“Remember when we thought the still would blow?” he asked.
Nick spat into the straw. “Which time? I’m thinkin’ of more ’n one.”
Griffin grinned and looked around the warehouse. It was a far cry from that small single still on Tipping Lane. It had taken years to build his business to this point, to be where he didn’t have to lie awake at night worrying over money flow and harvests. To where he could tell his mother to plan for Megs’s next season and be fairly sure they’d actually be able to afford it. He only needed a little more time to get entirely financially stable.
“We worked hard to get here, didn’t we?” he said.
“That we did.”
“Damned if I’ll let the Vicar take it from me now.”
“Amen to that.” Nick dug a short clay pipe from his waistcoat. He took a moment to light it with a straw stuck in the still fire. Then he said, “ ’Ave you ever thought of doin’ somethin’ else?”
Griffin looked at him in surprise. “No. I suppose I’ve never had time to think of finding other business. Have you?”
“No.” Nick scratched the back of his head. “Well, not rightly. Me father was a weaver, but I never learned the craft. Seemed a tedious task when I were young, an’ now I’m too old a dog for learnin’ new tricks.”
“Weaving.” Griffin thought of the Mandeville lands in Lancashire. They’d always been too rocky for growing grain. Many of their neighbors had put in sheep for wool and meat.
“Mam and me sisters spun the thread for Pa,” Nick said. “I did, too, when I were a lad.”
Griffin smiled at the thought of Nick spinning thread with his great hamlike hands.
A shout came from behind them. Griffin whirled, snatching a pistol from his belt. Smoke was pouring out from one of the big chimneys that climbed the outer walls. The men were milling, coughing from the rolling black smoke.
Nick swore foully. “They’ve stopped th’ chimney from without!”
“Put out the fire!” Griffin shouted. “I’ll guard the walls.”
He gestured to the men, slapping his hands on the backs of those turned away, and ran to the warehouse entrance. Griffin slammed himself against the wall next to the door and shoved it open a crack with one foot. The guards outside were wrestling with attackers next to the walls. Already three men were past them and into the courtyard.
“They’re coming in,” he told his men. “Make damn sure they don’t get to the warehouse.”
And with that he kicked the door wide and drew his other pistol, firing both straight-armed. One attacker went down, crashing to the cobblestones. More shots exploded from his men’s guns, and the second man went down. But one man still rushed the door while others were overwhelming the courtyard guards. In a corner of the courtyard, Rambler squealed and reared in terror.
“Get them!” Griffin shouted, his words sounding muffled to his own ears.
His men flew past him toward the walls. He threw down one pistol and drew his sword to meet an attacker. The man was short but burly, and he held a huge cutlass in his hand. The attacker swung and Griffin dodged. He was afraid his thinner sword would break under the cutlass. He slid closer while the man was still turned aside from the force of his own blow and stabbed him under the arm through the armpit. The man didn’t even flinch. He struck at Griffin with his other hand, a blow Griffin was just able to duck, taking it on his shoulder instead of his face, his hand still on the sword stuck in the man’s body. The man raised his cutlass again, but then staggered. He crumpled all at once, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Griffin stuck his foot on the man’s chest and pulled his sword from the attacker’s body. He turned toward the wall, sword ready, but there was no need. Four bodies lay on the cobblestones and a man—one of his own—was sitting with his back against the wall, moaning. All the other attackers had retreated.
The skirmish was over—at least for now.
“Get him inside.” Griffin gestured at the moaning man. “You others stay and guard the courtyard from further attack.”
He left eight men guarding the walls and turned back to the warehouse. Rambler still snorted and shook where he was tethered in a corner.
Griffin went to him and placed a hand on the gelding’s sweaty neck. “It’s all right, lad. All right now.”
The horse rolled his eyes at him.
Griffin spoke quietly to him for a few more minutes and then filled a nosebag from the saddle with a handful of oats. He left Rambler contentedly munching and strode to the warehouse. Smoke still slipped from the doorway, drifting into the night, but it was thinner now. He picked up the pistol he’d thrown down and ducked inside.
It was dim, the smoke swirling about the ceiling. Griffin squinted against stinging ash.
Nick loomed out of the dark like Satan himself, his face blackened. “We got it out, sure enough, but we can’t work the still on that ’earth now.”
Griffin nodded. “We need guards on the roof.”
Nick cocked an eyebrow, looking positively evil. “And ’ow will we get men for that duty?”
“Pay them triple,” Griffin said grimly.
“At some point you’ll be paying more than you’re makin’,” Nick warned.
“I’m well aware of that fact.”
Nick nodded and turned to look back at the wreckage of the blocked chimney. “Could’ve been worse.”
“How so?”
“They tried to block another of the chimneys, but the wad fell through. Merely made a smokin’ mess on the fire.” He looked back at Griffin. “We got it out well enough.”
Griffin sat on a barrel wearily and began reloading his pistols from a sack of powder and balls. “This time.”
“Aye,” Nick grunted, and turned to the chimneys, his words drifting back over his shoulder. “Just pray our luck ’olds out.”
