“What transpired was all part of the game to win at any cost. You hoped to unsettle me with an unexpected move, I played along and sought to reciprocate. Temptation, desire, yearning had no part in any of it. I’m still an ice princess, Marcus Stanwick. You’ll not thaw me.” That last bit was most certainly a lie, tossed in to help her retain her pride. The moment he’d touched her, she’d melted completely and utterly.
“Is that all it was?” he asked silkily.
She bestowed upon him a cold, arrogant glare. “Do you want to stay and work together or not?”
“I want to stay.”
“Then there’s to be no more foolishness in trying to get the better of me. We’re equal partners in this. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good. The library. In an hour.” It would take her that long to shore back up her defenses in order to resist the lure of him.
Chapter 10
If she hadn’t been affected by that kiss, then she was indeed made of ice. If Marcus had been wearing his boots, the power of it would have knocked them clear off. He’d never had a woman meet him on such equal terms, give in equal measure what she was receiving. Women welcomed him, but few had been able to match his passions—even if only for a kiss. But Esme Lancaster was formidable in every way imaginable.
As Marcus lifted away the scrap of linen he’d pressed to his shoulder, he was grateful to see the bleeding had stopped. He’d felt no discomfort or pain as they’d tumbled about. He’d been too focused on her, on striving to get the upper hand. Then when he’d kissed her—
She was no ice princess. She was all heat and fire. Once he’d taken the plunge, he’d felt he wasswirling about in a vortex of flames that served to only increase the pleasure. That she hadn’t experienced the same—
How could she have not?
After splashing water on his face, he washed up, striving not to imagine her on the other side of the wall, lounging in a tub of steaming water, with droplets rolling along her skin, between her breasts. If he hadn’t been worried about bringing her discomfort because of her wound, he might have indulged and given her breast a squeeze when he was kissing her but folding his hand over her derriere had certainly been satisfying. She was firm everywhere. Her arse, her legs, her arms. She moved with such purpose. And he needed to do the same now.
Swiping his shirt from the bed, he donned it and then his waistcoat, neckcloth, and coat before heading down to the library.
Her hands braced on the desk, she leaned over it, studying something before her. She now wore a frock the shade of golden-orange autumn leaves. It brought out the red hints in her mahogany hair. He closed and opened his hand, recalling the soft texture of the strands. It had been a mistake to touch her so intimately because now he wanted only to touch again. Even if she’d burned him, he’d yearn to touch again.
She glanced up and offered him the smallest of smiles. “Good. You’re here. I’d like you to look this over. It’s a list of the nobility. I’ve scratchedthrough the names of those Brewster and I have been able to eliminate as potential conspirators.”
Only then did he notice Brewster standing off to the side, arms crossed, his eyes as hard as flint. Marcus saw him in a different light now: her assistant, her confidant, her trusted ally.
“Let us know if there are any you feel can be eliminated,” she said, drawing his attention back to her.
“Since I would have removed my father from the list, I don’t know that I’m the best judge. It seems to me it would be someone we least suspect, someone whose name we would immediately remove as being an improbable traitor.”
She smiled fully then. “You see, Brewster, I told you he was a clever chap.”
Brewster seemed not at all happy, and Marcus suspected he’d just passed some sort of test. “I have a better idea. Let’s pay Podmore a visit this evening and find out exactly what that list of seemingly random words represents and why he keeps it hidden.”
“We risk his learning we suspect him of being involved in this plot—and that we are aware it is still being planned and coordinated.”
“You don’t think they’re aware we’re in pursuit? Is that not the reason that they’ve yet to strike against the Queen—because they don’t know what we know? Is that not the reason you were pursued when you left Podmore’s?”
“I suppose you have a point.” She sighed. “Allthis waiting around is deuced irritating. O doesn’t want us upsetting the applecart but perhaps it’s time we did.”
Near midnight, Esme and Marcus took up positions within the shadows of Podmore’s garden to wait until the last of his guests departed. The once heir to a dukedom was as still as death but stood near enough to her that she could feel the warmth emanating from his body. He very much reminded her of a predator that had stalked its prey and was now anticipating the perfect moment to strike. She could sense that every aspect of him was on alert. She’d never wanted to wrap herself around a man more.
They’d debated whether to inform O of their plans, but in the end had decided against it. Somehow, that decision made being here with him all the more intimate, as though this was their mission and theirs alone. As though they were sharing something unique to the two of them.
Brewster had remained with the carriage, parked in a mews a few streets over. She was left with the sense that the two men didn’t quite trust each other. They were like two roosters, puffing out their chests and crowing, strutting about, striving to dominate the henhouse. Brewster wasn’t accustomed to sharing her on a daily—or nightly—basis. In the evenings, when they had no threads to pull or avenues to pursue in their mission to ensure the Queen’s safety, he and shewould play chess or read before the fire. They seldom shared any personal details of their lives, but a camaraderie existed between them that she found comforting. She viewed him as she might a brother or dear friend. She’d assumed he’d felt similarly, but the tension in the household, between these two men, made her wonder if she’d misread Brewster’s feelings toward her. If she had, what else had she gotten wrong? Was she a fool to trust the man standing beside her, to be so intrigued by him, to even now remember the flavor of his mouth upon hers and to want to experience that taste again?
He turned his head toward her, and she did hope he hadn’t somehow managed to detect her thoughts. “Podmore doesn’t seem to be entertaining tonight.”
“If he’s even home.” They could see light emerging from only one window, conveniently, the library.
“Shall we explore the possibility?”
