A creaking noise cut off her words. To her astonishment, an entire section of the shelves parted, swinging inward like a door. Her gaze shot to the Chief Magistrate, whose hand rested on the brass horse statue on the desk. He twisted it another quarter turn and the gap in the wall widened further.
"An ingenious design. Seen a few in my time," Birnie said by way of explanation.
Taking a breath, Marianne entered the hidden chamber. The space was dark, the air heavy. A light floral perfume tickled her nose, and she squinted in the gloom, making out vague shapes on the walls. A match rasped behind her. She blinked in the flaring brightness … and the air rushed from her lungs.
Pain, shock, longing. Feelings exploded from the locked box within her as she regarded the portraits of her daughter. For 'twas undeniably her girl—her own blond tresses and green eyes glowed in the swirling oils. Within the four gilded frames, her little girl, captured at various ages, beamed down at her.
"Primrose," she said in a broken whisper.
"My God." Sir Birnie's choked exclamation came from behind her.
Marianne walked over to the closest portrait—which showed Rosie at the age of five or so—and ran trembling fingers over the smooth ripples of paint. Her lashes grew damp. Her intuition—her maternal knowledge—had always been right.
Her babe was alive; her babe needed her.
She faced the Chief Magistrate. "You believe me now?" she said in suffocated tones. "Coyner has my daughter—has had her all these years. We must find him."
Shock edged Birnie's features. Clearing his throat, he said, "Dear lady, if I had known, had suspected that Coyner was capable of …" He broke off, shaking his head. "Rest assured I will do everything in my power to see your girl returned to you. You have Bow Street at your disposal. And I will personally offer a substantial reward for the capture of this nefarious criminal."
"We'll get the Thames River Police on this as well," Harteford said. "I'm acquainted with the Chief Magistrate at Wapping, and I'm sure he will want to join the effort, especially since one of his finest was shot by Coyner."
How she wished Ambrose was here at the moment. Marianne gave a tearful nod.
"In the meantime, we'll go through Coyner's personal effects and search for clues as to his whereabouts," Birnie said.
"Thank you both," Marianne whispered.
She went to the last painting in the line. Judging by Rosie's age in the portrait, it could not have been done long ago. Seeing the small gold placard affixed to the bottom edge of the frame, she leaned closer.
Her blood turned to ice as the words beneath her daughter's image became clear.
Lady Gerald Coyner.
THIRTY-NINE
Three days later, Ambrose arrived in London. It was past nine in the evening when he and his family entered the townhouse. They were met at the door by Lugo, who informed them that Marianne was currently out but would be returning soon. Seeing his family's yawns and drowsy faces, Ambrose sent them all off to bed. He lingered in the foyer with the manservant.
"I'm surprised you made it back so soon," Lugo remarked. "Is your injury healed?"
"Healed enough." In truth, Ambrose's arm throbbed like the devil after the jostling carriage ride, but he didn't give a damn about the pain. "How is she, Lugo?"
Lugo filled him in on the progress that had been made. Some of Ambrose's worry eased when he learned that Bow Street and the River Police were now involved in the search for Coyner. A question remained in his mind, however.
"There's something I wanted to ask you, Lugo."
"Sir?"
Ambrose eyed Marianne's loyal servant, who stood tall and staunch—a soldier no different from himself. He cleared his throat. "Why did you send me the note telling me that she had gone to Pendleton's?"
"I've known my lady for a while now," Lugo said. "I know when she is in over her head."
"And you trusted me to help her?"
"Took a bullet for her, didn't you?"
Ambrose grimaced. "Wasn't the first time, either." And not the last, if it came to that. He'd protect Marianne to his dying breath.
"Not my place to say, but she could do worse than you." A quicksilver smile flashed across the other man's ebony features. "Had a guest chamber set up for you. The one next to my lady's."
Heat crept over Ambrose's jaw. "Yes. Well."
He was saved from saying more by the sound of footsteps. He reached the door in several strides and yanked it open. Marianne's startled gaze met his.
