To Catch A Rogue (London Steampunk: The Blue Blood Conspiracy Book 4)

by Bec McMaster

  Blade had made a promise to Tin Man, and when he'd died in Blade's service, he'd taken over Tin Man's mantle as Lark's protector.

  "Whitechapel was the only place we could vanish," she said, resting her cheek against his chest. "Nobody dared come into the rookeries. So we vanished there, and I became Lark, and I didn't dare ever say my real name or where I came from. I stayed a boy, and Blade called Yuri 'Tin Man' and the name stuck. Neither of us ever breathed a word of what we'd fled from."

  "Not even to Blade?"

  Her lips pressed together. "I think Yuri eventually told him some of it. You don't understand though.... One wrong word spoken in the wrong place. A single whisper reaching the right ears.... Perhaps they gave up hunting for us, but perhaps they did not. They found us in Copenhagen, after all."

  "Then why the hell did you come back?" he whispered hoarsely. Jesus. How could she even stand to be in this country? How could she dare? "Damn it, Lark. How will you be able to look Sergey in the eye? What if he recognizes you? Gemma said we're bound to encounter him at one of Balfour's little soirees."

  Lark's eyes held shadows he was afraid he'd never understand. "I came back because I knew what you were walking into better than you did. Charlie, you gave me no choice. You wanted to steal from the most dangerous man in the most dangerous court in this world. "

  He scraped a hand over his mouth. "You came for me? To protect me?"

  A flush of color crawled up her throat and she looked away. "Yes. Mostly."

  "Mostly?"

  He voice hardened. "There's a very small part of me that wanted to see him again."

  "Who?"

  "Sergey."

  A chill ran through him. Oh, hell no. He recognized that look in her eyes.

  "Lark," he growled, "what are you planning?"

  "I want to ruin him," she said, shoving her hands against his chest so that his hands broke from her shoulders. "I want to destroy him. I want to plunge my fucking knife through his black heart so he can never, ever hurt anyone again.

  "He killed my brothers and my sister," she hissed. "He slit their throats while I watched, and he smiled. He tortured my mother to the brink of death. I was too young to do anything about it. Too frightened. But now I'm not. I've spent years learning how to fight. I've spent years dreaming of his face and what I'd do to him if I ever came across him again. I want to drive a knife into his heart and see the look in his eyes when I tell him who I am."

  Bad. This was very, very bad.

  "Lark, he's no less dangerous."

  "I know." She turned away.

  "And we're not here for revenge." Kneeling on the edge of the bed, he reached out hesitantly and caught her knee. "Our mission is to rescue the Duke of Malloryn. This is a dangerous country. We're out of our depths and getting out of here with our lives is—"

  "I know! Do you think I, of all people, don't know how much danger we're in?"

  Heat blazed in her eyes, and Charlie shut up. He couldn't quite take in the enormity of what she'd just told him, but some part of his brain started working. She didn't want him to fix the problem. She wasn't telling him this because she needed him to talk her out of trying to murder Sergey Grigoriev.

  No. This had to be bringing up every bloody memory she owned of the past.

  He knew how that felt.

  Charlie reached out and drew her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. "All right."

  "All right?" she whispered, tilting her face to his.

  "Thank you for telling me." He swallowed the lump in his throat and rested his chin on top of her hair. "You shouldn't have to be alone through this."

  As if the words soothed something within her, Lark slumped in his arms, her own threading around his neck. "I'm not going to kill him. I want to. But I know how dangerous it is."

  Charlie turned his face into her hair, breathing in her floral soap. "Of course, we could just allow Obsidian to do it. Balfour already wants him to kill Sergey."

  Lark stilled.

  And there was the one thing she hadn't breathed a word about.

  "Obsidian? Is he...?" Your brother?

  Lark shook in his arms. "He has no marque du sang."

  "Have you told him any of this?"

  "No!" Lark shook her head desperately. "He can't be my brother. He doesn't look like us. He doesn't have the marque. What if this is just another of Balfour's tricks?"

