Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05]

by The Governess Wears Scarlet

  His burly arms held her in an intimate manner more appropriate to the bedchamber than an alleyway. Her breasts were squashed up against his rock-hard chest. Her legs pressed into his thick, muscular thighs. His broad shoulders and his imposing stature made her feel protected and secure in an extraordinarily unfamiliar way.

  Strangely, the most overwhelming feeling coursing through her had little to do with fear and more to do with fascination at how this masked man made her feel. It was as if he were a bonfire and she longed to dance in his flames.

  “I don’t know, I swear!” A man’s whiny voice could be heard from around the bend.

  Abigail stiffened, forcing herself to discard her fantasies and remember that danger truly might be afoot.

  A muffled thud was followed by a low groan.

  Abigail swallowed. Thank heavens the masked gentleman had stopped her from walking into that melee! Peering up, she tried to get a glimpse of her rescuer’s face, but even in the darkness, she could discern that he still wore his mask.

  Boot heels scuffled on the cobblestones nearby. They seemed to be coming closer.

  Quietly but firmly, the gentleman savior pulled her deeper into the alley and pressed her into a crevice where two walls joined, covering her body with his own, as if to protect her. His black cloak should conceal them. But if they were discovered, Abigail had no doubt that the man would place himself between her and danger.

  Gratitude washed through her for this masked man. He’d proven himself twice now. Distantly she wondered why he’d bother, why he’d care. But she thanked the good Lord for that caring, regardless of its source, and the man in which it had manifested.

  As she stood fixed in the darkness, Abigail tried to force herself to think about the danger and about their scandalously pleasurable pose. Her body thrummed with excitement and awareness of every inch of his tall, broad-shouldered form. He was acting like a flesh-and-blood shield, and she’d never felt more deliciously safe.

  “You’ll tell me what ya know or I’ll cut yer bloody heart out!”

  A terrified cry rang out.

  Involuntarily her breath seized and she clutched his arm. Thank heavens he’d stopped her! Gratitude warmed her heart. At the moment she would willingly give this man anything he wanted of her. She only prayed that he would want to stake his claim.

  Shock and guilt flashed through her. She was a proper young lady. What she’d just thought was scandalous and beyond the pale. Bedding a stranger? A masked stranger, no less, and she didn’t even know his name. She had to protect her integrity! She needed to maintain her moral fiber! She should be ashamed of her degenerate thoughts!

  But her body couldn’t seem to drum up an ounce of shame or care one fig about her moral fiber. It ached for the feel of flesh on flesh, hungered for a taste of forbidden passion, and longed for the feel of a man deep inside her.

  Her cheeks burned at the wicked thought, but as she licked her lips, she tasted passion, and deep inside her core, she felt the tug of desire.

  Distantly she knew that she shouldn’t be thinking about passion with danger only steps away. But the peril seemed to heighten her desire and fuel her hunger.

  Her flesh was flaming so that she had to wonder if he felt it, too. She shifted restlessly against him.

  He seemed to stiffen.

  Her legs parted slightly, welcoming him closer.

  His body grew harder, if that was possible. He moved deeper into the juncture between her thighs.

  She shivered, tilting her head and arching her back.

  His hot breath seemed to be coming faster, warming her neck.

  Abigail closed her eyes, feeling every inch of his body and wallowing in the delicious flames that were licking at her flesh, enticing her to do wicked things that no decent lady would ever consider.

  He seemed to want her, too.

  She ached to be that worldly widow. To take what she wanted, consequences be damned.

  “I don’t know a thing!” the whiny voice cried.

  Muffled cries and many boot steps followed.

  Silence fell.

  As the long, tense moments passed, doubt slithered through Abigail’s mind, poisoning the delicious desire pulsing through her. He wasn’t making any moves to take her. Was she doing it again? Reading too much into a man’s actions, creating a fantasy, concocting a connection where none existed? Suddenly she knew that she’d been wrong. This man was a stranger, who no doubt had legions of women yearning for the pleasures of his arms. She, on the other hand, was a pitiful spinster whose loneliness made her jump to imaginary conclusions.

  She’d done it with Lord Steele, and she was making that same mistake with this Good Samaritan.

  Swallowing, Abigail tensed, prepared to move if the man was ready to release her.

  But her rescuer held her tight. “They’re still around,” he whispered, his heavy breath heating her ear.

  After an awkward moment, he muttered, “Why do you continue to prowl these neighborhoods? It’s not safe, especially for a woman alone. What are you seeking?”

  You, the secret thought flashed in her mind, shocking her. She suddenly realized that even though Reggie was at the forefront of her concerns, secretly she’d been longing for another exciting encounter with this man. Abruptly she recognized that the unquenchable curiosity that she’d been feeling, up close felt much more like…blazing desire. She positively ached with a longing she’d never felt in all her three-and-twenty years.

  Involuntarily she shivered.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, sending a rumbling thrill racing down her spine.

  “I’m not,” she whispered, her voice throaty.

  He seemed to consider that a long moment, never once loosening his hold on her, for which she was thankful.

