by Wendy Vella
Obviously, he was wrong.
He came to a stop mere inches from her, hoping to discomfort her at least half as much as she had discomforted him since their first meeting.
She stared at him, her chin thrust out at a mutinous angle. Although she blinked a few times, she didn’t back away.
He frowned.
Her eyes blinked more rapidly.
So he did the only thing he could think of that would put the fear of God into her soul.
He leaned nearer and kissed her.
She gasped, her warm lips opening with surprise. When she started to pull away, he clasped her shoulders. Gently and slowly, he pulled her closer. Her frame felt unbearably fragile beneath his hands. Her heady scent and the taste of her mouth filled him.
But his deep awareness and growing need were not what he expected—or wanted. She was too feminine to the touch, too much a desirable woman.
Then she stomped on his toes.
“Ow!” He let her go. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? The question is what are you doing, you big lout! What do you mean by pawing me about?”
“Pawing you about?” He couldn’t recall any other female having had quite that same reaction to a kiss. He had never been quite that unskilled.
“Yes, pawing me.” Her flushed cheeks and bright eyes made him wonder if the warmth he’d felt was a reaction she wanted to deny, or the beginnings of a fever. Then a cunning look passed over her face. “You’ve not got a fancy for boys, have you?” She started stuffing her shirt into the waist of her trousers, glancing around for her smock. “Some sort of Molly—”
“You’re no boy,” William drawled although a flare of tension at the sight of her body moving beneath the thin shirt turned his voice to gravel. He swallowed. “And you’re not going anywhere. Even if I have to lock you in leg irons.”
She snorted. “Don’t be a horse’s ass.”
“Have you no finer feelings whatsoever?”
Her expression was so similar to the one he had seen on John Archer’s face once or twice. It made him even more sure that he had done the right thing in hiding her.
“Feelings? I haven’t got the time, or inclination, for feelings.” Her gaze searched the room. However, the rosiness of her cheeks and shaky voice indicated she was not as unaffected by him as she pretended.
She refused to meet his glance. And when she spied her heavy shoes on the floor near the wardrobe, she sprinted over and grabbed them. She held them up against her chest like a shield. Then a wave of dizziness must have hit her. She paled, closed her eyes, and pressed a hand against the wardrobe door to steady herself.
Before he could move, she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. With admirable self-control, she walked over and perched on the edge of the bed. She threw her shoes onto the floor.
As she thrust her feet into the shoes, she asked, “Have you gotten my box yet?”
“No.” William fixed a cold eye on her face. “I visited the current owner. He intends to open the box tomorrow. After that, he’s willing to discuss selling the contents.”
He leaned against the doorjamb and watched Sarah’s expressive face. He felt a twinge of guilt at the bruised circles around her eyes and her wan appearance. She looked ill-used and barely on the edge of consciousness.
What possessed me to kiss her?
She was undoubtedly correct. He was a horse’s ass to embrace her against her will. He’d never done it before and couldn’t imagine what had possessed him.
“Too bad. I was just beginning to think you were competent.” She shook her head and stood, wandering about the room, pulling open the wardrobe and drawers. “I’ve got to steal it, then. Tonight. I’d like my smock back, if you please.”
“Well, you can’t have it. I burned the damn thing.”
She gave him a long look, hands on her hips. “Liar.”
“It’s gone.”
“Then I’ll have to acquire a new one.”
“You don’t need it.”
“Of course I do. I can’t arrive at work tomorrow in nothing but a linen shirt, now can I?”
“Will you forget this bricklaying charade? You’re not going back to the Archer establishment, or any other work site in London. Not unless you’re suicidal.”
“I’m not suicidal,” she said, holding his gaze. “Just poor. Now get out of my way.”
“I will not. You’re not leaving this room.” He stared at her, getting angrier by the minute. “You hired me. Allow me to do my job, if you please!”
She actually laughed at him and shook her head. “Or what? Kiss me again? Ravish me senseless? Be reasonable and step aside.”
“I’m perfectly reasonable. In fact, I’m nothing if not the very essence of a reasonable man.”
Her gaze drifted from the top of his head to his feet. Then her eyes rose to linger pointedly on his elegant black-and-gold vest.
“This much is true—you’re a fine popinjay. And I’ve rarely seen a better pair of shoulders. I’m sure you have a multitude of woman daft over you. However, I’ve got an aching head and a box to acquire. So, forgive me my plain words and let me pass.”
“And you’ll have to forgive me if I lock you in for a few moments while I change my attire. I won’t be long.” William stepped outside before she could escape. The doorknob rattled in his hand, but he turned the key in the lock and dropped it into his pocket before striding to his bedroom. She pounded on the door and swore before lapsing into ominous silence.
Sarah was obviously going to be completely unreasonable, and he had the onerous duty of accompanying her in her lunacy.
Unfortunately, glancing in his armoire, he realized his wardrobe was equally unreasonable.
While he had always felt he had a very diverse and excellent choice of all the latest fashions, he now realized he suffered from a peculiar delusion about the diversity. All his jackets were of very fine quality wool, satin, or velvet, in shades ranging from deep blue to black. However, there was not a single garment loose enough, or shabby enough, for the night’s activities.
