“Patrick,” she whispered. “I’m here. I found some keys.” She shoved the first into the lock. It did nothing. She tried the second key, the third. Finally, the door clicked noisily and it swung open beneath her hands.
With a cry of relief, she raced into the room and threw herself into Patrick’s arms. He gripped her tightly, lifting her from the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” she gushed, her voice muffled against his neck. “I’m so sorry for doubting you. For thinking you capable of such terrible things. I’m so sorry for all of it.”
He squeezed her tightly. “How could I blame you? After all you’ve been though? After your brother…”
“You’re not Robert. I know you would never—”
He silenced her frantic apologies with his lips over hers. Catherine’s body flooded with heat. For a moment, they were no longer here in this filthy underground grotto. For a moment, there were no men with guns, no underworld leaders hunting them in the night. For a fleeting moment, all that mattered was that they were together.
All too quickly, he pulled away. The real world came crashing back. She gripped his face in her hands. “Did they hurt you? I saw blood in the warehouse…”
Patrick shook his head. “No. No, I’m all right.” He brought a finger to a darkened patch on the side of his head. “A small cut. Nothing more.”
Catherine pressed her lips gently to the side of his head.
Edmund raced down the passage and charged into the room. He pulled Patrick into a tight embrace. “Next time, bloody well listen to me when I tell you not to do these things alone.”
Patrick grinned. “You’re right, Featherstone. Point taken.”
“It’s Groves,” said Catherine suddenly.
Patrick’s eyes flashed. “What?”
“Groves, your butler. He threatened us when we went to the townhouse looking for you. He brought us here at gunpoint.”
Patrick shook his head in disbelief. “Where is he?”
Catherine managed a small smile. “Edmund took care of him with his rather impressive boxing moves. He’s in the room closest to the staircase.”
They hurried down the passage, pushing open the door of the room in which Edmund had dragged the butler.
Empty. Catherine heard Edmund curse under his breath.
“I don’t understand,” he hissed. “How could he have—”
“The Ghost,” Catherine murmured. Her words hung in the silence.
“It doesn’t matter,” Patrick said suddenly, pulling his eyes from the empty room. “We’ll find him. Right now, we’ve got to get the hell out of this place.”
* * *
Patrick rode the cab back to the Ramshay townhouse, Catherine’s hand firmly clasped in both of his. Edmund sat opposite, rambling through a detailed retelling of their adventures at the dock yards.
Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off Catherine. Had timid, self-doubting Catherine Barnet truly broken into an abandoned warehouse in search of him? Was he really worth so much to her? The thought made warmth spread from his chest through his entire body.
He smiled, giving her hand a tight squeeze. “I cannot thank you both enough.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Groves. I can’t believe it. He’s been in my family’s service for more than twenty years.”
The betrayal stung. Left a bitter taste in his throat. “I want to keep this quiet from the rest of the household,” he told Edmund and Catherine. “I hate to think what this knowledge will do to them.” He glanced at the window at the rows of neat houses. “I’ll tell them Groves has taken ill perhaps.”
“At least we know who we’re looking for now,” said Edmund. “At least this bastard has a name and a face.”
The thought was a vaguely settling one, even if it was a name and face far too close to home.
He traced his thumb over Catherine’s pearly fingernail. “I managed to look through that office briefly,” he told them. “Before I was found and locked up again. I found something on the desk that looked like a ledger of some sort.” He reached into his pocket to produce the scrap of paper. “I got away with this.”
Edmund took it from his outstretched hand and peered at it.
“Those strings of numbers,” said Patrick. “Any idea what they might refer to?”
“Coordinates?” Edmund suggested.
“It’s possible. But coordinates for what?”
“Perhaps they’re the locations of the deliveries. The syndicate must be delivering contraband to many other places beside the Red Queen.”
Patrick rubbed his chin in thought. It was certainly a possibility. He covered his mouth hurriedly, stifling a sudden yawn. He could barely remember the last time he’d slept.
He brought his hand to Catherine’s wrist and ran a finger gently over her skin.
Keeping his hands off her was proving near impossible. Even with Edmund watching them like a hawk.
Catherine caught his yawn. “We’ll find out what these numbers are,” she assured him. “But you need to go home and rest first. Sleep.”
“As do we,” Edmund reminded her. “Mother will never forgive me if word gets back to her I’ve had you running about the city all night.”
The first hints of dawn were coloring the sky when the cab pulled up outside the townhouse. “Come inside,” Patrick told them. He had no intention of letting Catherine leave just yet. “Have a little tea.” He grinned at Edmund. “Or something stronger if you wish.”
