Under a Christmas Spell

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Except to bed her. He didn’t think he would ever stop wanting that. An incubus should have a certain amount of natural resistance, but when it came to Lucie he was as susceptible as any other man. More so, because he’d fallen hopelessly, idiotically, in love with her, and then been devastated when she’d ruined his mission by warning a French spy, thus aiding the man’s escape.

Compared to that pain, the hole in Val’s arm was a mere twinge, and yet he had protected Lucie from the death she’d deserved at the risk of his own life. Did the master know about any of this? Had Val been sent here as some kind of test?

He lay back on the pillows, fuming. He didn’t give a damn about the master’s reasons. His life was his own now, but if he’d known Lucie would be here, he would have sought a less hazardous method of getting into the house party. He had already refused to let the doctor bleed him. His gunshot wound was a mere scratch—he’d done the job much better this time—but he couldn’t afford to handicap himself further. The mission had suddenly begun to matter.

By a stroke of good luck, Miss Southern, the capable lady who had ordered even Lord Westerly about, had designated herself mistress of the sickroom. This surprised him; he’d expected a manservant at best or a slattern at worst, since everyone knew about his reputation with women. He lay back on the pillows, hoping he looked harmless, and tried to mask the throbbing in his arm with erotic thoughts.

Theodora Southern wasn’t the sort of woman who appealed to him. She was pretty enough, but matter-of-fact and entirely without guile. Maybe she didn’t find men sexually attractive. He could probably change that temporarily, but it seemed as pointless now as it had in the office of the Master of the British Incubi. Rebellion simmered within him. He’d had enough of being manipulated...but for the moment, until he knew what was going on, he might as well do as he’d been told.