  Passion licked at her belly and warmed her deepest places. Her body flamed, burning, yearning…The outrageous thought penetrated her consciousness: No one would ever know. Temptation fanned her desire until she felt singed by a yearning so intense, she quaked.

  Licking her lips, she realized that she stood on a precipice, and all she longed to do was to jump. He couldn’t see her face any more than she could see his. The anonymity gave her a boldness she didn’t know she harbored. Still, she needed a little push. A small test of the waters, just to be sure.

  With her heart racing, she bit her lip. She’d never done this, had never been so…wicked. Abigail shifted, pushing his thigh deeper into the crevice of her parted legs.

  His sharp intake of breath caused a little thrill to shoot up her middle. His hips moved, just barely, and something long and hard pressed into her belly.

  She gasped.

  His grip on her tightened. “What…do you…want?”

  With an audacity that belonged to the woman she was pretending to be, she lifted her chin. “You.”

  Chapter 13

  Steele couldn’t quite believe it, but the proof was in his arms. The mysterious widow wanted him. And he was desperate to have her.

  Still, he hesitated. What kind of deranged lady prowled the worst streets of London well after dark?

  A woman who felt soft and warm and luscious in his arms, that’s who.

  What lady carried a blade and fought with thugs?

  A woman who had lush breasts and shapely curves that he longed to explore.

  What kind of lady kept her face veiled and her identity concealed?

  A woman who smelled like desire and welcomed his touch.

  She shifted against him, her legs widening, welcoming him into her softness.

  Who was he to question her actions or motives when he prowled these very same streets concealing his features, too?

  How mad must he be to be holding a complete stranger in his arms? Yet he wanted to take her up on her clear and tempting offer.

  He needed this. Badly. He’d realized when he’d first kissed her hand that he had been too long without female company. That was why he’d been so attracted to the pretty young gover
ness. That was why he’d been so distracted of late. That was why he’d been so restless, so anxious for confrontation. He’d ignored his manly needs for too long and was well overdue. It would be completely anonymous, he told himself.

  The fact that the lady wanted him, simply for himself, was like an aphrodisiac, heightening his fierce desire until he barely kept a rein on his control. The widow didn’t know he was a viscount or solicitor-general. She couldn’t want anything from him except what he could give her as a flesh-and-blood man. And that flesh was on fire, aching with a need that drove all vestiges of gentility from his mind.

  His arms gripped her tighter; her body clung to his like moss on a rock. A hard, long rock, aching with need.

  Arching her back, she pressed her breasts against his chest. His hands naturally slid downward, easing into the curve of her buttocks. He pressed his face into her neck, smelling a scent that reminded him of cedar, of all things. He was almost glad she wore no perfume, nothing to remind him of anyone else.

  She groaned, and he felt its rumble where it mattered most.

  Her body’s sinuous movements against his frame were the salvos that crumbled his final resistance.

  Leaning his face into her neck, he flowed with her, their bodies joining through the thin fabric of their civilized clothes. It was a dance of sorts to a rhythm that intoxicated to the point of blotting out the world. They moved and pressed and rubbed and explored, until they were panting with lust and the need between them was so great, they were enveloped in a pulsing heat of desire.

  Gripped by his need, Steele seized her hem and lifted her skirts, his hands raking up her leg and seeking the one place that would sate his hunger. She was hot and moist, ready for him. His passion peaked, and he knew he could not make it much longer—the beast inside him roared, demanding satisfaction.

  Making quick work of his breeches and smalls, he reached his arms around her, grabbed her buttocks, and lifted her up. Her legs parted completely, wrapping around him, clutching him close.

  Pressing her up against the wall, he braced his legs and their dance continued, but at a much faster pace. His member pressed into the juncture of her thighs, seeking that heat, yearning to plunge into her wetness. Finally he found his way and thrust deep inside.

  Sight and sound were lost. He was overcome by the urgency pulsing inside of him, the thundering need that demanded to be met. She felt fantastic. Tight, hot and wet. He plunged deep inside of her again and again. Suddenly, her body tensed, a muffled cry rang out and her hands gripped his shoulders. Deep inside, her muscles clenched, convulsing around him.

  It was too much. He pounded into her, his heart galloping, his breath shuddering, and his world shattering as he poured his seed deep within her.

  Their panting breaths mingled even through their coverings. The air smelled of woman and desire. The darkness was enveloping, and all Steele wanted to do was let his legs collapse, lie down, and sleep. But he was in an alleyway in one of the worst neighborhoods in London, and this was not to be.

  Slowly he braced himself and gently let her slip off him until her feet were planted on the ground. Still she leaned heavily against him, as if she, too, was not ready yet to stand on her own. So they leaned into each other, buttressing themselves until the moment reality was fully restored.

  “Wha’ ’ave we ’ere?” a female voice cried.

  A tall, rail-thin woman in a dirty, low-cut gown stood with her hand on her bony hip, glaring at them. “This is my alley an’ none but me gets ta work ’ere!”

  The widow stiffened, as if realizing that she’d just been mistaken for a prostitute.

  “Off wit’ ya, ya little twat!” The whore shook her fist. “Or I’ll pound ya bloody!”

