A Kiss in the Dark

by Kimberly Logan

  "It appears that I owe you another apology," he murmured, his breath wafting against her cheek in a gentle caress. "My behavior was deplorable, and I must beg your forgiveness."

  He was apologizing for kissing her? To her dismay, she felt incensed at the realization.

  She mentally shook it off. "That is quite all right, my lord. But it is not as if I've never been kissed before."

  "You misunderstand, Deirdre." The sound of her name on his lips was a smooth purr, and one corner of his mouth curved upward in a devilish grin. "I was apologizing for my crude comments regarding your late husband. I had no right to criticize the man when I didn't even know him."

  He leaned toward her until only a breath of space existed between them, and he continued in a conspira­torial manner. "Why would I apologize for a kiss I en­joyed so very much?"

  For a long moment, Deirdre stood frozen, trapped by the passion she could see in his eyes. Then, with a low sound of distress, she broke free and hurried the rest of the way up the stairs.

  Over an hour later, Deirdre still paced the confines of her room, restless and unable to sleep.

  How did I manage to get myself into such a dreadful tan­gle? she wondered, stopping before the mirror to stare woefully at her reflection. All she had wanted to do was make Tristan understand the circumstances that had once led her down the road to a life of crime. And she had believed that she was getting through to him, that her words had been making a difference, for she could have sworn she'd seen compassion in the depths of his eyes.

  And then he'd kissed her.

  The gall of the man! She marched over to fling herself down on the side of her bed, her temper seething. Invit­ing himself to stay the night in her house, then flirting with her in such a shameful fashion. He was insisting that he would remain here until Dan got in touch with them, but that could very well be days, if ever.

  The mere thought of Tristan living in the same house with her, sleeping here night after night, was enough to make her heart skip a beat. She tried to tell herself it was the inherent danger of the situation. Af­ter all, the more time he spent with her, the more likely he was to discover the secret she kept from him. But she couldn't deny the simmering desire that seemed to permeate the air between them. It was growing stronger every minute, and it made her distinctly un­comfortable. Especially when she knew it would be a mistake to ever act upon it.

  Unfortunately, Tristan didn't seem to feel the same way. She had run into him once more before turning in for the evening, as Mrs. Godfrey had been showing him to his room. The heated look he'd sent her way had had her ducking her head before wishing him a good night and scurrying off as if the devil himself had been in pursuit.

  I never should have given in to him, she thought crossly. But what was done was done, and if the man was going to stay in this house, there would be rules to follow. Firstly, there would be no more smoldering glances, no more kisses that made her whole body throb with wanting and kept her roaming her room at night. He would comport himself as a gentleman at all times, and she would make sure he realized that just because she came from the rookeries did not mean he could treat her like a common wench available for the bedding.

  And she would do it right now.

  She glanced at the wall that separated her room from the guest chamber. From the other side came the faint sound of footsteps and the occasional scrape of furniture. Obviously, he was still as wide awake as she, so now was as good a time as any to make her position clear.

  Her anger well roused after an hour of working her­self into a lather, she rose and pulled on her dressing gown, making sure it was belted securely before open­ing the door and stepping out into the hallway.

  All was quiet, the rest of the house having settled down for the night long ago. Making her stealthy way over to the guest room door, she gave the panel one short, peremptory knock before opening it and step­ping inside without waiting for a response.

  The chamber was shadowed, the only light coming from the flames burning low in the hearth. At first, she could make out nothing in the dimness. Then, a dark­ened form in one of the wingback chairs before the fireplace shifted and rose, stepping into the faint glow cast by the fire.

  Every bit of breath left Deirdre's body in a rush, and her thoughts became a jumbled mass as Tristan moved toward her, magnificently, gloriously naked but for a pair of fawn-colored breeches that rode low on his hips.

  Dear God, he was beautiful! The firelight gilded the muscular planes of his broad chest, giving his velvety skin a golden sheen, and the tight breeches left very lit­tle to the imagination. They outlined every inch of his taut thighs, cupping the bold ridge of his manhood al­most lovingly.

