A Dangerous Passion (Bow Street Brides Book 4)

by Jillian Eaton

  “You don’t even know where I’m going.”

  Her laugh was as bleak as their surroundings as she gestured around the room with a sweep of her hand. “Anywhere is better than here.” She waited for the woman to tell her to sod off. But to her surprise, she nodded. It was a reluctant sort of nod, but a nod nevertheless.

  “Find somewhere to hide tonight and go to Ginny’s Antiquities on Fleet and West Broad first thing tomorrow morning,” she instructed. “Ask for Yeti, and tell him Juliet sent you. He’ll see that you are taken care of.”

  For all Lilly knew she could have been walking into a brothel, but she was willing to take her chances. She wasn’t safe at the Mermaid anymore. If she’d ever been safe to begin with. Red did his best, but as tonight had shown he couldn’t always be there to protect her. She should count her lucky stars she’d managed to work this long without being raped, beaten, or killed.

  “Thank you.” Grateful tears flooded her eyes as she clasped her hands together beneath her chin. “Thank you so much.”

  “What’ your name?” asked the woman.

  “Lilly.” She dashed at her wet cheeks. “My name is Lilly.”

  “And mine is Juliet. I’ll see you again soon, Lilly.” Then she was gone, leaving as silently as she’d appeared.

  And Lilly was alone.

  Chapter Two

  If Juliet didn’t die, he was going to kill her.

  Silently fuming at his sister’s stupidity for getting herself tangled up with a Runner – and not just any Runner, but the bloody Wolf himself – Bran took the stairs two at a time. Below him the brawling ruckus had subsided to dull roar as the sailors began to run out of steam. Drawing his pistol, he threw his shoulder into the first door he came to…and ran straight into an angel.

  No, not an angel, he realized when he reached out to steady the ethereal creature and his hands closed around a real flesh and blood woman. Angels weren’t real, and even if they were they sure as hell wouldn’t be in a place like this. But damned if she didn’t look just like one with her tangled mane of silver blonde hair and luminous violet eyes that were looking up at him with fear and mistrust.

  Bran couldn’t blame her for not trusting him. At just over six feet in height, he had the long, lithe build of a wolf and the sharp, aristocratic features of a nobleman. The son of an earl’s daughter and an Irish blacksmith, he’d been born and raised in his father’s homeland until the age of seven when his grandfather had tracked them down and forced his mother to return to England. A sweet, albeit fickle woman who desperately missed the life her poor husband could not give her on his pittance of a salary, she’d agreed to return home so long as Bran could come as well.

  For two blissful years Bran had the entire world at his fingertips…until his mother died of consumption and the earl, loving grandfather that he was, turned his grandson out on the streets with no more than a sack of bread and the clothes on his back.

  ‘No filthy Irish half-breed shall ever inherit the Glenberry title’, he had blustered as he’d sent Bran away, his face flushed with self-righteous anger and his piercing blue eyes filled with malice.

  It struck Bran as wickedly ironic that he’d grown up to look just like the bastard. They shared the same piercing blue eyes, strong chin, and tousled mane of dirty blond hair – although the earl had fastidiously kept his covered beneath a white wig. Occasionally he wondered if the old man was still alive, but it was never more than a passing thought, there and gone again before he had time to dwell on it.

  He supposed most men would have spent the rest of their lives trying to figure out a way back into the earl’s good graces, or at the very least grow bitter with resentment. Not Bran. He may have been a filthy Irish half-breed, but he wasn’t without his pride and he’d be damned to hell and back before he ever asked for so much as a single piece of copper from the man who had cast him out as if he were a mongrel dog.

  “Easy love,” he said soothingly, trying to ease some of the fear in the blonde angel’s gaze. “I'm not going to hurt ye. I was just seeing if ye were all right. That was a hard tumble ye took.” His deep, husky voice revealed a hint of the Irish he could add in or take out at will. At a young age he’d learned women’s knees went all wobbly for a bit of brogue and he wasn’t above using it to get what he wanted. Which in this case was for the barmaid to stop looking at him as if he was going to snap her up in two tasty bites.

