by Jenny Brown
His brows lifted, as if he were surprised to learn she could talk. “Poona,” he said.
“That same Poona, in India, where they had that battle Barrow was shouting about?”
He nodded.
“How long you been back?”
“A week.”
A gust of relief swept through her. At least he had not been at Peterloo. Or with the troop that had hunted down Randall after the Cato Street Conspiracy had failed.
“Seen a lot of action?”
“More than enough.” He said it in a way that shut down further conversation. She wouldn’t be able to get him to relax bragging about himself, so she changed the subject. “India! You have seen the world. How I should like to see it, with its caves full of jewels, and rich spices—and the beautiful women locked in harems—just like in The Arabian Nights.”
“You’ve read The Arabian Nights?” His voice betrayed surprise. Did he think that just because she was poor she was stupid?
“I’ve read it and a lot more.” Let him chew on that.
“You’re not a Cockney, are you?” he asked. “Your accent is that of the Midlands. How long have you been in London?”
“Long enough.” It was three years since she’d left home with Randall, just after her fifteenth birthday. Not that it was any of his business.
“Come here,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow alleyway. “There may still be men in the crowd who’d like to do you harm. We’ll be safer here.”
She didn’t believe for a minute he was leading her there to protect her, but the rope around her wrists gave her no choice but to follow him. When they had gone deeper into the shadows, he stopped and turned toward her. “Why did you steal, just now?” he demanded. “I know you did, so don’t bother lying. Just tell me the truth.” The set of his deeply cleft chin told her only the truth would do.
She struggled to think of how to phrase it. At last she said, “People depend on me. I couldn’t let them down.”
“They need you to find them money?”
“Yes. Two pounds by the morrow. They’re going to tear down the place we been dossing in, to put up some new mansion for the rich.”
“And if you don’t find those two pounds? What then.”
“Clary goes back to whoring. She’s only fourteen.”
“And you too?” His interest was unmistakable.
“I’m eighteen.”
“That’s not what I was asking.”
“I’ve never sold myself.”
He said nothing, evaluating the truth of her statement. His deep-set eyes dropped to her bosom and drifted lower. The crotch of his breeches bulged. So that was the key to handling this man. Lust. Not greed or glory.
He repeated, “You’ve never sold yourself?”
She took a deep breath. “Never.” She paused. Then hazarding all on a lucky throw, she added, “ ’Til now.”
He grinned. It made the scar at the corner of his lip deepen, but strangely, though it should have made him fearsome, it had the opposite effect. The look it gave his stern face intrigued her. Despite herself, she enjoyed making this man smile.
“Would you be my Scheherazade, then?”
“Scheherazade told stories. Is that what you want from me?” Her tone let him know she doubted it.
“That’s what she does in the expurgated edition. But I’ve read the original Arabic. It tells a spicier tale.”
“The East is famous for its spices,” she parried. “But I know naught of ’em. I’m only a humble English girl.”
“English, yes. But hardly humble. You’re as proud as a queen. I doubt you’d disappoint me.” His eyes held a look of anticipation. Yes, lust would be the key to getting away from him.
“Surely you’ve had real houris in India, a handsome man like yourself.” A little flattery never hurt.
“Some. But I have had my fill of curry and yearn to taste good English cooking.”
“What’s curry?
“Food as hot as this cold November night is cold. Food that inflames the passions and fills the heart with courage.”
“You may yearn for English cooking,” she said, arranging her features in an arch expression. “But by the sound of it, I think I should like to taste this curry.” She batted her lashes to give him no doubt she was issuing an invitation.
His eyes lit up, softening the harsh planes of his cheeks. “It would be my pleasure to introduce you to it,” he said. “You are strong enough to endure it. Perhaps you might come to enjoy it. Some Englishwomen do. A few. Though most complain it pains them. I wonder—”
A look she could not entirely interpret swept over his features, as if he were considering something dangerous and weighing the cost. She shivered, hoping it was just a response to the icy breeze that blew rubbish down the deserted alleyway.
Then he reached for his sword and pulled it out of its scabbard. Even in the gloom of the alley, its sharp edge glinted. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded. “Keep still.”
Her gut clenched. They were alone, unobserved. His last speech had made her uneasy, with its talk of pain and endurance. He was a dragoon, a man who took pleasure in killing. Perhaps he took pleasure in causing pain, too.
But she had no choice but to comply. Her wrists were tightly bound, she couldn’t break free. She must submit to whatever he had in mind and wait for her opportunity. Cautiously, she extended her arms toward him. She held her breath, hoping she had not made a terrible mistake.
After grasping her forearm with his free hand, with a single swift motion, he brought the tip of his blade to her wrists and sawed through the leather thong that bound them. Her hands sprang free. Then he smiled at her in a way that, had he been anyone but a dragoon, she would have thought was kindly.
“Rub them to get the circulation going. They’ll feel better soon.” He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. A moment later he asked, “Have your hands stopped tingling?”
She nodded with a shy smile, and once again his eyes lit up as if he cared. But though he had freed her of the bindings, he still maintained his grip on her arm.
“What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Scheherazade. It’s too much of a mouthful.”
