by Gina Conkle
Will huffed, an enslaved man, running his hands up and down her thighs. “What a shame to hide such fair legs.” He kissed her thigh, his fingers digging into her flesh. “It will be my privilege to worship them for the rest of our lives.”
He buried his face against her thighs.
She gasped when his big, warm hands cupped her backside.
“Keep touching yourself.” Will’s voice was ragged against her skin.
She rubbed her mons. Crinkly black hairs springing against her palm. The pressure building in her nub of flesh high in the cleft. The throbbing. The need. Will’s breath fanned her hand, her mons, her thighs.
A dark storm lit his eyes.
Its force stunning, invading. Domination of a different kind. His hands kneaded her bottom, the pressure so, so, so good. Her head tipped back. She could barely breathe. Air refused to stay in her lungs.
The pounding . . . in her heart, her body, her nipples tight nibs.
The ache was everywhere.
“Slide your finger through your cleft.”
Will’s order, steady this time. He was sharp and clear while she fell into murky depths. Night was velvet closing over her and her finger.
“Do it, lass.”
Three of her fingers spread delicate flesh. The wetness kissed by Will’s breath. She whimpered.
“Will . . . I . . .”
Delicious weakness flooded her limbs. She rubbed, her fingers circling while he watched. Slippery, wet snicks matched her touch.
“That’s it. Move your fingers for me. Play with your clitoris.”
“My wha . . . ?” Her head dropped, chin to chest. She couldn’t hold it up because her three fingers controlled her body. Or the pink nub did.
“Your clitoris.” Molten gold eyes stared up at her in the dark. “It’s . . . here.”
Will added his finger to her three.
She cried out and clutched his shoulder. Her knees didn’t work. Will might be the one on his knees, but she was a slave to his talented finger circling her—whatever he called it—part of her body.
“Lie down, lass.”
She did, an inelegant mess of snagged silk and crushed panniers. Her shoes on, Will’s shoes on, they were clothed bodies mashing together with his clever finger stuck between them. Need was building. She knew what it was. Powerful, aching, desire. The fuse coming for its due.
“Hold on to me, lass.”
She hooked an arm around his neck. She was desperate, her hips bumping his hand, her bared legs shaking. He kissed her. Wildly, passionately, the sadness and fury of years apart crashing in that one kiss.
Liquid silk dripped within her cleft. She was primal, animal, needy bumping hard against Will. His velvet-clad thighs rubbed hers with the sweetest friction.
“Keep going,” Will ordered against her mouth.
“I ca—I can . . .” Her neck arched and the fuse which hounded her so fiendishly smashed and sparkled.
Pleasure peaked, shuddering her, ripping a hoarse cry. Sweat heated her skin. Her pink nub pulsed against Will’s finger. He circled slowly, slowly as if to coil her into a neat circle of stillness. As if he could control her . . . right there.
But that storm brought another one with it. Hot pressure, deeper inside. More tender, commanding. Another need that refused to go away. Will sensed it.
He fumbled with her bodice. She fumbled with his placket. It would be an honest joining of two ragged hearts with hungry bodies.
Will grinned when her nipple popped out above green silk. He suckled it with the same teasing relish she suckled his earlobe.
“Oh . . . Yes. Like that,” she murmured, hooking a leg over his hip.
They lay on their sides and no one, not all the king’s men would stop their joining.
She thrust her breasts at Will. He got the message—he was rather good at unspoken messages—and he freed her second nipple too. The suckling was divine and teasing and ticklish. It was only fair that she free his cock—his tackle, as he called it—and put it inside her.
They were long overdue.
They pressed close, his cock nudging slippery flesh between her legs. She rolled onto her back, sinuous and ready. Will rolled with her, his mouth a wreath of satisfaction. Her legs were up, her skirts bunched, his placket open. With the tip of his cock, Will drew a line through her cleft.
The obedient skin parted for him.
His entry shocked them both. So needful, so carnal. So freeing.
“Oh . . . Will,” she cried.
Will slid home, gasping for breath.
