Perhaps the wolf wasn’t quite so dangerous as he pretended. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out for sure—give him a little rope and see if he hung himself.
And pray that he didn’t tie her up with it instead.
Chapter 5
The artful Angler baits his Hook,
And throws it gently in the Brook;
Which the Fish view with greedy eyes,
And soon are taken by Surprize.
A Little pretty pocket-book, John Newbery
Morgan wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. Bon Dieu, she tasted like heaven. She felt like heaven, too, with her willowy body yielding in his arms. Which was precisely why he should let her go. Her eager response showed that his attempt to intimidate her wasn’t working.
Yet he couldn’t stop kissing her. Her warm, welcoming mouth inflamed his need, and her flowery scent teased his nostrils. He wanted to sink into her. From the moment she’d raced to Johnny’s defense like an avenging angel, he’d itched to taste her, to touch her, to strip off her ugly gown and…
Ravish her. Yes, that sounded vastly appealing just now.
But he wouldn’t. Not because of her silly threats, of course. Ravenswood would handle any complaint to the police with swift efficiency. He wouldn’t because he didn’t take unwilling women, even when the force of desire made them temporarily willing.
So no matter how giving and lush her mouth, no matter how womanly the body pressed to him, and no matter how freshly scented her hair, he must put her aside before she got under his skin any further. He’d made his point. If she didn’t flee his shop now, she didn’t have the sense God had given her.
Releasing her, he stepped back and waited for the outrage to show in her face, waited for the inevitable slap. He needed it, wanted it. Then he’d be rid of her for good.
No slap came. Instead, she twined her arms about his neck and hung onto him. When she then stretched up to press her lips to his, he jerked back to growl, “What the hell are you doing?”
Her pretty eyebrows arched high on her forehead. “Kissing you, of course.”
Her apparent eagerness confused him. But his body didn’t think twice—every confounded muscle sprang to attention. “Why?”
Determination glinted in her eyes. “Without more proof, I can hardly complain to the officers that you were ravishing me. You have to be in the midst of something more incriminating than kissing me before I can scream for Samuel and have him march you off to the Lambeth Street Police. Of course, if you’d rather just give me that watch, Captain Pryce…”
The little fool thought to bluff him with her petty threats. She had no idea how close she was coming to breaking his control. Even knowing it was a bluff couldn’t calm the havoc in his randy body. “If we’re to be intimate,” he taunted her, “don’t you think you should call me Morgan?”
“Very well.” Her voice dripped sweetness. “My dear Morgan, can we get on with this business of ravishment?”
“You still think I wouldn’t dare, don’t you?”
“I know you wouldn’t,” she challenged him.
He glared down at her, his hands tightening convulsively on her waist. “I ought to call your bluff. I ought to ravish you if only to make you see how foolish you are to risk your virtue so recklessly.”
“I’m touched, truly touched that you care,” she retorted, echoing his own mocking words.
“Oh, stubble it,” he rasped and kissed her again, not bothering to hide one ounce of his need, determined to teach her a lesson.
But damn her if she didn’t kiss him back. Her mouth accepted his reckless tongue as enthusiastically as any tart’s, and if he hadn’t known she didn’t mean it, he would have laid her down right there and taken her. He wanted her that much. Too much.
Perhaps it was time he showed her how much. He slid his hand between them to cup one breast, kneading it through the worsted of her gown.
For one incredible moment, she actually responded, leaning into his hand and making his loins stir with keen excitement. Then she froze and jerked back, her eyes a brilliant, startled blue. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you to scream for your watchdog, my dear Clara.” Holding her gaze, he lifted his other hand to caress her other breast. He tried not to imagine what color the nipple might be or how it would taste in his mouth, tried not to notice how well it fit his palm. “Go ahead—scream. This is your plan, after all. Or must I remove some clothing before you consider it sufficient evidence for the police?”
With a shocked little gasp, she slid out of his arms and away.
Thank God. Another minute, and he’d have abandoned any gentlemanly impulses entirely, reduced to a slavering beast with only one thing on his mind.
“All right, you win,” she whispered. “You win.” Her eyes were huge in her face, and her chin quivered.
He felt like a blackguard, but he pressed the point ruthlessly. “You must be more specific. What is it I win?”
She took a shuddering breath. “I won’t go to the authorities.”
“That’s hardly a concession. I knew you wouldn’t do it anyway—a woman of your position would never risk the scandal. So what other prize will you offer me?”
Though some of the fire returned to her face, she mumbled, “I won’t insist that you give the watch back.”
“Insist all you like, but I wasn’t lying about it. I really don’t have it anymore.”
“If you say so.” She whirled toward the doorway into the front of the shop.
“But I do want something from you,” he called out.
She halted. “What?”
“Your word that you’ll stay away from my shop.”
Her sweet curve of a back stiffened rebelliously. “You are in no position to ask for anything, sir. You ought to be glad I’m giving up so easily.”
