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She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. “Pardon?”

“You’re frustrated and want to hit something.” He strode to her and took up a wide-legged stance before her. “Hit me.” He pointed to his jaw. “Right here. Go on. I can take it.”

“I’m not hitting you.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“I won’t.”

“Just hit me, Marjorie. Take your best shot. I won’t even flinch.”

A red haze clouded her vision. Who knew she had such a temper? “I promise if I hit you, Burrows, you will flinch.”

“Doubtful.”

She knew what he was doing. He was goading her, and she was falling for it because he was correct. She would feel better if she hit something. And he was just standing there...

Before she even knew what she was about to do, she raised her fist and swung at him. The arc of her arm, the way she brought her fist up to connect under his jaw, felt natural and almost second-nature. She’d done this before. She’d hit a man before just like this.

And then something went wrong.

Simon caught her fist. She couldn’t process what had happened at first. It seemed impossible that he’d moved so quickly.

But her smaller fist was caught in his hand, and before she could pull away, he yanked her to him.

Her nostrils flared as she caught the scent of him, mingled with her own scent that still clung to him from their earlier lovemaking.

She brought her free hand up, thinking she might take a shot with that one.

Instead, she grabbed the back of his neck and brought his mouth down to hers. Hard.

He didn’t pull away but kissed her back with a passion she hadn’t been expecting.

His fervor only added fuel to hers. She freed her other hand from his grip, put a palm on his chest, and shoved him until his back hit the wall.

A table with a lamp rattled, but she ignored it.

She was yanking at his cravat and freeing him from his coat.

His mouth was on her neck, his hands on her breasts, and then he forcibly shifted positions so her back was against the wall.

His coat fell to the floor and she all but ripped his shirt over his head.

When he was free, his bare chest gleaming in the low lamplight, he yanked open her bodice and kissed the exposed flesh above her breasts.

She moaned and pulled him closer, her hands skating down his bare back.

He was so warm, his muscles bunching as she tested them.

She couldn’t get close enough, and she all but cried yes when his hands went under her buttocks to lift her.

She locked her legs around his waist as he pushed her skirts aside so she could feel how hard he was under his trousers.

And then, holding her with one hand, he unfastened the fall of his trousers, and she felt him between her thighs.

“Simon, please ,” she said just before he drove into her.

Her back rammed against the wall. It wasn’t painful—in fact, the feel of him inside her was glorious—but the lamp on the table rattled again.

Her mouth met his as he moved inside her.

He’d slowed his thrusts, and she loved him for that.

He wanted to pleasure her. But in this moment, she wanted fast and hard.

“Harder,” she whispered against his lips. “Faster.”

“You’ll be the death of me,” he groaned, but he gave her what she wanted.

When her head threatened to bang against the wall, he cupped the back of it to cover her injury with his hand.

That tender gesture, coupled with the hard thrust of his cock, caused her body to draw inward as pleasure exploded and spread through her.

She dug her heels into his buttocks, and ground against him, her breath so ragged she couldn’t seem to draw in air.

And then he was pulling away, setting her down and holding a handkerchief to his member as he too climaxed. The lamp on the table teetered on the edge, and Marjorie reached out a hand and caught it midair. Then she slumped onto the floor and closed her eyes in bliss.

***

S HE WAS STILL FRUSTRATED but somehow after an orgasm like he’d given her, that frustration was manageable.

She was not tired, however, and she offered to take the first watch.

He didn’t argue, merely raked a hand through his already mussed hair and collapsed on the couch, his breathing deep and regular within moments.

Marjorie went to the bed chamber to clean herself and returned with the blanket, covering him.

Poor man. She’d worn him out these last few days.

He’d taken on the double duty of caring for her and leading this mission.

She could hardly blame him for finally succumbing to exhaustion.

She started for the chair where she’d spent her watch last night, then spotted his coat and shirt on the floor.

Simon would not like his clothing to wrinkle.

