The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,77

would be a bruise as he admired the back of her. He’d been hit with harder, more well-placed jabs, but hers was more than respectable. And he had a suspicion she’d held back.

That she hadn’t truly wanted to hurt him.

A distracting flash of color peeked from beneath her hair covering her shoulder blade, a tattoo it seemed, but of what he couldn’t make out.

“Sometimes I don’t recognize you at all,” he muttered, regarding her with a perplexed sort of humor. “You were such a biddable child … one aches for those days.”

Her glare went from stormy to tempestuous. “If that’s what you want, then I invite you to make use of that door, because I am not her. Do you hear me? I am not—”

“I know.” He closed the distance to her in two strides, stopping her from donning the robe by sliding his hands about her waist and pulling her close. “I know. And I’m glad.”

At his words, she decided not to struggle, standing beneath his caresses as he smoothed his hands over her like he would an excitable thoroughbred. “You’ve grown into someone brilliant, bold, and beautiful.” He made a sound of disbelief. “Christ. I cannot believe I was in your bed. That you are in my arms. That I am the first man to…” He broke off, knowing he revealed too much, but wanting to say everything he could, in case this was his last chance. “It’s as though I’ve walked into a dream, and I’m waiting for it to turn into a nightmare.”

Tomorrow, if things went as planned, it would.

The storm of her temper died just as soon as it had risen, and she regarded him from a guarded, careful gaze. He’d pleased her with his confession, and yet … he sensed he’d made her melancholy as well.

Lowering his head, he took the robe from her grasp and dropped it to the floor. “Dream with me awhile longer, Francesca?” He whispered kisses over her sharp cheekbones, eyelids, nose, brows. “Let me have tonight, and tomorrow will be … what it will be.”

She went to him with no qualms, following him back to bed almost like a contrite child. He spread her beneath the moonlight and proceeded to worship and discover this new woman. With his hands. His mouth. Courting her properly this time. Taking his time and discovering all the curves and hollows of her.

She didn’t let him linger on her scars, but she found a few of his, running her hands along his body as if she could memorize every line and groove.

And then, as the dawn licked the sky with silver, their bodies moved together, making new memories in the dark.

CHAPTER TWENTY

In a world where the Crimson Council existed, Francesca never expected to find the records pertaining to the Mont Claire Massacre, and yet, here she was.

Her fingers trembled as she exclaimed her unbridled victory with a very unladylike whoop. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the subterranean records room and frightened a few pigeons that had gathered around the grimy windows above her head. What little light the solitary line of thin portals allowed into the warehouse-sized space was consistently interrupted by the legs of passersby.

“Kindly return to me my five pounds,” she called as she hauled a dusty box away from a shelf and dropped it onto a grimy table.

“Bollocks,” Chandler answered, closer than she’d expected as his footsteps were muffled by the packed-earth floor and his own brand of light-footed spy magic.

They’d disembarked for the records warehouse early, deciding to pick locks and trespass rather than ask for permission from bureaucrats they couldn’t trust.

If they were caught, she had her pistol and Chandler had not one but several official identification papers that would get them out of just about any trouble with the local constables.

In an attempt to make a boring search interesting, they’d wagered over who would find the files first.

And they both hated to lose.

She’d learned this because it wasn’t the first wager of the day.

As they’d lingered over coffee in bed that morning, Francesca had suggested that they ride their horses through the London throng rather than take a carriage. She preferred this mode of transportation, and her thoroughbred mare, Godiva, was in dire need of the exercise. Furthermore, should they need to make an escape from the law, from the council, or for any other reason, a horse was better equipped for a swift getaway than a coach.

He’d agreed enthusiastically and, as she dressed, they’d