"You're back," she said tremulously. Her eyes fell to the bandage bulging beneath his sleeve. "Oh, Ambrose—"
He pulled her inside. Pulled her close. Her hair smelled like jasmine and sunshine, and he hadn't realized until that instant how much he'd missed her. Everything about her—her unique scent, how soft she was, how perfectly she fit against him.
Letting out a quivery breath, she rested her head against his good shoulder, her arms circling his waist. For several long moments, they simply held onto one other. Out of the corner of his eye, Ambrose saw Lugo begin a quiet retreat.
Marianne lifted her head. "Lugo?"
The African paused. Turned. "Yes, my lady?"
"I wanted to say … thank you." She smiled at him. "For your wisdom, dear friend. For making the right choice when I was too blind and stubborn to do so."
"You have my gratitude as well, sir, for keeping your mistress safe." Ambrose gave the other man a wry grin. "'Tis a monumental task not many would have been up to."
Lugo scratched his head. Shifted his boots. Then, with a quick nod, he continued on his way.
"It felt like weeks being apart from you, Ambrose," Marianne said, tipping her head back to look at him. "There's so much I have to tell you. Where is your family?"
"They wanted to wait up for you, but they could scarcely keep their eyelids open so I sent them to bed." Ambrose pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Lugo provided a summary of the last three days, but I'd like to hear it from you."
"Let's talk upstairs." The husky timbre of her voice heated his insides.
He cleared his throat. "My room or yours?"
"I'll have my bath and come to you," she murmured. "Wait for me?"
Wait? Only forever.
Silently, he held out his hand, and fingers linked, they mounted the steps.
*****
A little while later, Marianne entered the adjoining suite where Lugo had conveniently placed Ambrose. Wryly, she reflected that for the African, this gesture was tantamount to giving Ambrose a hearty male slap on the back. Lugo approved of Ambrose—and the manservant did not approve of many. Men of a taciturn feather, she supposed.
Her humor evaporated at the sight of Ambrose sprawled on the divan before the fire. Despite his injured arm, he'd managed to get his clothes off and donned the black silk dressing robe she'd left out for him. His hair was damp and curling from the bath he'd taken as well.
At her approach, he rose immediately, and her heart fluttered as readily as a debutante's. Dash it all, he was so fine. She adored his lean toughness and his long, loose-limbed stride as he came toward her. She couldn't help but allow her gaze to linger at the V of his robe, which offered a tantalizing view of his chest. Beneath her peach dressing gown, her nipples budded at the memory of the exquisite scrape of that hair-roughened skin.
He cupped her jaw, and she rubbed her cheek against his callused palm, feeling the strength of his touch. The honesty and gentleness.
"You look tired," he murmured.
Honest to a fault, her policeman. Smiling, she said, "We haven't seen each other for days, and that's the best compliment you could come up with?"
"It was meant to be an observation, not a compliment." His eyes crinkled at the corners in the way she loved. "Vanity, thy name is woman. But if you must,"—with a swiftness that stole her breath, he yanked her against him—"here is your compliment."
"Oh," she sighed. His unmistakable tribute pressed against her belly like an iron bar; her thighs t
rembled. "I do believe that is the largest compliment I have ever received."
"I plan to flatter you all night long." His gaze reflected the intimate warmth of the candlelight, and his mouth crooked up at the edges. "But first we should talk."
She blew out a breath, her blood humming. "Yes, we should."
They went to the divan. He settled her on his lap, and in a precise manner, she reviewed the events of their time apart, including what she'd discovered in Coyner's secret antechamber. She told Ambrose that his contact, Willy Trout, had provided a list of Coyner's holdings: three of the properties were within two to three days' travel from London. Runners and River Police had been sent to investigate each estate, and Marianne expected to hear from the scouts on the morrow.
"You're certain that Coyner left London?" Ambrose said.
Marianne nodded. "If he were here in town, Gavin Hunt's men would have found him. Hunt runs half the stews, and Percy volunteered his services to us."
Ambrose's lips twitched. "The bigger they are, the harder they fall," he said. His arms tightened around her. "It seems we must wait to make our next move. How are you holding up, sweetheart?"
