"Lower," he rasped. "Don't tease — not now."

  No question about that aphrodisiac, Eva thought in triumph. She had definitely stolen the right substance this time, and she — and America — would be well rewarded for her efforts.

  "I'm not teasing, I . . . have to get ready myself," she said, trying to prolong the inevitable.

  "Move up, then, and I'll get you ready."

  "Sorry?"

  "I said, move up, damn it." His eyes opened, impaling her with their black ferocity. "Near my face."

  Had Eva been a maid, she would have blushed as red as her hair. But Blackheath was clearly moving past restraint, past the trappings of a gentleman; he was past the point of caring what her reaction was, wanting only relief from whatever agony the potion had put him in. Gingerly, Eva rose to her knees and moved her way up his chest, her thighs spread wide to accommodate its significant breadth, every nerve quivering, every bit of skin shivering, her heart doing a furious boom-boom-boom against her sternum and ready to explode any minute.

  "I will hurt you," she protested, her knees beneath his armpits now, the cords in his neck standing out in high relief and glistening with sweat in the candlelight.

  "You are hurting me more by hesitating. Get up, then, and balance on your knees. I want to taste you, Eva." His eyes blazed into hers; any moment now, his bonds were going to snap and he would be on her like an enraged beast of prey. "I want to possess you. By God, I want all of you."

  Eva, washing hot and cold, braced herself against the headboard, raised herself to her knees once more, and thrust her pelvis forward.

  Blackheath buried his face in her moist red curls.

  Found the top of her hidden slit with his tongue.

  "Higher," he ordered, his voice harsh.

  She heard herself whimpering in her throat as she complied, arching her back and angling herself toward his seeking mouth — and then his face was totally buried against her, and she felt his hot ragged breath there, his lips, and oh — oh God — the stab of his tongue, expertly priming her before he settled into a controlled, ruthless stroke against her wide-open cleft, her moist folds, that sent her senses careening toward the ceiling.

  "Dear God," she gasped, her fingernails gouging into the headboard, her thighs trembling from holding up her weakening body, "Dear God, Blackheath, I never dreamed it could be like this —"

  "Dream harder," he snarled, and then his lips, his tongue closed around that engorged but hidden bud, manipulating it, licking it, suckling it —

  Eva let out a scream of surprise. Her legs gave out from beneath her as she climaxed, her senses exploding in a million pieces. She all but collapsed atop the very mouth that had brought her to such a shamelessly wanton state, pushing herself back at the last moment so that she landed on his chest. His breath came out with a loud oomph and he stared up at her, a man past the point of sanity, his eyes so savage, so intense, that she knew their image would be forever branded in her memory.

  She knew what he wanted.

  Knew what he craved.

  Give it to him.

  And then that wounded, perpetually suffering part of her that would never stop demanding vengeance: Dominate him.

  She moved back, raised herself, and impaled herself on his shaft, gasping as his size stretched and filled her, stretched and filled her past the point that she could painlessly tolerate, pleasurably bear —

  She had no time to rethink her decision. His hips were already moving, the hard muscles of his chest and abdomen bunching and glistening with fine sweat. His eyes were savage. Harder and harder he drove, his breath coming fast and harsh now as he drove himself farther and farther inside her with every ruthless thrust. The pain went away and Eva felt only swimming pleasure, a desperate need to take and be taken, to dominate and be dominated, and yes, oh yes, that wonderful, splinter-apart climax that she could feel rushing down on her once more —

  His black gaze impaling hers, he gave a final lunge and sent them both careening out of control. Eva cried out and fell, sobbing with the sweet agony of the experience, against his damp chest, her body still convulsing all around him.

  There she lay, her lungs heaving, her hot breath dampening her hair. She had just made love to the Duke of Blackheath.

  Had just bedded her enemy.

