Lady of Desire

by Gaelen Foley

  Tucking the elegant, deadly weapon into her half boot, she donned a shapeless, hooded cloak over her gown. Rackford would be so pleased that she had followed all of his injunctions on how to move about safely after dark, she thought with growing excitement for her adventure.

  Pulling the hood of her cloak up to shadow her face, she sneaked out of the house by the veranda door and stole away through the garden, just like the night she had tried to run away from home. This time, her heart was light, knowing she was going to her lover.

  She could not wait to see his face when she told him that she loved him.

  Waving down the first hackney coach that passed her on St. James’s Street, she took it to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, her pulse racing with nervous anticipation. When the coach stopped in front of Lord and Lady Truro’s house, she saw the pair of Bow Street runners who had been assigned to watch Rackford around the clock. She chewed her lip and cast about quickly for an explanation for her arrival that would not lead them to realize she was a young lady of Quality dabbling in scandal.

  But just then, as she started to get out of the coach, she spied a flicker of motion in the shadows alongside the house, some twenty yards away. An agile, muscular silhouette vaulted up onto the garden wall and disappeared silently over it. She furrowed her brow.

  Rackford?

  He was already gone, vanishing like…a thief in the night. The thought filled her with instant apprehension. What the devil was he up to, sneaking out of his own house?

  “You got some business ’ere, miss?” one of the Bow Street runners asked, sauntering over toward her where she stood half in, half out of the carriage.

  She glanced at the man in distraction. “No,” she said abruptly, then turned to the coachman. “Drive on. That way.” She pointed, then nodded to the Runner. “Good evening.”

  The officer tipped his hat to her with a suspicious look. As the hackney rolled into motion, continuing on down the street, she searched the surrounding darkness for Rackford with inexplicably mounting dread.

  “O’Dell!”

  Rackford’s deep, thunderous roar filled the rookery, bounding off the brick buildings and dark cobbled streets.

  At last, he stalked into the open before his former headquarters.

  He was empty-handed, though his weapons waited at his waist. His body bristled as he stood out in front of the building, his feet planted wide.

  He was done with sneak attacks. Certain that Jacinda’s rejection was inevitable after the way he had embarrassed her at bloody Almack’s, nothing else mattered. It was time to finish this once and for all.

  “O’Dell!” he bellowed again. “Come out and face me, you coward!”

  Hearing his shouts, the Jackals began prowling out of the gin-shop, edging toward him warily, as though they suspected he had gone mad. He could feel the muzzles of at least ten guns trained on him, but none of the men fired, taken off guard, a bit confused by his slow advance, perhaps even a little intrigued by his audacious approach. Likely they half suspected a trick. Rackford turned his attention to O’Dell’s followers and bodyguards, well aware that their leader’s control over them had been slipping for some time now. He was determined to shame his enemy out into the open.

  “You there! Are you going to keep letting O’Dell hide behind you?” he challenged them.

  They shifted uneasily.

  “Where is he? Too scared to show his face?”

  No answer.

  “You call this man your leader?” he pressed on in a tone that rang with command. “Well, I ask you, are you better off because of him, or worse? I already know the answer to that. Aye, Cullen O’Dell has given you nothing but trouble and grief. He’s not a leader. He’s a thug. And a coward.”

  “There’s no cowards ’ere, Blade!” Tyburn Tim yelled in defiance.

  The others roughly agreed, bristling.

  “No? Then why don’t one of you go tell him to come out here and finish this like a man? Just him and me.”

  “Well, if it ain’t the great Billy Blade!” O’Dell swaggered out of the gin shop, his narrow face etched with bitter scorn, but there was fear in his eyes. “Look at you back from the dead to teach me how to be a big man, eh?”

  Rackford’s mouth thinned in a sly, hostile smile.

  O’Dell looked at his men. “Kill him.”

  Nobody moved.

  Tyburn Tim was the only one who cocked his gun and took aim at Rackford, but Oliver Strayhorn pushed the muzzle of Tim’s musket back down to the ground.

  “Kill him yourself, O’Dell.” The tall young man coolly issued the challenge. “Looks to me as though this is between you and Blade. Unless you’re afraid, like he said?”

