A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  "What are you doing?"

  "There's been a slight change in destination."

  "And why is that?"

  "You'll find out when we arrive." She avoided his gaze, smoothing her skirt with hands that trembled in spite of herself. She was well aware she would be tak­ing a calculated risk by revealing anything further to him about her background, but if she hoped to regain some small amount of his trust, she had to make him understand. "There's something I want to show you."

  The cottage was obviously abandoned, its windows broken and boarded and the small front yard over­grown with weeds. One wall had collapsed in upon it­self long ago, and the soft scurrying of night animals could be heard from the darkness beyond its crum­bling facade.

  Tristan stood next to the carriage, surveying the scene in front of him with grim distaste. It made the humble abode of the McLean family seem like a castle in comparison.

  He looked over at Deirdre. In the misty darkness, he couldn't make out her expression, but her tension was evident in the rigid way she held herself. It seemed he had once again managed to put her on the defensive. That hadn't been his intention, but as far as he was con­cerned he had every right to his anger. She hadn't been honest with him. True, it had been by virtue of omis­sion, but it amounted to the same thing. After hearing about his mother, she'd known how he felt about street thieves and pickpockets, and she had still deliberately neglected to mention her criminal past. It made him wonder what else she had failed to tell him.

  He cast another glance in her direction. She stood as still as a statue, her features hidden by the hood of her cloak. Despite their earlier disagreements, he'd begun to believe that a real accord was starting to grow be­tween them, a connection of sorts. Nevertheless, it was daunting to learn that she still didn't trust him enough to confide her secrets after he'd told her about the most traumatic event of his life.

  Shaking off his ruminations, he crossed his arms over his chest and turned to face her.

  "Where are we?" he asked, a hint of impatience in his voice. "Why are we here?"

  It was a moment before she replied, and when she did, it was scarcely more than a whisper. "I wanted you to see where I came from. I was born here."

  Tristan gaped in astonishment. Dear God, she'd lived in this hovel?

  Before he could speak, she gathered her skirts in one hand and started up the path to the entrance. He gazed after her, then glanced back over his shoulder at Cullen, who had swung down from the driver's box to soothe the restless horses. The coachman merely re­garded him stonily before giving him his back.

  So much for any insight from that quarter. Tristan straightened his shoulders and marched up the walk­way, catching up to Deirdre just as she pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold into the shad­ows beyond.

  The interior of the structure was even worse than the outside, if that were possible. A pale beam of moon­light spilled through the hole in the wall, barely illumi­nating their surroundings, and the stale smell of disuse pervaded the air. What furniture hadn't been carried off long ago by scavengers lay broken and dis­carded, littered about the dirt floor.

  "My mother died when I was three years old," Deirdre began, her words soft, yet startling in the echo­ing expanse. "She became ill one winter and simply never got better. I don't remember much about her. Only that she liked to sing to me. Lullabies, mostly. And I felt safe when I was with her."

  She paused for a moment, and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears in the dimness. "I've always consid­ered it something of a miracle that I survived my early childhood. My father was a tyrant and a drunk who spent most of his time at the Jolly Roger and places like it, propping up the bar with his good-for-nothing friends. Many were the nights when I went to bed with an empty stomach because Da took what little money we had and spent it on drink."

  The very thought of Deirdre as a little girl, small and helpless and left alone by an uncaring father, made Tristan's heart catch. His own father had been no prize, by any means, but at least Tristan had had a roof over his head and food in his belly. He couldn't imagine liv­ing the sort of existence Deirdre described.

  He watched as she pushed the hood of her cloak back and wandered over to stare out through the cracks of one of the boarded windows, her expression far away.

  "If it weren't for my mother's friends, people like Harry and Lilah and Dan, I most likely wouldn't be here right now," she continued. "They took me in hand after she died, did their best to make sure I was looked after. Especially Dan."

  "Looked after?" Tristan was incredulous. "You make him sound noble. The man taught you to steal."

