by Shana Galen
“You touched...” She pressed a hand to her abdomen and lifted it so it skimmed over her breast.
His cock hardened at the gesture, and he had to swallow before he could speak again. “There’s more.”
She shook her head, fiercely this time. “I’ve said enough. It’s my turn to ask a question.”
He wanted to know all of her fantasy, but he was not so mad with desire as to think this the time and place. Of course, this was the only time they might have and the bookshop the only place.
“Ask me, then,” he said.
The bell above the shop door jangled, and Cassandra jumped. He heard a man’s voice greet the shopgirl and then a woman’s.
Cassandra cleared her throat and reached for another book on the shelf. He should do the same, pretend to browse lest they be observed conversing.
But he didn’t reach for another book. He wanted Cassandra alone, wanted to continue this conversation.
“Come with me.” He took the book from her hand, replaced it on the shelf, then grasped her wrist. He knew every exit from the bookshop. He’d found them all the first time he’d come. He always knew every exit from any building where he spent time. Now he pulled her toward a rear door with a bar over it to keep it secured from the inside. At one time the door might have been used for deliveries, but Lucien’s investigations had uncovered a back room with a larger door where carts might be more easily divested of their contents. He reached the barred door, glanced about to make certain no one watched, and slipped the bar from its mooring. He’d had to release Cassandra to do so, as the bar was quite heavy and not easily moved after long years of neglect. When the door was open, he indicated she should step out first, and then he followed, closing it behind him.
They stepped into a shadowed lane that ran behind the shops in Duke Street. At one point it might have housed mews, but now they were quite alone. The day was gray and cold, and either the first drops of rain or wet snowflakes dusted his cheeks.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked, her cheeks still pink from her earlier embarrassment. The color made her look fresh and pretty despite the solemn black of her clothing.
“Is that your question?”
“No, but I think you must know what it is already, else you would not have brought me out here so we wouldn’t be overheard.”
If that was what she wanted to believe, he would not argue. “You want to know what I’m searching for.”
She nodded, leaning her back against the door behind them.
“That is a dangerous question, Cassandra. Suffice it to say I’m searching for proof of my identity, and I have reason to believe it’s hidden in one of the books in this shop.”
“What reason?”
“That is four questions. It’s my turn.”
Her gaze met his expectantly, her blue eyes magnified behind the spectacles. Slowly, he lifted his hands and removed them from her face. She blinked at him, her eyes still amazingly large and lovely even without the lenses. He dropped the spectacles into his pocket.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “Without my spectacles, I won’t be able to see any distance and make it home.”
“Right now, all you need to see is me. Right here. In front of you. May I kiss you, Cassandra?”
She took a sharp breath. “Is that your question?”
He made a sound of acknowledgment, not daring to touch her until she gave her assent.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He felt as nervous as a youth kissing a girl for the first time. For a moment, he did not know where to put his hands or how to begin. Then he leaned one hand against the door and placed the other on her cheek. Her skin was cold but soft. His fingers brushed against her silky hair, and his thumb rested on her flesh. Lovely Cassandra, as fair as he was dark. His bronze skin seemed a blot against her pale flesh.
He brushed his thumb over the curve of her cheek, then bent until his lips were a mere fraction from hers. She lifted her chin, anticipating his kiss, angling her head so their noses would not bump. He brushed his lips over hers, his flesh meeting hers with a mere whisper. Still, he felt the jolt zing through him and knew that one brief caress would never be enough. He brushed his lips over hers again, then pulled back enough to see her face. Her eyes were closed and her pink lips parted. He watched as the hand he rested on the door clenched with the effort it took not to crush her against him.
A snowflake landed on his lips, the cold a tonic against the heat generated from the kiss. Lucien could resist her no longer. He fisted his hand in her hair and dragged her body against his, lowering his mouth to hers.
But just as he would sink into the sweetness of her lips, he heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the packed dirt of the narrow lane where they stood. He moved instinctively to place his body so he might shield her from view. When the cart finally passed, he handed her the spectacles. “Why don’t we walk for a few minutes?”
He would have rather kissed her again, which was why he thought it best to walk. He could not kiss her if he had to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
She followed him down the lane and then out onto Duke Street, not far from where her footman waited in front of the bookshop. “Riggersby is waiting to see me home,” she said, “else I would ask you.”
“It probably isn’t wise, at any rate.” He moved away from the bookshop as he talked, not intending to take her far but wanting some distance from the shop. “I haven’t felt watched the past day or so, but I’ve felt eyes on me before. I believe the reavlutionnaire have tracked me here. I’m running out of time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to find the papers I need, the papers that are my only hope of salvation. My mother was not the trusting sort. She was French, and she watched with horror as the revolution swept through her country. Had she not been married to my father and safe in Glynaven, she knew she would have been one of the first on the guillotine. In fact, almost her entire family was murdered during the first weeks of the revolution.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ve read a little about it. My late husband enjoyed histories, and I read to him after he grew too ill to read for himself. It was a gruesome thing, what happened in France.”
