He could no longer smell lavender in the air.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kate watched Detective Sergeant Quinn walk away. His tall, broad form and black coat were easy to spot, even in the early morning mist. His strides were long, his gait hurried, as if he wished to escape her as swiftly as he was able.
He would find Rose. Kate was certain of it. Even on short acquaintance, Kate sensed a deep vein of tenacity in Detective Quinn. It was something in his eyes. A hunger, a craving—a look she wouldn’t soon forget.
She squinted. His dark form faded, becoming harder to see. The streets filled quickly with carts and carriages and pedestrians buying or selling goods. The fog still clung in corners and soon the detective, the first man who had kissed her on the mouth in nearly ten years, would merge with the London haze.
She started after him. In her practical boots, her stride was sure, and she caught up to Detective Quinn quickly.
She couldn’t just let him disappear into the crush of Whitechapel. That figure, hunched against the wind, unmistakable with those wide warrior shoulders and hair that only revealed its true auburn color when a slice of sunlight broke through the haze. That less-than-a-gentleman detective sergeant who’d kissed her quite inappropriately and more deliciously than any man ever had.
If she let him go, how would she ever learn what happened to Rose? And then another thought—foolish, improper, bone deep. If she let him go, would any man ever kiss her that way again?
“Detective!”
The news that the fellow pushing his way through the throngs on Whitechapel Road was a police detective caused a bit of consternation among the crowd. Kate saw a group of men move away from Detective Quinn and a woman selling rags shouted something no lady would dare repeat. The man himself stopped his progress and watched her approach.
Kate slowed to a more ladylike pace and took a deep breath before she paused in front of Detective Quinn. He’d crossed his arms, and she could see the muscle in his jaw ticking where he clenched it. He was so tall; she took a step back to gaze up at him properly. Clear-eyed and clean-shaven, he exuded an air of confidence she hadn’t seen in him the night before. The bluish shadow of a bruise marred the skin near his right eye and cheek, and Kate wondered again about how he’d been wounded. His eyes appeared darker in the daylight than they had in his dim lodging room, but perhaps it was just irritation that turned them a deeper blue. And he was irritated. She expected him to say so, but he simply gazed down at her so intently she was certain he would divine every secret she had ever stashed away.
“I would like to come with you to find Rose.”
He moved, his chest heaving up and down, and Kate thought he might be on the verge of a coughing fit. Then she heard laughter bubbling up, a rich, deep chuckle that shook his whole body. His smile took her breath away. She felt dizzy, on the verge of giggling, but stopped herself. He was laughing at her, after all.
“I fail to see what is so amusing, Detective.”
Kate took a step back when he reached for her, but he wouldn’t be deterred. Detective Quinn moved closer, grasped her shoulders, and turned her around. He pulled her flush against his body, embracing her in his arms, surrounding her with his heat.
“Do you see that man across the way? Near the pub entrance?”
“Y-yes.” Kate spoke through the shivers sparked by his nearness.
“He steals the lives of girls like Rose. Forces them onto the streets and then takes their earnings. Beats them, or worse, if they refuse to pay.”
Kate tried to look back at the detective, but he’d bent his head close to hers. He whispered in her ear, warming her skin with his breath.
“And the woman over there, sitting on the pavement?”
Kate nodded, her hair brushing against his cheek.
“She’s fresh out of Newgate. Though she looks old and broken, she’s the nimblest thief I’ve ever known. Take care not to pass her on the street. She’ll cut your purse from your skirt and you’ll be none the wiser.”
“I—” Kate opened her mouth to protest. She’d learned her lesson about Whitechapel early on and took care never to bring valuables with her when she volunteered at the clinic. She certainly wasn’t fool enough to carry coin loose in her skirt pocket.
“See the boy. He’s just under the stairwell, covered in grime. Rather blends in with the bricks and muck, doesn’t he? Young Tommy Lark looks and listens. He listens to the streets for the King of Thieves and then he sings just like his namesake when he finds a likely mark. Be careful not to let him hear your address when you call it up to the cabbie. Especially if you’ve any valuables at home you’d care to keep.”
