by Elisa Braden
Jonas ran a hand over his neck then tucked the sketch away. “She doesn’t. I’ve already asked her.”
“Ah, well. If she don’t recall ’im, then he weren’t here.”
Nodding, Jonas thanked the man and went back to the table where his tankard sat, half-empty. He drained it and picked up his hat.
What a devil of a day. After finding Lady Wallingham’s stray slipper in St. Cuthbert’s Cave, he and Dunston had ridden back to Grimsgate, only to discover that Elly Allen had disappeared. No one knew where the maid had gone—not the half-Prussian housekeeper, not the disgruntled Nash, not any of the other maids.
Further, no one recognized Jonas’s sketch of the man she had described as the thief. Probably because he was a figment of her imagination. But, then, why had the slipper been where she’d claimed the trunk was hidden?
Bloody useless, all of it. And, after two nights fighting lust-fueled dreams about midnight hair and moonlight eyes, the exhaustion wasn’t helping.
He turned toward the inn’s door.
And froze.
Hardened.
His hand clenched the back of a chair.
God, was he imagining her? He blinked. No. She was there. Wearing an evening gown of layered red silk with tiny sleeves and no gloves. Standing in a humble country inn when she should be inside the castle walls, particularly as the sun neared setting.
Ice-green slowly swept the dim interior, catching on the barmaid before finding him. For a moment, he wished he’d taken time to change his clothes, perhaps shave and wash after the long day of riding to the middle of nowhere.
Her eyes flitted between him and the barmaid. Then, that sweet, stubborn chin elevated, and she moved toward him. Graceful. Every step, every breath this woman took was graceful.
He clenched his teeth. Gripped the chair until the grain of the wood impressed his palm.
She came to stand before him, her expression smoother than glass, cooler than the moon. Her scent was roses and the threat of rain. She said nothing, simply examining him as her brother might examine a leaf. Her breathing was a bit fast, but he suspected that was due to her walk into the village.
With effort, he loosened his grip on the chair, folded his coat over his arm, and donned his hat. Then, he tugged the brim and pasted on a grin. “Miss Gray.” More effort, and he ordered his legs to move. They carried him past her and out the inn’s door.
What was she doing there? It was no fit place for—
Bugger all, he needed to stop wondering. She was not his and never would be. Her whereabouts were none of his damned business.
“Mr. Hawthorn.”
The soft call nearly stopped him. But he forced himself to keep going. Across the inn’s yard. Down the rutted lane. Out of the tiny village. Past fields filled with ripening grain and wildflowers.
By the time she caught up with him, wind was moaning off the water and clouds had darkened the sky to the color of plums.
“M—Mr. Hawthorn!”
A drop splashed on his hand, cool and ominous. Without stopping or glancing her direction, he warned, “Best return to the castle, Miss Gray. Storm is coming. Shame for that gown to be ruined.”
“I must speak with you.”
He kept his eyes forward, his strides long. “Then, speak.”
She stopped. He kept going.
A moment later, something soft hit his hat, knocking the thing off his head. He halted. Turned. Looked at her, standing in the middle of the road, cheeks pink, soft breasts heaving on rough breaths. Then, he glanced at the ground near his boots.
A slipper. Silver satin with red tassels on the toe, lying in a dusty rut.
“What in bloody hell are you doing?” He glowered at her, then at the shoe she’d obviously thrown at him. When had the haughty Miss Gray begun throwing things at men? For that matter, when had she begun seeking him out for conversation? As he recalled, she preferred to be the one walking away.
“I need to speak with you.”
“I got that bit.” He bent to pick up her shoe. The sole was leather but thin and light. It was a wonder she hadn’t injured herself on a sharp rock. He crossed the distance between them with purposeful strides. With each step, her breathing quickened and her shoulders stiffened. Inches away, he offered her the shoe and a warning. “Throw this at me again, and you’ll be walking back to the castle without it.”
