Star Crossed Seduction (4 page)

But when she’d caught her breath, she didn’t pull away. She drew closer and pressed the length of her long body against his, as if she were as unwilling to separate from him as he was to have her go. He welcomed her back into his arms and embraced her gently, struggling to keep his hold on her as tender as he could, so as not to frighten her. She nestled against him, as if she had always belonged there, stroking his muscled arm with one hand as he caressed her hair.

He wondered at its softness. He’d never before touched a woman’s hair that was not straight and black, but hers was the color of honey and springy, with long waves. He’d never before held a creature so fierce. Yet fierce as she was, she responded to his gentleness. He ran one finger against the softness of her cheek, barely touching it. He’d felt the same sense of wonder when his first falcon had returned to the jesses.

He luxuriated in the softness of her throat. The skin there was like velvet. Its smoothness was interrupted only by a tiny mole his searching fingers found where neck met shoulder. He drew her closer. He had never felt a body fit so perfectly against his.

A shy smile turned up the corners of her lips. Her eyes were glowing softly, with no trace of the contempt that had filled them before. Perhaps she could, after all, spare him some of the grace she had shared with the crossing boy. Perhaps he’d not been wrong in seeking her out. The energy that pulsed through the two of them was warm and healing.

He wondered who she was, how she could do this to him, and how he could keep himself from ruining it.

T
emperance’s heart was beating as if it would explode. What was happening to her? What had this man awakened in her body? She’d only meant to rouse his lust, so she could make him careless. It was a maneuver she’d used more than once in the street. She wasn’t fast enough to run from a man like him, but there were other ways to temporarily take him out of action, once you got close enough. A swift blow of the knee to his groin would do the job.

But she was more than close enough—and still she was powerless to do what she had planned. When his stubble-fringed lips had brushed against hers, they’d ignited cravings his warm tongue had fanned into leaping flames. He’d tasted her, caressed her, and awakened a throbbing in every bit of her.

But it wasn’t just animal sensations his outrageous kiss evoked but something more—the wave of need that flooded her body and made her press up against him so close that the gold lace crossing his wide chest dug into her flesh, and the buttons that outlined his lapels pressed against her breasts, stimulating them even through the thick stuff of her black gown.

She should have taken her shot by now. But she could not. She wanted more. She couldn’t get enough of the way his firm muscles felt beneath her hand as he embraced her. The pulsing of his tongue echoed down the column of her own body, sending pangs of yearning to her core. She gave herself up to the sensation, unable to do anything else, dismayed at her weakness even as her desire grew. She couldn’t keep from pressing herself against him, all of him, even the swelling bulge at his crotch, until her own sex responded and swelled with need, wet with her wanting of him.

“Did you learn that in India?” she gasped.

“I learned it from you.” His dark eyes gleamed. “Will you teach me more?”

She made no answer, appalled by how much she wanted to say yes.

To this soldier—this killer.

She was about to betray Randall with a man who wore the same uniform as his murderer. She, who had scorned Mother Bristwick’s offers—and her threats—even when Randall’s death had left her penniless, stood here now, no different than any threepenny upright, giving herself to a stranger for nothing. A stranger she should hate.

Had she gone mad? Though the officer’s breath on her ear sent shivers down her spine, she must not give in to the pleasure of it. She must reclaim her rage and block out the wanting his kisses had inflamed. She must fight her weakness. She must not lose herself in him no matter what he could make her feel.

If only she could bring herself to jab her knee into his crotch as she’d planned. But she couldn’t do it. Her traitorous body was too grateful to his to hurt him that way. But there was another way to break free. His eyes were half-lowered, his breathing ragged. He was still in the grip of desire and he thought she still was, too. As if to give him what he expected from her, she began to undo the buttons that fastened the top of his leather breeches. As the top button came undone, his prick swelled against the thin hide.

She made her way to the next button. Her fingers trembled as she undid it. The moist head of his shaft jutted from the opening she had created, filling her with excitement despite her resolve to stay unmoved. She fumbled with the last button. Her breath caught in her throat as the flap fell open, revealing him: huge and tumescent.

