shade as water seeped into the fibers. Determination sculpted her features.

They moved across the wooden dock, reaching the gangway of the Anna Louisa. Standing there, surveying the planked path through the gloom, he knew he should not bring her onto the ship.

He was going to do it anyway.

He’d just have to ensure she was safe.

Jones studied the deserted deck, the gangway, the docks. No one would notice two strangers in the gloom of a wet dusk, but if they lingered too long, they would draw attention to themselves.

“Please, do as I say, my lady.”

“I’m not a fool.” Sharp words, but he heard the fear beneath them. She nodded once, pulling at the edges of her sodden cloak. “I am well over my head now.”

He had not expected her to admit it. “You certainly are not a fool.”

Tightening his hold on her hand, he scaled the gangway of the Anna Louisa, fingers of his free hand digging into rope guards and booted toes planted firmly on the wood.

His feet were silent out of habit. Hers were just as silent. No sound met his ear but water against the hull, the scrape of leather sole on wood, and distant shouting on the docks.

“Wait.” Jones let her gloved fingers slip from his hands when they reached the head of the gangway. He dropped onto the deck, grimacing as his boots made a soft, dull thud on the slatted wood. Jones crouched, waiting for her to join him. When she did, he slid himself into the shadow between rail and decking, and waited for her to do the same.

There was nothing unusual about the rigging or the deck, nor the masts or the wheel. Rope snaked in all directions, coiling in corners and twisting over the wooden planks. More hung from above, or were pulled tight to secure the sails. Crates were stacked, barrels lashed together, ready to be lowered into the hold.

There was nothing here to see beyond the typical workings of a ship.

Except it wasn’t deserted.

The ship’s watchman sat on a barrel not thirty feet from them. He was turned away, enthusiastically stabbing his dinner with the tip of a knife. Chunks of meat, thick slices of bread. Simple fare. Judging from the barrel with its top removed beside him, ale was being just as enthusiastically consumed.

He didn’t need to tell the baroness to be quiet—wide eyes stared from beneath her hood, their whites glowing in the gloom.