Once the door closed on his apartment he grabbed her and swung her into his arms. There was no sight or sound of Brigsby, who must have taken shelter in his chamber. He held her head with one hand and shrugged off coats and cravat. She dropped her reticule. Amidst kisses and bites and grasping embraces they inched through the apartment with garments flying.
Only when they dropped onto the bed naked did he seek some restraint. He might not have to be heroic, but he could not ravish her either. Yet he craved to be in her, thrusting deeply, feeling her tremors and hearing her sighs and—he forced himself to find the final tether to sanity that still existed.
He took his time after that, to make sure she knew pleasure. The rhythm of her sighs and gentle moans, slow at first then rising in speed and sound, found union with the hard beat of his heart. She abandoned control fast, like a woman more than ready. He put his hand to her mound while he used his mouth on her breasts, to push her further into delirium.
He gently pushed at one thigh. “Open, darling.” He slid a finger down her cleft while he spoke. Her mouth fell open and her back arched. He almost pulled her atop him then, but instead again resisted. He touched her more purposefully. The intensity had her cry out.
She moved against his hand, seeking more. Her cries turned loud and desperate. A series of small tremors shook her and with each one she stopped breathing. He circled his touch around the edge of her passage, then brought it forward to the nub. A series of frantic cries rang through the chamber. Then she screamed, and even as she did she scrambled atop him, and took him inside herself. She came down hard, absorbing him.
She looked glorious and perfect and he wanted her only more now. He gritted his teeth and restrained himself yet again, so whatever she experienced would not be interrupted.
It seemed like forever they remained like that, with him throbbing inside her, hot and demanding, with his whole body tight as a bowstring. He was about to give up on heroics when she opened her eyes and looked down. She leaned forward, kissed him, and began moving.
She soon joined him again in frenzied passion. The coil of pleasure tightened, increasing his hunger and pushing for more. He thrust hard again and again. His release came in an explosion of pleasure that buried him.
She sank down on him, her fingers gripping his shoulders and her breathing hard and short. He wrapped his arms around her back and bottom so they stayed together a while longer in every way. She remained with him as sensations slowly gave way to thought. Even then he kept her there, because most of those thoughts wandered around her.
He finally loosened his hold. She rolled off him and onto her back beside him. He figured out how to cover them both with the tangle of bedclothes they had created. He embraced her with one arm so she came closer.
“I am speechless,” she said lowly into his ear. “I have no way to know for sure, but I think you are probably a very good lover.”
He enjoyed her flattery to a ridiculous extent.
She nestled down closer and deeper. “You spent the day on inquiries, didn’t you?”
“I did. You were correct about Dolores. There was an old resentment, over a man that my uncle warned off most effectively. He paid the fellow to disappear. She is still angry.” He was going to let it rest, but found himself adding. “And Kevin admitted to me that he indeed returned from France earlier, and met with Uncle Frederick. They had a row.”
She didn’t move or speak for a long time.
“Not on the roof,” he felt obligated to add. “And not that night, but the evening before.”
“Well, that’s different, isn’t it?”
It is if he is telling the truth. Damnation. For hours he had not been turning that over in his head. Inevitable that it would all start again, though.
“It is difficult to investigate one’s own family. Perhaps you should wait for an official inquiry. If there isn’t one, you can take it up again if you think you should.”
He watched her profile and the way the low light limned it. The tangle of her hair spread out over the pillow, its silken strands feathering his face. He had not told her, or anyone, that his inquiry was the official one. It had crossed his mind to tell Peel to find someone else to do it, though. Only then he would have no control over it. No ability to turn that blind eye, or avoid ferreting out information on people he did not think required investigation. Like Kevin. Or Minerva.
He had wondered when she would go to this topic. Right now had been a good choice. Their intimacy allowed more honest talk than daylight ever required.
“If it is someone in the family, I would want to know first,” he said.
“So you could tell that person to purchase packet tickets?”
“Something like that.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Have you ever done that?”
“There was one time when I might have. I was too trusting of the person’s innocence, however, until it was too late.”
“I hope you did not blame yourself for trusting, no matter what it meant to the direction of events.”
“It was a mistake that I paid for dearly, that is all.”
She peered at him, as if trying to see his thoughts. When he said no more, she looked away. There was no hurt in her, from what he could tell. She merely accepted that he chose not to share the story with her.
He looked away too, at the ceiling. She turned into his arm and rested her head on his chest.
Did you kill him? Only twice had he answered that question, and even then not told everything. He did not speak of it. He did not explain.
“I was in the army and at times conducted investigations. That was where I started and learned. After Waterloo, I was with my regiment in France, part of the army that remained there while matters were sorted out. A Frenchman was found dead in the town. Knife wounds. Someone said one of our men had been seen nearby. I was told to look into it.”
She did not move or react. She only listened.
“I learned this man had a lover. A woman of renowned beauty. And he had a rival. One of our officers. A friend of mine. A good friend.”
Only briefly did he consider not finishing. Yet it felt good to speak of it, finally. With her.
“I knew it could not possibly have been him. I knew him. I had for years. I would have sworn to his character. So I kept searching for another, and yet—there was no one else. I did not accept the truth until they arrested him. One of her servants came forward and admitted she had seen it all. An argument over the woman. A crime of passion, the French called it. The British army claimed jurisdiction, however, and we have no provisions for such an excuse. He was sure to hang.”
“How terrible for him. And for you if he was a friend.”
“It meant an ignoble death, and the loss of his good name. An embarrassment to his family and all who claimed him as a friend.” He was there again, hearing the damning evidence, and knowing all that it meant, even beyond death. He could see the fear in his friend’s eyes, worse than any seen in battle. Did you do it? Did you kill him?
“On the second morning of the trial he was found dead in his cell. A single pistol wound, well placed. A suicide wound, it appeared, but no pistol was found.”
She turned her body so she looked up at him.
“Did you kill him?”
Brave woman. Braver than he was. He had never asked her that question, after all.