Her Protector's Pleasure (15 page)

"Mayhap this will help, Mr. Kent?" This came from Lugo, who reached into the satchel on his shoulder and pulled out a thick coil of rope.

Incredulity swamped Ambrose, followed by a blast of relief.

"Bloody hell, I should say so," he said, grinning.

It may have been a trick of light, but for an instant the manservant seemed to grin back.

*****

The ride back to Marianne's was too short to address the questions roiling in Ambrose's head. So he bided his time, focused on getting a rein on his temper. Now that the immediate danger had passed, he grew edgy, his blood simmering close to a boil.
What the devil was she up to in that office? What kind of mischief is she mixed up in?
He'd followed her there from supper, arriving in time to hear her shuffling around in the solicitor's study. Then the magistrates had started banging on the door, and he'd acted on instinct.

Now, Marianne sat with uncharacteristic quietness in her corner of the carriage. He felt a pang at her pallor, the tight grip of her hands upon one another. Hands, he reminded himself, capable of breaking into a man's office.

His anger surged at her—at himself. How could he have allowed himself to get entangled in this mess? He'd betrayed his ethics, his obligation to the assignment. And why? The truth astounded him. Because he couldn't stand to see Marianne come to harm. Because a primal, irrational part of him insisted on protecting a woman who refused to be protected. And because, despite all evidence to the contrary, his gut told him that she was no anarchist.

That she harbored a secret, he did not doubt. He'd have his reckoning with the reckless widow before the night was out.

The carriage stopped. The door opened, and Lugo let down the steps.

Marianne cleared her throat. "It's rather late," she began.

"You're not getting off that easily," Ambrose said, daring her to disagree. "After the events of the evening, I daresay you owe me the courtesy of an explanation."

Her lips clamped shut. She alighted, saying gracelessly over her shoulder, "Very well. Come along if you must."

Once inside, she did not lead him to the drawing room as he'd expected, but upstairs to her chambers. His belly tautened at the sight of her luxurious bed. He heard a snort, and his gaze shot to the sitting area by the fire. He recalled the brown-haired abigail from his last visit, and she appeared no friendlier this time around. Finishing with her task of laying out a collation—the scent of coffee and spiced fruit curled warmly in his nostrils—she scowled at him and said to her mistress, "Are you certain you don't need me to stay, milady?"

"Go to bed, Tilda. I'll be fine," Lady Marianne replied.

"But you'll need 'elp changin' your clothes—"

"I can manage. Besides," her mistress drawled, "I'm sure I can locate an extra pair of hands if I need them."

The innuendo sent heat creeping up Ambrose's neck. And to other portions of his person. All of a sudden, he became aware of the tension in his body—how rigidly he was holding himself in check. God help him if she pushed him tonight …

The door closed behind the maid, and they were left alone.

"It's been a long evening, hasn't it?" With a languid motion, Lady Marianne stripped off her gloves.

"Enough games," he said curtly. "What the devil were you doing in that place?"

"I could ask you the same."

Proceed with care. Do not give the mission away.
His insides knotted. After all he'd already compromised this eve, he must not betray Coyner and the client further. If nothing else, he'd keep his word to safeguard the confidentiality of the case.

"I followed you from the Hartefords. You seemed upset, and I wanted to make sure you were alright." He did not wish to lie to her; what he said was at least part of the truth. "I did not expect you to go from supper to burglarizing a man's office. I repeat, what were you after, my lady?"

Her brows lifted. "Is this an official police interrogation? If so, I shall make myself more comfortable."

Before he could reply, she sauntered off to the dressing screen by the bed. She shed her cloak along the way, the velvet skin fluttering to the carpet. Ambrose swallowed as her silhouette appeared behind the silk panels. The flickering candlelight revealed every perfect line of her figure. As he watched, mesmerized, she undressed, her hands roaming over her curves, undoing, unfastening …

Focus, man. She's accused of being an anarchist. You have to find out the truth—have to find a way to protect her if the allegations are false.

