A Rogue’s Pleasure (6 page)

“And if I have?”

“Then I have every reason to summon the Watch.” He smiled to himself at the flicker of fear in her eyes. “With you clapped in irons, it shouldn't take a Bow Street runner long to track down that great ox of an accomplice of yours.”

Terror bolted across her face.

He gestured toward the sofa. “Or you can have a seat and talk to me. The choice is yours.”

“You win.” She plopped down into his favorite armchair. “I still have the necklace. What now?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Anthony leaned back against the edge of the desk. “Return it, and I shall consider the slate wiped clean.”

One ginger brow arched. “How do I know you won't turn me in once you have it?”

“You don't.”
Droll, really, to have one's word of honor questioned by a self-confessed thief
. “But you might ask yourself why I would go to the trouble to set an elaborate trap when I have you already.”

“I suppose you have a point.” One leg curled beneath her, she no longer appeared poised for flight. “Very well. I don't have the necklace with me, but I can get it.”

“Then come tomorrow, at midnight. The household will be abed, and I shall make certain the front door is unlocked.”

“How very considerate of you.” She untucked her leg and rose. “But I prefer the window.”

“Suit yourself.”

She stretched and walked to the window, each purposeful step shaping the breeches to curves that were sleek and utterly feminine.

Mouth dry, he called after her, “Wait! At least tell me your name.”

She answered with a snort.

He grinned. “I suppose I could go on calling you One-Eye, but it hardly suits.”

After a moment's hesitation, she pivoted to face him. “Robin is my given name, if you must know.”

He rolled his eyes. “And I suppose your family name happens to be Hood.”

She grimaced. “My family name is none of your affair.”

Anthony smiled affably. “Very well, then, I shall call you Lady Robin.”
Until I discover your real name
. “And you may call me Anthony.”

She bent to retrieve her hat. “Quite an honor for me, I'm sure, but I have no wish to call you anything.”

Anthony's gaze gravitated to the creamy triangle of flesh at the open collar of her man's shirt. “Whatever your real name, I think Robin suits you. With your red hair, you remind me very much of that plucky little bird.”

Tucking the hat under her arm, she patted away a yawn. “May I go now? Unlike you, I live by my wits. 'Tis late and I am missing my bed.”

Curiosity crystallized into desire. Anthony strode across the room, halting a few paces from her.
By God, I want to bed this breeches-clad gamin.

“In that case, permit me to offer you mine.”

He reached out and stroked his knuckles across her blush-warmed cheek. Smooth as silk, just as he'd known it would be. The heat between his legs began to build.

“You're awfully certain of yourself, aren't you?” Voice uneven, she stepped back.

He closed the distance. “A lack of self-confidence has never been a problem from which I've suffered.”

He brushed back her heavy hair and traced the contours of one delicate, shell-shaped ear with a single finger. His fingertip registered her body's shiver. Like the sea, her irises shifted in color, the green overpowering the blue. Looking into her eyes, intense as any roiling sea, Anthony felt a fresh wave of desire crash over him. He was prepared, without compunction, to take her then and there on the floor of his library. The image of her lying naked beneath him on the Oriental carpet, her red hair splayed over his arm, shot through his mind.

His hand slid to the nape of her neck. Downy soft hairs teased his palm. He guided her face up to his, tasting her honeyed breath. Her moist lips were parted slightly, expectantly. She wanted him too. He could feel it.

Anthony could wait no longer to taste those full, ripe lips. Cupping her shoulders in his palms, he drew her against him, angling his face to hers. Their mouths met, hers closed beneath his. The light caress inflamed him. He wanted more, much more.

He slid his tongue along the seam of her lips, probing. She hesitated, and then opened. Anthony glided inside the cinnamon-spiced cavern. Exploring, he found the treasure of her tongue and entwined it with his own. She sighed and sagged against him, weightless as air. So soft, so sweet, and so sublimely
willing
.

Somewhere in the background a clock ticked, reminding him that the night was slipping by. He dragged his mouth away to sample her blood-warmed ear. He took the lobe between his teeth and gave it a gentle nip before moving on to trace the heated whorls with the tip of his tongue. His mouth fastened on the hollow of her throat, tasting her racing pulse. Their struggle had left her skin salt flavored—deliciously so.

