by Anne Mallory
She resisted the urge to look through the window to follow his progress. He had her case in his hand and a satchel around his shoulder. Five minutes? He couldn’t promise to secure their rooms and return in that short a time. What location had been discussed? She wasn’t leaving him.
He returned four minutes later without her bag, just as she was starting to fret, said a few low words to the driver, then held out a hand to help her down. She put her gloved hand in his, heart beating faster. She knew that he was simply helping her—it would cause comment to their masquerade if he didn’t—but she was unused to his initiating any contact with her. It was always she who touched him. She took a deep breath, trying to calm her reaction.
He was wearing a large greatcoat and low-slung hat. Altogether, they looked like two chilled and weary travelers. He released her hand but remained close, shielding her as they moved.
She could see the innkeeper curiously watching them as they entered. She kept to the darkness of her hood, keeping her head lowered and her lamp well away from her face. Frankly, she trusted Andreas Merrick, and his paranoia, to keep her safe, and she wasn’t afraid to admit such. It was simple good sense. The man was overly suspicious and prepared enough for two.
“I secured two rooms with a connecting door,” he said in a very low tone of voice. She nodded to indicate her understanding. It was both a security relief and privacy challenge.
Often such double rooms were used for children or servants of higher-paying customers. The more demanding patrons paid for their own convenience instead of having servants double-bunk with the inn’s staff.
He opened a door and poked the lamp inside, doing something that she couldn’t see. Checking shadows? It was quickly done, then he stepped back, eyes sweeping the hall in both directions as he motioned her inside. Yes, he was paranoid—thorough enough—for both of them.
He followed her closely inside and shut the door, locking it. He pressed her against the wall near the door, then leaned down, ear to the floor. She stared at him blankly until she realized that he had already risen again and was strolling to the bed, having just checked, at a distance, beneath the frame. Something unsettling went through her at the thought of someone’s hiding beneath.
He pulled a spindle of filament and a small weight from his satchel. He strode back to the door leading to the hall, strung the weight through the string, knotted one end of the string to the base of the handle, then strung it across, weight dangling in the middle, and attached the other end to the edge of a sconce on the other side, ripping the string free of the spindle with his teeth.
“Don’t use the door.”
She nodded to show she understood.
He opened the connecting door and left it open. She leaned against the jamb, watching as he repeated the actions in the other room. His movements were brisk and efficient. But then he was a brisk and efficient man. No movements wasted.
He was bent sharply at the waist to the task, all cool, straight lines. She admired the view from the rear. She wasn’t in some ballroom where she needed to worry about her reputation if she were caught ogling someone.
Not that she had felt the need to ogle anyone before Andreas Merrick. But she could look freely at the object of her interest when they were alone. Privacy freeing her in a way she had never been able to be before. This was what marriage was like, being able to look one’s fill. Her parents had always exchanged glances in such a way, in the seclusion of their own house.
Phoebe wanted that intimacy. The intimacy that was allowed without social repercussion.
He looked at her as he finished the wiring on the door. His face immediately shuttered. She wondered what he had seen on hers. “You should sleep. We will be leaving early. The earlier you can get in to see Edward Wilcox, the better.”
She nodded slowly. He obviously wanted to return to London as quickly as possible. Probably hoping she would be unable to complete any of the other tasks she had planned.
If any of his men had accompanied her, she could have cajoled. Andreas Merrick was mostly immune to cajoling. Mostly. But that tiny crack was where opportunity resided.
“Edward is an early riser, and he will likely be in the fields when we arrive in the city. I will wait until noon. If it were Henry, we could go earlier. He tends to rise late, but he stays in the house.”
“If Henry Wilcox is there, you will not go inside.”
“Henry is a friend—”
He leaned forward into her space. “You will leave if he is there.”
She watched him. “Henry is at Fairhaven, so it is an item of irrelevance. Is it not?”
If he chose to pursue the topic, she wanted to make sure he knew that she would be pursuing it as well.
The tightening of his lips said he understood perfectly.
He turned and began to rummage through his bag, his back to her. She tilted her head, something about his body position sparked a thought she couldn’t quite grasp.
There were too many other thoughts running through her head, blocking it out, leaving only a warmed feeling behind. She slipped back into her room to prepare for bed. With the door opened between, she could easily hear him moving about in the other room,
She hesitated; perhaps she should speak to him about her other plans for tomorrow. Spin some tales—or just confess what she planned to do and see how he reacted. She had the notion that he was going to be monitoring her progress tomorrow anyway.
She walked back to the open doors, peeked around, and froze.
He was a tall man but not heavy. Most men of his height and lean musculature were gangly or awkward in their skin. But there was a tight strength about him that spoke of someone who knew exactly how to use his body to its fullest potential. A lethal dancer. A dark Lucifer who could bend and twist and kill.