Her delicate jaw flexed. “You must help me … reapply it.”
He tilted his head and wondered at the strange creature before him. She didn’t appear sotted. A bit more flushed than usual, certainly, but not mad or confused. “Must I? Perhaps I missed some rule of etiquette, Miss Gray. I hadn’t heard the one about aiding women who accost you with slippers.”
“It slipped from my hand.”
“It should have been on your foot.”
“It required adjusting.”
“And happened to fly in my direction.”
“Do you intend to help me?”
“No.”
A little crinkle appeared between dark brows. “Why not?”
“You struck me with your shoe.”
“You refused to stop.”
He extended the slipper. “Take it. Put it back on.”
Rosebud lips tightened. “You must help. It is the gentlemanly thing to do.”
He lowered his head until his eyes were level with hers. “Ah, but then, I am not a gentleman, Miss Gray.”
“Nevertheless, I insist.”
“Do you, now?”
“It is a lovely day, don’t you agree?”
He glanced to the sky, which had begun sending down fat raindrops to plop and splash onto dry dirt. Then he watched her shiver as a seaborne gust chilled her bare arms.
“I have neglected to inquire about your horse,” she said.
“My horse.”
“Yes.”
She must be sotted. True, he saw no signs of it. Her eyes were clear, her balance fine, her words soft and crisp. Her aim certainly could not be faulted. But there was no other explanation. The woman was in her cups.
“The only horse I have is hired, and he’s cross with me for pushing him too hard today. As for the weather, we are about to be drenched, Miss Gray.” He spoke slowly through gritted teeth, for she’d pushed him to the edge of his patience. “So, for the last bloody time, take your shoe and put it back on.”
The flush in her cheeks abruptly faded to white.
Oh, God. Was she going to be sick?
Ready to put distance between himself and the trajectory of any violent upheavals, he reached for her hand, intending to place the slipper back in her possession.
Her reaction was violent, but she didn’t cast up her accounts. Rather, she reeled backward before his fingers did more than brush her skin. Her lips went tight, her breathing labored. The woman whose grace was innate stumbled and caught herself.
He frowned. Was this the drink? She’d reacted similarly once before, though he’d been feverish and half-dead at the time. He’d reached for her, the only beautiful thing in a world of pain, and she’d backed away as though he’d repulsed her.
Now, he watched her gather her composure, her hands flattening over her abdomen.
Ah, yes. Rebelling stomach. Chancy balance. Sudden confusion. Her reactions were simply the drink. They must be. Perhaps she’d gone off kilter and stepped on a pebble.
Or perhaps she still felt repulsed by a man she considered beneath her.
His mouth twisted with a new understanding that felt a year old. “Good enough to kneel at your feet. Not good enough to touch you, eh?” He tossed the slipper across the few feet between them, surprised when she caught it easily. “Go back to the castle, princess. You’ve no business out here where the peasants roam.”
He turned and left her there, pale and panting. She’d feel better after she cast up her accounts. He’d inform Holstoke about her condition when he arrived at Grimsgate. She would be fine. It was not as though she could miss the castle. The ma
ssive thing loomed over the countryside like a gargoyle.
He’d gone perhaps twenty paces when idiocy began to take hold. The rain was coming in earnest now. She’d be soaked. She’d catch a chill.
He should leave her. She’d found her own way into the village, and she could find her own way back. He’d be a fool to stop now.
But his idiocy slowed him down. It allowed her to catch up.
She spoke, close behind him, out of breath. “P-please, Mr. Hawthorn. Please. Wait.”
He stopped, cursing his own stupidity.
She moved in front of him, opaque and exquisite. Her skin glistened with rainwater. Her lips trembled. “I—I have a proposition.”
A hundred devilish things burned through his mind, all of which he’d dreamt in scorching detail over the past year. Ruthlessly, he forced them back. She didn’t want him. And he didn’t want to be tangled up with a Snow Queen.
How many times did he have to remind himself?