She bent to pick them up, intending to drape them over the back of a chair, but when she lifted the coat, the book Simon had purchased dropped out.

She put the small volume on the table as she hung his clothing then took it with her to the chair.

She wore her shift with her robe over it, and she tucked her bare feet under her as she sat.

The lamp beside her flickered as she opened the book and read the first page.

The author—she had never heard of him—did not have a way with words.

She tried another page, but it was as dry as the first. She flipped forward, thinking perhaps the volume might be more interesting a few chapters in, but it was full of descriptions of shorelines and dimensions of smuggling vessels, and she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in either of those.

She was about to set it on the table and succumb to ogling Simon’s handsome face like some sort of degenerate when her hand slipped.

She caught the book in time to keep it from dropping with a loud thud on the floor, but as she did so, it opened to a page toward the end.

This page held no words. Instead, it was full of lines and shapes.

It was bound into the book but folded, and when she unfolded it, her mind rearranged the shapes and lines into a map of the coast.

The British coast. Xes were marked throughout—she didn’t know what they signified, perhaps safe havens for smugglers—but she found herself unable to breathe. She couldn’t stop staring at those Xes and the rough drawing of the coastline.

And then abruptly she was on the floor, clutching her head.

She felt as though someone had taken a cleaver and split it in two.

She gasped and reached for Simon, but she couldn’t make her hand close on his arm, though it was just a few feet away.

The room was spinning, and she was grasping at air.

She’d seen those maps at the bookshop and nothing had happened, but now she couldn’t catch her breath.

Nausea bubbled up. At first, she tried closing her eyes and forcing the queasiness back down. She took a shallow breath, sat up, and her gaze caught the map again. The nausea washed back over her. On hands and knees, she crawled to the table, pulled the bowl down, and was violently ill.

“Marjorie!”

She didn’t dare move away from the bowl where she was hunched, but she felt Simon’s arms come around her from behind.

“What can I do?” He scraped her hair back and lifted it, cooling her neck.

She struggled to tamp down the nausea and the pain in her skull.

After a few minutes, Simon moved away and returned with another bowl.

Then he dropped the blanket over her shoulders, causing her to realize she had begun to shiver.

“I put the kettle on. Should I send for the doctor?”

She shook her head. “No.” She leaned her head back against the table. “I remembered something.” She opened her eyes, and he was staring at her with a mixture of hope and concern. “Give me a moment.”

He crouched before her and took her hand. His was so warm against her freezing flesh. “There’s a map,” she said slowly. “In the cave.”

“The cave at the beach.”

The kettle began to whistle, but they both ignored it. “I hid it there.” She pressed her hand to her forehead as a slice of pain cut through her. She must have sat there for several moments because when the pain had passed, Simon had silenced the kettle and was sitting cross-legged before her.

“Take your time,” he said.

She nodded. “When we first arrived, I hid the map in the cave.”

“It’s a map with the rendezvous point marked?”

“Yes. I didn’t want it here.”

“I understand. Anyone looking for such a map would search here first.” He put a hand on her knee. “Did you suspect someone was after it?”

“I don’t know. No. I think just...protocol?” She took a shaky breath then looked up at him, and he nodded.

“Is the map still in the cave?”

“I don’t know. I went to—oh, God.” The bowl was in her hands again, and she emptied the scant remains in her stomach. When she’d finished, Simon took the bowl and handed her a damp cloth. She rubbed her face with it.

“Just breathe,” he said. He’d moved beside her and rubbed her back.

“It’s my head,” she said through gasps. “Every time something comes back to me, I feel as though my head is splitting in two.”

“You’re very pale. Do you want to lie down?”

“No—yes. Simon, I don’t know if the map is still in the cave, but that’s why I was there that night. I was retrieving it before our meeting.”

“I’ve already come to that conclusion.” He lifted her up and carried her to the couch, holding her until she ceased shaking. Gradually, her headache began to fade and then the room began to fade.