Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel

by Carlyle, Christy

  She stood up in the tub and covered herself, arms crossed against her chest. Among the clothing the innkeeper’s wife had left was a swath of clean linen and Ben wrapped her in the dry fabric before helping Kate step from the bath.

  Holding her, unwilling to let go, Ben gestured with a nod to the pile on the edge of the mattress. “I asked her to bring a fresh skirt and blouse if she had it. They may be far too large for you, but they’re clean.”

  Lifting her hands, she went for his shift buttons again, releasing those she’d neglected earlier. Gaze fixed on his chest, she revealed more of his skin, examining every inch with the utmost care.

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness. I’m not used to such a fuss.”

  You should be. What man could fail to treat this woman with care? He’d called Andrew Guthrie a fool, but other more colorful words played through his mind.

  Ben opened his mouth to tell her that she deserved every bit of pampering she could bear, but she kissed him and his voice caught in his throat. Her lips moved, not against his mouth, but on his chest. She pressed a kiss to the place she’d laid her hand, sparking the same frenzied tattoo of his heart. Then she lifted her head, reaching up to press her mouth against the base of his throat. When she flicked her tongue out to taste him, his restraint shattered.

  Lifting her in his arms, right out of the damp linen that separated her body from his, Ben turned and eased Kate onto the bed. Pulling and fumbling, she helped divest him of every scrap of his clothing until they lay together, bare flesh against bare flesh, the heat between them melding their bodies so deliciously that Ben knew he’d need a very good reason to ever put on clothing again.

  The velvet softness of her skin contrasted with the coarse hair on his chest, the scruff of stubble on his face. Her lush limbs were so at odds with his firm, muscled arms and thighs, and yet they fit together like a key in its lock. And like a key molded just for the latch he kept on his heart, Kate’s trusting gaze loosed the desire for her he’d only ever barely subdued.

  Even with no space between their bodies, Kate wanted him closer. This was passion—this need, this ache, having the flavor of Ben’s skin on her tongue and wanting another taste, his scent overwhelming her, his weight pinning her to the bed, his body just one stroke away from being inside of her. And she wanted more. This was what she had missed and craved and yearned for, and then convinced herself was simply the stuff of nonsense. Yet here it was as real and necessary as the blood flowing through her veins with such force she could hear her own heartbeat thumping in her ears. She could become addicted to passion, need it every single day. How could anyone do without?

  She’d known Ben was a large man, but knowing he was strong and feeling his muscled body pressed against her proved so very different. He was hard, not just the hot, urgent length of him pulsing at the edge of her core, but the muscles carved across his chest, the sinews flexing in his warrior’s arms and immense shoulders. She rested her hand on his arm, stroking along the length of his bulging brawn—all hard, tense sculpted beauty beneath her fingers.

  Ben slid his fingers down Kate’s arm, then dipped toward her waist, over the swell of her hip. He raised gooseflesh and she didn’t care, didn’t flinch or ask him to stop. She wanted more. When he grasped her hip, slipping his calloused fingers around to cup her buttocks and position her just so against him, she bent her knees, cradling him, urging him inside. He was gentle as he slid against her, patient, building her desire, as if he still harbored some thread of doubt that she wanted this moment between them.

  But there was no doubt. Kate had never wanted a man with such a fierce, savage need. And it was nothing to do with duty or propriety, what she should do, who she should want. It was nothing to do with helping another, but finally about grasping what she needed to help herself. Her feelings for Ben were fresh and fragile, yet, somehow, deep as bedrock.

  To show him her certainty, her need, she bucked as much as his weight would allow, and he slipped inside. Her answering moan was too loud, too wanton, but she didn’t care. Mercy, the size of him—the sweet, delicious size of this man who was over her, in her, surrounding her with his heat and scent. And she wanted more of him. She pulled at his shoulders, scraping her fingers through his hair, urging him closer, deeper.

