Winter's Heat: A Nemesis Unlimited Holiday Novella (12 page)

She tugged at the hem of her chemise, but he took over the task, pulling the thin muslin up and over her head in one smooth motion. In an instant, her drawers had been undone, the cotton pooling at her feet. Now they were both naked.

No one had ever seen her like this. Yet she fought the impulse to cover herself. Instead, she kept her arms at her sides, letting him look his fill. And he looked. At her breasts, of course, and the triangle of hair between her legs, but everywhere else, too. Her arms, shoulders, belly, legs. What he saw must have pleased him, because his breathing grew ragged, and his hands curled into themselves.

She’d heard that nakedness was a sin, especially between a man and a woman not bound by marriage. But she felt no sense of shame to be like this with Michael. Only rightness.

And hunger. They both stepped together, and both gasped as their nude bodies pressed close. Their mouths met again, and their hands were eager in exploration. He seemed to want to know all the places of her body, the soft and the muscled that proclaimed she wasn’t a lady. Just as she wanted to know everything that was him. His deliciously tight arse. The firm contours of his thighs and the landscape of his back. And all the while, she felt that wondrous press of his penis against her belly, and the growing slickness between her legs.

He moved, or she did. Difficult to know, or care, as they tumbled back onto the bed. The coverlet beneath her was chill and a little stiff from disuse, yet she didn’t care. All that mattered was them, together, their limbs interwoven, their hands continuing to stroke and caress and discover. He cupped her breast, then took her nipple between his long fingers and gently squeezed, forcing a pleasured gasp from her. And when she writhed from these attentions, one of his hands trailed down her stomach. Down, down. Until he found her most intimate place. A place only she had touched until now.

She arched up with a moan as he stroked her, gently at first, giving her time to get used to his touch. When her legs opened wider, he seemed to know this was his invitation, and he caressed her, gliding between her folds, his finger circling her opening and then moving up to rub that one bit of flesh.

Sensation filled her, removing everything but him and the pleasure he created. All the while his mouth held to hers, swallowing her every gasp and moan.

But for all the exquisite sensation, she needed to give him some pleasure, too. Her hand slid down between them. Until she took his length in her hand. The first time she’d ever touched a man like this.

“Show me,” she breathed. “What you like.”

He swore, then wrapped his hand around hers and guided her, showing her how to stroke him. Until she learned the rhythm, and his hand fell away. He gritted his teeth in an expression of agonized pleasure.

They touched each other intimately, his strokes growing more commanding, her own turning bold. A drop of fluid slicked her fingers, and she realized it came from him.

Sensation continued to build within her, bright and demanding, centering where he touched her. Until her release refused to be held back. It crashed through her in a glittering torrent, overwhelming her. The climax had her in its grasp, flooding her with pleasure. She bowed up from the bed, lost to it. He took her cry in his own mouth, as if feeding off her pleasure.

“My lass,” he murmured, as her shudders subsided. “My beautiful lass. I want everything.”

“It’s yours,” she answered.

Then he was above her, winter light gleaming over his shoulders and in his eyes, as he braced himself. His legs lay between hers. The blunt tip of his penis rubbed against her opening. She felt her own desire coating him, making them both ready. Despite the ecstasy that had swept over her, and her certainty of what she wanted, there was a quick spike of fear, and she gripped tightly to his corded forearms.

She knew he felt her fear, because he dipped his head low and kissed her, deeply. At the same time, he thrust forward. Into her.

She knew there would be pain—though it wasn’t as much as she’d believed—but not this … otherness. This separate self within her. Joining them.

He held himself still, and she felt the knots of the muscles in his arms working to keep motionless at great cost. But he didn’t move. Giving her time, she realized, to learn this new sensation.

In slow tides, her body relaxed. Taking him in further. It stunned her when he slid in even deeper—he hadn’t given her his full length until now. She discovered the wonder of this intimate union. And when she shifted, unexpected pleasure careened through her. She let out a startled gasp.

Which broke the thread of his control. “I need you so damn much,” he growled.

“Please,” was the one word she could manage.

