The Spymaster's Lady by Joanna Bourne Page B

time he pinned her, she’d sigh and lie back and accept another defeat. The sharp angles melted. The pulsing energy went quiescent in his hands. It was like the soft, sweet letting go of a woman after climax. She was everything beautiful and insidious. Addictive as opium.
    Hell of a way for a senior officer to feel about a treacherous French bitch. “I’m trying not to hurt her. It’s not easy. She’s fast as a little cobra.” He put the dressing in place and set Adrian’s hand to cover it. “Press hard.” He tied up the last corner of bandage. “I doubt she’s looking forward to the discussions I have planned. I know what’s she’s done.”
    Will Doyle pushed into the room, balancing a tray. “What has she done?” He had a roll of clothing bundled under his arm, a swirl of burgundy and white, moss green and slate blue. He edged the door shut with his foot. “Besides run rings around us in Italy and Austria the last couple years?”
    â€œYou’re supposed to be watching her.”
    â€œI put a pair of Roussel’s boys at the door and window. Annique Villiers ain’t going to run when there’s thirty people milling around downstairs. She’s not an idiot. Robert, there’s something wrong with her.”
    â€œI don’t have to hear this from you, too.”
    â€œShe wouldn’t even turn around and talk to me. Not a word.” Doyle slid the tray to the table and dropped clothes in a heap on top of the dresser. “I saw her at work in Vienna. She chatters like a magpie. Something’s wrong when she shuts up.”
    â€œI’ve hurt her then.” All those tiny bones, strung together with catgut. So fragile.
    â€œOr Leblanc did. He had her longer than we did.”
    He didn’t want to think about her being hurt. It was too easy to feel sympathy. Too easy to forget what she was. “I’ll take a look at her when I put her to bed.”
    â€œThat’s an intriguing notion,” Adrian said. “Wasted on you, I expect.”
    â€œAnd ain’t you feeling better.” Doyle lifted the napkin tented over a flowered blue and white bowl and sniffed appreciatively. “Roussel’s stew. Leeks and chervil, smells like.” He tipped a spoon into the bowl and handed it to Adrian with a brusque, “Eat.”
    â€œTo hear is to obey. Toss me some of that bread while you’re at it.”
    Doyle tucked the loaf against his forearm and sawed a slice with quick, practiced strokes. “I been downstairs making excuses to Roussel—who wants your blood, by the way, Robert, for bringing her here. I pretended to know what’s going on. You going to explain?”
    â€œOne lives in hope,” Adrian said piously.
    Doyle said, “You start discussing that stew with yer belly. The Head of Section don’t explain himself to the likes of—”
    A sharp crash broke the peace. Outside and nearby. Doyle froze. Adrian’s eyes snapped to the window.
    My gun’s in my bag, on top, loaded. There’s another in Hawker’s. Doyle carries his on him. The stairs are defensible. They’d—
    Masculine laughter rumbled over the sound of a woman’s rueful giggle. Chairs scraped on the stone. A dozen low-voiced conversations resumed. It was some kitchen mishap. Not Leblanc’s men. Not yet.
    Grey took his hand off the valise. “I’ve been out of action too long.”
    Adrian slid a dark, thin-bladed knife back under the covers.
    â€œWe’re all on edge,” Doyle said, “not least from having that damned dangerous woman locked up in the next room. Are we going to get rid of her any time in the foreseeable future?”
    â€œHe’s going to drag her all the way to Meeks Street. I’d lay money on it. Any brandy on that tray?”
    â€œFor you, wine.” Doyle uncorked the jug with his teeth. “I gave her that indecent nightgown,