She was such an innocent. What could a book show her of the realities of the massacre and bloodshed that accompanied revolution?
“The fate of her family meant she never truly trusted the people of Glynaven. She saw the signs of revolution long before my father. He turned a blind eye to the growing unrest, while she prepared. That preparation might yet save me.”
“How?”
It had begun snowing harder now, and those still out shopping were hurrying to finish and retreat indoors. Lucien could hardly blame them. The lack of people made the two of them far too conspicuous. He could see her footman shuffling from foot to foot in front of the bookshop. The man would spot them in a moment.
“Some other time, Cassandra. Meet me—”
Prickles ran up and down his back, as though an unseen hand raked him with sharp nails. He spun around, searching for the source of the danger. That boy huddled in the doorway? That couple with their arms linked? That young clerk pulling his hat down to keep the wet snow off his nose?
He wasn’t safe here. He’d endangered Cassandra. “Walk to your footman now,” he ordered her. “Don’t look back at me. Don’t acknowledge me.”
“But—”
He gave her a small shove, then doffed his hat as though he’d accidentally bumped into her. “Don’t question me. Just go.”
Her face paled, and she took a step back, then awkwardly turned and arrowed for her footman. Lucien watched her until the servant noticed her and moved to intercept his mistress, and then he pulled his collar up and walked the other way.
He hadn’t walked far before he knew they were following. He didn’t know how many, and he didn’t know when they’d fallen in behind him, but he knew they were there. Lucien prayed they hadn’t seen him with Cassandra
Ashbrooke, or if they had, they’d seen nothing more than a man bumping into a woman.
The snow fell more heavily, the heavy clouds hanging low in the sky and turning the afternoon as dark as evening. Lucien had threaded his way toward Piccadilly, knowing the street was busy enough that he might be able to lose his pursuers, but only the poorest or most stalwart were still about in weather that had all the makings of a storm. Lucien pushed against the wind, ignoring the bite of it, until his legs felt weak from the exertion and from hunger.
He chanced a look over his shoulder and wished he had not. He counted three men, too many for him to handle on his own without a weapon of any kind. They had hats and coats, but the quick look he’d managed told him they were most likely Glennish. They had features typical of south Glynaven, where the rebellion had begun and flourished—height, dark hair and dark eyes, and the sun-touched skin so typical of the coast.
He couldn’t be certain, but he thought he recognized at least one of the men. If they caught him, they would kill him.
The snow blew more thickly now, and Lucien used it to his advantage. He headed into the wind, even though it depleted his strength. Finally, when he’d gained a small lead, he cut across Piccadilly, darting dangerously close to the few conveyances still on the street. He ran past buildings shuttered tight against the cold and snow, then crossed Piccadilly again, turning down a side street. A broken wheelbarrow sat askew in the middle of the lane, and Lucien crouched behind it. It was barely large enough to hide his broad shoulders, but he slouched down so his head almost touched the dirt and brought his knees up to his chest.
He could only hope the rapidly falling snow would obscure his footprints. Even so, with the limited visibility, if the assassins passed the lane without venturing inside, they would see no sign of him.
Lucien had no way of knowing whether the men had seen him zigzag across Piccadilly and no way to judge the passing of time. He lay for what seemed hours on the cold, hard ground, watching as a light dusting of snow covered his threadbare coat. He shivered, and his empty belly protested its lack of food. The snow-laden clouds had blocked out the dreary winter sun, bringing an early evening. If he closed his eyes now, he would probably be dead by morning.
No one but the refuse collectors would mind, and they might even benefit from the few coins in his pocket and his boots, which had no holes yet. His family was dead, and his people already thought him dead. Only Cassandra Ashbrooke knew who he really was, believed he was the man he claimed to be. Would she mourn him?
Lucien closed his eyes and pictured her face turned up to his, waiting for his kiss. He blew out an annoyed breath and opened his eyes again, forcing himself to sit. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to kiss her again, really kiss her this time. He wanted to test the weight of her hair with his hands, divest her of those ugly mourning dresses, and hear her laugh.
And he wanted to find those bluidy books his mother had sent. All of his searching couldn’t be for naught.
Ignoring the ache in his stiff shoulders, Lucien peered around the wheelbarrow. Piccadilly looked all but empty, the passersby merely dark shadows in the gathering gloom of nightfall. Time to find food and shelter for the night.
***
Effie had tried to prevent Cass from going out that morning. She’d claimed it was too cold and the snow hid ice that made walking treacherous. But Cass would not be deterred. She wore her warmest dress and pelisse, even though the outer garment was not black. Lucien had been out in the snow all night. Cass could hardly justify staying warm and safe when he had no option but to freeze.
That was if he’d made it through the night. She’d been terrified when he’d ordered her to walk away from him. She knew he’d been trying to protect her from whoever hunted him. She wished she could protect him too.
She’d thought about it all night and had come to a conclusion.
A conclusion Effie would not like. At all.
