Noble Scoundrel (Peril & Persuasion Book 1)

by Amy Sandas

  The hairs on his arms stood up and his stomach muscles tightened with awareness.

  Someone was there. Behind the partially opened door, waiting to attack as soon as Mason entered. Dusk had fallen outside, and without any lamps lit, the building was filled with a dim grey light, but the shadow beneath the door was a dead giveaway to a man who’d learned far too young to be wary of blind corners.

  Though it had been a long time since anyone had dared to attack him unprovoked, in his gritty youth, it had happened often. He’d been a scrawny lad up until the age of thirteen or so, when several growth spurts added inches in height and bulk within a painfully short time. The dramatic transformation represented a challenge to the other boys in the rookery, where might equaled right.

  Mason had been jumped so many times in those years, he’d had constant bruises and lumps on his face and body. But he’d been raised in a nest of violence and knew how to take a hit and keep going. Eventually, word got out he couldn’t be defeated and the attacks grew less frequent.

  Mason rolled his shoulders in anticipation of the confrontation awaiting him behind the door. He probably should have anticipated the efficiency of Nightshade’s people to get word to Boothe.

  Good. The issue would be settled all the quicker.

  After quietly removing his great coat to leave it in a heap on the stairs, he flattened his palm on the door. Pushing it open, he stepped through.

  Something didn’t smell right. In a place most often scented with the dust of charcoal, sweat, and whiskey, the new smell was starkly out of place. Fresh and quietly rich with the fragrance of some exotic flower, it momentarily distracted him from the immediate threat, giving the intruder a chance to take the first swing.

  Something the man was destined to regret.

  A fist connected with Mason’s jaw and he smiled. It seemed he’d been right not to expect much of a challenge in this confrontation. The punch was ill-timed and carried only a fraction of the force it could have if it had been properly executed. Boothe had obviously been in a rush to claim his advantage...possibly because he knew he wouldn’t get another.

  Mason kicked the door shut behind him, closing off an avenue for the man to escape before Mason had a chance to question him about the woman who’d hired him.

  “You’re gonna have to do a helluva lot better than that,” he noted with a smirk as the Runner squared off in front of him with fists raised.

  Mason rolled his shoulders and shook out his fingers before curling them into his palm.

  Though the lighting was dim, it was enough to determine his adversary was a big man, broad and barrel-chested. His expression was stern and ready for a fight; his gaze was focused. At one time, the former Runner might have been an imposing figure. Now, however, he was a man significantly past his physical prime and way out of his league.

  But that didn’t stop him from lunging forward to swing a hard right.

  Mason easily ducked out of the way and sent a swift jab to his opponent’s ribs. The man stumbled and coughed but recovered quickly enough to come at Mason again.

  Deflecting the next blow with an easy block, Mason decided to bring an end to the pointless tussle.

  After allowing Boothe to get close enough to manage a quick cross to Mason’s jaw, Mason responded with a blurred left jab that had the other man dropping to the floor—out cold.

  Mason huffed an irritated breath.

  He’d wanted to end the fight, not knock the man out. Now he’d have to wait for him to wake up before he could get the answers he wanted. As he took a step toward the fallen Runner, intending to search the man’s pockets for anything useful, the distinctive click of a pistol hammer being pulled back echoed through the room like a cannon blast.

  Mason froze.

  Boothe hadn’t come alone.

  Holding his splayed hands out from his body, he slowly turned toward the sound to discover a figure standing in the deep shadows behind his desk.

  “Do not move.” The woman’s voice was an intriguing combination of elegance and arrogance. Smooth and strong. The texture of it slid warmly down Mason’s spine.

  She was shrouded in a thick cloak of midnight-blue velvet. With the oversized hood drawn over her head, he could see nothing of her face. But considering her cultured accent, he suspected Freddie’s sister had opted not to sit quietly at home while her man followed Turner’s effectively dropped clue.

  Mason would have his answers sooner than later after all.

