by Anne Mallory
“I . . . really?”
“Is it so hard to accept?” He seemed so relaxed. It was alarming. Yet there was that watchfulness still in the back of his gaze, as if awaiting her rejection.
“I . . . well, it is not your usual comment.”
“Perhaps you have forced me to employ a new strategy.”
“Oh?”
“I dare not want to be the keeper of cold, metallic belts. Not if you find them uncomfortable against your skin.”
Was he . . . flirting with her?
“Your skin is always warm against mine,” she whispered.
His eyes were stripping her again. But this time she could feel the remembrance of his mouth and hands on her skin as he did so. “Yes.”
His lips against her cheeks, the feel of his fingers caressing hers.
Breathless and wanting all of it again, she watched him. All points of her body leaning toward his. Watched the various emotions pass over his dark blue eyes, his sharp cheeks, and oddly full lips—lips that were usually thinned by displeasure. She thought it beautiful—that openness on his face as for once he didn’t shutter the emotions mixing and chasing across.
And it decided things for her, really.
She could plot madly when needed, but when it came down to basic traits, she was an impulsive spirit, relying on instinct and emotion. And instinct and emotion said to follow the end of the thread that had been between them since the first time she had seen him catch his breath in a darkened theater.
She shifted forward slowly, just that extra bit, since he had complied so well in bringing them so close together.
Shifted straight forward. Not cocked to the side, so cheeks would brush together. She half expected him to pull back, but then again . . . he was a still and steady man. Rock hard. She pressed her lips slowly to his. His mouth was firm. That was unsurprising. But his lips were soft as well. Above the steel. The opposite of the man, really, who had such a dark and forbidding shell but was surprisingly gentle underneath.
He’d deny it. And perhaps the truth of it was that he was gentle only to those he cared for—and that the people in that category numbered few—but he had given her a glimpse of it. That gentleness focused on her. And it quickened her breath, thinking of it, made her press more steadily against him, uncertain and confident at the same time.
She had never initiated a real kiss before. Only those on the cheek. Warm lips to scratchy skin. Or the brush of his lips against hers. The taste of him on her tongue as she’d moistened her lips afterward. But her parents had always been affectionate souls. And she had gotten more than one eyeful of the ladies of the night on the streets outside. Observed them from her window, pressing against men, eager, or at least pretending to be so.
But there was something cheap in thinking such thoughts. For those women did it for coin. And she blamed them not at all for the choices they made, but she wanted something far different from the man whose lips were motionless beneath hers.
And suddenly they were anything but still.
Heat, overwhelming heat. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before last night. Like being burned alive and feeling no pain. Only the scorch and the flame. And his hands were wrapping around the back of her neck, tipping her up, bringing her closer, claiming and branding.
My God. She wanted to wrap herself around him, to pin herself to him, the heat melting them together, never able to separate.
His lips consumed hers. As if he had been waiting years, decades, to unleash such passion. Waiting there, leashed and growling, behind a cold and steely façade.
And she couldn’t think of a single regret as he stole the breath from her.
She had never been so right. That this was a man to whom one sold one’s soul. For he was assuredly pulling it right out of her. With every breath that passed from her lips to his. Piece by piece, never to be regained. Held for judgment or set free.
“Miss Pace?” An outside voice called. “Are you in here?”
Her lips were suddenly released, the hands in her nape slipping through the strands there, and he was gone.
She gaped at the empty space in front of her, breathing hard, a hand pressed to her chest.
“Miss Pace?”
She turned to see a large boy appear in the doorway. Robbie, who had the largest frame she had ever seen on a boy of fifteen. He was looking at her strangely, concern beneath his shyness.
“Yes, Robbie?”
“Are you well?”
“Oh, oh, yes. I, I almost pitched myself into the oven when I tripped.”
As if she had tripped against Andreas Merrick’s lips.
The boy looked from her to the oven, and moved closer, placing himself between her and the oven, in harm’s way. “Are you hurt?”
“No, no, of course not.” She dredged up a reassuring smile for the kind boy. Tucking her thoughts on what had just occurred into a nice, warm corner of her mind, to examine later. For it was a certainty that Andreas Merrick was gone and not returning for the moment.
“Oh, good.” Robbie shuffled his feet. “You said you were going to prepare cottage pie and treacle pudding tonight? May I help you?”
She smiled and put a hand on his sleeve, calming her racing heart further. Calm. Calm. Calm. “Of course, Robbie. Let’s get started.”
He gave her as close to a beaming smile as she’d ever seen on him. It had taken a bit for the boy to warm up, and she suspected deep abuse in his past despite his size, or perhaps because of it, but he had become a fast friend in the kitchens once he had determined she meant him no harm.
She ran a still shaky hand down her skirt. Calm. Calm. And instead thought of what she had gathered from her contacts here as she chatted with Robbie. That someone in the Merrick’s employ had observed what had happened to her brother was becoming more and more apparent. That she still felt completely safe here, even with the secret of it swirling, was strange.