With Edmund and Catherine waiting in the parlor, Patrick hurried upstairs to change out of the grimy clothes he had been wearing for the past two days. What a relief it was to be back in his own home, what a relief to pull a clean shirt over his head, a relief to sponge away the horrors of this ordeal at the wash stand. There had been several times in the past days he had been certain he was about to die.
How were they going to catch Groves and the other men? How was he to put an end to all this? He had no answers. But right now, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Catherine had seen him for who he truly was. Seen that he would never have involved himself in this world on his own accord.
As he made his way back to the parlor, he found her waiting for him in the entrance hall.
“I just wanted a moment with you to myself,” she breathed, pulling him close and nestling her lips against his neck. “I was so afraid I would never see you again.”
The tenderness in her voice made his chest lurch.
I could listen to that voice all day…
“You ought to be in bed,” she said.
“I’m quite all right, Catherine,” he assured her gently. “I don’t need to rest.”
She looked up and met his gaze pointedly. Suddenly, the concern was gone, replaced with some far more alluring. Patrick felt his insides heat.
“I think perhaps you do,” she murmured.
He sucked in his breath as a jolt of desire coursed through him.
Was this truly the same Catherine Barnet who has sat in the church with her eyes hidden from the world? The same young lady who had let herself be brought to tears by her brother’s unkindness? Gone were the hunched shoulders and drooped chin. Gone was the uncertainty in her eyes. In their place was a new confidence and strength that left a fire blazing inside him.
He looked down at Catherine. She was staring up at him with such intensity in his eyes it was all he could do not to ravage her right here against the staircase.
He needed her with such urgency it stole his breath.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice husky. “Perhaps a little rest would do me good.”
Chapter 45
“Patrick has decided to take a little rest,” Catherine told Edmund. “I think perhaps the ordeal has caught up with him.”
Edmund nodded. “That’s not surprising after all he’s been through. Perhaps we can call on him again tomorrow. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell us more once he’s caught up on some sleep.”
Catherine faltered. “The cook is preparing
him a pot of tea,” she said, willing the color out of her cheeks. “I should like to take it to him. See him settled.”
Edmund eyed her. He knew it all, Catherine was certain. Could read every lustful, shameless thought that was catapulting through her mind. Could tell she planned on giving Patrick far more than just a meagre pot of tea.
But her cousin said: “Yes. I’m sure a little tea would do him good.” He stood. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
“No,” Catherine said, too quickly. “That’s not necessary. Mrs. Morgan is up there already. I’m sure Patrick could do without an army of people traipsing past his bedside.” The lie fell out too easily. She promised herself she would make it up to Edmund later. Make it up to him at a time when her entire body was not on fire, craving Patrick’s touch.
Edmund flopped back into the armchair. “Very well. I’ll wait for you down here.”
Catherine forced a smile. Could she convince Edmund to leave the townhouse entirely? Assure him she would manage to get home quite fine on her own? Doubtful.
I’ve already tried my luck as far as it will go.
She left him with a smile and promise to return quickly that she had no intention of keeping. The guilt inside her intensified.
Yes, yes I will make it up to him later…
Her heart was pounding as she made her way up the stairs. Was she really going to do this?
She wanted to, she realized. She wanted to, more than she had ever wanted anything. Her heart wanted it. Her mind wanted it. And so did every inch of her body. Desire rose in her with each step she climbed. Heat throbbed in her core, between her thighs.
The upstairs hallway was empty. Catherine muttered a silent prayer of thanks that Patrick’s townhouse was not crawling with servants as Featherstone Manor was.
Patrick opened the door to his room, ushering Catherine inside.
“I told you to take your rest,” she said, trying for a joking tone. Her words stuck in her throat and came out half formed. Patrick just cupped her face in his palm and drew her into a long kiss. Her mouth opened beneath his, drawing him deeper, closer. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough. She wanted all of him--wanted him to have all of her--wanted him to take this desire that was building in her breasts, in her stomach, between her thighs, and do with it all he wanted.
She felt herself begin to tremble slightly in his arms, felt her breath shortening.
Patrick let out a deep sigh of desire and traced a finger over her bare collarbone, from her fingers to the gentle curve of her shoulder.
Catherine arched her back toward him, needy, instinctive. She wanted his hand beneath the laces of her corset, exploring, stroking, just as it had done the night of the ball. “Please,” she heard herself whisper.
She wanted to urge him on. Wanted desperately to feel his hands against her aching breasts, teasing the peaks of her nipples. But there was something achingly perfect about this slowness, this stillness. Something that, despite her blazing desire, made her want it to last forever.