  And at the moment, she damn well didn't care.

  ~~~~

  Rap rap rap.

  Eva, her lips still buried in the hollow of Blackheath's neck, drifted lazily in her dream state. She was a little girl again. Her papa was home from the sea; he had candy for her, a box of spices from Morocco, and tales of grand adventure —

  Rap rap rap, harder this time, more persistent.

  "Answer the door."

  But the voice wasn't Papa's. Eva, confused, moved toward wakefulness. "Madam, answer the door," said the voice again, and with a start, Eva realized that the clipped command had come from just under her ear, and that her ear was resting at the hot junction of a man's neck and collarbone.

  Blackheath's.

  Remembrance hit her, hard. Her head jerked up in alarm. Wild-eyed, she stared toward the door, knowing that if she were caught in this position she would never be able to face any of her male peers ever again.

  "Who is it?"

  "Henri, madame. I have ze message for you, from Dr. Franklin."

  Eva froze.

  "Dear me, but your assignations never cease, do they?" murmured the man beneath her.

  "Quiet, Blackheath!" She leaped from the bed, grabbed her dressing gown, and, pulling it on as she moved, stalked quickly to the door. She opened it the barest crack, filling it with her body.

  "Je regret, madame, but Dr. Franklin sent me to fetch you. Said that ze Count de Vergennes eez about to make a speech concerning your American victory, and zat eet would be poor form if madame does not make an appearance." The lad bowed, looking sheepish. "Le monsieur's words, madam. Not mine."

  "Of course. Tell Dr. Franklin I will be down in a moment."

  Eva slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing hard. De Vergennes was the French foreign minister, a man whose support for the Americans' cause was one that Franklin had been trying to gain for months! To stay up here would be an insult — oh, God, now what?

  Blackheath, still securely tied and reposing on the bed, smiled insolently up at her. "'Twould be a pity if the good doctor is forced to come up and get you, no?"

  "I don't want to hear it."

  "Tsk, tsk, Eva. I'm sure you can get yourself back into a presentable state by the time the speech is oh, at least half finished. Release me, on the other hand, and I'll get you there in time for the whole thing."

  "I can't release you, not now!"

  "Whyever not?"

  "I don't trust you!" she all but howled, knowing, from the gleam in his eye, that her intuition was entirely correct. From the totally relaxed look about him, she guessed that the effects of the aphrodisiac had worn off, but Eva wasn't about to take any chances; she dared not leave Blackheath alone in her bedchamber, where he would be free to search her room and, inevitably, find the love potion.

  "I'll release you, but you have to leave," she said, frantically grabbing her clothes.

  "Au contraire, madame. I very much prefer to stay."

  "You have to leave, Blackheath!"

  He gave an urbane smile. "What, and miss the rest of the evening's . . . entertainment? I wouldn't dream of it." His smile turned cunning. "Especially with the real aphrodisiac so near at hand. Time to see if it works as well on you as it did on me, my dear."

  He knew then. Knew that she had drugged him. Damn! Eva, her blood starting to boil at this unforseen complication, turned and glared at him. At that magnificent chest, most of which was still prominently displayed beneath the rucked-up shirt. At the broad shoulders, the upper arms that rippled with muscle. At the handsome neck —

  The neck.

  God forgive her. But it wouldn't hurt, and if he wouldn't leave, there was only one thing she could do to contain him. She had to do it.

  She also had to get downstairs, and get downstairs now.

  "Very well, then, Blackheath," she spat, hastily untying him and throwing her clothes at him as she hopped into her hoops and tied them on, as she yanked the petticoats over her head and let them float down over the hoops, as she turned her back so her smug lover could obligingly lace her back into her corset. She glanced at the shelf clock in rising panic, resisting the urge to swear at him for each sharp yank, resisting the urge to curse him for not being quicker, though she could see that he was faster, even, than her own maid.

  She tied on her stomacher, grabbed and donned her gown, and crammed her hair beneath a smart hat. Downstairs, she could hear a rising commotion. Applause. Oh God, any moment now — she had to get down there!

  "Thank you, Blackheath," she cried, turning in his arms and pretending to throw herself at him with such gratitude that he had to step backward, his legs coming up against the side of the bed. "You are a godsend."

  She hooked her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  Hard.

  He never suspected, of course. That was the magic about what she was about to do. She let her hands slide back down, so that one fitted against the side of his waist, and the heel of the other rested just below the base of his throat, the thumb and first two fingers splayed in an innocuous V on either side of his neck as she pretended to caress him.

  He'll never know. Just do it.

  It felt vile. Treacherous. Underhanded.

  Your country needs you.

  She pretended to lose herself in the kiss, pressing up against him, using desire as an excuse to get closer to him and increase the pressure against the sides of his neck. Come on, come on! she urged, keeping the pressure steady, even though she regretted that this kiss was going to end as quickly as it had begun. And then suddenly it did.

  His mouth went slack upon hers, his legs buckled, and he slumped, unconscious, only the bed behind his legs and her arm around his waist keeping him upright. Even so, Eva could not hold him up; he fell against her, his chin slamming the top of her shoulder, his dead weight nearly toppling her backward. With all her strength, she shoved him away from her, sending him sprawling on his back across the bed. She leaped up beside him, telling herself this was necessary, that it was kinder than a blow, that she had only moment before he came back to his senses and was on her in full fury. She did not want to have to put him out again.