She looked at Robbie from the corner of her eye as they worked. It could be someone like Robbie, too frightened to come forward. Or . . . or something else.
She was going to beard Andreas Merrick in his den tonight, over supper, and pry it out of him, however she had to do it. It was time—past time.
But she hoped he would force her to kiss him senseless first.
Chapter 18
However, by the time she had finished her part of the supper preparations, she couldn’t find him. She worked in his office, tense and hopeful. Alone. Uncertain and eager. But he hadn’t shown.
She had finally asked, casually, in the kitchens when she’d gone to get a tray for her parents, and been told that raids were commencing and that Andreas was leading them. Something about revenge for the attack on the carriage and the last day that slimy bastard Cornelius would see of the sun.
That had gained the boy uttering it a prompt elbow to the gut from one of the others—everyone nervously exchanging glances.
The only things she knew of Cornelius were what she had learned by listening unobserved. Few people would part with information concerning him directly. She had a feeling that was due in no small part to Andreas’s tampering.
The boys had fallen over themselves to assure her that everything would be fine. The demon bastard never lost. Not even to another underworld lord. For some reason, that last bit of news hadn’t made her feel better.
It had made her nervous and tense in an entirely different way. But the building had been quiet, to the opposite of her turmoil inside. Her parents retired early, as usual, leaving her in the growing silence, stretched out on Roman Merrick’s plush sofa.
That changed a few minutes before midnight. Stomping and yelling could be heard up and down the stairs. A few victorious shouts. Phoebe scrambled up and pressed her ear to the door, waiting until she heard the footsteps on the stairs.
She peeked out and the lone person in the hall stuttered to a stop at the end. They stared at each other for long moments, then he walked stiffly toward his door, the limpin
g very obvious.
Giving it not one extra thought, she closed the door behind her and ran toward him. He opened his door quickly. She half pushed, half slipped inside with him before he could bar her entrance.
She flitted into the middle of the room and turned, hands out in submission as he stared darkly at her. In another person she would have said she saw fear there for a moment.
But his face contorted suddenly and his hands went to either side of his left thigh, blood soaking through the fabric.
She heard the intake of her own breath, felt it vibrate from her chest. “Oh my God.” She started toward him, but his suddenly outstretched bloody hand stopped her.
“Stop. Leave.” There was a wealth of emotions strangled in those two words.
“Absolutely not. You are hurt. Have you sent for a doctor?” She listened for footsteps, but the hall was silent.
“No. I don’t need one.” He drew himself back upright. “Go back to your room, Miss Pace.”
“There isn’t a chance of that happening.” She inched forward, as if approaching a wild animal. “Let me see your leg. Please.”
“I don’t want you to see my leg. And I am not in good humor.” Everything about his voice and expression indicated it, but there was vulnerability underneath. One that everything in her latched on to. “So kindly get out. I will speak with you in the morning.”
That hint of exposure just made her more determined to erase the remaining barriers between them. She watched him, quickly trying to figure out the best course of action.
“I am fine,” he said tightly, his voice deeper and harsher than usual. The tightness of his body, his expression, and his voice only strengthened her resolve. “Now please leave.”
“No.” She took a deep breath. Andreas Merrick was hers. “If you aren’t going to send for a doctor—”
“I don’t need one.”
But blood had finally seeped to the floor, alarming her further.
“You most certainly and obviously do.” She took a step toward him, only stopping when he turned his blackest glare on her. “Is this when I ask you if you are taken by madness, Andreas?” she asked in a low voice.
Something shifted on his face for a moment, perhaps at her use of his name, but then it grew hard once more. Implacable and dark. “I do not want you here, Miss Pace. I don’t know what right you think you have to enter my rooms, then remain after I’ve asked you to leave.”
“Indeed, I follow direction poorly. And sometimes you are a rude, brutish man.” She moved forward, in direct opposition to the expression on his face, which was growing darker with each of her steps. The shadows drawing in with the creases of his narrowed eyes, the tightened line of his mouth. She gave a determined smile. “But I like you. And I’m going to help you.”
“Well, how about I don’t like you.” His voice was tight and stressed, that vulnerability harshly buried beneath. “Now will you leave?”
“No,” she said, tone going gentle. “I like you well enough for the both of us.”
His face tightened again, but it was obviously a reaction to pain this time, as he all but collapsed on a very elegant chair.
She dropped into the chair across from him and reached for his bloody leg.
He pushed her hand away. “No. No.” But there was a fine line underscoring the words, threatening a break, echoing the sheen of sweat on his forehead and above his lip.
“Let me see your leg.”
“Get out!” he roared.
She took a deep breath, but she held firm. “I have every thought that you will treat this yourself and not seek help elsewhere. But you need help, and I am going to help you.”
“I want you gone. That will be the most helpful action you can undertake.” The last word was said with a low, hissing quality. The echo of it prickled across her skin. “Stop helping me, stop kissing me, stop invading my territory.”
And there was that vulnerability again. A desperation.
