An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

  She arched her eyebrows haughtily.

  He shook his head. "Oh, do not give me that look of false innocence. I know what you are about! There is no point in denying what you got up to last night!"

  She looked vaguely puzzled. "Last night? The Baden rout? It was a little dull, and I do believe I accidentally spilled some ratafia over Sir Bartlemy Bowles, but it was an accident, I assure you. You cannot be so very angry with me over an accident, surely."

  "I am not talking about Sir Bartlemy!" he said through gritted teeth. "You may tip a gallon of ratafia over him, for all I care! No, what I meant was—"

  "Really, what a splendid idea. I just might take you up on that generous offer," said Kit provocatively. "I'm sure when I explain to Sir Bartlemy that you gave me permis­sion—''

  "Will you be serious!"

  Kit regarded him warily. "Since I do not know what you are talking about—"

  "You know very well what I'm talking about!"

  "But I do not!" she insisted! She was not going to admit a thing. He had not a shred of evidence, after all.

  "The Brackboume House robbery."

  "Brackbourne House?" she said vaguely. "Oh, yes, I heard Lady Hester and her friends discussing it. What a dreadful thing. Lady Gosper blames drunken Watchmen."

  He didn't rise to her bait. "You and I know differently, don't we?"

  She arched her eyebrow again, "Do we?"

  "I suppose you have them packed away in some secret location."

  Kit gave him a puzzled look. "The Watchmen?"

  He swore. "Do not play games with me!"

  "Well, as I have not the slightest idea what you are so out of reason cross about, I cannot help it! I have no idea what you are talking about."

  "You are responsible for the Brackbourne House rob­bery!"

  She gave a great gasp of amazed surprise. “I? What on earth would give you the idea that I did the Brackbourne House robbery?"

  She laughed incredulously and clapped a hand theatri­cally to her forehead. "Oh, yes, that's right, I did! It slipped my mind for a moment. I clambered up a drainpipe—or did I slip down the chimney? I forget which—and then ran off with Lord Brackbourne's bronze statues in my reti­cule!"

  He made an impatient sound. "Oh, don't be ridiculous. You know perfectly well what was stolen. And I do not mean you did it yoursel—" He looked at her in sudden suspicion, an arrested look in his eyes. "You didn't, did you?"

  She laughed.

  "No, I...I suppose not..." He didn't look convinced. 'At any rate, you organised it."

  She gave him another look of amused disbelief.

  "Or it was done at your instigation."

  She gave another incredulous laugh. "Why on earth would I instigate such a thing?''

  "Revenge on behalf of your father."

  Kit forced herself not to react. He was most frightfully acute, the Watchdog.

  "Revenge? Whatever for?" She was tired of doing incred­ulous laughter so she shook her head. "It sounds like you have been watching too many stage melodramas to me, Mr Devenish. Which reminds me, I would very much like to return to the opera if you have finished accusing me of break­ing into people's houses and stealing their statues—"

  "Paintings, blast it! You know perfectly well—"

  "I thought my first visit to the opera would be memo­rable, but I never could have imagined in what way! Imag­ine, hustled away from my chaperons on a pretext, dragged up shadowy corridors to a place of illicit encounters and accused of breaking and entering a lord's mansion and making off with his stat—'' she caught his eye ''—paint­ings, all for the sake of some thrillingly antiquated notion of revenge! You know, it's better than the opera, only it does not sound so pretty!"

  He stepped forward. "No, it does not sound pretty at all. does it?"

  She pouted. "You misunderstand me."

  "I understand you very well, minx. I am not the slightest bit deceived by your airy act of innocence, so you need not waste your play-acting on me! Listen well. You endanger yourself and others and I will not stand for it, understand me?"

  Kit sighed like a spoiled schoolgirl.

  Infuriated, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Listen, damn you! Don't you know what will happen if you are caught, you little fool? Do you wish to be hanged by your pretty neck? What have you done with the stuff Give it to me—I'll make sure it is returned with no ques­tions."

