Spine poker-straight, she met his eyes. “You’re rejecting my invitation, which you quite clearly understood?”
Lips firming, he held her gaze, let a moment tick by, then stated, “I’m not rejecting you. I’m refusing to be such a cad as to take advantage of you, no matter your offer.” Refusing to become more deeply ensnared by a woman who didn’t fit into his world any more than he fitted into hers.
He saw a pale reflection of the frustration he felt flare in her eyes. Her jaw tightened, her diction tart as she bit off the words, “That wasn’t any senseless offer. It was a deliberate invitation—I know what I’m doing.”
“Indeed?” He studied her face. “So tell me”—he trapped her eyes, her stormy green-gold gaze—“why do you want me in your bed?”
Miranda ached to open her mouth and trump his challenge with a blisteringly irrefutable answer, but her wits refused to provide one. Why? Why did he think? Why was he asking? What did he expect her to say?
More to the point, what answer would he accept as appropriate, as right? As sufficient to come together again, rather than part?
A minute ticked by as she mentally scrambled. In vain; if he’d searched for a way to bring home to her just how much of a novice she was in this sphere, he couldn’t have done better.
The fraught silence stretched . . .
Lips thinning even more, he nodded. “Just so.” There was a bleakness in his eyes, his voice, she hadn’t seen before, but before she could focus on it, he swung away and walked toward his room. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I intend to get some sleep.”
She stared at the back of his shoulders, at their rigid line. Immovable, rocklike, adamant; he’d made up his mind—why, she had no clue, but he wasn’t about to waver.
Embarrassment and anger geysered; heat flooded her cheeks. She’d taken her first-ever leap off the respectable path, and where had it landed her? Frustration roiled; she hadn’t even been able to get that right, even though she’d been sure he’d wanted her, had desired her, as much as she had him.
Pausing with his hand on the doorknob, he glanced back, met her gaze, then arched a cynical, world-weary brow.
Her temper erupted. Flinging her hands in the air, she gave vent to her frustration in a muted scream, swung around, marched to her door, flung it open, stormed through, and slammed it shut behind her.
The sharp sound faded.
Roscoe stared at her door for a full minute, then exhaled. Opening his, he went through and closed it quietly behind him.
He’d done the right thing.
Even though stepping back from her and her blatant invitation had taken significantly more resolution than he’d expected, he’d had to do it. Even though doing so had shaken him on some level he never before had breached, calling a halt to any furthering of their relationship was in his best interests, and hers, too.
He didn’t understand the strength of their attraction, but he knew to his bones that he couldn’t allow it to lead them into deeper waters.
She should be thanking him, although he doubted she was. Yet. In time, she would. Once they’d rescued Roderick and returned to London, and she saw the foolishness of a respectable lady commencing a liaison with London’s gambling king.
The window was uncurtained. He crossed to it and stood looking out at the moon riding the sky above Birmingham’s roofs.
He should sleep, but he doubted he could. Not with such a potent mix of frustration, clawing need, and disappointment raging through him. He didn’t understand why his reaction to her was so powerful, so complex, so much more compulsive, so much less manageable, but it was.
“So much”—propping one shoulder against the window frame, he fixed his gaze on the night sky—“for an early night.”
Chapter Seven
That he didn’t fall asleep was the only thing that saved them.
Several hours later, still fully dressed, he’d returned, prowling, restless, and unsettled, to stand before the window in the dark of his room, when scuffing on the cobbles followed by a ripe curse had him peering down into the alley running along the rear of the hotel.
Five heavyset men were jostling their way along the narrow alley, pausing to test every window.
Swallowing a curse of his own, he strode swiftly to the door. Crossing the sitting room, he didn’t tap on Miranda’s door but opened it and looked in.
She was asleep, lying on her back in the bed, hair spread in thick waves over the pillows. The covers were disarranged, as if she’d been restless, too.
Approaching the bed silently, he pressed a hand over her lips and shook her shoulder.
Her eyes flew wide, but then she saw him and blinked.
Releasing her shoulder, he touched a finger to his lips, then removed his hand from her face. “Kempsey’s relatives, or the Doles, or both, have come to pay us a visit.” He kept his voice to a murmur. “They’re outside in the alley, trying to find a way in. They haven’t succeeded yet, but they will. You need to get up, get dressed, and we need to get out of here.”
She’d taken in his grim expression; her eyes widened as what he’d said sank in . . . abruptly, her expression cleared. Sitting up, she glanced around the room, then at him; she was wearing a prim flannel nightgown, but as he’d previously remarked, primness only served to underscore her attractions, at least to him.
“We need to pack and make the beds.” Throwing aside the covers, she slipped out on the bed’s other side and hurried to grab her bag.
He softly cursed. “We don’t have time—”
“We don’t have time for anything else!” The look she flung him seared. Plunking her open bag on the stool before the dressing table, she flung combs, brushes, and everything else on the table haphazardly into it. She glanced up, saw him still standing there. “Hurry!” She waved him off. “Pack—and make sure there’s nothing left to give us away.”