  He stroked her with exquisite skill, giving her more with each thrust, dancing her closer to the edge. His blue eyes were sapphire dark as he watched her, watched her writhe and moan as he moved inside her, watched as he spoke her name on a growl as he thrust deep.

  Then he stilled and Kate bucked and clutched at him, dragging her fingers across his back.

  Ben buried his face in her hair, kissing, nipping, and tasting the skin of her neck before whispering in a breathless rasp against her ear. “I’m not going unless you come with me.”

  Kate turned her face to his for a kiss. “Take me with you.”

  He smiled against her mouth and began to move inside her again. He reached down to her breast, stroking her with his fingers, cupping her in his warm palm, and then tilting his head just enough to capture her nipple in his mouth. He laved her, the slick slide of his tongue matching the rhythm of his thrusts, and Kate was lost. She gasped and keened, every breath, every sensation swelling, pulsing until she broke on a cry. She heard Ben’s cry too before he rained kisses across her face and neck, his breath gusting hot against her damp skin. Then he lay on his side, pulling her with him, sheltering her in his embrace.

  Kate had no notion of how long she stayed in Ben’s arms, only that she had never known such pleasure—a kind of melting bliss, like heated syrup in her veins. The fire had gone out, but Ben’s nearness was enough to keep her warm.

  When he pulled the coverlet up over their bodies, Kate realized she’d begun to doze.

  “We should get you home.” Ben said the words on a sigh against Kate’s hair. She lay with her back to him and turned her face, trying to catch his gaze.

  “Must we?” Kate turned over, stretching out on her back, reaching up to stroke her hand along his cheek.

  “Your brother—”

  “Knows I am safe and sound, thanks to your message. I’m a widow. I do as I please.” Kate tested the words as much as spoke them. She’d never said anything quite so bold, never thrown off convention with as much ease.

  “Is that so?” Ben smiled, but there was no ridicule in his expression. Kate imagined she saw a flash of pride, a glimmer of admiration, and she loved him for it.

  She loved him. There it was, terrifying and true, and not a great surprise at all.

  Detective that he was, he noticed every nuance of her expression, watched her as if he was collecting clues.

  “What is it?”

  “I…” Right there. The words were just there in her heart, eager to burst from her mouth, but fear clutched at her too. His expectant look turned worried, and then he reached for her.

  “Kate.”

  No one said her name like Benjamin Quinn said it.

  “I love you.”

  The stark expression of a moment before didn’t ease with her words. He tensed, opening his mouth as if to speak but uttered no sound. He looked shocked or horrified, Kate wasn’t certain which.

  She waited, an ache blooming in her chest and her throat burning as if the words had scorched her. She moved, trying to turn away from her, but he reached a hand out and grasped her arm to stop her.

  “Kate, look at me.”

  The simple request took more than an ounce of will to comply.

  When she turned toward him, she only glimpsed his steady blue gaze a moment before his mouth was on hers—crushing, searing, so powerful she released a moan and felt a tear slip from the corner of her eye.

  When he’d plundered and tasted and dazed her with the stroke of his tongue, he pulled back. “I love you, Kate. You must know that I love you.”

  Kate reached up and traced the line of freckles across his cheek. He nipped at her finger before soothing it with a kiss.

 
; “You do know, don’t you?”

  The earnest tone in his voice sparked a fluttering in her chest. She smiled and tapped her index finger on her lip as if giving the matter a great deal of thought. “Hmm. What evidence do you have?”

  Ben slid his leg between hers before moving, lifting his body, and settling between her thighs again. He nudged her finger from her mouth and replaced it with a too-brief kiss.

  “You’re ever in my thoughts, your scent follows me wherever I go, and I find more pleasure”—he moved against her as he spoke, fitting their bodies together—“in your company than anyone I’ve ever known.”

  He pressed into her in one smooth stroke, and Kate moaned. Leaning to kiss the shell of her ear, Ben whispered against her skin.

  “Convinced?”

  Kate lifted her arms to wrap them around his shoulders, carding her fingers through the waves of his hair. She lifted her hips, urging him to finish what he’d started.