  Tearing her gaze away from that telltale bulge with difficulty, she looked up to meet his violet eyes. They were dark and troubled, nearly black in the gloom of the chamber, and his ebony hair looked rumpled, as if he had raked his hands through it several times.

  "What is it, Deirdre?" he asked, his tone edged with apprehension. "Is it Emily?"

  She couldn't speak. All of the righteous indignation that had carried her in here in the first place had flown away and deserted her, and her tongue seemed to have cleaved to the roof of her mouth. "Deirdre?"

  Wrapping her arms about herself, she forced the words out through her paralyzed throat. "No. It's nothing like that."

  Some of the tension seemed to seep out of his body and he relaxed, his wide shoulders rising and falling with his relieved exhalation. He reached up to rub at his eyes in a weary manner, then glanced at her, his ex­pression inquiring. "Then what is it? Has something else happened?"

  She shook her head and licked suddenly dry lips. "No. No, nothing's happened. I just—I—"Her words stumbled to a halt and she stared up at him, at a loss as to what to say.

  He watched her for a long moment, then a slow smile started to spread across his face. Planting his hands on his hips, he strolled forward until he stood just inches away from her, the distracting expanse of his chest on a level with her eyes.

  "Did you . . . need me for anything, Deirdre?"

  Her fingernails dug almost convulsively into her arms at the seductive quality of his voice. The spicy smell of his cologne was enough to rob her of her senses, and the power of his hypnotic gaze held her immobile.

  "N-no," she managed to squeak, her words barely above a whisper.

  "Surely you must have wanted something rather ur­gently to be visiting me in my room so late." In an un­expected move, he lifted a hand to twine the tip of her shoulder-length braid around one finger, gazing down at her from under lowered lashes. "You can tell me."

  What had she wanted? It was becoming more and more difficult to remember with every second that passed. Especially with him touching her. "I-I just wanted to make sure that you were comfortable."

  "Oh, yes. Quite comfortable." He let go of her braid and let his finger trail over her collarbone just above the lacy edge of her wrapper. "Of course, I wouldn't object if you should offer to stay and tuck me in."

  Straightening her spine, she ignored the goose bumps his caress instigated and took a deliberate step back, away from his disconcerting nearness. "Come now, my lord. Surely you're perfectly capable of tuck­ing yourself in."

  "I didn't say I couldn't do it myself. I just happen to believe having you do it would be more enjoyable."

  "Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I have no inten­tion of tucking you in. I merely wanted to check and make sure you had everything you needed before I went to bed myself."

  "Hmmm." Circling her, he halted next to the door and leaned with casual grace against the frame, block­ing her exit. "That's a very interesting question. Do you really want me to answer it?"

  That was it. This had gone far enough. It had been a mistake to come in here in the first place, and she had no intention of standing here bandying words back and forth.

  Taking a deep breath, she swung about to face him. "If you wouldn't mind moving aside, my lord, I
should like to return to my own room now."

  "It's 'my lord' now, is it?" Leaning forward, he reached out to cup her chin in his palm, tilting her head up until their gazes met. She couldn't restrain a slight shiver at the tingling contact. "Whatever hap­pened to Tristan?"

  "Whatever happened to your promise to keep your hands to yourself?"

  "Are you quite certain that's what you want?"

  With him standing this close and their lips only inches apart, Deirdre wasn't certain of anything. Part of her longed to throw her arms around his neck and lose herself in the passion of another kiss, but her saner half battled against that feeling for all she was worth.

  Trying desperately to clear her mind of the sensual fog that seemed to have stolen her senses, she looked up at him with beseeching eyes. "Tristan, please?"

  The simple words seemed to hit him hard. He froze, his face becoming a blank, unreadable mask as he scrutinized her with eyes that reflected none of his in­ner thoughts. After a long, drawn-out moment, he dropped his hand and stepped aside, clearing her path to the door.

