by Shana Galen
Dane shrugged. He didn’t care what she did. “Has my brother returned?”
“No, my lord, but your mother and sister are preparing for bed. Or so I have been informed.” His tone held a measure of censure, and Dane realized he would have to make amends for the disruption he’d caused in the nightly ritual. “I only hope Lloyd was able to see all was done correctly.”
Lloyd was the head footman.
“I am certain all was done to your specifications, Crawford. Mrs. Worthing, might I trouble you for a measure of that cooking sherry?” He nodded to the bottle on a shelf behind her. It was not brandy, but it would have to suffice for the moment.
“No trouble ’tall, my lord. No, it’s no trouble ’tall.” She poured him a hearty measure, and he drank it down.
“Is there anything else you require, my lord?” Crawford asked.
Dane ran a hand over his face. If Brook wasn’t back yet, he had to do something with the girl. He couldn’t put her in one of the house’s bedrooms. Even if he hadn’t thought she’d rob them blind and run away at the first opportunity, Crawford would never allow it.
She would have to stay where he could keep an eye on her. His dressing room? Dane closed his eyes. He needed to consider that this might turn out to be Lady Elizabeth, however unlikely that seemed at the moment. If rumor that he’d shared the night with her circulated, she would be ruined. Of course, wasn’t she already ruined? God knew where she’d lived or what she’d done all these years. Crawford was capable of discretion, even when he ardently disapproved. His loyalties to the family usually outweighed his rigid sense of propriety. Dane, having relied on Crawford’s discretion a time or two, knew this firsthand. And Crawford could bully any of the other servants into keeping quiet should they realize the girl had slept in his room.
“Crawford, I shall need your assistance with a delicate task.” He pulled the butler aside and explained quietly. The man pursed his lips, but that was the only outward sign that he disapproved.
Dane sent Crawford to do his bidding, then checked his pocket watch. It was late. Very late. He strolled to the door where the girl was bathing. “Are you almost done?”
“Don’t you dare come in!”
Dane looked heavenward in silent entreaty and stepped away. He was going to throttle Brook when he saw him. Dane could not believe he was sneaking a girl to his room. He felt like a randy youth again. At least when she emerged, she would not look like a girl anymore.
But then the door opened, and he realized he was very, very wrong.
Three
Marlowe had never liked baths, but she had not realized they could be taken in warm, clean water with fragrant soap. She didn’t particularly want to smell like a flower, but it wasn’t the worst thing she’d smelled like. The towels she’d dried herself with had been soft and fluffy. She’d never had a towel before. She’d had a small, scratchy cloth she could use for her face, but it rubbed her skin raw with its coarseness. These towels were so soft she wanted to wrap herself in them and wear them all the time.
Instead, she wound one about her dripping wet hair. She would probably die from a chill, but once she’d begun to clean her body, she couldn’t stop there. Her hair felt heavy with grime, and she’d washed it until it rinsed clean. The water, when she stepped out, was black. She hadn’t realized she had so much dirt on her. As she dressed, she noted her fingernails had white half-moons at the tip, and her skin had a pinkish tinge.
The clothing the bastard had provided her was a bit snug. She didn’t have any strips to bind her breasts, and she couldn’t put her stays back on by herself, even if she’d wanted to. Looking at them now, all gray with grime, she was not sad to be free of them. But without anything between her skin and the shirt, her breasts stretched the material slightly. The trousers were snug as well, but the shirt was long enough to cover her hips and bottom. She found a cap tucked into the pocket of the trousers, and after drying her hair as best she could, she piled it on her head and set the cap on top.
That was about the time the bastard knocked on the door. She jumped at the sound, and though she was dressed, ordered him not to enter. She needed another moment. She had to don her own shoes again, and took the dagger she had hidden in the pockets of her dress and shoved it in her boot as she usually did. She wouldn’t be unprepared for whatever the bastard had in mind.
But the bastard was the least of her worries. Satin was going to kill her. It wouldn’t matter if she’d been abducted; she would be to blame for the loss of the cargo Gideon and the boys would have taken in the better-racket. Gideon…what did he think had happened? Had Joe told him she’d been snapped and carried away?
She had to get out of here and get back. She’d take Satin’s punishment and promise to make up for tonight next time. Next time she’d make a rum speak. First, she had to escape, but the bastard was proving difficult to evade. He and his brother seemed to think she was the daughter of some swell or other—a Lord Lyndon. The thought made her laugh—and it also made her belly hurt for reasons she did not want to think about too closely. Apparently this swell, Lyndon, was looking for a girl named Elizabeth. It was curious that this girl would have the name Marlowe used in secret, but that did not mean Marlowe was this girl.
She was a bawd’s by-blow, not some swell’s little princess. And besides, even if her name had once been Elizabeth, that did not mean she was the swell’s daughter. It was a common enough name.
So why had Satin given her another?
She shook her head. Better not to question. If Satin gave you a gang name, you used it. Hers was Marlowe, and she’d never told anyone except Gideon that she remembered being called Elizabeth.
She couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer. With a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped out of the little bathing room. The bastard was waiting outside. His back was to the door, his shoulders broad and his waist narrow in the tight coat he wore. He was a bang-up cove, that was certain. She’d gotten a close look at his clothing, and it was finer than any she’d ever seen. A knave in grain, as Gideon would have said, as well as a long shanks. She’d known tall men, but they’d always been scraggy. This man had substance.
He turned, and she caught her breath. She didn’t like that he could do that to her—make her throat feel tight and her heart race. But he was handsome—far too handsome. He had thick, dark hair that fell to one side of his face and sort of curled about it. His eyebrows were thick slashes over wide brown eyes. She’d seen innumerable people with brown eyes, but no one had eyes like his. She didn’t know how to describe them except that they were sort of soft and beautiful. They were almost a woman’s eyes—but this man was no woman. He might be clean-shaven, but his jaw was strong, and there was power within him. She’d felt the iron of his strength when he’d carried her. The man did not have a bit of soft flesh about him.
She’d been watching his eyes, so she noticed when his gaze met hers and how his eyes widened. She almost looked down at her clothing, to see what troubled him, but she thought she knew. Men were always interested in bubbies. “I don’t have anything to bind them,” she said. “If you give me your neckcloth, I could use that.”
He stepped back as though he’d been burned. “My cravat stays where it is.”
“If you’re not going to give me your cravat”—she mimicked his pompous way of saying the word—“then I need something else.”
He took a deep breath. “This is not a subject I prefer to discuss. You will want to eat?”
She didn’t know why he asked the question. Of course she wanted to eat. He could probably hear her stomach rumbling at the smell of the food. She followed him into the kitchen, half perplexed and half amused that he did not want to discuss binding her breasts. These swells had their own rules.
She stepped into the kitchen, and an older woman with her hair in a cap and wearing a clean apron smiled at her. It was a kind smile, but Ma
rlowe didn’t smile back. She didn’t trust these people. The woman was probably a cook, because she indicated the food on the preparation table near her. Marlowe didn’t need it pointed out. She’d spotted it the moment she entered. But she took the gesture as an invitation to begin, and she attacked the meal like a mongrel attacks a bone. She lifted the bowl and drank a hearty measure of the soup, then dipped the hunk of bread in and scooped up the remaining liquid. She shoved the bread in her mouth, chewing quickly and washing it down with a measure of wine. The wine was good, and she drank it all.
She shoved another hunk of bread in her mouth and held the glass out. “More wine?” she said around the bread.
The bastard and the cook stared at her as though they had never seen a person eat. She waved the glass to get the cook’s attention, and the woman finally blinked and poured more. “Er…more soup, dear?”
Marlowe nodded. She could have eaten ten bowls of it. It was the best thing she’d had in…well, as long as she could remember. She probably shouldn’t be accepting anything from the bastard, but she figured he owed her. She hadn’t asked to be nabbed.
She ate two more bowls, and then she was so full she worried she’d have to be rolled out of there. Her stomach, used to being empty, hurt from swelling. But it was a good hurt, and now she felt sleepy. She yawned.
“Let’s get you to bed,” the bastard said. For some reason, a shiver ran up her spine at his words.
She shook it off. “I’m not sharing a dab with you! If you try and touch me, you’ll find your arm missing your hand.”
The cook made a strained sound, then pretended to be very busy cleaning up. But she was obviously still listening. The bastard opened his mouth to say something more, and that was when the other servants walked in. They’d been doing something in the other room, and now a mopsqueezer entered, carrying Marlowe’s clothing.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” the slavey said with a curtsy. Marlowe rolled her eyes. As if the man was worth all that fawning. “What should I do with…these?”
“Burn them.”
“Hey!” Marlowe tried to snatch her dress away. “Those are mine!”
The swell stepped in front of her, and the maid shrank back as though Marlowe would attack. “You can go,” the bastard told the slaveys. They ran off as though his words came from heaven.
He was still standing in front of her, and she could smell the clean scent of him. He didn’t smell like flowers, but like something masculine and fresh. She wanted to move closer and inhale more deeply. Instead, she looked up at him, and for some reason, she felt dizzy. He was looking at her, those brown eyes focused on her face, and she felt too warm and short of breath. Maybe the soup had been poisoned.
“Follow me,” he said curtly.
She put her hands on her hips. His eyes followed the movement, and she saw his throat move as he swallowed.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He sighed. “Marlowe, there is an easy way to do things and a hard way. I take it you prefer the hard way.”
She frowned. When he spoke, she had the feeling he was saying more than his words would indicate. It was almost as though he was making fun of her. There often seemed no right answer to his questions, so she kept silent.
“In this case, the easy way is for you to follow me to my room.”
“No.” She said it flatly. She was not going to this man’s room.
“The hard way it is.” He reached for her, and before she could jump out of the way, he scooped her into his arms. She fought him, more comfortable now in the trousers and man’s shirt, but he was prepared. He tossed her over his shoulder and held her legs at the knees to stop her from kicking him. Despite her struggles, she caught the shocked look of the cook, and then they were outside. Marlowe didn’t pay much attention to where they were, she just fought and screamed, and finally they stepped in the house and she had to catch her breath.
