Her Protector's Pleasure

by Callaway, Grace

  "Yes," she said, her spine arching. "Oh, yes."

  "Good. Because I'll explode if I don't get inside you," he said.

  He unfastened his trousers—no time to attend to his boots. He shoved the wool past his hips, freeing his throbbing manhood. At the sight of his erection, her eyes widened.

  "Kent, wait. We have to be ... careful," she said in a trembling voice.

  Her meaning penetrated his lust. "I won't finish inside you," he said hoarsely. To test his willpower, he gripped the base of his cock, ran the bulging head along her slit. They both groaned as her sex slid against his, coating his cockhead with her juices. Her tight channel clamped the tip of his shaft, and sweat beaded on his brow. "I swear I'll pull out if it kills me." He thought it might.

  "There's an alternative. Here." Groping the surface of the table, she found a box and shoved the contents at him. "Put this on."

  Despite his state of high arousal, his brows shot up at the sight of the white tube with red strings dangling at one end. "Are you always this prepared, sweet?"

  "Madame gave it—oh never mind," she said. "You know how to use it?"

  In truth, he'd never worn a French letter before. He was no whoremonger, and the women he'd been with had employed other means of contraception. Consequently, he fumbled a little as he attempted to sheath his turgid shaft. The scent of roses mingled with his frustration.

  "It doesn't fit," he growled.

  "Mayhap it is not big enough for you." The sultry note of laughter in her voice didn't help matters. His cock swelled further. "Perhaps I can lend a hand?"

  Leveraging up on her elbows, she reached for his cock. The boldness of her action, the way her tongue touched her lips as she stretched the sheep-gut over his thick, veined rod caused him to spurt a little. The lubrication helped to ease the French letter into place. By the time she tightened the red strings, her cheeks were rosy.

  "You're ready," she whispered.

  Was he. Kissing into her open mouth, he guided her onto her back. He positioned his cock at her entrance and pressed forward. Despite her dampness, her intimate muscles resisted him. Her passage was small, remarkably snug. He went slow, not wanting to hurt her.

  "Alright?" he rasped, holding himself in check as fire enveloped the head of his cock.

  Her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. "I think so. Just go slow …"

  Sweat prickled his forehead as he eased forward another inch. Devil and damn, it was like stepping into an inferno, flames engulfing his shaft, the heat spreading to his balls, his groin, his entire self. Gritting his teeth, he pushed a little further, and just when he thought he might die from the excruciating torture, her passage gave way. Moans left them both as he suddenly slid all the way home.

  "Bloody hell, that's good," he breathed. He drew a stray lock from her cheek. "Sweetheart?"

  Her lashes swept back to reveal eyes more vivid than spring. "Yes. Oh, Ambrose, yes."

  He needed no further urging. He began to move, withdrawing and returning in slow strokes, watching her face the whole while. He wanted to see her pleasure, to know everything about her. As he made love to her, he stored away the signs of her desire: the flush sweeping over her bobbing breasts, the graceful arch of her neck as she met his thrusts. When her legs circled his hips, however, his control wavered. The dark need to possess her swept over him. He plunged with greater force, harder, deeper, wanting everything she had.

  "Mmm, yes. Oh Ambrose …"

  Hearing his name, the wobble in her voice, turned something loose inside him. He thrust to the hilt, embedding himself so fully that her nest feathered his stones. "Like that, do you?" he growled. "Hard and deep? Will you come with my cock inside you?"

  "I'm almost there," she gasped. "Make me come, please."

  Groaning, he shoved in and out of her lush, tight hole. His thumb found her pearl, diddled it in time with his thrusts, and she went mad, thrashing beneath him. Faster and faster he rubbed her, fucking her harder and harder. Just when the heat threatened to consume him, she went rigid, her back bowing off the table. He covered her mouth, swallowing her scream and feeding her his own guttural shout as her pussy squeezed him. Hard contractions that demanded his seed, that made him shoot hotly over and again in a release that seemed to have no end.

  He didn't know how much time had passed before he had the strength to rise on his elbows. Breathing heavily, he looked upon the face of his lover. Her hair lay in tangled skeins over the table; her lips were red and swollen from his kisses. Her eyes glowed with satisfaction and wonder, an expression he'd never seen from her before. His chest puffed with pride as did—astonishingly—his cock. Her gaze widened for he'd not yet parted from her.