  Deirdre didn't hesitate. She took to her heels and es­caped the room, leaving behind Tristan and the power­ful feelings he seemed to stir in her.

  As soon as the door slammed shut in Deirdre's wake, Tristan made his way back to the chair by the fire and slumped into it, bowing his head in his hands.

  What in the bloody hell had gotten into him? Just this morning he'd been telling himself how impossible it would be to pursue any sort of liaison with her. Noth­ing had changed. But ever since he'd kissed her, he'd been unable to forget the passion of it, the way her soft lips had opened under his, like a flower offering up its sweet nectar. Her response had been so innocent, so untutored that he found it hard to believe she was an experienced widow.

  Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shifted restlessly in his seat. He was tired, that was all. Lack of sleep and worry over Emily had finally caught up to him, tearing at his defenses and making him weak where his feel­ings for Deirdre were concerned.

  When the door to his bedchamber had first opened and he'd looked up to see her hovering in the doorway, he'd thought he was dreaming, that he'd dozed off in his chair and was in the middle of some erotic fantasy. Clad in a white silk dressing gown that clung to every curve, her hair in a single braid down her back with several loose tendrils curling at her temples, she'd been the picture of temptation.

  And he had most definitely been tempted. All he'd wanted to do was scoop her up in his arms and carry her to the big, canopied bed against the far wall. Thank God he'd managed to regain his wits before it had been too late.

  I must have been mad to insist upon staying here in her home with her, he thought, looking up to stare into the dancing flames before him. True, it would be advanta­geous to already be here in case Dan should send a messenger with news of Emily, but it hadn't been strictly necessary. He truly had no idea why he'd been so insistent. He'd only known that he hadn't wanted to part from her yet.

  After everything she'd shared with him tonight, he was starting to gain a true understanding of the kind of person Deirdre was. Gentle, yet determined, caring and unselfish, she gave of herself unstintingly, never expecting anything in return. She'd climbed her way out of the gutter to become an admirable and coura­geous lady, and even though their acquaintance was of such a short duration, he found that he was beginning to trust and respect her more than anyone else he'd ever known.

  In many ways, she reminded him of his mother.

  But it could never be. The whispers and rumors about her, no matter how unfounded they might be, would prevent any relationship. Even taking her as a mistress would be too risky. If he wanted to remain Emily's guardian, he had to avoid scandal of any sort, and it seemed that "scandal" was Lady Rotherby's middle name.

  No, after all this was over and they'd found Emily, he would thank the viscountess for her trouble and move on as if this time with her had never occurred. And if over the passing years his mind sometimes wandered to a green-eyed enchantress who had briefly managed to stir all his most passionate feelings with one sweet kiss in the dark, no one need ever know.

  But how on earth was he going to keep his hands off her until then?

  Chapter 15

  As Deirdre stood on the sidewalk in front of the Rag-Tag Bunch's hideout early the next morn­ing, she found herself wondering once again how she ever could have believed she would be able to allow Tristan into her life without endangering her heart and her peace of mind.

  She was inclined to think that she must have been temporarily mad, and now she was suffering the con­sequences.

  After a night spent tossing and turning, plagued by disjointed dreams, she had awakened at dawn even more exhausted than she'd been upon going to bed. Her heated encounter with her unwanted houseguest had left her feeling raw and vulnerable, her body tin­gling in an extremely unsettling manner. Visions of the two of them entwined had tormented her for most of the night, and one look in the mirror at her pale com­plexion and shadowed eyes was enough to tell the tale.

  Not that Tristan had seemed to notice. She glanced over at him as he stood next to her, staring up at the derelict building before them. Resolved not to let him know how much he'd affected her, she'd spent the time while she was getting ready steeling herself against his potent charms, only to discover upon joining him downstairs that the seductive scoundrel of last evening had vanished. He had once more retreated behind that wall of reserve, his gaze remote and unreadable, and despite herself, she couldn't deny a strong sense of dis­appointment.