  Charlie squeezed her tighter. Sweet Jesus. Despite her denials, he could feel how much she wanted to believe. What would it be like to spend years alone, and finally discover you had family out there?

  Lena and Honor drove him crazy at times—apparently it was the preordained role of sisters everywhere, according to Honor—but if anyone ever tried to take them away from him....

  "So you're not going to tell him," he said slowly.

  "I just want to wait a little longer. I want to make sure. I want to know what proof Balfour thinks he has."

  He could understand that. "Fine. I won't say anything to the others."

  Not unless it became apparent they needed to know.

  They stayed locked together for God knew how long, until Lark finally drew back. Charlie dragged her down into the blankets, tugging on a strand of her hair. "Stay here with me tonight."

  "I shouldn't," she whispered.

  Again that invisible line between them.

  Sometimes he hated being an adult.

  "You're not going anywhere."Charlie hauled her back into the curve of his arms. "Nobody will notice. And just this once, I'll allow you to put those little icicles on me. I won't even complain about it too much. You know you want to stay here in my arms."

  Lark burst into a startled laugh, but she didn't rub her feet against his. Instead, she let her head rest on the flex of his biceps as she traced little circles on his forearm. "Maybe. At least there's some use in you turning into this overgrown lout."

  "I give great hugs?"

  "They're quite adequate."

  Silence fell.

  "You know," she whispered, "I really did miss this."

  Charlie grunted, shifting a little as a certain part of his anatomy made itself known. Now was most definitely not the time. "I know." He tucked his face into the crook of her neck. "Who else would let you steal half the bed?"

  Lark poked him in the arm, but he smiled as she softened again.

  "I thought you'd be angry I'd kept all of this from you," she whispered.

  "No." He brushed a kiss against the back of her neck. "I understand why you did. And I'm a little relieved you trust me enough to tell me now."

  She stroked his arm, as if to try to tell him more.

  "Go to sleep, Lark. I'll protect you."

  Nothing would ever hurt her again, if he had anything to do about it.

  Chapter 16

  Lark lay awake for long minutes as the afternoon sunlight moved across the floor, barely daring to breathe as sleep slowly sloughed off her.

  At first she'd thought she was dreaming—there were warm arms around her, and someone's breath stirred across the back of her neck—but each second brought back flashes of the night before.

  The sudden yearning she'd felt to run to Charlie.

  Curling in his arms after she told him everything.

  Spilling her secrets like that went against everything Tin Man had ever taught her, but she'd felt so desperately alone, she hadn't been able to stay away. It was nice to fall asleep in Charlie's arms. More than nice, if she were being honest.

  Just one little problem with the situation....

  This afternoon brought to light an entire side of this scenario she hadn't been in the right mind to examine last night. All she'd wanted last night was the affection and understanding she'd known she'd find in his arms.

  But her needs this afternoon were a little more complex.

  And, if she wriggled just the faintest bit, she could feel his own need pressed firmly against her bottom.

  Growing up in a household full of males made he
r quite aware this was a natural morning ritual when one had a cock. But it felt as though that brutish length was all for her, reaching for her insistently.

  She'd been trying to ignore the way he looked at her now, telling herself it meant nothing.

  But if she were honest with herself, it was only a lie she let herself believe because the alternative scared her: that Charlie might somehow return her own affections.

  She wanted him. Desperately.

  And she wanted him to want her.

  Lark lay frozen in silent agony. She didn't dare shut her eyes, for if she did she could see the look in his eyes when he pushed her back against the wall of the pool and kissed her.

  And maybe understanding hadn't been all she'd hoped to find in his bed when she crept into it last night.

  Charlie sighed and buried his face in her hair. His hand brushed against her breast, his fingers almost, but not quite touching her nipple. A sudden surge of desire made her womb clench. If she turned, just so, then he'd be touching her.

  Lark's heart hammered in her ears.

