Your Wicked Heart

by Meredith Duran

  “Bound to be a great big bruise.” He straightened, his expression lightening. “When I turned and saw you lifting that stool—”

  She held up a hand. “Before you scold me, he was about to hit you—”

  “Oh, I know,” he said, and then astonished her by breaking into laughter.

  She stared at him, confused and then . . . fascinated. His laughter was beautiful, wild and rich. He drove his hands through his hair and lifted his face toward the sky, and in the bright sunlight he looked vibrant, vivid, alive with merriment.

  He caught her staring and grinned. “Good fun, eh?”

  Good fun? Her eyes dropped down his body. His knuckles were bleeding! “You’re a lunatic.”

  “Yes, apparently you’re contagious.” He came limping toward her, his hand rising toward her face. She realized that her hair had come down only when he pulled a curl to his mouth and . . . inhaled.

  What on earth . . . ?

  “Tell me,” he said, his lips pressed against her hair, “how do you still manage to smell like roses?”

  “I . . .” She smelled like roses? “I’ve no idea.”

  Lifting his face, he laughed softly. “How puzzled you look,” he said. “Tousled and rosy and wide-eyed. Miss Muffet, having bested the spider.”

  Alarm pierced her. “Did you hit your head in there?”

  “Never mind the roses; I’ve a better idea.” He took hold of her waist. Increasingly baffled, she looked from his hands to his face—and then his mouth touched hers.

  A kiss, her amazed brain informed her.

  His lips against hers felt warm. And so . . . gentle.

  A breath escaped her, a breath of wonder and disbelief.

  His hand cupped her cheek, his fingers lighter than a breath, warmer than the sun. His lips parted hers, and he tasted her.

  A soft, hot prickle moved through her, a sudden relaxing of . . . everything: her muscles, her wariness, her wits. His lips were persuasive, confident, as alive as his laughter. He moved into her, crowding her against the wall, his body warm and solid, his mouth intoxicating. He tasted of the wine, but on his tongue it grew delicious. His tongue toyed with hers, flirting with her teeth, the sensitive lining of her lips.

  Her stomach seemed to lift and then fall away. He smelled like sweat and soap and spices. He smelled edible.

  Her arms tightened around him. Just right. She had kissed other men before—her erstwhile fiancé, and once, a cheeky shop boy in Little Darby—but never before had a man’s body felt so right. Low in her belly, something pulsed and ached, and her body told her that he was the cure for it.

  His mouth broke from hers. “You’re delicious,” he breathed into her ear—two simple words that made a shudder run through her.

  “I thought I was a criminal.” How strange she sounded! Sultry, not at all like herself. She turned her face into his throat to take another deep breath of him. So foolish. Stop this at once.

  But his palm was stroking the small of her back, warm and firm and soothing. Her brain chattered uselessly in the background, supplying all the proper warnings, but they seemed to slip away without effect, like raindrops off a smooth glass pane.

  “Let’s try that again,” he whispered, and then, praise God, he did. His mouth was all the sweeter now that she knew it was coming. His lips moved urgently over hers, persuading her, and the pulse in her belly suddenly dropped lower, concentrating between her legs.

  You’re behaving like a harlot. With your kidnapper.

  But he’d had good cause for kidnapping her! He’d thought she had cozened him, helped an impostor whose fraud was costing him precious time in his search for his cousin.

  This is beyond stupid of you.

  His tongue slipped again into her mouth. Exactly where it belonged. A lazy tangle of mouths as her hands felt down the hard planes of his back. Muscled, lean. So tall. He was built, in fact, very much like her fraudulent betrothed . . . only his kisses were so different. So much hotter. Wild, ravishing. Nothing like her former fiancé’s. He loved his family, protected them, was searching for his cousin, kissed like an angel . . . or a devil . . .

  A guttural shout. He spun, putting himself squarely in front of her so she was sheltered from view—her heart skipped; what a gentlemanly posture!—and she rose on tiptoes to peek over his shoulder.

  The police had found them. “English?” asked one of the men, his hand on the pistol at his waist. “Come. You come now!”