  Keeping his gaze trained on the lady and the glint of dark metal she extended from the folds of her cloak, Mason lifted his hands to release the tie of his queue that had come loose during the brief scuffle with Boothe. In slow, deliberate movements, he shook his head—never once taking his eyes off the woman—before combing his fingers back through his hair to secure it again at his nape.

  Then he lowered his hands back to his sides and smiled. “’Ello, dove.”

  “You are Mason Hale?”

  “I am.”

  She hesitated. It was a just a brief pause, but Mason noticed it. He might have suspected it was caused by uncertainty if not for the fact that her voice was strong and steady when she spoke again. “Where is the boy?”

  Mason made a play of looking around the room, even glancing behind him before he tilted his head back toward the cloaked woman. “What boy?”

  She made a short sound of impatience.

  “I was informed he’d be here. We’ve already searched the place and I know he’s not, but I suspect you know where he is.” She lifted the pistol suggestively. “And you’re going to tell me.”

  Mason tilted his head thoughtfully. “Am I now?”

  Her tone sharpened. “Where is he?”

  “As you said, he’s not here.” Mason took a step forward. The pistol never wavered.

  “You will turn him over to me. Immediately.”

  Impressed with the woman’s boldness though not yet assured of her intentions, Mason asked, “What d’you think the likelihood is of me being the type of man who’d do something just because you demand it?”

  “I will pay ransom. Any amount. Double—triple—what you were paid to take him.” Tension rose in her voice. A thread of desperation gleaming within the stern command.

  Mason continued across the room, his slow, even steps sounding ominous on the bare wood floor.

  The woman adjusted the pistol’s aim to follow his advance. “Not another step.”

  He ignored her. “You won’t shoot me.”

  “Do not underestimate me,” she replied coldly.

  “If you shoot me, you won’t find the boy.”

  A soft, swift inhale. “You do have him.”

  Mason strode forward until the expanse of his heavy oak desk was the only thing between them. That, the pistol, and the gathering darkness. “What d’you want with him?”

  “Not your concern.” Irritation colored her tone and shortened her words. “Release him to me.”

  Mason lifted a brow. “You keep making demands, dove, but you’re not the one in charge here.”

  She made a subtle gesture with the gun. “I beg to differ.”

  Without warning, Mason placed his hand flat on the surface of the desk and vaulted over it. The woman took an instinctive step back, which allowed him to land right in front of her. At the same time, he grasped her slim wrist and raised her hand with the pistol above her head to pin it to the wall. Another step brought his body to within a fraction of an inch of hers. The velvet material of her cloak brushed against his woolen trousers while the pulse at her wrist fluttered against his palm.

  To his surprise, she didn’t panic and flail in his hold. The only sound she made was the initial gasp of surprise as he’d pressed her to the wall. She briefly tested his hold, but only once and subtly. There was no point in resisting his strength, and apparently, she was clever enough not to waste time on futility.

  She stilled. But tension radiated from every inch of her form.

  Mason’s
body responded readily to the proximity of her warmth and her stubborn, subtle resistance. The stirring of lust in his blood was unexpected.

  “Release me,” she demanded.

  “No.”

  “You dare—”

  “I dare,” he interrupted in a heavy murmur. “That and more.”

  Finally, she tipped her head back to meet his gaze and her hood slid back to reveal a very angry countenance and dark hair smoothed into a twisted chignon.

  Dusk was slowly sliding into full night, darkening the shadows in the room, but it wasn’t yet so dark he couldn’t make out the details of her face. If Mason had still harbored any doubts the woman was Freddie’s sister, they would’ve disappeared then. She was basically a female version of the boy, with the same refined bone structure, the same wide, dark, fathomless eyes beneath thick slashing brows. And though her gaze flashed with a familiar intelligence, the way she glared at him before arching one formidable brow in a subtle signal of derision was an expression all her own.

  She was a beauty. A woman of elegant wrath and graceful contempt.

  Mason was captivated.