  One corner of her mouth curved in a slight smile. "Oh, I know his intentions weren't entirely altruistic. He hoped to use me, and that's a fact. But he cared about me in his own way. He grew up with Mama, and I think he may have been a little bit in love with her. In any case, he took me under his wing and showed me the 'art of the lift,' as he liked to call it."

  She reached up with a gloved hand to absently trace the edge of the window frame. "At first, it was all a game to me, a challenge. I used to mix in with the crowd at Dan's boxing matches and try to lift things from people's pockets without them feeling it. Little things, like a handkerchief or a glove. It was only later that I realized being quick of hand and choosing the right mark could mean the difference between eating that night or starving."

  "And your father?"

  She shrugged. "Things got worse as I got older. Sometimes I wouldn't see him for days. I never knew where he was or who he was with. And when he was home, he was moody and temperamental, like as not to cuff me as look at me. And he would bring men home." She shuddered and wrapped her arms about herself. "Horrible men who would leer at me and try to touch me when Da wasn't looking."

  Her eyes met his, and the pain in them was enough to bring a lump to Tristan's throat. "Those men in Dan's tonight weren't the first to attempt to handle me roughly."

  Remembering the way he'd felt when he had come upon Deirdre struggling with that drunken bastard in the club, the anger and sudden fierce need to protect that had overwhelmed him, Tristan took a step toward her. "They didn't—"

  "No. I was always too quick. But I'm certain it would have only been a matter of time."

  She moved away from the window and returned to the center of the room. "One morning, when I was about nine, I woke up to find out Da had never come home the night before. That wasn't unusual in and of itself, so I didn't think too much about it. But when a week passed, then another, and there was still no sign of him, I real­ized he was never coming back, that I was on my own."

  Righteous indignation burned in Tristan's breast. "He abandoned you."

  "Let's just say I was suddenly very glad for the skills Dan had taught me. They were the only thing that stood between me and starvation." She shook her head. "Oh, Lilah and Harry did what they could, but they were struggling to survive themselves."

  "And Dan?"

  At his question, she cast her eyes down at the floor. "I went to him right after I realized that Da was gone for good. I was certain he would take me in. He was al­ways telling me that I was like a daughter to him. But. . ."

  Her words trailed off, but she didn't need to finish. The obvious hurt in her voice was enough to tell Tris­tan the whole story. "The bastard turned you away."

  "He had just retired from boxing and had opened the club. He said it was no place for a little girl, and perhaps he was right. I just know that I felt dead inside for a long time after that."

  "What did you do?"

  Her cheeks flooded with color, and she quickly looked away. "I picked pockets. Did what I had to do to get by-Something furtive in her manner told him he wasn't getting the whole story, but he wasn't about to push. Not when she was finally being so forthcoming.

  "And?"

  "And that's why I brought you here. I wanted you to understand the kind of desperation that I lived with every day, the poverty and the despair." She came to
stand before him, her expression earnest. "There was no one to help me, Tristan. No one who cared. And I was far from the only one in those circumstances. Chil­dren like Jenna and Gracie McLean go to bed every night, cold and hungry, their only crime being born in the wrong place."

  Insight slammed into Tristan like a lightning bolt. "This is why you spend your time helping these peo­ple, why it's so important to you."

  She inclined her head in acknowledgment. "I know all too well what it's like to feel alone and afraid. And I know how much it can mean to have one person reach out to you, one person who cares."

  "The viscount?"

  "Yes. Nigel."

  Her tone was warm and full of affection as she spoke her late husband's name, and Tristan felt a sharp pang that left him oddly disturbed. Surely he wasn't. . . he couldn't be . . .

  No. He refused to even think the word jealous.

  "How did you meet him?" he asked, doing his best to ignore the savage emotions that twisted his insides.

