by Riley Cole
The bow at the top of her nightgown came undone. Warm air caressed her bare breasts, tickling her skin, making her nipples pebble. Nothing veiled her from his gaze.
He bent his head and kissed her throat, striking a trail of fire from the edge of her ear down to her collarbone, making her shiver in his arms. His thumb grazed a nipple, sending little tremors through her. She took his shoulders in her palms, revealing in the strength and power she found there, wanting to touch him more intimately.
Without warning, he cupped her buttocks in his large hands and lifted her up, setting her on the edge of the desk. Ledgers and correspondence spilled off the back side and tumbled to the floor.
The next thing she knew his mouth had taken the place of his hand on her breast. When his teeth closed around her nipple, she gasped. He raised his head and silenced her with another smoldering kiss.
When he pushed the skirts of her gown upward, slowly sliding them up above her knees, a shiver of passion rocked her. His hands closed over her thighs, pushing them gently apart.
Her pulse skittered wildly. She was still adjusting to the stunning intimacy of his touch when he slid his fingers inside her. The searing heat of his palm on the most private portion of her was both outrageous and exquisitely thrilling.
“You want me still,” he whispered hoarsely. “Say it. You want me as badly as I want you.”
“I do.” She tightened her hands in his hair. “Oh, yes.”
Her head spun. The world outside his study ceased to exist. This was what it meant to be consumed by passion.
“You’re so soft. So ready for me.” He stroked her. “You’re driving me mad.” He thrust his fingers inside her again, at the same time, he caressed the skin between her breasts with his cheek, roughed by an evening’s stubble.
She moaned, arching against his hand. When his lips found her breast, and he suckled hard, she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming in delight.
He pulled back, away from her. Even in the warm room, she felt his loss. Then she realized he was opening the front of his trousers. When she glanced down, she glimpsed his hand wrapped around his erection. She wanted to touch him, to wrap her own fingers around his member. But slowly, carefully, he was already pushing himself into the melting core of her body.
She wanted more. Desperate, she wriggled her hips, urging him deeper.
His soft laugh tickled the shell of her ear. His teeth grazed the lobe. When she gasped, he claimed her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue deep inside. His hands cupped her taught breasts. Then he gripped her buttocks, and pulled her onto his shaft with a single thrust, sinking himself to the hilt inside her.
For a heartbeat they were joined, then Spencer eased out of her.
She held her breath.
He stopped just short of her entrance and pushed slowly, steadily back into her. Meena tossed her head back, and gasped at the feelings running through her.
Spencer kissed her, silencing her cries. He repeated the magic, withdrawing, then stroking deeply back into her.
The familiar wave of pleasure neared it’s crest. She spiraled higher, and higher still.
Spencer must have sensed it, because he chose that instant to palm her sensitive nipples, rolling them between his fingertips as she convulsed.
Not an instant later, he followed her over the cliffs. The deep, masculine gasp that exploded as he thrust into her for a final time prolonged her pleasure.
Still deep within her, Spencer’s chest rose and feel with the strength of his release. Meena marveled at the masculine beauty looming over her. Inside her.
No wonder the ladies in Mr. Nance’s sensation novels risked all for their men. Not that they would dare engage in such going’s on within the pages of a book.
Out of nowhere a giggle bubbled up. As if a writer of sensation fiction—any fiction—could describe such a glorious act.
“Am I so amusing?” Spencer was watching her, one eyebrow nearly at his hairline. As he spoke, he withdrew from her body.
“Not you.” Meena shook her head. She placed a hand in the center of his muscled chest, revealing in the feel of the crisp, dark curls under her palm. “I was just thinking about—never mind.” She stopped herself, recalling his disdain for novels.
He dropped a light kiss on her lips, then bent to pull up his trousers. “Tell me.”
Meena busied herself pulling her nightgown back over her pink, sensitized breasts. “I was thinking about Mr. Nance’s novels, and I—”
She stopped, concerned at the odd look that had come over him. She reached out to caress his rough cheek. “Are you all right?”
