Lucas grunted. “Why can’t you shake hands like a civilized person?”
“Are we civilized? I’d no idea. I’ll have what he’s having,” she told the grizzled faced man behind the bar before she focused on Lucas with a smirk. “A birdy told me you’ve been very naughty lately.”
“Hang your birdies, Artemis,” he said flatly. “And go away.”
Instead of going away, she crossed her legs and leaned onto the edge of the bar as her drinks were delivered. “You’re the only person who calls me that.”
“Because I’m the only person that knows who you really are.”
When Artemis had abruptly appeared in London’s underworld some three years ago, nobody had blinked an eye. Mostly because a blonde-haired wench with a penchant for knives, while out of place, was hardly an oddity in Seven Dials. And a little bit because she’d stabbed the first bloke who had been stupid enough to try to question her.
Despite her gender and diminutive size, Artemis was as fierce and ruthless as they came. She was also the runaway daughter of an earl, a piece of information she’d managed to keep secret from everyone except for Lucas. He would never have learned the truth, if not for the fact that he’d seen her before, when he’d been hired by her father to recover a painting.
It had taken him a few days to put the pieces together. The woman he’d met in this very tavern, standing on a table and throwing a dagger at a circle on the wall for two shillings a bullseye, had hardly resembled the quiet, well-behaved young lady he had glimpsed as he left the Earl of Bromington’s study. Once he’d ascertained they were one and the same, he’d approached her. Not so much to blackmail (although he’d considered it), but out of genuine curiosity as to how a blueblood could end up this far from a swell mansion in Grosvenor Square.
After Artemis had tried–and failed–to slit his throat, they had shared a pint at the bar while she told him the whole, sorry tale.
Forced into an engagement to a man not of her choosing, she’d fled on the eve of her wedding. First to an aunt’s house, then to live with a friend, and finally into London’s most wretched rookery. It was a miracle she hadn’t been raped and killed outright, but with a little luck, she’d managed to find her way to Molly’s.
As a shrewd businesswoman, Molly had recognized Artemis’s worth extended beyond the price the earl’s daughter could fetch on her back. She’d trained Artemis up into one of the best thieves this side of the Thames, and then set her loose to do her bidding.
Artemis and Lucas had worked together on occasion. They’d even considered becoming romantically involved. But ultimately, they’d determined the complication wasn’t worth the reward, and ever since they had maintained a level of civility between them that occasionally bordered on friendship.
This, however, was not one of those times.
“Yes, you are the only person who knows who I really am.” Her blue eyes narrowing, Artemis adjusted a stay on the satin corset she wore over a white shirt tailored to fit her small frame. “Are you threatening to expose me, Black?”
“I’m not threatening anything.” Lucas drank his ale. “But that’s open to change if you don’t sod off in the next minute.”
“Why would I do that, when you have something that I want?”
“I’m not taking on any new jobs,” he said brusquely. “Try White, or Dresher.”
“White and Dresher don’t have what I’m after.”
“And what’s that?” Maybe if he played along, she’d leave, and he could drink himself into oblivion in peace.
Artemis leaned in close. “A certain missing duchess. I heard you’ve found her.”
Every single muscle in Lucas’s body tensed. But he was careful, oh so careful, not to let it show. A single drop of blood in the water, and the sharks would circle. Being on top of the heap of cutthroats and thieves was a hard-won privilege, but he was very aware he was only one mistake away from being toppled off his throne. It was why he focused so intently on what he did, and why he couldn’t allow any distractions.
Like falling in love.
If Artemis Bishop was already knocking on his door, how many others were soon to follow? He needed to purge himself of this newfound weakness. To erase whatever vulnerability Persephone had exposed within him. He hadn’t earned the title Devil of Duncraven by handing out flowers, damn it. And he wasn’t about to lose his wicked reputation all because of a sad-eyed fairy queen.
“Is that right?” he drawled, crossing his arms. “I think your birds are mistaken, sweetheart.”
“My birds are never wrong.” Artemis sat back on her stool and tasted her gin. Her nose wrinkled. “Shoddy stuff. I don’t know why anyone drinks it.” Then she tilted her head and drained the glass. Slapping it down on the table, she wiped her hands on her thighs and regarded Lucas with a knowing smile. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? You have the Duchess of Glastonbury. I want her. I am sure we can come to some sort of agreement that benefits both of us.”
“How the hell do you know I have her?” he snarled, his jaw clenching.
Artemis chuckled. “I didn’t, until you just told me.”
Bloody hell.
It was a trick as old as the Tower of London, and he’d just let himself fall for it. Because he wasn’t thinking clearly. How could he, when his only thought was of Persephone? And his first instinct was to protect her.
Not to complete the job he’d been given.
Not to collect his reward.
But to keep her safe, no matter the cost.
“Where is she, Black?” Artemis skimmed her tongue across her bottom lip as her eyes took on a greedy gleam. “I’ll walk away with fifty pounds in my pocket if I can return the dear duchess to her friends. Twenty of that can be yours if you cooperate.”
“You can’t have her.”
“Why not?”
Because she’s mine.
He almost said the words out loud.