His shirt was off, his loosened trousers barely hanging on the edges of his hips, one step away from removal. Her gaze couldn’t linger on the thought of seeing a man so unclothed, especially one her heartbeat responded so readily to, as her mind was fully taken with other visual aspects. His back was a tapestry, filled by the cracked art of the streets. A tangle of scars, one overlapping another bunched beneath the nape of his neck, then dove down the tendons and sinew of his back, splitting off, snaking over his spine in lashed patterns.
There was symmetry to a number of the longer marks, indicating that they had been gifted by the same wielder, whereas others along his shoulder blades and waist were clearly single events made by a blade or bullet. There were so many lines in the longer cuts that they overlapped entirely in some parts, the only way to tell that there were two or three separate marks was to see the tails splitting at the ends. She wondered how someone could have survived being whipped that many times.
“What do you want now?”
His voice was as unpleasant as it always was when he was on guard, his posture just as tight. She wondered if he was bothered by anyone’s seeing him like this, or if it were she specifically.
Her hand was already reaching forward to smooth over the raised marks when she realized what she was doing and dropped it back to her side.
“I wanted to wish you a good sleep,” she said softly, all thoughts of speaking of the next day and confirming her suspicions wiped away.
He said nothing for a long moment, hands folding his shirt, shifting things around his bag—the actions shifting the muscles beneath his skin. “And now you have.” The words were no more kind, but she thought that maybe his tone lacked just a bit of its edge.
“No, not yet.”
He warily looked at her over his shoulder, body stiff. Every night for a week she had kissed him on the cheek before turning in for the night. But she had always flitted away, back to her own room, a floor away from his office.
Here, there was no leaving. The beds less than a dozen paces from each other.
She almost pulled back into her room. Her first official act of cowardice. But then she moved forward with purpose.
H
e kept his back to her though his visible eye tracked her closely. Again the odd thought presented itself that there was something telling about that. He always kept people in full view.
She touched his shoulders and pulled her fingers lightly over a few braided scars at the back. It was entirely inappropriate—beyond inappropriate and entering into condemnable really—and yet she couldn’t help herself. It was a form of possession that made her touch one of them with her lips.
His muscles were steel beneath her touch as he quickly looked away.
Part of her wanted nothing more than to turn him toward her. To touch, and kiss, and soothe him. To make him totally surrender to whatever lay between them. The other part of her knew he wasn’t ready. And she wasn’t going to push.
“Good evening, Mr. Merrick.”
Yet.
His profile showed a mixture of expressions as he stared straight ahead, away from her, but he nodded sharply, the rest of his body still clenched tight.
Her hands shook as she undressed quietly back in her own room. She could not deny it—she was becoming irreparably entangled. And what he would ultimately do with the net, she did not know.
Chapter 15
He heard her all night. She wasn’t a loud sleeper, but he was well used to listening for every sound in his environment, especially in an environment that was not his own. The sound of movement on bare sheets or a dream-induced sigh made him . . . uncomfortable. Made him feel the urge to toss and shift.
She had touched him. She had looked at his repulsive scars and pressed her lips to them. Soothing and steady. Unfaltering and unshakable. That was Phoebe Pace.
He needed her gone more than he ever had. And yet his fingers clutched an invisible cord, fingernails gripping his palm, as if it would hold her to him.
He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable when the sky lightened. There was little on which to assuage his black mood, for she rose quickly at his knock against the open frame between them.
He didn’t watch her rise, unwilling to see her sleepy-eyed and rumpled.
“We need to be gone before the light takes hold,” he said, already turning to leave.
She was quick to pack her things and dress, and she stood patiently waiting, eyes looking through a crack in the drape to the courtyard beyond, when he walked through the connecting door five minutes later.
He stopped, watching her for a moment. She looked . . . wistful. Innocent.
What was he doing here? With her? There was the possibility that he would bring direct danger to her if he was spotted. Better for him to have sent someone else—or three—with her.
But he had known he was going to accompany her as soon as she voiced the request. Unavoidable. Inevitable.
Especially considering where she was going. Things were moving quickly, in another direction, away from him, and all he could hope to do was to control the casualties that would result.
He wouldn’t let Phoebe Pace be a casualty. And wasn’t that just a damn thing. He wondered when she would get around to asking him directly about her brother. She had to know he knew almost everything that happened in London, even with Roman absent from the city.
She had to suspect he knew exactly what had happened to her brother and what players had been involved.
He saw it sometimes. The trust in her eyes. Fragile and easily broken with just a few simple words. Warm lips pressed to his body would be exchanged for tears and betrayal.
“Ready?” she asked, drape closed again, cloak and hood drawn up as he’d been castigating himself.
He nodded, taking her case. He avoided contact with the two men lingering in the common room and strode to the waiting carriage, lifting her up and in. Their baggage was latched and secured by the driver.
They were clomping down the courtyard path a minute later. He watched through the window until they were well out of town. Not followed. It was possible someone had been posted ahead of them, though. Smarter. They wouldn’t exit the carriage until they finally reached Dover. Three more changes, and they would be there.
