Page 64 of To Love A Spy
The muscles spasmed under his touch.
“Damn, how bad is it?” he asked, slowly caressing his fingers over the scarred flesh.
“It hurts like hell,” she rasped. “But nothing is broken.”
A harsh oath slipped from his lips, and in the hazy half light, the lines of worry etched a web of black across his face. His hands kept kneaded her aching muscles.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “That was careless of me.” Every lurch of the wheels sent a jolt of fire through her injured limb. “I should have?—”
“Hush.” As Lynsley shifted his position, he touched his palm to her cheek. “We’ll review strategy later. For now, just lie still.”
Even had she wanted to disagree, Valencia hadn’t the strength to argue. She closed her eyes again, using what little strength remained to fight back tears. No show of womanly weakness, she warned herself. The marquess expected no less.
Slowly but surely, the spasms subsided. His touch was gentle, yet firm and strong. Lud, he had wonderfully skillful hands. Pressing, probing, they seemed to sense intuitively just where to knead away the knots of tension. Through haze of pain, she was aware of his constant closeness. It was . . . comforting.
“Better?”
“Much,” she murmured. Curling on her side, she pressed her face against his chest. Through the starched linen, she could feel the warmth of his body and salty prickling of sweat. Strange, but his heart seemed to be beating even faster than hers.
And yet, its martial cadence was calming.Thud, thud, thud.The marquess’s inner music. Listening to its steady drumming, she fell into a fitful doze.
As the carriage approached their residence, Lynsley eased himself up and smoothed her skirts back into place. “Valencia,” he whispered.
Her eyes opened, and though it took a moment for them to snap into focus she quickly drew herself into a sitting position
“Sorry,” he murmured, steadying her shoulders against the squabs. “I must play the unfeeling prig again in public.” He brushed a tendril of hair from her face. “Can you endure the pain for another few minutes?”
Valencia nodded. “Of course I can.”
Despite the quickness of her reply, she could not quite disguise the catch in her voice. A fleeting, fragile tremor. But he knew she would die before admitting she could not soldier on.
His jaw clenched. Is that what he had demanded of the Merlins? An unyielding, impossible dedication to duty. A notion of honor too lofty for any individual to live up to?
In ancient myth, Icarus had plunged back to earth on melted wings when he tried to soar too close to the sun.
Hating himself, and the whole sordid world of deception and lies, Lynsley held her close for another few moments. The scent of her new perfume, now edged with the sour tang of her suffering, stirred a welling of impotent rage in his chest. He wanted to lash out—to smash his fist again and again into some hard object.
Preferably Pierre Rochambert’s face.
In the instant after Valencia’s fall, their gazes had met and the Frenchman’s half smile had been chilling to behold. A cold-blooded bend of his lips. And his eyes had been reptilian as well—utterly opaque and devoid of emotion.
A snake’s eyes.
There was only one way to deal with a poisonous serpent. Cut off its head before it could strike again.
Lynsley gripped the brass door latch and drew a deep breath before throwing it open. One thing was now sure—one of them would be a dead man before this mission was over.
“Summon Guillaume and helpmadamefrom the carriage,” he barked at the footman who came out to meet them. “She suffered a slip during our outing and needs assistance up to her room.”
“Oui, monsieur.” The servant called for assistance as he scrambled to set the wooden steps in place.
“Do hurry,” said Lynsley, punctuating his gruff growl by tapping his boot impatiently on the cobblestones. “The air is growing damp and I don’t wish to take a chill.”
He forced his gaze to his gloves as Valencia, leaning heavily on the two footmen, slowly made her way up the marble landing.It took all of his considerable willpower to keep his hands from shoving aside the servants and sweeping her up in his own arms.
“Ring formadame’smaid,” he called to the new major domo. Tossing down his hat, he took his time in peeling the leather from his fingers. “The woman will know what to do.”
“Shall I send one of the footmen for a physician, monsieur?” asked the man in some concern.
