Gossamer Wing Read online

  The opposite of Reginald, Charlotte supposed. Reginald, who took no numbers at face value. To whom all symbols represented something other than the thing they first appeared to represent.

  “Not a weakness. An inclination, rather.”

  “A tendency.”

  “Exactly. Mister Woolly Bear.”

  His eyebrow pricked up at the teasing tone. “Have you solved your puzzle box yet, dumpling?”

  She gave him a little frown, a pretty pout of displeasure suitable for the Lady Hardison of shipboard life. Whether for the reminder about the box, or the implication that she was dumpling-shaped, she would never let Dexter know.

  “I have not.”

  “Would you like me to show—”

  “I would not, thank you, snookums. I’ll get it.”

  “I’m sure you will, my little cinnamon scone. In the meantime, about that reevaluation?”

  In the silence following his question, Charlotte heard the rhythmic clatter of the wheels on the rails, the huffing tension of the steam engine that propelled them, and the beating of his own heart. She felt turned to stone, her eyes trained obediently out the window and her expression giving nothing away. She waited long enough to speak that her response, when it finally came, seemed to take Dexter by surprise.

  “What, precisely, do you propose?”

  “Propose? I didn’t really intend a formal negotiation, you know. I don’t have terms.”

  Charlotte kept her eyes glued to the passing twilight view as though she could will herself into it. As though, if she concentrated hard enough, she might find herself outside the steamrail coach altogether and away from Dexter Hardison and the conversation he wanted to have with her.

  It wasn’t that she found the idea abhorrent, far from it. She found it pleasantly diverting in the extreme to consider resuming physical relations with the Makesmith Baron. Whereas she had expected the time on the ship could be easily left behind, a fond memory fading like a dream, in reality she recalled every moment, every word. She could still feel him, his touch on her skin, inside her, wrapping her up and consuming her, as though they had just that instant tumbled out of bed. She thought she might go mad from remembering, and from wanting more. Or from the sense that she had somehow betrayed Reginald by enjoying it as much as she did.

  The guilt was ridiculous, she reminded herself. The curiosity and attraction were normal. It was the timing she couldn’t ignore, the horrendous happenstance that they should find this inexorable force drawing them closer together when they needed detachment the most. It was all she could do not to indulge in what-ifs. What if they had met sooner, what if their correspondence had led them to one another as she’d occasionally speculated it might?

  Reevaluation. What was there to reevaluate? She wanted him, and she couldn’t afford the complication of having him. That should make it simple. Her duty was to the mission, to Reginald’s memory. Not to this maddeningly appealing giant who seemed born to bring her pleasure but had arrived too late.

  But even now, as he shifted his long frame a little closer on the wide red velvet divan they shared, her body responded. She felt herself turning toward him, a flower opening to the heat and light of the sun.

  “Perhaps we need terms,” she suggested, finally abandoning the landscape to gaze on Dexter. Because she was tired, so tired of fighting this, and she didn’t think she could resist any longer. The resistance was becoming as harmful a draw on her attention as the act itself would be. She wanted to unfurl. She missed the sun. But she needed a way to make it all right, to convince herself that it would not become a liability to them both. She needed limits, conditions. “If we are to do this—”

  “Charlotte!”

  Dexter leaned in, a smile already breaking, to take her hands in his.

  “We mustn’t make foolish promises we might regret later. No talk of when we return home.” She saw a flicker, a hesitation in his smile, before he nodded. “The mission comes first. Always. No arguments, no discussion. We’re here to do a job. This arrangement between us would be a convenience, nothing more. We must both assume it will end when the assignment does.”

  The smile was gone entirely now, which made Charlotte a little sad. It was such a handsome smile. If anything, Dexter looked a bit angry. She tried not to dwell on the fact that if he was angry, or hurt, she was the one who had made him so.

  “A convenience. Just mutual physical gratification, then? No bothersome emotional entanglements, and afterward we go our separate ways with our respective itches nicely scratched? That’s your proposal, Lady Hardison?”