  Chapter Three

  Lady Katherine Blackwell forced her breath to a steady rhythm. Difficult, when she stared up into an intent gaze set within harsh, hardened features. As she noted the furrow in the man’s brow and the insanely strong line of his jaw, the trembling in her belly threatened to expand to her limbs, but she willed it under control.

  She could not allow this overmuscled brute to think she was fearful even though the sheer size and obvious strength of him was enough to terrify anyone. Poor Mr. Boothe hadn’t stood a chance against him.

  The former Runner had been recommended to her by Lord Shelbourne, an associate of her father’s and the only person she was acquainted with in London. After her father’s death, Shelbourne had sent a letter of condolence, which had been followed up by several more, inquiring after their well-being, offering assistance in any way should she ever need it. Not knowing where else to turn when she discovered Frederick’s disappearance, she’d taken the lord up on his offer. Shelbourne had advised that a personal investigator would be more effective than the authorities and exceedingly more discreet. Apparently, discretion was everything in London society.

  Despite Lord Shelbourne’s insistence, there had been several times she’d nearly gone to the authorities anyway. The days and days without a single clue as to what had happened to her brother had been torturous. Then, about a week ago, she’d received a note. Hastily written in Frederick’s hand, it had stated simply that he was well and he’d contact her again soon. Though the note had assured her Frederick was alive, she feared he’d written it under duress.

  And then finally today, Boothe received a tip that a boy of Frederick’s description had been seen at this address.

  The former Runner had tried arguing with her that it wouldn’t be safe or proper to accompany him to such a place. He’d tried to deter her by explaining the property housed the business of a ruthless moneylender revered and feared for going undefeated in the underground bare-knuckle boxing circuit. A beast of a man named Mason Hale.

  But she’d overridden all of his objections. What on earth did any of that matter when her brother was lost and alone in London? If Frederick had truly fallen into such dangerous hands, she wasn’t about to be left waiting at home for word on whether or not her brother had been found and freed.

  Watching the brief, unmatched fight between Hale and Boothe, she’d been forced to acknowledge the danger of the situation. But she’d come prepared.

  When the sound of her pistol hammer being pulled back drew Hale’s attention, she’d been momentarily stunned by the raw intensity in the man’s eyes. Violence emanated from him. And he didn’t even try to tame it. He appeared to revel in his own brutishness.

  Having lived her life in the country, she’d seen farmers and laborers at their work. She knew several large men with barrel chests and huge forearms who would have shuddered at the idea of using their strength for violence. They were gentle giants in comparison to this man whose body had obviously been honed in battle rather than in the fields.

  Tall and exceptionally broad of shoulder, Hale had a chest that was less barrel-like and more...brick wallish. Immoveable and imposing. His arms were nearly as thick as a blacksmith’s and his hands were large. His face was bold and squarish with a slightly crooked nose, a hard jaw, and wide lips. His brow was heavy, shadowing eyes that sparked with power.

  When he’d walked toward her, each stalking step he’d taken had increased the rate of her heartbeat.

  It was fear, yes, but also an acute anticipation unlike anything she’d felt before.

  Because she hadn’t known what he would do.

  He was brute force and casual control. Considering his size, he should have been slow and clumsy; instead he was grace and strength in perfect harmony. His raffish appearance and tilted grin accompanied thick, gravelly words spoken in a rough, Londoner accent. Yet Hale’s confidence and blatant irreverence suggested he was more than someone’s hired muscle, and he’d barely blinked when she offered to pay him what was likely to be a small fortune. In fact, he’d looked almost amused. And then he’d so quickly and so frustratingly claimed physical advantage while managing to avoid hurting her. His control was evident and somehow that made her even more nervously aware.

  The former boxer obviously enjoyed using his excessive brawn to maintain the upper hand. But Katherine wasn’t about to let him intimidate her.

  Ignoring the sheer overwhelming size of the man, his rough handsomeness, his hard stare, and the male-scented heat that emanated from his person, she stiffened her jaw. “What is your demand?”

