Barnaby had been thinking much the same; the sheer fear that had spiked through him in the instant before he’d realized Gannon was no threat—that instant when Penelope had been between him and the man—was something he never wanted to experience again. However…“Just answer her questions, and we—and the police—will leave you alone. Do you know, or have you heard, anything at all about a lad like she described?”
Eager to cooperate with the voice of reason, Gannon frowned and gave the matter due thought, but eventually he shook his head. “Ain’t seen any tyke like that about ’ere. And I ain’t ’eard nothing, either—not about ’im, or any other.” A certain craftiness lit his eyes. “If you and the lady are after a lad that’s been snitched, and yer imagining I might be using his services as a burglar’s boy, I’ll ’ave you know I ’aven’t been on that gamble fer over two years now, not since my last stretch in the nick.”
Truth rang in his voice. Barnaby glanced at Penelope, and saw she’d heard it, too. She nodded, and the stiffness of battle went out of her slight frame. “Very well,” she said to Gannon, and there was still a latent warning in her tone. “I believe you. Take care you stay on the right side of the law from now on.”
With that, she swung around. Coming face-to-face with Barnaby’s chest. He stepped aside and let her through.
She marched off, back up the alley.
He glanced at Gannon; the man’s expression stated very clearly he’d be happy never to meet such a disconcerting and disturbing female again.
With a last warning look, Barnaby swung around. In a few paces he was at Penelope’s heels. A tension unlike any he’d previously experienced was riding him; bending his head so he could speak in her ear, he quietly stated, “Don’t ever race into an alley ahead of me again.”
His tone was flat, his diction precise.
She glanced up and back at him, puzzled. “It was empty. I wasn’t in any danger.” She faced forward. “And at least we now know we can cross Gannon off our list.”
Emerging from the alley, she paused on the pavement. Taking note of the gathering dusk, she sighed. “I suppose we’ll have to leave the other five names until tomorrow.”
Seeing Stokes and Griselda on the opposite side of the street, Barnaby set his jaw, grasped her arm, and steered her in their direction, surprised to discover that, contrary to his expectations, he had something quite definite in common with Joe Gannon.
They found a hackney and piled in for the journey back to Griselda’s shop. Unfortunately the hackney was one of the smaller affairs, ensuring that Barnaby had to endure Penelope’s too-close proximity for the entire time.
Griselda and Stokes, seated opposite, spent the journey discussing how to tackle the five names remaining on Stokes’s list. The East End was large, and as yet they had no clue as to which area each man might be operating in. In the end it was decided that Griselda would visit her father again, to see if he’d gleaned any further details. Meanwhile Stokes would inquire more closely of his colleagues at the East End watch houses. They would gather again in two days’ time to assess what they’d learned, and make plans.
Penelope clearly chafed at the delay, but had little option but to acquiesce.
Eventually they reached St. John’s Wood High Street. Gaining the pavement, Barnaby left Stokes to hand the ladies down and went to deal with the driver.
When the carriage rattled off, he turned, and discovered Stokes taking his leave, first of Penelope, then of Griselda. Watching Stokes half bow over Griselda’s hand, watching her expression as she smiled into his eyes and bade him farewell, noting how Stokes held on to her fingers for rather longer than necessary…for the first time Barnaby thought to ask himself whether Stokes might have had an ulterior motive in fixing on Griselda Martin as his guide into the East End.
Well, well.
Rejoining the group, he nodded a farewell to Stokes. “I’ll call by tomorrow.”
Stokes nodded in reply. “I’ll ask around at headquarters, too, in case anyone has any idea where these five might be lurking.” With a last salute to the group, he turned and walked away.
For a moment, Griselda watched him go, then she recalled herself, threw a quick smile at Penelope and Barnaby, and led the way into her shop.
Her apprentices were ready to leave.
“Go on upstairs,” Griselda urged Penelope. “I’ll close up, then join you.”
With a nod, Penelope headed up the stairs. Barnaby would have preferred to wait by the door until she’d changed into her own clothes and joined him—but he felt stifled by the weight of frills and bows. And he was clearly distracting Griselda’s apprentices.
“I’ll wait in the parlor.” Girding his loins, he climbed the stairs.
Reaching the upper room, he found that Penelope had already retreated behind the bedroom door. Slouching over to the bow window, he stood, hands sunk in his pockets, looking out.
He felt…not at all like himself. No, not true. He felt entirely like himself, but with his patina of sophisticated control abraded to a thin—too thin—veneer. He had no idea why Penelope Ashford so easily and consistently got within his shields, but there was no denying that she did—that he reacted to her, that she made him react, as no other female ever had.
It was disconcerting, disturbing, and beyond distracting.
She was driving him quietly insane.
The door to the bedroom opened. He glanced around to see her emerge, once again in her own clothes, restored to her customary severely stylish state.
She’d washed her face, removing the powder Griselda had applied to dim the glow of her porcelain skin. In the light of the fading day, it shone like the costliest pearl.