"Seeing those portraits of Primrose …" Marianne's throat clogged. Every night since, she'd dreamed of her daughter. Saw herself following the sound of Primrose's sweet laughter down a shadowy corridor, knives of panic twisting in her chest as the laughter turned to screams and all she could do was shout, I'm coming. Wait for me …
She blinked away the despair. "I can't fail her again, Ambrose. I can't."
"We're getting close to Coyner. We'll find him." With his thumbs, Ambrose wiped away her tears. "I won't stop until we do."
Shaking her head, she said, "Why are you so good to me?"
He touched her cheek. "You deserve to be happy."
His sincerity made her go softer than the center of Monsieur Arnauld's soufflés. Desires trembled inside her, yet so many obstacles stood in her path. First and foremost, she had to regain Primrose. She could not even think of her own selfish needs until her daughter was safe once more. God willing, that would be soon—but after that there was still the business with Bartholomew Black. The bargain she'd signed with her soul. Her skin crawled at the memory of the instruments of degradation he'd had mounted on his wall.
No matter what she desired, she couldn't escape the darkness of her past. She hadn't the freedom to offer fidelity or commitment. Her future remained uncertain, her ability to give anything beyond the moment curtailed. Yet she needed Ambrose, needed his strength and his warmth though she had no right to ask for any of those things.
So instead, she showed him with a kiss. Cupping his jaw, she poured all she could not say into that hungry meeting of lips. Her heart's yearnings broke free as his tongue stroked hers, his hand closing fiercely in her hair. The kiss turned ravaging as if he, too, sensed the tenuousness of this moment and wished to lay claim to it. Moaning, she shifted onto her knees, straddling him. She kissed his jaw, nipped the tough tendon of his neck, her hands wandering feverishly—
He jolted against her, an oath hissing between his lips.
"Lud, I'm sorry!" Her hand flew from his wounded arm where she'd unthinkingly gripped him. Dash it, how could she have been so careless? "Are you alright? Did I hurt you—"
"'Tis nothing. Carry on," he said.
Yet she could see the raggedness of his breath. Remorse flooded her, streams from past and present. She tried to wriggle off his lap, but his hand clamped on her waist.
"Let me go. I don't want to injure you further," she said in a suffocated voice.
"You're not injuring me. But you will if you don't stop moving about."
She stilled instantly. "I'm hurting you?"
"Absolutely." His eyes gleamed like molten amber. "My cock aches like the devil."
The truth of his words poked through her panic ... literally. She became aware of his manhood, rigid as a steel pike, thrusting against her lower belly; only thin silk separated her flesh and his. Lust shivered over her. Yet she could not quell her anxiety—or her guilt over how she'd treated him.
Ambrose deserved more. He deserved a woman who didn't have a wicked past and an uncertain future. He deserved a good woman who could love him with a heart that was pure and whole.
"I'm sure you are fatigued from your journey." She dropped her gaze. "You shouldn't overtax yourself when you are still healing."
His grip on her loosened. She took the opportunity to slide off him, getting to her feet. He watched her with hooded eyes.
"You're right," he said finally. "I am tired."
She fumbled as she tried to tie the belt of her robe. "Yes, well, it's hardly a surprise—"
"I'm tired of you hiding from me. Of seeing you ruled by the past. Why do you castigate yourself when you are the most courageous woman I know?"
Her vision shimmered. How did he always read her so well?
"Old habits die hard," she said, her throat constricting.
He studied her. "There's a cure for that."
"Really," she said skeptically.
"There is. But you'll have to listen to me for a change," he said. "Take my instruction."
Her brows rose. Instruction?
"Take off your robe," he said.
The calm command sent a delicious shiver over her. Everything female in her responded to the authority, the hunger in his eyes. When her steady, principled Mr. Kent shed his civilized skin, she could never resist him. Wistfully, she realized that she didn't want to. Her fingers slipped into the knot. Untying it. The silk slid off her shoulders and pooled at her feet.
"You're beautiful, selkie," he said, "all the way through. You know that, don't you?"