He’d closed his eyes now and was giving himself up entirely to pleasure. She let her hand drift up to his waist and teasingly undid its fastening. His breeches came loose. She eased them down his sinewy thighs, ignoring the throbbing that filled her most secret parts. If she could draw them down only a little farther, they’d hobble him. Then she could break free. The buckskins wrapped around his lower thighs would slow him, and the moment it would take for him to pull them up was all she would need to get a head start.

But when, at last, she sprang away, he didn’t reach for his breeches but grabbed the neck of her gown. She jerked away, tugging against his grip, ignoring the pain as the cloth cut into her flesh, until the fabric gave way and slipped out of his grasp and she was free. She made the most of it, racing down the alleyway with her heart pounding, her every sense on the alert. She must not let him catch her, or he would draw her back into that fatal embrace. If he did, she knew she couldn’t resist him.

She listened for his footsteps as she ran, but a carriage clattered along the deserted street, and any footfalls behind her were drowned out by the sound of its wheels. Even as she strained to hear if he had pursued her, she cursed her ungovernable impulses. She was still in their grip, torn by a mix of terror that he would catch her—and regret that he would not.

But she kept on running, making for the bolt-hole. She need make it only around another turn, dodge into the alley, and she’d be safe. When she reached it at last, she pressed the secret lever that unlocked the hatchway door and slid down into the narrow space hidden behind it.

She was safe. Safe from the dragoon. But her body, still throbbing with the passion he’d made smolder with his kiss, made her wonder if she’d ever be really safe again.

Chapter 3

N
ever before had Trev sobered up as quickly as he did, standing with his throbbing cock exposed to the frigid London night, watching in disbelief as the woman who’d torn open his heart rounded the corner and disappeared. He felt like an absolute fool. He must be grateful his humiliation had gone unobserved. But even that solace was taken from him as a carriage made its way toward him on the deserted street and slowed to reveal the horrified eyes of a lady within.

He whirled around to face the wall, as if like any other drunk he had merely unfastened his breeches to relieve himself. His cheeks burned with shame.

He marveled now at the madness that had overtaken him when he’d found himself possessed by that overwhelming mixture of revelation and homecoming he’d found in the pickpocket’s arms. It tickled the edges of his consciousness even now, like the last fleeting memory of one of those dreams that seem real even after awakening. But it had been only a dream.

He’d used the power he’d gained over her to trap her, and she’d done exactly what he would have done had he found himself in her predicament. How could he have imagined for even a moment that she would feel anything but disgust at the crude coupling he’d offered her?

And yet, so powerful had been what swept over him as he had held her in his arms that he could have sworn she had shared with him, body and soul, that astonishing feeling of something miraculous about to happen. That she was the one who would give him what he’d longed for all his life.

He was mad, and he knew it. Unbidden, another woman’s voice echoed through his mind,
I’ll be back tomorrow with a cake for you if you’re a good boy now and don’t cry.
Well, he should have known better than to go haring after what he knew he’d never find—and he’d certainly sought it in a strange place this night.

He’d get over it. It shouldn’t be hard. She’d left him with no more dignity than a tomcat whose amorous cries had been quenched with a bucket of slops. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All he could do was to learn from it. Everyone made mistakes, but the men he looked up to never made the same mistake twice.

It was only after he’d fastened up his pants that he noticed the thin chain that dangled from the hand with which he had fruitlessly tried to detain her. It must have snapped when he’d grabbed her collar in that futile attempt to keep her from abandoning him. As he glanced down at the pavement, he saw what its burden had been: a round locket that lay glinting against the dull cobbles. He stooped to pick it up and flicked it open. His exploring fingers found a lock of hair secured in the hollow on one side. The other held a portrait, but it was too dark to make out any details.

She must have stolen it. A girl like that couldn’t afford to have a portrait painted. On the other hand, only a very stupid thief would hold on to a piece of jewelry with a portrait that could identify it as stolen—and his pickpocket hadn’t struck him as stupid. So the portrait must be of someone important to her. A brother perhaps or, more likely, a lover.

His lips curled up. If it was a lover, he’d come that close to making the man a cuckold—and not without considerable help from the girl.