  “Perhaps you should prove it to me. You are a detective, after all.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  December 14th, 1888

  Squinting against the light, Kate turned away from the buttery glow, but her body protested with every motion. From head to toe, she ached, but she grinned against the pillow when her sleep-fogged mind cleared. Jack Sharp might have given her a bruise or two, but Benjamin Quinn had made her body sore in the ways she could not regret. And he was the only man there in her mind—no haunting visions of Andrew, no memories of Rose’s violent beau, just one passionate, enticing detective.

  She sat up in bed, scrubbing at her eyes, and found Ben kneeling by the fireplace, feeding it coals to warm the room. Torso bare, he was clad in only his black trousers. She enjoyed studying the contrast of firelight on his belly and soft morning light on the curves and shadows of his muscled back before he turned to her.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “I suspect it was the sun.” Kate squinted at the ray of sunlight bursting through the frost-covered windowpane.

  He grinned when he stood and turned toward her, hands resting on his hips.

  “I must look dreadful.” Kate reached up to untangle her hair and found that the strands damp from her bath the night before had dried into haphazard ringlets.

  “That’s not what I was thinking.”

  She was afraid to ask but arched an eyebrow, encouraging an explanation.

  Ben dipped his head before meeting her gaze. “I was thinking you’re beautiful. And I…” He ducked his head again, then looked up. “I was thinking I can’t wait until the first morning I wake beside you as your husband.”

  “Husband?” Kate spoke the word slowly, drawing out the two syllables, hating the flavor of it on her tongue. It was a word she associated with only one man, a man who had taken her notions of love and marriage and twisted them into pain, torment, an existence so unbearable she couldn’t muster a tear of remorse or grief for his unexpected death in the prime of his life and just two days shy of their second anniversary. “I don’t want a husband.”

  She meant Andrew, of course. She could not, would not, ever endure that kind of life again. But her words were out now, without the explanation she intended.

  “I see.”

  Ben went pale, so pale that his freckles stood out, making him look young and vulnerable. Kate wanted to go to him, hold him and explain, but he’d already turned away from her. He shoved an arm into his shirt and then the other, so violently she heard the fabric rip at the seams. He didn’t bother buttoning his vest, but he yanked and swiped at his neck cloth. He managed a knot, then pulled it out in frustration.

  “Ben, I didn’t mean—”

  “You should get dressed. I’ll go down and arrange a cab to take you home.”

  The pain in his voice was wrong. Kate never meant to hurt him, never meant to shatter the tenderness that had grown between them. She pushed the covers back and got out of bed to approach him, but he raised his hand to stop her.

  “Please, Kate. Put some clothes on.”

  She didn’t listen, didn’t give him what he asked. Instead she approached him and took the hand he held out to her. She pressed his large palm to her chest, just above her breasts, and hoped he could feel, not just the hectic beat of her heart, but her love for him. If the poets were right and love dwelt in the heart, Kate’s was overflowing with emotion for Benjamin Quinn. Surely he could feel that, knew that, after their lovemaking and declarations.

  He leaned into her, pressing his forehead to hers. “If you’re trying to drive me mad, you’ve made a good start.”

  “Only mad with passion, with love.”

  He reared back and cupped her chin between his fingers, titling her head up so their gazes clashed.

  “You love me?”

  The hope flaring in his eyes made Kate grin.

  “Of course I do, but I—”

  The moment she said the word but he stopped touching her, and Kate wanted to take the word back. He had to know she loved him. The rest—untangling her fears about marriage—could come later.

  “I know. You’ve no interest in marrying me. But you care for me. You’ll always care for me.” He stepped away from her and jerked his untied neck cloth from around his neck. He turned and threw the fabric on the fire before stalking to the door. Kate wondered if it was the same necktie she’d helped him remove the night they’d met. Pain bloomed in her chest like a splinter stuck deep in her heart. Did he wish to discard her as thoroughly as he’d thrown away the slip of fabric?