Leaning to the right, he placed a finger under her chin, tilting her head toward him.
“You have no idea of the dangers all around you. If you did, you wouldn’t walk these streets so blithely.”
Kate lifted her head to pull away from him, but Detective Quinn cupped her cheek with his palm, holding her near. His tone had been angry, full of frustration, but she read nothing of that in the way he looked at her. He searched her face reverently, his gaze skimming each feature, as if determined to imprint her likeness on his memory. As if they were parting and would never see each other again.
But Kate wasn’t interested in parting. She was interested in helping him find Rose, and she had to persuade him to let her do just that. Finding Rose, helping her, was something useful. Something Kate could do beyond the fleeting moment when she bandaged a patient at the clinic. How could she turn her back and start a life with Mr. Thrumble—if she ever made up her mind to do so—without knowing the young woman’s fate?
It had been years since she’d even considered using her feminine wiles on a man. She wasn’t even certain she possessed such powers anymore. But Detective Quinn seemed to recognize them in her. She lifted her hand to his and saw his gaze soften, the sapphire blue of his eyes lightening, glittering with flecks of silver. He watched her mouth as if he wished to taste her there.
A throaty cackle shattered the moment. A fruit seller nearby called out to them. “Go on, then. Give ‘im a kiss, missus.”
Kate pushed away from Detective Quinn. She needed to breathe and it was impossible with him so close. Her cheeks felt as if she’d been sitting too near the fire. They were making a spectacle of themselves in the middle of Whitechapel Road.
“Please let me help you find Rose.”
He started shaking his head before he spoke, and Kate knew he would deny her.
“I won’t take you to the places I must go in order to find her.”
“Where? Worse than this?” Kate lifted her hand to encompass the crowded Whitechapel street.
“It’s worse behind closed doors. Trust me.”
Kate reached up and placed her hand on his arm. His body was hard, as unbending as the man himself. “Please, I only wish to help you. Help Rose.”
He took her touch as license and stepped toward her, closing the distance she’d created moments before. His coat brushed the front of her dress and his legs pressed against her skirts.
“Why are you so insistent? What does it matter to you?”
“I tended to her last night. I saw her bruises. Most of them weren’t fresh. I know…” The confession, a truth she had shared with no one, was perched on the tip of her tongue. It seemed to come so easily, telling Detective Quinn her secrets. But she held back. “I wish to help her.”
She saw him waver. His expression turned sympathetic, understanding, but only for a moment before his stoic police detective mask slipped back in place.
“It’s too dangerous. And it’s a police matter, Mrs. Guthrie. I can’t let you accompany me. Let’s find you a cab, unless you’re returning to the clinic.” He turned his head back toward the clinic. The fog had thinned to a smoky haze and Kate could almost see the point where Whitechapel Road turned toward Fieldgate Street.
“No, I am not returning.”
“A cab, then. Come with me.” He lifted an ar
m out to her, as if he was a gentleman offering to lead her into a ballroom.
Kate took his arm and they made their way toward a stand of shiny black carriages down the road. A sort of panic began to well up, and she searched her mind for any means of convincing him. Detective Quinn wasn’t the only one with a streak of tenacity. The notion of finding Rose, of accompanying Sergeant Quinn on his inquiries, seemed to dwarf everything else in importance.
“How can I convince you?”
He laughed again, not the deep chortle he’d bellowed before, but a rumble that made Kate’s chest reverberate too.
“Do you mean to corrupt me with a bribe, Mrs. Guthrie?”
“Would you take it?”
“No. Keep your money, or give it to the clinic. They are always in need of donations.”
He was right, of course, and Kate decided she would give money to the clinic if she could not donate her time. But a reckless thought, completely and wholly inappropriate, had taken hold in her mind.
