The strength and heat of those long fingers penetrated her to the bone. She could only imagine what the man could do with those fingers in a bed. She needed to go to church. “No, thank you.” She quickly descended the narrow, iron steps and landed onto the gravel path, away from a large patch of mud. She tugged her hand loose, trying to focus.
He turned and climbed up onto the back of the coach, retrieving a large wool satchel. Draping it onto his broad shoulder, he jumped down, strode toward her and grabbed her hand back as if it were his to grab.
Startled, she tried to tug her hand loose but his fingers were too strong. “What are you—”
“It will keep your hand warm and ensure every man knows you cannot be accosted.” He smiled down at her, wove his heated fingers effortlessly between hers and clasped them snugly against his own.
A part of her soul liquefied. Her husband had never held her hand for the sake of warming it or for the sake of anything else. They’d never had that sort of relationship.
She glanced up at Mr. Levin, scrambling to keep up with his long-legged stride, while still holding his hand. Girlish though it was, she liked the attention. It was…sweet.
He kept walking, his thumb now skimming her palm.
Her eyes widened. Why was she, a titled lady of forty, permitting this? “We really shouldn’t be holding hands,” she said rather stupidly. “It isn’t proper.”
He eyed her. “I agree.” He released her and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. Still striding alongside her toward a shadowed, stone building lit by lanterns that lined the wide road, he gruffly said, “You have very soft hands. Do you know that?”
She bit her lip hard. This had trouble slapped all over it.
Lesson Three
Sometimes a man must refrain from being a man.
-The School of Gallantry
Once the room had been paid for and a brass key was in his pocket, Konstantin strode across the dirt-pounded floor of the dilapidated lobby toward Lady Stone. She lingered by the narrow staircase leading to their lodging, scanning the brusque men around them. Men who boisterously spoke in Russian to each other across the lobby in between splashing gulps of ale and vodka that spilled from the tankards they staggered around with.
She seemed surprised. Little did she know, Russians were known to stay up all night and drink, whether they were travelling or not.
Konstantin continued to watch her. It was the first time he’d seen her in full light. She was stunning. Her travelling gown was sumptuous with all that expensive velvet and was hooked up to her chin in a refined elegance that made him want to whistle. She was curvaceous and tall. Being a touch over six feet himself, he’d never met a woman who reached his own nose. Yet she did. Her thick, dark brown hair was primly pinned up into a chignon that had grown lopsided from hours of sleep.
It didn’t make her any less attractive.
From the moment she and that expensive perfume of hers had nestled into his lap hours earlier, he had a strange, glimmering feeling they were going to imprint their breaths on each other. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt very protective of her. Like she was already his.
It was why he’d taken her hand.
And then there was the subject of the Glorious Midnight Bane. He wondered what meeting her at midnight could possibly mean. Konstantin tightened his jaw and refused to think about it. All he knew was that she needed a hero, and after too many years of being a criminal, he was more than ready to play the role of a hero to a beautiful woman who thought he was nothing more than a respectable man.
It was nice.
He approached Lady Stone.
She turned, and adjusting the shawl around her cloak, skimmed his appearance from chest to boots without any attempt to conceal her interest in his physique.
His chest tightened, knowing that look all too well. The last time a woman gave him a look like that, he’d been left unconscious and bleeding on the floor. He had to avoid a repeat of that.
Konstantin strode up to the steep, wooden staircase and leaned against the unevenly nailed railing. “The innkeeper mentioned there was a sizable bathhouse in the courtyard. Would you like hot water prepared for you before you retire? It would be no extra cost to us.”
Her pink, full lips pursed in due seriousness. “I’m exhausted. But tomorrow morning I will certainly take advantage of the offer.”
“Consider it done. We ought to retire. ’Tis late.” He pushed away from the railing and swept an open hand toward the stairs. “After you.”
“Thank you.” She breezed past, filling the air once again with expensive perfume that reminded him of a cinnamon-tinged rose. It was a scent that suited her. Reserved but spicy. She gathered her dark green velvet travelling gown and stiffly made her way up the staircase, her cloak bundling around her arms.
Konstantin gripped the wood banister and followed her. He tried not to assess her bum hidden beneath the layers of those heavy skirts but the full curve of those hips accentuated by a well-cinched corset kept taunting him. It was difficult to believe she had a twenty-one-year-old son and three daughters. Her son was only nine years younger than him. When she had been a woman of twenty, he’d been a boy of ten.
He was a very bad man.
Once on the landing, he focused on getting to the room.
Reaching a narrow door with the number 12 crookedly painted with red on its wooden surface, he dug into his pocket for the key and adjusted the sack on his shoulder. With the turn of his wrist, Konstantin kicked out a booted foot, thrusting the door out of their way.
He swept a gallant hand toward the open door. “After you.”
She hesitated and then walked into the small room, her gown rustling past his booted feet.
He entered after her and pushed the oak door shut. Dropping the sack from his shoulder, he kicked it off to the side and leaned heavily against the panel. He paused. He could feel his watch shifting against the inside of his pocket. It was telling him something. What exactly, he was uncertain of.
She dragged her shawl up to her chin and turned toward the narrow bed.