  Ripton took her arm, pulling her into step with him as they followed the man. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “Let me handle this.”

  She nodded. How curious! With him beside her, she felt not the least bit afraid.

  * * *

  Crime did not appear to be a thriving business in La Valletta. The police station was little more than a whitewashed hut furnished with a rude desk and two wooden pens, one of which held a snoring man whose alcoholic reek traveled the length of the room. The other pen stood empty, and the sight of it prepared Spence to rage, condescend, or bribe, as needed—for he had no intention of them spending the night here.

  But as it turned out, the inspector in charge had no interest in that, either. After barking a sharp dismissal to his sergeants, he offered Spence a handsome apology and the only chair in the room. Spence demurred and insisted that the lady take the chair.

  Miss Thomas, blushing prettily, settled into the seat with an elegant flip of her skirts. She really did look like a Clementine. Once one got past the sharp bite of the first consonant, the syllables were soft and singing. Clementine. Lush. Almost plush. Much like her mouth . . .

  He removed his eyes from hers, lest he disgrace himself in a police station. The inspector, to his mild amazement, was enthusiastically extolling Spence’s role in the pub brawl.

  “Most nice! Most nice!” exclaimed Inspector Mizzi, stroking his moustache and beaming up at Spence. “I say, such bosom from an Englishman!”

  Spence blinked. “Ah . . . bottom, I believe you mean. Courage,” he added when the inspector looked puzzled.

  Clementine leaned into his view, giving him a narrow-eyed look. Braggart, she mouthed.

  He bit back a smile. “That is, I had no choice but to fight,” he told the inspector. “I promise you, I was not the first to throw a punch.”

  The inspector’s face relaxed into a smile again. “But of course not,” he said. “Bottom, courage! Yes, very good. My English, you will forgive. Not so nice. But you! Very nice. Most of your countrymen, they come, they go—one day, one night. Stay at hotels, never see our places, the local places.” The man’s broad, easy grin invited Spence to relax. But the smile paired rather oddly with the shrewd gleam in the inspector’s eyes. “I like you, sir. I like your . . . style, do they say? Very nice style. Is that the word? I admire it.”

  “And I, your English.” For Spence had the sudden intuition that the man’s language skills were not nearly as rudimentary as he claimed. “I confess, I can’t speak a word of Italian.” Not the local variant, at any rate, which was heavily flavored with Maltese.

  Clementine loosed a pointed huff. Impatient creature. Perhaps she was displeased by the interruption of their previous activity. Spence had rather enjoyed it, himself. Who would have guessed that she would kiss like that? He’d dallied with any number of practiced seductresses, but he could not recall a single one who had caused him to lose his head in an alley . . .

  The thought lingered, suddenly darkening his mood.

  Perhaps she was a practiced seductress.

  Perhaps he was following in the very same footsteps as his cousin.

  “But what brought you to that place?” asked Mizzi.

  The idle question snapped Spence’s mind back to the present. “Thirst,” he said.

  Mizzi snapped toward the doorway. An underling’s head popped around the doorframe. “Tea for you,” he said, and then rattled off a string of Maltese. When he turned back, his smile was benign. “But come,” he said. “You Englishmen�
�very nice tastes. Our native wine, not good for you. What brought you to the, eh, the caffe?”

  Spence, pausing, considered Mizzi with new respect. This was a very cordial interrogation, but an interrogation all the same.

  Accordingly, he changed his answer. “Curiosity,” he said. “Curiosity and thirst.”

  “Oh!” Mizzi nodded. “I will recommend a very fine ristorante by the quay. Top-notch wine, what ho!”

  Spence carefully maintained his smile. These toplofty Anglicisms took on a new attitude when rendered in such a heavy accent.

  “But how did you find that place?” Mizzi pressed. “No one at the hotel would have . . . what is the word? Recommended it, I think?”

  “Yes, well, we were looking for refreshment—”

  “And a man.” Clementine popped to her feet, hands on hips. “We were looking for a blond gentleman, very tall, very English.”

