He tugged at her chemise, exposing her breasts. Slowly, he circled her skin with his tongue. Her sensitive nipples rose up, aching for his kiss. His thumb grazed the tip, and she shuddered.

“You want me. And you belong to me.”

Between her legs, a wetness made her crave him. She hadn’t forgotten a moment of the nights they’d shared after their wedding. With each caress of his fingers upon her breasts, a dark need welled up.

He covered her breasts again and tasted her through the soft cambric, scraping his teeth against the taut nipple. She nearly came apart at the rough sensation of wet fabric and his hot mouth.

“Stephen,” she whispered, holding on to his shoulders and trying to urge him closer. Desire battered against her sense of reason. She didn’t understand what he was doing when he moved back from her.

He reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew the key. “If you want to share my bed, you need only open the door.”

He tilted her chin up and brushed a searing kiss upon her lips before pressing the key into her palm. She barely heard the sound of his adjoining door closing.

He was giving her a choice. She could become his wife in body as well as name. And she could not accuse him of forcing her.

Go to him, her body pleaded. Surrender to the seduction.

But though he might reawaken her to the sweet pleasure of his bed, the terrible fact remained. He didn’t remember making love to her on their wedding night.

And though it wasn’t his fault, it devastated her to know that the most perfect night of her life meant nothing to him.

Her hand covered her mouth, as if to stave off the violent tears threatening. She didn’t dare go to his bed, for, once again, she would be the lovelorn maiden. And he, indifferent to her feelings.

Not again.

Before she could lose her grasp on sanity, she set the key upon the fireplace mantel and extinguished the lamp.

Chapter Twelve

“What have you learned?“ the voice asked.

“They are leaving for Falkirk. I will follow them and locate the ledgers. The earl will lead us to them.”

“The earl is supposed to be dead.” The voice grew frustrated, a note of anger rising higher.

“I will not fail you again, my lord. The ledgers will be destroyed.”

“See to it. Or you will not like the consequences.” The voice paused a moment, then continued. “Use every means necessary.”

Victoria Barrow was a traitor of the worst sort. Instead of sobbing for hours on end as she had done on the trip to London, the infant had spent most of the journey happily curled up in Stephen’s arms, her face nestled against his waistcoat. He’d given her a pocket watch to play with, and she had entertained herself by chewing upon it.