Fitting two people on that bed for a night of sleep would require vast imagination. Which meant only one of them was getting the bed. So much for sleep. Or anything else. Not that she would entertain the idea of anything else. She was a lady.
Pushing away from the door in exasperation, he thumbed at the wool sack. “I have clean clothing in my travelling bag. You may borrow one of my linen shirts to sleep in.”
She smoothed her hands against the thick, velvet skirts of her travelling gown. “I will be fine sleeping in this. Thank you.” She removed her cloak and shawl and surveyed the small room that was barely a few strides wide.
At least it had a small hearth.
He knew the woman was used to far better lodgings. She was an aristocrat. The scraped oak timbers that lined the walls and the low ceiling of the room was overly rustic for a woman dressed in velvet and cashmere. And the moment she crawled into that bed, her body would quickly realize the tick was stuffed with rough straw, not plush feathers.
Why couldn’t he have had enough money to impress the woman with her own room? More importantly, why couldn’t he have met the woman after his crowned glory of one hundred thousand? “I apologize that the lodgings are a bit rough,” he finally said.
She draped her cloak and shawl onto the bed, her features softening. “There is no need to apologize, Mr. Levin. I am incredibly grateful to have a place to sleep.”
Those dark eyes were so stunning when she softened. They became warm-liquored and soulful and hinted at a different woman hidden beneath. One who enjoyed nestling against a man during cold winter nights. He liked women who nestled. “You have very pretty eyes.”
She lowered her gaze with a half-smile. “Thank you.”
He was beginning to ramble like a fourteen-year-old boy meeting a pretty girl. Shifting his jaw, he placed his right hand onto the rosewood handle of the dagger attached at his waist. “A
re you hungry? I have some dried peaches and apples in my sack.”
“No thank you.” Her eyes darted to where his hand was. “Do you always carry a weapon?” she inquired.
“Yes.” He paused, realizing he probably shouldn’t have admitted that. It represented his old life and not the one he was embracing. Still, he did know women liked a man who knew how to handle a weapon. He casually removed his leather belt and tried not to vaunt. “As my father used to say, Russia has no saints.”
He carried the belt and dagger over to the small, lopsided side table beside the bed and set it down with a clatter. The side table wobbled in protest. He inwardly winced, realizing just how awful the accommodations really were and stilled the table with a hand. He turned back to her and drawled, “Let us hope the ceiling holds up, yes?”
A bubble of a laugh escaped her. “It isn’t all that bad.”
“No, I suppose not,” he muttered, glancing around. “I have seen worse.” He scuffed the bottom heel of his boot across the uneven floors. “At least it appears clean. And fortunately, there is no sign of roaches. Yet.”
She froze, a look of horror tightening her pale face. She glanced at the floors and looked as if she might leap into his arms at the sight of anything with an antenna.
He probably shouldn’t have said anything. Not that he would mind her leaping into his arms. “Roaches are annoying but harmless.”
She hesitated and then politely offered, “I suppose once we close our eyes, it will be no different than closing one’s eyes in a hotel in Paris.”
He bit back a smile, liking how unpretentious she was. There was clearly more to her than a pretty face and a pretty gown. “I take it you have been to Paris?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. But I do have a trip planned. Have you ever been?”
He shook his head. “My finances have never really allowed for it. But I intend to travel there sometime next year. Around June.” After he settled into his one hundred thousand.
She paused. “I plan on travelling to Paris next year in June, as well.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
It was like they were asking each other whether Paris was next.
He quickly removed his coat and tossed it to the wooden chair by the door. He also removed his waistcoat and tossed that as well. “We should sleep.” Or something like that.
“Yes. We should.” She turned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching down. After a few attempts of swatting toward her shoes, she let out a breath and sat up. “Could you please assist me in removing my boots, Mr. Levin? I would do it myself but I cannot bend at the waist.”
This could get dangerous. He adjusted his linen shirt, reminding himself only her boots were coming off, and rounded toward the bed. He knelt before her. “Allow me.” He wagged a hand toward her.
She gingerly stuck out one booted foot.
He gently grabbed her ankle. Pushing up a section of her velvet skirt away from those feet, he loosened the fastening on each black leather half-boot. He made a valiant attempt not to notice anything other than her stockings were snow white and made out of silk. And that she had incredibly shapely calves. And that her ankles were slender enough for him to ring his entire hand around them.
His calloused fingers grazed the smooth softness of those stockings as he removed the first boot. The luxurious feel of her stockings made his chest and his entire body tighten. And that was just the stockings. He removed her other boot and tightly smiled up at her, trying to assure her he wasn’t taking liberties. Even though he was.
She slid her hands across her skirts and also smiled. That smile was warm and far more inviting than he had expected.
Setting aside both boots, he quickly rose.
“Thank you for your assistance.”
“It was a pleasure.” Too much of one. He gestured toward the narrow bed. “I ask that you take the bed.” He thumbed toward one of the two chairs behind him. “I will settle into a chair.” He considered himself to be a gentleman, after all. Not in his head, mind you, but in practice.
She glanced at the wooden chair, her arched brows coming together. “How will you sleep?”
