The Saint of Seven Dials: Collector's Edition

by Brenda Hiatt

  "It's . . . it's nothing like that," she finally said, trying to speak lightly despite the leaden weight in her heart. "I, ah, simply enjoy the risk, the . . . novelty. I led such a confined life for so long, you see." She held her breath, unable to read his expression in the dark alleyway, praying he might believe her.

  When he spoke again, his voice seemed strained. "So you are unable to help yourself? I knew men like that during the war, who insisted on taking greater and greater risks, for the very thrill— until they were killed. I considered it a sort of sickness, a derangement of the mind."

  So now he thought her mad? Better that than the truth. "I have no wish to die," she assured him, "though I suppose it is not entirely natural— especially for a woman."

  He moved so suddenly she flinched, to grasp her by the shoulders. "Sarah, you must resist this urge! It is just as dangerous, and could indeed lead to your death, or your imprisonment and deportation at the least. If you seek thrills, I can show them to you— without running afoul of the law."

  Pulling her tight against him, he covered her mouth with his own, kissing her with urgent passion, awakening an answering passion within her. She clung to him, giving herself up to the sensations he aroused. No, she could never lack for thrills, married to such a man. Amazing that he had believed her fiction, as far as it was from the truth.

  "What would thrill you most?" he murmured against her lips. "If it is risk you crave, I can take you here, in the alley. Or in the garden yonder."

  "But we might be seen," she gasped as he trailed his lips down her throat.

  "Isn't that the point? I'm willing to risk it if you are."

  She wasn't, but what could she say after the claim she'd just made? "It's . . . rather chilly outdoors."

  "Mmm. Somewhere indoors, then. Come." Pinning her to his side, he led her back through the gate and into the house, much to her relief. Instead of taking her upstairs, however, he opened the library door.

  "Will this be unconventional enough for you, my lady?" Already he was shrugging out of his coat, his eyes ablaze in the dim light of the dying fire.

  Mutely, she nodded. Surely he couldn't mean to lie with her here? she thought nervously. She longed for his touch, but would prefer it in a proper bed, behind locked doors . . .

  Free of his coat, he divested himself of his shirt, then pulled her to him again. "You seem reluctant. Why?"

  "I . . . I suppose I never expected—"

  "That I might be willing to accommodate your tastes? But I am." He pushed her cloak from her shoulders and began unbuttoning her gray gown. "You need only tell me what you want, Sarah."

  Despite her nervousness, she found herself fascinated by the play of the firelight over the planes of his bare chest. Tentatively, she touched him, tangling her fingers in the crisp, dark hairs, enjoying the hard, masculine feel of him. Mine, she exulted, fully appreciating that fact for the first time. Yes, she could do this.

  He finished undoing her gown, and then her chemise. Then he pulled them both down over her arms, baring her to the waist, even as he was bare. She pressed herself to him, enjoying the way his chest abraded the sensitive skin of her breasts, enjoying the way they complemented each other.

  Again he captured her lips, probing, demanding, his arms tight around her, imprisoning her. His strength, so much greater than her own, inflamed her even as it frightened her a little. He was so much larger, so much more powerful than she.

  On that thought, she slid her hands down his belly and began unbuttoning his breeches. She wanted that power within her, a part of her. In moments she had freed him from his nether garments and leaned back so that she could examine her handiwork. He seemed impossibly large, rampantly erect in his evident desire for her. Memories of the pleasure he'd given her their first night together flooded back and she experienced a fresh wave of desire.

  He seemed to sense it, for he growled low in his throat. "Come to me, Sarah." Pushing her gown and chemise down over her hips, he stepped out of his breeches, then kissed her again, hard. When he bent to remove his shoes, she did the same, and then they were in each other's arms again, completely naked before the embers of the library fire.

  Running his hands up and down her back, Peter turned his head to glance around the room. "Here on the hearthrug, think you, or shall we try a chair?"

  Nervousness flowed back at this reminder of how exposed they were here, but she did not pull away from him, determined to preserve her fiction. "What . . . whatever you think best," she whispered.