  Mizzi beamed at her. Spence cursed inwardly. “No need to trouble the inspector with that business,” he said sharply. Had he not explained to her the importance of discretion? The last thing he needed was for some Maltese policeman to be broadcasting Charles’s description—

  “Ah! But I know this man!” cried the inspector, his manner warmly delighted. “Very, very tall?”

  Tensing, Spence said, “No taller than I.”

  Clementine was squinting at him. “Taller,” she said.

  He shot her a look. “He is not taller.”

  “Yes, taller!” agreed the inspector cheerfully. “He was—how do you say?—in a pinch. No, ah . . . money? He say, he was robbed in Syra.” The inspector tsked. “Syrosians. Do not trust them. Why, the taverna you visited, it is very popular with Syrosians—”

  Spence’s thoughts began to spin. “Robbed, you say?” Was Charles wandering, destitute, a thousand miles from home?

  “Robbed,” agreed the inspector. “Rule Britannia, what?”

  “So what happened to him?” asked Miss Thomas. “Where did he stay?”

  How eager she seemed to know the details.

  And no bloody wonder. She had Charles’s ring, didn’t she? After Charles had been robbed. Had Charles been robbed by her?

  In the moment of shock that followed that thought, Spence realized how fully he’d come to believe in her innocence.

  But why? What evidence had inspired him? The soft pink curve of her mouth? His weakness for her crocodile tears? Her easy sympathies for an impertinent cabin boy—a boy, now he thought on it, who had been caught thieving for her!

  For these flimsy reasons, he had come to think of her as blameless.

  He had taken her side, and begun to doubt his cousin.

  He stared at her, barely attending to the inspector’s reply. No, Mizzi assured Miss Thomas, he had not troubled the gentleman with too many questions; had only told Mr. Smith (ridiculous pseudonym; that lack of creativity did sound like Charles) that he, the inspector, had every sympathy for hapless victims of Syrosian thugs, and every fondness for the good men of the British Empire, tallyho!

  And as this monologue spilled out, Spence felt himself sink deeper into disgust, for despite the obvious evidence before him—Charles robbed; Amanda Thomas caught with Charles’s ring—despite this plain picture of guilt, everything in him still wanted to believe her innocent. His instincts fairly screamed to him: She is not guilty!

  His instincts had never failed him before. But what if his own faith in her was simply the product of her criminal skill?

  “But you look troubled,” the inspector observed to him. “Is this Mr. Smith a friend?”

  “Yes,” said Spence.

  Miss Thomas shot him a queer look, no doubt puzzled by his claim to know his impostor. In the lamplight, her blond curls formed a halo around her face, an angelic effect further pronounced by the high color in her full, round cheeks.

  The most dangerous creatures were often the most alluring. Bright colors, irresistibly touchable beauty: nature’s bait for the unwary fool.

  He turned away from the sight of her, focusing squarely on the inspector. “Yes,” he said, “I know him. You truly have no notion of whether he remains on the island?”

  The inspector shrugged. “Oh, he was made happy, in the end. Sold a pair of cuff links for passage on the Malveron—this very morning it left. I made a solemn promise: if I catch word of a Syrosian thief, I will send him to justice, British style!”

  The inspector gave a violent chop of his hand, suggesting a very peculiar understanding of British justice.

  “The Maltese way,” added the inspector, “is not so kind.”

  Now Spence did look toward Miss Thomas—deliberately, letting her see the dark thoughts in his face.

  She frowned as though puzzled—as though she could not guess that he might, at this very moment, say, Your Syrosian thief stands right here, Mizzi. Take her. Show her how the Maltese treat a criminal.

  But perhaps she knew him better than he knew himself. For even as he recognized the temptation, it revealed itself to be clawless. Fleeting.

  If she was a thief, he would hand her over, all right—but to British justice alone.That way, he would have the satisfaction of watching her suffer the consequences.