  He twisted his hips gently, and a purr escaped from her lips. He brushed his knuckles against her silken jaw. In that moment, with their bodies tucked so perfectly together, it didn't matter that he was a policeman and she a baroness, and they were entangled in an affair that could lead nowhere.

  "Trust me, Marianne?" he said, giving a lazy thrust.

  Her gaze grew dazed, a peachy flush spreading over her skin.

  "I'll … I'll think about it," she whispered.

  He told himself not to push his luck. He'd satisfy himself with that answer for the time being. Because in that moment, there was a wealth of satisfaction to be had, and he set about demonstrating that—for these stolen moments at least—he was the man to give it to her.

  TWENTY

  "Time to get home to the missus. You leaving soon, Mr. Kent?"

  Ambrose looked up from the report he was writing. John Oldman—known universally as Johnno—had poked his head through the doorway of Ambrose's cramped office at Wapping Street headquarters. One of the four of Ambrose's crew, the waterman had a cap crammed atop his curly auburn hair and a grin on his freckled face.

  "Be a while for me yet, Johnno. Sir Dalrymple wants this report on his desk by morning," Ambrose said.

  "Overstuffed goat's still breathing down your neck, eh?" Johnno said with sympathy.

  To say the least. Since Ambrose's return, Dalrymple's behavior had grown increasingly malicious. A big case that Ambrose's team should have handled had been given to another Principle Surveyor. In lieu of chasing down criminals, Ambrose had been assigned to making spurious revisions to reports. But two wrongs did not make a right; Ambrose was not one to encourage insubordination.

  "Enjoy your evening, Johnno," he said simply.

  "Plan to. Lizzie's ma has the bairns for the night, so we've the house to ourselves." Winking, the waterman hitched his satchel higher onto his shoulder. "If you got yourself a wife, sir, you'd have a reason to go home."

  Not so long ago Kent would have agreed. His vision of contentment had involved a cozy cottage and his better half waiting for him inside with a hot meal and a smile. What spurred him to finish up his work now, however, was a burning impatience to investigate a solicitor's murder. All so he could protect the enigmatic, aristocratic woman whom he desired beyond all reason ... and who refused to trust him.

  After their scorching encounter at the dressmaker's—he still couldn't believe that he'd made love to her in a shop, for God's sake—he'd escorted Marianne home. During the carriage ride, he'd attempted to learn more about her troubles. He'd asked point-blank if she was in danger: did she know of anyone who might try to frame her for the solicitor's murder? Tight-lipped, she'd given him nothing. When he'd persevered, she'd said sharply, "Don't push me, Ambrose."

  At the townhouse, she hadn't invited him in.

  Though he'd been frustrated, he'd understood her well enough to know that she needed time and space to come to a decision about him. Given the tenuous truce between them, he'd decided not to push her further. In the meanwhile, however, he was not a man to sit idly upon his thumbs. He'd already learned the names of Leach's clerks and the places most likely to find them. Tonight, he'd begin his own inquiry.

  "Stop bragging, Johnno, else I'll find a reason to keep you here," Kent said mildly.
>
  "Good night to you, then, sir." Tipping his cap, the waterman strode off, whistling.

  Ambrose finished up his accounting of his crew's activities and placed the ledger atop the neat pile on his desk. He glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight in the evening: time to seek the answers to his questions. Pulling on his greatcoat, he departed the office and hailed a ride from one of the boat men. The craft glided westward toward the City, the stars glittering pinpricks in the velvet sky. With the cool night air against his face and the dark water running beneath him, Ambrose let his thoughts unfurl.

  Something was taken from me, Marianne had said. I'm owed, Kent. And I want what's mine.

  In the past two days, Ambrose had dug up information on Reginald Leach; what he'd discovered reinforced his belief that the solicitor had been blackmailing Marianne. Leach had made his name on discretion and flexible ethics: if you had enough money and needed a messy situation taken care of, Leach was your man. Bastard children, duels gone wrong, murders done in a fit of drink or rage … for the right price, Leach could sweep anything under a carpet of legal protection.