  If she didn’t look so bloody terrified he might have been tempted to do just that…if only to see if she tasted as delicious as she looked. But given that she appeared perilously close to fainting, he thought it best to keep his hands (and mouth) to himself.

  At least for now, he thought silently, a roguish grin flitting across his countenance. It slowly faded into a concerned frown when he noted her pale cheeks and unblinking stare. Had she struck her head when they’d collided?

  “I say, ye are lookin' a touch out of it.” He lifted his hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  She blinked, and those brilliant violet eyes – the same exact color as an amethyst necklace he’d pinched two weeks ago from a townhouse in Grosvenor Square – refocused on his face. “Three,” she said, winged brows gathering over the bridge of her nose. “I’m not blind.”

  “I never said ye were.” He gave an easy shrug. “What’s a lovely lass like ye doing in a place like this?”

  “It’s – it’s a long story,” she murmured, her chin tilting down as her cheeks turned a pretty pink that made him think of the cherry blossoms that filled Hyde Park every spring.

  Everything about her was delicate and soft and dainty, from her willowy figure to her trembling bottom lip. There was an etherealness to her beauty he’d never seen before, at least not in the East End. She should have been in a fancy drawing room sipping tea instead of cowering in one of the filthiest taverns in all of London.

  “And a hard one, I’d imagine.” Filled with the sudden urge to take her out of this wicked place, he held out his hand. “Come on love,” he coaxed with a smile. “Let’s get ye somewhere safe.”

  Bran was no one’s knight in shining armor. He didn’t slay dragons. He stole the gold the dragons were protecting. But damned if he didn’t want to slay whatever demons were haunting the tiny barmaid with the sad violet eyes.

  She studied his hand, her gaze traveling across his calloused palm before she bit her lip and peered up at him beneath a sweep of pale lashes. “Are you going to rape me?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “Am I - no. No.” Shaken all the way down to his core, his jaw clenched and his eyes flashed a dangerous, icy blue as he thought of what must have happened – or almost happened – to provoke such a question. “I'm not in the habit of takin' women against their will. Nor do I keep company with any men who do.” His gaze softened. “Ye don't have to come with me if ye don't want to. But I think ye would be a great deal better off if ye did.”

  Bran did not consider himself an exorbitantly wealthy man, but he’d done well enough for himself over the years. While the townhouse he shared with Juliet was in the middle of St. Giles instead of a posh street bordering one of the parks, it had been completely renovated from top to bottom and there was no home finer in all the East End. If the barmaid went with him she would want for nothing. More importantly, she would never need fear for her safety again.

  Bran may not have been a violent man by nature, but his reputation for protecting himself and his was well deserved. No one who wished to see their next sunrise would ever dare touch what he kept under his roof, whether it be a priceless emerald brooch…or a beautiful blonde-haired angel.

  He couldn’t say his actions were completely selfless. He desired the lass, and if they became lovers, well, then so be it. But he’d been true to his word. He wouldn’t force her. Women were never forced into his bed. They went there willingly. Sometimes more than one at a time. And while they never stayed for very long, they always had a damned good time. He made sure of it.

  “All
right,” she said quietly as she lowered her hand on top of his. “I’ll go with you.”

  The spark of heat that flashed between them when they touched went straight to Bran’s loins. Having never experienced anything like it before he stared down at their joined fingers in wonder before reflexively tightening his grip.

  Mine. The single thought, as foreign to him as the brilliant flare of electricity had been, consumed his entire mind as he met her unblinking gaze. Her expression was composed, but he could feel the rapid beat of her pulse against the base of his wrist. Quick and slight as the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings, it sped up when he raised her hand and grazed the back of it with his mouth. Her skin was silky soft and tasted like apricots that had been left out to ripen in the sun. He was tempted to nibble his way up her arm, but at her startled exhalation of breath he reluctantly lifted his head and gifted her with a roguish grin.