He looked into her eyes and rocked inside her again and again and again.
It was a naked connection, gazing into his eyes. Their flesh joined, their bodies as one.
This was love, life, a renewing. Until something hotter, a new tormenting fuse burned, needing to meet its end. They found their pleasure again with Will inside her this time. Years of denial obliterated in hot, melting sweetness. His seed met hers.
In their sticky, hot-skinned joining on Will’s kilt, something new and better was born.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Anne woke in the dark, a hand over her mouth. Terror fluttered in her chest. Will’s face loomed inches from hers. He set a finger to his mouth, an order of silence. She obeyed, catching the rustling and rummaging of men below. Their voices were not inclined to quiet and their manner not inclined to friendliness.
“There’s nothing ’ere,” the first voice whined. Higher pitched and petulant.
A barrel was kicked.
“We were told to search Neville Warehouse and that’s what we’ll do, mate.” This voice was smoother, boasting of an education.
Lamps swung on squeaky hinges. Footfalls scampered, albeit slower for the middle of the night.
“We should go back to the woman’s house. Give it another look-see.” The whiney voice. Another kick to a barrel. A lid opened and clamped shut.
Will peeked through a crack in her counting house wall and held up three fingers, then four.
Four men in the warehouse? The countess must’ve checked her Wilkes Lock cabinet. Dread cloaked Anne. The diversionary Spruce Prigs, while a fine idea, must have stoked Lady Denton’s ire. The woman was out for blood if she sent men to ransack Anne’s house. She yanked up her bodice, glad Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora were not as wayward as Cecelia. They had the good sense to leave the City.
The men rummaged through crates, their lights dancing in pitch black below. Will had extinguished their lamp before they settled into sleep. She lifted her satchel, her heel bumping the wall. She froze.
“What was that?” A new voice, deeper than the others. The third man.
“It’s probably a mouse or a rat. This is a wharf after all.” The second man with the smooth voice.
“It’s London. Rats are everywhere.”
“Only they have the good sense to sleep at this hour,” a fourth voice said.
Another barrel was opened. Will mouthed the gold! Darkness couldn’t hide his fury. She shook her head and mouthed No!
“You, Jones, take a look up there and see what you can find.” The second man again, clearly the leader.
“I’d like to find me bed,” Jones grumbled.
“You’re not paid to sleep. You’re paid to find things,” the leader said. “Now go. Check whatever room that is and maybe by dawn we can be done.”
More grumbling, louder. The men didn’t try to be quiet about their search now. Barrels were upended, Bavarian pine kicked, and the piled logs tumbled with a crash. White fear seized her. The loud noise was her chance to grab her knife from her satchel. Will took a broom that had been leaning in the corner.
Will walked on stockinged feet to her counting room entry. There was no door. The narrow wooden stairs creaked and shook under the weight of the man climbing them. She had an inkling of what Will was about. His knees bent, he waited at the side of the counting room entry.
When a bald man’s head poked up at the stairs, he raised his
lamp, his eyes agog at Anne against the wall.
“Hello, sir,” she greeted him.
Will greeted him by smacking the man’s head with the broom handle. The bald man tumbled down the steps, landing in an unnatural bone-crushing heap. He moaned, his eyes rolling back into his head.
“Jones?” one of the men said in dismay.
With all the noise they made, they probably had not heard Anne.
“The clumsy oaf fell!”
Jogging footfalls sounded. All three men were coming. Will set a finger again to his mouth. She nodded, her eyes wide and her knife in her grip. Light spilled from below into a few feet of her counting room. Noises, had to be Mr. Jones’s body being dragged and checked.
“I . . . I think he’s dead.” The whiney voice announced this.
“Somethin’s not right,” the deep voice growled. “Burn the warehouse. That’ll chase out any rats.”
“A fair idea, but we’re supposed to be looking for the gold,” the leader said.
“Gold melts in a fire and goes solid when it cools. The lady’ll still get her gold. I say we burn this place to the ground.”