Her head fell back, and she arched against him. Wear had rendered the fine lawn of her shirt as sheer as silk. He could just make out the outline of her chemisette, feel the firm points of her nipples against his chest. He slid his hand downward until one perfectly shaped breast nestled in his palm. His thumb moved in a slow circle, finally grazing the taut peak.

“Bastard!” She pushed against his chest.

“Robin?” His brain enveloped in haze, he reached for her.

The sudden sting across his jaw cleared his head of the remaining fog.

Face bathed scarlet, Robin dropped her hand. “I may be a robin, Lord Montrose, but I assure you that I am no canary.” She wiped her damp mouth with the back of one trembling hand. “I shall hand over the pearls to you at midnight tomorrow as agreed, but nothing more.”

Rubbing his jaw, Anthony frowned. “I have never forced myself on a woman, Lady Robin. I have no intention of doing so tomorrow night or any other.”

“Hah!”
She dropped to one knee and began shoving the scattered articles into the leather bag.

He laid a slippered foot on the leather strap. “This remains here.”

She tried to jerk the strap free.

“I'm afraid I must insist.”

She scowled up at him but, to her credit, she was not fool enough to argue. Ignoring his outstretched hand, she gained her feet. Walking to the window, she climbed onto the sill and took hold of the rope. One foot braced on the slate eave, she levered herself onto the roof.

“Until tomorrow night, Lady Robin.”

A soft thud announced that she had landed safely below.

Turning back inside the room, Anthony was uncomfortably aware that his manhood had come to its full, aching arousal.

God, what a woman.

Grinning, he allowed he'd never get to sleep now. He considered dressing and joining Reggie in Covent Garden, and then dismissed the notion. With only twenty-four hours to discover the identity of the captivating Lady Robin, he must use his time wisely.

Besides, the brothel where Reggie was spending the evening specialized in blondes. After tonight, Anthony was definitely thinking redhead.

 

Ballocks, Montrose. You were supposed to be at the theater.

Hands trembling, Chelsea took hold of the rope. Even as she edged down the slick, moss-covered stone, she asked herself how the night could have gone so wrong. In stalking her quarry, she'd been so careful, so
thorough
. She'd even scanned the society column of the
Morning Herald
to be certain of which evenings Lord Montrose would be away from home. That morning's column had announced that dashing Lord M— would be escorting his lovely fiancée, Lady P—, to the premier performance of Shakespeare's
Romeo and Juliet
at Drury Lane. The gala in the Green Room, to be presided over by H.R.H., known among his familiars as “Prinny” was expected to last into the wee hours.
How perfect,
Chelsea had thought. She'd kept watch outside Montrose's town house until seven that evening when, formally attired and handsome as sin, he'd left in his carriage. As soon as the dust from his lordship's carriage wheels had settled, she'd raced home to fetch Jack. They'd waited in the alley out back until the last window in the house darkened. Then Chelsea had made her move. Thinking she possessed hours, she'd crept at her leisure from room to room, ending in the library.

Where she'd been nabbed by “Lord M” himself!

What manner of rake returned home before midnight?
With a huff, she released the rope and dropped the remaining few feet to the garden. Her knees buckled, more from nerves than from fatigue, she suspected. Fortunately there was no need to climb the stone wall, for the gate
was unlocked. Mentally thanking the careless servant who had neglected to bolt it, she lifted the hasp and slipped into the alley.

The cobbled thoroughfare was lit only by the moon and the candles left burning in the windows of a few houses. Earlier that day, she'd reconnoitered the alley. Now she easily slipped into its blackness, gliding her hand along the perimeter of garden fences and rubbish bins she'd committed to memory. Aside from surprising a cat that darted into her path with an angry hiss, she gained the end without incident.

Lantern light illuminated Jack's taut features. She girded herself, but his expression eased when she approached.

“What the devil took ye so long? 'Tis after midnight. I was just about to come after ye.”