He drew his hips back, and she moaned at the sliding sensation. Then he thrust forward. Then again. And again. And each time he did this, her body softened even more, while his grew tighter. She found her legs wrapping around his waist, an unspoken demand for more. The pain added a ruby edge to her pleasure. His movements grew faster, stroking into her, and it was a miracle, this thing they made together, this mutual pleasure, and she held it close.

Until he cursed softly, and pulled quickly from her. She felt a warm spill of liquid on her belly as his body went rigid, and the cords of his neck stood out, his face taut with release.

Several moments passed. Instead of lying beside her, he rose from the bed and rifled around in his clothing. Then he did stretch out next to her, with a kerchief in his hand. He used this to clean her, and when that was done, he gathered her up in his arms. She wrapped herself around him, as well, and together they stared up at the bed’s once-grand canopy.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed two. And she suddenly realized its meaning.

“Happy Christmas, Michael,” she murmured.

“Happy Christmas, love,” he answered, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

The snow outside continued to fall.

Chapter Eleven

Michael hadn’t ever attached much thought to Christmas—only that it meant more work for him as a footman. This morning, as he had every other Christmas morning, he’d attended Mass with the servants at the back of the church. The family sat at the front. But as soon as the service was over, he and the other staff had hurried back to Covington Hall, so the Cowans and their guests might go on with their celebrations.

This year was different. During Mass, he’d sat beside Ada, and they’d cautiously held hands throughout the service. Blasphemous of him, to sit in church and sing hymns and listen to the vicar’s sermon, when all his thoughts had been turned to the woman beside him, and the night they’d shared.

He’d been unwilling to let her go. He wanted more and more of her. Her sighs of pleasure. The resilient silk of her skin. The sound of her laughter. So he’d made love to her again, showing her new ways of loving, and even as she discovered these paths, she’d taught him, too. A mutual discovery. It was only as the first pearl-colored light edged the treetops that they’d grudgingly parted, creeping back to their rooms. But with each step away from her, his heart had ripped into smaller and smaller pieces. When he’d finally reached the male servants’ quarters, he’d been left with a single, bleeding scrap.

It had felt the same leaving church, unclasping his hand from hers. How much heartache could a man endure?

A hell of a lot.

Now he carried a bowl of spiced punch into the drawing room where the family and their guests gathered. His face was a perfect mask. Nothing in his body or movements gave anything away. No one in the room paid him any attention.

He didn’t want to be here. Not after last night, when everything had changed.

Slowly, he drifted backward toward the door to the drawing room, until he stood just inside the chamber. He couldn’t leave his post, yet his body was an iron nail, drawn to the lodestone of Ada, somewhere in this house.

His gaze shot to the Larkfields. Lady Larkfield sat with Lady Cowan and several other of the female guests. She watched the children play with their presents, but her eyes kept darting around the room, as if afraid or searching for something. Her husband also looked distracted, his clothes and hair less than perfect, his hands knotted into fists. He stood with some of the male guests near the fireplace, talking of hunting or Parliament or whatever it was that the nobs concerned themselves with. Normally, Michael listened very carefully to these conversations. Today, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Think, goddamn it
. There had to be a way. Some means so he wouldn’t have to lose Ada now that he’d found her again. Sharing a bed with her for a night wasn’t enough. And he couldn’t be content with hoping to see her for a few days between assignments. She deserved better than that. But what the bloody hell could he do? Leave Nemesis?

Or, after Boxing Day tomorrow, would he kiss her and wish her well, and make a clean amputation of his heart?

There’s a solution. Has to be one. That’s what Nemesis does. Find answers when they can’t be found.

“They’ve no idea,” said a woman’s sleep-deprived voice just behind him.

Damn, it was a measure of his mind’s chaos that he hadn’t heard Ada approach. He wanted to turn and pull her close for a kiss, but instead, as she pretended to dust a vase in the hall, they both watched the Larkfields celebrating the holiday.

“If they do,” he answered quietly, “then they ought to find work on the London stage. They look distressed, but not as if over a hundred thousand pounds has gone missing. Not a word, gesture, or secret look between them.”