  Kit's heart was pounding, but she managed to shrug coolly and say plaintively, "I still don't understand what you are talking about. What stuff?"

  He shook her again. "Oh! You are infuriating! What the devil do you think this will do to your aunt? Have you thought of that, miss, have you?''

  Kit felt a surge of guilty irritation. How dare he raise the question which had plagued and worried her most! Rose might not be a true relative, but Kit was coming to care for her as if she were. “My aunt is no business of yours, Mr Devenish. Now please let me go. You are making me very uncomfortable!"

  "You are lucky I do not strangle you!"

  "Let go of me this instant!"

  "I will, as soon as you admit to me what you have done!"

  "I admit nothing! What I do or don't do is no business of yours!"

  "It is my business!" He gave her a little shake and glared at her furiously. His long, strong fingers slipped from her shoulders and curled around her upper arms in an un­breakable grip. She could feel the heat of his angry flesh burning through the thin fabric of her sleeves. It felt like she would be forever branded with his mark.

  She started to panic a little, feeling out of her depth. She'd had people—men—try to hold her against her will before, and she'd always been able to escape. She had many tricks up her sleeve, some of which Mr Devenish had experienced before, but she was oddly unwilling to use them. She twisted angrily, trying to pull away. “Let go of me, I said! I will not—"

  "I'm not letting go of you until you tell me the truth!"

  "The truth! The truth is you have dragged me here and you are holding me against my will."

  " I will release you as soon as you admit what you have been doing." His voice deepened. "You can trust me, you know."

  Even as she scoffed, a part of her wanted to tell him. It was a sacred promise to her papa. If he knew the whole -tory he would realise she was morally justified in what she had done.

  But would he really understand?

  No, he was a staid Englishman. The English revered property. What was that expression they had? Possession is nine-tenths of the law.

  How would he understand? He would condemn her, as a criminal and a thief. He'd despise her. He'd look at her with contempt, as if she was as far beneath him as...as...

  Better to leave him suspicious and steeped in uncertainty, than to confirm she was everything any decent English gen­tleman would despise.

  Better his frustration and anger than his contempt any day.

  "Let me g—" She tried to knock his hands away from her, but he was too strong. She bucked and twisted, raising her fists to hit at him. He caught them, imprisoning them in one big powerful hand, while the other one prevented her escaping. The struggle moved them backwards until finally she felt the wall behind her. He wasn't hurting her; he just refused to let her go. She'd never been held like this, imprisoned by the weight of a man's body. It panicked her a little and in desperation, she lifted a knee in an ig­noble tactic.

  He avoided it with a curse, and flattened her body and her legs against the wall, holding her motionless with the weight and power of his body. "Little vixen! So—"

  He froze for a second and stared at her, shock suffusing his face and his body. They were so intimately pressed together, she could actually feel the shock pass through his body into hers.

  "My God! That's not the first time you've done that, is it? We've tussled like this before. It was you, wasn't it? In that skirmish in the back yard of your aunt's house! Good God! A woman!"

  She made a derisory noise, not terribly convinc
ingly.

  His eyes bored into her, stunned, outraged, incredulous.

  "Don't bother denying it. My body tells me the truth of it. You did those burglaries! The Chinese Burglar! It was you, all the time."

  She muttered something indignant and avoided his eyes. His breath was warm on her skin.

  She felt the knowledge pass through his body, felt the antagonism pass from him, and determination take its place. She was completely helpless, and oddly languid, now that he'd discovered the worst. It was not contempt she saw in his eyes. She was not quite sure what it was...

  "Why the devil would you do such a thing? What fright­ful necessity would drive you to take such insane risks?''

  She avoided his eyes, shrugging infinitesimally. She would admit nothing. He might "know", but he had no evidence; nothing that could hang her...yet.

  "Did you hear me, Kit? Why would you do such a mad thing?"