Eyeing him, clearly sensing his tension yet, he was perfectly aware, unconscious of its cause, she tilted her head. “I take it Griselda is still downstairs. Shall we go?”
Turning, he waved her to the stairs. She preceded him down them; as he followed he sensed—how he didn’t know, but he knew—that she had determined not to comment on what she regarded as his continuing churlish behavior.
Stepping off the last stair, she swept forward, head high, to where Griselda was checking through her cashbox.
“Thank you so much for all your help today.” Warmth filled Penelope’s face and colored her words. “We would never have got as far as we did without you.” She held out her hands.
Griselda’s answering smile as she placed her hands in Penelope’s was equally warm. She assured Penelope she was pleased to have been asked.
Penelope squeezed her hands, then stretched up and touched her cheek to Griselda’s. It was a common form of affection between tonnish ladies; from the surprise Barnaby glimpsed in Griselda’s eyes, she recognized the gesture—and was utterly stunned that Penelope would bestow it on her.
If Penelope realized what she’d done, she gave no sign; still smiling warmly, she stepped back, drawing her hands from Griselda’s and turning to the door. “We’ll leave you then. Doubtless we’ll meet again once Stokes or you have more news.”
Griselda followed Penelope to the door. She opened it; with a last smile, Penelope went through. Barnaby summoned a smile for Griselda and saluted her as he stepped past. “Until next we meet.”
She smiled. “Indeed. Good night.”
Following Penelope down the steps, Barnaby halted beside her. As she had already done, he looked up and down the street. There was no hackney in sight.
He glanced around the roofline, getting his bearings. “We should be able to find a hackney on the next corner past the church.”
She nodded and fell into step beside him.
Whether it was the habit of the day, or more likely ingrained gallantry surfacing instinctively, he put his palm to the small of her back as they angled across the street.
She sucked in a breath and almost jumped away from him. “Oh, do stop that. The day is over. I’m not in disguise any longer.”
Caught entirely off guard, he frowned at her. “What the devil
’s your disguise got to do with it?”
“My disguise.” With a dismissive flick of her hand, she started marching for the corner. “Your reason for behaving as you have been all day—all those little touches expressly designed to overset me.”
He blinked. Lengthening his stride, he quickly overhauled her. “My reason for deliberately oversetting you.” His temper started to slip its leash. “If I might ask, just how did you deduce that?”
They’d reached the church on the corner. She halted and swung to face him, the high stone wall at her back. Eyes narrowed, lit by sparks, she glared at him. “Don’t think to play the innocent with me. Pretending to be my disgruntled lover. Holding my hand—and me—as if you owned me. Pretending to kiss me in that doorway! As I told you at the time, I was perfectly aware you were only doing such things because you didn’t approve of me being there!”
She’d been serious? He could only stare blankly in the face of her tirade, shocked, not by her anger, but by the response she sparked in him.
She continued, ire unabated, “No doubt you imagine such behavior will put me off going out in disguise again. Permit me to inform you that you’re sadly mistaken.”
“That wasn’t my intention at all.” Anyone who knew him would have taken warning from his far too even, impossibly mild tone.
Penelope didn’t know him that well. Eyes alight, locked on his, she drew in a huge breath. “Well, what was your intention then? What possessed you to behave as you have been all the damned day?”
For one tense moment, he held her gaze, then he raised his hands, captured her face, stepped close as he tipped it up and brought his lips down on hers.
And gave her her answer.
It wasn’t a gentle kiss.
He was furious that she would imagine him the sort of man who would play on her senses to punish her.
When in reality he’d spent the entire day fighting the urge to ravish her.
That she’d so misjudged his motives seemed utterly incomprehensible.
And equally unforgivable.
So he took her lips, then her mouth, then he stole her breath.
Then gave the same back to her, along with the raging need he’d kept pent up all the long day.
That and only that was what had possessed him, what had driven him in a way he’d never before been.
That ragged, desperate, hungry need welled and poured through him, and into the kiss. As kisses went, this one was…ungovernable. One step beyond control, edged with a wildness he’d never before felt. Her lips were as ripe and luscious as he’d imagined, the soft cavern of her yielded mouth a delectable delight.
One he plundered.
Without restraint.
And she let him.
Penelope’s wits weren’t reeling—they’d flown. Entirely. For the first time in her life she discovered herself hostage to her senses, wholly at their mercy. And they were merciless.
Or rather the effect he had on them was ruthless, relentless, and utterly consuming.
His lips moved on hers, steely and firm, masterfully commanding, demanding in a way that sent hot thrills down her spine. His arm had locked around her, holding her trapped; his hand anchored her head so she was his to devour.
And she didn’t care. All she cared about was experiencing more, tasting more, feeling more.
Her lips had somehow parted, letting him fill her mouth, letting his tongue lay claim in a manner she found exciting, thrilling, a dark, hot promise of pleasure.
The physical sensations wreathed her mind, fogged it, hazed her wits. The sensual temptation tugged in a way she couldn’t explain.
She wanted. For the first time in her life she felt desire stirring—something more powerful than simple will. Something addictive, that seethed with a demand she felt compelled to sate.