  “Apologies, love. You’re too beautiful tae resist.”

  A tiny line of distress appeared in the middle of her forehead. “If ye expect me to sleep with ye for protection–”

  “No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “There are no expectations. Not to say I wouldn’t refuse ye if ye were so inclined to offer…” His voice trailed away as his grin deepened. Blushing, the barmaid looked past him at the wall.

  “If we’re going to leave we – we should probably go now,” she murmured.

  “Yer right.” Jules would just have to take care of herself. If she wound up in Newgate, well, it would be no less than she deserved for getting wrapped up with the likes of Grant Hargrave. He’d told her to leave the Runner alone, hadn’t he? Go to ground for a while, he’d said. Let things smooth over, he’d said. But of course she hadn’t listened. She never listened. Headstrong as a donkey, that one. Although in this case he preferred the term ass.

  “Is there anything ye want to bring with ye?” he asked, looking around the tiny room.

  “No,” the barmaid said softly.

  “Are ye sure? It won’t be any trouble to grab it. Jest tell me where–”

  “There’s nothing,” she interrupted, and for the first time he saw a flash of ire in the depths of her amethyst gaze. The small display of temper suited her far better than sadness, and revealed there was more to the little maid than met the eye. For all that she looked like a stiff breeze would blow her sideways, he sensed strength and resilience beneath the fear.

  “I have nothing,” she continued, and the weary bitterness in her voice squeezed at his heart.

  “Well that’s not true, is it love?” Curving his arm around her tiny waist, he tucked her protectively against his side as they headed for the door. “Ye have me.”

  Chapter Three

  Having learned the hard way just how deceptive a charming grin could be, Lilly knew better than to trust a scoundrel. Rakes and rogues, the lot of them. She’d never met a single one who wouldn’t gleefully sell the dress off his mother’s back if given half the chance, and yet…and yet there was something about this scoundrel in particular that made him different from the rest. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

  Maybe it was the fact that he could have easily taken advantage of her, but he hadn’t. Or maybe it was the shocking jolt of sensation that had lit her entire body on fire when their hands touched. Or maybe she was just a desperate barmaid out of options. Whatever the reason, she found herself instinctively leaning closer to him as he quickly ushered her out of the Mermaid and down a narrow alley that stank of rotten food and piss.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, shivering slightly when a cool breeze blew in off the Thames. This section of the East End ran parallel to the massive river, which was why it was littered with so many sailors. The large merchant ships that came into port were mostly carrying cotton and spices – the ones ferrying passengers across the pond deployed much further upriver – and it took a few days to unload everything, during which time the sailors (having often been at sea for weeks if not months) took full advantage of having their feet back on dry land.

  This time Lilly’s shiver had nothing to do with the chill in the air and everything to do with the gleam in Jack’s eyes when he’d dragged her up the stairs. Why did men have to be so cruel? With the exception of her father and Red, not a single one had ever treated her with genuine compassion. Instead they all saw her as something they could take. Something they could use and discard at their will, no matter that she clearly wasn’t willing.

  Even though it was foolish, sometimes she looked at her face in the mirror and wished she had been born with a bulbous nose and eyes that were too close together and pockmarked skin. Maybe then she wouldn’t have caught the wandering eye of Doyle Pearson and she’d still be in Blooming Glen, snug in her bed instead of traipsing about a damp alley that smelled of human excrement while the sound of gunshots echoed in the air.

  “Are ye cold?” Blue eyes flickering with concern, her scoundrel – for that was already how she’d come to think of him, having yet to learn his name – whisked off his greatcoat and draped it around her shoulders. The coat dwarfed her small frame and was so heavy she nearly sagged beneath its weight, but it was warm and smelled like him.

  Cinnamon and cigars, she thought silently, her nose twitching as she inhaled his scent. An unusual combination, but one that was far better than the stench of sweat and gin she’d grown accustomed to.