“While their blood money is probably in London.”

“Nemesis will wash it clean of that blood,” he said.

“We’ll be laid off after Boxing Day,” she murmured, and his guts clenched. “I just wish…”

His body tensed even more. “Wish what?”

“I could see the look on their faces when they realize that the thieves have been robbed.”

It was and wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. And he wanted to
look
at her, damn it. But if he left his post, he might be dismissed.

“Sod it,” he muttered. He grabbed an empty decanter as an excuse to leave, then strode from the room. Turning, he had a glimpse of her startled face as he linked their hands and pulled her into an empty parlor where the lamps were unlit.

He set down the decanter as they faced each other in the elegant little room. He couldn’t let go of her hand. The snow had stopped falling some time before dawn, and it covered the ground outside in a thick, pure layer. Despite the gray skies, pale sun shone off the snow, washing the parlor and Ada in soft light.

“I’m not doing it again,” he growled. “I’m not walking away from you.”

There was a momentary joy in her face before her brow furrowed. “The mission’s over. Marco said they had another assignment waiting for you as soon as you got back.”

He shook his head. “I’ll return to London, but I won’t go to headquarters.”

Now she looked stunned. “Abandon Nemesis? For me? Michael—no.”

A rod of hot iron pierced his chest. “Goddamn it, I won’t let you go. I’ll…” He finally released her hand and paced the room. “Work as a clerk. Save for a house for us in Brixton.”

“Where we’ll lead quiet, ordinary lives,” she pressed, “leaving the business of justice to others?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “The hell we will.”

“Goddamn it,” he said again, “if I have to make a choice between Nemesis and you—”

“Then don’t,” she interrupted. She stalked close to him, her cheeks stained red as she fought for words. “I’ve been silent too long. Biting my tongue to keep from speaking out. But I don’t want to be quiet anymore. To be that mute housemaid or shopgirl. You helped me see that.”

She shook her head. “I tried so hard to keep myself safe. Put my heart in a strongbox.” A wry smile touched her mouth. “I should have known that you’d be able to pick that lock.”

“I’m not sorry,” he said at once.

“I don’t want you to be. Because…” She continued to search for the right words. “Because when you opened that safe, I discovered things inside there I hadn’t counted on. Like the fact that you’re a man of dedication and integrity. A man I admire. A man I love.”

Every part of him lurched to a stop. His breath, his blood, the beat of his heart. All he could do was stand in amazement, a mortal presented with a vision of the divine.

“I love you, too,” he said thickly. “So bloody much.” The same words he’d wanted to put in that letter he’d written in his mind. Pulling her snug against him, he kissed her deeply, and she held tight, returning the kiss with the same hunger.

“But that’s not all I found in the strongbox,” she gasped, pulling back after several moments. “Something else was there, too. Another thing I hadn’t expected.”

“Tell me, love,” he murmured against her lips.

She leaned back, enough to look him in the eyes. “I want to be a part of Nemesis. The way you are. Permanently. Being in service, working in a shop … none of that’s given me half the pride I’ve felt these last days. I want … I want to give what I can to others. Get them the justice they deserve. It’s so hard to find it in this world. If I can grab a little and give it to someone who needs it…” She shook her head. “Nothing’s finer than that.”

He mulled the idea over. “It’s a dangerous business.”

Her gaze flashed. “I’ve shown my courage.”

“You have. The warning’s for myself as much as you.”

“But the choice to join Nemesis is mine,” she countered.

Damn, he loved her audacious courage. “Soon as I get back to London—”

“As soon as
we
get back to London,” she said.

“When
we
return to London,” he continued, “I’ll speak with them. Simon and Marco and the others. They’ll have to vet you before taking you on.”

A small frown creased between her brows. “Do they ever turn anyone away?”

He couldn’t lie. “Not everyone’s suited for this work. But,” he added quickly, “Marco’s already impressed with how you’ve handled this job, and you wouldn’t have been picked for it in the first place if they didn’t already think you capable. God knows I do.”