“Temperance Smith.”
“Another mouthful.”
“Folk call me Tem.”
“Captain Miles Trevelyan, at your service. My friends call me Trev.”
“Am I to be your friend?” She lowered her lashes and looked up from under them in the way that men always found irresistible. She licked her lips.
“That is up to you,” he said, his scarred lip quirking up into a smile. Then, moving so quickly she had no way of protecting herself from him, he lowered his head and set his lips firmly on hers.
He couldn’t help himself. It was wrong, and he knew it, but the way she’d flirted with him had been like dangling raw meat before a starving wolf. It had not been lust alone that had made him save her, and when he had, he’d not meant to make her pay for her rescue with her body. But he was a normal male—with an abnormally strong animal nature. He’d not been able to resist the temptation of those fluttering lashes or the unmistakable invitation he’d heard in her voice. And now it was too late for regret.
He gave himself up to the pleasure he found as he pressed his lips against hers. They were so alive, so responsive. He could almost believe she wanted him. He told himself he would take nothing from her she didn’t wish to give, but he could not stop himself from trying to make her want to give him everything.
He teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, taking his time and resisting the temptation to invade her mouth too soon. He caressed her neck with one hand and stroked the delicate down behind her ear in the way he knew must increase her pleasure.
She’d been stiff with resistance when he’d given in to the urge to kiss her, but as he worked on her, she responded to his coaxing and relaxed. She opened her lips. Her breath was fresh, her taste intoxicating. Responding to this new invitation, his
tongue explored the pulsing warmth of her mouth, and, as she flicked her own tongue against his, without warning, his whole body came alive.
A shock ran through him. It surged up his spine, filling his body with light and awakening every nerve. His heart pounded with joy until he thought it would burst. Life coursed through his veins. And yet, in the midst of this excitement, a strange peace flooded through him, as if he were home at last, at rest. He clung to her, comforted but stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening to them both, knowing only that he’d die if he let her go.
He must be drunker than he’d thought.
But he wasn’t drunk. Everything was brighter and clearer than usual, not dulled as it was with alcohol. Something new intoxicated him, and he had no ability to stop it. He inhaled deeply the faint scent of oranges that wafted from her hair and held on to her more tightly.
When, after centuries had passed, he released her, she staggered back. Would she flee him, now that he’d given her the chance? The confusion in her eyes matched his own. She was breathing quickly and looked dazed. Had she felt what he had, or something else? It was impossible to know, but it tormented him to think she might be feeling anything but the bliss that filled him now.
But when she’d caught her breath, she didn’t pull away. She drew closer and pressed the length of her long body against his, as if she were as unwilling to separate from him as he was to have her go. He welcomed her back into his arms and embraced her gently, struggling to keep his hold on her as tender as he could, so as not to frighten her. She nestled against him, as if she had always belonged there, stroking his muscled arm with one hand as he caressed her hair.
He wondered at its softness. He’d never before touched a woman’s hair that was not straight and black, but hers was the color of honey and springy, with long waves. He’d never before held a creature so fierce. Yet fierce as she was, she responded to his gentleness. He ran one finger against the softness of her cheek, barely touching it. He’d felt the same sense of wonder when his first falcon had returned to the jesses.
He luxuriated in the softness of her throat. The skin there was like velvet. Its smoothness was interrupted only by a tiny mole his searching fingers found where neck met shoulder. He drew her closer. He had never felt a body fit so perfectly against his.
A shy smile turned up the corners of her lips. Her eyes were glowing softly, with no trace of the contempt that had filled them before. Perhaps she could, after all, spare him some of the grace she had shared with the crossing boy. Perhaps he’d not been wrong in seeking her out. The energy that pulsed through the two of them was warm and healing.
He wondered who she was, how she could do this to him, and how he could keep himself from ruining it.
Temperance’s heart was beating as if it would explode. What was happening to her? What had this man awakened in her body? She’d only meant to rouse his lust, so she could make him careless. It was a maneuver she’d used more than once in the street. She wasn’t fast enough to run from a man like him, but there were other ways to temporarily take him out of action, once you got close enough. A swift blow of the knee to his groin would do the job.
But she was more than close enough—and still she was powerless to do what she had planned. When his stubble-fringed lips had brushed against hers, they’d ignited cravings his warm tongue had fanned into leaping flames. He’d tasted her, caressed her, and awakened a throbbing in every bit of her.
But it wasn’t just animal sensations his outrageous kiss evoked but something more—the wave of need that flooded her body and made her press up against him so close that the gold lace crossing his wide chest dug into her flesh, and the buttons that outlined his lapels pressed against her breasts, stimulating them even through the thick stuff of her black gown.
She should have taken her shot by now. But she could not. She wanted more. She couldn’t get enough of the way his firm muscles felt beneath her hand as he embraced her. The pulsing of his tongue echoed down the column of her own body, sending pangs of yearning to her core. She gave herself up to the sensation, unable to do anything else, dismayed at her weakness even as her desire grew. She couldn’t keep from pressing herself against him, all of him, even the swelling bulge at his crotch, until her own sex responded and swelled with need, wet with her wanting of him.
