His lips grazed the edge of her jaw. “You’re the medical expert,” he mocked gently. “Who am I to argue?”
She squirmed as one of his fingertips wriggled through soft curls and came to rest on an acutely sensitive place. “Who taught you?” she managed to ask.
“A woman in Calcutta. I’d never met her before. For the first two nights, there was no physical contact at all. We sat on bamboo mats on the floor and talked.”
“About what?” She stared at him with dilated eyes, her flush deepening as he continued to fondle the silky, intricate shape of her.
“The first night she explained about Kama . . . a word for desire and longing. But it also refers to the well-being of the soul and senses . . . the appreciation of beauty, art, nature. The second night we talked about pleasures of the body. She said if a man was a true male, he would use the rule of his will to cherish the woman, and fulfill her so thoroughly she would have no desire left for another.”
On the third night, she had undressed him and pulled his hand to her body, whispering, “Women, being of a tender nature, want tender beginnings.”
That had been the most difficult part for Ethan, showing tenderness to her. To anyone. He’d always feared any kind of weakness in himself. But there had been no choice—he had been committed to doing whatever was necessary to become what Jenkyn had intended him to be.
This was different. This woman owned the sum of him, his tenderness and violence, everything good or bad.
His head lowered over hers, and he kissed her for long, luxurious minutes, learning what made her tremble and her breath come fast. All the while, he let his fingers tickle and play between her thighs. With his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed each fragile inner lip as if releasing perfume from flower petals. She whimpered, her sex nudging upward into his palm. He traced around the swollen bud, close but not touching, and massaged the plump hood just above it.
“Oh please,” Garrett gasped, writhing at the slow torture.
He made the circles smaller, his touch spiraling inward until he reached her clitoris and feathered it with a few light strokes. She moaned, her legs closing on his hips. As her pelvis lifted and froze at the brink of release, he withdrew his touch. She clutched his neck almost angrily, trying to haul him closer.
“Easy, now, darlin’,” Ethan said with an uneven laugh, even though he was sweating and aching with his own vicious need. “It won’t help you to strangle me.”
Her brows lowered, and her fists slid down to grip his vest. “Why did you stop?”
Ethan lowered his forehead to hers. “I was taught that satisfying a woman properly should take at least as long as making dough for bread.”
Garrett writhed helplessly. “How long is that?”
“You don’t know?” he asked, amused.
“No, I can’t cook. How long does it take?”
He let his smiling lips brush her cheek. “If I told you, you’d probably time me.”
Reaching down to part the tender furrow, he caressed her until he felt a touch of wetness. The feel of that silky feminine elixir, coolness and heat, sent a charge of lust through him. He stroked the entrance to her body and insinuated a fingertip. Feeling the tiny muscles clenching to keep him out, he murmured soft words and crooning sounds—soothering, was the Irishman’s word for it—and worked carefully deeper. She went motionless at the feeling of being entered. Invaded.
“Relax,” he whispered, “and I’ll be able to reach places that will give you pleasure.”
Garrett looked up at him with hazy confusion. “What places? I’ve studied reproductive physiology, and there are no—” She broke off with a little yelp as he reached up to her breast and gave the nipple a quick double pinch. Her body tightened around his finger in surprised response. As soon as the inner muscles loosened, he searched more deeply, and covered her mouth with his. Her legs spread wider beneath the skirts, her body straining toward him.
The depths of her body were fluid and snug, working frantically to pull him in. Drawing his thumb through the gloss of feminine moisture, he caressed the intricate shape of her, teasing and swirling, while his finger began a gentle nudging, mimicking the way he wanted to thrust inside her.
His cock was excruciatingly full, as hard as stone as it pressed against the metal edge of the table. Delving his other hand beneath her skirts, he played with her, fingertips tapping and pattering softly like raindrops. After tracing the slightly distended folds, he tickled between them, grazing the swollen center again and again. No matter how she tried to hurry him, he was relentless and deliberate, stroking slowly, building her pleasure, torturing himself as well as her. Whimpers climbed in her throat. Opening her mouth with his, he licked at the sounds, relishing the way her body shivered and danced at his touch.
