He had to ask. “Friend of yours?”
A blast of air and cyclone of snow enveloped the harpy. A billow of white particles whirled off the ledge and vanished down the alleyway.
A chill shivered through his body. And a deep sorrow. Squinting through a tempest of frost, he swept the skyline for the stranger. Nothing.
Intrigued, he started after the small twister passing by several basement railings. He paused to stare at an odd finial post. The cast-iron head of a dog. Edging closer, he imagined the canine’s upper lip curled back. How long had it been since his last glass of absinthe? Several hours ago with Zander. Any unearthly effects should have passed by now. He reached out his hand and the canine creature snapped.
“Ouch!” He put his finger to his mouth and sucked a very real scratch.
A faint tinkle of laughter. Crimson drops fell at his feet. Were they his? He guessed not. Wavering on the edge of hallucination, he traced bleeding drops of red over street pavers. Light snowfall dampened each footstep to a soft crunch. An icy stillness crept over the lane. Nothing but the sound of his inhale and exhale.
“Over here, lovey.”
“Hav’a taste, handsome?”
A pair of street prostitutes stepped out of the shadows and beckoned to him.
“Evening, ladies.” He noted a large dustbin just past the huddled women. Inexplicably drawn to the container, he reached for the lid and hesitated. A steady pulse of rapid heartbeats throbbed in his ears.
Lifting the cover, he examined ordinary contents. “Rags.”
With a glance around the alley and a wink at one of the working girls, he edged closer. A rat leaped out of the pile of refuse. He dropped the lid, and it clattered to the ground. “Bloody hell.”
Wait. Phaeton pivoted.
A presence lurked in the velvet black darkness of a niche between buildings. He leaned into the unknown. The cold steel of a large blade pressed against his neck.
“Do as I say, mon ami, and I won’t cut your throat.”
A feminine voice, with an accent. He swallowed. “I make it a point never to argue with a female wielding a knife.” In the blackness, he could just make out luscious plump lips and almond-shaped eyes. Human. What a relief. And a good deal prettier than his recent encounters.
“Back me up—against the wall.” She pressed the blade edge deeper into his flesh. A trickle of blood ran under his collar.
“Careful.” Adhering faithfully to her instructions, he pressed her to the bricks.
“Any moment now, a number of pirates are going to round this corner. They wish to do me harm. I want you to convince them you are near to completing your satisfaction with a street doxy.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Allow me to do my best.”
A clamor of hurried footsteps echoed off the row buildings. Racking up her skirt, he inserted a hand between her legs. “Hook a leg around me.”
When she complied, he placed both hands under her buttocks and angled her against the wall.
“Oh my!” She cried. “What is that?”
Phaeton paused. “My cock, miss. What were you expecting?”
“But—” She gasped.
A few harried shouts came from several yards away. Quickly, he brought himself under her and worked her down onto his prick. He began his thrusts slowly. Not too deep, as yet, until he knew her body would receive him. “Make much ado, as if you are a pretty whore well paid for a quick tumble.”
Buttons loosed, he nuzzled a firm, round breast and tasted salty sweat. He suckled a taut morsel of nipple through thin fabric and bit down. “Ahhh.” She gasped. A flood of moisture drew him deeper.
“That’s a girl. Louder. Tell me you want more.” He drove in. “Do it.”
Her words seethed between her teeth. “I will kill you for this.”
“Must I remind you”—he gasped—“your blade remains at my throat.” Gently, he began to withdraw from her. “In or out, love? Make up your mind.”
A low mewl from this luscious alley cat accompanied a bold thrust of hips. Her cries were layered with mockery. “Oh yes, more of that—big man.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” This woman’s sheath girdled him like some kind of heaven. “I have yet to play deep, miss. How much of me do you want?” His arousal was huge and satisfaction precipitous. He pumped into her, closing in on his own finish. “This is going to be fast.”
“Deeper, lovey.” She cried, urging him onward. Phaeton could just make out the shapes of several men. Her pursuers paused to listen to their heated sighs and muffled groans.
