Traitor in Her Arms Page 19

  “Les carrières de Paris,” Gabrielle said behind him.

  The quarries, he realized. This church must be old indeed to have an entrance to the network of underground limestone and gypsum mines. Ramsey had heard the revolutionary government was piling them with bodies as the cemeteries were full. More footsteps on the stairs, and Ramsey ducked his head into the passageway. There was no ladder, but the drop was only a few feet. He jumped down and held his hands up for Gabrielle. She paused—the first time he had seen her do so on this daft mission—then whatever held her back passed, and she lowered herself into his arms.

  While he held her, she reached up, pulled the plank back over the opening, and they were pitched into darkness. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

  “How will we find our way back?”

  “I’m more concerned about them finding us at the moment.”

  His hand around hers was a vise as he pulled her deeper into the catacombs. He held his hands out, navigating by touch rather than by sight.

  “We’ll die down here,” she murmured. “We’ll never find our way out.”

  “And you were angry with me for bringing up the curse.” He almost bumped into a wall, felt around it, and pulled her deeper. The sounds of the patrol had faded. They either hadn’t found the hidden entrance or weren’t following.

  “I’m sorry. I’m scared of…the dark.”

  She wasn’t scared of the dark, but she didn’t want to admit what it was that frightened her. Hell, he wasn’t exactly feeling cheery about the way things were progressing at the moment. He kept moving deeper into the tunnels. They would have to search for another exit. The patrols would keep someone in the church to watch for their return, so they could not go back that way. These old quarries ran for miles and miles. They might very well be down here for some time.

  He had a tinderbox with him, had stuffed one he saw in Alex’s drawing room into his pocket before they left, but he didn’t want to use it until he was more certain they were near an exit.

  A loud crash sounded, and Gabrielle stumbled and fell. Ramsey lost her hand, but found it again quickly. “Are you hurt?” He bent to take her shoulders.

  “No. I tripped on something.” He could feel her body moving, knew she was feeling about. “I think it’s a…lantern. And a few blankets. Someone must have hidden here before. Alex said enemies of the republic could escape through the catacombs.”

  Ramsey used the flint and metal to light the amadou in the box and studied the ground. She had stumbled into what looked like a crude habitation. There were indeed several blankets, a lantern, and some shriveled, desiccated fruit.

  “Does the lantern have oil?”

  She peered inside. “Yes!”

  Now they would see if the oil was still viable. He pulled the wick higher and lit the tallow. A small, yellow light illuminated the chamber. Ramsey studied it. Graffiti decorated the walls—names, curses, and lewd drawings.

  “A fire and artwork too,” Gabrielle said with a laugh. She pointed to one drawing. “Is that position even possible?”

  Ramsey winked. “I’ll show you later.” But he was searching the small chamber for any type of opening. “There must be an exit nearby. We’ve walked for the better part of an hour. I don’t think whoever made these entered through the church.”

  “Shall we keep searching?”

  He was about to say yes, but one look at her decided him otherwise. She appeared tired and disheveled. He was just about to fall over from fatigue as well. And even if they found an exit, they couldn’t be seen on the street until morning. They had time yet to search.

  He arranged the blankets on the floor, then took off his coat to give the makeshift bedding more padding. “Sit and rest for a moment.”

  “What about the light? Can we leave it for now?”

  Was she really afraid of the dark, or did she worry rats were nearby? Her voice sounded like that of a frightened child.

  “Leave it,” he said.

  She sat beside him, drawing her knees under her chin. He admired how she was able to do it so gracefully. She did not look like a boy at all. “You were good today.”

  He raised a brow.

  “In Robespierre’s office. You were quicker than I to deal with the locks.”

  He didn’t think so, but he was glad for the topic, because he’d been wondering about her skills for some time. “Where did you learn to pick locks?”

  She cut her gaze sideways, seeming to consider what to reveal. “My housekeeper taught me,” she said finally. “She has a rather…eccentric background. When McCullough’s creditors began to demand payment, she gave me a means with which to stave them off.”