She was too far gone now to resist the feeling he was giving her, struggling a little, wanting everything faster, harder, closer, but he went even slower, ruthlessly patient and steady, drawing out the tension. The strong pulses began, her flesh wringing out an intense release, her thighs cinching hard on either side of him. Taking her sharp cry into his mouth, he caressed her, worked her, while her head dropped to his shoulder as if she were too weak to hold it up any longer. She breathed in soft little coos of pleasure and relief, the most delectable sounds he’d ever heard.
Eventually Ethan drew his hands away and wrapped his arms around her. “I’d love you night and day, if I could,” he whispered. “There’d be no limits for us. No shame. You and me, in the dark . . . that’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Carefully he slid a hand between them to cup her breast, and kissed it before settling it gently back into the confines of her corset. He did the same with the other side, and began to fasten her bodice.
Garrett sat in front of him quietly. When Ethan had finished the last of her buttons, she settled a palm over his heartbeat. “Come back to me,” she whispered. “Find a way to see me.”
Ethan held the slim relaxed weight of her against his chest, and lowered his cheek to her hair. “I can’t.”
“You could if you wanted.”
“No.” It would have been better to let her think the worst of him, especially after all his reckless indulgence tonight. But he couldn’t stand the idea of deceiving her in any way. She was the one person he didn’t want to lie to. “Garrett . . . I’m about to become a marked man. I’ve betrayed someone who’s been a mentor to me. After he finds out, my life won’t be worth a farthing.”
Garrett was silent for a moment, toying with a button on his shirt placket. “You mean Sir Jasper.”
“Aye.”
“Does it have anything to do with the night of the Guildhall reception? And the man who died? Mr. Prescott?”
It was such a good guess that Ethan smiled darkly. Given the chance, he thought, she could pry him open like a tin of sweets.
Taking his silence for affirmation, Garrett asked in a neutral tone, “Did you kill him?”
“If I tell you, I’d be putting my life in your hands.”
“I’m used to that.”
It was true, he reflected with a touch of surprise. In all likelihood, she dealt with matters of life and death more often than he did. Staring down into her expectant face, he said slowly, “I helped to fake his death, and smuggled him out of the country in exchange for information.”
“About what?”
Ethan hesitated. “A conspiracy involving government officials. If I succeed in exposing them, God willing, it’s worth the cost.”
“Not if the cost is your life.”
“One man’s life isn’t important when weighed against many.”
“No.” Garrett sounded urgent now, her hand closing on a fold of his shirt. “Every life is worth fighting for.”
“It’s your job to believe that. It’s my job to believe the opposite. Trust me, I’m expendable.”
“Don’t say that. Tell me what you’re planning to—”
“Garrett,” he interrupted gently, taking her head in his hands,
“it’s not my way to say good-bye. I’ll take a kiss instead.”
“But—”
Ethan covered her mouth with his. He felt as if he’d been running for thousands of nights through violence and shadows, and had stumbled upon some serene place on a cool spring morning. She had brought him closer to joy than he’d ever been before. But like all moments of surpassing pleasure, it was tempered with the bittersweet awareness of its transience.
“Forget me,” he whispered after their lips parted.
And he left swiftly, without looking back.
The next morning, Garrett emerged from a troubled sleep, and began the day as usual. She woke her father and administered his medicine, and had a breakfast of bread, butter, and tea while reading the newspaper. As soon as she arrived at the clinic on Cork Street, she checked on the overnight patients, made notes in their charts, gave instructions to the nurses, and began to receive patients with scheduled appointments.
On the surface, everything was routine. But underneath, she was miserable, giddy, and shamed, all at once. The effort to regulate herself was exhausting.
