He worked the edge of her skirts up and her thighs fell open in invitation.
Robert wedged his knee between her slender legs and pressed hard against her hot center. He rocked his leg against her in a slow, undulating movement. “Please,” she moaned, arching against him. He worked his hand between them and brushed the wisp of curls that shielded her womanhood.
A keening little cry escaped her and he again consumed that heady sound. He shifted his lips away from hers and trailed a path of kisses along her jaw, down her neck, lower to the soft swell of her cream-white breasts, and then closed his mouth around her nipple and she gripped his head, anchoring him close. Desire surged through him and he worked her nightshift up. “Helena,” he breathed against her skin.
Her eyes flew open on a gasp. Horror etched her features and in one swift movement, she brought her knee up quick between his legs.
With a hiss of pain, he rolled away, clutching himself.
In a brilliant blaze of shock and fury, Helena leapt to her feet. “Don’t you ever . . . how dare . . .”
“Words, princess,” he rasped, and through the tortured agony of movement rose unsteadily to his feet.
She clasped hands at the bodice of her nightshift, clenching and unclenching her fingers. “How dare you.” Her eyes formed round circles. She searched around, and he followed her gaze to the flash of silver on the floor. The muscles of his body went taut and he dove for the knife before the harpy took it to her head to bury her blade in his heart. Or worse . . .
Helena stumbled back. “Hand me my weapon, sir.” And if she hadn’t nearly unmanned him moments ago, he’d have felt like the worst sort of bounder for the high-pitch panic in her demand.
Robert held the dagger above her reach. If she believed for one moment he intended to hand a dagger over to a woman spitting mad with fury—a fury directed at him—she was madder than old King George himself. He stuck the blade between his teeth. “Do you know?” he bit around the edge of the blade. “I don’t believe I will.”
As he retrieved his rumpled shirt and pulled it over his head, a stream of inventive curses filtered about the room. Taking a perverse delight in ignoring the woman’s clear outrage, he next stuffed his arms into the sleeves of his coat.
“Did you hear me?” she demanded, her chest rising and falling.
He sat at the edge of the bed, with the sheets still wrinkled from their night together, and tugged on a boot. “Which part?” he drawled. “Your question about my paternity?” Robert paused midreach for the other boot to lift a brow. “Or your accusation of my possible proclivity for carnal activities with a female dog?”
She gritted her teeth so hard, the sound of it reached past the space separating them.
“I said I want my—”
“You’ll have your knife. As soon as I’m ready to take my leave. I’d be mad to trust you won’t stick your wicked blade in my belly.”
If looks could kill, he’d be a smote pile of ash at the foot of her rumpled bed. “I wouldn’t stick it in your belly.”
As he’d suspected. He waggled his eyebrows. “That hardly inspires the level of confidence that merits returning a weapon to your possession,” he said, removing the knife from between his clamped teeth. Robert waved it and the woman followed those deliberately casual movements with her furious gaze. “But at least be honest, princess. For all your indignation, I gave you leave to rebuff my kiss.” He tucked the knife between his teeth once more so he might pull up his other boot. “I don’t make a habit of drinking or forcing my attention on uninterested women,” Robert said around the blade. He winged an eyebrow up. “Nor did I imagine your moans and the warmth betwixt your beautiful thighs.”
Color flamed her cheeks, a reaction at odds with the experienced women who lived in this den of sin. “By God, when you hand over my bloody knife I will bury it in your heart, you son of a bastard.”
Now, that vitriolic diatribe was what one would expect of an experienced woman living in a den of sin.
He had been going to return the weapon to her care. Now he’d be a bloody fool to trust any weapon to this one’s hands. At last managing to yank his boot up, Robert leapt to a stand. Removing the knife from between his teeth, he strode to the door.
The spitfire’s gasp echoed around the room. “What are you doing?” she called as his fingers collided with the door handle.
Robert paused, and tossed a glance over his shoulder. “This is what one calls leaving, madam.” He opened the door just as her quiet cry went up.
“Sir, my knife!”