  Ambrose wouldn't put it past the unscrupulous bastard to hold a woman ransom with some ill-begotten piece of knowledge. Nor did he think it surprising that Leach had wound up dead. Marianne wasn't the only one Leach might have been extorting. The solicitor had collected a great deal of dirt on London's most powerful men—any of whom might be willing to kill to keep a secret silent. What information had Leach held over Marianne?

  As the boat slipped beneath London Bridge, Ambrose puzzled over the coincidence which bothered him most. Why had the client who'd hired Bow Street to watch Marianne—who'd suspected her of being an anarchist—used Leach as the intermediary? Who was this supposed lord of the realm, and why had he wanted Marianne monitored?

  Even Coyner had admitted that there was no solid proof of Marianne's involvement in an anarchist group. The evidence against her was purely circumstantial. Though her behavior could admittedly be outrageous, Ambrose was beginning to see it was by design: it wasn't anarchy she was after, but something specific. Something precious had been taken from her; why else her desperate actions, the pain in her eyes?

  More importantly, why had this anonymous client targeted her? Ambrose considered multiple hypotheses. In the best case scenario, the client had simply been mistaken, erroneously vilifying Marianne based on circumstantial evidence. Another possibility: there had been no client at all, and all of it had been Leach's doing. Perhaps Leach had known that Marianne was after him. Perhaps he'd taken the precautionary measure of having her monitored, of blackening her name. If Leach had been responsible, then his death would have nullified any threat to Marianne.

  Ambrose wasn't taking any chances. Logic circled him back to the dead solicitor. He'd start his investigation by finding out everything he could about Reginald Leach and Leach's clientele. If he followed all the threads, he was certain one would lead him to Marianne's secret.

  The boat bumped against the dock. Tipping the driver, Ambrose took the stairs up to the road. He headed north until he hit Fleet Street. Halfway down a smoke-clogged alley, he found an entrance with the emblem of three crowns painted over the doorway. Inside, the tavern was a warren of narrow corridors and cozy nooks, and Ambrose had to duck his head more than once to avoid the low-hanging beams. The smell of hops and savory pub cooking filled the air.

  Scanning the half-filled room, Ambrose approached the bar.

  "What's your fancy, sir?" the barkeep asked.

  "I'm looking for someone," Ambrose said, placing a coin on the counter. "Tom Milford. Used to work for a solicitor named Leach."

  The barkeep jerked his head toward a table in a secluded corner. "Carrot-pated cove sittin' alone. The one wot looks like 'e lost 'is mother, though I reckon it can't be o'er that skinflint Leach. No loss to the world, that one." The barkeep snorted. "Reckon it's the loss o' pay wot 'as Tom down—'e's been nursin' the same ale all night."

  "I'll take two of the same," Ambrose said.

  As he fished for another coin, he recalled with a pang the books he'd sold yesterday. His legacy from his father now sat in the dusty corner of a pawnbroker's shop near Drury Lane. He'd sent the bulk of the money to Emma. The funds would keep his family in the cottage until month's end, when Ambrose could make the trip to Chudleigh Crest. He'd look into other housing options in the village and give Emma some much-deserved respite as well.

  The barkeep returned with the drinks. Taking the two foaming tankards, Ambrose crossed over to Leach's clerk. "Mr. Milford?"

  A bloodshot gaze veered upward. Though Tom Milford looked no more than five-and-twenty, he had dark circles under his eyes and lines of worry etched around his mouth.

  "Who's asking?" Milford said.

  "Ambrose Kent. I work for the Thames River Police. Would you mind if I join you?" Ambrose held up the two tankards.

  Either Milford was desperate for the drink or for relief from his own company because he shrugged. "Suit yourself, Mr. Kent."

  Ambrose sat and pushed one of the drinks across the table.

  "Hard day?" he said. In questioning witnesses, he'd found it effective to first establish rapport. People spoke more freely and truthfully with those they liked and trusted.

  "I'll say." Milford took a long gulp of his new drink; foam formed a moustache above his upper lip. "God Almighty, I needed that. I assume you're here about Mr. Leach? I've already told the constables everything I know."