Would she ever see Ethan Ransom again? How in God’s name was she supposed to forget him after the things he’d done to her? Every time she thought of those knowing masculine hands, the slow kisses and soft whispers, she wanted to melt to the floor. “You and me, in the dark . . . that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Thinking about him could drive her mad, if she let it.
Nothing went right. The way the nurses trilled “Good morning” set her teeth on edge. The medical supply cabinets and closets were disorganized. The staff talked too loudly in the hallways and common rooms. At lunchtime, she ate at the staff commissary, and the cheerful bustle she usually enjoyed was profoundly irritating. Oblivious to the conversation around her, she picked morosely at an artful arrangement of cold sliced chicken, watercress-and-cucumber salad, and a tiny dish of cherry tapioca.
There were more patient appointments in the afternoon, some correspondence and bill paying, and then it was time to return home. Glum and weary, Garrett descended from the hansom, walked up to her front door . . . and paused to look at it with a bewildered frown.
The familiar name plate was still there, but a heavy bronze mortise lock had replaced the old outdated one. There was a new cast-bronze doorknob, and a lion’s-head knocker, its jaws clamped on a heavy ring. Unlike the standard snarling, squinty-eyed design, this lion looked rather friendly and sociable. The door’s casing had been repaired and reinforced. Old hinges had been replaced with sturdy new ones. A draft-proof weather strip had been added to the bottom edge of the door.
Hesitantly Garrett reached for the door knocker. The ring hit the handsome engraved bronze backplate with a satisfying clack. Before she could continue knocking, the door opened smoothly, and a beaming Eliza took her bag and cane.
“Evenin’, Dr. Gibson. Look at this door! It’s the finest one in King’s Cross, I’ll warrant.”
“Who did it?” Garrett managed to ask, following her into the house.
Eliza looked puzzled. “Didn’t you hire a locksmith?”
“I most certainly did not.” Garrett removed her gloves and hat, and gave them to her. “What name did he give? When did he come?”
“This morning, after you left. I took your father out for a constitutional in the park. We were gone no more than an hour, but when we came back, there was a man working on the door. I didn’t ask his name. He and Mr. Gibson exchanged a few pleasantries while he was finishing up, then gave us a set of steel keys and left.”
“Was it the man from last night? My patient?”
“No, this one was old. Gray-haired and stoop shouldered.”
“A strange man let himself into the house and changed the lock, and neither you nor my father asked for his name?” Garrett asked with an incredulous scowl. “Good God, Eliza, he could have robbed us blind.”
“I thought you knew about it,” the cookmaid protested, following her into the surgery.
Anxiously Garrett went to see if any of her supplies or equipment were missing. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed. Folding back the partition to her laboratory, she checked to make certain the microscope was safely in its case. Turning, she ran her gaze over the shelves of supplies, and froze.
The dozen glass test tubes in the wooden rack had been filled with violets. The blue petals were as vivid as jewels in the utilitarian environment. An intoxicating scent drifted from the row of tiny bouquets.
“Where did those come from?” Eliza asked, standing beside her.
“Our mysterious locksmith must have left them as a prank.” Garrett removed one of the blossoms and touched it to her cheek and lips. Her fingers were trembling. “Now my test tubes are all contaminated,” she said, trying to sound cross.
“Dr. Gibson, are you . . . are you about to cry?”
“Of course not,” Garrett said indignantly. “You know I never do that.”
“Your face is all red. Your eyes are watery.”
“An inflammatory reaction. I’m hypersensitive to violets.”
Eliza looked alarmed. “Shall I toss ’em for you?”
“No.” She cleared her throat and spoke more softly. “No, I want to keep them.”
“Is everything all right, Doctor?”
Garrett let out a slow breath and tried to reply in a normal tone. “I’m just tired, Eliza. Nothing to worry about.”
There was no one she could confide in. For Ethan’s sake, she had to stay silent. She would do as he’d asked, and forget him. He was only a man.
The world was full of men. She would find another one.