  “Before you go,” said Mizzi, “I hope you will permit me to make sure your passports are in order?” Waving his hand, he beckoned in one of his men, who bore a tray of steaming cups. “And you must also tell me what you think of our local tea.” He fixed Spence with a steely smile. “What say, old boy? Mind you, I will insist on your complete honesty.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Something was very wrong with Ripton.

  At first, during their silent journey back to Morrell’s, Amanda assumed it was disappointment that accounted for his silence. To have come so close to catching the impostor, only to have missed him by mere hours! Or perhaps he was distressed at having been forced to send to the hotel for their passports so the inspector might copy down their information. He wished their search to remain discreet, after all.

  That she bore his sulking silence so well made her proud of herself. Many women, having been kissed in public, would demand a small bit of affection afterward—or, at the very least, a gentlemanly apology! But she was content to wait until his ill temper subsided.

  But when he excused himself for the evening—advising her to order her supper up to her room, for he would not be visiting the dining room himself—her patience edged into hurt. Indeed, as she watched him limp off down the corridor, she found herself properly offended. He had kissed her! The least he could do was acknowledge it, instead of abandoning her at her suite with the same cold indifference he might show a stranger!

  In the late of night, her wounded feelings yielded to self-recrimination. She was a fool. How many cads would it take to educate her on the stupidity of trusting a man? Not that she had supposed Ripton’s kiss to mean anything—only, it had been the most magical kiss, and she’d thought . . .

  Well, if it had left her shaken and dizzy and perhaps, oh, a touch weak in the knees, she’d supposed it might have affected him similarly. Of course, she was not so foolish as to hope it betokened . . . feelings. That would simply be absurd. She had no interest in a man who kidnapped women!

  Who kidnapped women whom he believed to be involved in shady business that prevented him from finding his cousin.

  No! She would not excuse his sins. Nothing could justify such a high-handed, illegal act.

  No matter if that act had guaranteed her passage to England, when otherwise she might still be mired in Syra, unemployed, penniless, helpless . . .

  Well, she wanted nothing from him. It was ridiculous to imagine that she might have feelings for him, or he for her.

  Though it would not be out of all experience to . . . develop feelings . . . so quickly. Romeo and Juliet had loved at first sight.

  Yes, and look how that ended!

  She woke in the morning grumpy and red-eyed from broken sleep. Ripton’s mood, when she met him in the lobby, seemed to matc
h hers. He remained very curt as he oversaw the transfer of their luggage to their new vessel, a sleek steamer by the name of the Augusta, which promised a much reduced passage to London via Gibraltar. “Five days,” bragged the captain as they boarded, “or your tickets refunded! Nobody has beaten my record.”

  As they followed a steward to their cabins, she noticed that Ripton’s limp had worsened. “Did you speak to the hotel doctor last night?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did he give you any—”

  “I’m fine.”

  The steward chose this moment to open the nearest door, revealing a small, neat stateroom with a proper four-poster bed. “One of our finest,” the man assured her, causing gratitude and pleasure to drown out her momentary pique. There had been no call for Ripton to be so generous with her accommodations.

  Smiling, she turned to thank him—and found him staring at her, a strange look on his face.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  To the steward, he flipped a coin and said, “We’re through with you, thank you.” And then, turning back to her, he asked, “Where’s the ring?”

  Unease darted through her. “Why?”

  “I’d like to see it again.”

  “But why?”

  His steely stare was a reply of its own.

  She took a deep breath. “I gave it to the boy. On Mr. Papadopoulos’s ship, before we disembarked.”

  His eyes narrowed. “How curious.”

  “I thought he could sell it, if he needed.”

  “And here I thought you needed money. Wasn’t there some plan to sell your gown?”

  She felt her face warm. It was not gentlemanly of him to remind her of those intentions. “Yes, but I’ll wager that boy needs money more than I do. Nobody, you’ll note, is trying to whip me!”

  “But someone did,” he said flatly. “Didn’t they?”

  His manner began to alarm her. She retreated a step into the cabin, taking hold of the door so she might slam it in his face if need be. “Yes. My employer, in fact.”

  His eyes briefly widened. And then his face went blank.