  "Believe it or not, I picked his pocket." She smiled, and it was rare and genuine, a look of such love that Tristan found himself wishing that he'd been responsi­ble for putting it on her face. "He caught me, and in­stead of having me arrested, he gave me a home, a place to call my own. He was the kindest, most won­derful man I've ever known."

  "And is that why you married him? Because you were grateful?"

  She stiffened. "I married him because I cared for him a great deal. But that is neither here nor there. I am trying to make a point. And the point is that people will do almost anything to survive. Stealing is far from the worst thing you can be reduced to. I was fortunate Nigel found me in time."

  Images of Deirdre and the viscount together once again taunted Tristan. All too easily, he could picture the man's wrinkled hands stripping her of her gown, touching and caressing her in the very way he was just coming to realize he longed to do. The visions roused his ire, and he once again found himself speaking be­fore he thought.

  "Fortunate? He took you in and wound up with a wife young enough to be his granddaughter. If you ask me, the man took advantage of the situation."

  Deirdre's eyes blazed, and the next thing he knew, she had raised her hand and slapped him as hard as she could across the face.

  Through the material of her glove, the blow was muffled, more startling than painful, but it was enough to break the thread on his already frayed temper and tempt him into doing what he'd been wanting to do from the moment he first met her.

  Taking her by the elbows, he yanked her to him, and his mouth crushed down on hers as the darkness closed in around them.

  At the contact, every rational thought seemed to fly right out of his head. He was completely and utterly consumed with the taste, the feel of her. Her willowy curves fit against him as if she were made for him, and her lips were as sweet as he'd imagined. Soft and hesi­tant, they opened under his, allowing his tongue to plunge inside.

  Dimly, through the blood pounding in his ears, he heard a soft moan, and it took a moment for him to re­alize that she wasn't fighting him. In fact, her hands had twined themselves in the material of his shirt, and she was pressing herself against him with an innocent yielding that took his breath away.

  It fired his desire to even greater heights. As his tongue continued to explore the honeyed cavern of her mouth, he let one hand rest briefly on her waist before trailing it down to cup her derriere and pull her even closer to him. The soft juncture of her thighs rested against the bold jut of his arousal, and he couldn't sup­press a low groan at the titillation.

  It was this, however, that brought Deirdre to her senses. Abruptly, she tore her mouth from his and jerked away from his hold, stumbling back a few paces to stare up at him with wide, apprehensive eyes.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and started to reach out to her in supplication. But she shook her head, one hand fluttering up to touch her kiss-swollen lips as if in disbelief.

  "Please," she whispered, sounding stricken. "Please, don't."

  And with those words, she ran from the cottage.

  Chapter 14

  Deirdre couldn't restrain a sigh of relief when the carriage finally rolled to a halt in front of her town house.

  The ride from her childhood home had been awk­ward and fraught with tension, with her doing every­thing possible to avoid meeting Tristan's eyes. After what had happened between them, she couldn't even look at him without thinking about the thrill of his big, hard body pressed against her own, his mouth devour­ing hers. How could she have behaved like such a wanton?

  She wasn't even certain how it had happened. One moment she'd been blazingly angry with him for his derisive comments about Nigel. The next she had been in his arms, kissing him.

  She clenched her hands in her lap. Thank heavens he had allowed her several minutes after she had rushed from the cottage to compose herself before he had returned to the coach. She had needed every bit of that time to rein in her confusing emotions. Lord knew what Cullen had thought of her strange behavior. She must have looked a fright, with her tousled hair, flushed face, and passion-bruised lips, but her coach­man had remained stoic, as always.

  Dear Lord, this couldn't be happening, she thought anxiously. She couldn't afford to let herself get too close to Tristan, no matter how attracted she was. If she should lose her heart to him only to have him discover the part she'd played in his mother's death. . . well, she didn't think she could survive it.

  Gathering up her reticule, she stole a quick glance over at her companion before clearing her throat. "I have a few more places in mind to stop tomorrow and ask about Emily. We will need to get as early a start as possible in the morning."