Frowning at himself, he forced himself to turn around. He stared into the roaring flames of the fire, his thoughts in chaos. Sweat broke upon his forehead, and he yanked off his greatcoat, tossing it onto one of the chairs.

Why did he persist in believing in her innocence when the evidence suggested otherwise? He prided himself on his logical mind, yet around her his judgment took a backseat to other instincts. Ones he found, to his great frustration, that he could not override.

"You owe me an explanation, Lady Draven," he ground out.

"I should think we're past formalities at this point." Her wry voice floated from behind him. "You have permission to use my given name."

"Fine.
Marianne,
then," he said, his jaw clenched, "what the devil were you up to in that solicitor's office?"

A hush fell, broken only by the soft swish of fabric. The tension pulled at his nerves, and, despite knowing better, he turned back toward the screen. His mouth went dry, his manhood rising in an immediate salute. Behind the screen, Marianne's silhouette revealed her flawless figure in what had to be the skimpiest of undergarments. His blood pounded as her hands smoothed upward along the slim curve of her hips, the sharp indentation of her waist. When she reached her breasts—for an instant cupping those beauties—he bit back a groan.

But he couldn't hold back the animal sound that left him when she stepped from behind the dressing partition. Sweat glazed his brow.

Devil and damn. Bloody hell. This cannot be happening.

Like a figment from some feverish erotic fantasy, Lady Marianne Draven stood before him, wearing nothing but a sheer petticoat and corset. He'd never imagined—let alone seen—garments so scandalous. Thin lacy straps held up a bodice with a plunging neckline; the short corset pushed up her breasts so that the smooth, rounded tops nearly burst from the bodice. Below the corset, the sheer skirt of the petticoat revealed her shapely calves and ankles. Lace frothed at the hem, brushing against her pretty bare toes.

"Do you think to distract me with your seductive wiles?" he said hoarsely.

Her lips quirked, her gaze roaming over him. "I'm not certain. Can it be done?"

Bloody hell, yes.

"No," he said firmly and dragged his gaze to her face. Told himself to keep it there.

"What did you witness tonight at Leach's office?" she asked.

"I know you were searching for something." Ambrose swallowed as she walked past him, her hair a rippling platinum river to her waist. "What were you after?" he persisted. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Because if you are, I will find a way to help—"

Her husky laugh sizzled down his spine. Heat flooded his groin, his stones throbbing with pressure close to pain. "You wish to help me, Ambrose?"

God, even his sturdy name sounded like a siren's song from her lips.

"First you must trust me with the truth." His brain raced through the theories he'd been contemplating. Explanations other than her being involved with a band of anti-establishment lunatics. "This Leach—does he have some information that you're after? Or mayhap this is about extortion. Is he trying to blackmail you?"

Something flickered in her eyes; he knew he'd hit a nerve.
The solicitor knows something: either she wants that knowledge or he's holding it against her. What secret is she hiding?

His frustration mounted when, instead of replying, Marianne selected a plump strawberry and slipped the fruit between even riper lips. "Are you always this persistent when it comes to matters that do not concern you?"

"It concerns me when you put yourself in jeopardy. It concerns me when I have to save your bloody neck time and again." He raked his hands through his hair. "Goddamnit, woman, I am a policeman, and yet tonight I helped you evade the law. And I will have an explanation of your actions or so help me God—"

"Or you'll what? Report me to the magistrate?" She came toward him, her eyes wild as a summer storm. "Does that make you different from any other man who has tried to manipulate me?"

"I'm not trying to manipulate you, you little fool," he bit out, "I'm trying to protect you."

"I don't want your protection." Her chin angled upward, and her gaze was hard and glittering. "If you're wise, you'll stay out of my way from now on. Or you will regret it."

"Are you
threatening
me?" he said incredulously.

"Not a threat. A promise." As if it wasn't enough that she slapped him with his own words, she said, "And let us not forget the differences between us. Let's face it, Kent"—her brow rose—"you haven't got what it takes to stop me."

The reins of self-discipline snapped. His vision darkened. He hardly recognized the voice that growled, "
Haven't got what it takes?
" Before he knew what he intended, his hands hauled her against him, his lips descending to show the maddening wench how wrong she was.