Her plan suddenly crystallized in his brain. Pack, make the beds—make it appear they’d already left. Not a bad plan, but . . . he glanced at her. She’d gone to the armoire and was pulling her dress off a hanger . . . they definitely didn’t have time to argue.
He spun on his heel and raced back to his room.
Three minutes later, he returned, bag in hand.
She’d pulled her gown on over her nightgown; her cloak lay over her waiting bag. Dragging the covers back over the bed, she tucked them around the already fluffed pillows. “Where are they, do you know?”
“They couldn’t get in at the back—they’ve gone around to the side.”
“There’s a side door, isn’t there?”
“Yes. We don’t have much time.”
Straightening, she cast her eye over the bed. “That will have to do.”
It looked good enough to him.
She swiped up her cloak, slung it over her shoulders as he picked up her bag. “As long as they don’t touch the bed and feel the warmth, they won’t know.”
“Come on.” Carrying both bags, he led the way through the sitting room. Feeling her draw near, he eased the door to the corridor open.
Listened.
No sound disturbed the somnolent stillness.
He stepped into the corridor, waited while she slipped out to stand beside him, then silently shut the door. He waved her toward the stairs. With luck, they’d be able to reach the ground floor and hide in one of the reception rooms.
They reached the head of the stairs.
“Which room?” The harsh whisper funneled up the stairwell.
Their visitors were milling in the front foyer.
He and Miranda backed away from the stairs.
“Second floor, number nine,” someone else replied.
Roscoe searched through the gloom for the rear stairs, spotted the swinging door at the far corner of the gallery and nudged her in that direction, then, seizing her hand, drew her along as fast as he dared.
As they neared the swinging door, heavy clomping footsteps reached them—coming up the rear stairs.
They both glanced back at the main stairs. As Roscoe’s senses refocused, he heard stealthy footsteps creeping up those, too.
They were trapped.
Miranda plucked at his sleeve. He glanced at her. Lips tight, she tipped her head back along the gallery, then tightened her grip on his hand and tugged him back.
He went, although he hadn’t a clue what she intended.
She halted in the gallery opposite the head of the main stairs and pulled an insignificant knob set in the wall. Noiselessly, a panel yawned open. A cupboard? She looked past the panel, then glanced at him, tipped her head within, and slipped inside.
His hand still wrapped around hers, he followed . . . urgently, she tugged him into a narrow space bounded by shelves across the back and along one side, each shelf stacked with folded linens.
The space before the shelves had been designed to fit one person, but there was no other option. He stashed their bags at her feet, then pressed in, fitting his body to hers as he drew the door closed behind him—just as stealthy footsteps crossed the landing below, then started up the last flight.
A creak sounded at the corner of the gallery, the back stairs’ door opening.
The cupboard door snicked shut almost silently. He told himself the sound would seem louder to them in the enclosed space. Told himself the five men looking for them hadn’t heard and wouldn’t think to search a cupboard . . . it would be a dreadful place to be found in. He had his knives, but he couldn’t reach them. His shoulders barely fitted; he couldn’t even raise his arms. By default, he’d slid them about Miranda, was all but wrapped around her, his arms cushioning the edges of the shelves, his back to the door.
She’d grasped his sleeve above one elbow; her hand gripped tighter, fingers sinking into his upper arm. The dark was so complete they were effectively blind, but they could hear each other breathing, were so close they could feel the rise and fall of each other’s chests, the warm waft of each other’s breaths against their skins. They could feel each other’s bodies, muscles, bones, contours, and curves imprinting each on the other in the dark.
The irresistible fragrance of a warm, sleep-tousled female tantalized his senses.
She hadn’t had time to put up her hair; a lush, living wave, it rippled over her shoulders, the thick mass so close errant tendrils caught on his stubble and teased. And the scent. If sunshine in the country had a smell, it was that.
He rested his jaw against the soft silk and battled to ignore the press of her full breasts against his chest, the pressure of her sleek thighs against his, the alluring swell of her hips all but cradling his.
Fought to focus on the danger lurking beyond the cupboard door.
Initially she stood stiffly against him, but as the minutes ticked by, increment by increment her muscles eased.
Miranda concentrated on breathing, on steadying her giddy head, on calming her thudding heart. Being this close, held so close, was both a sensual shock and an illicit enticement. Neither was easy to ignore, but despite all, despite his muscled warmth, despite his body’s reaction to hers, so utterly obvious given how close they stood, she was aware his attention had fixed beyond the cupboard, that he was listening intently.
She had to do the same. Had to be prepared to react if they were found. Despite her body’s response to his nearness, despite her excruciating sensitivity to every aspect of that, first and foremost they were partners in rescuing Roderick, and evading their pursuers was their urgent and immediate aim.
Drawing a deeper breath, she held it and, dragging her mind from its sensual obsession, forced her senses beyond the cupboard door.
Two heavy men had passed their hiding place, coming from the rear stairs and heading toward their suite, presumably joining those who had crept up the main stairs.
Minutes passed; nothing more than faint, muted sounds reached them from the direction of their suite. Then footsteps reemerged, congregating about the head of the stairs.
“Damn it—where the devil are they?”
The words were uttered in a rasping whisper, but in the silence of the nighttime hotel they reached into the cupboard clearly enough.
