Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels

by Darcy Burke

By the time he left the market, it was mid-morning. He had crossed through seven other streets instead of taking a straight route back to the boarding house. By the time he turned the corner to take him back toward Madame Tousat’s, he was certain that no one was following him—no one person stood out.

  He passed by the open doors of a public house. People spilled in and out, the cheery sounds of music pouring forth into the street. Daniel lingered in the doorway, readjusted the bag of groceries in his arms.

  He breathed in deeply. A year ago, he was in a tavern like this one, gin in hand. Convinced he’d never return to London, that the only thing he had to keep him sane was the spirits. He wanted the blue ruin—no, he needed it, if he was to keep Kate safe. Without it, he’d cave under the stress.

  His head pounded. His body ached. Every injury was magnified in this door frame.

  A man emerged from inside the public house, leaving through the door where Daniel stood motionless. “You goin’ in?”

  Daniel started, gripping the groceries closer to his chest. “No.” He shook his head, cheeks burning.

  “Best move on.” The man nodded at him, getting lost in the traffic of the street a minute later.

  Torn from his daze, Daniel’s eyes finally focused on the guests inside the public house. He saw their imperfections: the reddened nose of a boy chimney sweep, perched high on the stool with as much world-weariness as a man twice his age; the harsh growl of a man as the bar wench came to take his glass without letting him finish the dregs. The bar wench’s crimson bed jacket was rumpled, the apron tied at her waist heavily stained. He watched as she snatched an abandoned drink from an empty table, knocking back the contents.

  She smiled at him but no feeling echoed in her bleak eyes. Once, he’d been just like her, but not anymore.

  He turned away, out into the street.

  ***

  The door opened. Daniel’s head poked in, his flaming red hair glinting in the sunlight. Relief clutched at Kate’s throat, tightening until she could barely gasp out a breath.

  “Good morning,” he said with a sweet smile that loosened up her chest, making it possible to breathe.

  He’d come back.

  “I hoped to sneak back in before you noticed.” In his arms was a bag of groceries, a loaf of bread sticking out of the top. He set the groceries down on the table and drew out a folded bundle, tossing it to her.

  She was starving, had been for hours. Catching the bundle in one hand, she looked toward the food with longing.

  He chuckled. “Your present first, then the food.”

  She looked up at him, eyes widening as she took in his harried appearance. A bruise colored his cheek. His pants were ripped at the knee and his greatcoat was stained with grime.

  “What happened to you? Who hurt you?”

  He shrugged off his greatcoat, tossing it to the side. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ve taken care of it.”

  “That’s not an explanation.”

  “You are recovering, Katiebelle. Let me take care of you.” He motioned to the package in her lap. “Open it.”

  She sat up straighter on the bed. Her grip upon the sheet increased, knuckles whitened. She could bloody well handle life on her own terms—and if he was hurt, she wanted to be able to help him.

  “I won’t be coddled by you,” she avowed. “Either tell me who hurt you, or I shall rise from this bed, get the gun, and bash it over your overprotective head.”

  He rolled his eyes, the image of insolence. Like her threats meant nothing to him anymore.

  “I am not going to embark upon a battle of wills with you, Daniel. Tell me.”

  “You are a wretched patient.” He removed his coat and rolled his shirtsleeves up. From the bag, he lifted out bread, meat, and cheese.

  “And you are a wretched liar.”

  Daniel picked a knife up off the table. “Do you remember the beggar we saw outside the Red Fist?”

  “No. London is full of beggars,” she replied.

  With quick, precise movements he sliced the bread. “I saw him before we met Mason, and then after. There was something strange about him but I didn’t place it until he bumped in to me today. I knew it somehow, that he was connected to Finn. When he said his name was Ezekiel—the same Ezekiel from Atlas’s list—I cornered him and I told him to take a message to Finn.”

  “Shit.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed. One foot on the ground, then the other, and she could be closer to him. Run her hands over his chest and make sure that the wounds didn’t need more attention.