Riggersby didn’t complain when they stepped outside that morning. The snow still fell, and Cass had to negotiate a few of the larger drifts. Despite her efforts, her feet were wet and cold by the time she reached the bookshop, which had been open two hours by then. It was no little effort to escape Effie. She couldn’t ask Riggersby to stand outside with the weather so foul, so she settled him inside and went straight back to the shelf where she and Lucien had been searching the day before.
The shopgirl gave her a knowing smile when she passed by, but Cass just pushed her nose in the air and walked faster.
She turned into the aisle and halted. Lucien wasn’t there.
Her heart dived into her belly, and she reached a shaking hand for the nearest shelf. Lucien. They’d caught him. They’d killed him. Now she’d never know what it was he sought in these books. She’d never help him claim his true identity.
She’d never kiss him again.
Was it wrong that losing the chance to kiss him again hurt most of all? She was a selfish, selfish creature. For the first time in... well, in her entire life, she’d felt alive. Since she’d met Lucien, she’d risen in the morning with a smile, with hope, with a sense of purpose.
Foolish to believe she might be in love. She did not even know the man, not really. But she respected him, admired him, esteemed him. He was tenacious, kind, an unfailing gentleman.
Or at least he had been.
Were not respect, admiration, and esteem the beginnings of love?
And now her chance had been torn away. She would never know if she could love a man, never know if one might come to love her. She would never know passion. Without him, her life would go on as it had before—long, meaningless days filled with tedious niceties.
“Lady Ashbrooke?”
She turned, and just as quickly as her heart had sunk like a stone, it rose like a bubble. “You are alive!” she gasped, forgetting to lower her voice.
He glanced toward the door and motioned for her to follow him into a shadow farther back in the shop.
“Oh, I see. You’ve started the next shelf,” she said. “That’s fast work.”
He paused midway down the aisle and faced her. “I have to work fast. I don’t know how much time I have left.”
“Was it assassins yesterday?” she whispered, because he had been whispering.
“Yes. I lost them in the snow and the crush of Piccadilly, but I might not be so lucky next time. If they track me to the bookshop, I’ll have to abandon my search.”
“Then we must search quickly,” Cass said, pulling down the nearest book and opening the cover.
“No.” The prince put his hand on the book and closed it. “There is no we, my lady. It’s too dangerous for you to be seen with me. I must insist you go home and keep as far away from me as possible.”
“You insist?”
“Yes. This is good-bye.” Like the royalty he was, he took her gloved hand, bent, and brushed his lips over the back. Then he stepped away and nodded a dismissal.
Cass didn’t move. She wanted to move. Everything in her urged her to move. She’d always done as she’d been told. She never argued or disobeyed or remotely considered the idea of defiance. But her chin had risen stubbornly, seemingly of its own accord, and her hands had landed on her hips.
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “No. This is not good-bye.”
The prince’s golden eyes narrowed, much like an angry lion’s. “I say it is, and I bid you adieu.” He moved away from her.
“I don’t accept.” Cass raised her voice, causing him to retrace his steps.
“Shh!”
“I am not one of your subjects, Your Highness. I am a subject of King George, and as such, you have no authority over me. You need help, and I’m not abandoning you in your hour of need.”
The prince gave a rather undignified bark of laughter. “Well said, but I’m afraid you are more of a distraction than a help.” He leaned close, so close his breath caressed her cheek. “When you are near, I can’t seem to stop imagining kissing you.”
Cass was momentarily speechless. No man had ever said such a thing to her. She was relatively certain no man had ever thought such a thing about her. Oh, she was most definitely not leaving now.
“Be that as it may,” she stammered, wishing with her whole heart that she did not blush so easily, “I can help you, and not simply by looking through books.”
He raised a brow.
“Now, hear me out,” she began.
“Never a good beginning.”
He was probably correct, but it was too late to go back now. “The men who are after you don’t know you and I are... friends. I propose you stay at my town house until the threat has passed.”
He huffed out a breath, but she ignored him.
“You have nowhere else to go—I know you don’t, so do not pretend otherwise—and the weather is not fit for man or beast. If the snow continues like this, half the city will be under a foot of white. We have beds, coal, and plenty of food and drink. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t offer you the most basic of English hospitality.”
More to the point, she couldn’t forgive herself if she allowed him to walk out of her life without a fight.
“What you suggest is impossible,” he said, the words spilling out as soon as she’d taken a breath. “My presence alone would endanger you, your servants, and your friends. I will not put you in jeopardy.”
The words had barely escaped his lips when the sound of crashing glass made them both cringe and drop to the floor. The prince pulled Cass under him, using his body to protect her as more glass shattered.
Chapter Five
They’d found him. He didn’t have to assess the situation, or even see the shattered glass, to know this was the moment he’d feared. And his worst fear—that he had put Cassandra Ashbrooke in danger—was also realized. She lay under him, her small body trembling with fear.
Around them, the sounds of chaos erupted—a woman screamed, a man cursed, and something crashed to the ground—but in this back area of the bookshop, it was only him sheltering her, her warm body under his, her sweet feminine scent making him long to bury his nose in her hair.