Chapter 11

11

Sophie stood on the roof and took a deep breath. Drake was right; it was beautiful. The sky was clear apart from a few ragged clouds which did not obscure the moon. It was almost full, and laid a path of sparkling silver down across the largest lake. There was a light breeze up here, and the air was indeed very fresh, not cold, but full of the green scents of spring. There was not a light to be seen anywhere, and it was very quiet – if the party so far below was growing noisy by now, which seemed likely, no hint of it drifted up here to disturb the tranquillity of the scene.

Once again they were entirely alone, in a way one never was in London. She was reluctant to break the silence, which might seem magical if she were a more fanciful woman, but she had no appetite for a moment of seductive closeness followed by a reproach, for the bitterness that so often lurked beneath the sweet honey. If that was why he had brought her here, to interrogate her again, to try to trap her, she’d sooner know it now. So she said, ‘Last time we spoke, you made what sounded like a threat – you were determined to dig out my so-called secrets. Is that why we’re here, in truth? Because if it is, I’m tired…’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Enough of that. I too am tired. Tired, apart from anything else, of always being sensible and safe. Of making calculations, of having nothing at all in my life for myself. That probably sounds foolish, ridiculous even, and I have no idea why I’m sharing this with you, of all people. I know that I am very fortunate in so many ways, and yet…’

There was little of safety in Sophie’s life now, there had not been for years, and nobody could call her fortunate apart from in not being dead in a gutter, but his words must still strike home with her. She realised with a pang of unexamined feeling that really he was telling her that he was lonely. And so was she. He knew it – he had said as much.

He hesitated for a moment and then said, with the air of a gambler making a desperate throw, ‘What I’d really like more than anything in the world is to kiss you. I spoiled it last time with my crass stupidity, and every time I recall how you closed your eyes and sighed so very softly, I have been regretting it. I wonder, have you?’

‘I’m making no admissions.’ Up here, alone with him, a recklessness seemed to possess her. She was all too aware she shouldn’t have come here, and that she ought to run from him, and however much she wanted to kiss him she knew too that she shouldn’t. It was nothing less than madness. And yet… ‘Stop talking, will you, and kiss me before I come to my senses?’ she said.

He laughed, and drew her close, whispering, ‘Madam, I am at your service.’ When his lips found hers, it was less tentative this time, since they’d both admitted what they wanted, which was this. He still wasn’t rough or demanding, his mouth was soft and warm, but as she opened to him he deepened the kiss, and she met him eagerly, her tongue darting out and tracing the sensitive flesh inside his full lower lip. He groaned, and she nipped at him with her teeth, which caused him to suck on her lip, gently and then harder. His strong hands were holding her tight about her ribcage, just below her breast, and she slipped her arms about his neck to pull him closer.

He trailed hot kisses across her cheek, and when he came to her ear he whispered into it, ‘I do have one thing more to say.’

She swore fluently in French, using his grandmother’s words, and twined her fingers in his glossy hair, tugging at it ungently, pulling his mouth back to hers. Now that they’d started this, she had no wish to stop, or hear anything unwelcome.

‘Just a few words,’ he breathed raggedly against her, ‘but important ones. Rosanna isn’t my mistress. I can’t possibly explain now, it’s a horrible story from long ago that I’d rather put from my mind, but she isn’t and she never has been. I swear it on Grand-mère’s life.’

‘Good!’ she said, and claimed him once more. Later she reflected that it was odd that she should not think to disbelieve him, but now was not the time for thought.

Time passed, though they were unaware of how much or how little, absorbed in exploring each other with growing urgency. Her impatient hands had tugged his shirt from his black satin breeches and slid under it, exploring the hot skin and the corded muscles of his chest and back. He’d run both his hands down her gown until he found her buttocks, and bunched up the thin layers of muslin to grip her tight and pull her against him. He was kissing her neck and shoulders, his clever mouth evoking delicious sensations everywhere it touched her, murmuring endearments between kisses, and she could feel his hardness pressing into her belly. Once again there was a perfect rightness and inevitability to all this, which was strange, because it was all so very wrong, given who he was, given who she was, given what she was here to do. She wasn’t here for this .

‘Sophie!’ he gasped against her mouth, his hands still tight about her, one having crept up to her breast, his thumb just brushing one erect nipple through the thin layers that covered it, tantalising her. She moaned softly, eager for a more complete contact, but he did not oblige her. ‘I’m sorry always to be talking, and God knows I don’t want to, but I have to ask you… what’s that pressing into my leg? It feels like…’

‘It’s a knife,’ she said.