  He turned around, arching a brow when he saw her trying to stand. “Careful now. I need you in better shape, if this is an indication of what’s to come.”

  She stayed put on the edge of the bed. Her head swam with explosions and fights and everything in between. If she went to him now, she’d never come back.

  “How are you feeling?” She pulled on the edge of the white shirtsleeves she wore. His clothing.

  “I’ve had worse. He was spry, I’ll give him that.” Daniel set down the knife to rub at his ribcage, wincing. “And he had rotten placement to hit me where the shrapnel cut. But at least now we know another player in the game. I don’t know if I made things worse for us.”

  “At this point I don’t think it makes a bit of difference.” Kate sighed. She couldn’t get rid of the sinking feeling that there was something they were missing, beyond Finn, beyond Bartleby, beyond Dalton’s murder. Originally, she’d gotten involved in this to save her father’s memory from further tarnishing.

  It should have been simple. Now that she knew Emporia wasn’t involved, she should leave.

  But she wouldn’t.

  He passed her a plate full of bread and meat. “I know you said you didn’t want to move, but I really must insist upon it now. That letter was slipped under your door—so someone obviously knows where you live.”

  She took a bite of the bread and sausage and then another to buy time. He was right. But where else could she go?

  “But my flat has my goods for fencing,” she said, as if that could negate his logic.

  “I’m not saying you have to leave forever. You can move back when we catch Finn.”

  “It is not as if I can afford another flat.” She barely had enough money to afford this place. The landlord here was lenient because he knew Jane; she couldn’t count on that connection somewhere else.

  “You could move in with me,” he suggested, ever-hopeful. “We don’t have to stay here. We can go wherever you like.”

  Move in with you when your trunk remains packed.

  She glanced down at the food again. He had sliced the sausage in two and placed on top of the bread. The meal was simple, neat in arrangement. Everything that getting back together with Daniel was not.

  “I’m not ready for that step,” she said.

  His face fell, but in a second his expression had returned to normal. “I’ll have Atlas find you a temporary flat. Something Finn can’t find.”

  Her fingers tightened around the plate. This little flat was her entire world. A chair by the door, the bed with the lumpy mattress, her armoire and the portrait of Papa on top of her desk. When she couldn’t deal with the rest of the world, she’d come home to the flat.

  “It won’t be so bad, Katiebelle.” Daniel smiled encouragingly. “We’ll leave in a bit. But for now, open your present.”

  The bundle was on the bed next to her. Lifting it up, she untied the ribbon holding it together. A simple cotton chemise was on the top, which she lifted out and placed on the bed. Underneath the shift was a hunter green gown printed with tiny flowers and dots. The long sleeves held a slight puff at the shoulders and the empire waist was pleated, dropping down to a full skirt.

  “For me?” She ran her fingers across cool, crisp cotton.

  “No, I thought I’d start a collection of women’s millinery,” Daniel teased. “Of course it’s for you. As much as I’d like to keep you forever in my shirt, you’ll need s
omething to wear if you want to leave this flat.”

  She spread out the dress on her lap. Daniel’s gaze swept down her frame, hooded eyes taking in all her curves. Her nipples tightened at the heat of his stare, arching without her permission. Ready for his touch.

  If they fell back into bed, for a few moments she’d think of something other than the threat surrounding them. That would be easy, but it’d only add further complications.

  She brought the dress up to her shoulders. “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

  “They’re not stolen, if that’s what you’re asking. I went to a bow-wow shop. I remembered one Atlas had spoken of last week, and told the owner I was a friend of the Gentleman Thief. He gave me a good discount.” He pulled the last item from the bag, ivory small boots.

  The leather was worn along the heel, and there was discoloration at the tip of both boots, but otherwise the boots appeared to be in good condition. Far better than her own dilapidated boots, with the soles separating and the leather cracking.

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t care if they were filched.”

