Siren's Secret (2 page)

Few of the very rich downstairs seemed genuinely interested in the history marked on each table, but they appreciated the endeavor with their pocket funds.

He rolled his shoulders under his coat, wishing for fresh air, when something at the window caught his eye. He blinked, curious.

A pair of feet?

Samuel stepped closer to the window, the light from inside illuminating the vision. Suddenly the feet dropped, and a pair of stocking-covered legs hung, swinging, searching for purchase. It took him less than a second to realize this was a stunning pair of legs. Even less to realize a woman was hanging outside, in danger of losing her life.

He opened the window to save her from certain death and reached up to grasp what was both a distracting and rather luscious view—when the unthinkable happened.

A leg swung fiercely forward, its foot leading the strike on his face with enough force to knock him backward and temporarily blind him.

Olivia struggled furiously against her captor. Gads. Not just a thief, but a murdering thief. He intended to toss her out the window! She was going to die—and not nobly. Instead, she’d be remembered for a notorious and mysterious death, discussed in hush tones among the ton for years to come.

She felt a blast of cold air up her legs as she kicked hard, hoping for a wall or windowpane to use as leverage against being forced out.

“Hurry. Someone’s coming.”

Olivia renewed her muffled screams at the new voice, hoping against hope someone would arrive in time. She would worry about explanations later.

Unfortunately, it was not to be done.

An icy breeze rushed up her skirts as her body was lifted and pushed feetfirst through the third-floor window.

The word
crushing
went through her mind.
A crushing fall,
they would all say.

Then outrage took over. She would not be easily finished. Her father needed her, and she was all he had. And he, all
she
had. No, this would not do.

Olivia clawed frantically, managing to free a hand from the heavy cloak. She swiped at her attacker, grasping hold near his collar as he tried to toss her. Something ripped, but she clung. Then her body dropped, weightless, the cloak finally freeing itself.

She fell.

For a full second.

Then jolted to a stop.

Olivia clung to silk neckwear, listening with satisfaction to the choking sounds of her attacker. Her other hand fumbled free and scraped against the cold wall searching for hope. It came in contact with what she knew to be vines.

That’s when the weight of her attacker shifted. She wrenched her neck sideways to see where he would attack from next, and suddenly he was coming down.

On top of her.

Olivia gladly released him, and swung to the side of the wall clinging to vines on pure faith.

Her attacker suffered worse misfortune. He crashed headfirst. She shuddered at the crush.
That
was a crushing death.

She tilted her head toward the window hoping help was within reach. Instead the window shut emphatically, leaving her to contemplate her lack of botanical knowledge regarding vines. She prayed these were the sturdy sort.

The vines ripped.

In a desperate moment, with a desperate cry, she reached with her left hand to a small ledge dividing the floors while scooping her right hand around another fresh set of vines. She hung perilously.

Until those vines ripped too. Her body jolted lower.

Olivia breathed deep and slow, holding back a whimper of fear. Below her was light. Another window. Maybe she could swing in—except her arms ached, her fingers burned raw, and her heart pounded so hard she had trouble making her legs function. She hung, clinging to the vines, unable to commit to either plant or stone. What were the odds the window was open? It was early spring—too cold for open windows. If she moved too violently she might lose her already hazardous hold on life.

She was doomed. Her thieving days over for certain.

Olivia decided risk was the only option. She swung a leg, thinking to crack the glass.

Luck! It was open.

Bad luck. The vines ripped.

She yelped, skidding against the building until her foot landed with a jolt on a narrow ledge. Her heart thundered in her ears and dizziness threatened. She was parallel to the window. A mere foot from safety.

Carefully Olivia inched her body toward the light, uncaring that her dress was bunched, her hands raw, and her hair falling free. She just … needed … to reach … the window.

One arm reached toward the opening, her fingers scraping along cold stone toward the heat of the room.

She felt the vine weakening and released, making a grab for the windowpane. Painstakingly, she shimmied inch by inch across the ledge. She could have cried with joy when she finally hugged the window frame with her body. With one neat sidestep she prepared to jump inside.