  "Hmm. Let's try this, then." Drawing her with him, he sat on one of the overstuffed chairs, pulling her down until she straddled him, her knees wide, her feminine mound pressed against his turgid shaft. Unwilling to let him see her surprise, she kissed him, chaotic sensations sweeping through her.

  Grasping her waist with his large, warm hands, he lifted her slightly, then lowered her again, sliding her along his shaft, heightening those sensations. She heard a creak from the direction of the library door and stiffened, glancing wildly in that direction. What if Mrs. Walsh, or one of the servants—?

  "Relax," he murmured in her ear. "Part of the thrill is the chance that we might be caught, is it not?"

  Swallowing, she nodded, though in truth the sudden fright had dimmed her desire somewhat. She turned back to him, though still darting furtive glances at the door. It did not open, nor did she hear any other sounds. Willing herself to calmness, she leaned down to kiss him again, even as he resumed moving her against him.

  Passion, briefly banked, flamed again and Sarah gave herself up to it, willing herself to forget for the moment that she still had a serious problem to solve.

  Though Peter would not have chosen this setting of his own volition, he found Sarah every bit as exciting in the library as in his bedchamber. If this added novelty could help her overcome whatever drove her to steal, he was more than willing to risk any small embarrassment that might result should a servant discover them here.

  He'd felt her stiffen at that creak in the hallway— doubtless just one of the random noises a house of this age occasionally made. The risk of discovery did not seem to excite her as he'd expected it to. But if the reason she'd given him for stealing was false, any nervousness she felt now was due to her own deception.

  Lifting and lowering her again and again, he felt her tense in a different way, her nipples hardening against his chest. The sensation of her sliding against him was exquisite, the feel of her soft, feminine body between his hands intoxicating. He would make her his in every way possible, body and mind, whatever it took, he was determined.

  Her breathing was coming in quick gasps now and she slickened against him as he moved her. Lifting her higher, he impaled her upon him, covering her mouth with his own to stifle both of their cries. She tightened around him until he thought he might explode, but he contained himself, determined to pleasure her fully first.

  Steadying her with one hand, he slid the other between them, her upright position giving him easy access to the spot that held the key to her desire. Rocking his hips, using his feet against the floor to propel himself upward, he thrust into her deeply, again and again, even as he stroked her cleft.

  She began to make small, mewling cries, arching her back, driving herself down upon him with each upward thrust he made. He felt his legs shaking and knew he would not be able to hold back much longer. Fastening his mouth on one of her perfect breasts, he stroked her again, and again, until she gave a great gasp and convulsed about him, tighter and tighter, driving him over the edge into ecstasy.

  Clutching her against him, he emptied himself into her, caring nothing at that moment for any lies she'd told him, any secrets she still kept. She was his, he was hers, they were together. That was all that mattered.

  Slowly, slowly, reason returned as he spent his passion, as she relaxed atop him. Reason, and realization that this had been but a moment out of time, a brief snatching of enjoyment that in no way addressed the problems that still stood betwe
en them.

  But though he knew he should be demanding answers, he only nuzzled her neck and asked, "Will that thrill hold you for the night, do you think, or do you need more?"

  She responded with a shaky laugh. "I won't attempt to sneak out again, if that's what you mean."

  "I'll take that as a promise." He thrust away the knowledge that she'd already broken one such promise to him. "Suppose we go upstairs and then you can tell me whether you'd care for more thrills of a, ah, domestic variety tonight?"

  A shadow seemed to cross her face for an instant, but then she smiled. "Your thrills are the best I've ever known. I'm not sure I'll ever have enough of them."

  "Then it seems I have my work cut out for me," he said, wanting desperately to believe that this time she was telling him the truth.

  * * *

  When Peter led Sarah down to breakfast the next morning, he felt more strongly than ever that he'd been wrong last night to take her to his bed—or, rather, in the library —while so much still separated them. It made what should have been beautiful almost sordid instead.