  “You scurvy bastard, Strayhorn,” O’Dell hissed. “I ain’t afraid of any man, not you, and especially not ’im!”

  “Good. Then let it be a fair fight.” When Strayhorn jerked a curt nod at the others, they retreated a few steps, lowering their weapons.

  Rackford sent Strayhorn an appreciative glance; then his stare homed in on O’Dell. The Jackals’ leader clearly seemed to realize as he glanced around at his men that he had a serious problem on his hands.

  If he fought Rackford, he might very well die; if he refused to fight, he would lose face completely and forfeit his place as their captain.

  “Bugger yourselves, the lot o’ you,” O’Dell muttered at his men with a look of grim resolve. He tossed his musket to Tyburn Tim, then unsheathed his knife with a cold hiss of metal and stalked toward Rackford.

  He flicked his fingers over the hilt of his weapon, adjusting his grip. A surge of savage energy pounded in Rackford’s veins as he moved into fighting stance. He and O’Dell circled slowly, sizing each other up.

  O’Dell slashed at him in a swift arc that cut the air. Rackford curved deftly, then lunged, striking back. O’Dell evaded the thrust, his rookery instincts as finely well honed as Rackford’s.

  The world spun faster; the faces of the men looking on became a dizzying blur. Rackford’s heart hammered in his ears.

  “Where’ve you been, Blade? You’ve lost your touch,” O’Dell taunted him.

  He snarled and they clashed, tumbling onto the ground with the force of Rackford’s charge. They rolled; he dove for O’Dell’s knife. As he struggled to pin O’Dell’s wrist to the cobblestones, the man fought like a hellion. Their muscles strained as each strove to overpower the other.

  Sweat dripped from Rackford’s brow, the salt of it stinging as it ran into his eyes.

  The tip of O’Dell’s blade nicked Rackford’s jaw. He cursed, slamming O’Dell’s hand to the ground, but O’Dell suddenly planted his feet in Rackford’s stomach and flung him back. Thrown back several feet, Rackford caught his balance, once more at the ready.

  O’Dell climbed to his feet and wiped the greasy sweat off his brow with his forearm, then flashed him an unpleasant grin. “Come on, Billy. This time when you die, it’ll be for good. Think I’ll cut off your head and keep it on my wall for a trophy. What do ye say to that?”

  O’Dell’s mad laughter bounded off the flat brick faces of the surrounding buildings. Gazing at him in contempt so sharp he could almost taste it, Rackford shrugged off his enemy’s stupid vaunting, but the grotesque threat reminded him of how O’Dell had terrorized little Eddie the Knuckler.

  He could still see the boy’s round, grubby face as vividly as though that afternoon in Newgate were only yesterday, could still hear his high-pitched voice. He said if I didn’t help him, he’d make me into a wallet!

  Rackford’s eyes narrowed with deepening wrath. O’Dell was in better form than he had expected, but as he remembered that bruised, scared, unloved kid, he felt new force seeping into his veins from he knew not where. With pounding intensity, all of his awareness narrowed down to the moment at hand.

  He attacked, his every step sure and strong as he advanced relentlessly, driving O’Dell back. He was heedless of the stabbing, slicing blows with which O’Dell tried to ward him off, dodgin
g each with lightning speed. Rackford’s blade connected twice in rapid succession, cutting O’Dell’s shoulder, then biting into his side with swift precision.

  Cursing, O’Dell lashed out with a roundhouse kick to thrust him back, but Rackford grabbed his leg and twisted it. O’Dell crashed to the ground with a furious shout, his knife clattering out of his grasp as he reached to break his fall.

  At once, Rackford kicked the weapon out of range.

  “God damn you, Blade!” Tyburn Tim exploded, but Strayhorn and his followers held him back.

  Rackford slowly circled the man before he deigned to move in for the kill.

  Sitting on the ground, O’Dell stared up at him, his chest heaving. “One of you, do something!” he ordered his men, but Strayhorn stayed them.

  “It was a fair fight, O’Dell. You lost. Truth is, we’re bloody sick of you around here.”