  It was not an accusation, but a question. His voice was low, intimate and the deep rumble of its timbre vibrated through her body. It almost sounded as if he cared. The faint caress in his tone almost undid her.

  She had the overwhelming urge to simply tell him ev­erything but if she did, she was sure she would end up bawling like a baby in his arms, and that would be such a feeble thing to do. She blinked the emotion determinedly away.

  "I do not believe you have my permission to call me by my given name." It was a ridiculously missish thing to say, with her wrists still imprisoned over her head and his body prressing heavily against hers from knee to breast, but it was all she could think of.

  "You haven't answered my question, Kit," he said softly again.

  She turned her face away, but it was impossible not to see him. He was so close his breath warmed her skin. "I

  have no intention of answering any of your ridiculous ques­tions. I have no need to explain myself to you." Out of the corner of her eye she could see his jaw tense.

  "There is every need, dammit! And I will have answers, none the less."

  He must have shaved before he came to the opera. The clean tang of masculine cologne teased at her senses. "You are wasting time," she responded. "What I may do or not do is no concern of yours, Mr Devenish!"

  "Curse it, girl, it is very much my concern!" She felt the anger rise in him again.

  ''Nonsense! There is no reason in the world why I should explain myself to you!" Again, she tried to pull her hands free. Again, her effort was in vain.

  "There is every reason! And you will explain!"

  "Why should I? I am not accountable to you! You are no relative of mine!" She bucked against him angrily but his body blocked hers.

  "No, and I'm extremely glad of it!"

  "Glad, is-it? Hah! Not as glad as—"

  He was already standing as close as a man could to a woman, body to body, chest to breast, skin touching, scents intermingling. He simply lowered his head and planted his mouth on hers, with firm, possessive deliberation.

  It stopped her words, her breath, her heart.

  His heart pounded against hers. Or was it her own heart? She couldn't tell.

  He moved back.

  She moved forward, staying with him.

  He released her hands. Of their own accord, they twined around his neck and pulled him closer.

  He fastened his arm around her waist and lifted her slightly, fitting her against him. They were like the twin Chinese symbols of yin and yang; her curves fitted into his. Her body flamed everywhere they touched.

  Fire.

  His lips urged hers to part. He tasted of passion and anger and need. The taste was addictive.

  She had never been kissed like this in her life. It was as if a part of her that she never knew existed had suddenly leapt to life.

  Abruptly he broke his hold on her and they parted, pant­ing.

  There was a long silence, broken only by the distant sound of the opera. And the sound of two people breathing raggedly, as if having run a mile.

  "That is what makes it my business."

  He looked furious, apologetic and triumphant at the same time.

  Kit blinked dazedly at him, her senses still spinning, the imprint of his lips still on hers, the taste of him in her mouth, the scent of him clouding her mind. It took a mo­ment for the sense of his words to penetrate her scrambled brain.

  "Whatever you do is my business."

  Wordlessly she shook her head. No.

  His eyes blazed with intensity. "Oh, for the love of—! You must put a stop to this mad business. If it is the money, you need not worry about it. I have plenty of money."

  She swallowed at the ragged huskiness of his voice and shook her head again.

  He cupped her face. His hands were shaking. ' T know I am not much of a catch, but I am very wealthy. It is an honourable offer I make you," he said with rough tender-ness. "Marry me."

  Tears swam in her eyes and she pulled herself away from his gentle hold. Blinking the tears away, she shook her head for the third time.

  "I am sorry. I cannot."

  "But surely—! You will hang, if they catch you!" He

  broke off, his face working. "If it is security you crave—"

  Oh, yes, she craved security all right—how could she not?—she who'd never known a moment's security in her whole life.

  But she craved love much more.

  He'd offered her money and security. It wasn't love, but it was still a magnificent offer, more than she had a right to expect. What could she offer him?

  An unknown name. A criminal past. A tarnished future.

  Kit turned away from him, shaking. She fished blindly for a handkerchief. He handed her a folded square of fine white linen. "Here," he said gruffly.