  She considered a moment, trying to decide whether he was sarcastic or in earnest. His jaw was flexed, suggesting his teeth were clenched, and his eyes looked steely. But he was clearly waiting for her response. Finally, Charlotte nodded.

  Within a heartbeat, Dexter had her in his lap, his fingers already working at the pearl buttons down the front of her tidy emerald green traveling dress.

  “Proposal accepted. Let’s get right to it, shall we?” he growled, and Charlotte had no time to catch her breath before he stole it with a harsh kiss. When he finally released her, it was only to stand her up before him, where she stood with legs that were wobbling from more than the motion of the train.

  He still looked angry and perhaps even hurt. But resigned to taking what she had offered, even if he wanted more.

  “Take your dress off.”

  His own hands were at work on his trousers, tugging them loose and just low enough to free his erection. Charlotte glanced down and then had difficulty prying her eyes away from the sight of Dexter’s cock springing up defiantly from his lap, from the nest of fabric there.

  “Take it off,” he repeated, “or I’ll take it off, and I won’t be careful about it.”

  “Oh.” Charlotte’s hands were trembling a bit as she picked up where he’d left off on her buttons, and she chided herself for reacting so strongly. It had been only a few days since the last time they’d done this, after all. But Dexter hadn’t been so angry then, hadn’t seemed so ready to take a bite out of her.

  He’s magnificent like this. I should anger him more often. She clamped down on the thought as soon as it popped up, but it was too late to unthink it. And it was patently true. He sat there all jutting manhood and rampant impatience, and she craved what she saw. Once the dress had dropped to the ground she started on her underthings, enjoying the flare of surprise and heat in Dexter’s eyes as he watched her disrobe completely.

  After the warmth of the day, it was cool in the darkening train car, and Charlotte felt her nipples puckering in the chill. She couldn’t blame the rest of her reactions on something as simple as the temperature. The wetness at her core, the flush she could feel building, slowly and then in a heated wave when Dexter raised one hand and beckoned to her. She closed the distance between them in a few steps, sighing at the sense of rightness she felt when Dexter palmed her hip to bring her the final few inches.

  He shifted his other hand, bringing it between her legs and sliding it up slowly, pulling a sigh from Charlotte as he finally connected with her sex. Like their first time, but so different too. He had made educated guesses with her body then, very good ones. But now he knew where to press, where to stroke. How to bring her to the very brink of ecstasy then let her dangle there while he teased and played with gleeful cruelty.

  As her need grew, Charlotte grew more and more shameless, bracing a knee next to his lap to give him more access, leaning on his shoulders in hopes of luring his attention toward her breasts. He gave her that and more, but the more he gave the more she only wanted to feel him moving inside her.

  When her pleading turned desperate Dexter finally gave in, tugging her into his lap and down onto him with a few brusque moves. Charlotte barely had a moment to adjust, to savor the delicious fullness, before Dexter was touching her again. First his hands on her thi
ghs and rear, cajoling her into a rhythm. Then his fingers between her legs, moving in short, skillful strokes that served their purpose quickly.

  Charlotte came in a sharp burst of pleasure that peaked far too soon and left her wanting more. But no sooner had her body stopped its convulsive clenching, than Dexter lifted her off again.

  Shifting forward to the edge of the divan, he nodded at the floor in front of him.

  “Go to your knees,” he said. He didn’t sound quite angry anymore. Charlotte heard a different sort of urgency there. She knelt, coming to eye level with Dexter’s erection, uneasily aware of what he meant to do. Meant for her to do. Another new thing. Something she would never have dreamed of doing as recently as a few weeks ago, though she had certainly given it a great deal of thought over the past few days.

  Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off Dexter’s hand as he stroked himself in muscular, steady pulls. Then he angled his cock toward her and put a hand to the back of her head, firm and undeniable. A shiver ran through her as she licked her lips and set her mouth on him, still uncertain. His skin was soft under her lips, despite how hard he was underneath. When she kissed him, sucking a little as she did so, Dexter made a sound she liked very much. It emboldened her to try a lick, and her tongue encountered fluid, slick and salty, a unique concoction of their two distinct flavors. But when she would have lingered to taste it again, Dexter increased the pressure on the back of her head. He indicated in no uncertain terms that he wanted her to take him deeper into her mouth.

  She tried it a little at a time, pulling away and then taking more in. His reactions thrilled her, each sigh and each flex of his powerful thighs encouraging her to take greater risks. Soon Dexter’s fingers knotted in her hair, guiding her head the way he wanted, in a rhythm that Charlotte found almost as arousing to her as it seemed to be for Dexter.

  Almost. She was writhing, frustrated, when he tensed and spoke in a guttural rasp.

  “I want to finish in your mouth. I want you to swallow it.”

  Perhaps she wouldn’t like it, she wasn’t sure. But she felt powerful, and not inclined to back down from the challenge now. Charlotte hummed her approval, sensing the vibration would be one more form of stimulation. Dexter came silently, holding her in place as she swallowed around him.

  When he started to soften, she pulled away to look at his face. He looked a bit shocked, though not displeased. After another moment or two, he tugged her up to his lap again and wrapped his arms around her.

  “That was . . . I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that of you. It’s just all I’ve been able to think about for days.”

  “You regret asking? Did I not do it well?” She hated not doing things well.

  Dexter guffawed, the movement of his chest dislodging Charlotte’s head from his shoulder. “Christ, Charlotte! You did it so well I can’t even think straight. I can scarcely believe you’re a beginner.”

  Snuggling back into place, she swung her legs to and fro and reflected. “I assure you I am. Perhaps it’s a natural talent. Why shouldn’t you have asked? As I pointed out the other day, you’ve done it to me.” Her body, still tightly wound, grew even more tense at the memory. She fiddled with the buttons of his waistcoat, tracing the intricate brass filigree with a fingertip and trying to calm her mind.

  “I meant the swallowing bit. I suppose I never thought of that as something a wife would do. Which is ridiculous, I realize. Why wouldn’t a wife do that? But usually it’s the sort of service one hears described as being performed by a mistress or a—well, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. Or a secretary. Men really talk about these things?” Charlotte was shocked. “Explicitly?”

  Dexter shrugged, seeming untroubled. “Men are beasts, Charlotte. We talk about all sorts of appalling things. The nicest of us don’t name names or discuss any characteristics that might give the lady’s identity away. Which, perhaps, is why one rarely hears about wives in those conversations,” he remarked, as though the idea had only dawned on him right then.

  “Of course I’m not exactly a wife,” Charlotte pointed out.

  “True. Maybe I should look at it as taking a lover. A mistress. I like the idea of a mistress who sucks my cock and swallows what I give her. Do you also take dictation?”

  She struck his chest in a firm slap, then kept her hand there to enjoy the feel of his laughter. “Personally, I like the idea of a lover who keeps a civil tongue in his head.”

  “I can think of better places for my tongue, love.”

  And he proceeded to demonstrate exactly what he meant.

  Twelve

  PARIS, FRANCE

  “HERE WE ARE. In another hotel.”

  “Dexter, I hardly think the staff at the Ritz would appreciate your referring to this as merely ‘another hotel.’” Charlotte eyed the dresses in the wardrobe, assuring herself that they had been unpacked properly. “I do wish ladies’ maids and valets were still the norm. Impractical for travel, I suppose, especially on this trip. But so useful.”

  “I don’t think I’d like anybody knowing quite that much about the state of my undergarments. Present company excepted, of course.”

  Dexter was circling the room, fiddling with a device that Charlotte hadn’t seen before. Flat, with wires and tiny ceramic bits soldered to it, and something that looked like a battery. He seemed to have an endless supply these little parts and wires, and was always busy making them into things.

  “What’s that?”