Spencer was stuffing his shirt back into the waistband of his trousers. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine, thank you.”
Meena bit her lip. Men were such fragile creatures. She often forgot that. “I apologize. I in no way meant to imply that I find this… I mean to say….” She took in a fortifying breath. “I don’t find making love with you in any way amusing.”
Spencer closed his eyes. The set of his jaw made her think he might be gnashing his teeth. “That is ever so reassuring.”
“It’s the truth.” She finished fastening his buttons. “Wonderful, glorious, spectacular, but never amusing. Amusing is far too frivolous a word for… this.”
Spencer pulled her nightgown down and let it fall to her feet, then he wrapped his strong hands around her thighs, just above her knees. He leaned close until the heat from his body stirred her blood all over again.
Meena sucked in a breath.
“I will take wonderful, glorious, and most assuredly spectacular, Miss Sweet.” He leaned in even closer. His breath caressed her parted lips. “Mostly, however, I want to take you. Now.”
“But Spencer—” The bulge pushing against the tweed of his trousers sent delightful shivers skittering down her spine.
She wanted him just as badly, but the faintest glow of light had begun to creep around the edges of the curtains. “It’s almost dawn.”
“Your point?” He kissed her, parting her lips, igniting fires that ran from her mouth all the way to the juncture of her thighs.
Exactly.
It was almost dawn. Not yet dawn. Cinderella’s coach would surely remain intact for a while longer.
Meena slid forward, capturing his thighs between hers. She smiled, and arched her back, thrusting her breasts closer to his chest. “Could we try this laying down?”
Spencer’s answer was a long, deep groan. He lifted her hips, standing her up against him so his erection nestled against her belly. “Your wish is my command.”
His kiss was so sweet, so long and slow and delicious, it was quite some time before Meena cared where they were.
12
The weight of the pistol in Spencer’s hand was less reassuring than he would’ve wished.
He hunkered down behind the pile of broken boxes and stared at the back door of the tavern. The alley behind Ramsay’s chosen pub was as dark and narrow as Sweet and his sister had described. He hated to admit it, but he would have felt far less trepidation—none at all, to be truthful—if Meena were not beside him.
He told himself that making love to her wouldn’t change anything. No matter how many times they came together, she’d never trust him.
No matter how many times they came together, he’d never consent to being shackled to one woman.
Until he did. Possibly.
But likely not.
Spencer shook his head and stared hard at the tavern door, willing Ramsay to come out, to put an end to the yammering in his brain. She had thrown him, he’d give her that. When they were younger, making love had been exciting, elicit, and somehow achingly sweet.
He’d expected this time would be different. In the years between, he’d bedded his share—more than his share—of beautiful women.
He expected Meena had done the same. Well, not exactly the same. He well knew a robust sexual life was not the thing for single women, but with her brains and determination, he
assumed she’d been able to arrange any amount of bedplay she wished.
Which made the sweetness of their coupling highly unnerving.
He’d expected to pass a delightful evening.
He hadn’t expected to leave the night with an invisible chain wrapped around his heart.
The hell of it was, he’d locked it there himself.
Meena’s skirts rustled as she squirmed beside him. “I hope Edison hurries.”
He reached for her hand. Her un-gloved fingers were stiff and icy. Spencer rubbed his thumb across her chilled knuckles. “Cold?”
Meena shook her head, never taking her eyes from the door. “Hungry. Those potatoes smell divine.”
Spencer couldn’t help the wolfish grin that spread across his face. He raised her cold hand to his lips and planted a lingering kiss. “I’m hungry, too.”
Meena pulled her hand from his grasp and swatted him on the arm. “We’re in the middle of a mission.”
Crane cocked an eyebrow. “Your point, my lady?”
Meena huffed and turned her attention back to the exit from the Tavern. But a small smile played across her lips.
That alone warmed his heart.