“Yes, oh yes—give it to me.” Warm flesh quivered as her words gave way to lusty exhales.
“Happy to oblige.” As he growled his lust like some kind of wild beast, his fingers pressed into the flesh of her buttocks.
Heavier footsteps this time and the harsh, exhausted breath of hunters in pursuit of runaway prey. The men circled closer, near enough to make out her features or wardrobe.
“Bugger off.” Phaeton barked over his shoulder. “Get your own doxy, mate.” Inarticulate grunts accompanied his intensified thrusts as her pursuers changed course and ran off toward the Embankment.
Arousal heightened by their public exhibitionism, the little minx moaned a fiery incantation. “Jesufina, Marianna, Josephina.”
He was close. On the very edge of climax. He opened his eyes to view the beauty who had captured him. Her eyelids fluttered. Momentarily, she was incapacitated.
A fierce wave of pleasure slammed through his body. Phaeton let loose.
His prick throbbed inside her. A long moment passed, before he remembered the blade. In one swift move, he grabbed the knife and twisted it out of her hands.
Those slightly exotic, almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Get off me.”
One last glimpse up and down the alley. “Very well.” He kept her pressed to the wall and slipped out. “Lovely, unexpected diversion.”
Pants buttoned, he looked up in time to avoid the blow of her fist. The ferocity of her swing caused a temporary loss of balance and the lady tumbled into an iron basement railing.
Phaeton leaned over. “Blimey, she’s knocked out cold.”
He had little choice but to pick her up and throw her over his shoulder. The pirates might double back this way. Pirates? Was she daft, or was he? More likely she was some kind of common street thief. He retraced his steps out of the row and onto the busy thoroughfare of the Strand. Lizzie, dear girl, stood under the streetlamp right where he had left her.
Quickly, he settled both women into a waiting carriage. The coach lurched off, rocking Lizzie back and forth. She tilted her head and studied the young lady. “Who is she?”
“A mystery.” Gaslight briefly lit the interior of the cabin. Enough for him to note his little cohort’s sallow cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Lizzie, anything unusual to report this evening? Perhaps a flying phantasm or two?”
“Nothing much, sir.” She hesitated.
Phaeton removed her gloves and chafed icy hands between his. “Tell me, Lizzie.”
“Well, sir, a very beautiful woman approached me. Pale she was and stood real close, wanting a bit of warmth.” Lizzie pulled at the collar of her dress and began a raspy struggle for air. “I don’t remember much after—”
He pulled her onto his lap. Gently, he brushed back loose curls to expose a lithesome neck and two perfectly dainty puncture wounds.
A dull ache of drums nagged at the back of her head. She moved to stretch and found her wrists tied to the arms of an oversized upholstered chair. Her pulse throbbed under the bindings. Assessing her circumstances, she closed her eyes and feigned a long awakening.
“Good morning, my dove.”
She sensed the unmistakable power of his essence. He was a channeler. A mortal being haunted by demons, or enchanted by fairies. Hard to say which, perhaps both. Genteel society would likely call him a wretched man afflicted by a mental disorder. Wretched? Possibly. But a rare gent he was, and no doubt gif
ted in peculiar ways.
Aware of a bubbling tea kettle and the familiar clink of china cups set on saucers, she opened an eye to observe the dark-haired man from last evening. The man who had thrust into her woman parts. Deep inside, she could still feel the effects of his churlish prick.
The shadowed niche of the alley had afforded scant illumination. This morning she revised her assessment of him. A bit swarthy, he hadn’t shaved as yet and wore no cravat. His waistcoat remained unbuttoned, but she could see enough to know he was nicely made. Genuinely handsome, if a bit untamed.
His nose was strong and straight, but in profile appeared slightly beakish. His mouth was full and, yes, sensuous and kissable. Hair much too long to be fashionable, but there was something about the mode. Bohemian, perhaps? She examined his body as he moved around the stove. He was a nice size. Large enough but not imposing. And that rude shaft was plenty of male.