  But as she fumbled to tie his wrists together, he began to stir, and she feared she would have to do just that. His limbs began to spasm, and mighty shudders convulsed his body as he fought to regain consciousness. Hating herself, Eva reached down and pressed her fingers to either side of his neck once more. He opened his eyes, dazedly impaling her with a look of stunned accusation, fighting her with the strength of will alone; but will alone was not enough. His eyes rolled back and with a sigh, he passed out once more.

  She kept her fingers against him for a few more perilous seconds, biting her lip, finally releasing him and hoping she'd bought the additional time she needed. She flew into action. On all fours, she crawled to the head of the bed, seized his newly bound wrists, and with all her strength, tried to move him. To no avail. Sweat broke out on her forehead. A seam popped somewhere in her gown. She heaved and jerked and swore, and finally managed to slide him an inch . . . several inches . . . several more, until his lax wrists were just shy of the headboard.

  Not close enough —

  Rap rap rap!

  "I'm coming!" she yelled frantically.

  "Eva, it's me," came Franklin's worried voice from the other side of the door. "Are you all right? May I come in?"

  "I'm on my way," she gasped, hauling tightly on the knot that bound the unconscious duke and leaping back off the bed. He would not be going anywhere anytime soon. She'd be back just as soon as the speech was over.

  She glanced at his still face. Guilt and shame filled her, and she hurriedly turned away before they could be her undoing.

  Funny, but when she had held up the coach and struck down this man's brother — who, granted, had never done a single thing in his life to offend or hurt her — with a blow to the back of the neck, guilt and shame had been the last thing she'd felt.

  No. Just a contemptuous delight in her mastery over men, and the ease with which she could overpower them.

  Not this time.

  She fled.

  Chapter 8

  Lucien came slowly back to his senses.

  He opened his eyes to an empty room with only the flickering glow of the candle for company. For a moment he lay there, disoriented, groggy, and dazed, trying to discern what had happened to him. He was tied once more to the bedpost. His head throbbed with pain, yet he had no idea why. Certainly she had not struck him a blow; the pain was not localized, but a general ache quite unlike anything he had ever felt before.

  He blinked and lifted his head, fighting dizziness. He supposed he ought to be furious, and yes, humiliated, by being done in by a woman — but no. Instead, he was fascinated. Totally intrigued. He gave a disbelieving little laugh. What the devil had she done to him?

  A dangerous woman indeed . . .

  He racked his brain for answers. He remembered her riding him furiously, and the splintering climax that had claimed them both. He remembered her falling asleep for a few moments atop his chest, and the way her hair had felt beneath his hand as he'd stroked it, like heavy silk. He remembered someone at the door, her desperate attempts to get away, her untying his wrists — and there, his memories stopped.

  Yet here he was, tied up once more. And she — along with her clothes — was gone. How had she managed to get them all back on by herself? If he'd helped her, he damn well couldn't remember doing so . . .

  He'd find out the answers, but not now. Tensing his arms, Lucien hauled himself upward on his back, toward the post to which his wrists were bound. His cravat strained with the force. He smiled. As he suspected, she had left his inert body far enough down the bed that, just by moving himself toward the headboard, he had enough slack to work himself loose. She must have been in one hell of a hurry to be so careless.

  It would have been just as easy, but much less satisfying when she discovered he was gone, to simply use his own strength to tear through his sacrificed cravat. But that wouldn't make for such a complete victory. Oh, no. Far better to simply untie himself and leave the article folded mockingly across her pillows . . .

  It was not hard to free himself.

  But it was very hard to stand up.

  He nearly fell as his feet took his weight, and, grabbing a bedpost, he cursed his brain for its inability to control the rest of his body. But it was functioning quite soundly in the one way that mattered. Having personally witnessed the effects of the aphrodisiac on others, Lucien was in no doubt about what Eva had put in his champagne to get such a reaction from him. Releasing the bedpost, he staggered to the dressing table, remembering that she had dabbed perfume on herself just before handing him his drink.

  Ah, yes. There was no mistaking the aphrodisiac's seductive purple-garnet color, though she had tried to disguise it by storing it in a perfume bottle. Grinning wryly, Lucien shook his head. He couldn't help but admire her wiliness. Well, she might think she could outsmart him, but she had a thing or two to learn about just whom she was dealing with. Calmly donning the rest of his clothes, Lucien checked himself in the mirror. Pity about the cravat. Otherwise . . . perfect. Totally unruffled. As if nothing had even happened.

  He picked up his sword, pocketed the perfume bottle, and was just about to leave when he spied a stack of writing paper on a nearby desk. A dry smile twisted his lips.

  Oh, he couldn't resist.

  He just couldn't.

  He picked up a quill pen, uncapped the nearby ink, and sat down, purposely waiting for the last of his vertigo to clear so it would not show in his writing and give his beautiful adversary something to gloat about.

  His grin spreading, he began to write:

  My dearest Eva,

  The next time you plan to tie up an unconscious prisoner, do allow me to show you the proper way it is done. In the meantime, my compliments on your ingenuity, my hopes for immediate news concerning Lord Brookhampton, and my gratitude for a most rewarding and pleasurable evening . . . as well as for the aphrodisiac, which, I am happy to report, is back with its rightful owner. If you have any wish to reclaim it, do come to England. I would dearly love to . . . have you.

  Blackheath

  He underscored that last have three times to ensure that the innuendo was clear; then, with a triumphant smile, calmly exited the room.

  Another round played, another match won.