“Not a bribe then, detective. A wager.”
He turned toward her, watching, waiting for her to speak again. Then he smirked. On his mouth the expression was more seductive than mocking. “And what did you intend to wager, Mrs. Guthrie?”
There was something about Detective Quinn. Despite the state she’d found him in at the pub, Kate trusted him. The pain she’d glimpsed in his gaze, and could see shadowing his teasing expression even now, evoked a sense of kinship with him. Pain in others always drew her. But he also exuded an air of raw masculinity that Kate found as disturbing as it was irresistible.
Though his tone was light, his husky voice sparked images in Kate’s mind—bare flesh, heated lovemaking, lingering kisses—experiences she could only imagine, as she’d never found them in the marriage bed. She knew her face was red and flushed, and his steady gaze kindled the flames.
“Let me accompany you to find Rose. I can assist you.”
He ducked his head and Kate wasn’t certain if he was laughing at her again.
“Trained as a detective, are you?”
Kate weighed her words. She had to strike a balance between persuading him and offering a challenge he’d accept.
“Of course I have none of your skills. But I have noticed, when tending women at the clinic, some are more willing to tell the truth to another woman than to our doctors. And the truth of their injuries is the only way we can help them properly.”
He lifted a fist to his mouth and stared at her, sweeping his gaze down her body and then back up again. His inspection unnerved Kate, but she stood still and lifted her chin a fraction, hoping he would read determination in her gaze and stance, and detect nothing of the way his perusal set her pulse racing.
“I can find Rose on my own. I won’t expose you to harm.”
Kate closed her eyes and let go of the breath she’d been holding. What could she say to convince him?
She took a step closer and he tensed, standing up straighter, arms at his sides.
“I’ve been volunteering in Whitechapel for months and I’ve come to no harm. Please, detective. I couldn’t help Rose last night. Let me help her now by assisting you in your inquiries.”
His mouth opened slightly, and Kate prayed he meant to relent.
“And if your assistance proves futile? The wager. What do you wager?”
“Money? I have some funds of my own.”
He smirked again, and it bloomed into a smile, a flash of white in the morning haze.
“I’ve already told you I don’t want your money.”
Kate’s pulse thrummed, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. “What do you propose, detective?”
He glanced around them and then dipped his head, speaking quietly. “A kiss.”
His face was so near, only a few inches separated them from a kiss then and there.
Kate opened her mouth to reply but no words came. How could she agree to a kiss? It was wrong, reckless, wholly inappropriate. She looked up at him, noting the steely glint in his dark eyes, the way his gaze kept slipping down to her mouth. She’d already kissed him once. No, he’d kissed her. And he specified nothing about this wagered kiss. She could offer him her hand, the edge of her cheek. Most of the kisses in her life had been chaste. Surely a chaste kiss was worth the opportunity to help find Rose.
She nodded, one quick nod of her head.
Detective Quinn didn’t respond, except to turn away from her and hasten his pace. As she’d accepted his terms, she assumed he expected her to follow, but Kate could barely match his long-legged stride. When they reached a hansom cab, he didn’t speak a word to her, merely clasped her by the waist and lifted her so that she could seat herself inside without ever touching the single step. A cold chill set her teeth to chattering and she realized how his nearness had warmed her. She glanced at him, but he stood to the side barking directions at the cabbie above.
Then he made her shiver for another reason altogether.
He hopped up into the cab and sat beside her. Kate scooted as far to the left as she could, but their bodies still touched—arm against arm, hip against hip, thigh against thigh. Her skirts draped across one of his boots and part of his trouser leg. The tail of his black coat lay partially in her lap. They merged, and it would have taken an effort to determine where he ended and she began. His nearness was an expected balm. He smelled of warm man and shaving soap, and somehow, despite the murky congestion of Whitechapel, of fresh air.
For a moment Kate simply relished his presence. He had not spoken since the moment she’d accepted his terms. Was he appalled at how easily she conceded?