“Let me guess,” he said with a half-grin. “You lost a bauble.”
“No.”
“Hmm. You wish to hire me to—”
“I don’t wish to hire you.”
He folded his arms, wondering what the tipsy little woman imagined she wanted. “What is it you would have from me, then? Apart from going to my knees, of course.”
She swallowed. Her color had returned. “Phineas said I should simply make my offer. Other advice has not proven effective. So I am left with no other choice. You must brace yourself, Mr. Hawthorn.”
This made him smile. By God, she was amusing when she was drunk. “Fully braced, Miss Gray.”
“I wish for you to … to become my …”
He waited. She was panting again. “Your?” he prompted.
“Husband.”
Of all the things he’d anticipated—investigator, guard, companion for tea, pony—husband wasn’t anywhere near the list. She was clearly intoxicated, so he didn’t take her seriously, of course. But his cock did. It turned to steel inside a single heartbeat.
Damned unthinking thing. All it took was the suggestion that she might be his, and he was throbbing for her. He cursed the day he’d walked into Holstoke House. She was nothing but torment. Beauty and torment.
His anger rose, bitter and hot. What was she doing? Was this a lark? She’d never seemed the sort, but nobs did strange things when boredom took hold.
“Did you hear me?”
“Aye, I heard you well enough.”
“And what is your answer?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Confusion crinkled her brow. “How could it not?”
“I could promise to carry you to Hades on my shoulders, and you wouldn’t remember a damned word.”
She appeared to take offense. “I have an excellent memory.”
“I’m certain you do. When you’re sober.”
Startled, she took a moment to answer. “I’ve had nothing more intoxicating than peach tarts, I assure you.”
“Right. That’s why you’re standing in the middle of a rainstorm in your evening gown and tasseled slippers, proposing marriage to a Bow Street runner you ordinarily wouldn’t grant so much as a smile.”
“I am not in my cups, Mr. Hawthorn. I am asking you to marry me.”
“Take my advice, Miss Gray. Avoid propositioning men of my sort.” He leaned closer and grinned. “Never know when we might take you at your word and … well, take you.”
Her blush deepened to full-bloomed rose. Her eyes dropped to his mouth. Then, her entire body shivered.
His grin faded to a frown. Blast, rain was truly pouring, and she was truly drenched. The woman needed looking after. Where was her overprotective brother, anyway? Against his better judgment, he unfolded his coat and offered it to her.
She took the heavy thing as though she’d never seen wool before. Then, fumbling as the liquor obviously affected her fingers, she struggled to drape it over her shoulders.
“Here,” he said impatiently, “let me.” He grasped his own lapels and resettled the wool around her until the garment swallowed her whole.
She went utterly still. Her eyes fixed upon his mouth. Or was it his chin? He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that she smelled like roses and rain. And she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Drunk.
Drowned.
Devastating.
God, he was an idiot.
“I intend to kiss you now, Mr. Hawthorn.” The statement barely registered, so matter-of-factly was it spoken.
He chuckled. “Of course you do.”
“Hold still, if you please.”
“Certainly. Are there two of me?”
“No,” she whispered. “There is only one of you, Jonas Bartholomew Hawthorn. Only one.” And, with that, she rose up on her toes.
Craned her neck.
And tilted her head to align their mouths.
Even as he felt her breath—peach-scented and sweet—against his lips, he didn’t believe it.
No, that took contact. The brush of a rosebud mouth. Trembling.
The sensation of soft woman leaning into his body. Aching.
And the realization that nothing had ever touched him before the untouchable Hannah Gray pressed her lips to his.
She kept her eyes closed.
She didn’t smell of wine or brandy or liquor of any sort.
Tiny tremors shuddered through her. Then, soft hands fluttered upward like fledgling butterflies, landing upon his chest. He felt her warmth through his shirt. Sensed his coat slipping from one of her shoulders.
Couldn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
Only wanted this—moonlight touching his mouth.