“Mr. Little has a point,” the whiney-voiced man said.
“We set fire here, and the Night Watch’ll come. Is that what you want? A quick trip to Marshalsea?” the leader asked.
“Then let’s set fire to that room up there,” Mr. Little said.
Did the man intend to set fire to the stairs? Dry and old, the stairs would go up like tinder in a matter of seconds. She sucked in a quick breath. The men had gathered at the base of the stairs. Beside her, through the treadwheel, light from the new day cut through thin lines where door and warehouse met. The square door was just big enough for a body to crawl out on the crane and make the occasional repair.
She looked at Will and mouthed Mr. Baines!
Will was grim, his jaw set. He pointed to her and the crane door. He wanted her to leave. She shook her head adamantly. Will’s mouth flattened in anger. He hefted the broom, pointed to himself and the stairs.
The criminals were arguing loudly below. Even the smooth-toned leader seemed to be swayed to set fire to the warehouse.
“Let’s get it over with, but I’ll be the one to tell her ladyship, which means it’s my arse she’ll take a piece of, not either one of yours.”
From across the warehouse, another voice. “Mrs. Neville?”
Mr. Baines!
Will jumped to action. He charged halfway down the ladder and leaped. He landed on agile feet, the element of surprise on his side.
“Good morning, men.” A whack sounded.
She raced across the narrow room and flew down the steps. Mr. Baines grabbed a barrel lid and used it against a tall man with black and gray hair neatly clubbed.
Will advanced on the whiney-voiced man who tripped over a lantern. The candle touched Bavarian pine that should’ve been too green and too damp from her riverside warehouse to catch fire. But unlike the previous, rainy months, August had been hot. Pitch glistened in the bark and flames sprang to life, which was close enough to her open door. The door, so old and sun bleached, didn’t stand a chance.
Mr. Little, a mean-eyed ginger, drew a flintlock that had been tucked in the back of his breeches and pointed it at Will’s back.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Will struck the whiney-voiced man. Theirs was a fight of fists which didn’t last long. Will landed Mr. Whiney on the ground, and the man gave up, curling like a babe, both arms covering his head.
The warehouse door was ablaze. Outside, wharfmen made a line, passing buckets to put out the fire. He whirled around and yelled, “Anne.”
He couldn’t see her in the smoke but he heard the crack of a flintlock fired, its ball whizzing past his ear. Its trail left a sting. He ignored it, searching for Anne in the smoke and melee. He found her crouching beside a man with a knife in his back. Anne’s knife. A foot away was a flintlock on the ground.
“He was going to shoot you,” she said, a dull quality in her voice.
He’d wager Anne had had her share of fights, but taking a man’s life was a first. Cold fear moved him. The fire was nearly out but the Night Watch would soon be upon them.
“We have to get you out of here.” He dragged Anne upright.
“We have to get out of here.” She looked lively now.
“Mr. Baines,” he yelled.
The bloody-lipped wherryman picked himself up, his fight a draw with the black-and-gray-haired man. The criminal’s eyes darted with rat-like assessment. Smoke was clearing, more wharfmen were coming. When his gaze landed on Will, the criminal cuffed blood off his mouth and ran out the door.
Mr. Baines picked up his hat, coughing. Smoke hung heavy and acrid.
“Take Mrs. Neville to Cecelia MacDonald’s house,” Will said. “Do not let her tell you to do any different. Otherwise you’ll answer to me. Do you understand, Mr. Baines?”
“Yes, sir. I do, sir.”
Will nudged Anne forward. “Go with him.”
“No. Come with me,” she pleaded.
He advanced on Anne, steered her roughly around a fallen log. She let him guide her, her steps faltering. She didn’t want to go. He felt his face twist into a harsh scowl. There was no time to dither.
Mr. Baines approached, but she brushed his hand off her arm.
“Will—”
“Go,” he bellowed and pointed at the door.
Anne paled under smoke tinged cheeks.