  Fighting for the light-hearted composure which had never deserted her before, Kit scrubbed the tears away and forced back the sobs which crowded her chest so painfully. She blew her nose, squared her shoulders in a determined fashion and turned back to face him.

  "Thank you for your very kind offer, Mr Devenish," she said in a quavering voice which mocked her pathetic attempt at formality. "I cannot accept."

  She walked to the door of the small room and turned the handle of the door. She hesitated, then turned back, smiling tremulously and biting her lip. "Indeed, I do thank you, but it cannot be. I am not for the likes of you. Please, in future, stay away."

  Hugo Devenish watched the door close behind her.

  I am not for the likes of you.

  He ran his fingers through his neat hair, tousling it roughly with an unthinking hand and swore.

  He had thought she belonged to him.

  No one had ever belonged to him before. Not anyone. Not his mother. Not his father. Certainly never his half-brother. For a while, as a child, he'd thought his small baby nephew might belong to him. He'd had planned to teach

  Thomas cricket and show him where to look for birds' nests, but that possibility had long disappeared.

  But when Kit was in his arms she'd felt as if she be­longed to him. It was—she was so right, so perfect...

  He'd taken several women as lovers in his life but there had never been this sense of... completion. As if he'd come home. As if he had only just come alive now, in her com­pany. It wasn't even lust, though he certainly had the most powerful case of lust he'd ever experienced before. It was more than lust... It was...

  It was a dream.

  He'd spent his life amassing wealth, and many fine things belonged to him. He had fine carriages, fine horses, a fleet of fine ships, a beautiful home and any amount of lovely things.

  But he had nobody.

  He had loyal employees, and a few friends, but that had all happened since he'd made his fortune, and he didn't trust that. Captain Patchett was his only reliable friend.

  But this, this was different, this small girl with her laugh­ing eyes and her mischievous tongue. Who dared to tease him and provoke him. Nobody ever teased him. He was too powerful these days for anyone to risk it. Even his own family mis
trusted him, not to mention a good proportion of the rest of the world.

  She was what he had missed, had craved unknowingly all these years. Not simply a woman, but this woman. This sweet, particular, bright, laughing sprite, with her mischie­vous lisp and her nonsense, her cool head and her mad, dangerous quest.

  She belonged in his arms, in his life. He'd felt the truth of it in her kiss. His heart told him so. His body throbbed with the knowledge. As her body had throbbed in his arms.

  But she'd refused him. Denied him again and again.

  How could she, when her body had clung to his with

  such sweet passion? Her arms had wound around his neck with such loving fervour. Her mouth had met his like two halves of a magnificent whole, corning together for the first time. No uncertainty. No—

  Yes, he thought tenderly. There had been uncertainty on her part, at first. He recalled her initial shock as he'd cov­ered her mouth with his. She'd hesitated, as if trying to decide what she thought of his masculine invasion and how she would deal with it.

  Of course there had been uncertainty. How could he have forgotten? He'd been so agonisingly aware of her response; part of him exulting in the delight of holding her, another part panicking lest she repudiated him.

  He recalled the flame of elation when he felt her first tentative return of his embrace. And then suddenly, she was kissing him back with a clumsy enthusiasm and a whole­hearted joy which had quite unravelled the last chains with which he'd protected his heart all these years.

  But she'd said she didn't want him. I am not for the likes of you.

  A girl dancing on a precipice, repudiating him.

  Feeling as defeated as if he'd gone a dozen rounds with Mendoza, Hugo quietly left the opera house. It was a damp, miserable night, but the weather suited his mood and he decided to walk back to his house.

  His footsteps echoed on the cold empty streets. He passed a dark alleyway and heard a faint, furtive shuffle. He would almost welcome footpads, he decided. A reai fight was what he needed.

  Dammit, why had she rejected him?

  It was not as if she would receive any other offers. There was no diamond mine; if he was sure of anything, he was sure of that.

  And he hadn't asked that she love him. Only that she marry him.