He’d slept in some disgusting places before whilst on assignment. This was nothing. He went over to the chair and sat, tilting himself into it until it creaked in protest. “I appreciate the concern but I will manage.”
“Are you certain?”
“Quite.”
Her dark eyes brightened. “Thank you. For everything.”
“I am more than happy to oblige.” He shifted against the hard seat and tried to get comfortable. “Sleep well.”
She hesitated, then quickly rose and bustled toward him. To his astonishment, she leaned down, her perfume caressing the air between them and delivered a quick kiss onto his cheek before bustling straight back to the bed. “Thank you.”
He froze. The feel of those soft lips against his unshaven face made him realize sleep was the last thing he wanted. He really didn’t need this. He didn’t need to start thinking about her and kisses and— She was an aristocrat. It would be like him trying to get involved with the emperor’s daughter. It wouldn’t end well. Though she claimed to have no husband, as beautiful as she was, she probably had a lover. A very territorial one. Hell, he knew he’d be territorial over her if she was his.
Tightening his jaw, he watched her unfold the linen.
She regally arranged herself onto the bed with a rustle of her gown, her full velvet skirts bundling up to her knees. A very impressive and very delectable display of slim, stockinged legs now appeared in full view with attractive black lace garters tied below each knee to hold the silk place.
Mother of God. He wanted those legs wrapped around his waist.
With pursed lips and a lowered gaze, she drew up the linen and covered herself, eliminating the view of those shapely legs. She busily patted the linens around herself, clearly unaware he was watching her.
Her dark eyes eventually cut over to him. She smiled pertly. “Goodnight, Mr. Levin,” she offered, settling herself against the pillow.
With difficulty, he inclined his head. “Goodnight, Lady Stone.”
But no, it wasn’t going to be a goodnight. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Cecilia’s eyes fluttered open. A lone candle in the far corner of the rented room and the red burning coals in the small hearth dimly pushed back the late-night shadows. She turned against the linens, her travelling gown making it difficult for her to move. Pale moonlight beamed through the narrow, dirt smeared window.
She couldn’t sleep.
Pushing herself up, she paused, realizing Mr. Levin was not in sight. The lone chair he’d been sitting in had been pushed back. His coat, waistcoat and pocket watch were draped over his wool sack in the shadows a few feet away from the door.
Cecilia slowly scooted out from beneath the linens, pushing the linen away from her gown so it wouldn’t tangle. Her stockinged feet landed on the uneven wood floors. She cringed knowing the floors were rough. Her silk stockings would never survive.
She yanked up her gown and scrambled to remove her garters since Mr. Levin wasn’t around to see it. Although she managed to untie both of her garters, her corset made it impossible for her to roll them down far enough to even try to yank them off her feet. Huffing out a breath, she tossed the garters onto the bed and made her way over to the wool sack draped with Mr. Levin’s belongings. She picked up his pocket watch from the pile to check the time. She paused, its weight surprising her as the chain unraveled and swayed against the side of her hand. Oddly, her fingers tingled. It was as if she were touching something incredibly special.
Noting words were etched on the back of the silver casing, she turned it up and squinted at the faded letters. It was written in English.
“Eternally yours at midnight,” she whispered.
What could it mean? Usually, a name or initials were engraved on the back of a watch. The silver was he
avily tarnished, hinting it was old. Clicking open the dented casing, she blinked at the uneven hands, realizing it was almost three in the morning.
Shutting it, she gathered up his clothing from atop the sack and carried his coat and waistcoat over to the chair in an effort to tidy the room. She hated when things were unorganized. Draping everything onto the back of the chair, she carefully set his watch onto the seat, centering it and then glanced around the empty room again. If it was three in the morning, where was he? She hurried over to the closed door. Seeing the key had been left in the lock, she pulled it out and opened the door.
He had forgotten to lock the door.
Peering out into the candlelit corridor, Cecilia hesitated and stuck her head further out beyond the doorway. The creaking of the old inn was all she could hear. She froze.
A stocky young blond male smoking a half-cut cigar leaned against the peeling wall beside an open door next to her own. His yellowing, linen shirt was open to the waist, revealing a fit chest, and his stained wool trousers were barely affixed to his hips as if he had just finished entertaining every last woman in town. He inclined his head toward her in a gentlemanly manner and lifted his cigar to full lips. Dragging in a long, indulgent puff, he slowly released the smoke he’d drawn in through his nostrils and his mouth as if he were making love to it. He smiled and said something conversationally in Russian.
She blinked. “Uh...forgive me, sir, but I don’t speak any Russian.”
The young man paused, his blond brows popping up. “Ah.” Sticking his cigar into the side of his mouth, he scrambled to tidy his appearance by sweeping back his hair from his eyes. He removed his cigar, cleared his throat and edged closer, brokenly offering in a heavy Russian accent, “Woman is…English?”
His English was certainly better than her Russian. “Yes, sir. I’m English.”
He dashed out his cigar against the frame of the door and shoved it into his trouser pocket. Opening the door to his room, he swept a hand toward it, his eyes brightening. He pointed at her and then cupped his hand and pretended to drink from it to indicate that he was inviting her into his room for a drink.
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 145