He closed the door between them with a soft, decisive click. He’d wait a moment until the woman was calmed and then he’d leave the blade to her care. Robert reached for the handle.
A soft thump hit the paneled door and he’d wager the rumpled clothes he now wore that the little shrew had tossed her boot at the door.
Another thump followed.
He sheathed the blade in his boot. Mayhap, he’d return the weapon at a later date. Which would require again seeing the prickly miss. Robert grinned. Yes, perhaps he’d wait after all.
The distant rumble of male voices sounded from around the hall and Robert started in the opposite direction. He quickened his stride, making for a staircase. No doubt, title of marquess be damned, the whispered-about owner would take umbrage with a patron infiltrating his private quarters. The harshly guttural voices became increasingly clear and Robert ducked down the servant’s stairway. He paused, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit space. And he’d even less doubt that the ruthless king of the gaming world would remove the entrails of any man who’d dared touch his mistress.
Something dark and niggling, something that felt very much like jealousy slithered around inside. He scoffed. Why should the idea of the hellion, who’d threatened to split him open, with Black grate? And yet—it did. As the heir to a dukedom, he’d grown accustomed to all manner of ladies clamoring for a place in his bed: the unhappily wed ones, the recent widows, the not-so-recent widows. For all those women, however, there had never been a spirited woman such as Helena, so uncowed by status or title—and she belonged to Black.
He walked down the hard wood stairs, careful with his footfalls. After a lifetime of fawning and preening, the realness of her response, that total disregard of status or birthright was . . . refreshing. Since he’d been in the cradle, all anyone had ever seen was a future duke. He’d worn his rank the way a person did a head of hair or birthmark upon his skin. A small grin hovered on his lips.
And he’d wager all his unentailed property that if the woman learned he possessed one of the oldest titles in the kingdom, her reactions and actions would have remained the same.
Robert reached the bottom of the stairwell. For her breathtaking fury and claims of indifference, her body had burned hot with the proof of her desire. His body stirred in remembrance of their encounter: the swollen tips of her pert breasts, the heat radiating from her hot center. Yes, she might have wanted to gut him, but she’d also wanted him . . . even as she’d denied it to herself.
He stepped out into the corridor and froze.
From down the length of the hall, a great big hulking bear of a man stopped and Robert swallowed a black curse at his carelessness. With an incredible ease for someone of the man’s bulky frame, the scarred figure set the bucket of water in his hands down on the floor and rushed forward. “Wot ye be doin ’ere?” he barked.
Feigning nonchalance, Robert tugged on his lapels. “I seem to be lost.” The lie slipped out with effortless ease. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the exit.”
The pit-faced, nearly bald brute stared boldly at him with blatant suspicion. Then, he grunted. “Ye’ll follow me, guvnor,” he grunted. “Black don’t loike fancy toffs runnin’ about ’is ’alls.”
Robert fell into step beside the man, who continued to cast sideways glances in his direction as they walked down a long hall. The sconces lit with candles cast eerie shadows about the crimson-red painted walls.
“’Ere ye go, Yer Lordship,” the man mumbled and nodded toward a door. He jerked open the thick oak panel and blinding light from the well-lit chandeliers of the main floor of the hell spilled through the opening. The rightfully suspicious man crossed his arms, and stood in wait as Robert stepped back out onto the empty gaming floor.
He kept his gaze directed forward. With each step he took, the skin at the back of his neck pricked with awareness.
A broad, towering, loudly, if elegantly, clad man stepped into his path. Though they’d never spoken, he recognized him as Niall Marksman, one of the club’s owners who regularly walked the floors of the club.
Suspicion flared in the blue-nearly-black irises of his eyes. “Might oi be of assistance, my lord?” The hint of cockney to the man’s words contradicted the gentlemanly façade his attire inspired.
The ruthless underbelly of London was one he’d only casually and infrequently visited. He had appreciation enough for life that he’d been content with the mundane crowd and pleasures of the respectable White’s and Brooke’s. Still, he’d not be intimidated by these men who ruled their powerfully built gaming empire. Robert flicked a cold stare over the man still intently scrutinizing him. “I am leaving,” he said.