  “You steal artifacts from the ton.”

  “And sell them on the black market.” She lowered her chin to her knees again. “I’m not proud of what I’ve done. But I don’t know any other way short of fleeing for the Continent.” She gestured to the limestone walls surrounding them. “You can see how that has turned out.”

  I don’t know any other way.

  She was as trapped as he by her circumstances. Of course, she had not made her bed, and yet she had no choice but to lie in it. He had built the damn bed from the frame up. He had no one to blame but himself.

  “What about you?” She was watching him carefully, her gaze heavy on his, seeing all even in the flickering light. “Where did you learn?”

  Ah…And now he had a decision to make. Tell her the truth or lie even more than he had done?

  He decided on a half-truth for the moment. “I taught myself to pick locks. I found it a useful skill at times.”

  “Why would the son of an earl need to pick locks?”

  He wouldn’t. Neither would the son of an earl need to know how to pick a pocket, but he had practiced both endlessly as a boy. One does what one must when one’s family is starving.

  “Why would a viscountess need to know? Things aren’t always as they seem.”

  “You are not what you seem. I had always thought you something of a gallant.”

  He shook his head. “The papers are not to be trusted.”

  “Then you don’t associate with the demimonde?”

  He clenched his jaw. What man liked to discuss his previous love affairs with the woman he’s now hoping to seduce? With the one woman who was actually starting to mean something to him? “I have a great many associates.”

  She studied him. “Did George have these associates?”

  Ramsey took her hand. “I never saw him with another woman while the two of you were married.”

  She looked away. “Too busy gambling, I imagine.”

  “No man is too busy for a woman, if that’s what he’s seeking.”

  The silence of the catacombs was heavy for several moments. The lantern’s sparks and pops sounded deafening. “I’m sorry,” she said at last.

  “For asking about McCullough?”

  She gave him a rueful look. “For a great many things, but right now for dragging you into this mission. I knew it would be dangerous, and I was selfish in accepting your help.”

  “Oh, I see. You were selfish. Is that why I’m here?”

  The candlelight flickered on her skin, illuminating its softness. More of her hair had come undone in their hasty escape, and it tumbled about her shoulders in a riot of waves. Her eyes had never looked so dark as they did right now, when her gaze was upon his. She was a combination of light and dark, softness and steel, determination and delicacy.

  “Why are you here?” she whispered.

  The quip was on the tip of his tongue, something about returning to London with his head intact. Instead, he reached out, stroked her cheek, and said, “You.”

  “Ramsey…”

  He didn’t know what she would have said because the sound of his name on her lips proved too tempting. He leaned forward, cupped her chin, and kissed her gently. Her lips were soft as they moved under his. Her sigh when their mouths parted was even softer.

  “Why are you st
opping?” she asked.

  “I thought…” Hell, why was he stopping? He wanted her. Had always wanted her. Something dark flickered in the back of his mind, but he pushed it away. He would think of it later, when she was not in his arms. Because in the next instant, she was completely and utterly in his embrace, and nothing, short of the appearance of a battalion of soldiers would stop him now.

  —

  Gabrielle wanted Ramsey’s hands on her. She needed his touch. In that moment, she couldn’t have said why she hadn’t given in to her attraction before. Yes, she had made a mistake with George. She would probably make a mistake if she fell in love with Ramsey—oh, she was half in love with him already! But when she might not live to see the dawn, what difference did it make?

  London, Diana and Cressy, McCullough’s creditors—they all seemed so far away. It was as though they were part of another life and belonged to some other person. Here and now was what mattered.

  She stripped off the coat she wore and clutched Ramsey’s lapels in both hands. His was a tighter fit, but she managed to strip him down to his linen shirt and loosen his cravat. He was doing the same to hers. She almost wished she were wearing a dress, so she could hike the skirts up and be done with it. But this was pleasant, his hands on her—this prolonged the anticipation.