She called this easily? “Fine, come back if you wish. And we’ll play our little game again. Only next time leave your watchdog at home. That way I can take my time about ravishing you…I won’t have to risk destroying your gown by ripping it off or—”
“Oh, stop that!” She whirled on him. “You would never—”
“Are you sure?” He took a step forward. “Care to try me, ma belle ange?”
The fire went out of her eyes. She shook her head mutely. “I have no desire to return, believe me, but if you insist upon corrupting my charges—”
“What if I promise not to buy goods from any of them?”
The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted them. How could he manage that, short of questioning every pickpocket who came through his door? Which he couldn’t do without running off the very people he needed to lure the Specter.
The bright hope in her eyes only made it worse. “You’d do that for me?”
“If I can,” he said evasively. “If I know they’re from the Home.”
“You won’t buy anything from my children,” she persisted, as if she didn’t quite believe him.
He’d do whatever he must to keep her from coming back here with her nosy questions and pert demands and delicious glory of a mouth. “I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask,” she said with a tremulous smile.
He shook his head. “Such a fierce defender, aren’t you? And all for some ingrate rascals who’d as soon go back to their old ways as breathe.”
“I’m the only defender they have, sir. If I abandon them, what’s left for them but the workhouse or the noose?”
Envy of her charges stabbed through him so powerfully that he spoke without thinking. “Ah, Clara, what a pity there was no one like you around when I was a boy.”
She dragged in a sharp breath of surprise. Then curiosity suffused her face, making him curse himself for his hasty words.
Fortunately, just at that moment the front door slammed open, sending the bell ringing madly as a voice called out, “M’lady, where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m back here, Samuel!” she called out.
Seconds later, her footman loomed in the doorway, scowling blackly at Morgan. “What’s going on? Why are you two standing back here in the dark?”
“A bit late for you to show concern, isn’t it?” Morgan snapped.
Samuel paled to chalk. “If you so much as laid a hand upon m’lady—”
“Enough, Samuel!” Clara broke in. “Nothing happened.”
“You have a strange definition of nothing,” Morgan said, perversely angered by her nonchalant dismissal. “I don’t call what we just did ‘nothing.’”
“I’ll gut you like a fish, I will!” Samuel darted forward, only to be restrained by Clara.
“You’ll do no such thing.” She turned her angry gaze on Morgan. “And you stop provoking my footman!”
“He needs to be provoked, damn it!” Morgan glowered at Samuel. “One of these days you could come to real harm while he’s flirting and twiddling his thumbs!”
Her angry expression faded abruptly, replaced by a kind one that made his breath catch in his throat. “I’m sure he won’t make that mistake again. Will you, Samuel?”
Samuel glared daggers at Morgan. “No, m’lady. Next time I’ll stay glued to your side, I will.”
“See that you do.” Morgan knew he sounded like an idiot, warning her away from his shop with threats of “ravishment,” then chastising her footman for not looking after her. But he couldn’t help it. She roused some long-buried protective instinct in him. And he’d wager she knew it, too, from the way she was smiling at him now.
“Thank you for your concern, Morgan,” she said softly. “And for your promise. Good-bye.” Then, tugging a rigid Samuel off with her, she left his shop.
Only after she was gone could he breathe again. What was the wench doing to him? When she was around, he said what he oughtn’t, did what he shouldn’t, and burned where he mustn’t.
He had to get it through his thick skull that Clara—Lady Clara—was not for him, not now, not ever. He wanted to be free of this cursed city, and if he took up with her, he’d never be. A Woman of Expectations would want him to stay put, to endure a life of domesticity too boring to drown out the bleak memories that plagued him. A life of squalling babes and society dinner parties and a dull position in the Home Office like Ravenswood’s, guiding other men as they headed off into adventure and the blessed oblivion of life at sea.
Still, he had to admit he had trouble envisioning Clara as a domestic society matron sipping tea and paying calls. That would be too dull a life for her as well. But he had no trouble envisioning her heavy with some man’s child, perhaps even…
Confound it all, now he was thinking about her ripe with his own babe! What madness was this?
Determined to purge such thoughts from his mind, he hurried into the front room and set about the task of closing up for the evening. What he needed was a good hot meal and a few mugs of ale, perhaps even an armful of willing wench, to set him to rights.
Night had fallen by the time he was done. He locked the front door, then let himself out the side door into the alley. He regretted coming that way almost instantly, for it made him think of her, and he was determined not to.
He was so engrossed in trying to drive the woman from his mind that his generally alert senses didn’t warn him about impending danger until it was too late. The blow to his calves dropped him to his knees, but the knife that was then thrust against his throat made him struggle past the pain in his legs to focus on his attacker. He could think of only one person it could be—the Specter’s weapon of choice had always been a knife.
“Now see here, Cap’n—” a faintly familiar voice began.
He wasted no time trying to figure out where he’d heard it, but drove his elbow into what he calculated would be the man’s groin. He hit hard enough to make his assailant howl and release the blade.
Seconds later, Morgan was on his feet with his own knife drawn. Shoving the man against the wall, he pressed the blade to his assailant’s throat. “If you don’t want to die, tell me who you are and what you want with me.”