His waistcoats were similarly unacceptable. Now that he studied them more closely, every garment had gold or silver embroidery, or gleaming buttons, or some other fanciful decoration that made them entirely unsuitable. All his shirts were white.
“Haven’t we anything less…formal?” William asked his valet, throwing the plainest black waistcoat he owned onto the bed. Gold buttons winked at him in the candlelight.
Damn it. This was preposterous. He was a popinjay.
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Lindley replied, picking up the waistcoat and brushing it. “While your current attire is not formal—”
“Something without those infernal gold buttons!”
“You have a black waistcoat, sir, with silver—”
“Or silver buttons! Something subdued. Something you might wear to a duel, for example.”
Lindley eyed him. Disapproval pinched his thin mouth even tighter. “You are not intending to indulge in a peccadillo of that sort, are you, sir?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I simply need to—well, I need something that won’t catch the light for a certain undertaking this evening.”
“I see. Something involving a female, I suppose. With a husband.”
“I—” William caught his valet’s eye. “What business is it of yours?”
“I was merely trying to ascertain your purpose. So I might suggest suitable—”
“I’ll tell you what is suitable and what is not. Now just find something unadorned by all this ridiculous embroidery or flashy buttons.”
“Very good, sir.” Lindley left while William pulled garments out of his wardrobe and dropped them into a pile on the floor.
He had managed to throw his entire wardrobe over his bed and most of the floor before Lindley returned with some coarse woolen garments hanging over one arm.
“Will these do, sir?” he asked, holding them up.
“Good God! You can’t expect me to wear those.” William picked up the ratty jacket. There were several moth holes visible in the back and front, despite the redolent odor of cedar. And while the shirt might once have been plain off-white linen, it had mysteriously become dyed in odd patches ranging from dark to light blue. However, the area around the frayed neck was mostly dark blue, which suited William’s purpose, although not his taste.
“You did say unadorned, did you not?” Lindley asked.
The buttons were simple horn rings covered by black thread. William held them up again before he sighed and nodded. Lindley helped him out of his well-fitting jacket and waistcoat before slipping the coarse, mottled shirt over his head.
“Where did you get these?” William’s voice was muffled as he struggled to force his hands through the sleeves and get the garment over his head. The smell of cedar nearly choked him. The moths must have been seriously determined to have managed to chew through the fabric without suffocating.
“Mr. Gaunt has occasionally had need for…plain clothing.” Lindley sneezed. His pink nose quivered like a sensitive mole’s as he held up the jacket for William.
The jacket was tight across the shoulders. When he shrugged, he felt the left armhole give slightly. At least the torn seam made it more comfortable. The trousers were also coarse wool, but there were no moth holes, at least none visible. The thighs were slightly tight, but it couldn’t be helped.
Lindley sighed as he brushed William’s shoulders. William glanced in the mirror and felt like sighing, himself.
“Do you have an old cloak?” His hair would catch the light. And he’d have to rub soot on his face, as well.
The last garment Lindley brought proved to be a stout cloak with a deep hood. It would look ridiculous, especially on a warm April night. It would have been absolutely perfect for Sarah, he thought savagely.
Ready at last, he counted from one to a hundred in an effort to control his aggravation. Then he strode down to Sarah’s door. When he unlocked and opened it, he nearly knocked her over. She had a letter opener in her hand and was crouching in front of the door.
“I thought you weren’t coming back.” She stood and brushed off her knees. When he reached for the knife, she flung the slender blade onto the small writing desk in the corner by the door. She eyed him with disdain.
“So you were going to pick the lock?”
She shrugged, entirely too composed. “I can’t stay here all night.” She studied his clothing before she gave him a cocky grin that made him long to pop her in the mouth. Or kiss her. “Lovely togs, Mr. Trenchard. Going to visit one of your married lady friends?”
“William,” he said. “Call me William. We’re likely to end up sharing the same cell in Newgate before long.”
“Why certainly, sir.” She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, William, sir. And you can call me Mr. Sanderson. Or Samuel, if you follow orders well enough.”
He grabbed her by the back of the neck and pushed her down the hall. They were at the head of the stairs before he realized she was still wearing his linen shirt with no jacket or cloak.
“Lindley!” he yelled. “Fetch another jacket and cloak for Mr. Sanderson. Black. With plenty of moth holes, if you please.”
Lindley managed to find another set of funereal black garb. He handed them to William with truly lofty silence.
Thus suitably attired, William and Sarah wandered out into the soft April night.
Chapter Thirteen
“You needn’t go with me, if you don’t want to,” Sarah said, watching William try to catch the attention of a passing hackney coach. She sighed. “They won’t stop, you know. Not dressed the way we are.” She started walking down the street, resigned to the ache in her head and the pulling pain in her side. “We’ll have to walk.”
At the sound of his cursing, she bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from grinning. He deserved it, after kissing her.
Why had he done that? a soft, hurt voice whispered inside her head.
And why had she enjoyed it so much that she wanted him to do it again? For the first time in years, she had felt warm and safe with his arms around her. She had not realized how alone she had been. Or how lonely.