  When his cravat hung about his neck, she leaned in to kiss him again, twining her tongue with his. She could kiss him for days. The way he kissed her, as though she were the only person in the universe, spoiled her. All that passion, all that intensity, and all for her.

  He held her face in his hands and whispered, “It’s cold here. Put your coat back on.”

  “I’m not cold in your arms,” she answered. “I want to feel your skin against mine.”

  He groaned softly. “You’re not making this easy.”

  She laughed. “In truth, my lord, I am making this very easy.” She leaned back and pulled her shirt over her head. Her breasts were bound with a long strip of white linen, but that was scant protection against the chill. He was right. The quarries were frigid.

  But when he pulled her close for another kiss, she felt only his heat. In the next moment, he had removed his own shirt, and the skin of her belly burned where it touched his. His hands fumbled with the linen strip, and, eager for his full attention again, she stood to unwind it. His eyes on her were hot and heavy. She could feel his gaze on her skin, making her too aware, making her warm, her movements like liquid.

  The strip fell to the floor, and his eyes went dark. Even in the dim light of the lantern, she could see the change in his pupils—how they widened and went black. She bent, pulled off her boots and stockings, and then unfastened her breeches, dropping them on the ground.

  Now she was shivering, but not from cold. His gaze made her tremble.

  “You are so lovely,” he whispered. “You’re like a goddess or a nymph.” He stood. “I should have paid more attention to my mythology.”

  “I don’t need poetry.”

  His arms were around her. That was what she needed.

  “But you deserve it.” He kissed her long and thoroughly. “You more than deserve it.” His hands ran up her bare hips, fingers teasing and skating across flesh pebbled with cold. When they reached her breasts, he cupped them, testing their weight. “You fit perfectly into my hands,” he whispered. His thumbs brushed her nipples, and she felt them harden.

  “Your mouth,” she murmured, letting her head fall back. “Put your mouth on me.”

  He did, starting with the hollow under her chin and brushing light kisses down her neck to her collarbone. All the while his thumbs worked her nipples, making them harder, making them ache and strain for his lips, his mouth, his teeth. When she felt his hot, wet tongue on her breast, she all but cried out.

  He sucked her lightly, and she moaned. “Harder. I’m not a virgin you must be gentle with.”

  “Thank God, because I don’t think I can hold back much longer.”

  He sucked harder, nipped her, and she all but came undone. One hand skated to her back, then to her bottom, bringing her fresh sensations. While his mouth worked on her, his hand brushed her hip and settled between her thighs.

  “Open for me.”

  She did so. She had never felt more wanton. He had backed her against a wall, and the cold stone against her back was a sharp contrast to his hot touch. His fingers caressed her, stroked her, were inside her. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes.”

  She knew what was coming and felt her body racing closer and closer.

  And then he paused and withdrew.

  She blinked, opened her eyes.

  “Your skin is ice. Come here.” He took her hand and led her back to the blankets and his coat. “This is little better, but at least there’s some barrier.”

  “You’re talking far too much,” she chided him, lying on his coat. She had been cold, and the coat was a relief. “And you’re wearing too many clothes.”

  He had been about to kneel between her legs—and while she hated to stop him—she wanted his skin on hers. “Your wish is my command, madam.”

  “Call me Gabrielle. You never do.”

  His eyes were unreadable. Perhaps she was ordering him about too much, but this was not her husband. She did not have to be subservient. “Take off your breeches.”

  He reached for the fall, and she could see how it bulged, how he wanted her. When he loosened it, she swallowed. He was magnificent. Her body was on fire for him.

  He shed his breeches and knelt at her feet. She opened her legs for him, and he bent over her. “Gabrielle,” he whispered, touching his lips to her ear and making her writhe with pleasure. “My beautiful Gabrielle.”