“You have another choice,” he said ominously. “Keep screaming and I bind your mouth, or keep quiet and you remain free.”
She took a moment to think about it. Part of her wanted to scream just to spite him, just to wake the whole house up. But another part of her did not relish being gaped at by the family or being bound. He would do it. She knew that much about him now. “Fine,” she said quietly.
He set her down, which surprised her.
“Want to try walking?”
But she was speechless now. Before, she’d been staring at the shiny marble floor, now she looked around her and gawked. The entryway was the most gorgeous room she had ever seen. The ceiling soared and seemed to go up and up and then up some more. An enormous column of stairs spread before them, and that too curved gracefully upward. A chandelier with what looked like diamonds glittered above her. It was not lit, but the lamp left burning on an entry table illuminated its glory. What must it look like when lit? It would be as bright as day in here.
A long, wide hallway led to other rooms. She peered down it, but she could not see the end. This house was a castle. She turned her head to stare at the bastard. Who was he? Some sort of king?
He gestured toward the stairs. “This way,” he said quietly and began ascending. She followed, pausing when her feet stepped onto the runner. The carpet was so soft and plush, she all but sank into it. Finally, she began walking again, looking around her as she did. Framed paintings of old men and women, as well as country fields, hung on the walls. When she peered over the stone banister, she saw plants and a large wooden door. The butler she had seen earlier was locking it now. He lifted the lamp and followed them at a discreet distance.
She had been in the homes of the wealthy. She could scan this house and know immediately what items would fetch the highest prices—silver glim-sticks, a gilt frame, a marble bust—but she had never been in a home like this one. If she and Gideon could pilfer this house, they would be made for life.
The bastard had reached the landing, and she almost ran into him. He was obviously waiting for her. Now he gave her a knowing look. “Tallying the value?”
She scowled at him. He had an annoying habit of guessing what she was thinking. “No.”
He laughed. “One more flight up.”
“How many floors are there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know? Perhaps I should just leave the doors unlocked and give you the house plans.”
“That would be helpful,” she agreed.
He started up the next set of stairs. “Apparently, today I am nothing if not helpful.”
She followed him to another level, but this one did not require ascending quite so many stairs to reach. At the top, he turned right and motioned for her to follow him. These were bedrooms, she assumed. The doors were closed, and it appeared all in the house were sleeping. How many people lived here? Oh, she knew enough to guess that the servants slept on the attic floor. This was clearly not that level. But how many people shared this enormous house? At any given time there were ten to twelve cubs sharing a space not even the size of the entryway to this house. Did this man live here alone? No…he’d mentioned a sister and a mother. And there was his brother. If Sir Brook lived here, that was four people and all of this space.
She was amazed and also a little angry. What made him so special that he got all of this when she had to settle for a cramped corner in a cold, wet, rickety building?
They reached the destination, and he opened the door. It was dark inside, but she went in anyway, not wishing to be carried. The butler, who had been following them, handed him the lamp and murmured something she did not hear.
The bastard declined the butler’s offer, then closed the door. He went to a table near the door, slid a drawer open, and took out a key. Inserting the key into the lock, he dubbed up and pocketed the key.
She was alone with him in his bedroom.
***
Dane put the key i
n his pocket and watched as her eyes grew wide. Devil take him if she started wailing and screaming again. To stave it off, he said, “I’m not going to touch you. I only want to sleep.” He held up his hands as if to show he was harmless and had no interest in anything other than sleeping. The girl was little more than an animal from what he’d seen of her manners. Still…
When the idea of having her in his room came to him, he had no other intentions, but that was before she’d come out of the bath. He’d immediately regretted giving in to her request to wear men’s clothing. They clung to her in ways they never would on a man. Her breasts pushed at the fabric of the shirt, stretching it. The outline of her nipples had been visible, and he realized she wasn’t wearing any undergarments. That fact was made more obvious when she began to talk about binding her breasts. He had put an immediate stop to that conversation. He did not want to talk about her anatomy, especially not when his body was reacting to it against his will.
He tried looking away from her chest and wished he had not forced her to bathe. One look at her face made it obvious she was not a boy. The dirt and grime had hid pale, delicate skin, milky white and translucent. She’d stuffed her hair under a cap, but he’d already seen how long it was. Did it fall enticingly about her breasts when she was unclothed?
He’d shaken his head and forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. Dane was good at concentrating. He’d been trained to put his own needs and wants second. He was able to ignore her enticing body for several minutes—that was, until she put her hands on her hips, and the material of her shirt rose. Her hips curved the trousers in ways he found incredibly erotic. He could imagine the sweet shape of her bottom, and had the urge to turn her so he could see that part of her as well. Worst of all, one of the buttons on the shirt popped off at her actions, exposing the creamy flesh of her collarbone.
Now she stood before him, looking at him as though he were a wolf and she the sheep. As much as he might reassure her, she was right to distrust him. The entire time he’d carried her in from the kitchen, those soft, full breasts pressing into his shoulder, he had thought of nothing but stripping her naked.