Chapter Ten
The next day, the queen called for her horse and assembled the princes so they might go hunting with falcons. And as they sat mounted in the stable yard, she turned to her suitors and asked, “What is the strongest thing in my kingdom?” Then she rode out of the stable yard without a backward glance.
Well, the princes wore looks of consternation as they followed the queen to the hunt, but the stable master only nodded his head thoughtfully….
—from Queen Ravenhair
It was midmorning by the time Griffin arrived home from St. Giles. He wearily dismounted Rambler outside his town house and gave the reins to a stable lad.
“See he’s rubbed down well and given some oats,” he instructed the boy.
With a last pat for Rambler, he climbed the front steps of his town house and let himself in. He kept only a small staff at his London residence since he did no entertaining here. A cook, a few maids, a bootblack boy, and Deedle were quite sufficient for his needs. The price for such laxity, however, was that there was often no one to meet him at his own door.
Griffin threw his hat at a hall table and didn’t bother to pick it up when it fell to the floor. He began climbing the stairs. God, he ached like an old man. Another night awake was added to the fight and the ride to and from St. Giles. Now all he wanted was a hot bath and bed. Not necessarily in that order.
But Deedle knew well his master’s ways.
The manservant poked his head out of Griffin’s room as soon as he heard his steps in the upper hall. “I’ve got the water boiling, m’lord. We’ll ’ave a bath ready in two ticks.”
“Bless you, man,” Griffin said. He sat upon his bed and began drawing off his boots as the maids hurried in with steaming kettles.
Twenty minutes later, Griffin winced and then sighed as he lowered himself into a tub of hot water.
Deedle fussed about for a moment, putting clothes away. Then he picked up Griffin’s muddy boots. “I’ll take these down to the boy, shall I?”
Griffin, eyes closed, waved a hand.
The door shut behind the valet.
He’d already soaped the sm
oke from his head and body, but the rising steam was wonderful. Griffin lay there, soaking, and let his mind drift. He’d left orders for Nick to find more men—if there were some to be had at any price. The Vicar wasn’t just targeting Griffin’s stills. Overnight there’d been news of two different fires destroying other gin makers. At least one man was dead in the flames. Could he keep his business going?
Griffin snorted softly. Lady Hero would certainly be happy if he went under. One less gin maker among hundreds—if not thousands—in St. Giles. But then maybe she was right to disapprove of his business.
The thought of her disapproval brought other thoughts of her as well. He remembered the little line that knit itself between her delicately arced brows when she lectured him. The way her pale rose lips softened when she listened to his response. And how her lashes had drifted closed when he’d kissed her neck.
Griffin groaned and his hand drifted along his thigh to his cock, already half erect. He brought up images of those sweet little breasts, the red nipples large in contrast and somehow unbearably erotic. They’d been drawn hard and tight for him, and he imagined biting gently down on them. He could almost hear the moan she’d make at his touch.
He grasped his cock in his hand, pulling up, feeling his own hardness, the exquisite sensitivity at the tip.
He’d draw the laces from her stays, bare her fully for his own enjoyment. And under her skirts, there lay that sweet, warm, wet—
Downstairs, someone began pounding on his front door.
Griffin groaned. Surely there was someone to answer it. He didn’t have many servants, but he did have enough to answer a bloody door. Or perhaps the caller would give up.
But the knocking continued.
“Hell,” he spat, letting go of his now-rigid cock. The visitor might be Nick Barnes with more news.
Griffin climbed from the tub, splashing water on the rug, then swiped a towel across his body and pulled on breeches and a shirt. He ran down the stairs barefoot and stomped across the hall floor to fling open the door.
“What?”
He found himself glaring into Lady Hero’s startled gray eyes. She glanced down the length of him, making him very aware of the damp shirt clinging to his chest and the breeches covering his half-aroused state.
Her gaze snapped back up to his. “Oh!”
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, thank God!” she said low. “I’d heard reports this morning of a gin still burning in St. Giles. They said a man was dead.”
“Well, it wasn’t me,” he said, not very graciously.
“I can see that.” She cleared her throat. “Might I come in?”
He looked up and down the street. No one appeared to be paying attention to them. He reached out, wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, and yanked her inside his house.
Lady Hero stumbled in with a squeak. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to salvage your reputation,” Griffin muttered. He turned and stomped into the library without bothering to see if she’d follow. “What do you think you’re doing visiting a bachelor’s residence—unaccompanied—in the middle of the day?”
“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she said from behind him. “And I need to talk to you.”
Griffin grunted. The damned woman no doubt wanted to continue her harangue about the still. He picked up a decanter of brandy and splashed some into a glass. He turned with the glass in his hand and found her frowning at the scatter of papers on his desk. Probably disapproved of the mess.
He tossed back some of the brandy. “About what?”
She turned, still frowning. “I’m sorry?”
He gestured with the glass, spilling some of the brandy onto the floor. “What do you want to talk about?”
She pursed her lips in a fussy little moue that only served to draw attention to her mouth. He had a sudden image of her mouth pursed and filled. His cock, ever at the ready, came to full, raging arousal.
Griffin slammed back the rest of the brandy.