  He cocked his head. “My demand?”

  “What will it take for you to release him?”

  “Hmm.” The gravelly, earthy sound vibrated in the breathless inches between them, seeping heavy and warm into her core. “What are you willing to give, sweet dove?”

  Her tongue suddenly felt thick in her mouth. “I told you—”

  “Ah, yes.” He chuckled. A dangerous sound. “Triple what I was paid to take him. Right?”

  She nodded, feeling something strange stirring inside her. Deep in her center.

  “Well, then...you’re in luck.” He lifted the hand he had been bracing against the wall beside her shoulder to graze his knuckles along her jaw before tracing the outer curve of her ear with the tip of his finger.

  Tingling sparks spread out from his touch, giving rise to gooseflesh across her skin. Katherine had never in her life been touched in such a way. She had no idea how to react. What to think. In the absence of a ready alternative, she simply stared up at him, trying to appear unmoved.

  When he spoke next, it was in a coarse and weighted murmur. “How do I know you’re not a threat to him?”

  She blinked at the question. “What? Why would I be a threat?” Her brow furrowed. “Do not try to confuse me, Mr. Hale. I will not be deterred.”

  “Hmm.”

  Again, that sound.

  He slid his hand to cup her nape, urging her to tip her head back even farther. Then he lowered his head toward hers. Her belly tightened. His broad features were harsh in the deepening darkness, but an intriguing force flickered in his steady gaze. She wished it wasn’t too dark to determine the color of his eyes. “You’re a bold one, aren’t you?” he mused. “Too clever for your own good.”

  “There’s no such thing,” she retorted firmly despite the flare of alarm in her blood.

  He smirked. “Why would a duke’s daughter have need for such daring?”

  Her stomach flipped at his casual reference to her father. He knew who she was! Then he knew who Frederick was.

  Releasing a breath that had gotten caught in her throat, her next words came out from between clenched teeth. “You will turn him over to me.”

  His mouth curved. White teeth flashed. “Will I?”

  She lifted her left hand free of her cloak
. He stiffened and his grin of masculine superiority fell the instant he felt the nudge of her pistol barrel against the vulnerable flesh of his groin. “You will.”

  He cleared his throat. “This is...unexpected.”

  “It shouldn’t be,” she noted smoothly. “Dueling pistols always come in pairs.”

  The long, blunt fingers around her nape squeezed gently as a heavy breath eased from his lips to warmly bathe her temple. His voice was a low rumble when he replied. “Duels are for arseholes.”

  Before she could reply—or even think of a response— he released her nape, captured her left wrist, and shoved it behind her. At the same time, he lowered the hand pinned above her head and brought it together with the first in the small of her back.

  “I prefer to do things bare-handed,” he murmured. “More personal, don’t you think?”

  Katherine’s breath came fast as she was forced to acknowledge the very strange, very intense sensation of being so utterly trapped by him. His arms caged her as he held her hands behind her back, forcing an arch to her spine that pressed her breasts firmly to his chest. His shoulders blocked out the rest of the room and his thighs bracketed hers.

  It was infuriating how easily he’d bested her. Again. But even more than that, it was distressing how her body seemed to awaken within his hold. Her pulse raced, her breath shortened, her skin grew overheated. And deep inside was a delicate, insistent stirring.

  “Release me,” she ordered tersely.

  “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

  His voice was husky and low and her belly twisted tightly in response.

  She inhaled a heavy breath, urging her brain to action—to think!

  Such a difficult task with his heat and hardness surrounding her, his intense gaze staring into hers, and his mouth—an intriguing twist of humor with curving arcs and firm lines...

  But then something he’d said infiltrated the haze of her thoughts. It hadn’t made sense before but...if she adjusted the context...

  A fascinating suspicion dawned.

  In fact, there was a lot that suddenly made sense. The enigma he presented suddenly offered a glimmer of clarity.