Mr. Baines murmured something to her, enough to put sense into the woman and let him drag her toward the door. She was an odd sight, green silk petticoats and her hair a mess. Anne looked every bit like one of the lost souls who inhabited St. Luke’s. She was wildness itself, clutching the unburnt part of doorframe.
“This is not the end, Will.”
Her cry ripped through him. He stood and watched until the doorway was empty of nothing but light and smoke. He got a whiff of lavender on his shirt. It would be enough. It had to be.
Full of resolve, he walked to the man with the knife in his back. Instinct made him kneel beside the man and check him. The criminal sported a T brand on his thumb but with so many men with branded thumbs, it was nigh on impossible to know if this man had visited Anne’s warehouse before.
Still kneeling, he scanned the warehouse. The gold baffled him. It wasn’t here? Mermaid Brewery branded barrels had been upended. The Jacobite gold wasn’t in a single one. He was searching the man’s pockets, his boots, when the Night Watch came. Questions would need to be answered. Anne could not be the one to answer them. Hands resting on his knees, he braced himself for what would come. Prison. Again. That was why he was here and not Anne. He couldn’t bear the thought of her in a cold, dark prison cell.
Two of the Night Watch approached, one an older man, former army by his bearing. The other young and mean, with fists and jowls like hams. Despite his appearance, the young man was respectful.
“That your knife, sir?”
“It is. The man tried to shoot me.” He was casual, telling one lie and telling one truth.
The younger Night Watchman glowered at him. “So you knifed him in the back?”
Will jerked his chin at the flintlock by the log. “I wasna about to give him a chance to reload and try again. Would you?”
The younger man clamped his mouth shut, and the older man stepped in.
“What about those men there? By my count, I see three dead bodies, a warehouse that was ablaze, but thanks to the good people of Southwark, the fire is out. What say you, sir? Sign on the front says, Neville Warehouse. Are you Mr. Neville?”
He wiped his ear and found sticky blood on the back of his hand. “No, but I wish I had been.”
To which the Night Watch hauled him to Marshalsea and put him in chains.
Mr. Baines walked her to Cecelia’s home on Swan Lane. He pounded thrice on the door of the pretty two-story stone house with a pot of flowers on the front step. Mr. Baines was about to knock again w
hen the door opened. Cecelia’s yawning maid-cum–household servant answered.
“Yes?” Her sleepy eyes rounded when she saw Anne. “Mrs. Neville? What happened?”
“I . . . I need to see Cecelia. Is she home?” One could never be certain with Cecelia MacDonald.
“Of course, ma’am. Come in, come in.”
Anne crossed the threshold, more collected than when she’d left her warehouse. She had Mr. Baines to thank for that. He’d poured reason into her ear, urging her into his wherry and taking her across the river. True to his word, the young man delivered her directly to Cecelia’s door.
“Thank you, Henry. I will never forget this.”
His chin ducked and his smile was bashful. Addressing him by his Christian name seemed appropriate after he’d fought to save her warehouse and her life. He’d been a faithful part of her life for . . . was it four years now?
She dove into his arms and hugged him, which sent a blush as bright red as his wherry across his cheeks. He hugged her back.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he mumbled. “I have to get back to my wherry, ma’am.”
“Which is exactly why you are wonderful, Mr. Baines. You left your livelihood to help me.”
He set his hat on his head, grinning from her praise. They parted and she watched him walk down the lane.
“What a surprising sight,” Cecelia said behind her in a sleepy voice. “You hugging Mr. Baines like a long-lost relative, smelling of smoke, and dressed the same as you were last night.”
She turned and shut the front door. Cecelia peered at her.
“You still have your earrings on too?”
Her hand shot up to confirm that yes, her garnet earbobs were still in place. Both of them. She breathed the confusion that was her life, glad for the sameness of her grandmother’s earrings. Cecelia finished descending her stairs, a vision in white linen. She hadn’t bothered with a robe of any kind, thus her merits were indirectly on display.
“I’m disappointed. I expected Will to remove every stitch of clothing from your person.” Blonde brows arched prettily. “Are you telling me, you didn’t . . .”