She opened that luscious mouth. “I—”
“Perhaps you wanted to chat about the weather?” Griffin said silkily. He refilled his glass. “That would be an appropriate topic of discussion for an early morning call.”
She blinked. “I—”
He held up a finger to stop her and took another gulp of brandy. It burned going down, but his shoulder, which had been aching from this morning’s fight, began to loosen.
“Should you be drinking so much before noon?” she asked disapprovingly.
“Yes.” He glared and took another sip to prove his point. “I always drink when I’m half dressed and entertaining ladies.”
She flushed a becoming pink. “Perhaps I should come back another time.”
“Oh, no.” He set down the glass with a crack and stalked toward her. “You’ve interrupted my bath, interrupted my quite pleasurable pursuits there, in fact. You might as well tell me what you want to say.”
She stared at him, mute.
“Perhaps you wanted to take me to task for my gin-making ways yet again, hmm?” He leaned over her, not caring if he intimidated or even frightened her. “Or chide me for fucking too much.”
She flinched at the word but stood her ground bravely.
He narrowed his eyes viciously. How dare she stand there like a martyr when he ached—literally ached—for her? He snapped his fingers as if remembering something. “But you can’t chide me for seduction when you’ve fallen victim to my lewd advances yourself, can you? Not so saintly now, are you?”
Her eyes widened, and he thought he saw a shimmer that might’ve been tears. He wouldn’t give ground now. Not when he might finally drive her out of his house, out of his life, and out from under his skin.
Griffin bent and murmured in her ear, “But perhaps that’s what you really came here to discuss—seduction. Perhaps all that stuff about gin making was merely an excuse you seized upon to come see me. Perhaps you want me to kiss more than your sweet breasts this time.”
HE’D TAUNTED HER, baited her, argued with her, and made her feel far more than she should. And now he loomed over her, clearly trying to scare her away.
But she wasn’t frightened.
Lord Reading’s warm breath washed over her bare neck, scented with brandy, and his wicked words sparked something deep within her. It might be—definitely should be—shame, but she very much feared it was something else entirely.
“Is that what you want?” he purred. “My hand on your belly? Stroking down until my fingers tangle in your maidenhair? I’d wager it’s as soft as a kitten’s fur, your hair down there.”
She drew in a shuddering breath, pressing one hand to her stomach. He shouldn’t say these things. She should make him stop. She should leave. Except… except she wanted with all her heart to stay. To meet him on equal ground—just this once.
To be a woman to his man.
He didn’t touch her, simply stood over her too close and whispering those shameful, shocking, seductive words. “But what’s below is even softer, isn’t it? Your sweet petals, all wet and silky, blooming open for me. I’d find your secret bud hidden in among them, and I’d circle it just so. Never hard enough to hurt you—oh, no, I’d not hurt you—but not so soft that you couldn’t feel it. For I want you to feel it, Hero. I want you to feel me.”
She moaned, and she couldn’t help it—didn’t want to help it anymore. She turned her head toward him. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were a pale, implacable green, arrogant and sinful. If that was all she saw in his gaze, she would’ve walked from the room.
It was the hint of vulnerability that made her stay.
Her gaze dropped to his lips. They were curled in a sneer, but the lower one was still wet from the brandy. The sight sent a rush of warmth low in her belly. “Griffin.”
He groaned and muttered something vile under his breath. Then she was caught in his arms, not gently at all, and his mouth was on hers, wild
and needy.
“Hero,” he muttered as his lips feasted on hers. “Hero.”
He’d seemed to have let slip some essential control. His movements were jerky and ungraceful, starkly primitive in their intent. He knocked her hat to the floor. His mouth bit along her jaw and down her neck as he grappled with her wrap, tearing it from her arms. He swore and lifted his head, staring down as he got her bodice off and began rapidly unlacing her stays.
She should be horrified. Frightened and appalled, but instead his savagery seemed to feed some need within herself. Her hands were helping his; she was stripping the clothing from her limbs as fast as he. The room was hot, her breath was coming in gasps, and the scent of brandy and need filled her nostrils, making her feel faint.
Her skirts suddenly dropped, and then she stood in only her chemise, stockings, and shoes.
He blinked, his eyelids dropping to half-mast as his movements suddenly stilled. For an awful moment, she feared he might come to his senses and stop.
Instead he slowly moved his hand to the chemise’s edge at her shoulder. He fingered the fine material gently, his gaze locking with hers. Then, his green eyes holding hers, he twisted his fingers in the fabric and pulled sharply downward. A seam ripped, something gave way, and he tore the fragile fabric from her body.
She gasped, shocked, standing there nude before him. She’d never revealed herself to a man. She was aware of her nipples, pointed and red in the chill air of the room, and the knobbiness of her knees. Except—dear Lord!—he wasn’t looking at her knees. Her chest heaved and his eyes rose to her breasts. His mouth twisted in a smile. Before she’d even completed the thought, his hands flashed out to shackle her wrists.
“No.” He shook his head slowly, his gaze never leaving her body. “Let me look. Let me feast.”
She shuddered. Her whole body was hot, prickling with sensation, as if his eyes physically touched her. This was almost torture, standing nude before him, letting him look at her without even her hands to cover herself with.
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