“It is a sad fact that things we want are often not the things we receive,” she said lightly, reaching for him once more.
He caught her hand in his, holding it between them. “That must mean you want to be helpful.”
“You are a mean-spirited man. You realize this, yes?”
His lips twisted, but it was more of a grimace. “Keenly.”
“But, as I said, I like you. And I am going to help you.”
He just watched her for a long penetrating moment, before abruptly pulling the unmarked right leg of his trouser up sharply, over his knee. “Are you going to match them together?” The words were bitter.
She looked at the exposed limb for a moment in shock, then reached forward to feel the steel encasing it. It was almost like a clockwork, how everything seemed to move and shift together. “How . . .” She touched the skin of his leg between the flat bands and bolts. He shifted, and she lifted her hand. “How long have you had this?”
It was genius. She had never noticed anything amiss in the shape of his right leg through his clothes.
“Years.” His voice was dark and deadly. If he had been another man, and she another woman, she would have stiffened, waiting for the blade to pierce her exposed neck.
But she wasn’t, and neither was he.
She examined what she could see of the scar beneath. And the brace on top. Something very bad had happened to his right leg at some point.
She remembered him snapping it back into place in the carriage. A weakened joint that popped out frequently? The metal surrounding would brace it. Most men would just use a cane. There was little surprise as to why he didn’t, though, when she thought about it. But the secret of it . . .
He had just trusted her with the secret of it. Most likely in an illogical attempt to drive her away, as he was on the thin edge of eruption. He would destroy their relationship without thinking twice and probably think it for the best.
But he had trusted her with an obviously very closely kept secret. There was something relieved and resigned in his tenseness. Angry and unguarded.
She stared him hard in the eyes. “It is fine. Let’s look at your left leg.” She wasn’t going anywhere.
Andreas Merrick was nothing if not a dominant man. And every facet of his facial expression threatened dire consequences. But if she were ever going to have given into his threatening gazes, it would have been well before now. Well before she had an actual vested care for his well-being.
“I am not going anywhere,” she reiterated aloud.
His nicely shaped lips disappeared in a thin, hard line. He opened his mouth, and she had the very sure notion that he was about to say something completely unforgivable.
She clamped her other hand onto the one holding hers. “It doesn’t matter what you say, I will not leave tonight. Your words will only matter for how things go between us after this. Tomorrow.” She kept her eyes fixed to his. “I hold you in high stead. I have a care for your well-being. If you have any sort of care for me at all, you will say none of the black thoughts echoing in your head right now—though hopefully not in your heart—and simply accept my help.”
It was a little like looking into the face of a deadly animal backed into an alleyway.
“I will not begrudge you ungracious words,” she continued calmly. “Just nothing unforgivable.”
His gaze held hers for long moments, and she thought for a second that he was going to do it anyway. But his gaze shuttered, and he gave a sharp nod.
She squeezed his hand, relief draining her. “Good. Fine. Yes.” She took a breath. “Where are your medicinal supplies?”
He pointed to a shelf. There were a number of bags, vials, and cordials. Needles, tinder, and tape.
She quickly walked over and gathered everything she could, trying not to knock over the very expensive statues guarding the area.
A quick, fleeting glance at her surroundings said that all of his furnishings were elegant and hard. Like him.
No one would ever guess from looking at
the exterior of the building that such expensive spaces were to be found in the Merricks’ private chambers. Everything that existed in Andreas’s realm was secret.
She poured capped water into a bowl. She didn’t have to ask if the water had been previously boiled. That shelf stated in all manners that all of the supplies were for this very purpose.
She wouldn’t be surprised if someone as prepared as Andreas Merrick freshened the dressings and restocked the supplies each morning.
She quickly took a pair of scissors and went to work cutting his trousers. In any other instance, she would have been redder than red, but determination had taken over. She could suffer a lady’s embarrassment later.
Parting the fabric, she pressed her lips together to refrain from gasping and reached for the water-dipped cloth to clean and determine the extent of the injury.
He lifted a bottle and held it to her. It stung her perfectly wound-free fingers as she tested it. She gave him a sharp look, but he gave her a “get on with it” signal with his hand. She dabbed a bit on the edge of the gash.
He grabbed the bottle from her and shook it over the wound before she snatched it back. She took a deep breath and liberally coated his thigh.
He made not a sound. But he had procured a bottle of liquor from a nearby cabinet and was drinking like he was preparing for a week in the desert.
As she’d never seen him drink liquor before, it was quite a sight.
She contemplated her next action. She had never stitched something as deeply gashed as the wound on his thigh, but she had some experience sewing wounds since her father frequently harmed himself—or someone else accidentally—with his sometimes bizarre actions.
Although there was still blood sluggishly emerging, the wound did not appear life-threatening. After three flights of stairs and however many streets he had traveled, he was lucky.
She picked up the needle and thread to start the stitches, contemplating the mechanics of sealing the cavernous gap. Suddenly his hands pressed the skin on either side together, thinning the gash. Like it was a paper cut that simply needed pinching.