When a Rogue Falls
Page 19
“I had to see you,” she said.
God’s balls, he’d missed the rhythmic lilt of her voice, how she managed to sound so posh while slinging cant like any normal East End chit, instead of the sheltered princess her brothers wanted her to be.
“Why?” His whole body ached to follow her to the bed and continued what they’d begun that night against the gate to Joaquin’s townhouse. Instead, he took a seat on one of the wooden crates that doubled as a chair, beside his makeshift table of an overturned, empty barrel.
“Because I need you.”
Those words, spoken with a little flutter of her dark eyelashes and a quiver of her bottom lip, sent a bolt of hot heat straight to his groin. He shifted on the crate, drinking in a long gulp of air.
“I need your help,” she continued, apparently oblivious to his carnal reaction. “Joaquin has betrothed me to a nefarious criminal.”
So all the rumors he’d heard were true. He shouldn’t be so surprised—shouldn’t feel as though his heart had been ripped clean from his chest and crushed into tiny specks of dust.
He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t.
Yet he did.
“I see.” He forced himself to shrug as though this wasn’t the worst possible news he’d ever heard. “Then that’s even more reason you shouldn’t be here.”
“I’ve got no one else to turn to, Charlie.” Damned if she didn’t flash those big blue eyes at him, and damned if he didn’t feel an answering tug in his gut to help her. Even if he knew better.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated, shaking his head at her. “Don’t you know what danger you’re puttin’ yourself in? What danger you’re puttin’ me in?”
Whatever protest she’d been about to utter died on her lips when he mentioned what Chapman might do to him. Nibbling at her lip, she toyed with the hem of her borrowed waistcoat. “I don’t think anyone saw me come here. I stole these clothes from Cyrus’s valet so that no one would recognize me…but if you think me being here puts you in real danger, then I’ll go.”
He ought to send her packing. It was too much of a risk to have her here, with the bar closing downstairs. Too many people coming and going. Hell, if Jane hadn’t sent him home early, she would have been waiting in his flat by herself.
But his judgment was shit when it came to Mina. Always had been, and it sure didn’t look like it’d improve any time soon. He didn’t speak for a moment, pretending he was debating, like he hadn’t immediately decided to let her stay. What was the chance she’d been recognized in those clothes? He hadn’t recognized her at first.
He let out a long sigh. “No, it’s fine. If it was important enough for you to escape from Joaquin’s prison, I might as well do you the honor of hearing you out.”
He ran a hand through his hair, cursing the fact that nothing was ever simple when it came to this woman. If only they’d been born different people—if she were Chapman, or he a King. Those dividing lines never seemed to matter when they were tots, back when there was peace between the gangs and life held no more definition than snatching the next meal. If he were smart, he’d have let her go years ago. Instead, he’d held on too long to her, long past the point where he could cut ties without feeling like he’d severed a limb.
“So you don’t like who your brother betrothed you to? Not surprisin’, given Joaquin has the temperament of a sour fish.”
“I don’t think fish can be sour.” She smiled—a small, barely there smile, but one nonetheless, so he counted the comparison as a victory.
“As for him bein’ a criminal, what were you expectin’?” He returned her skeptical look with one of his own. “Everybody you know is probably a criminal, of some sort. Lord knows I sure am.”
“This is different,” Mina insisted. “You’re different. You don’t steal from people that can’t afford it.”
“No, I suppose I don’t.” He didn’t steal at all, not now, unless one counted the leftover food he took from the Three Boars. But he supposed once a thief, always a thief.
“You’ve got honor,” she said, with a vigorous nod of her head. “You’re a good man.”
He held up his hand to stop her. “I wouldn’t go that far, Minnie. I’ve done a lotta bad things, things I never told you.”
And she’d never know about them, if he had his way.
She muttered something that sounded vaguely like “obstinate goat,” and he fought back a smile. That was treacherous ground—laughing with her, grinning with her, as they had so many times before. As if memories of that kiss they’d shared hadn’t awoken him these last nights, desperate and wanting. As if he hadn’t promised to stay away from her.
He ought to appear casual. Like there wasn’t anything real between them, and she was another dame. He waited for her to speak, though he had a million questions for her burning on the tip of his tongue.
“Have you heard of Nigel Donaldson?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Bits and pieces here and there. Not enough to form an opinion on the gent.” That was a lie—he hated Donaldson. Wanted to pound his fist into the bastard’s nose and watch him tumble to the ground, his face smeared with blood and spittle.
Kicking Donaldson’s arse would be devilishly delightful.
Because that bastard would live the life Charlie wanted: waking up to Mina, going to sleep with her by his side. Raising their children.
“You’re lucky then.” Mina’s scowl left no question of her opinion, and he couldn’t deny he felt vindicated as twin spots of red ire formed on her cheeks. “He’s fifty-five years old—older than my father would be now, God rest his soul—and that’s the least objectionable thing about him.”
