Page 48 of Mortdale

“And he’s a spy. A spy who would love nothing more than to report something that could have my wife killed.”

“Why are you letting him in here if you know this?”

“Because the parliament wants reassurance that it can control me. And I can choose to feed them whatever news I want them to know.”

Oh.

He took one small step back, giving me some space to breathe freely. “Who did you write to? I was also missing a piece of paper.”

“I think you have a problem.”

“I do,” he said, lifting me to sit on his table as he braced his hands against it to cage me in between his arms. “I’m looking at it.”

A breath got stuck in my throat when he pulled his shirt off and dragged my dress skirts all the way up my thighs, parting them to stand closer to me. It was a struggle to concentrate on his wet, cold hand still on my thigh when I had the most perfect view of his chiseled, muscled torso covered in scars.

Heavy steps dragged my attention over his shoulder before I could even question what in the Hell he was doing. Rupert and Edwin stopped at the study door, staring at us wide-eyed.

“Yes?” my husband asked, throwing them a look over his broad naked shoulder.

They didn’t know where to look first. Shock had both left them open mouthed and wordless. It was Rupert who managed to pipe up after some time, “We have to leave. They’ve signalled another outbreak again. Close to the city this time. It looks bad.”

Logan’s cold hand moved up and down on my thigh as he reached to undo his belt with the other. “Give me ten minutes.”

I nearly choked. What?

Oh.

Oh.

I shook the shawl off my shoulders, and batted my lashes at them.

Both of the guards sent each other a smirking look as they drew the doors shut.

The moment they were out of sight, he pulled my skirts down my legs and wrapped the shawl around my shoulders again. But he didn’t move back to give me any breathing space.

“You could have warned me,” I told him.

“Knowing all the rules to the game makes it less fun, no?” He lit a cigarette, blowing smoke overhead. “Who did you write to?”

“My friend, Ethel.”

He slowly sat up straight and finally took a small step back, letting my thighs fall back together again as he did his belt up. “And what did you write to her about?”

“The recipe to Theodora’s bread pudding and the codes to your infernal machines,” I spat, wrapping my shawl tighter around my shoulders, feeling exposed all of a sudden. I could still feel his hand on my thigh, and shivers had travelled up almost to my throat. My body had been a reserved crime scene. I’d not let anyone close enough to see, let alone touch me.

His thumb was pressed against his lips. “And you finished that with: I’m alive and barely kicking. I love you. Do not mourn me.”

I shot up to my feet. “How—”

“I could read the pen marks five pages under. You need to work on your breaking-in skills. Because I have this irritable feeling you will do it again.”

“Maybe it’s just scabies. Are you itching between your fingers and toes?”

“How were you planning on getting this letter to her?”

“Post office,” I said through clenched teeth.

He tipped his head to the side. “Every letter posted with an address in Meridian is reported to the authorities. Which is me. No such letter has come to my desk.”