SIXTEEN

Marianne knew her ploy to seduce Kent was a risky one. She'd gone about it in the most expedient manner possible: by pushing him past his limits. At the instant of contact between his lips and her own, the sparking attraction between them exploded into flames. As she'd known it would. She'd banked on the fact because she needed to throw him off the scent. Obviously, Kent did not yet know that Leach was dead. The last thing she needed was for him to start asking questions and pin her as the culprit.

Her gambit to distract Kent, however, now raged into a conflagration that threatened her own self-control. His male heat melted her resolve, turned her insides molten. Hunger unfurled as his tongue thrust against hers. She gave in a little, winding her arms around his neck to get closer to his virile length. So strong. Solid. Even as pleasure buzzed through her blood, she told herself that this was just all part of her stratagem ...

Don't be a fool. You've never lied to yourself, so why start now? You want Kent—you've wanted him since that first time he saved you.

With the triumphs and horrors of the night still buzzing in her veins, she experienced a sharp need to give into mindlessness. Just this once. To have respite from her demons for just one night. The ever-present anguish surged, yet Marianne knew she could do nothing for her daughter at this moment. Not with her mind and body dulled with fatigue. Not with long-suppressed needs battering her will …

Her mind grew hazier as the kiss deepened. Kent had a way with kissing—a man who truly seemed to enjoy a woman's mouth. His lips were firm, delicious as they roved over her jaw, her ear.

"This is madness, but I don't give a damn. Tell me you want this." His husky growl sent a quiver through her knees. "By God, tell me you want me as much as I want you."

She found she hadn't the wherewithal to lie any longer—to him or herself.

Tomorrow, I'll begin anew
, she vowed.
I'll investigate Boyer, Ashcroft, Pendleton—and I won't stop until Rosie is safe in my arms once more.

"I want you," she whispered.

"Good girl." Her neck arched at the hot praise uttered against her throat. "Now tell me what you were doing in Leach's office."

She stiffened. Pushed him away. "I can't."

"Can't or won't?" The rim around his irises darkened, making his gaze even more penetrating.

Despite the desire pounding in her blood, she lifted her chin. "It's my private business, Kent. If that's the point of this seduction, you might as well stop now."

"Who's seducing whom?" he said, making her flush. Before she could turn away, he grasped her jaw in one big hand. "If you won't tell me the specifics, then at least give me this: do you have a personal reason for searching Leach's office?"

What good would it do to deny what he'd already guessed? "Yes," she said.

"What does he have that you want?"

She struggled to find some part of the truth to give. "Information."

"Does this information involve crown and country?"

She blinked at the odd question. "No," she said, frowning. "It's of a personal nature."

He stared at her intently, his bright eyes inscrutable.

She shivered. Could he guess her secret? Unfulfilled passion and the night's excitement battered at her self-possession, and she clung to her last shred of good sense.

"It's late," she managed. "It's best you leave—"

The next instant, Kent swung her off of her feet, his mouth so hot and hungry that she could have wept with relief. Instead, she kissed him back with all the desperate need climbing inside her. Her senses spun as he carried her over to the bed, his hard body pressing her into the silken coverlet. He caressed her neck, her shoulders, the rasp of his calluses strangely exciting.

"So beautiful," he murmured. "
Selkie
, too beautiful to be real."

Her neck arched as he traced her collarbones. "What's a silky?" she said breathlessly.

"
Selkie.
An enchanted creature from the sea. She enthralls men in the form of a beautiful woman,"—he bent to taste the path he'd traced—"then flees into the sea in the magical skin of a seal."

"A woman with options. I like that," she said, her lips curving. "I believe that is the best compliment I have ever received."

Kent drew a fingertip beneath the edge of her bodice, and her breathing quickened. An inch further and he could reach her nipples, which stood stiff and aching for his touch. As if he knew her desire, his lips quirked, and perversely he withdrew his finger, running it instead over the strings of her front-lacing stays.