  He held up a finger to his lips and shook his head, proceeding along the wall until he’d made a full circuit of the bedroom. When he bent down to one of the nightstands, he beckoned Charlotte closer and pointed under the rim of the top, where the decorative molding formed a conveniently darkened space.

  Leaning over and squinting, Charlotte could just see something under the edge, tucked behind the molding. It was small and coppery, with a tiny silver filament protruding some inches from it. When Dexter held his hand closer to it, a minute propeller on his gadget began to spin in lazy circles. The little copper thing was a bug.

  He gave her a grim smile and kept going, finding two more hidden bugs in the process. In the grandly appointed sitting room, the cream and blue splendor hosted another four of the little copper listening devices. Dexter frowned up at the high ceiling, the chandelier he could not hope to reach, the intricate crown molding.

  “Pumpkin, we still haven’t breakfasted. I think we should go out for a bite to eat. And then, perhaps, for a nice long walk.”

  * * *

  “THE SUBMERSIBLE. WE talked about it on the train, Dexter! We mentioned the mission. Dear god, what if—”

  “Charlotte—”

  “Perhaps while we were in the dining car, they could have—”

  “Charlotte! The coach was clean,” Dexter said firmly.

  “How could you know?” She glared up at him, filled with sudden mortification. “Oh, Dexter. If they were listening, that means they would have heard everything.”

  “No. It was clean,” he repeated, taking her arm and steering her around a dubious-looking puddle on the pavement. “I couldn’t sleep, after . . . anyway, I couldn’t sleep. I built the detector while you were resting. I tested it in the coach. You see,” he said wryly, “I do occasionally think about these things.”

  Charlotte felt her shoulder relax a fraction. She allowed her hand to curl over Dexter’s arm, and forced herself to take a few slow, deep breaths.

  “In Honfleur I think we were relatively careful in the hotel, particularly after your scare about the spyglass.” Dexter continued. “Perhaps we’re not utterly compromised.”

  She considered it with a moment of hope, but then dismissed it. “No. We can’t take that chance. We have to assume they know. If not specifically why we’re here, then at least that we’re here for something other than tourism.”

  “They being the
French equivalent of Whitehall?”

  It seemed . . . off. Charlotte couldn’t quite put her finger on why, but this didn’t have the feel of government-sponsored intelligence to it. The lone figure with a spyglass on the roof of a private building, the exiled former makesmith-spy attending a daylight meeting in Dubois’s company office below . . . even the bugs lacked the dull uniformity of government-issued gear. She felt her hackles rise and glanced around automatically, sweeping the crowd with her eyes and then smiling like any good tourist would at the panorama of humanity that was a Parisian sidewalk on the morning of a lovely summer’s day.

  “Let’s see. If that was the Rue Saint-Honoré we passed back there, this must be the Rue de Rivoli coming up. There’s sure to be a lovely little café or something looking out on the Tuileries. I’d knock my own mother over for a decent meal and a pot of tea right now. Let’s go this way.”

  She tugged him along, determined to put some space between them and the Place Vendôme. Surely the whole of Paris couldn’t be bugged. As Dexter had insisted on checking each item of their clothing, they could also be reasonably certain that any surveillance at the moment consisted only of somebody following them.

  “Tea and a meal, my sweet little éclair? I thought the fashionable French stuck to coffee and pastries in the morning.” Dexter was talking with one eye on the crowd, as well. Charlotte would have to remember to discuss subtlety with him. His vigilance was far too apparent.

  “Oh, hang fashion. It was a long trip and I’m famished, my Adonis.”

  “Good one. I rather like that.”

  “You would.”

  Charlotte was actually running out of ridiculous endearments, a circumstance that annoyed her as Dexter seemed to have a constant supply. It was easier thinking up sugary nicknames for ladies, she thought. One could hardly call a man honey muffin or cream puff.

  Resolving to spend some time later that evening thinking up more treacly soubriquets—perhaps in French, everything sounded like an endearment in French—she marched ahead, practically dragging Dexter in her wake.