She wanted…to kiss him back, to respond in whatever way he wanted, in whatever way would appease and satisfy. Not just him, but her, too. The concept of giving in order to take bloomed in her mind, along with a growing certainty that in this arena, that was how exchanges worked.
Her hands had come to rest against his chest; easing their compulsive grip, she sent them sliding upward, to his shoulders, broad and hard, then farther to his nape, and the silky curls that feathered over her fingers.
She played.
Her touch affected him; he slanted his head and deepened the kiss, his tongue stroking hers in heated persuasion.
A thrill shot through her. Emboldened, she hesitantly kissed him back—tentative, unsure.
His response was a revelation—a wave of passionate desire that seemed to come from his soul, that poured through him and infused the kiss, and rocked her to her toes.
The power, the hunger—the raw need she sensed behind it—should have shocked her to her senses, back into the grip of self-preservatory reason.
Instead, it lured her in.
On. Tempted her into kissing him back more definitely, into letting her tongue tangle with his, into sinking against him.
Into wanting to learn even more.
Through the kiss, through the hard lips pressed to hers, through the hard hands that held her tight against his unyielding body, she sensed a primitive male satisfaction—that she’d permitted, that she’d responded, that she’d invited.
The latter was unwise; even with her wits disengaged, she knew it well enough. Yet the moment, the here and now, held no threat.
No matter how her senses stretched, all she detected was heat and welling pleasure, and, elusively laced through all, underneath and between, a power that was addictive. That called to her at some feminine level she’d never before broached. Never before known was open to her.
Her response to that shocked her—opened her eyes to the woman within. And her yearnings.
She drew back, broke the kiss on a soft gasp. Stared, stunned, into his eyes.
Burning blue, lit by what she now understood was desire, he stared back.
The expression in his eyes, the way his jaw slowly firmed, told her he’d seen, and understood…too much.
With a spurt of fear-induced strength, she wrenched out of his arms and spun around to walk on. She was not going to—absolutely refused to—discuss or even refer to the kiss. Even allude to it.
Not when she felt so shaken. So unlike herself.
So exposed.
So vulnerable.
He didn’t say anything. In two strides he’d ranged alongside her, keeping pace easily.
She felt his gaze on her face, but kept her eyes fixed ahead. Head up, she marched on.
They rounded the church and reached a more frequented thoroughfare. Barnaby hailed a hackney. He opened the door and she climbed in without taking his hand.
He followed her inside and shut the door.
Somewhat to her surprise, to her increasing consternation, he slumped on the seat beside her, with enough space between them that she didn’t feel crowded. Propping an elbow on the carriage windowsill, he stared out at the passing houses, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Leaving her to hers.
9
He’d parted from her on the steps in Mount Street with what Penelope had interpreted—correctly she was sure—as a warning, in the guise of a promise to meet with her that evening.
Throughout the journey from St. John’s Wood, they’d exchanged not a word—not a single observation on that kiss, let alone on what it had revealed.
But they’d thought of it.
In her case, she’d thought of nothing else.
Consequently, here she was, skirting Lady Carlyle’s drawing room, loins girded, determination whipped high and bolstered, waiting for him to appear so she could inform him just where she stood on the matter, and how they were going to proceed henceforth.
She wasn’t, definitely wasn’t, going to indulge in another such kiss.
Regardless of any arguments to the contrary—from either him or her own wretched curiosity—she was adamant, resolved beyond shifting, that she
was not going to risk any closer acquaintance with that inner self the kiss had revealed.
While the engagement had demonstrated his interest—his intent—the reality of his motive that she’d transparently severely misjudged more than adequately for her to accept it as real, the aspect of herself that the kiss had exposed was far more disturbing.
Far more alarming.
She’d never known, had never guessed, that beneath her practical and prosaic exterior she harbored a panoply of feminine needs that had, it appeared, lain dormant—until he’d kissed her. Until he’d hauled her into his arms and shown her senses what might be—and simultaneously awoken those latent needs.
They’d risen in response to him, stretched and unfurled, fed on the sensations he’d evoked. He and only him. No other man had affected her in the slightest, yet with Adair she’d sensed the connection from the first—from the instant she’d walked into the lion’s den and asked for his help.
If she indulged any further with Barnaby Adair she was perfectly sure those newly awakened needs would become a permanent and potent reality; she knew herself well enough to acknowledge that she never did anything by halves. Those needs would grow and gain a hold on her, one she would have to face and deal with.
And that was a path she wasn’t prepared to tread.
Although her habitual drive to know, to learn and understand, remained strong, propelling her forward, in this case it was countered by a consideration powerful enough, disconcerting enough, to make her step back.
To make her accept that there were some things she didn’t need to know, where the potential gain wasn’t worth the likely price.
She could only explore that inner self and her needs with Barnaby Adair, and she knew what sort of man he was. If she attempted to learn more with him, she might well have to sacrifice something she never could. Her independence. Her free will. The freedom to run her own life.
Where the Heart Leads Page 15