The Duke's Covert Mission. Julie Miller
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“I don’t know why you’re helping me, or if you’re really helping me at all. But since I’m still alive, I figured that’s a good thing, right? I’ve never been kidnapped before, and I don’t know the proper etiquette. But my goal should be to stay alive, and I should be grateful to you for helping me, and it shouldn’t matter why you’re doing it.”
The talking. That was different. She hadn’t put so many words together at one time in the entire twenty-four hours she’d been here. But he wasn’t psychic. He couldn’t have foretold her nervous rambling from the top of the steps. Something else had to be out of place to keep nagging at his subconscious mind.
The meeting with Winston Rademacher had made him edgy, that was all. He didn’t quite buy that excuse, but he was already busy making other observations.
She backed away when he knelt in front of her to pick up her discarded ration packets, and the movement gave him a glimpse of her torn gown and petticoats. Maybe that was why he hadn’t really noticed her looks before. Other than the size of her eyes, her features had seemed unremarkable. But the fire-engine red of that gown was so overwhelming it would make all but the most striking of women look drab in comparison.
Cade imagined this woman would look pretty in softer colors. Soft like her. Yeah. He allowed himself a smile beneath his mask. If her hair was any indication, this woman was soft. Really, really…
Wham!
He didn’t see it coming until the claw was right on him. The force of the blow rang through his skull and knocked him off his feet. The sharp metal hook that she’d anchored in her fist snagged in the knit of his cap and plowed through the top layer of skin on his cheek as she ripped the mask right off his head.
In the moments it took him to recover—to shake his head and clear the dizziness from his vision—he felt her hand at his waist. Butting against his hipbone. Diving into his pocket. Moving dangerously close to…
He heard the jingle of keys and knew her intention.
Adrenaline cleared his head with a soldier’s clarity of instinct and purpose.
He clamped his hand around her wrist and knew that she knew this sneak attack had failed.
Her split second of hesitation gave him an advantage he didn’t intend to surrender again. She jerked back with a grunt, but Cade held fast, using her momentum to pull himself to his knees. He felt her shift, saw the metal hook flying toward his face again. He snagged that wrist, too, and rolled his shoulder into her thighs, toppling her onto her back.
He dodged the knee that rose to strike him and dropped his body weight onto hers, pinning her to the sleeping bag beneath him. For an instant she went still and Cade damned himself, thinking she’d hit her head on the concrete floor.
Instead, she’d paused to stare.
“Cade St. John?” She squeezed his name out in a mix of accusation and shock. “The Duke of Raleigh?”
The recognition caught him off guard. She’d seemed familiar, but he still hadn’t placed her. “How do you know me?” he demanded, pushing himself up onto his elbows at either side of her, giving her room to breathe without completely freeing her.
Her teeth bared with determined fury. “You traitor!” She pried a hand loose and slapped his face. She twisted her hips, shimmying along the floor beneath him. “King Easton invited you to be part of his American entourage. How could you betray that kind—” Cade thrust his arm beyond her rolling shoulder “—sweet—” he bent his elbow, twisting her flying arm to the floor “—man?”
Her cry of pain was more of a strangled moan. But whether her inspiration came from patriotism or her own personal fear, she still writhed beneath him. Kicking at his calves and shins. Pushing the hook toward his face with fury-charged strength. She was wild. Out of control.
Cade mentally stripped himself of any kid gloves, any guilt. He had to defend himself and keep her from hurting herself. He wound his left leg around both of hers and stilled her kicking. He pulled his hips over hers, damning propriety and letting his weight crush her diaphragm, robbing her of the ability to breathe deeply.
And then he tackled the damn hook. He stretched her right hand up over her head and shifted his grip around her wrist. It wasn’t a matter of overpowering her so much as finding that particular bundle of nerves near the base of her palm. He pressed the spot with his thumb and her fingers popped open. He shook the hand once. Twice. The curved piece of metal flew out and clanged against the concrete floor. It was the handle from the lantern. Somehow she’d managed to pry it off and arm herself with a weapon.
The muted wince of pain he heard in her throat was her final protest. For several moments all was silent, all was still, except for the sounds of heavy breathing. His, measured and deep. Hers, quick and shallow.
Cade refused to ease his grip on her. The little spitfire had surprised him. Unmasked him. Drawn his blood.
Now that she’d recognized him, judged him to be a traitor to her beloved king, he suspected she’d do it again, given the chance.
And that was when Cade became aware of something else altogether.
Somewhere in their struggle, that gown with the broken straps—the gown that didn’t quite fit—had ripped down the front. And there, pressing against his chest, teasing him again and again with each fevered breath she took, was a naked breast.
He raised himself ever so slightly. Seeking oxygen, her chest heaved for a deep breath. Cade watched in shameless fascination as the breast pillowed between the shreds of torn silk and came free of the black lace bra that couldn’t contain its bounty. The chilled basement air—or maybe his own heated wish—coaxed the peachy circle at its tip to pucker and the nipple to strain to attention.
Cade became aware of other things, too. The cradle of her hips flaring with generous proportions beneath his. The gentle nip of her waist. The rounded, full, glorious splendor of her unintended display. His own body’s immediate, healthy male response to such unexpected feminine treasures.
And the frightened, doe-eyed wonder of those big blue eyes desperately seeking to make contact with him.
“Who are you?” he whispered on a curiously husky plea.
She stared at him, one arm pinned above her head, one pinned at her side, completely vulnerable to him. Somehow she found the strength to answer.
“Ellie.” She swallowed hard and Cade followed the movement down the length of her throat. “I’m called Ellie.”
“Ellie.” He tested the word on his tongue. The name suited her. Soft. Quietly elegant. Not an exotic, sophisticated concoction like Lucia Carradigne.
Because he wore scandal like a second skin, he let his gaze linger on the peach and porcelain wonder of her breast, and wished its mate had popped free, as well. But because his stint in the Royal Korosolan Army had taught him a few things about honor, he lifted his gaze to hers and tried not to look like the ogre she probably thought him to be.
He’d release her slowly, he decided, still remembering the need to protect himself from her surprise attacks. Very slowly.
He freed her arm and pulled his hand down along her body. Her eyes widened to panicked pools and she snatched at his wrist. Okay, so maybe he’d hovered a bit too long above that tempting mound. But he wouldn’t touch her that way without her permission. Cade had never forced a woman to do anything she didn’t want to.
Even the one he’d kidnapped.
He let her hold him off and looked into her eyes until he saw a glimmer of trust there. Only then did he move again. He reached for the end of the blanket that lay beneath them and pulled it up, covering her exposed breast. He nearly smiled at the gratitude that flooded her eyes. The transformation from fear to thanks washed her pale features in a warm, pretty color, and Cade was suddenly supremely glad that he wasn’t a complete jerk. A man like Jerome Smython would never get to witness such a beautiful, shy smile.
He