“Ye’ll find your carriage waiting for ye.” A muscle jumped at the corner of Marksman’s left eye and he folded his arms across his broad chest in a menacing fashion.
Inclining his head, Robert continued walking. He reached the front of the club and a liveried servant pulled the door open and Robert stepped out into the morning light. He scanned the quiet streets. His driver hopped down from the perch atop his box and pulled the door of his carriage open. Robert strode over to the conveyance. “Oxford Street,” Robert instructed, as he climbed inside.
The riveting Helena had proven a much welcome distraction from his current circumstances, but with his departure from the club, reality now intruded. There was his father’s man-of-affairs to meet with so Robert could know the full extent of his family’s finances. As his carriage rattled on through the streets of London, taking Robert away from the seedy, dirtied streets of St Giles, he forced away thoughts of the spirited beauty who with her outrage toward him had proven herself more honest than any woman he’d ever known.
Chapter 6
Rule 6
Never be caught without your weapon.
He’d stolen her knife.
As Helena rushed through her morning ablutions, she yanked a brush through her tangled curls; with each tug of the strands, she took a perverse delight in the distraction. Though robbing her really wasn’t the worst of the crimes committed by Lord Robert No-Surname. Her nipples tightened with the thrill of his remembered caress. His expert caress. With a growl, she gave one final yank of the brush and set to work braiding her hair. She was no weak ninny to go and moon over a man who’d taken liberties . . . even if his kiss did sear her soul.
All she needed to do was go through the records and search all the patrons named Robert . . . and then, what?
She grabbed a gown from her armoire. “Search each guest suite?” she muttered. And risk being discovered, which would cause all different manner of problems . . . for the club . . . and with Ryker. Which only reminded her that even now her brother, who waited for no one, expected her nearly a half hour ago. Her panic mounted.
Another knock sounded at the front of her room.
Stepping into her dress, Helena hopped across the room and yanked the door open.
Clara spilled in. “What is keeping you?”
“Help,” she pleaded, deliberately ignoring the question.
The other woman’s gaze went to where Helena clutched her gown at her front.
With military precision, Clara spun her around and began fastening the dress. When she’d been a girl, Helena had taken pains to hide the puckered scars crisscrossing her back until Ryker had seen the marks. In curt, gruff tones he’d called them her badges of strength and courage and ordered her to find pride in them. From that moment, she’d seen them as more than angry, ugly stains upon her person, but rather as a reminder of the perils that awaited a woman alone, with no skill to recommend her beyond her talents in the bedrooms.
“There you are.” Clara fastened the last pearl button. “Your brother is not happy,” the other woman said as Helena proceeded to fetch her serviceable boots.
She plopped on the edge of her mattress and took her time tugging them on and lacing them up. Her braid flopped over her shoulder. “I expect he’s not.” The man fueled by his power and success would find equal displeasure in her unfavorable liquor reports as he would in being kept waiting.
Helena hurriedly collected her spectacles and settled them on her nose. Welcoming the diversion that would keep her from thinking about the golden-haired nobleman and his wicked grin, an unholy anticipation filled her to go toe-to-toe with her obstinate brother. “Thank you, Clara.” Placing a kiss on the other woman’s cheek, Helena collected her ledgers and strode over to the door.
Clara quickly pulled it open. “Good luck.”
Helena stepped out into the hall. Yes, she should really be focused on her upcoming meeting, especially given the financial update she brought to Ryker. As she stomped through the empty corridors, she lamented her lack of a boot with a thick heel, and that her brother hadn’t bothered to lay carpet upon the hardwood floors.
Then she might feel some satisfaction and not this delicate tread of a young woman who’d been effectively disarmed, by a gentleman no less, and who’d then had her weapon stolen.
Stolen.
Whatever would her brother and the others say about that indignity?
She reached Ryker’s office, dreaded by most, and shifting the burden in her arms, pressed the handle and entered. Helena did a quick sweep for the displeased brother.