  He would have to ask her about the money she'd stolen at the Wittingtons', for it must certainly be returned. He'd put it off, in hopes she might broach the subject herself, but she had not. He would say something over breakfast, he decided.

  While none of those she'd robbed would suffer any lack, he didn't wish to delay any longer than necessary —though there was the problem of how to return the money without implicating Sarah in the thefts.

  Glancing down at her, breathtaking in her new, sky blue morning gown, her golden curls loose about her shoulders, it seemed impossible she could ever do anything criminal —even though he knew beyond doubt that she had. He felt suddenly shaken, doubting the very judgment upon which he'd always prided himself.

  "I'm quite famished," he remarked, to distract himself from that unsettling thought. "So much exercise last night has stimulated my appetite."

  "I am hungry as well," she admitted, blushing. Again he marveled at her seeming innocence.

  He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves for what he must do, even if it drove another wedge between them. "Sarah," he began —and was interrupted by a knocking at the front door.

  "What the devil? Who would call at this hour?" Motioning Sarah to proceed to the dining room, he went to greet the unexpected visitor.

  A footman opened the door as he approached it, to reveal his brother Marcus and his wife, Quinn, on the front step.

  "We headed back to Town as soon as we heard," Marcus said, coming forward, "but we stayed with Luke last night rather than risk disturbing the newlyweds." He grasped Peter's hand, slapping him on the shoulder with the other. "Congratulations! Where is your new bride?"

  CHAPTER 18

  Sarah emerged from the dining room to see Peter greeting a couple she had not met before, though the gentleman bore enough resemblance to her husband that she guessed it must be one of his brothers.

  "Good morning," she said, bracing herself in case this brother evinced the same attitude as the duke and Lord Bagstead. To her relief, the newcomers both smiled with apparent delight as they started forward.

  Peter's smile seemed oddly strained, however, as he made the introductions. "Sarah, this is my brother Marcus and his wife, Quinn. They've only just returned to London."

  Quinn, a lively, petite brunette, took both of Sarah's hands in her own. "Of course we returned the moment word reached us of your wedding. Welcome to the family, Sarah—t hough perhaps I'm not the one to say so, recent addition that I am."

  Her smile was as irresistible as her American accent and Sarah felt herself relaxing at once. "Thank you. Peter speaks fondly of you both. I'm delighted to meet you."

  "I presume you need your trunks taken upstairs?" Peter asked then, signaling to the hovering footman.

  "Unless you'd prefer we wait?" Marcus asked. "I know how awkward it can be to have others about so soon . . ."

  Sarah thought Peter hesitated for an instant before saying, "Nonsense. In any event, this was to be our last night here. I've taken a house on Curzon Street and we're anxious to move into it, are we not, Sarah?"

  She readily agreed, though she'd have liked more opportunity to get to know Quinn. However, staying here with Lord and Lady Marcus would only make it that much more difficult to achieve her vital goal of ransoming William —not that it would be easy to slip away from Peter again, after last night.

  "Is something wrong?" Quinn asked softly as Peter and Marcus headed to the dining room, discussing Mr. Thatcher and other mutual friends.

  Sarah started. "No! That is, I am still adjusting to the idea of having a family— particularly such a family as this. Everything is so different from what I have been used to."

  Quinn took her arm and led her into the dining room behind the gentlemen. "Ah! I see you have not yet eaten either. Let's have a nice chat over breakfast. I've always wanted a sister, you see, and I have a feeling we're going to become the very best of friends."

  Warmed by the thought, Sarah admitted that she'd always wished for a sister as well. Quinn peppered her with questions, and she related her past as truthfully as she could without giving away too much. If Quinn suspected she was holding things back, however, she made no sign.

  "It's hard to be suddenly on one's own in a new world, so to speak," she said when Sarah finished. "I experienced much the same, marrying Marcus only a week after arriving in England, though I never endured the privations you did. You have my heartiest sympathy, having to live dependent upon that odious Lady Mountheath —though I suppose I should be grateful to her, all things considered."