  She wrapped her arms about him, drawing his mouth to hers for a long kiss, but he didn’t oblige her. The kiss was too short—not that she could complain, as his mouth found so many other inventive things to do on her neck, her shoulder, her breasts, her belly…

  He pushed her legs apart and kissed her inner thigh. Gabrielle held her breath. She had heard of this. Married women speaking in hushed tones of what they had read—or experienced. She wondered what else Ramsey could show her.

  And then she wondered nothing at all because his tongue was on her, in that most intimate of places, and she could do nothing but clutch the coat beneath her to keep from sobbing with pleasure.

  She’d known pleasure before, but nothing like this. Nothing like this white-hot spiral of sensation coiling in her belly and radiating out her arms to her fingertips, her legs to the smallest toe. She thrashed about, hearing her own hitched cries echoing in the catacombs, but Ramsey gave her no quarter.

  She didn’t want his mercy.

  Finally, the tight spiral exploded, and she arched and cried out. She feared half of Paris heard her. There was no question that Ramsey had. She closed her eyes, her whole body sated and exhausted.

  She was lying on the ground under the city of Paris, naked, with a man—who was not her husband—between her legs. If these were her last hours, this was definitely the way to spend them. If she did escape Paris alive…well, she wouldn’t think about that right now.

  She opened her eyes, and Ramsey was leaning over her, smiling. “You look quite satisfied with yourself,” she murmured.

  “That was a rather enthusiastic response. How can I be anything else?”

  “But you haven’t…” She gestured to his still quite obvious erection.

  “No, but I take pleasure from your pleasure.”

  This was a new idea. He was pleased simply because she had been pleasured? She didn’t believe him. “Then I suppose we can stop now.”

  “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to. But…”

  She raised her brows. “But?”

  “I am still naked.”

  “I see that.”

  “And you’re naked.” He traced a finger down her cheek, sliding it down her neck to her shoulder.

  “I am.” He made her smile.

  “And we ar
e quite alone…if you wanted to take advantage of me.” He rolled off her and lay on his back, on the edge of the blankets. “I wouldn’t object.”

  Gabrielle laughed. She liked the look of him lying there. In the lamplight, she could see his sleek muscles and the light sheen of perspiration on his chest from his earlier exertions. He waggled his brows at her suggestively, and she burst into more laughter. She had not known lovemaking could be like this.

  “I’m growing cold,” Ramsey said. “If only there was someone nearby to share body heat.”

  “You poor thing.” She rose and bent over him. She missed contact with him almost as soon as he’d moved aside. She needed to touch him, felt a keen sense of withdrawal when they were separated.

  She kissed him, slowly but deeply. He responded, matching her pace and her intensity. She rubbed her breasts against his chest, searching for warmth and the feel of his flesh on hers.

  “You’re driving me mad,” he murmured. “I want you.”

  She reached down and stroked him. “I feel that.”

  And quite suddenly she wanted him as well. Desperately. In a wanton move she could blame on Paris, she straddled him. He immediately grasped her hips, sliding his hands to her waist and all but spanning it. His hands trailed upward, cupping her breasts and then teasing her nipples into hard peaks.

  She arched her head back and positioned herself over his erection.

  “Beautiful,” he whispered as she lowered herself onto him.

  Gabrielle could not speak. The sensation was too much. He filled her completely, and though she had been fully sated mere moments before, she felt as though she couldn’t get enough.

  She rose and lowered, sliding over him, moving slowly and building speed. His hands held on to her hips, directing her, though she needed very little guidance. Instinct and pleasure were her guides. And as she felt the pleasure building again, her eyes widened in surprise as she raced to meet it.

  She climaxed again, and quite inexplicably, she still wanted him.

  He rolled her over as the waves of pleasure crested, and thrust hard into her. There was no gentleness in him now. No tenderness. She didn’t want it, because he was pushing her over the edge, pushing her to the edges of ecstasy. She was crying out again, arching her hips for him, and he met her there at the peak.