  The languid ache of unfulfillment seemed a specific sort of torment; it felt as if there was a screw twisting slowly and inexorably within her, notching every inch of her body tight with need.

  She could feel her drawers growing damp. What would he do if she reached between her thighs and touched herself? She needed to assuage this furious tension within her before it drove her to do something reckless.

  The brush of Charlie's thumb flicked over her nipple, a slow, deliberate rasp that forced her to set her teeth into her lower lip to capture her soft gasp. The arm draped over her waist remained heavy, however, and for a second she thought maybe she was safe. Maybe he wasn't aware of what he was doing to her.

  But the teasing movement came again, burying any hopes she'd had that he might be dreaming.

  Lark's fingers curled in the sheets. She wanted to moan and bury her face in the pillow, but she was afraid if she moved, she'd break this spell.

  "I know you're awake," Charlie whispered.

  His thumb rasped against her nightgown again, sending a quiver of electric sensation right through her. That thumb asked a question. And she didn't want to admit she was awake, for then she'd have to admit she wanted this.

  "Your breathing's heavier and your heart started racing a few minutes ago," he murmured against the back of her neck. "It's almost as if you want me to do more, but I'm not sure if that's right. You'd have to tell me you wanted this. Do you want me to touch you, Lark?"

  Damn him. Lark closed her eyes and nudged her breast forward into his hand. Instantly, his palm curved around her, cupping the soft flesh. He moved slowly, exploring her. Circling his forefinger in ever-tightening concentric circles around her nipple, until she was practically holding her breath—

  He pinched it, and Lark gasped as his grip softened and his thumb soothed.

  They were barely moving.

  Every moment of this encounter held an illicit edge.

  If they didn't speak of it, or bring it to light, then perhaps it wasn't happening.

  Charlie found the edge of her nightgown, still half-unbuttoned from the night before, and slowly dragged it open. It was as if he took some sort of pleasure in prolonging each movement, as if he could sense how much it ached.

  Then his hand was on her bare skin, his fingers pinching and teasing her. The hot flush of pleasure speared right between her legs, until her thighs were slipping together.

  He rose up onto one arm, his face coming into view, his blond-tipped lashes stained gold in the thin bar of sunlight that crept through the window. She'd expected a teasing smile—this was Charlie, after all—but his blue eyes were very serious, his pupils dark with desire.

  "You're beautiful," he whispered, bending low to brush a kiss against the curve of her breast. "I've spent forever imagining doing this to you. I dreamed of the sounds you'd make, the way you'd taste, but nothing comes close to the truth. Nothing."

  And then he was leaning down, capturing the aching bud in his mouth.

  The stroke of his tongue felt like the lightest of lashes. Lark's spine arched, her fingers curling into his hair.

  It wasn't enough.

  She wanted more. And as if he sensed it, that questing hand slid lower.

  Charlie's fingers brushed against her thigh as he suckled and licked. They were so light, so teasing, barely a touch.

  "Yes?" he whispered.

  Lark wanted to writhe in tortured longing. Every inch of skin felt too tight to contain her. The hunger was rising, demanding she quench its thirst, but this was the first time its focus had been on flesh, not blood.

  "Yes," she said, capturing his hand and pressing it firmly against her thigh. She could feel the calluses on his palms and the large flex of his fingers, and suddenly she wanted them all over her.

  Together they slid her nightgown higher. A new tension radiated through him where his abdomen was pressed against her spine. She almost thought he might be suffering as much as she was.

  She hoped.

  Then her thighs were parting, his touch sliding up, and up. It was as if he waited for her to direct him, and she pushed his hand exactly where it ached the fiercest.

  The first brush of fingers between her thighs made her shiver.

  "You're so wet," he breathed, exploring her with long, slow strokes, his fingertips finding her clit and brushing featherlight against it.

  Lark writhed against him, her hips pushing back into the steel of his erection. Somehow it nudged between her bottom, and she had the odd sensation of feeling him brush against her illicitly.