Patrick pulled her close. She could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against her own, could feel the evidence of his own arousal pressing against her hip. The feel of it was almost too much. She felt herself gasp for breath.
She wanted to give him more. Wanted to let him see more.
He breathed her name, moved toward her with dark, fiery eyes. He let her slide his jacket off his shoulders, tossing it onto the floor. Catherine’s fingers moved to the silver buttons on his waistcoat, then tugged at the laces of his shirt. She worked her fingers beneath it and pressing her palm against his chest, exploring the warmth of him, feeling the rhythmic thump of his heart.
What would I have done if I had lost him? What would I have done if I had never felt this heart beating again?
She pushed the thought away. She had not lost him and he had not lost her. They had each other, and right now, there was no one else in the world.
She pressed her lips to the pale curls of hair beneath the opening of his shirt. Felt his heart thudding beneath her mouth. He reached down and tilted her face up to his again, his lips meeting hers hungrily.
He kissed along her shoulder and over the tops of her breasts. Catherine could feel the wetness pooling between her thighs. Could feel her readiness, her need. A moan escaped her lips and she bit it back hurriedly. Patrick held his mouth over hers, sealing the remnants of her cry beneath his lips.
He pulled back breathlessly. “We’ve got to stop,” he said, forcing out the words. “We must. Edmund…”
Catherine gulped down her breath.
No, she wanted to cry out. To hell with Edmund and whoever else might hear us!
None of it mattered. She needed to feel every inch of him. Needed him to feel every inch of her. Needed to satisfy this fire that had begun to blaze inside her.
But a part of her knew he was right.
“Besides,” Patrick said gently, his voice still husky with need. “I’ll not take you before we’re married.”
At the mention of marriage, Catherine felt something swell in her chest. She said nothing, just looked up at Patrick with hot eyes.
He pressed his palm to her cheek. “I know I’m no great man, Catherine. I’m no great prize. But I love you. And if you’ll have me, there’s nothing more I want than to make you my wife.”
She pushed her lips hard against his. “You are the greatest of men, Patrick Connolly,” she breathed. “And I would be honored to be your wife.”
Chapter 46
Catherine stayed pressed against Patrick, their arms, their legs, their bodies intertwined. She never wanted to move. Perhaps if they stayed here long enough, the world might move on without them. Perhaps The Ghost would vanish and the smugglers would sail away and the men in black would forget the way to Patrick’s door.
Perhaps Edmund would fail to notice how absurdly long it had taken her to deliver a pot of tea.
She sat reluctantly. “My cousin is waiting,” she told Patrick huskily. “He thinks I’m bringing you a teapot.”
Patrick laughed. He reached up and ran a hand through her long dark hair. Catherine shivered, feeling a fresh tug of desire.
“You’d best tidy your hair,” he said with a smile. “I’m afraid I’ve made rather a mess of it.”
She returned his smile. Was the secret of what they had done still intact? Had the sounds of pleasure she had been unable to hold back found their way to the ears of the others in the house?
The thought made color rise in her cheeks. She didn’t care, she decided. She would not be ashamed of what they had done. Would not be ashamed of the way Patrick had made her feel.
Reluctantly, Catherine slid out of his embrace and made her way toward the door. She turned back to face him. He was watching her intently, his eyes glowing with adoration.
She slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs. Edmund was watching over his shoulder as she approached.
“Patrick appreciated the tea then?”
“Yes,” Catherine said, keeping her face even. “He appeared to. Very much.”
“I see.” Edmund climbed from the arm chair and gestured to the door.
Catherine felt his eyes moving over her rumpled skirts. “And I assume he will be marrying you then?”
Chapter 47
The man they called The Ghost marched back down the narrow stairs into the underground passage and made his way slowly to his office. He lit a lamp at his desk and sat, rubbing his forehead with a tense hand.
He stared at the ledgers spread across the table. His head was pounding, making the numbers and letters swim before his eyes.
Concentrate.
There were plans to make, business to attend to. He had not gotten this far by lacking focus.
But something was gnawing at him. Patrick Connolly, his men had told him, was being held in the hovel of a room not ten yards from this sorry excuse for an office.
So far, he had avoided visiting the prisoner. Avoided showing his fa
ce. Avoided becoming anything more than a mythical figure. But it couldn’t stay that way forever. Would not stay that way forever. He had ordered Ramshay to be brought here so they might finally discuss matters face to face.
He felt oddly reluctant to did so.
He turned back to his ledger. Fifteen ankers of brandy to go to The Lady’s Grace. Twenty to the Red Queen.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 25