Page 24 of The Lord Meets His Lady

Eyes shut, he rubbed the back of his neck. He should’ve left for Prussia a fortnight ago. His work among theEnglischwas done, save finding one elusive dark-eyed, amber-haired prize. Genevieve was most unusual, a woman with a backbone in a world of simpering ladies. Few women of Prussia’s Junker class could measure up to her. Talented hands repaired guns by day and teased his body at night.

Their sex was heady, addicting.

A soft hand touched him. “I could take care of the ache in your neck, sir.”

He grunted. It was all the encouragement he’d give. She was bold, her fingers pushing his hand away to massage his nape. Stiff skirts draped his leg. Tension melted. Her near-black hair tempted him to run his fingers through it, to let pins fall to the floor. He’d coil one hand in the dark length, bend the maid over, and test what flesh hid beneath starched skirts.

Heat pooled at his spine. The maid stood on tiptoe, pressing her breast against him. Her small fruit rose and fell with her breathing, brushing his sleeve. Both hands fisted at his sides, an urge building to spend himself in warm, feminine flesh.

The maid bit her plump bottom lip, her lacy mobcap bobbing as she rubbed harder against him. Had she worn the cap while sucking off other men she’d served? Genevieve never wore mobcaps, and she hated pins in her hair.

“Do you want me to turn down your bed and wait for you, sir?”

His head jerked sideways, her question a cold splash. He had no taste for timid mice. Genevieve would’ve told him to turn down the bed and wait for her. It was her sultry voice he wanted to hear on the pillow beside him.

“It’s late,” he said, pushing away her hand. “Seek your own bed.”

The maid fled the entry, a flurry of black bombazine skirts. Avo rounded the corner, a slip of foolscap in his hand. The cheroot was gone. He’d tarried in the study to finish it—yet another act of defiance.

The Frisian craned his neck to follow the maid’s exit. “You should lie with her. Then you will forget the blondliefdesgrot.”

Reinhard slammed his fist hard into the Frisian’s jaw. Bone smashed bone. Blood spurted a thin red arc. Avo landed in a sprawl, the message floating to the marble floor. Reinhard clenched and unclenched his hand, the pain ebbing from his knuckles. The Frisian sat up and tested his jaw, his black eyes widening with grudging respect.

Yes, violence was Avo’s favorite language.

Surprise and strategy was Reinhard’s.

He planted his boot on the blood-splattered paper. “You will never call her that again.”

“Yes, Captain.” The Frisian wiped a hand across his mouth.

Next time—if there was a next time—Avo would pay dearly for his mistake.

Reinhard retrieved the message under his boot and walked coldly around Avo, reading the list of ships and guns and quantities of lead. Unquestioning obedience was his requirement. Avo was learning. So would Genevieve.

He took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to look back as he issued orders. “Tomorrow you will return to the mantua-makers on Birchin Lane and start your search for Genevieve there. Find her, and we leave.”