  ~~~~

  A fortnight after the Duke of Blackheath's escape, Eva awoke with a headache and a roiling stomach that threatened to divulge itself of its contents when the smell of toast came drifting up from the kitchens downstairs.

  She pulled the drapes and lay back down on the bed, massaging her temples, willing her jumpy stomach to be still. She had been furious when she'd returned to her room and found not only Blackheath, but the aphrodisiac, gone. Cursing, she had collapsed on the window seat, ruefully eyed the bed where Blackheath had brought her to such dizzying heights, and given way to moroseness. Then, grudging respect. And finally, peals of laughter. How could she be furious with the man? Yes, he had outsmarted her once again. He had won the latest battle. But there would be another round between them. She was sure of it. In the meantime, she could not help but admire his ingenuity in escaping . . . the devious way he had turned the tables on her. Her blood ran hot, just thinking about him.

  Eva wasn't laughing, however, when Marie Antoinette demanded the potion several days later. She wasn't laughing when she had to confess that she didn't have it. The French queen's fury was such that she banished Eva from the royal chambers. Not long afterward, Eva was summoned to Franklin's residence, where she was soberly informed that her presence in Paris was a threat to the American's careful negotiations. "I'm sorry, Eva, but you cannot stay here. Her Majesty is most upset with you . . . first the false aphrodisiac that so sickened the king, and now an empty promise about the real one. You must leave Paris for a while . . . at least, until we have secured an alliance with France."