  "Grateful?" asked Sarah in surprise. Peter had mentioned something . . .

  Quinn's eyes twinkled. "It is her fault that Marcus and I are married, you see. She created scandal out of an innocent meeting —though I admit I did behave rather foolishly —and he felt obliged to marry me as a result. Lady Mountheath, I later discovered, positively thrives on scandal."

  "As long as she is not touched by it," Sarah said wryly.

  "Yes, I'm sure half of London would love to turn the tables on her, if the opportunity arose," Quinn agreed with a laugh.

  And Peter surely knew that, Sarah thought. His plan to trap her into marriage had been foolproof. But did he now regret it?

  "There was some initial awkwardness between Marcus and me, of course," Quinn continued, "but we managed to get past it." The smile she sent her husband across the table spoke of intimacy, deep love —and trust.

  Sarah couldn't suppress a pang of envy. Would she and Peter would ever reach that level of understanding? Not while she kept secrets from him. Once William was free, she would try to find a way to confess the whole— unless Peter's trust had been permanently destroyed by then.

  "So, how did you secure Lady Mountheath's consent to your marriage?" Quinn asked then.

  Caught off her guard, Sarah blinked, but then Peter came to her rescue.

  "We will doubtless have time to trade stories later," he said. "But now, if you are finished, my dear, I thought we would visit Wardour Street and finish the furnishing of our new home."

  Sarah rose at once. "Of course. Just let me fetch my bonnet and parasol." When she rejoined Peter a few minutes later, they took cordial leave of Lord and Lady Marcus, then went out to the waiting carriage.

  "Clearly we must come up with a plausible story to account for our hasty marriage," he said as they started off. "My father never inquired— preferring not to know, I presume —but Marcus and Quinn won't be easily put off, particularly as their own match was so unorthodox."

  "Can we not tell them the truth?" Sarah asked. Then, at Peter's frown, she hastened to add, "Not all of it, of course, but that I was abroad on my own at night, that you assisted me, and that Lady Mountheath came to hear of it and insisted upon our marriage."

  "Quinn will ask why you were abroad."

  "I can say that I was attempting to visit old friends of mine," she offered.

&n
bsp; He regarded her for a long moment. "And will you tell her more of these friends than you have told me thus far?"

  "It . . . it was merely an excuse," she explained, wondering how much he suspected of the truth. "I really don't . . . that is—"

  "You did mention those friends the night I caught you leaving the Llewellyns' house," he reminded her. "You implied there were others, besides the boy, Flute. Tell me, Sarah, was it one of them you were going to see last night?"

  "No! I—" Sarah realized she was trapped. If she confessed that no such people existed, she would be implicating William as her only accomplice. But if she did not, Peter might think . . . "There is no one else, Peter. You must believe me."

  "Must I? And what of the money you took the night before?"

  Because William's life was at stake, Sarah forced herself to meet Peter's eyes squarely. "I have no idea what money you mean."

  She caught a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes before he turned away from her. "I see. Ah, here we are." His tone changed abruptly. "Let's buy some furniture, shall we?"

  * * *

  "I'm glad you could make it, Noel," Luke, Lord Hardwyck, said as he ushered the chestnut-haired young man into his library that afternoon. "Marcus and I thought it best that all three former Saints put our heads together to decide how best to deal with this situation."

  "Your letter was rather cryptic," Noel Paxton replied, taking a seat in one of the deeply upholstered chairs arranged near the fireplace. "But it sounded urgent, so I thought it best to travel down from Derbyshire without delay."

  Luke nodded. "I didn't dare write anything plainer, lest the letter fall into the wrong hands, but it would seem that another Saint of Seven Dials has appeared. I presume you didn't nudge anyone in that direction, any more than Marcus did?"

  Noel shook his head.

  "I read the accounts in the news sheets you gave me last night," Marcus said. "If the stories are to be believed, this fellow is nearly as talented as you were yourself, Luke, stealing a pendant from Lady Beatrice's very neck. Did you speak with the lads on the street, as you'd planned?"