The alleyway did smell of roasting potatoes. Indeed, the narrow lane was far more pleasant than Spencer had anticipated. Running along behind a neighborhood of prosperous looking houses, the area had an air of middle-class prosperity.
Not at all the setting in which he would’ve pictured Jamison Ramsay.
Still, a tavern was a tavern. A pile of spent kegs twice the height of a man were piled haphazardly along the wall facing them. Next to the other side of the door, a cart filled to the brim with rotting scraps awaited the refuse man’s attention.
Spencer sent up a prayer of thanks that the evening breeze, slight as it was, put the refuse cart downwind.
The stench that assaulted him a moment later made the refuse cart seem like a flower garden. The pleasant smell of roasting potatoes vanished, the alley now awash with the foul odor of rotting fish.
A great deal of rotting fish.
“Dear God.” Meena clapped a hand over her nose.
Careful to breathe through his mouth, Spencer surveyed the front of the alley.
A figure in a white apron rounded the corner from the street. The noxious scent came with him, rising in intensity with each step.
Spencer’s grip tightened on the pistol, until he realized it was Meena’s cousin. Sweet was their lookout in the tavern. Spencer only wondered what sort of God-awful disguise he’d created.
And he wished it hadn’t involved olfactory effects.
Sweet joined them behind the old boxes. “Ramsay just went in. I sent a boy after him with a note. Told him you wanted to meet out back. He was already halfway into his pint. Shouldn’t be but a minute.”
Meena thrust her chin at the door. “Any men with him?”
Sweet hunkered down next to Spencer. “Only one I saw, but the tavern’s busy. It’s possible there are others. Best be prepared.” He pulled his own pistol from the pocket of his trousers and set it on top of the box. The overpowering stench was amplified with each movement.
Crane nodded, a hand to his mouth. He and Meena shuffled as far from him as their small hiding place would allow.
The inventor’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“You smell like dead fish.” Meena pointed at his white apron, stained with oil, and several other dark substances Spencer had no desire to identify.
“It’s my disguise.” Sweet shook his head as if they were brain addled. “I’m a fishmonger.”
“It’s quite effective.” Meena’s hand muffled her voice.
“Think so?”
A puzzled look clouded Meena’s face. “There’s something else…”
Sweet nodded. “Lily of the Valley. I’ve been working on it for my dis-odorizer. Not close yet.”
Spencer coughed. “No. I’d say not.”
He and Meena exchanged a glance. She laughed, but the sound turned into a cough.
She shifted at Spencer’s side. “I thought I detected a floral note on top of the—”
The back door to the tavern burst open, slamming back against the brick wall. A man flashed through the doorway and out into the alley. The figure crouched low, his gaze raking the area.
Spencer didn’t fail to miss the pistol in the man’s hand.
Ramsay sauntered out of the doorway behind his man, standing tall, chest bared, daring Spencer to shoot him. “Crane? You out here?”
He flipped the bowler hat he carried onto his head, and wrapped a long, dark cape around his thin shoulders. “Hurry up and show yourself. I’ve got a hot meal and a willing whore waiting.”
Weak light from the rising moon glinted on the barrel of his gun.
Spencer’s hand tensed on his own firearm. He moved to rise, but Sweet stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. He jerked his head toward the entrance to the alley. “Two more coming in,” he murmured. “I’ll take them. You take Ramsay and his man.”
Spencer nodded as he rose. “A pleasure.”
Both men looked down at Meena, who was still crouched behind the boxes. “Stay here,” they ordered simultaneously.
She glared up at them. “Not likely.”
Sweet rolled his eyes and headed off after the other two men. Spencer couldn’t quite catch what he muttered as he stalked off. Something about pigheaded cousins.
“Hey there.” Sweet called out to the men at the front of the alley.
Spencer caught the unmistakable thud of fists on flesh. Clearly, the inventor had engaged Ramsay’s backup men.
On cue, Spencer jumped up from behind the boxes. “Over here, Ramsay.” He aimed straight at the skinny man’s chest and cocked the trigger.