  “Thank you.” She dared a quick glance up at his countenance and then looked quickly away, as if he were an apparition that might vanish in a puff of smoke if she gazed at him for too long. Given how he’d treated her thus far, he might as well have been a ghost. Men were not kind here. They had no need to be. And yet this one, for reasons she could not possibly fathom, had shown her only kindness.

  “We’re going to my townhouse. It isn’t far.” Gently grasping her elbow, he steered her to the left when the alley split into two. The further they walked from the Mermaid the quieter it became, until the only sounds were the slap of their shoes on the muddy cobblestones and the occasional pitter-patter of tiny rat paws as the fearless vermin scurried from one pile of trash to another.

  “You live in St Giles, then.” Lilly’s heart sank. She’d hoped to escape the rookery once and for all, but she should have known better. It was a rare person who managed to get out of the squalor and the stink. Like quicksand, the harder you fought the deeper you sank.

  “Aye.” Her scoundrel chuckled at her bleak expression. “But it’s a far better area than this. Ye aren’t fighting off rats, for one thing.” With startling swiftness he struck out with his right foot and a large black rat, easily the size of a cat, went sailing through the air with a furious hiss.

  Lilly shuddered. “I never knew they could grow so big until I came here.”

  “Why did ye come here love? Never mind,” he said, shaking his head before she could utter a word. “There’s time enough for that later. Let’s get ye some hot food and a soft bed. When yer feelin’ up to it ye can tell me all about how a pretty lass like ye came to live in a place like this. I’m sure it’s quite the story.”

  He had no idea.

  “Me name’s Bran, by the way. Bran Sullivan.” He slanted her a sideways glance, the hint of a grin lifting one side of his mouth. There was a perpetual gleam of mischief in his eyes, as if he was always contemplating something naughty, like a boy on the verge of pulling a girl’s pigtails. Lilly wouldn’t mind if he pulled her hair, and the wicked thought instantly made her blush.

  She wasn’t a virgin. Doyle had seen to that. She’d known it was a sin to be intimate with a man before marriage, but she had been young and naïve and so utterly, foolishly blinded by love that she’d never even considered refusing him.

  The first few times had been awkward and, if she were being honest, quite a bit painful. After that it had gotten better, but it was never something she looked forward to with much enthusiasm. Like folding the bed or sweeping the floor, lovemaking became a chore to be checked off an invis
ible list when Doyle came home from the gambling hells – staggered home, more like – and rolled on top of her.

  A few thrusts, some grunts, and the deed was done. According to Jenny, another serving wench at the Mermaid, she ought to have been grateful it only lasted for a few minutes. But all she ever felt was a vague sense of disappointment.

  Surely there had to be more to intimacy than what she’d experienced. And with Bran – the name, for all that it only had four letters, suited him perfectly – she had a niggling feeling there would be. Not that she planned on finding out firsthand.

  You’ve gone down that road before, she warned herself sternly. For all his kindness, don’t forget he’s still a rogue.

  She wouldn’t forget.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted.

  “My name is Lilly.” She snuck another shy peek at him from beneath her lashes. “Lilly James.”

  “Lilly. That’s lovely, lass.” The way he spoke her name – like a soft, velvet caress – sent a warm shiver rippling down her spine. Suddenly cognizant of just how near they were walking she shifted to the side, sliding free of his grasp as they rounded a corner and crossed an empty street.

  She’d never ventured this far away from the Mermaid before and she was surprised to discover that even though they were still in St Giles (or at least she assumed they were, having no choice but to take Bran at his word) they’d left the worst of the rot and the decay back at the docks. The buildings, most of them brick, were still too close together and more than a few broken windows had been crudely boarded up, but there were no piles of trash or skittering rats.

  When Bran led her past a wrought iron gate and up a series of stone steps to a narrow townhouse she stopped short, her eyes going wide. “This is where you live?”