  “I’ll kill you,” he wrenched out at the young man.

  “You’re not killin’ anybody, mate,” Rackford murmured.

  O’Dell shrieked as Blade grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, bringing his knife up to his throat.

  “Wait!” he gasped. “Jesus, don’t do it, Blade. I—I never did you any harm.”

  He jerked O’Dell’s head back farther, and O’Dell let out another small scream, wild-eyed with fear. In the street around them, the Jackals exchanged uneasy looks as their bullying leader was indeed revealed as a coward.

  “You invaded my turf. You had my men arrested. You were my friend and you betrayed me. You and your mongrel dogs committed atrocities against the people under my protection. What of the Murphy girl?”

  “She wanted it!”

  He pricked O’Dell’s neck for that. The wound wasn’t deep, but it bled enough to scare the man into blathering shamelessly for his life. “You can’t kill me, Blade. You and Nate would have never survived on your own all those years ago. I took you in, taught you everything I knew. That night—it’s all because of that night—it’s not my fault. It was Yellow Cane,” he whispered, beginning to sob.

  Rackford wavered, struggling with the memory of the terrified boy O’Dell had been on that awful night and the pity it roused in his breast. He was not quite sure why, ever since then, he had felt vaguely responsible for O’Dell’s actions.

  He held O’Dell’s chin up for the coup de grace, but his hands were shaking, and he could feel his resolve crumbling. “Damn you, why didn’t you just stay with us? Nate, the others. We would have looked out for you!”

  “Don’t kill me, Blade. For the love of God. You saved my life once.”

  Slowly, he released his grip on O’Dell’s hair, his shoulders rising and falling as he panted with tumultuous emotion, wrath and pity and grief all rolled into a jumble of pain. He could not simply cut the poor bastard’s throat in cold blood as he sat there. He was not capable of it. Not anymore. O’Dell was beaten, broken, disgraced before his men, and unarmed—and they had once been friends. At bottom, he had never really hated O’Dell, but had been more angry at himself for not being able to turn him around.

  “Strayhorn!” Rackford called in a dark tone.

  The tall young man walked over and looked at him in question.

  “There is a large bounty on O’Dell’s head. Tyburn Tim’s, as well. Turn them over to Bow Street and the gold is yours.”

  Strayhorn answered Rackford’s hard stare with a shrewd nod. “I will. You have my word on it.”

  “Then it seems my business here is done,” he said softly. He passed one last, farewell glance over his former home, then sheathed his knife and turned around, weary behind his bravado as he began walking away.

  His back turned, he was unaware of O’Dell reaching for the pistol hidden beneath his coat. Before Strayhorn could stop him, O’Dell, still sitting on the ground, stretched out his arm, taking aim at Rackford’s back.

  A shot rang out.

  Rackford whirled around as O’Dell slumped to the ground, shot in the head.

  Some of the men were shouting; all looked around in confusion. Rackford saw the pistol in O’Dell’s hand and thought for a second the man had shot himself.

  “Up there!” someone yelled.

  Rackford lifted his gaze and saw the slim figure on the rooftop of the opposite building, where he had often posted his sentries in the past. Dark against the starry sky, the sniper was wrapped in a large cloak that billowed slightly on the night breeze. As he watched, the figure pushed back the cloak’s hood. His eyes widened as moonlight kissed the outline of her long, billowing curls.

  Jacinda.

  “What the hell?” said a voice in unchecked fury nearby. In the blink of an eye, Tyburn Tim grabbed the musket back that one of Strayhorn’s followers had taken away from him and aimed the muzzle straight at her.

  Rackford did not think. He swept his knife out of its sheath and hurled it at the man. The shot flew wide as the blade plunged in between Tyburn Tim’s ribs. The man screamed at the same moment the bullet slammed into the brick facade just below her position.

  Somehow he knew she hadn’t even flinched.

  “Get out of there now, Blade!” she yelled down to him in regal fury, a lioness watching over him. “I’ve got your back.”

  Strayhorn turned to him with a twinkle of amused understanding dawning in his eyes. “If I were you, I’d do as she says.”