“Did you learn that in India?” she gasped.
“I learned it from you.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Will you teach me more?”
She made no answer, appalled by how much she wanted to say yes.
To this soldier—this killer.
She was about to betray Randall with a man who wore the same uniform as his murderer. She, who had scorned Mother Bristwick’s offers—and her threats—even when Randall’s death had left her penniless, stood here now, no different than any threepenny upright, giving herself to a stranger for nothing. A stranger she should hate.
Had she gone mad? Though the officer’s breath on her ear sent shivers down her spine, she must not give in to the pleasure of it. She must reclaim her rage and block out the wanting his kisses had inflamed. She must fight her weakness. She must not lose herself in him no matter what he could make her feel.
If only she could bring herself to jab her knee into his crotch as she’d planned. But she couldn’t do it. Her traitorous body was too grateful to his to hurt him that way. But there was another way to break free. His eyes were half-lowered, his breathing ragged. He was still in the grip of desire and he thought she still was, too. As if to give him what he expected from her, she began to undo the buttons that fastened the top of his leather breeches. As the top button came undone, his prick swelled against the thin hide.
She made her way to the next button. Her fingers trembled as she undid it. The moist head of his shaft jutted from the opening she had created, filling her with excitement despite her resolve to stay unmoved. She fumbled with the last button. Her breath caught in her throat as the flap fell open, revealing him: huge and tumescent.
He’d closed his eyes now and was giving himself up entirely to pleasure. She let her hand drift up to his waist and teasingly undid its fastening. His breeches came loose. She eased them down his sinewy thighs, ignoring the throbbing that filled her most secret parts. If she could draw them down only a little farther, they’d hobble him. Then she could break free. The buckskins wrapped around his lower thighs would slow him, and the moment it would take for him to pull them up was all she would need to get a head start.
But when, at last, she sprang away, he didn’t reach for his breeches but grabbed the neck of her gown. She jerked away, tugging against his grip, ignoring the pain as the cloth cut into her flesh, until the fabric gave way and slipped out of his grasp and she was free. She made the most of it, racing down the alleyway with her heart pounding, her every sense on the alert. She must not let him catch her, or he would draw her back into that fatal embrace. If he did, she knew she couldn’t resist him.
She listened for his footsteps as she ran, but a carriage clattered along the deserted street, and any footfalls behind her were drowned out by the sound of its wheels. Even as she strained to hear if he had pursued her, she cursed her ungovernable impulses. She was still in their grip, torn by a mix of terror that he would catch her—and regret that he would not.
But she kept on running, making for the bolt-hole. She need make it only around another turn, dodge into the alley, and she’d be safe. When she reached it at last, she pressed the secret lever that unlocked the hatchway door and slid down into the narrow space hidden behind it.
She was safe. Safe from the dragoon. But her body, still throbbing with the passion he’d made smolder with his kiss, made her wonder if she’d ever be really safe again.
Chapter 3
Never before had Trev sobered up as quickly as he did, standing with his throbbing cock exposed to the frigid London night, watching in disbelief as the woman who’d torn open his heart rounded the corner and disappeared. He felt like an absolute fool. H
e must be grateful his humiliation had gone unobserved. But even that solace was taken from him as a carriage made its way toward him on the deserted street and slowed to reveal the horrified eyes of a lady within.
He whirled around to face the wall, as if like any other drunk he had merely unfastened his breeches to relieve himself. His cheeks burned with shame.
He marveled now at the madness that had overtaken him when he’d found himself possessed by that overwhelming mixture of revelation and homecoming he’d found in the pickpocket’s arms. It tickled the edges of his consciousness even now, like the last fleeting memory of one of those dreams that seem real even after awakening. But it had been only a dream.
He’d used the power he’d gained over her to trap her, and she’d done exactly what he would have done had he found himself in her predicament. How could he have imagined for even a moment that she would feel anything but disgust at the crude coupling he’d offered her?
And yet, so powerful had been what swept over him as he had held her in his arms that he could have sworn she had shared with him, body and soul, that astonishing feeling of something miraculous about to happen. That she was the one who would give him what he’d longed for all his life.
He was mad, and he knew it. Unbidden, another woman’s voice echoed through his mind, I’ll be back tomorrow with a cake for you if you’re a good boy now and don’t cry. Well, he should have known better than to go haring after what he knew he’d never find—and he’d certainly sought it in a strange place this night.
He’d get over it. It shouldn’t be hard. She’d left him with no more dignity than a tomcat whose amorous cries had been quenched with a bucket of slops. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All he could do was to learn from it. Everyone made mistakes, but the men he looked up to never made the same mistake twice.
It was only after he’d fastened up his pants that he noticed the thin chain that dangled from the hand with which he had fruitlessly tried to detain her. It must have snapped when he’d grabbed her collar in that futile attempt to keep her from abandoning him. As he glanced down at the pavement, he saw what its burden had been: a round locket that lay glinting against the dull cobbles. He stooped to pick it up and flicked it open. His exploring fingers found a lock of hair secured in the hollow on one side. The other held a portrait, but it was too dark to make out any details.