  Without waiting for his response or his assistance, she pushed open the carriage door and alighted. As she heard him climb down behind her, she started up the steps to the front entrance, eager to put the barrier of solid oak between herself and the disturbing long­ings he aroused in her.

  "If you would like," she spoke over her shoulder, "I can have Cullen take you home." She withdrew her key and inserted it into the lock, struggling to keep her hand from shaking. As the portal swung open, she stepped over the threshold without looking back. "If you'll tell me what time you'd like for me to arrive to­morrow, I can—"

  A hand shot out, keeping her from closing the door. With a gasp of alarm, she whirled to find him on her heels.

  "I have no intention of going anywhere," he said in a voice like steel overlaid with velvet. It was a husky rasp that sent shivers of awareness racing down her spine.

  Swallowing, it took her a moment to force the words out past the lump in her throat. "Whatever do you mean?"

  "Exactly what I said. I am staying right here. If Dodger Dan should send a messenger during the night, I have every intention of being on the premises in order to act on the information immediately." He pushed past her and strode into the foyer.

  He wanted to stay here? In her house? With her? "B-but that's quite impossible."

  He turned to face her, crossing his arms before him in a negligent pose. "Of course it isn't. You do have a guest room, do you not?"

  "Certainly. But it won't do my reputation any good should any of the neighbors find out—"

  "Nonsense. You were the one who pointed out that you didn't have much of a reputation to begin with, re­member?" He gave a careless shrug. "I promise I'll be discreet, and I won't take up much room. In fact, I can curl up on the rug in front of the fire in the parlor if you wish."

  He paused, and a sudden hint of pain laced his voice. "It's not as if I shall sleep tonight, anyway. Not without knowing where Emily is."

  Damnation! Did the man have to seem so very vul­nerable when it came to his sister? It made her heart squeeze with sympathy every time.

  Though every instinct she possessed screamed that it was a mistake, she relented and closed the door. "Very well. I shall have Mrs. Godfrey make up the guest bedroom for you."

  Hi
s smile was enough to make her pulse race in re­sponse. "I appreciate your hospitality. And I promise I shall endeavor to keep my hands to myself."

  The knowing look in his eyes had her face heating, and she fisted her hands in the folds of her skirt. "Yes, well. . . er . . ."

  At that moment, Mrs. Godfrey appeared in the par­lor doorway, and Deirdre gave a grateful sigh before hurrying toward her. "There you are, Mrs. Godfrey. Could you be a dear and have one of the maids ready the guest chambers for Lord Ellington? He shall be staying the night."

  The housekeeper gaped first at her, then at Tristan, unable to disguise her astonishment. "He's staying here, my lady?"

  "Yes, I believe that is what I said."

  "But—"

  "Mrs. Godfrey, please?"

  The servant gave a soft huff. "Yes, my lady." Glaring at Tristan, she marched off, her short gray curls practi­cally bristling with displeasure.

  Feeling the need to escape from the suffocating sen­sation that was starting to overwhelm her, Deirdre bus­ied herself with hanging up her cloak. "Please feel free to make yourself comfortable in the parlor, my lord. I have a few things I need to attend to before I retire, but as soon as your chamber is readied, Mrs. Godfrey will show you to your room."

  "Of course. And if you wouldn't mind lending me the use of one of your footmen, I should like to send a message to my butler to inform him of my where­abouts in case I am needed."

  "Of course. I shall send someone to you at once. Now, if you'll excuse me." Grateful for the reprieve, Deirdre started up the stairs, but Tristan's next words halted her in her tracks.

  "One moment, my lady?"

  Taking a deep breath, she turned on the bottom step to face him, her hand tightening around the newel post. "Yes, my lord?"

  He came toward her across the foyer, his strides long and even, with a fluid grace unusual in a man so large. He didn't stop until he stood directly before her, his gaze holding hers with a disturbing intensity.