  "Who lives here?"

  At his question, she shook off her musings and lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "Some friends of mine. I'm hoping they might be able to help us."

  That was only partly true. Though the Rag-Tags could be as capable as Dodger Dan's men when it came to digging up information, it had been worry that had drawn her here this morning. After everything that had happened in the past couple of days, it would ease her mind to check in with them. And if they could offer any insight into Emily's whereabouts, so much the better.

  Leveling Tristan with a serious stare, she continued. "I must have your promise that once we're inside, you'll be quiet and stay in the background as much as possible. It's going to make them skittish enough hav­ing a stranger in their midst. As a rule, the Rag-Tag Bunch tends to distrust anyone they don't know, so the more unobtrusive you are, the better."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "The Rag-Tag Bunch?"

  She didn't bother to elaborate. She would gain his promise if she had to pry it from him. "Your word as a gentleman, my lord?"

  His jaw hardened, and it was a moment or two before he finally inclined his head in a stiff, affirmative nod.

  Grateful for small favors, Deirdre turned to face Cullen, who still stood next to the carriage. "Wait here, Cullen. We won't be too long."

  She waited until the coachman nodded and touched his cap in deference before pivoting and start­ing around the side of the building, leaving Tristan to follow.

  He fell into step behind her, his large form a steady bulwark at her back as she entered the darkness of the alley. She had to admit she was glad for his solid pres­ence. As much as his arrogant attitude tended to frus­trate her, she couldn't deny that the man made her feel genuinely safe and protected.

  "Are you certain there's anyone here?" he asked, surveying the boarded-up windows with lowered brows. "It looks deserted."

  "That's rather the point." At the rear door, she stopped long enough to deliver two short, sharp raps before pushing it open and stepping inside.

  An instant barrage of greetings deluged her from all corners of the room as the boys came running to gather around. She smiled at their enthusiasm, for it warmed her heart to know that they were honestly glad to see her. Their affection and trust were just a few of the things that made her sometimes thankless quest seem worthwhile.

  "Lady R, what are you doing 'ere?"

  "Did you brin
g us anything?"

  "Did—"

  The clamor abruptly ceased as Tristan filled the doorway, his towering form blocking out the early morning light. Jaws dropped and eyes rounded with apprehension as all attention focused on the outsider who had unexpectedly joined them.

  So much for being unobtrusive.

  Then, from the edge of the group, freckled Miles let out a low whistle. "Cor! 'E's bloody 'uge, ain't 'e?"

  Smothering a laugh at Tristan's disgruntled expres­sion, Deirdre looked down to find Benji clinging to her skirt like a limpet, his little face filled with awe.

  "Who's that, m'lady?"

  "It's all right. He's a friend, Benji."

  He tilted his head to study Tristan with interest. "Is 'e a giant, m'lady?" he breathed. "Like in that story you told us about David and Goliath?"

  "Of course not, darling." Although he did rather resemble one, she thought with inner amusement. He had to duck to even enter the building, his head barely missing the low frame, and once he was inside he seemed to fill the entire room with his command­ing aura.

  Clearing her throat, Deirdre made the introduc­tions. "Boys, this is Tristan, my new . . . footman. Tris­tan, this is the Rag-Tag Bunch, the most talented gang of pickpockets the streets of Tothill Fields has ever seen."

  To her surprise, Benji let go of her and approached the man who stood with his hands on his hips, brow lowered in an almost intimidating manner.

  " 'Ello, Mr. Tristan," the little boy piped up, seeming not at all afraid of the large stranger looming over him. "My name's Benji."

  Her maternal instincts surging to the fore, Deirdre took a protective step toward them, her gaze meeting Tristan's pleadingly. But she needn't have worried. His face softened, and he hunkered down to the boy's eye level with a smile. "Hello, Benji. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

  "You're friends wiv m'lady?"