  From what Ambrose had heard, Milford's testimony had amounted to little. Which was why he wanted to speak to the clerk on his own.

  "Sometimes new information comes up after a few nights' rest. I imagine it was a shock to learn of your employer's passing," Ambrose said.

  "Shock ain't the half of it. Try bloody despair." Milford took another swig of his drink, his tone morose. "For three years of my life, I slaved for that penny-pinching codger. Now I've nothing to show for it—neither money nor the qualifications to strike out on my own. I'm sunk."

  "Surely it can't be as bad as all that."

  "It's worse. Got a girl waiting on me." The apprentice slanted Ambrose a glum look. "With my current prospects, she ain't likely to wait much longer."

  Ambrose felt a spark of empathy; he knew that situation all too well. His own ex-fiancée hadn't been the sort to wait either.

  "Things have a way of working out as they should," he said.

  He was surprised by how much he meant it. Despite the frustration of his dealings with Marianne, the alternative of never meeting her struck a hollow chord in his chest. Though it made him feel somehow disloyal to admit it, he hadn't experienced feelings half as intense when Jane had broken things off—and he'd been with her for three years.

  "Sometimes," he added, "a disappointment can turn out to be an opportunity."

  "When one door closes, eh? You sound like my ma." Milford sent him a wry smile. "Now what was it you wanted to know, Mr. Kent?"

  "Did Leach have any enemies? Anyone who wished him harm?"

  Milford rolled his eyes. "Does a dog have fleas? Don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but Reginald Leach was a bastard through and through, and the people who hired him on weren't much better. But Leach kept the meat of his cases to himself and assigned us clerks the banal tasks. Instead of teaching us the practice of the law, he had us making his tea and tidying up after him like sodding servants. Only, like idiots, we worked for free."

  "Did you ever witness any altercations in the office? Incensed clients, that sort of thing?"

  "Every day raised voices came from Leach's office." Milford's forehead furrowed. "Come to think of it, there was that row just last week. Slipped my mind until you asked. Aye, bloody ripper that one was."

  Ambrose's instincts perked. "What and whom did the row involve?"

  "Can't say what it was over exactly. But they were shouting something fierce. 'Twas none other than the Earl of Pendleton who came storming out of Leach's office."

  Ambr
ose gripped his tankard. Pendleton was a member of the House of Lords, a wealthy peer. Could he be the mystery client who'd retained Bow Street's services via Leach?

  "Did you catch any of the conversation between the earl and your employer?"

  Milford shook his head. "Leach's office has thick walls. But before he left, Lord Pendleton said something along the lines of ... If I go down, I'll find a way to take you with me." The clerk's eyes widened. "Good God, you don't think he meant it literally?"

  Ambrose had no idea. But he'd definitely be looking into Pendleton. "Any other disgruntled clients stick out in your mind?"

  "Certainly none as disgruntled as the earl," Milford said, "though you didn't hear it—or any of this—from me."

  Ambrose rose and offered his hand. "You've been very helpful, Mr. Milford. Thank you."

  The clerk raised his tankard in a mock salute. "Consider it my departing contribution to the legal profession."

  "You never know what's around the corner, Mr. Milford. Another apprenticeship or another career ... or another young lady." With a faint smile, Ambrose said, "Take it from me, lad: life is full of surprises."

  TWENTY-ONE

  Lady Auberville's ball was one of the annual crushes of the Season, and this year's fete was proving no exception. Descending the steps to the massive ballroom, Marianne surveyed the glittering scene. Lady Auberville had cleverly taken inspiration from her own backyard: the hostess had done up the place so that it flowed seamlessly into the very English garden just beyond the terrace doors. Instead of the usual towering palms, pots of lavender and trained ivy formed hedges around the dance floor, and blooming lily-of-the valley perfumed the air.

  Charming as the setting was, Marianne's attention turned immediately to locating her targets. She found Ashcroft first. The viscount stood next to buffet tables overflowing with picnic foods. As usual, he was surrounded by a circle of females—married ladies and widows mostly—who no doubt wished to end the night in his bed. Sandy-haired, handsome, and possessed of dissolute charm, Ashcroft had a reputation as a gifted lover.