Charlie bit back a foul oath, shaking his head. His blood boiled at the thought of Mina tethered to some old toast, treated more as a nursemaid than a wife in her own right. She deserved so much better.
“It’s repulsive, isn’t it?” She didn’t wait for him to respond, plowing on ahead like she always did. Those crimson dots on her cheeks expanded with every sentence, until her whole face flamed with rage. “Guess what kind of business he runs? A life insurance company, except you can’t cash in his policies and it’s all a sham. Can you imagine that, Charlie? People come to him wanting to make sure that if they die, their loved ones are taken care of, and he takes their money and does nothing in return! Nothing. Not a damn thing. Not a—”
He got up and crossed the room halfway through her speech. He’d meant only to stand by her, make it so she didn’t have to speak any louder than necessary. In case people overheard, and all of those smart concerns he didn’t really give a fig about, because she began to shake halfway through her second “nothing.” Before he could stop to second-guess himself, he dropped down on the pallet beside her, wrapping his arms around her. She stilled, leaning into his chest. For a minute, then another, they stayed like this, her cheek nestled against his linen shirt, his hand on the small of her back.
A tiny sigh escaped her lips—almost as if she’d found relief, here in his arms. As though she’d come home.
That was the most perilous feeling of all.
The idea of having a home with Mina—of a family he did not have to beg, borrow, or steal for—was too far-fetched to ever hope for. He knew better. The son of a drunkard and a whore might have been good enough to be childhood friends with the Princess of Stepney Green, but he’d never be anything more. Yet he could not stop himself from resting his chin atop her head, from drawing in a deep breath laced with her sweet vanilla scent, from pretending—for a moment—that she was his. That he could make her happy; really, genuinely happy, not the approximation that came with fine things and no emotions attached. She deserved to know acceptance, the love of someone who knew the worst parts of her and treasured her regardless.
“I can’t marry him.” She lifted her head from his chest, shifting so that she peered up at him, sadness rife in her big, blue eyes. “I can’t even look him in the eye, knowing now what he does.”
He pulled away from her, hopping off the bed. One long stride, then another brought him back to the crate-turned-table across the room. The shortest of distances, really, when one considered the vastness of her brother’s townhouse, but it felt like a yawning chasm.
“Charlie.”
He’d always liked the sound of his name on Mina’s lips, as if by association with her he was important too. But he wasn’t, and no amount of daydreaming would change that. Best he realize it now.
When he didn’t respond, Mina slid off the bed, advancing toward him. She moved slower, her gait jerkier due to those giant boots she’d borrowed. Any other time, he would have found it funny—she was usually so graceful—but tonight it was another reminder of the worlds between them. She belonged in brocade slippers and fancy gowns made by French modistes with surnames he couldn’t pronounce, not scuffed-up, cracked half-boots she’d found in the back of her brother’s closet.
She sidled up to him, laying her hand gently down on his arm. He shrugged off her touch, but he did not move away. Did not have the strength to put distance between them. It was easier when she wasn’t here; easier when they weren’t alone, when he had others around him to remind himself how to behave.
That was a lie too, or so he’d discovered recently, for the men of Chapman were not models for conduct toward women. Innocent women, he reminded himself. Innocent, maidenly, untouched women of nineteen years of age who had seen more of the world than he yet still remained naive. Because if she had any idea how cruel the world could be, she wouldn’t be so shocked at Donaldson’s enterprises.
And she wouldn’t stand there, so close to him, tempting him with that honeyed, sultry voice of hers and the delicious curves of her hips on display in those breeches. God’s balls, her legs went on for miles. He suddenly understood why women’s skirts were so wide, for without the coverage of voluminous petticoats he could memorize every single line of her body and oh, bollocks, he was not strong enough to resist her.
She tilted her head to the side. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to…devour me.” Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t have it both ways, Charlie. You can’t be angry with me and look at me like that.”
“I’m not doin’ anythin’.” But he was, because he did want to devour her. He wanted to rip that cambric shirt from her shoulders, strip her of those silly breeches and toss her down on his bed. He wanted that more than anything he’d ever longed for. Until desire drummed in his ears, drowning out all those very smart reasons why he’d promised to stay away from her.
She was here.
She needed him.
Maybe not the way he needed her, with aching intensity that haunted his every thought.
But maybe…maybe so.
His hands moved of their own volition, skimming her arms, tugging her closer. Their embrace on the bed had nothing on this—her pert little arse right up against his hardening cock, her unruly raven hair right underneath his chin. He breathed in deep, letting her sensual scent fill his nostrils, replacing the stale ale and overcooked mutton that clung to his skin from his shift in the public house. One hand remained on her hip, holding her to him, while his other hand found the swan curve of her neck, his calloused palms against her flawless skin. She was all feminine and soft, made for a man who was not as rough and lowly as he.
He might have remembered that, if she hadn’t sighed so damned sweetly, her head lolling back against his shoulder as she leaned in to his touch.
He spun her around quickly, too quick for his doubts to return. Knowing this was wrong—he was wrong—he slid his thumb under her chin, notching it up. Her eyes closed; her breath held, as if she too waited for him to decide how foolish he wanted to be.