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t help it. The sway of the carriage, the heat of his body, his unique spicy scent—all of it lulled her. It was so appealing to blot out everything else—her lingering doubts about marriage to Mr. Thrumble, her anxiety for Rose, her regret over leaving her work at the clinic behind.
“When do I get my kiss?”
Kate opened her eyes and found him watching her, his head tilted and resting against the cab’s back wall.
He had freckles. She’d never noticed them before, but now the dusting of colored spots was clear across his pale nose and cheeks.
She’d made the wager, but apparently he already doubted she’d see it through.
“When you prove I’m useless as a detective, I suppose.”
That earned her a smile, wide and honest, hiding nothing and highlighting the twin dimples on each side of his full mouth.
Then he turned serious, lifting his head to meet her gaze eye to eye. “I promise we’ll find Rose. Rest assured.”
Kate believed him. Determination and drive radiated from him like the heat that warmed her through his overcoat.
She grinned and that seemed to satisfy him.
Then, after a moment of resting his head, he turned to her again.
“When we find Rose, whether you’ve proved helpful or not…” He turned away from her and faced forward, then turned his gaze toward her clasped hands settled in her lap. He lifted his hand as if he wished to touch her. But instead he bent his fingers into a fist and rested it on the door of the cab. “No matter what happens, Kate, I’ll still want that kiss.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
He had no right to touch her, and he certainly had no right to kiss her. But, mercy, Kate Guthrie tempted him without even trying. His drunkenness the night before had done nothing to dull the memory of her smooth skin and the sweet flavor of her kiss. The notion of refusing her silly wager, sending her on her way, and never seeing her again frustrated him nearly as much as having her near.
He’d sworn off women. Anne’s refusal to marry him had been heart wrenching, though hardly unexpected. He’d chosen police work; she’d wanted more. But it was learning the more she sought was in the arms of Edward Langdon, his longtime friend and law school classmate, that had broken him.
But God help him, right or wrong, vow be damned, Ben wanted to taste Kate Guthrie once more. He knew one kiss wouldn�
��t be enough, but he would take it.
She didn’t respond to his bold declaration. He didn’t expect her to. Yet she didn’t turn away from him either. She watched him, her gaze taking in every movement—his fisted hand, tense posture, even noticing when licked his lips. Did she know he could taste her lavender scent on the air around them? This close, the heat between them flushed her skin. This close, he had only to dip his head and he could taste her again.
The carriage swung around a corner and rocked to a stop.
“Where are we?”
Her voice was calm and steady, steadier than Ben could have managed, and the blush suffusing her cheeks was the only indication their proximity had affected her.
Ben cleared his throat, hoping he could speak with as much ease. “Cotton Street, near London Hospital. The last time Rose was brought into the station, she gave an address here.”
“You’ve arrested her before?”
Her expression was wide-eyed, and Ben relished the opportunity to catalog every fleck and sliver of color that comprised their gray shade.
“Several times. Rose is well known at Leman Street station.”
Ben paid the cabbie and then reached up to assist Kate down from the hansom. She allowed him to help her, and once her feet touched the ground, he held her far too long, enjoying the way his hands fit the curve of her waist.
“Just this way.”
He indicated the north end of the street and she started ahead of him. It took a good measure of restraint not to wrap an arm around her protectively and hold her near. But they weren’t newlyweds on a gambol along the Brighton coast, and she ususally made her way in Whitechapel without his protection.
She stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. Though he doubted she intended it, the gesture was seductive, and his body reacted as if to a siren’s call.
“Are you coming, Detective Quinn?”
He nodded sharply before joining her. They continued wordlessly to a ramshackle boarding house. Ben stepped in front of Kate and rapped on the door, wary of what they might find on the other side. Each moment they waited for a response ratcheted his anxiety. Allowing Kate to accompany him to such a place, no matter how pleasurable the potential reward, was a mistake.
Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel Page 6