  Pushing away from Steele, the widow slipped her hand inside her cloak and pulled out a pistol. She aimed it at the prostitute.

  The woman’s pale face turned ashen. “’Old yer ’orses there! ’Old yer ’orses!”

  “You’re the one who needs to be off.” The widow’s voice was as firm as any sergeant’s.

  Despite himself, Steele was impressed with the way the widow handled herself. And, he realized, he’d missed the pistol completely when he’d been busy with the widow’s clothing. A failing that could be deadly in other circumstances, and a mistake he would not make again.

  With a flick of the firearm, the widow motioned for the prostitute to depart back the way she’d come. “Now.”

  The whore flailed her bony arms. “Fine! Ya can ’ave it fer tonight!” She turned, muttering, “But it’s my alley an’ I’ll be back tamarra, an’ I’d betta not catch ya ’ere again or there’ll be ’ell ta pay!” Her clomping footsteps echoed down the alley.

  An awkward silence descended.

  Slipping the firearm back inside the folds of her cloak, the widow exhaled. “She was right about one thing, I’d better go.”

  Steele started. “Yes, of course.” He was a little startled by how quickly she was ready to be free of him. Granted, he didn’t need any entanglements, yet the abruptness of it stung. And it struck him that she had to get back to her life—the one he knew nothing about.

  Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth? he admonished in his mind. I need to get back to my life, too. And it’s a busy life, one filled with important purpose and achievements.

  He forced himself to accept that this little interlude was over. “May I…may I escort you…somewhere?”

  “No,” she barked. Then, as if realizing her tone, she amended, “Thank you. But no. I’m fine.”

  “Well, then…”

  “Yes, well, I suppose…I suppose…This is farewell.”

  He told his feet to move, but they didn’t budge. Shaking his head, he shrugged. “Ah…I confess, I feel odd parting company with you after…well, and leaving you here…” He squared his shoulders. Even if she wanted it this way, he was willing to play the cad only so much. “I can’t in good conscience leave you here alone.”

  She nodded as if considering it. “Then escort me to Pryor Street. I can hail a hackney there.” She was decisive. Strong-minded. And didn’t mind telling him what she wanted quite directly. She was unlike any lady he’d ever encountered before. Well, he amended, at least not like any under sixty. He couldn’t help but think of Sir Lee’s friend Lady Blankett, who took speaking directly to a higher art form.

  “To Pryor Street, then.” He extended his arm, and silently she accepted it.

  It was an odd stroll through the dark, winding streets. Rats scurried; muttered voices could be heard from inside some of the buildings. The sound of horse hooves echoed in the distance.

  She wasn’t one for talking much, he realized. Unlike most women he knew. But then again, most of the ladies he knew wouldn’t copulate in an alleyway, either.

  At Pryor Street, she turned to face him. “Thank you. I’m fine now.”

  “I’ll call for a hackney.” Sticking his hand beneath his bandana, he whistled. The jingle of a rig and the clatter of horses’ hooves neared.

  A hackney came around the bend and rolled to a stop before them.

  Reaching up, Steele opened the door.

  Accepting his hand, she moved to step up inside the carriage, but she hesitated. “I want you to know something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve never…I don’t…” She seemed at a loss, but then her shoulders squared and she looked up at him through her veil. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  Part of him didn’t believe her and considered it a ploy. But he couldn’t discount the ring of truth to her voice. Years of interrogating witnesses had taught him its resonant hum. She wasn’t lying—or at least she didn’t believe that she was lying. The two could be very different.

  He tilted his head. “If it makes any difference, neither have I.”

  She nodded as if it did make a difference to her. Again he had to wonder at this woman, her motives, and her life. But his desire to remain anonymous squelched his natural curiosi
ty.

  She climbed inside the hackney and sat. With her dark clothing, she blended into the carriage’s interior. “Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Where to?” the driver called.

  Steele supposed that the widow would not let him hear the address, but she surprised him by replying, “St. Lanyard’s Square.”

  He closed the door and smacked it with his palm. The driver cried out to the horse, and the carriage moved off.

  As Steele watched the black hackney melt into the night, he wondered if he would ever see the wicked widow again.

  When the coach was almost out of sight, a cry rang out. “Whoa!”

  The hackney suddenly stopped. The driver turned as if speaking to his passenger.

  Steele stepped forward, wondering if something was wrong. Then the driver cried out and the horse took off once more. The hackney turned at the corner, going in the opposite direction from St. Lanyard’s Square.

  Steele chuckled. The wicked widow was no fool. The only question was, would he be fool enough to try to find her again?

  Chapter 14

  “Unbelievable,” Abigail breathed as she peered over her shoulder to examine her back in the tall gilded mirror. She was completely naked, the glow of the single candle near her feet casting her body in golden shadows. A basin sat on the table by her side as she held soapy wet cloths in each hand, and the scent of heather filled the air in a comforting bouquet.

  A nasty red mark stained the pale skin between her shoulder blades, and others dotted her back like raisins in a scone.

  “I coupled against a wall,” she breathed, fascinated by the evidence of her conduct. “Against a blasted wall.”

  Her lips lifted in a secret smile. “And it was bloody fantastic.”