  He looked at her skeptically, one brow arched as he sliced into the hunk of cheese.

  “I forgot to thank you for not calling the doctor,” she said, for it was the first thing she could think of that wouldn’t add to the heat between them.

  Neither of them had the money to afford a house call from her old Bloomsbury physician.

  In Ratcliffe, any man could open a shop and claim he was a surgeon. Hell, she’d even seen a man wheeling about the street with a monkey on his shoulder, “free medicine” painted on the back of his donkey cart. There was nothing to stop those unscrupulous doctors from taking advantage of their patients.

  Daniel grinned. “Given our current problems with exhumators, I wasn’t about to chance someone might decide you’d make a lovely fit for their anatomizing.”

  “How sweet of you, to not want to share the room with a dissected corpse.” She smiled in spite of herself.

  He chuckled. “My healthy fear of maggots has served me well this far. I see no reason to repent.”

  They ate in silence for a moment, a companionable, too-familiar quiet. She opened her mouth to speak, as Daniel set down his hunk of bread onto the plate.

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  She blinked, surprised by his admission. “I’ve said before that I knew you didn’t.”

  “No. Not Dalton. Ezekiel.”

  “I see.” She took another bite, chewing slowly.

  He clasped his hands together over his knee, the plate balanced precariously in his lap. “I’m not that man anymore, an uncoiled bruiser who will brawl over anything.” He didn’t look at her, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

  She refused to give in to the urge to take his hand in hers. “So you fought before, and you drank before. In the past.”

  “I didn’t want you to think I’d gone back,” he said.

  “I don’t think that,” she countered. He was not the man she’d loved before.

  This version of him was even more dangerous to her, for he was sincere, passionate, and doggedly determined to win her heart back.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following afternoon, Daniel knocked on the door of Kate’s transitory flat in Bethnal Green. His heart beat fast, pulse rapid.

  His skin was cold and clammy to touch. The late morning breakfast together had only gone passably well, and she had been reluctant to stay in the quarters Atlas found for her. How reticent she was to separate from this new identity, when she’d so gladly shove him away for what he’d done.

  She opened the door mid-way, the point of her pistol stuck in the gap. “Whatever business you have, turn around.”

  “Christ, Kate. It’s just me,” he said, stepping back from the door so that she could see him in the tiny crack.

  “Oh.” She lowered the gun and pulled the door open all the way for him to enter. “You could have told me last night that you were coming.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be armed.” He shut the door behind him. A frown crossed his lips. They'd slept together again. He ought to be able to show up without a reason.

  “I am always armed.” She looked perturbed that he didn’t already know that, as if he’d offended her sense of self. Placing the flintlock down on a chair, she moved toward the tea kettle.

  Shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the doorknob, he looked around her room. Sun penetrated through the midday fog. This flat was bigger than her last place, or perhaps it merely looked that way when it wasn’t crammed with her furniture. She’d taken a few dresses with her, the portrait of her father, that gigantic greatcoat, and her gun. Atlas had provided a few essentials, but the flat felt sparse when compared to her own.

  It was temporary, something to make do.

  God, he hoped she didn’t think that about him.

  She opened a paste box, nose wrinkling at the contents. “I have no tea. I’m afraid I am a rotten hostess.”

  “I had tea before I left.”

  “Oh,” she said again, setting the box down.

  Her hair was done up nicely. Despite the dull gold fabric of her dress, her skin no longer had a languid pallor to it. Good. Even the cut to her forehead appeared less vivid. He breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I wanted to see how you were feeling,” he said.

  “Better. The thrumming in my head has ceased.” She nodded, forcing a half-smile.

  “And the aches?”

  “Better as well. I am still sore though.”

  He sounded like a bloody doctor, emotionally detached. Asinine. He took a step forward, wanting to reach for her hand but stopping himself in time. She didn’t meet his gaze.

  “Have you had any more thoughts on my proposal?”