“If you are quite finished with your assessment of me, I would like to begin one of my own.”
She closed her eye. Blood accelerated through every pathway in her body.
“You must know you have nothing to fear from me.”
Still, a throb of alarm surged in her ears. She shifted her head and forced herself to open both eyes. He stood close by, scratching a raised brow.
“If I have nothing to fear, why have you made me your prisoner?”
“Ah, the ties.” He tugged a side of his mouth upward. “For my own protection.”
She strained against her bindings as he circled the chair. “While the Darjeeling steeps, why don’t we revisit our precious moments together, last evening?”
He had a kind of unruffled, arrogant way about him. She squirmed in the chair. “I prefer an Oolong. Or a nice, smoky Lapsang Souchong.”
His eyes crinkled, but his expression otherwise remained stoic. “You know your tea, Miss, but I shall not be diverted. Evening last, I was having a chase down Savoy Row after a pesky, flirty little phantasm when I was abducted by an equally trifling, yet forward olive-skinned maiden who put a dagger to my neck and proceeded to abuse me.”
His gaze wandered between several undone buttons that exposed much of her flimsy chemise. “Care to explain?”
In the blink of an eye, she moved into a trance. Transporting herself back a few hours, she recalled a whisper of chimera and a tingle of demon. Her eyelashes dropped lower. “I sense unfathomable powers and yet almost unendurable exhaustion. Not death, but a weakness of spirit.” She looked up into his eyes. “And great sadness.”
He studied her. “You have abilities?
She nodded quickly and shook off the spell. “My mother had gifts. A Cajun witch, powerful, beautiful.”
“A Vauda?”
She eyed him suspiciously before nodding. “You know the sang mélangé français ways?
“Your name, mademoiselle?”
“Why should I tell you my name? You hold me captive, sir. Why should I reveal anything to you?”
“Because I believe in civility.” Caught in his own deceit, he shrugged. “Let’s just say I prefer a name. If not possible before intercourse, after will do.”
“I had no idea a man could get up a shag with a knife at his throat.” Was that a smirk or a lopsided grin from him? “That wasn’t a compliment,” she growled.
“Honestly?” He tilted his head back. “Sounded like flattery.”
“You raped me.”
“You demanded it.” He placed a hand on each chair arm and leaned forward. “Why didn’t you cut me ear to ear?”
Her glare faltered. Why hadn’t she killed him? The evidence of her knife was right in front of her. A fresh scar slashed across the side of his throat. If she had pressed harder, he would be dead.
She chose not to respond to his question because she didn’t like the answer. How could she forget those intense waves of arousal? Pleasure that was both frightening and miraculous. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
His gaze lowered to rudely ogle her mouth. “Our first time was rushed, wouldn’t you say?” Grazing the curve of her cheek, his lips brushed closer to her mouth.
Weakly, she parted her lips. “You took advantage of me, sir.”
“I heard little protest.” He held back, his words delivered as a soft caress. “Only oohs and aahs. Your hot, breathless words in my ear.”
She curled the tip of her tongue over the edge of her upper lip. With his attention on her mouth, she furtively lifted a knee between them. “How could I complain with a band of filthy pirates after me?”
“Mmm, most taxing.” His exhale buffeted softly over her cheek. “But, did you enjoy yourself, miss?”
“Yes.” With one swift kick, she shoved him off.
He bellowed a hellish groan, as his hand flew to his crotch. Apparently she had clipped the jewels. Bent over, he walked off his agony by rubbing himself into impressive arousal.
“Happy now?” She braced for a beating. But none came.
Spurning the steeping teapot, he went straight for a bottle of whiskey and popped the cork. She gave him high marks for grog guzzling and pain tolerance.
He sputtered and coughed. “Delighted.”
BRAVA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2012 Jillian Stone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Brava and the B logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-7921-7
Table of Contents
BOOKS BY JILLIAN STONE
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Epilogue
The Seduction of Phaeton Black
Copyright Page
The Moonstone and Miss Jones Page 28