Ramsay gestured at his man. The ruffian swung his pistol in Spencer’s general direction. “Don’t shoot… yet,” Ramsay directed.
If the light had allowed, Spencer would have bet a fat purse Ramsay was smirking.
“Wise choice.” Spencer kept his own gun aimed at the center of Ramsay’s body. Far less chance he’d miss that way.
Ramsay flung his cape off of his shooting arm. “Bit of a stalemate we’ve got.” He flashed a nasty smile. “What’s your game?” He took a few steps to Spencer’s right.
“No game.” Spencer stayed put, unwilling to let Ramsay distract him into moving out of position.
“A social visit, then.”
Spencer felt his lip curl. “I wouldn’t visit you in your grave, you pig.”
They remained over twenty feet apart, circling other each other as if they were dancing. Spencer knew if he faltered for a second, the smaller man would be on him. Ramsay would show no mercy.
“Jameson!” Meena yelled from somewhere behind him. “Over here.”
Spencer grimaced. Damnable hell, would the woman not stay out of trouble?
A dark object whistled through the air, inches from his shoulder.
“Ouch. You bitch,” Ramsay cursed.
His gun clattered to the ground. With a scream of rage, he lurched forward, shoving his remaining man further down the alley. “Come on.”
Spencer and Meena moved to follow, but Ramsay smashed his shoulder into the casks piled at the back door. The mountain of empty barrels tumbled out into the street, tripping Spencer. The pistol flew from his fingertips as he fell to his knees. Sharp pieces of gravel tore at his palms, his knees, as he slid along the rough cobbles.
Feet pounding away down the lane.
He turned back to check on Meena. Knocked to her knees as well, she had skidded to a stop next to him.
She wiped her hands on her skirts. “I’m all right.”
An instant later, the hard grip of his gun nudged his hand. “Your pistol.” She handed over the firearm.
Spencer hove himself up and helped her to her feet. “Good throw.”
Meena made a sound. “I was aiming for his head.” She jumped forward, clearly eager to continue the chase.
> Spencer grabbed her around the waist. “His man’s still armed. No point running after them in the dark.”
She stilled in his arms. “That is an excellent point.” She stepped away from him and smoothed the bodice of her dark dress.
Spencer’s shoulder sagged. Damnation. He glared down the darkening alley over the waist-high jumble of broken casks, wishing his gaze could fell the wretched ass.
Ramsay would be twice as hard to catch next time. In the meantime, he’d be twice as angry. Twice as eager to exact more revenge.
A low moan came from the shambles of crates in front of them.
“Did you hear that?” Sweet ran up, hardly out of breath after dispatching two hard characters.
Spencer leapt into the mess of broken staves and stale beer, shoving aside the debris as quickly as he could. Sweet dove in behind him.
Ramsay lay on his stomach amid the debris, one white hand extended toward a crushed bowler, his satin cape, now wrinkled and stained, spread out over his back.
Relief warred with anger, leaving Spencer both energized and spent.
He and Sweet reached down to yank Ramsay up by the armpits. Sweet shook the smaller man. “Looks like your boys left you.”
Ramsay groaned. His head lolled toward the ground as if his neck were nothing but a limp stalk of old celery.
“Let’s get him in the carriage.” Spencer started to drag the half conscious man back toward the street where Mr. Hapgood waited with the horses.
The tops of Ramsay’s shoes scraped along the rough cobbles as they pulled him back toward the tavern. Her back to the street, Meena busied herself clearing the way in front of them of debris
None of them heard Briar arrive. She stopped next to Meena, her gaze on the bent head of their quarry, an odd look in her eye.
She squatted in front of them and looked him full in the face. Then she stared up at them, eyes wide. “That’s not Ramsay.”
Spencer and Sweet exchanged a glance. They lowered the body to the ground and turned him on his back. All four of them peered at the dirt-streaked face. Blood trickled from a wound at the side of the man’s head, winding its way through his short, gray hair. Rheumy eyes stared up at them from an old man’s wrinkled face.