  She spoke at the same time. “I was thinking we should visit Bartleby.”

  “I wanted to tell you—” He paused, as her words sunk in. “You want to pay a call on the man who might have tried to kill us?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “How else do you think we should get information?”

  “You almost died. Pardon me if I’m reluctant to drop my card and have a spot of tea with a potential madman.”

  “We will prepare more this time.” She picked up the flintlock, rifling through the top drawer built into the table and drawing out a cloth and lead balls. Methodically, she began to load the pistol. She slid the rod into the barrel, pushing the cloth and lead ball inside. His mouth grew dry at the motion.

  Up and down she pumped, like her hands on him before. He wanted to return to that place of passion, where he’d been so damn convinced of her feelings for him.

  “I don’t think it’s wise, Kate.” His voice sounded strangled.

  She didn’t seem to notice. “We have no evidence yet, only a set of accusations from a bruiser looking to blame anyone he can and a prostitute. When they arrested you, the constable at least had an eyewitness who claimed to have seen you. False, I know, but more than we’ve got.” She latched the rod back onto the gun with practiced precision. “I don’t see that we have any choice. Besides, I’d sincerely like to shove the barrel of my Forsyth in his face.”

  He rolled his eyes. “We need a plan outside of you barging in with a pistol. One can’t succeed on bravado alone.”

  “I disagree. It’s gotten me this far.”

  “Be smart about this.”

  She set the gun down on the table by the window and turned to face him, jaw set stubbornly. “The bastard conspired to end us, and I want an explanation. You said Atlas found his address, so I think we should go there. Better to question him than to go after Jasper Finn directly. Finn has a gang of men to protect him, while Bartleby is a messenger.”

  “Shoot the messenger, win the war, or something like it?”

  “Or in your case, beat the messenger to a bloody pulp.”

  He met her gaze with a smirk. She looked quickly away but he’d seen it: a wink, so quick that if he blinked
he would have missed it.

  Cheeky chit.

  “You like it when I defend your honor.” He crossed the room, closing the distance between them. “Yes, I know, Katiebelle. You’re brave and strong. I love that about you, but you need me.”

  “No, I don’t,” she objected, her lower lip quivering.

  “You know you do, and that’s not a sign of weakness. I need you too. I’ll keep you safe if you keep me sane.” He grabbed her waist, tugging her closer to him. Her hands went up, as if to fight him off, and then fell on his shoulders to brace herself.

  His lips crashed down upon hers. Press to press he devoured her, tasting her until he had his fill. He pulled back to gauge her reaction. Breathing ragged. Hands shaking.

  She grabbed for him, pulling him closer to her and kissing him fiercely. Angling his chin, she took the kiss deeper, tongue thrusting in his mouth.

  Didn’t love him, his blooming arse.

  He turned her, forcing her up against the wall. Her palm stretched out on the glass pane to hold her steady, chest pressed up against the window. She was his and his alone.

  His hands roamed her body, squeezing her waist, massaging her taut breasts, falling in at the pockets on her dress and pinching the tender flesh of her upper thighs. He pushed her hair away from her neck, bringing his lips down hard. Her head lolled back against his chest and with better access to her neck, he bit at the point where her swan neck joined her shoulders. Like a cannon, her breathing came quick-quick-fire. Her hand went back to tug his head closer upon her skin.

  Then he was off of her, stepping back without remorse, ignoring his own hardened erection in favor of teaching her a lesson. She played loose and fast with his heart. A step forward with her meant two back.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow to go to Bartleby’s then. May we find our bomber.”

  She inhaled deeply, desire-clouded eyes popping open. For a second she looked surprised.

  He’d left her wanting.

  ***

  Laurence Bartleby rented a small townhouse in Westminster, far enough from the edges of St. Giles to be deemed reputable yet too far from the fashionable district to be desirable. His section of the four-story narrow building consisted of the left half of the stucco-fronted exterior.