  “Ben, wait.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and her throat burned with all she wished to say. She’d known such pleasure, such contentment just moments before, but her limbs turned leaden, weighed down with sadness and regret. So much joy couldn’t turn sour so quickly.

  “No. I know those words by heart. I’ve heard them before. Don’t ask me to tread this path again. Not with you.”

  He opened the door, then stopped to glance back at her. Pain, stark and raw, was etched in the firm line of his mouth, his blank, lifeless gaze, and the defeated slump of his shoulders. “I’ll have the innkeeper call you a cab. Goodbye, Kate.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  One week later - December 21st, 1888

  “I can only offer my sincerest thanks, my lord. Though words seem insufficient. I truly believe these donations will change lives.”

  Kate took the cheque from the aristocrat’s fingers and then attempted a curtsy, though her out-of-practice legs protested. When she straightened, Lord Davenport unfurled the frown he’d apparently formed while watching her. Was her curtsy truly so distasteful?

  He waved away her thanks with the flick of his wrist. “Nonsense, Mrs. Guthrie. We only hope this donation will prove sufficient. Will it do for a year of running your settlement house, do you think?”

  “At least, my lord. Thank you.”

  Lord Davenport tipped his head and offered a rather pained smile, as if he found no pleasure in being thanked for his benevolence.

  “It’s all down to my wife, Annabel, as you know.” His whole demeanor brightened as he said her name, and the love he felt for his wife was as clear as the cloudless December sky. “Who knew she was as good at raising money as she is at spending it?”

  Kate smiled and the earl offered a grin in return.

  “Is the countess at home this morning? I should like to thank her for her efforts and generosity.”

  The earl moved toward the beautifully carved marble fireplace that dominated the drawing room before replying.

  “She is at home and has promised to join us. A family matter has detained her. Shall I ring for tea?”

  Before Kate could consider the question or offer a response, Lord Davenport tugged on an embroidered bell pull to the left the fireplace.

  He indicated a settee and Kate sat as daintily as she thought a visit with an earl demanded.

  Lord Davenport sat too, crossing his long legs and settling the tails of his morning jacket around him.

&n
bsp; “Tell me, Mrs. Guthrie, have you secured a property for your settlement house?”

  The earl lifted a gold watch from his vest pocket as he spoke and flicked it open to glance at the face as he waited for her to answer. The duty of entertaining without his wife was clearly not one he relished.

  “I am very near to doing so, my lord. I’m in negotiations with the property owner and have made a fair offer.”

  He lifted a blond eyebrow and his chiseled features formed into a dubious frown. “Is property so hard to come by in Whitechapel?”

  “Surprisingly so, my lord. The gentleman who owns the property I have my eye on had considered turning his building into common lodging rooms. He believes it might fetch him a good income, yet he’s equally eager to sell the property and move out of Whitechapel.”

  The earl nodded, as if that notion made perfect sense. “Yes, I can understand why. Do you think it’s a place you should be moving into, Mrs. Guthrie?”

  Kate found the question shocking, considering the man had just given her a check to fund a project in the district, but she knew the reputation of the East End. She knew there was good reason for it too. The bruises on her cheek, arm, and leg from Jack Sharp’s attack had taken days to fade.

  But she couldn’t think of Whitechapel as simply a place of danger inhabited by violent men. She had met one man there who had shown her nothing but respect and kindness, and given her a night of sublime pleasure. She couldn’t regret a single moment she’d spent in Whitechapel because it had all led her on this path—deciding to pursue her plans for a settlement house. It had led to her meeting and falling in love with Benjamin Quinn.

  The ticking of an ornate grandfather clock in the corner grew loud in her ears, and Kate realized the earl was staring at her, waiting for her answer.

  “Yes, my lord. There is great need in Whitechapel, and I believe it’s where such a settlement can offer the most benefit.” She knew the words were proper, expected, but the people she’d met and experiences she’d had in Whitechapel came to mind. “I have met the most hardworking people in the East End, my lord. Good people.”