Rogue of the Highlands: Rogue, Book 1 by Cynthia Breeding

to Miss Violetta. She seems quite alone at the moment.” He started to walk away and then turned back, smiling wolfishly. “The combined lands would make me a very rich man, madam. Perhaps you should think about that.”
    Jillian stared after him. What had he meant by that last remark?
     
    Wesley was still quite pleased with himself for turning the tables on the Highlander later that evening as he crawled up the drainpipe to the terrace that led to Lady Sherrington’s boudoir.
    Things were really going his way. Dropping subtle hints amongst the peerage that the Highlander might be harboring French spies would certainly divert any suspicion from himself. After all, Ian Macleod was from Glenfinnan, the very place where the Young Pretender had rallied his forces for the last time. Wesley had brought two trusted men with him on his return from France. Jean St. Croix had already found employment as a fencing instructor at Le Rapier Tranchant where he could report back to Wesley on whatever useful bits of information the Englishmen might drop during practices. But Louis Tredeau was still free. Perhaps he would send him to Glenfinnan to do some scouting. Find out who the refugees up there really were and if any of them could be persuaded to work for him.
    But right now, he had another task in mind. He crept up to Delia’s window on the second floor and carefully looked in.
    She was sitting in front of her nightstand, combing her long, chestnut hair, her face in silhouette to him. The filmy negligee she wore left little to his imagination, the full mound of her breast exposed through the transparent material each time she raised her arm to brush her hair. She was alone.
    He scratched on the window and was rewarded with her quick turn and sudden smile. She hurried over and undid the window latch.
    “ Monsieur . I was hoping you’d come,” she said as Wesley crawled through the window.
    “I got your calling card this afternoon,” he answered as he kneaded both breasts hard, drawing a slight gasp from her. “It was carefully coded, but I thought this was the intent. Am I right?”
    Delia pressed the length of herself against his. “Of course. I just hoped you’d be able to get my real message.” She giggled a little. “Writing in code is kind of like playing spies, isn’t it?”
    He stiffened momentarily and then relaxed. She couldn’t possibly know. And her amateur attempt at coding was laughable. But no matter. She was here and he needed a good rutting.
    “It’s not the only game I’d like to play,” he murmured as he tore at the ribbons holding the flimsy material together.
    “Careful, my lord,” she said as she removed his hands and undid the ribbons herself. “I would not care to have Sherrington wonder how this garment came to be torn. He gave it to me.”
    “I don’t want to hear about him,” Wesley growled, taking her breasts in his hands again, “except to know we won’t be bothered.”
    Delia arched her back, jutting her nipples against his hands. “He’s at his club no doubt pretending to be drunk while he robs his friends blind at cards.”
    So the man was shrewd. A tingle of excitement shot through Wesley. He particularly enjoyed bedding wives of pompous asses who thought they were so smart. “He’s not a drunkard then?” he asked as cupped her bare buttocks and rubbed his erection against her mound.
    “Hardly. Wellington has said Sherrington has the hardest head he knows.”
    Her husband was friends with Colonel Wellesley? Wesley’s luck was just getting better and better. What kind of information could he get out of her that Napoleon might find useful? Then he frowned.
    “I thought you said the other night your husband would sleep soundly because of all that he’d had to drink?”
    She half-hooded her eyes and gave him a coy look. “He does…when I put a little something into his wine.”
    Wesley made a mental note of that too. Only drink from her cup after she did.
    He ran his hands