Free The Spymaster's Lady by Joanna Bourne Page A

His fingers grazed her breast, through the shirt. “…and two sweet little berries come nudging up against the cloth, begging to be tasted. Like that. Yes. That’s honest enough. It might be the only kind of honesty you have in you.”
    â€œDo not be superior. You know nothing about me.”
    â€œI know you like your work. Not every woman would. You give us exactly what we want, don’t you, pretty Annique? Leblanc. Henri. Me. You become every man’s private fantasy. What he dreams of, alone at midnight. You’re doing it now. Before I realize what I want, you’re offering it to me. I never knew a woman could do that. A man touches you in peril of his soul.”
    â€œYou may keep your soul. I do not want it.”
    â€œI don’t give a damn what you want, Annique Villiers. You’re good, though. That sound you make in your throat, that buzzing like a hive of contented bees. That’s perfect. I felt it through my whole body when you did that.”
    His muscles were dense with tension, shaking. That was his anger, which she had not yet earned, and his hunger for her, which would have been obvious to an idiot. How she was to ride these twin beasts to her advantage she could not at all imagine.
    â€œYou like to set the puppets dancing, don’t you? Tweak a string here. Tweak a string there. Be soft and vulnerable and…responsive. I don’t think there’s a man on earth who could resist you.”
    Without warning, he twisted his fist into the shirt and pulled tight. She was jerked and dragged forward, up onto her toes. She gasped and grabbed to hold on to him. “Don’t try this again.” He shook her, once, briskly. “Not with me.”
    â€œI do not—”
    â€œNo more games. Go shuck yourself out of this damned teasing shirt. Put on the silk I sent in or slither into bed naked. I don’t care which.”
    â€œI will not wear that indecent thing. I am not—” She stopped herself and swallowed and made herself say, “I am not some woman of the streets to be bought for the price of a hot meal. I do not—”
    â€œFor God’s sake, don’t be so bloody dramatic.” She was set upon her feet. His grip loosened slowly and released. “And damn your nonexistent modesty. From now on you wear clothes you can’t hide weapons in. That’s all. Get in bed and sleep.”
    â€œI will sleep as the mouse sleeps beside the cat. Do not lie to me, English. I have no patience with it.”
    â€œI don’t have a hell of a lot of patience myself right now. So unless you’re offering me a poke at this…” The deep vee of her shirt flipped open. Cool air rushed in. “…experienced, devious little body, get into that nightgown and get to bed.”
    â€œMonsieur, do not do this to me.”
    â€œNot a damn thing’s going to happen to you if you behave. You follow orders, and you’ll be treated well. Fight me one more time, and I swear I’ll tie you to the bedpost. Accept it.”
    Accept it, he said. But he lied to her and to himself, too, if he thought he would lay her down in that soft bed and not take her.
    He was no monster. He would not force her. But he wanted her fiercely, and he thought she was of light morals, and willing. Tonight, in the long quiet hours, he would put his hands upon her and confuse her until she made the answers he wished, softly, in the intimacy of the covers. In the end he might make her want what he did to her. She was not strong and sensible when it came to this man.
    That was yet another reason she must escape.
    When all other weapons are gone, one must depend upon cunning and lies and terrible schemes. Vauban had taught her that. Maman had taught her. René and Françoise and wise, cynical old Soulier had taught her that—all her old friends in the spying Game. She had known this since she was a child. Sometimes one must do things one