Nothing she had ever known had prepared her for this. For the sheer physicality of their joining, for the mind-numbing pleasure and the searing passion that drove them both ever on.
He was all she’d ever imagined in a lover—caring and as aware of her as she was of him, yet with a potent strength investing every movement, every touch, that fed every fantasy she’d ever had. He moved over her and inside her, and she couldn’t get enough.
Her every sense strained as together, they raced on. As their mutual passion raged and waged war on their senses, bombarding them with unrelenting tactile stimulation.
She gasped and clung, dimly aware of a building urgency, yet for all that, the end, when it came, took her by surprise. Her awareness had drawn in and in, locked tight on where they joined, then sensation exploded in an eruption of sharp, incandescent pleasure, shattering her awareness and sending shards of white-hot sensation streaking down her nerves.
She cried out, and he thrust deeply again, and again, and she held him to her as if she would never let him go.
Then he stiffened and groaned, and she felt the warmth of his seed inside her.
Somewhere deep inside, she smiled in simple joy.
Then the rigidity left him, and he slumped. He would have tipped to her side, but she clutched him to her, wanting—needing—to feel his weight upon her, and he grunted softly and obliged as the aftermath of the earlier explosion of her senses dissipated in waves of pleasured warmth, flushing beneath her skin.
She smiled, sighed, and held him in her arms.
Spent, exhausted, they tumbled into sleep.
The following morning, Ellen considered riding to the manor, but opted to walk instead. Muscles she hadn’t known she possessed felt somewhat tender, and sitting on a saddle, even for a short time, wasn’t an appealing prospect.
She reached the manor to find Christopher, along with Toby, Louisa, and Drake, about to go into the drawing room. It was the first time she’d set eyes on Christopher since he’d slipped from her bed just before dawn; she’d wondered if, after their rather lengthy night spent in each other’s arms, there would be any awkwardness between them, but other than a deeper warmth in his eyes when they rested on her—an expression she hoped only she could see—there was nothing in his outward manner that signaled the change in their relationship, namely that, in both their minds, they were betrothed.
In the depths of the night, they’d agreed to keep their glad news to themselves for the moment, to be shared at a more appropriate and less fraught time.
After exchanging greetings, Louisa said, “I suggested that having Mrs. Kirkpatrick brought before us while we sat in elegant comfort might underscore her changed situation.”
Ellen agreed. “One can only hope the hours spent alone in that cell have improved her temper.”
Following her and Louisa into the drawing room, Drake huffed. “I suspect she’ll have seen the light—or at least will pretend to have done so while she continues to search for some way out of the mess she’s landed herself in.”
They reorganized the furniture, then sat—Ellen and Louisa on the long sofa, now with its back to the presently empty hearth, Drake and Christopher in armchairs flanking it, while Toby fetched a straight-backed chair and placed it centrally before them, then moved to lounge in the armchair beside Drake’s.
Christopher looked across at Drake. “She does seem the sort to dance to our tune as long as it suits her to do so.”
Drake nodded. “Just how much of what she says we believe… As far as possible, we’ll need to confirm all she says via others.”
Christopher had already sent Radley and two footmen to fetch Mrs. Kirkpatrick from her cell. When Pendleby entered and announced, “The prisoner, sir,” then, nose in the air, stepped back, Christopher had to hide a smile.
Radley escorted Mrs. Kirkpatrick into the room. At Drake’s order, her wrists had again been tied, but this time, with softer cord. Radley led her to the chair and indicated she should sit.
She did, then stared expressionlessly at them.
At a nod from Christopher, Radley left, closing the door behind him.
They all studied the woman staring at them. Deliberately, they hadn’t supplied her with comb and brush, so her hair hung limply, the knot at the back of her head askew. Her walking dress was badly crushed, and her face was pale, washed and now devoid of any cosmetic color.
She looked distinctly bedraggled; Louisa had maintained that denying her the chance of refreshing her appearance—her outward armor—would leave her feeling more vulnerable.
Judging by Rose Kirkpatrick’s expression—one that suggested she was uncertain over making any move at all—Christopher suspected Louisa had been correct.
Eventually, Drake said, “Your name is Rose Kirkpatrick.” He didn’t wait for any confirmation, but rolled on, “You were approached by a Frenchman when you were last in Paris, earlier this year. He offered you a deal, specifically that you would act for his master to distribute counterfeit English banknotes in England in return for money.”
Rose’s lids flickered; she was surprised by how much Drake already knew.
Drake recaptured her gaze. “Why did you agree?”
She blinked, then frowned; that was clearly not a question she’d expected to be asked. “I…wanted the money.”
“Your husband is wealthy,” Christopher observed.
She cast him a contemptuous look. “Kirkpatrick is a tight fist. He makes me an allowance that’s far too small and won’t listen to reason. My clothes cost far more than he realizes, but he’s refused to see sense.” She looked at them challengingly. “I had to find some way to raise money, and when the Frenchman made his suggestion…”
When she left the sentence hanging, Louisa calmly supplied, “It seemed the answer to your prayers?”
Rose nodded. “Yes.”
“It didn’t occur to you”—Drake spoke gently, as if he was merely interested—“that passing counterfeit notes was a crime?”
“Of course I realized.” She shifted on the chair and resettled her bound hands in her lap. “But I couldn’t see that such notes were all that much of a danger—not to me and not to anyone else, either.” She scanned their faces. “I was told the notes were excellent replicas and would fool almost anyone.” She paused, then, looking down, added, “It didn’t seem that much of a risk nor something that would actually harm anyone. They weren’t asking me to shoot someone.”
“Quite.” Still employing his gentle voice, Drake asked, “Having accepted the commission from the Frenchman, how did you set about the task of distributing the notes?”
Drake’s nonaggressive questioning—his genuine interest—appealed to Rose’s vanity. She explained that she’d maintained contact with her younger cousins, the Fontenays, and had invited the pair to relocate to Goffard Hall and, subsequently, had exploited Nigel’s acquaintance to draw young gentlemen to her card parties. “It was really very straightforward, and gentlemen are so gullible and easy to manage at that age.”
She seemed quite chuffed with her own cleverness.
Faintly puzzled, Drake asked, “Did you have previous experience holding such events?”