“M-Mr. Hawthorn?” Thick, dark lashes remained pressed to her cheeks, almost as if she were afraid to look at him. “Am I doing this properly?”
He would have pushed her away—should have, by all rights—if he’d tasted the drunkenness he’d suspected. If his senses hadn’t exploded at the first tingling contact. If she hadn’t asked him her question with such uncertainty.
Instead, he answered, “No, love. Allow me.”
Then, in one swift motion, he slid his arms around her and took her mouth with his. She jolted against him, but she didn’t withdraw. And, dear God, her mouth was soft. Sweet. Her breasts flattened against him. His arms cinched tighter, and she moaned in her throat.
Fire pulsed through his veins, demanding he go deeper. Show her what kissing really was. Obeying the order, he slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, which had gone still beneath his. But she did not withdraw. She didn’t push him away. She stayed within his arms.
Then, he felt her move. First, her lips trembled again, responding to the slow glide of his tongue. Opened for him.
God, yes. He took her surrender. Invaded and made her his. Tasted sweet peaches and hot woman. Another moan. Yes. He pulled her tighter against him, feeling her body soften, discovering every flare and curve and exquisite line of the woman who’d been made for his pleasure.
Soon, their mouths were fused and grinding, her moans softer and throatier, her hands clinging and climbing to circle his neck. Slender hips turned demanding, writhing against his thighs and cock as her tongue tentatively stroked his.
Firing hotter than a forge, his arousal was both agony and force. His hands gripped, wanting contact with her skin. He tore away wool. Felt wet layers of silk. Groaned into her mouth. Clutched at her slender thigh to draw it up along his hip. Needed. God, he needed her.
Her mouth and her skin and her hands upon his neck. He needed more.
More and more and more.
Rain soaked them both. He didn’t care. Loved the wet of her skin, the panting breaths between them, the surprising strength of her fingers digging into his muscles. She fisted his shirt, forced her lips and her hips tighter against his, tangled his tongue and melted into his skin.
His head spun. He needed air, but he needed her more. Couldn’t relinquish his ho
ld on her or she might turn back into ice.
How could this be his Snow Queen? Demanding his mouth and seeking his cock like a flower hungry for sun. Hard nipples and soft, wet breasts. Heat and heat and heat. God, there was nothing cold about this woman. Her fire burned him alive.
The force between them was too strong. In his dreams, she’d been coolly sensual, challenging him to find the right tricks to please her. In reality, she was shaking with desire, her innocence obvious.
Bloody hell, was he the first man to kiss her? The thought started at the base of his spine, winnowing upward, curling and finally detonating inside his head.
He was. She’d never kissed another man. Only him.
His cock swelled and hardened until he wondered if he might lose control of himself. Lift her wet skirts and take her virginity in the middle of a muddy road.
Virgin. Yes. It shouldn’t matter, but it did. Just like her heat mattered. The desperate, needy moans in her throat and the desperate, needy grasp of her fingers along his jaw.
He needed to see her. Needed to see those moonlight eyes blazing for him alone.
It was the only thing with the power to pull him away.
Needed to see those eyes. Lighting for him. Melting for him. Only him.
She kept them closed, her lips swollen and panting with little, hitching gasps of desire. Rain slicked her creamy skin. Wetted her raven hair.
“Open your eyes, love,” he said, scarcely recognizing his own voice. “Open for me.”
Her lashes fluttered. Her hands slid down his shoulders to his chest. For long moments, she didn’t move, didn’t lift her eyes. Simply breathed with him. Clung to him.
“Hannah.”
She squeezed her eyes closed. Her shoulders shook. Her mouth moved in an airless repetition. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, but it looked like, “Must do this. Must do this.”
Finally, those extraordinary eyes opened. Lifted.
And whatever she saw in his face made all the blood drain from hers. Dark centers that had been swollen with arousal shrank to pinpoints. Her body went still as stone, though limp enough that he had to tighten his grip to hold her upright.