“They must’ve skipped. Weren’t no clothes, nothing left behind.”
“P’raps they guessed we’d come a-looking for ’em?”
A dissatisfied grunt.
A moment ticked by, then, “Whatever the reason, they ain’t here now—no sense us hanging around. Let’s go.”
Footsteps started down the stairs.
“What about Jack and Herb?” someone asked.
“We’ll go out tomorrow after work and warn ’em the gent and lady was asking around, but it’s not as if, whoever they are, they’re any great threat—nothing Jack and our Herb can’t handle.”
A stair creaked, then the sounds of retreat slowly faded.
A minute later, she squeezed Roscoe’s arm—a wordless question.
His chin against her hair, he shook his head but didn’t otherwise move. “Wait,” he breathed. “We can’t be sure we’re safe yet.”
Despite the sensual torture, he took no chances, waiting for what he judged to be a full twenty minutes before carefully easing open the cupboard door. Silence lay thick throughout the hotel; after the darkness of the cupboard, he could see quite well.
Stepping out from their refuge, he scanned the gallery around the main stairs, then drew a deeper breath and stood aside to allow Miranda to slip out. Once she had, he ducked back in and retrieved their bags. When he stepped clear again, she quietly shut the door.
They walked back to their suite.
Once inside with the door safely shut, he set their bags on the floor. Straightening, he looked at Miranda.
She’d halted in the middle of the room and half turned to look back at him. Moonlight washed in through the uncurtained windows, limning her profile but leaving her features wreathed in shadow.
There was a great deal more space between them now, yet . . .
He wanted her back—back in his arms, her body molded to his.
Holding his position, he tipped his head to her. “That was quick thinking.” His voice was deeper than usual, still affected.
She raised a shoulder. “It was lucky we both fitted.”
Her husky tone proved he wasn’t the only one affected by that hellish squeeze, not the only one still prey to the associated sensations.
Denying the urge to go closer, he watched as she wavered, swayed, vacillated, then she drew breath, straightened; head rising, she slowly, deliberately, turned and walked toward him. She halted before him, her gaze locking with his. He looked into her eyes. “We should get what sleep we can.”
That was what they should do.
That was undoubtedly the wise thing to do, but Miranda wasn’t feeling wise. She looked into his face, studied the strength imprinted in his features, the hard-edged resistance . . . noted, too, that he hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t tried to avoid her advance.
The long minutes in the linen store, when she’d been all but engulfed by him, had stripped away something—some last layer of reserve. Where he was concerned, she was no longer willing to toe any line, only to go brazenly forward.
Boldly, she stepped closer; raising one hand, she laid her palm on his chest. Sensed the ripple of reaction, the impulse not to step away but to take her in his arms and draw her nearer, an urge he reined in, yet still he waited.
Waited to see what she would do. What she wanted.
The heat of him, the muscled maleness of him, lapped around her.
She looked at her hand, then drew breath and raised her gaze to his face. Locked her eyes with his. “Earlier, you asked why I wanted you in my bed. I wasn’t expecting the question, and I didn’t know the answer—quite literally did not know. Now I do.”
She studied his eyes, but he said nothing, simply waited, a challenge unvoiced but there nonetheless. The next breath she drew was tighter. “I want you in my bed . . . because I desire you. Because I want you
—the man you are—to be my lover.”
Through the hand on his chest she felt the impact of her words, sensed his immediate reaction. Yet still he waited, his face unreadable, as it so often was. But she wasn’t going to back down, not now she’d made up her mind, not now she’d gone so far. “I’ve never wanted any man before, so you’ll have to excuse my obtuseness, but I understand myself, my reasons. I know what I want, and I know why—and please don’t try to tell me that I don’t. There can be no question of you taking advantage of me—this is far more a case of me taking advantage of you. Of you, and our situation—the chance, the opportunity.”
He said nothing, didn’t move, but her eyes had adjusted to the dimness and she saw, sensed, his resistance weakening.
She kept her eyes on his. “I’m only asking for one night—just one night, while we’re here, out of our usual world, away from all who know us.”
Sliding her palm down his chest, she reached blindly for his hand, found it and boldly, deliberately, twined her fingers with his. “And so I’m asking you again. Inviting you again.”
His fingers gripped, then gentled, yet they now held hers.
Her pulse leapt; she stepped back, toward her room. “Come with me.” She held his gaze. “Be with me.” She took another step back and drew him on.
And he went with her.
Two steps, three.
Roscoe was lost in her luminous eyes, captive to the siren’s promise of her body, captured beyond recall. He knew it was foolish, that it was somehow tempting fate, that at some point he—and she, too—would come to regret it, yet he couldn’t break her spell, couldn’t shatter the moment . . . couldn’t bring himself to pull away and deny her.
And himself.
She might know her reasons; he didn’t want to think of his.
Her lips curved, goddess-like, at his implied surrender, then she turned, and he let her tow him across the sitting room to the open door to her room.
In the doorway, she paused. Glancing over her shoulder, she met his eyes. Her features, her hair, silvered by the moonlight, a creature of mystery and shadow, she whispered, “Teach me. Show me.”
The Lady Risks All Page 16