Kasey Michaels - Much Ado About Rogues

She heard footsteps and quickly closed the drawer.

“Lady Thessaly? You are requested upstairs.”

Tess smiled at her old nurse, easily falling into French along with her, as the woman may have reluctantly learned enough English in two decades of living on this damp island to get along, but she thought the language vile and “without music,” and avoided it whenever she could. “Yes, thank you, Emilie, I imagine I am.”

“But no more with the breeches the marquis so foolishly allows when you go riding on that devil’s spawn you favor. Master Jack has no need of such a show of immodesty.”

“It’s far too late for any modesty when it comes to Master Jack, Emilie,” Tess pointed out as she got to her feet, suddenly feeling as old as time, decades beyond her five and twenty years. “If you could have Arnette order up the tub for an hour from now and lay out my white watered silk gown, as I do believe Master Jack will be joining me for dinner.”

“The white, my lady? You haven’t worn that one in years. It will need to be freshened.” Emilie’s careworn face assembled itself into a knowing smile. “Ah, now I remember. As do you, as will he. It will be done as you say.”

“Yes, thank you, Emilie.” Tess sat back down after the servant left, the memory of the last time she’d worn that gown washing over her.

Look at you. So beautiful. Light to my dark, blessed day to my lonely night. I love you, Tess. God help me, I love you. Let me love you…

Tess closed her eyes, hugging her arms close about her. She could feel Jack’s hot, hungry gaze reaching out to her across the empty years, began to blossom again at the memory of his touch as he’d instigated increasingly bold forays that had sent flames of awakening desire licking along her every nerve. She could still savor the terror and thrill inside her as the white silk gown had whispered down her body to puddle at her feet before he’d lifted her, carried her to the bed, joined her on the cool satin coverlet.

What had followed had been an initiation of the senses, a tutorial of such precise, intimate detail that there could no longer be any question as to why God had formed her the way she was, Jack how he was, and for what purpose they’d been brought together.

He’d taught her all her own secrets, and then encouraged her to explore his. They’d touched, tasted. He’d taken her to the brink, again and again, with his mouth, with his clever hands probing her, taking her hand and introducing her to the pleasures of her body, teaching her what she liked so she could tell him, so he could follow her movements with his own.

Together, they discovered just the right rhythms to turn her limbs to water, to coax soft whispers and whimpers from her throat, to make her so ready for him she never noticed the pain that came and went in an instant, to be replaced with a fullness that had her grinding her hips against him, begging him to finish it, to let her fly free of this glorious torment.

She put a hand to her breast now, felt her rapid heartbeat. Allowed her other hand to drift down to the juncture of her thighs, to press her fingers against the ache growing there, the longing that threatened to destroy her. Release, that sweet, sweet explosion. She needed it, craved it, knew how to find temporary respite in the dark of a lonely night when the memories and the hunger became too much. But never how to truly satisfy it. Not across the long years, not now. Only Jack could do that.

But she needed more than that temporary release; she needed parts of Jack he’d never given her, and never would. She needed to be first to somebody. Before Crown, before duty, before revenge or hate or the thrill of the fight. She needed a man who wouldn’t walk away, even when she ordered him to go.

So not again, never again. They’d destroyed each other once, and once had been more than enough. She was a woman now, with responsibilities and no room in her life for what might have been. She knew that when it came to Jack she had few weapons in her arsenal. But that gown should serve her as well as any suit of armor. Jack would remember, as she remembered, and he wasn’t the sort to knowingly make the same mistake twice.

Disgusted with her temporary weakness, she stood up and quit the room. She had much to arrange before Jack returned.

JACK SETTLED INTO the chair in the private room of the Castle Inn, nodding his greetings to Will and Dickie as the latter filled a glass with wine from a decanter and pushed it across the tabletop to him.

“Learn anything today?” Will asked, using the point of his dagger to skewer a small bit of cheese and pop it into his mouth.

“Yes. There are times your table manners can be execrable.” Jack took a sip of wine. He wanted first to hear what they’d managed to unearth while he was at the manor house. “Dickie?”

“I agree, and we didn’t just learn that today,” Dickie Carstairs said, grinning at Will. “Oh, you want to know what we’ve managed to ferret out, don’t you? Very well. Your mentor departed this benighted village eight days ago on the public coach heading north. He carried with him a fairly large trunk, purchased just that morning, and a rather cumbersome cloth bag he declined to place in the boot but actually put down the blunt for its own seat, so that he could keep it with him inside the coach. Although he is well-known here, the bumpkins I spoke with didn’t know they were seeing the marquis board the coach.”

“How so?” Jack asked, if only to keep Dickie talking. He already recognized where this story was leading. After all, hadn’t a part of his training been to pass unnoticed under the eyes of the villagers who had been seeing him almost daily for a year?

“Oh, that. Yes, well, it would seem that the passenger they saw was described as looking much like a member of the clergy. One of those queer, foreign autem bawlers, you know? Wearing skirts, and with a rope of beads with a whacking great cross hanging at the end of it tied around his waist, a hat as flat and big as a platter pushed down over the cowl on his head. Kept trying to trace his blessings on everybody who came close, so the good citizens rather kept their gazes down as they steered around him, trying to avoid gaining his attention. A costume, of course.”

“And a good one if you’re walking where you would otherwise be recognized,” Jack said, nodding. The monk disguise had been among those missing from the collection in the hidden room. There were others. “Go on.”

Jack contemplated his wineglass as Dickie went on to explain that the stranger had taken a private room at this very inn two weeks earlier, appearing and disappearing with no regularity, probably going out and about, saving souls. But always generous with his tips as he asked that his privacy be maintained so that he wasn’t disturbed while at his prayers. He may have slept in his bed, he may not have, no one was certain. Overall, he was quiet and no trouble, coming in and out, always carrying something with him, the same cloth bag already mentioned.

“He was slowly bringing what he needed from the manor, both in the bag and beneath his monk’s robes,” Dickie concluded, stating the obvious. “He couldn’t be seen leaving the place with a traveling trunk, he couldn’t make anyone at the manor suspicious. So he did it piecemeal, and in secret. And no one suspected. Clever.”

Will stabbed another bit of cheese. “Clever enough to disembark at the very next village and hire a wagon for his luggage, then head out again, this time going west. And, before Dickie drags the business out too far, an old lady driving a farm wagon entered the next village, only to ride away in the southbound Royal Mail coach, her traveling trunk on the roof, a large cloth bag beside her. He had to pay for an extra seat again, which is why he was remembered. He’s for London, Jack. He’s in London.”