“Ah, hell with it,” he muttered. He’d been a daft lout through all the thirteen years she’d known him, why should he change now?
And so he kissed her.
Chapter 9
Charlie’s mouth slid over Mina’s, gentle at first, giving her a chance to tell him that he wasn’t worthy of her. She’d have been right to refuse him.
Her lips pressed against his, harder, more insistent. She threaded her fingers into his hair, bringing him closer, deepening the kiss. She was a quick learner, moving instinctively against him as he ravaged her mouth. He ought to go slower, ought to take his time—ought to not be doing this in the first place.
His tongue darted out, testing the seam of her lips. She opened for him instantly, and he sank into the heat of her mouth, tasting her. She’d had tea earlier, good tea, the expensive shit Joaquin could afford, not the day-old grounds he got from the Three Boars after they’d already been run once through. That jarred him enough to stop, and he pulled back from her. His hands slipped to her elbows as he held her steady, his forehead resting against hers. He did not join her lips to his, though everything within him ached to be back with her.
“You’re thinking,” she whispered, her breath hot against his flushed skin. “Stop that. You think too much.”
He let out a biting laugh, caught by surprise. No one had ever accused him of that.
“Seriously.” Her lips curved up in a small, seductive smile that sent a bolt of desire through him. “You’ve gone and thought about all the reasons you shouldn’t be kissing me.”
“There’s a lot of reasons, Minnie.” Except he couldn’t think of any right now, with his forehead still against hers and her kiss-reddened lips so close.
“Pish-tosh.” She arched a brow at him. “’Tis just kisses, Charlie.”
It was a hell of a lot more than “just kisses.” He had half a mind to tell her what she did to him. Hell, that’d get her to back away, if he started explaining to her exactly how much she meant to him. How not a single day went by without thinking about her. How some nights, after four shots of gin, he pretended she was his girl and dreamed of the life they could have together. How he’d never been with a woman he cared about, because it’d always been her—her determination, her sass, her strange way of seeing the good in people. How she made him want to be a better man, simply by being herself.
How he loved her with all the broken parts of his soul, even though those jagged edges that made it so he’d never, ever have her.
She was a whole different world, one where fortune smiled and money didn’t matter because you always had enough, and there was never a question about if you’d starve on the streets. She had never become acquainted with survival, when he’d struggled every damn minute to get to the next wretched day.
He was made to fight. To bleed. To die alone without ever knowing what it was like to be loved by her.
He knew that, but she did not.
Because she kissed him. Assailed him might have been the better term, for this was not the simple brush of lips against each other but an onslaught. She grabbed his head, dragging him down to her level. Her bare skin burned against his neck, for he’d taken off his neckcloth in preparation for bed before she’d come into his room. Her lips mashed against his, lacking in finesse but making up for it in enthusiasm. Her tongue tangled with his, stubbornly refusing to be submissive, for in this as in other things she would not take direction. She had to be in charge, an active participant. And oh God, he was so willing to let her. Every caress of her fingers through his hair, every dart of her tongue against his undid him. She’d be his downfall, his undoing, and he couldn’t bring himself to care.
She pushed up against him, her breasts rubbing against the threadbare fabric of his shirt. Fuck, he’d never been so aroused, and he hadn’t tast
ed her juices or had his way with her yet.
Which he shouldn’t, ever.
He thought of that—thinking again, he noted ruefully—as he kissed her neck. Relished that glorious moan pouring forth from her mouth. Her skin was hot under his tongue, salty and sugary. This was better than any dream he’d ever had, and his dreams tended toward the filthy.
Then he felt her hands against the flap of his breeches, and everything came to a crashing halt. He was slow to stop—reluctant, so bitterly reluctant. She undid one button before he placed his hand over hers, stopping her.
“Minnie,” he rasped out, his breathing uneven. “We can’t do this.”
She blinked up at him. “Why not?”
“You—I—” He sputtered, barely able to think past her hand still on the flap. She was the one with the reputation to lose; why the hell was he having to explain this? “You’re engaged to another man, to start with.”
“An engagement I never consented to.” She spoke as though this was all immaterial, and he was being insensible. “I don’t even know Nigel Donaldson. I certainly don’t want to marry him.”
“Then you should be off findin’ someone else.” He finally found the strength to back away from her, gulping down air. “Someone more suited to you. Someone who can give you a good life.”
She dropped her hand, sighing. “Someone who isn’t you, you mean.”
He nodded, despite every impulse in his body being to tell her that no, she absolutely should take him and only him.
He was already hers.
“I don’t accept that, either.” She frowned at him, her displeasure cutting through him like an arrow to the heart. “Everybody keeps making decisions for me. Nobody stops to ask what I want. I thought you were better than that. You used to tell me I could be anything I damn well pleased.”
“And you can.” He forced himself to stay back, not reach for her. “You’re the smartest woman I’ve ever known. You could set the whole world on fire.”