When he looked at her that way, she felt beautiful. Not just on the outside—but inside, where the ugliness festered. The shame, guilt. So much regret. Yet he had seen that part of her, and he still thought her deserving of happiness.
"Come to me," he said.
She chose to obey his order, her nerves sparking. Who knew it would be so exciting to let a man take charge? To trust him enough to submit to his command? With each step, her anxiety about the future abated as the warm approval in his eyes enveloped her. As she let herself sink into the certainty of the moment, the now that was everything. She stopped an inch away from his large, bare feet.
He untied the belt of his robe. The black silk parted, and she licked her lips at the sight of his cock. It was big, thick and heavy. So turgid that it curved upward, the broad crown brushing just below his navel. Her intimate muscles quivered as he gripped himself, his long fingers barely circling the girth.
"See how hard you make me? How badly I want to be inside you?"
His bluntness made her cheeks flame and her sex grow wetter.
"I want you inside me," she said.
His nostrils flared, and she saw his cock jerk in his fist. "Are you wet enough for me? I'm quite large at the moment, and I don't want to hurt your sweet little pussy."
Her breathing quickened as she realized what he was telling her to do. She loved this side of him—the challenging, wicked gleam that replaced his usual sensible gaze. With deliberate slowness, she brought her hand to her belly. She traced a path down the soft slope and saw how this made his cockhead bulge in his grasp. At her sex, she paused before running her middle finger through the damp curls.
"I'm wet," she said throatily, "drenched for you."
He watched her, his chest heaving, his hand stroking up and down his straining cock. "Just to be sure, I want you to touch yourself for me. Yes, sweetheart, just like that. You know just how to pet your pussy, don't you?"
She moaned as her fingers swirled against her own wet flesh, finding the lovely peak where her pleasure gathered.
"Have you done it before? Touched yourself thinking of me?"
"Yes," she sighed, "oh Ambrose, yes."
"Good. I want you to be pleasured, thinking of me." Removing a French letter from his robe, he sheathed himself slowly, letting h
er see the pleasure that awaited her. "When I frig myself, I think only of you—of how sweet and brave you are. How I die every time we fuck."
His words drove her over the edge. The orgasm hit her, her knees buckling. He caught her, pulling her astride him. Before she had time to regain her breath, she was spread across his hard thighs, his cockhead stretching her still quivering entrance.
Oh God. He was big. So hard.
"You're beautiful, inside and out." His eyes burned with a dark flame. "Say it, Marianne."
"I ... I'm beautiful."
"You're worthy of happiness," he said sternly.
Her throat worked. "I am. I know I am."
"And you're mine."
A wistful breath left her. "Yours … for tonight."
He regarded her intently. Small lines fanned from his eyes.
"I love you," he said.
Shock and joy ricocheted inside her. Before she could react, he gripped her hips. He thrust upward at the same time that he pulled her down with ruthless force. She screamed with pleasure at the bold impalement.
"Ride me. Move on my cock, sweetheart," he ground out.
She obeyed. Her pussy rippled as she adjusted to his thickness. To the bliss pounding in her heart. I love you. A gift he'd given to her freely, no strings attached. How she yearned for the freedom to reciprocate. Her chest throbbing with emotion, she rose on her knees, then sank fully down upon his prick. He groaned as she took every inch of him, showing with her body what she could not give in words.
"Somehow I knew you'd like being on top." Though his voice was ragged, his lips quirked. "Lean forward, love ... you'll like that even better."
Placing her palms on the divan's edge behind his shoulders, she rocked on him again, and she gasped as sparks showered through her sex. She repeated the motion, moaning as with each rise and fall his shaft rubbed against her pearl. His lips closed over a nipple, licking, sucking, and the sensations shot straight to her womb, adding to the clenching delight. She thought it couldn't get any better until suddenly his hips surged upward, his cock butting an exquisite spot.
Lights danced before her eyes. "Ambrose, my God—"
"Goddamn, you're gripping me like a vise," he groaned. "I can't last much longer. Come for me, sweetheart."
Her Protector's Pleasure Page 28