  An astonished smile spread slowly over Rackford’s face as he lifted his gaze once more to his lady’s victorious silhouette. With her pale hair gleaming in the moonlight, she was, he thought, the mightiest, fairest, most dazzling star in the firmament.

  She had come after him.

  The chit had just saved his life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Feeling her way through the darkness of the old, abandoned building, Jacinda ran down the several flights of stairs, careened around the cobwebby newel post, and fled outside just as Rackford approached the entrance.

  She rushed out the doorway and flung herself at once into his arms, holding him tightly in fierce protectiveness. As his arms wrapped around her, she stood on tiptoe and pulled him down to her, capturing his mouth in a fevered kiss.

  His response was full of aggressive ardor, his mouth claiming hers in unbridled need. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears of jumbled emotion rising behind her eyelids, torn between ire at the man for putting himself in such danger and exultation that he was safe.

  She parted her lips wider for his possessive kiss, running her hands all over his muscled body as she reassured herself that he was indeed—miraculously—unharmed. Her mind still reeled with the knowledge that she, Jacinda Knight, had just killed the treacherous Cullen O’Dell. Having seen him raise his weapon to shoot Rackford in the back, she felt nary a pang of remorse for his enemy’s death.

  Rackford ended the kiss, tearing his lips away from hers, then cupped her face between his hands, searching her eyes in the moonlight. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Come, I’ll explain in the hackney.” Taking his hand, she led him hurriedly around the corner, where the hackney coach she had hired earlier still waited.

  She could hear the coachman making conversation with his horses, bravely trying to calm his own nerves in this dangerous quarter of the city. “Easy, Thunder. Now don’t you mind that, it’s just an alley cat—”

  “Coachman!” Jacinda called as she and Rackford strode toward him.

  The little man looked over, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Lud, m’um, thank heavens you’re back safe!”

  She tossed him her small bag of coins as his reward. “Take us back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields!”

  “Yes, Ma’am!”

  Rackford opened the door for her. She sprang up into the coach’s dark interior. He followed her in, pulling the door closed as the driver urged his team into motion.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said anxiously, noting the scratch on his jaw as he slid into the seat beside her.

  “It’s nothing,” he muttered,
blotting the small nick on his jaw with the edge of his sleeve.

  She took his face between her hands and inspected it. “Oh, my poor Billy.” Shaking her head with a prayer of thanks that this was the worst of his injuries, she kissed his cheek.

  Without warning, he pulled her onto his lap. “How did you do that? You never told me you were such a fine markswoman, Jacinda! You must have been twenty yards away from the target, and there was scarcely any light. Egads, girl, you got the blackguard right between the eyes!”

  She winced, though his praise filled her with modest pleasure. “Oh, it was a lucky shot, that’s all. My brothers always used to challenge me to try out my target practice while wearing a blindfold, but never mind that. You, my dear, you were magnificent! Such daring, such strength,” she said with relish, leaning her face nearer to his. “Such prowess,” she added, running her hand down his chest.

  “Prowess?” he echoed.

  “Most definitely.” With a naughty smile and a small tug, she unfastened the top button of his shirt.

  “Jacinda?”

  “Yes, Rackford?” she murmured, opening the second button.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  With a philosophical sigh, she shifted her position and hiked up her skirts to sit astride his lap. She wound her arms around his neck and stared for a moment into his eyes. “Oh, Billy, what happened tonight at Almack’s brought me to my senses.” She lowered her head. “I left there shortly after you did—”

  “I’m sorry I stormed out,” he interrupted in chagrin. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have let Acer Loring get to me. I owe you an apology for what I said to you, as well—”

  She laid her finger gently over his lips, silencing him. “He deserved it, and so did I. Hang Almack’s, anyway, and hang the Patronesses, too. If they won’t let you in, then I don’t want to be there, either. I prefer the rookery, or the rooftops, or the surface of the moon—as long as it’s where you are. I love you, Billy,” she said softly. “I had to come and tell you. And if, by chance, your offer still stands—” she hesitated, chastened but hopeful as she peered into his eyes, “I would be most honored to become your wife.”