That’s when she made the biggest mistake of her life.

She looked up.

And saw him.

A giant. A monster. A brute of a man. Inches away. Reaching for her!

In fright, she gasped. And made an even bigger mistake.

She let go.

His vision imperfect from the injury near his eye, Samuel grabbed the closest thing in reach—her bosom.

His fingers wrapped over the top of her dress and curled. For a split second he absorbed the shocked look on her face, the arms thrown back, and the dewy soft skin of her breasts beneath his touch. Without hesitation he took a step forward, wrapped his other arm around her waist, and pulled her to safety.

“It’s all right, miss. I’ve got you.”

In fact, she had him. She clutched desperately, her breath coming in gasps, her heart pounding wildly against him, an indication of her distress. Without letting go of him, her body inched around, turning them both in a half circle so that her back was no longer to the open window. Then, as if feeling safer, she took a deep breath and pushed away from him to brush down her skirts and check her dress pockets, before making a fuss about fixing her hair.

Samuel watched silently as she took apart what remained of her bun, releasing the rest of her silky, shoulder-length strands. Her chaotic mane was white-blonde, the perfect complement to the shocking silver eyes that had locked on his in heartbreaking fear.

She lifted her arms, securing her hair back from her face, the action drawing Samuel’s eyes to her uplifted cleavage. Of course, he was only looking to make sure he hadn’t damaged her dress. The woman was attractive—in a sharp-eyed, determined, intelligent sort of way.

He looked up to find her glaring at him—pointedly. Her composure was clearly recovered.

He offered a smile and bowed. “Miss.”

She ignored him and went to the window, reaching for something. He reached over her head and released the cloak. He thought she gasped, but realized the height might have renewed her fears. She fiercely closed the window, then shut the curtains before accepting her cloak.

“Thank you,” she said, as if it were an effort to express appreciation for saving her neck. “And good evening.” She nodded tersely before walking past him as if nothing had happened.

“Miss, I must insist …”

She continued walking.

“Miss, really. I—”

She spun back, impatient. “Very well. If you must know. I needed a bit of fresh air.”

Air? Uh-huh. He grinned at the absurdity of the comment, wincing slightly at the pain under his eye. Hell, she likely broke his cheekbone when she kicked him. Still, this was the most entertainment he’d had since arriving in England. Her voice, deep and husky, tickled the hairs on his neck, and he rubbed at it curiously.

“Again, miss, I must insist …”

She ignored him, and he was forced to catch her before she exited the room. She whirled in fury, knocking his arm away.

“Ma’am,” he said, “please go no further, or you will regret it.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

He thought that would be a bad idea, considering the icicles shooting from her eyes.

“Not at all.” His humor got the best him, his smile clearly irritating her further. “Your dress is tragically ripped in the back, revealing a view that I am genuinely grateful for, but could not in good conscience allow you to expose to innocent men in the foyer below.”

She gasped. Then reached a hand to her behind. Then gasped again. “Damnation!” She pulled at the torn material in dismay. “I loved this dress!”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You should know I’m not normally maledicent.” She sighed. “I mean, given to abusive speech, sir. Least not in public.”

He winked. “Got it.”

“It’s just—”

“Have you ever climbed through a window before?” he asked.

She cut him with her eyes, as if telling him to mind his own business.

“I see. Well, you loved that dress, so all is forgiven.”

“I didn’t ask your forgiveness, sir.”

“Your cloak appears fit,” he said, ignoring her. “Perhaps it would help if you put it on.”

Olivia didn’t want to do anything the man said. She was annoyed at having been caught in such a humiliating situation, but he made sense, and she needed to look as innocent as possible until she was home. At least she still retained the script in her pocket. That much was a relief. Perhaps all was not lost.

She fussed, uncomfortable as he continued to study her, leisurely circling her form as if to judge her appearance acceptable or not. Occasionally he swiped her cloak to either straighten or dust it off. It was disturbing. And uncommonly consoling. His large hands swept firmly down her bodice and legs, igniting her with warmth.