Guilt lashed at her. It was bad enough that she'd been wrapped around Lord Montrose like so much ivy, but to think she'd behaved so brazenly when her own brother was being held captive. And she'd abandoned poor Jack as well, leaving him on his own to wait and worry.

By the looks of him, he'd worried a great deal. Knowing how skittish he was, she hadn't told him it was Lord Montrose's house they were looting, which of course meant she couldn't admit his lordship had discovered her.

“Sorry. I heard a noise,” she whispered, “but it was only the butler seeing to the candles. I hid in the library until he finished. By then, it was too dark to see much of anything, so I left.”

“There's naught to be gained by takin' foolhardy chances.” Jack cast one last look down the darkened alley and beckoned her to follow. “There's always tomorrow night, 'eaven 'elp us.”

Tomorrow night.

Taking the lantern, she led the way down the maze of intersecting alleys, all the while asking herself how on earth she was going to slip out. Jack would never permit her to go without him. But she must. If Montrose set a trap after all, at least Jack wouldn't be caught as well. Buried in the recesses of her mind was a far less noble motive: she wanted to be alone with Lord Montrose one last time if only to prove that her wantonness was an aberration, the result of jangled nerves and little sleep.

They emerged in the mew behind Mount Street and crept past the row of stables and coach houses. The whinnies of horses and Jack's footfalls were the only sounds to stir the silence.

Jack reached over the gate and lifted the latch. As they walked up the narrow stone path to the back door, Chelsea congratulated herself on her choice. Mount Street was cloaked in shabby respectability, a mixture of shops, lodging houses, and small, unpretentious private homes. The parish workhouse was located on the south side; otherwise, the neighborhood was the sort where people led quiet, uneventful lives and were abed by nine. The gray clapboard town house she'd let was neat and nondescript—the perfect spot to hole up until the ransom delivery. And, with the social season at its end, the landlady had been prepared to be reasonable about the rent, especially when Chelsea had arrived at the rental office wearing widow's black and offering to pay in advance.

They stepped inside the kitchen, and an unexpected sneeze provided her with the excuse for which she'd been searching.

“Gawd bless ye.” Jack set the lantern on the pine table and dug into his pocket for a handkerchief. “Ye're coming down with the head cold, I reckon. 'Tis what comes of dashing about 'til all hours, not takin' proper care o' yerself.”

“I suppose you're right,” she replied meekly, dabbing the tip of her nose with the cloth. “I
had planned to try my luck again tomorrow night, but perhaps I should rest instead.”

Jack headed for the pantry. “'Tis the first sensible thing ye've said since we got 'ere.”

His back turned, she grabbed the pepper mill from the table and sprinkled the granules into her palm.

Bracing herself, she brought her hand to her face and inhaled.

“Ahhhh chooo!”

Her sneeze rocked the rafters. Jack found her doubled over and clutching a chair back, eyes streaming.

“Poor lamb. We'd better get ye to bed.”

Still choking, she headed for the hall stairs. “Yes, I think I'll go right up.”

Inside her bedchamber, images of Lord Montrose assailed her. Lord Montrose leaning against the desk, arms folded across his broad chest, unconcerned that his robe gaped open. The triangle of dark brown hair had confirmed that he wasn't wearing a nightshirt beneath the black velvet.
But then a Corinthian of his rakish caliber probably slept in the buff,
Chelsea decided, shoving her practical cotton nightgown over her head.

She unlocked the drawer of the bedside table to assure herself that the pearls were safe. Unwrapping the square of velvet, she carried the necklace to the open window and looked out onto the moonlit garden. Late-blooming roses scented the breeze wafting inside, ruffling her loose hair and molding her nightgown between her legs.

She unfurled her fingers, the rope of pearls slipping through them in a silken stream.
What would it feel like to stand in front of that window, naked but for the pearls, waiting for my lover to come to me?

Having never had a lover or even a serious beau, she relied on her imagination. Closing her eyes, she stroked pearl-wrapped knuckles over her cheek, recalling Lord Montrose's silken caress. When her imaginary lover assumed Lord Montrose's form—this time,
sans
robe—Chelsea crushed the necklace into her fist. Clearly a life of crime was having a dangerously disinhibiting effect on her morals.