  "Mmmm." His finger stroked through the slickness of her slit. He found that little hood of sensation again, and Lark jerked as pleasure shot through her. "Right there?"

  She pressed his hand firmly against her, hips arching, silently begging for more.

  He slipped a finger inside her, eased by her wetness. It was a strange sensation that made her still. And as he thrust it slowly within her, she felt another joining it, stretching her a little. Not uncomfortable, but noticeable.

  Charlie drew his hand up, his gaze smoky and dark as he slowly suckled his glistening fingers into his mouth. It was as if the taste of her body's musk pushed him over the edge, for the blackness of his pupils expanded, obliterating the blue of his irises. She was staring into the face of Charlie's darkness, the demon within him.

  And she didn't care.

  Their mouths clashed together, her thighs falling shamelessly apart as his touch returned. There was no finesse to the kiss. Not this time. Only hunger. Only the lash of his tongue against hers as he tormented her with his touch.

  "Oh, God, please." She broke from his mouth, clutching the back of his neck. "Charlie!"

  Throwing her head back, Lark dug her nails into his arm. A cry of choked-off bliss escaped her, and then she was thrashing, pleasure obliterating any sense of self-control as Charlie mercilessly stroked her until she was undone.

  Lark collapsed, her entire body quivering with aftershock.

  It took her long, ragged moments to realize she was curled in his arms, gasping against his chest. Somehow she'd turned. And his hands had let up their exquisite torture. He skimmed his palm down the flex of her spine as Lark finally looked up.

  If his hand wasn't shaking too, she might have been quite put out at how easily he'd devastated her.

  She'd never be able to look at him the same way.

  "Good morning. Or afternoon as it may be." His sleepy smile stirred through her as if she was made of molten honey. "That was fun."

  Hauling her on top of him, he lay back, one hand cupped beneath his head. The pose displayed the bulging curve of his biceps straining beneath his nightshirt, and the fine golden hairs on his tanned arms.

  He'd been handsome as a boy, charming enough to make even the sternest widow smile at him.

  But he was utterly devastating now, with the chipped edge of his front tooth giving him a rakish look, and his bo
dy filled out to epic proportions. Lark didn't know how she was going to survive all this temptation with her wits intact.

  The worst thing was, he knew exactly how he looked. She could see it in the twinkle in his eyes as he preened beneath her gaze.

  "See something you like?"

  Lark sat astride him, cursing whatever god made him look so rumpled and delicious after a full night's sleep. It wasn't fair. She was sure her hair was an utter mess. "Do try to contain yourself. Your smugness is almost overwhelming."

  He laughed, white teeth flashing in the drift of sunlight through the curtains, and the vibration shivered through her. "I ought to be smug. You were begging me. Please, Charlie. Please. It was the best thing I've ever heard."

  She ought to have a witty reply to that, but all she could do was blush.

  Because it was the truth.

  The fine hairs on Charlie's thighs rasped against her oversensitive flesh. She'd wrestled him a hundred times over the years, even found herself straddling him like this and pinning him down, but there was a wealth of difference between those encounters and this.

  Charlie must have sensed it too, for his hand slid along her thigh, curling somewhat possessively over of her bottom. She was so wet, she could feel the dampness between her legs slick his thigh, and it was almost mortifying, but he seemed to like it. His eyes were black and the line of his jaw tensed.

  It struck her then.

  She was not the only one who ached.

  Just the only one currently fulfilled.

  "So... that happened," he mused. "Can I just say you're quite welcome to sneak into my bed anytime you feel like it."

  "Hmm." A thought struck her; a way to turn the tables on him. "Did you really enjoy hearing me beg you for mercy?"

  "You have no idea."

  "Let's see how smug you are when it's my turn."

  Leaning down, she licked a long line down the center of his chest, where his nightshirt splayed open.

  Instantly, Charlie's laughter vanished. "What are you doing?"

  "Torturing you."

  "Wouldn't be the first time," he muttered under his breath, but there was a sudden tension within him. "I'm not quite certain now is the right time."