Gads, she was four and twenty—well past heart palpitations. It must be the adventure of the evening. Nearly dying could cause increased bodily distress. She swallowed, realizing she was desperately thirsty. Who was this man?

Not English, she knew, and not known in her circles. Which meant he was not
the sort.
The phrase annoyed her even as it occurred to her. Certainly there were many who were not the sort, but who were perfectly normal and acceptable.

He came in front of her. Too close. He raised a large, rough hand to her cheek and lifted a strand of hair behind her ear, without touching skin. He didn’t need to. The heat of his hand seemed to blaze a trail across her cheek and over her temple. She took a breath, studying him again.

Yes, a brute. She swallowed hard. A devilishly attractive brute. Over six feet. His hair was trimmed stylishly but overlong on top, causing a wavy lock to fall forward over a broad forehead that complemented the hard, square jaw. There was something very raw about him, relieved only by the golden brown eyes that seemed to exude as much warmth as he did.

“Are you laughing at me?” she asked.

He laughed. “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t dare laugh at a woman brave enough to make an entrance from the sky.”

If possible, his eyes grew warmer, causing Olivia to get hotter. It was the cloak, she realized. Or those lips. They curled. She had never seen lips that curled so sensually. She pushed the cloak off one shoulder for comfort.

“What happened to your face?” Best to distract him from her unorthodox entry.

He touched it gently, as if it was still tender.

“Ah. Struck by lightning.”

“The night is clear. And lightning would have burned.”

“It did.” He answered. “It does.”

She grew warmer under his gaze, uncertain what he might be referring to and desperate to escape him and the museum.

“You should see a doctor. Excuse me. This conversation is highly inappropriate.”

“Wait! Your name?”

“Unnecessary, as we won’t be seeing each other again.”

He followed her out of the exhibit area.

“Are you following me, sir?”

“Never, ma’am. Just going the same way.”

“Oh.” She was flustered. “Does it seem strange that I am wearing my cloak?”

“You should say that you were getting ready to depart, when a friend called upon you to examine the Grecian vases.”

“Yes. Excellent.” She glanced down at the arm offered politely. “Thank you,”—she accepted the arm—“for the useful deception that comes so easy to you, sir.”

“Insults for my help? That’s very English of you.”

She gasped. Then shut her mouth. There was a reason she avoided Americans. Too damned brash.

At the bottom of the staircase she freed her hand, executed a perfect
English
curtsy, so he would know how it was done, then spun and made for the exit. She would send her groom to find her companion, Mrs. Tisdale. The most important thing was to get safely away from the museum before all hell broke loose.

She reached the exit and smiled pleasantly at the strange man blocking her way. Two more, guarding the doors, joined him.

She nodded politely and begged pardon to pass by.

“You’ll not be leaving anytime soon, m’lady,” the smallest of the men informed her. “There’s been a death. Until all guests are questioned, you’re to remain here, under the orders of the Bow Street magistrate ’imself.”

Olivia swallowed, “A death? Who?” She prayed she appeared appropriately shocked, while the image of the mangled body flashed through her mind.

“Not for me to say—”

A scream above cut him off.

Lady Grayson clung to the rail on the floor above. Olivia and the entire room looked upward at the hysterical woman. “Lord Grayson,” she cried. “He’s dead!”

Lady Grayson promptly swooned to the floor.

Olivia gasped. Good lord. She had stolen the artifact from Lord Grayson and pulled a man out the window, perhaps causing his ultimate demise. Now Grayson was dead. Who had last seen him? Had he been murdered? The evidence of her guilt rested in her pocket—the translation of the stolen artifact. She would be questioned. Perhaps searched. If they put the two clues together …

Gads. Olivia nearly fell on her feet.

She would hang.

A firm hand grasped her arm as she tried not to sway at the news of Grayson’s death.

“Come, my dear, it’s going to be a long evening. I’ll find you a seat.”

It was the American, concern reflecting in his golden brown eyes. He offered a warm, safe sanctuary.