Almost.
“I’d be a fool to settle for twenty when I can make ten times that by delivering her to the duke.” He sipped his ale. “And we both know I’m not a fool.”
“Do we?” Her head canting, Artemis studied him closely for a moment. Then she smiled, slow and sure. “You have no intention of handing the chit over, do you?”
His hand tightened on his tankard until his knuckles gleamed white in the dim light. “Walk away, Artemis. While you still can. We’ve got an alliance between us, but I’ll break if it I have to.” All devil now, his gaze burned into hers. “And then I’ll break you.”
Artemis was intelligent enough to realize when she’d pushed too far. Clinking her cup against his, she chugged her ale and jumped to the ground. “Fair enough, Black. Fair enough. But you know you can’t just keep a duchess forever. She’s not a houseplant, and I’m not the only one who’s going to come looking for her.”
“You worry about your affairs,” he growled. “Let me worry about mine.”
Lucas picked up his tankard, ready to resume drinking. Except even after Artemis had sauntered away, the dark cloud she’d brought with her remained. Because she was right. He couldn’t keep Persephone forever.
That was the difficulty with wild roses.
They could survive in captivity. But they wouldn’t thrive.
If Lucas wanted Persephone to bloom, there was only one thing he could do.
He had to let her go.
Chapter Nine
Percy saw little of Lucas over the next four days. He was in and out, leaving her to wander the house by herself and gaze wistfully out the window as she waited for him for to return. Rather like a war widow waiting for her soldier, or a wife waiting for her husband. Except Lucas wasn’t in the British army, and they definitely weren’t married. Just the idea was ludicrous. Laughable, even.
But then, why did her mind keep circling back to it?
Boredom, she decided late one morning as she took her tea in the parlor. With nothing to do but help Bessie bake in the kitchen, and pick out mo
re furniture from the catalogue Lucas had given her, she was hopelessly bored.
It was, strangely enough, a nice feeling. To be so free from worry and concern for her own personal safety that she was actively searching for something to do instead of contriving the best way to make herself invisible. Even when she’d lived with Helena, there’d always been a nervousness she couldn’t quite shake. The uneasy expectation that at any moment she’d open the door and there would be Andrew, waiting for her with that awful look in his eye.
But she didn’t feel that here, with Lucas.
He’d promised the duke would never touch her again, and she believed him.
It was as simple–and as complicated–as that.
On a sigh, Percy added a dab of honey to her tea and swirled it in with a small silver spoon. No matter how hard she tried to keep them straight, the lines between her and Lucas continued to blur. He was her captor. She was his prisoner. It should have been easy. Easy to hate him. Easy to be afraid of him. Easy to count down the hours until she might see Helena and Calliope again. Except those weren’t the hours that she counted. Instead, she’d been keeping track of how many days it had been since she and Lucas had last kissed…and wondering when they might do it again.
Absurd. She knew it was absurd.
But once more, her head and her heart found themselves at odds, and this time it was her traitorous heart that wasn’t keen on listening to reason. Thus here she sat, daydreaming of Lucas charging through the door, yanking her into his arms, and ravishing her senseless. Just as he’d done in nearly every dream she’d had since their first kiss.
At the sound of the front door opening, she set her tea down, and stood up from her chair just as Lucas strolled into the room, looking every bit the dashing rogue with his dark hair tousled from the wind, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and his waistcoat partially unbuttoned.
“You’re here,” she said, self-consciously tucking a loose tendril of hair behind her ear.
“You sound surprised.” Going to the serving cart tucked behind the sofa, he poured himself some tea.
The contrast between his large, rugged hands and the dainty tea cup was rather comical, and Percy smiled as she said, “No, I’ve just come not to expect you until dinner or later.”
He lifted a brow. “I can come back, if you’d like.”
“Of course not,” she said hastily. Too hastily, if Lucas’s grin was any indication.
“Good, because I’ve brought you a present.” He set his tea aside and reached into his pocket. From across the room she strained to see what he held in his hand, and when he beckoned her closer, she nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to hurry across the parlor.
“What is it?” she breathed, glancing down at his closed fist before lifting her gaze to his face. When she and Andrew were courting, he had showered her daily with all sorts of gifts. Flowers, shawls, jewelry. It had all been a bit overwhelming, to be honest.
And impersonal.
While she’d been appreciative of the expense the duke had incurred on her behalf, she couldn’t help but think that the red roses and silk wraps and pearls could have gone to any number of women. Truth be told, she didn’t even like roses. Not that Andrew had ever cared enough to learn her floral preferences.
“Close your eyes,” said Lucas.
Percy closed her eyes.
“Now, hold out your hand.”
She held out her hand.
There was a pause, and then a familiar scent filled the air as Lucas rubbed a small amount of liquid onto the inside of her wrist. Startled, she blinked at him. “Is that…”
“Your perfume. Here.” He motioned for her to tilt her head to the side. Sliding his hand underneath her hair, which she’d combed but had yet to put up, he brushed his thumb right behind her earlobe. “I figured you might like something familiar.”