“A good, decent husband of the ould stock, who’ll give you a fireside of children . . .” Would Ethan ever want children? Would she? There was no logical reason for her to have children, or marry at all, but she was astonished to realize it was something she might consider.
A humbling thought occurred to her. When you meet the right man, the list of things you would never do suddenly becomes much shorter.
Chapter 9
The door to Jenkyn’s office had been left slightly ajar. Ethan paused to knock on the jamb, trying to remain outwardly relaxed despite the weight of foreboding at the pit of his stomach. His ability to shut away his emotions—one of his most useful assets—had disappeared. He was all exposed nerves and raw appetite. He felt as transparent as glass, and there were too many lies he had to keep straight.
He’d been like this for the past week, ever since the night he’d spent with Garrett Gibson. The thought of her was deep inside him, at the center of every thought and sensation, as if he existed only as a vessel to contain her.
Life had been a damned sight easier when he’d had nothing to lose. It was killing him not to go to her. The only thing that stopped him was the need to keep her safe.
“Enter,” came Jenkyn’s relaxed voice.
Ethan let himself inside. He’d come into the new government building by way of the back entrance used by servants and junior clerks. Even without the need for discretion, he would have preferred that to going through the brazenly elaborate main entrance and reception rooms, with their plasterwork thickly coated in gilt and the stands of marble columns rising from lapis floors. Ethan found it suffocating. The ostentatious interiors were intended to proclaim the power and grandeur of an empire that ruled almost one quarter of the earth’s surface and refused to yield even an inch of its territory.
It had been at Jenkyn’s insistence that the collection of contiguous offices under the roof of the newest building at Whitehall had all been shut off from each other. The Home Office kept all connecting doors perpetually locked, so no one could walk from there directly to the Foreign Office, India Office, or Colonial Office. Instead, visitors had to go down into the street, walk the outside length of the building, and ascend another staircase. Free communication between offices would have made Jenkyn’s scheming and plotting more difficult.
The corner office provided a vie
w of a nearby building that had originally contained a cockfighting pit. Ethan suspected Jenkyn would have preferred it if the cockpit still existed: he was the kind of man who enjoyed blood sports.
The air was hot enough to braise a plucked capon. Jenkyn always kept a fire lit, even in summer. The spymaster cut an elegant figure, his build long and stiletto thin as he occupied one of two heavy leather smoking chairs positioned in front of the fireplace. Orange flickers played over his thinning blond hair and austere features as he regarded Ethan through distal spirals of cigar smoke. His eyes were a shade of cinnamon brown that should have appeared warm, but somehow never did.
“Ransom,” he said pleasantly, nudging a table-top cigar stand toward him. “We have much to discuss this evening.”
Ethan hated the taste of tobacco, but a cigar from Jenkyn was a mark of favor that no one refused. As he sat, he took a cigar from the carved ebony stand. Conscious of the older man’s attentive regard, he performed the ritual with care. Jenkyn had always emphasized the importance of details: A gentleman knew how to light a cigar, how to sit a horse, how to make introductions properly.
“You’ll never pass for a born gentleman,” Jenkyn had once told him, “but you’ll at least be able to mix with your betters without calling attention to yourself.”
After clipping the end of the cigar with an engraved silver cutter, Ethan lit a long match and toasted the outer binding. He put it to his lips, rotating it slowly while igniting the filler, and released the draw expertly.
Jenkyn smiled, something he rarely did, perhaps out of the awareness that his smiles gave the impression of a feeding predator. “Let’s attend to business. Did you meet with Felbrigg?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s got his back up this time?” Jenkyn asked disdainfully.
There was a vicious rivalry between Jenkyn and Fred Felbrigg, the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Jenkyn and his eight secret service men had become direct competition for Felbrigg and his team of a half dozen plainclothes “active officers.” Jenkyn treated Scotland Yard with open contempt, refusing to collaborate or share intelligence. He had said publicly that London police were incompetent, a pack of fools. Instead of using them for extra manpower, Jenkyn had sent for Royal Irish constables from Dublin.