“P-Please, Cap’n, don’t kill me,” the man whispered. “I-it’s only me. Samuel.”
“Lady Clara’s Samuel?” Morgan asked incredulously.
For a second, only the sound of Samuel’s quick gasps could be heard in the alley. “I-I wanted to…to give you a warning, that’s all. Tell you to leave her ladyship alone.”
Muttering a string of curses, Morgan shoved away from the wall and returned his knife to the sheath inside his coat. “That’s a damned fool thing you did—coming up on me like that. I could have killed you.”
“Aye, and I’m sore grateful that you didn’t.” There was just enough light for Morgan to see Samuel tug at his livery coat and straighten his stock. “It’s only that m’lady has been good to me. I don’t want to see her hurt.”
“Neither do I.”
“But after what you said just a while ago—”
“I was merely trying to provoke you, exactly as she claimed.” Pray God she never told Samuel the truth of how she’d let Morgan touch her. Next time the foolish footman might shoot him. “But I swear that as long as you keep your mistress away from my shop, I’ll steer clear of her. I want no trouble, either with you or with her.”
Samuel slumped against the wall. “I do my best to watch out for her, y’know. But sometimes she makes it difficult. M’lady’s a bit…well…”
“Headstrong? Independent? Determined to risk her life at every turn?”
“I see y’ve figured her out well enough,” Samuel said morosely. “She thinks I can protect her against anybody, but I’m not that large and—”
“And just because you were a pickpocket doesn’t mean you know a thing about guarding your mistress.”
Moonlight shone just enough to illuminate Samuel’s bowed head. “That’s the God’s honest truth.”
He cast the young man a considering look. “You know, Samuel, it’s possible to get the best of a man even if you’re half his size. But you have to know how. I tell you what—if you’d like lessons in more efficient ways to use that blade of yours in attacking a man, I can give them to you.”
“Why would you do that?”
Because the thought of your mistress running afoul of some villain due to your incompetence makes my blood run cold.
He could hardly say that. He had to remember what role he played. “Because I could use your help. Your mistress insists on meddling in my affairs. So you keep her out of my business, and I’ll teach you how to keep her out of danger. All right?”
Samuel straightened. “Oh, yes, Cap’n! I’d be most grateful if you’d teach me.”
“Then it’s a bargain. I’ll see you here tomorrow after you’ve accompanied Lady Clara to the Home. Though we should probably keep this between the two of us.”
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Then Samuel added in a more subdued tone, “And thank you for not killing me. I don’t much fancy being food for the worms.”
“And I don’t much fancy having to explain a dead footman in my alley to the authorities. So go on with you. Lady Clara is probably waiting for you at the Home.”
“Oh, blast!” he cried. “I was supposed to meet her back there soon as it got dark.”
As Samuel raced off, Morgan rolled his eyes. What had he gotten himself into? The man couldn’t protect a gnat, for God’s sake.
“Well done,” rasped a voice from out of the darkness. “You handled him expertly, Captain Pryce.”
Morgan’s instinct to survive surged in him again. He whirled around, his hand already reaching for his blade, but he saw no one. The alley seemed empty, though it was too dark to be sure what lay in the shadows at the other end.
“Show yourself!” Morgan scanned the alley again. He thought he saw something move, but he couldn’t be sure. An eerie chill ran down his spine. “I don’t talk to anyone I can’t see.”
“That will make our conversation rather short, I should imagine. Because I don’t talk t
o anyone who can see me.”
The voice was as impenetrable as the night. The enclosed space and the distance of the speaker made the words bounce off the walls, giving the illusion that they came from everywhere at once. “Who are you? And what do you want?” Morgan had a good idea of the former, but not the latter.
“I could ask the same of you. You’re the one encroaching on my territory.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” With knife in hand, Morgan edged farther into the alley, staying alert with every step. “I run a shop, that’s all.”
A rumbling chuckle sounded all around him. “We both know what you do for a living, Captain. What I want to know is why you chose to do it in Spitalfields.”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Everything that happens in Spitalfields is my business, as you will soon learn, if you haven’t already.”
A faint noise came from his right, and he whirled toward it. But it was only the scrabbling of a rat. Damn it all, he wished he’d brought a lantern into the alley.
“So tell me,” the ghostly voice went on, “why have you settled in my part of town?”
“I figured it was as good a place as any.”
“Then you figured wrong.”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t lacked for business since the day I opened. And with Petticoat Lane’s reputation for providing a diligent shopkeeper with…shall we say…incredibly cheap goods, I expect my profits to increase with every day I remain.”
“I wouldn’t count on that. Yes, the thieves will go where the pay is greatest, but to pay them well you have to keep your costs down. And I can be very good at making sure your costs increase with your profits.”
“What do you mean?” Morgan fought to keep the excitement out of his voice. He was getting somewhere, and quicker than he’d expected, too.
“Fire is a constant hazard in this part of town. Nor is anybody likely to enter your shop if one or two of my brawnier friends lounge about outside. Or sneak up on you in the dark to put you out of business permanently.”
Dance of Seduction Page 7