He considered tossing it. Why hold on to something that could only remind him of tonight’s humiliation? But he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. His nostrils sill retained the scent of oranges. His lips were still hungry for the taste of her.

He would keep it as a bittersweet reminder of the price to be paid for dropping his guard. So he slipped it into his pocket and made his way slowly back to his mother’s home on Keppel Street.

T
he bolt-hole was cold, dank, and smelled of old urine and mouse droppings, but it was safe. Randall had shown her this secret place when he’d finally trusted her enough to let her join the crew that stole the money that funded his fight against oppression.

But at the thought of Randall, Temperance’s heart sank. How close she had come to betraying him with the captain. No. She must be honest; she
had
betrayed him. She’d been as wanton as her father had claimed she was when he’d forced her to run away from home.

But wanton though she might be, she’d never before felt anything like what she’d felt tonight in that soldier’s embrace. Not even when she’d lain with Randall, whom she’d loved so much. Perhaps that was why Randall had never been able to stop looking at other women. Maybe he’d secretly wanted a woman who felt like that with him.

She squelched that thought. Randall
had
been faithful to her. She was the one who had betrayed their love, not him. She must face it and move on. It was just more evidence of how weak she was, like so much else that had happened over the past three years.

She fell into a fitful sleep bedded down on filthy straw at the back of the bolt-hole, but she couldn’t stay there forever. When morning broke, she made her way back to the rookery on Mercer Street, where she found Becky standing beside a pile of debris.

The wreckers had come, just as the landlord had said they would, and they were tearing down the abandoned building where the girls had made their home. They’d already torn off the oiled paper she and Becky had so carefully installed over the shattered casement window, and even now scavengers were picking through the pathetically small pile of what remained of their furniture, which the workmen had tossed carelessly onto the street. They’d find nothing of value. The girls had already pawned anything that could have been turned into brass.

Becky hobbled over. Never had Tem been gladder to see her friend’s small heart-shaped face with those pale eyebrows that were mere wisps above her knowing eyes. “Are you all right, Tem?” Becky asked. “Clary saw you go off with the officer. When you didn’t come back, we were worried. Did he hurt you?”

“Not a bit. I could handle him.”

Becky’s face lost some of its anxiety. “You didn’t manage to get a quid or two from him, did you? I know they took what you’d prigged when they bagged you, but Clary thought maybe the officer was sweet on you. He paid an awful lot to free you—more than he’d pay for a week at Mother Bristwick’s. We thought, when you didn’t come back, that maybe, you know—you’d come to an arrangement.”

“You know I won’t do that kind of thing for money.”

Becky’s shoulders sagged. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t betray your precious Randall.”

Temperance turned away to hide the shame that must be evident on her face. She’d come all too close to betraying him, and she didn’t even have the excuse that she’d done it for the money her friends needed so badly.

“Well, we can’t afford any more of your high principles,” Becky continued, relentlessly. “The Weaver’s man Snake came by. He says they’ve waited long enough for that money we owe for last month. The Weaver won’t protect us no more. That’s why none of his bruisers lifted a finger for you last night.”

“But how are we to pay him if we can’t steal?”

“Mother Bristwick’s,” Becky said through clenched teeth. “Like I said, you’d have done better to get the captain to take you under his protection.”

“Well, I didn’t. And it’s too late to change that now.”

“It’s too late to change a lot of things,” Becky said bitterly. “If only Randall hadn’t taken every penny we stole for him these past three years.”

“You know he needed it to pay for the conspiracy. Why do you have to bring that up as if he’d done something wrong? He died fighting for liberty.”

“Oh, yes. Liberty,” Becky said scornfully. “It came dear, didn’t it? No matter how much we brought him, he took it all and wanted more. He’d have sent us all to Mother Bristwick if it would have brought in more than the prigging lay.”

He wouldn’t. Randall had had even higher principles than her own. That had been what first attracted her to him.

But her friend’s angry tone drained her last bit of energy. She hadn’t expected it. Of all the girls in his gang, Becky was the only one who had offered her real friendship. The others had never quite accepted her, especially after Randall made it clear she was to be his favorite. But when another girl had made fun of Becky’s twisted spine, Temperance had stood up for her, and, in return, Becky had explained to her the meaning of the cant words the crew used and helped her change the way she spoke until every word out of her mouth didn’t remind them that she came from the ranks of the oppressors.