Standing beside the sideboard, Calum poured himself a brandy. “Adair called him to the floors,” he said, following her searching gaze.
With a nod, she carried her ledgers over to the foot of the broad, mahogany desk littered with papers and leather folios. She made to sit.
“Where were you?”
Helena froze, and then settled into the unupholstered wood chair. By rule, furniture in Ryker’s office was hard and darkly austere. But for a single, eerie reproduction of Bosch’s Death and the Miser that hung above his desk, not a single artifact served anything beyond a functional purpose here. She’d long suspected it was a way to keep his employees and visitors from being too comfortable around him. In a deliberately dismissive move, she dropped her ledgers on the edge of Ryker’s desk, grabbed the book on top, and opened it. “I slept later than usual,” she said, dryly. “Given it was the first time in the ten years I’ve been keeping books, I expect it’s forgivable.”
What was decidedly not forgivable was moaning for the kiss of a powerful nobleman patronizing the club. Heat scorched her cheeks. What manner of man could manage to set her blood aboil with fury and her body ablaze with desire? She tamped down a groan. And a pompous nobleman, no less.
“Why are you doing that?” Calum pressed.
She kept her attention on the rows of numbers detailing last autumn’s liquor expenses. “It is my job to look at the books.” And she’d always done an admirable job of focusing all her efforts and attentions on nothing other than the finances of the Hell and Sin. Only recently had the constraints thrust upon her, in the name of safety, stirred restlessness inside. A hungering for more.
Calum took a sip and studied her over the rim of his glass. “I meant blushing.” His suspicious tone only sent further warmth coursing up her neck. She gripped the edges of the book in her hand. Did she wear Robert’s kiss upon her lips, still? “Why are you blushing?” Tall, dark, threatening to most, terrifying to all, men quaked in his presence as she’d witnessed from the secret observatory at the top of the gaming hell floors and on the streets of London.
Not her. To her, he’d always be the serious young boy who’d let her curl in his la
p when the nightmares came. It was hard to fear him, even when he’d become one of the most notorious gaming hell owners in all of London. “Oh, I don’t know. Because I’m fair? Because I’m annoyed? It’s no doubt a combination of the two.” As such, it was easy to return her attention to her books. She picked up her head, and quirked a brow. “Though if you are requesting a scientific explanation for it, then I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
He lowered his brows.
Digging deep for the proper nonchalance, she drummed her fingertips on the open ledger.
“You never sleep late,” he stated bluntly.
She ceased midtap. His persistence spoke of his suspicion. Pale skin be damned, she’d learned to prevaricate as well as every other member of the Hell and Sin Club. “I was more tired than usual.” Which wasn’t altogether untrue. Confronting a stranger in the middle of your home in the dead of night and waking up to that same man’s kiss had that effect.
Calum carried his partially drunk brandy over to the desk and perched on the edge. “Niall said he heard noise on the main apartments last evening.” He continued to scrutinize her through hooded lashes.
Helena stilled. The club had eyes and ears in every room and hall. She carefully picked through her thoughts. If she mentioned the golden-haired gentleman who’d found himself not only on the main floors, but in her bed, Calum, Ryker, and the other men who’d fashioned themselves as her defenders would find him, hunt him down, and remove his entrails. “Is that a question?”
Calum’s brows dipped. “Helena?”
. . . Nor did I imagine your moans and the warmth betwixt your beautiful thighs . . . Her skin pricked under Calum’s focus and she schooled her features. “I didn’t hear anything.” The lie slipped out easily. Too easily.
He leaned forward, relentless. “Diggory’s been spotted outside the club. Ryker suspects he’s infiltrated the inside.”
Oh, God. And just like that, all memory of her arrogant nighttime visitor faded. Diggory. The hated name of an even more hated man. A monster who roused terror and fury with equal measure. Unwittingly, her gaze strayed to the nub of the candle on the edge of her brother’s desk. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears. Please, please, stop. Please . . . She closed her eyes as her screams from long ago pealed around her mind.
The Rogue's Wager (Sinful Brides Book 1) Page 8