He glanced across the space. Her eyes were closed, and she leaned against the seat. He didn’t think she had meant to fall asleep. But he had heard her restless sleep as well. Perhaps he would get a room on the outskirts of the city. Let her rest for a few more hours before she sought . . . her contact.
His nails curled into his palms. He wondered if this disease she had brought upon him would be cured at the end of this endeavor. He hoped so.
In the meantime, he had to weigh the risks. He had been provided with the perfect opportunity to shore up any talk on the docks. But it meant he would have to leave her unguarded. He should have brought one of the others with them. Made the other man ride on top with the driver regardless of the gossip that would result within the ranks.
He had already tipped part of his hand to the other occupants of his building though. What difference did a further show make? Only his stubborn resistance said otherwise.
Phoebe jolted as the carriage pulled to a stop. She had been thinking of marked skin and warm lips and her utter inability to choose the correct words to keep the skin under her fingertips.
She stretched her cramped limbs. Oh no. Dreaming. “How long was I asleep?”
“You made it through two stops without waking.”
“This is our last then?” She pushed fully upright, clearing the lingering sleep from her mind and trying to read the expression on his face, the tone in his voice. She wondered—a bit mortified—if she had been snoring or sleeping with her mouth agape.
“Yes.”
She picked at the blanket over her—had she placed it there?—and ground her jaw back and forth as inconspicuously as she could to see if it felt as if it had been open for two hours. She held on to her embarrassment. Easier than dealing with the unease that had developed between them. “When is your brother due back?”
The question was out of the blue, and she knew she had taken him by surprise though he covered it well. For a moment she wasn’t sure he’d answer.
“Soon.”
“That is quite vague. Soon might be tomorrow or a month from now. How do you define soon?”
“I define it as a period of time in the near future.”
She smiled. “How do you define difficult?”
“By your presence.”
She grinned fully, delighted to feel the tension dissipate. “Now you are just flattering me for no reason.”
He grunted.
“On the contrary,” she said, as if his grunt had been a worded response. “It was most flattering.”
He stared at her.
“What? Did you think I wouldn’t figure out how to interpret your grunts? It is like listening to a conversational gambit with a thousand different meanings.”
He recovered quickly, as always, scowling. “Why would you think it flattery?”
“You have defined something by my presence. Which means you have noticed me quite keenly. I take that as flattering.”
His eyes narrowed. But then she knew he wouldn’t like that particular explanation. It left him too wide open.
“I find you difficult. Not adorable.”
“I think I am quite shocked to find you using the word ‘adorable’ in a sentence.” She waved a hand. “Next thing I know, you will be petting puppies in the street.”
“You are the one with the odd canine fetish.”
“They make me happy with their silly doggy grins.”
His stare was flat.
She simply smiled more. “Mr. Wiggles seems taken with you.”
“It tried to urinate on me the other day. I prefer not to be ‘taken’ by something like that.”
Phoebe pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to help herself. But the image was too much. Her laughter spilled around her fingers.
She counted it as a victory that his shoulders didn’t tighten. Indeed, he almost looked . . . relaxed.
Perhaps he was loosening toward her? Perhaps the ki
ss last night had not been a mistake? Hopefully. And if so, she planned to exploit such a development.
A small voice in her head persistently reminded her that one of these nights she might prod him too far. She didn’t know what would happen to her carefully laid plans then.
Visiting Edward’s house on her own had been easier than she had anticipated. Andreas had ridden in the carriage with her, but when they had arrived, he stayed inside, saying that the vehicle would be waiting up the street when she was done with her appointment.
She wondered what he was going to do in the interim.
The game tightened around her.
Under the cover of her hood, Phoebe handed the butler a folded card with a handwritten note inside. “I realize this is unusual, but Edward Wilcox will see me should you give him this.” She kept her voice low.
The butler, a man she did not know, looked at the folded slip of paper, then back to her covering cloak. Probably trying to deduce if she was a woman “in the way” seeking compensation from his employer. Or some street cat. She kept her posture stiff and sure. A moment later, the butler acquiesced, shutting the door and leaving her on the porch. She wasn’t affronted. He couldn’t trust that while he was speaking to his employer, she might not make off with the silver, after all.
Only half a minute passed before the door opened again. “Mr. Wilcox will see you.”
He led her through the halls to a study, a long sweep of arm motioning her inside. The door closed behind her.
But it wasn’t Edward Wilcox standing there. It was Henry.
The Honorable Henry Wilcox, heir to Viscount Garrett, was already standing and striding over to her. She kept herself from stiffening only with effort. She had the sudden thought that Andreas Merrick was going to be very displeased with her.
“Miss Pace,” Henry said softly. “What are you doing here?” He tried to peer into her hood.
There was nothing she could do except to work out a new strategy as she went.
She motioned to the drapes, and he walked over and drew them. She pushed back her hood as the room darkened, and he was forced to light a lamp. She looked around the room, noting that although there was a lot of furniture, there was thankfully no good place for another person to hide.