It had been Becky, too, who had hung the bell on an old coat, suspended it from the doorway, and shown her how to remove a handkerchief from its pocket without causing the bell to make the slightest sound. Her friend had kept at her, making her practice until she could draw a fogle or nim a ticker as well as any of them, even the ones who’d learned their trade as children.

She’d paid her back, of course. When Randall had died, Temperance could have moved on—there were other crews who would have welcomed her for her nimble fingers. But she’d stuck with Becky and tiny Clary, whom Becky had found half-beaten to death, knowing the other crews were unlikely to want to take them on. So why did Becky always have to be so waspish about the man who had brought them together? Running away from home with Randall had been the best thing Temperance had ever done. Instinctively, her hand flew to the locket that held his portrait.

It was gone.

The officer must have snapped the chain. It served her right. It was as if Randall himself had reached down from wherever he was now and had judged her no longer worthy of wearing it.

She stumbled over to the pile of broken furniture and pawed mechanically through the broken remains of their possessions. The pile made visible the failure she’d been trying so hard to ignore. She’d tried to keep the girls going with her dream that they would go to America and start new lives. But without Randall to push them, they hadn’t been able to steal enough even to keep themselves in the rookeries.

Randall might have been stern with them—too stern, at times, she’d sometimes thought. But his severity had ensured they’d brought home the money they needed. She’d been too kind, so now they were destitute, and she was completely at a loss to know what they should do next.

“I
magine that,” Trev’s mother announced the next morning, putting down her paper as he folded his tall frame into one of her dainty breakfast chairs. “Lady Pemberton has recovered her emeralds—the ones everyone thought the maid stole. It turns out her husband lost them at cards and kept it secret from her, and it was an astrologer who found them for her—that odd little woman Lord Hartwood wed last year. I say, I should rather like to have her read my fortune. Perhaps she can tell me when you will wed.”

“Why stop at that. Why not have her find me a wife and be done with it?”

“I hadn’t thought of that, but it would be an excellent idea. Scorpios are always so difficult to find a match for, and so demanding. Perhaps she might have some insight into the kind of woman who could make you happy.”

Trev took a savage bite out of his toast. The previous night’s adventure had given him all too much insight into the kind of woman who could make him happy—for about five minutes. After that, it had been pure hell.

“If only I hadn’t gone into labor so early with you,” his mother continued. “Another three weeks, and you’d have been Sagittarius, and I’d have got my grandchildren already.”

Odd how she put credence in such a silly superstition. But so had the
munshi
he’d hired to teach him Sanskrit. The man had spent thousands of rupees on expensive jewels he believed could counteract the power of evil stars. It had always surprised him that so intelligent a man could fall for such nonsense.

“Which reminds me,” his mother said. “The Stapletons are coming to join us for nuncheon on Friday, Lady Gertrude and her second daughter, Amelia.” She paused to take a sip of her tea. “You could do a lot worse than to marry Amelia. Lady Gertrude’s brother is General Swinford, and her uncle has much influence in Whitehall.”

“So by marrying her, I should ensure my promotion?” His head was throbbing after the past night’s overindulgence. The faint rays of the November sun that shone through the dimity curtains of the breakfast room seared into his brain as if they were the noontime beams of Poona.

“Of course.” She smiled complacently. “Though influence is all the match would have to recommend it. The girl has almost no portion. Still, she is a biddable young woman, and I should get along well with her when you returned to India.”

He sighed. “You make an excellent argument in her favor. Perhaps I should leave the whole affair in your hands. Inform me when you have come to a decision about whom you will have me wed, and I will pay my addresses directly.”

“There’s no need to be rude, Miles.”

“Sorry,” he said, glaring into his tea.

His mother changed tack. “I
have
been very patient, dear. But you know you must marry someone, and you must do it before you return to your regiment. When you disappeared before that battle at Poona, and I heard nary a word from you for six long months, I was beside myself with worry.”

He felt abashed at the concern for him that filled her eyes. “I had no wish to torment you, but you know I couldn’t let anyone know of my whereabouts.”