A frisson of doubt trickled down her neck. She prayed he wasn’t the sort to take advantage just because of how she lived. That had always been a danger, if anyone found out, as Mrs. Pochard had. People always tried to work things to their advantage.
Sarah shook her head. No. That hadn’t been his reason. He wasn’t the sort. Whatever else he was, she felt instinctively that she could trust him.
She peered sideways at him, hoping he didn’t notice her concern.
He was beautiful, if that phrase could be applied to someone so utterly masculine. She liked his square chin and the elusive dimple in his left cheek. She admired his broad shoulders and had to respect the strength he had exhibited. After working at bricklaying for so many years, she knew she was stronger than many of the brutish men in Hawkins’s employ. And William was stronger than any of them. And her.
He was also kind, although he really was a bit of a popinjay. He certainly loved his fine waistcoats and well-tailored jackets. And his thick blond hair was cut in the latest fashion.
So why was she even thinking about him? Most likely, he had ladyloves strewn about London like the leaves of autumn.
He smelled good, though.
Well, he had smelled good until now. At the moment, he smelled rather strongly of cedar. It wasn’t unpleasant, just rather…pungent.
“Why are you coming with me?” she asked when he continued to mutter to himself. She rather thought he was cursing her, and it made her feel a little uncomfortable. Her luck was already running toward the bad side, and she really didn’t need any more ill wishes clinging to her.
“Because you hired me,” he snapped. He grabbed her arm and dragged her back onto the sidewalk when a carriage rushed around the corner in front of them.
“I didn’t hire you to steal my box for me. I can do that. You needn’t come if you’re afraid of getting pulled.”
“I’m not afraid of being arrested.”
“Then why are you angry?” She dashed across the street in front of another coach and waited at the corner for William. “Hawkins always gets angry when he’s afraid.”
“I’m not angry.” The hard fingers he wrapped around her upper arm belied that statement. “You should be in bed, resting.”
She nodded. “Because that would have been the womanly thing to do.”
“Yes, it would. But you haven’t a feminine bone in your body, do you?”
“And you’ve looked mighty long and hard, too, haven’t you?”
A grin slipped across his face, and he dragged her forward. They rushed through a pool of light surrounding a street lamp. He slowed as they entered another pocket of darkness. After walking in silence a few more blocks, his grip loosened, which was a relief since her fingers were starting to go numb.
“I’m sorry. Are you all right?” he asked.
“Just a few bruises,” Sarah replied jauntily, unable to resist the urge to bait him. She could almost hear the sound of his teeth grinding, although he seemed cool enough. “Nothing that won’t heal with time.”
“Sarah—” He paused, holding her back in the shadows of a townhouse. “I would never take advantage of you. I…admire you a great deal.” The ghost of his rueful chuckle brushed past her. “Too much, in fact.”
It was almost as if he knew what she had been thinking earlier when she fretted over his unexpected kiss. She glanced at him sharply. His handsome face was mostly hidden in the darkness. There was nothing to be gained by staring at him, trying to guess his feelings, and yet she wanted to stay there, inches away from him, where she could almost hear the steady thud of his heart.
She ought to push him away. When the case was done and he was paid, she would never see him again. An idle dalliance—even if he did admi
re her—was not what she wanted.
Not what she had ever wanted from anyone.
“That’s the sort of thing men say before they do take advantage of someone,” she replied.
“I meant it, Sarah. I know you think I’m little more than an idiot—”
“A handsome idiot—”
“Damn it, will you let me finish?”
“If you’re trying to apologize for kissing me, then consider it done.”
He glanced away, his profile sharp despite the shadows. She thought she detected a frown marring the perfect regularity.
“I’m not apologizing,” he said in a savage voice. “I’ve never had cause to regret kissing a female—”
“Until now—”
“But I made the apparently unnecessary assumption that you might feel I had taken advantage of you, considering—”
“How I had ruined my reputation already by living as a man?”
“Yes—no! I knew you would think that, even if I did not.”
She eyed him curiously, trying very hard not to cry. Her heart thumped so loudly she wasn’t sure she could speak without a throb in her voice. She wanted so desperately to hear that he liked her, despite it all.
Admiration…what was that? She could admire the design of a brick wall, but she had never wanted to kiss one.
“Then what did you think?” she asked, realizing how desperate she was for the slightest sign of affection.
Silence for a single heartbeat of time. Her shoulders drooped. Whatever he thought, he was not going to tell her. So it had to be unpleasant. Men always avoided speaking about unpleasant things.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said at last. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and gave another low chuckle. “You drive me to distraction—and I think you do it purposely.”
“Perhaps I do.” She pulled him away from the shadows and strode forward.
She had lived a perfectly comfortable life before she met William Trenchard. Once this matter was resolved, she would resume that life, as a man.
There was no point in wishing otherwise.
As they passed a quiet side street, William steered her into the darkness. They stopped in the shadows of a crumbling brick wall. Aware of his nearness, she searched for a distraction. Her hands reflexively felt the bricks, fingers prying into the mortar. English bond, but bad mortar. Too much sand. It turned to dust under her nails, like her life, crumbling around her.