“I…I do.” Distracted by the fingers he’d allowed to linger on the curve of her neck, she struggled to focus. “But how did you know what perfume I wear? Unless…” Her eyes flashed with accusation as she stiffened. “You stole it from Helena’s townhouse, didn’t you?”
“You sound surprised again.” He toyed with a curl before he dropped his arm and rocked onto his heels, his boyish smirk clearly unrepentant. “I’m a thief, love. Stealing things is sort of what I do.”
“Yes, but…” she trailed off as a reluctant smile teased across her lips. Some of his wickedness must have begun to rub off on her, because even though she knew she should have been appalled by his unlawful behavior, she couldn’t help but find it a little romantic. Certainly, the perfume was better (and more thoughtful) than flowers that would soon wither and die, or a shawl she’d never wear, or a necklace that would come to feel like a collar around her throat. Still, she couldn’t very well encourage Lucas’s bad behavior.
“Do not steal anything on my behalf again,” she said sternly. “Particularly if it involves breaking into my friend’s home. You…you didn’t see her, did you?” Hope kindled within Percy’s breast. “Helena?”
A shadow flickered across Lucas’s face. “I was careful to go when no one was in.”
“I miss them.” Trailing her hand across the back of a chair, she went to the window and nudged aside the curtain. The sky was gray, the clouds bunched together in an angry veil that threatened rain.
“Is it your plan to keep me here indefinitely?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then, what is your plan? If you are not going to sell me to the duke…”
“No one is selling you to anyone,” Lucas said fiercely. The floor shook with the strength of his powerful strides as he crossed the parlor and, just like in her dreams, took her into his arms. His hands wrapped around her bosom, his chin rested on top of her head, and his thighs cradled her bottom as he held her snug against his chest. “I’ll return you home as soon as it’s safe to do so.”
“And when will that be?”
I could spend forever like this, Percy decided as she curled her fingers around the arms that bound her to him. Secure and protected with the man she loved. And even as ridiculous and improbable as it was, she did love Lucas.
She loved the tenderness he’d shown her.
She loved the confidence he’d instilled in her.
She loved the passion he’d awoken inside of her.
Calliope and Helena had healed her physical wounds. They’d washed her cuts and put cold compresses on her bruises and wiped away her tears. But it had taken Lucas to make her realize that not all trauma was visible to the naked eye. Whether he realized it or not, he’d helped her confront her demons.
She hadn’t vanquished all of her doubts and insecurities. Not yet. Maybe she never would. But she’d dragged them out into the light, and no matter what came, she would never let them slither back into the darkness again. Because Lucas was right. She had control over Andrew now. It was up to her to decide if he could infiltrate her thoughts or dwell in her nightmares.
And she chose to banish him.
From her past, from her present, from her future.
Now that she knew what it was like to be treasured for who she was, not what she looked like or how obediently she could behave, she understood that whatever Andrew had felt towards her, it was never love. It was never compassion. It was never devotion.
It was never her fault.
The things he’d done to her…she had never deserved them. Not a single cruel word. Not a single vicious slap. That–that maliciousness, that hate, belonged solely to her husband. And all that ugliness could fester inside of him until he rotted, for all she cared.
She had married a duke…and fallen in love with a devil. And even though she couldn’t keep Lucas, even though she couldn’t keep this, she was grateful for it.
She was grateful for every second of it.
“Soon,” Lucas told her, his breath warming the back of her neck as he swept her hair to the side and pressed his lips to the top of her vertebrae. “
You’ll be with your friends soon, love. Until then…”
“Until then?” she murmured as he began to kiss his way down her spine.
“Until then, you’re stuck with me,” he said huskily.
Percy didn’t protest when he turned her around. She pressed her mouth to his willingly, and as that familiar heat burned in her belly, she could have wept from the joy it brought her. Except she was done crying. Sometime during the past few days, she’d made the decision that she would not shed another tear because of Andrew.
Any tears she cried from this moment forward were for her and her alone.
Her fingers combed through Lucas’s thick, glossy locks as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding boldly between her lips. He braced a hand on the window behind her as the intensity between them increased, rising to a fever pitch of desperate desire before it suddenly softened and turned soothing, like the caress of a cool breeze on a hot summer night.
On a sigh, she turned herself over to him completely, her head rolling onto her shoulder as he traced a path down the side of her neck, nibbling along the curved line of her collarbone. Then he kissed her again, and it wasn’t frantic or demanding, but gentle and smooth. She felt a liquid pull from between her thighs as he lingered for a small eternity over her lips, and when at long last their embrace ended and he drew back, it was all Percy could do not to slide into a boneless heap on the floor at his feet.
“I’ve got an errand to run,” he said, those gold eyes unreadable as he brushed a curl off her temple. “I won’t lie to you, it involves Glastonbury.”
Lucas might as well have dumped a bucket of freezing water over her head. Flinching, she brought her arms in close to her body as if they were a shield, as all the heat within her was replaced with a brittle, freezing rain.
“Are you going to see him? But why?” she said, dismayed when Lucas gave a clipped nod.
“I’ve things to settle, love.”
Desiring the Devil of Duncraven (Secret Wallflower Society Book 3) Page 7