The Gentleman Jewel Thief (20 page)

Violet sensed the acrobat hesitate. With the gallons of cider he’d consumed, he was a bit slow on his feet. She could feel him thinking through the proposition, the wheels of his mind turning with no little resistance.

And so she took her chance. Meeting Harclay’s eyes one last time, she suddenly ducked, ramming her elbow into the acrobat’s belly. He shouted, an animal sound, and Violet heard his gun clatter to the floor.

In the space of a single heartbeat, Violet reached out and tore the pistol from Harclay’s waistband. She whirled around to point the gun at the acrobat, who was still crouched over from her blow.

Clicking back the safety, she thrust the pistol against his skull.

“Hand over the diamond,” she said, surprised by the deadly calm of her voice. “Hand it over or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

The man looked up at her, eyes narrowed with hate; and when he did not respond, she shoved the barrel of the gun even harder against his head.

She sensed Harclay hovering behind her. It felt so good to feel him again, the familiar heat of his body pressed against hers, that her eyes almost fluttered shut with the pleasure.

But then the acrobat was spitting blood, coughing, and he held out his hand and opened his fingers. There in his filthy palm glittered the French Blue, glinting gray and silver in the low light.

Violet stood, transfixed. After everything—the ball, the theft, her search, and Hope’s futile efforts to find the blasted jewel—there it was. It seemed surreal, as if she were in a dream.

An arm—Harclay’s arm—shot out from behind her and was about to reach for the diamond when out of the shadows came the sound of a pistol being cocked. Harclay grasped Violet by the waist and pulled her to the floor just in time to duck out of the line of fire. The bullet whizzed above their heads, and Violet’s pistol hit the ground with a heartrending
crack
.

Violet righted herself, only to see the fourth acrobat—the one who’d passed out face-first on the table some time ago—emerge from the darkness, gun held in his hand.

The man holding the diamond disappeared behind his partner. Violet was about to make a dash for him when Harclay pulled at her from behind. She dug her heels into the floor, refusing to be dragged away.

“The diamond!” she cried. “We can’t just leave it!”

His hands on her were strong and firm, and despite her best efforts, she found herself being taken farther from the acrobats.

She was shouting now, pummeling him with her fists. “Harclay! Let me down!”

“If we stay we’ll be killed,” he replied steadily. “Come now, Violet, don’t make me throw you over my shoulder again.”

“But the French Blue—my shares! And Hope—”

He whirled her around to face him, crushing her against him. “Leave it. I won’t lose you.
Can’t
lose you. I could stand to lose the diamond; but you—to me your life is without price. None of this matters, has any meaning whatsoever to me, if you are gone.”

The earl was very close to her now, lips hovering over hers. With her heart in her throat, the gun at her back, she had no choice; she nodded her assent, her chest filling not with the shame of her loss but something else—something lovely, and light, something that felt out of place here in the midst of all this danger.

Harclay swept her out of the tavern and into the night. He lifted her onto his horse and circled her with his arms as he swung up behind her.

O
nly when Harclay had Violet wrapped safely in his arms, the two of them ensconced in darkness as they rode back toward Mayfair—only then did the floodgates of his relief open.

He relaxed against her, reveling in the weight of her body against his. And though she tried to resist, she slowly, very slowly, melted against him; and from his chest his heart took flight, soaring toward the sky with a lightness he’d never known before.

Forget that damned diamond. This—whatever this was—it was so very much better.

Above their heads, a thousand stars burned white and blue. The air was warm and soft, a summer night after a seemingly eternal spring chill. Harclay breathed deeply, content, and smiled when Violet did the same.

He wanted to take her back to his house, and make love to her thoroughly in the warmth of his bed. He wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything. But her family would be worried; he could only imagine Auntie George’s reaction when she was told Violet had been kidnapped by a band of scalawag acrobats.

And so he took her back to her father’s house, where even at this hour the lights were blazing. Harclay felt Violet stiffen as they pulled to a stop before the front steps.

She turned her head to face him. For a moment they said nothing, eyes trained on each other’s lips, breasts heaving with the effort to catch suddenly lost breath.

Violet ran her tongue along her swollen bottom lip—damn those blackguards, he would go back and finish what he’d started—and he felt a now-familiar tightening in his groin as he watched, transfixed.

“If it weren’t for you, Lord Harclay—”

“William,” he replied. “I am William to you. I think we know each other well enough by now, don’t you?”

She tried to suppress her grin and failed. “If it weren’t for you,
William
, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

When he opened his mouth to protest, she placed a hand on his chest to silence him. Her voice was low, barely above a whisper, when she said, “And if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be on this thrilling little adventure of ours.”

He thumbed her chin and lightly ran a knuckle over her bruised lip. “Kidnappings and pistols and bloody lips are hardly thrilling.”

“When compared to my usual turn at Almack’s on Wednesday evenings, I daresay such things
are
a thrill. At least to me.”

She looked down at her fingers, tangled in his lapel, and then she looked up at him, her eyes shining in the light of the streetlamps.

It felt as though his heart had swollen to ten times its size in his chest. She was so damn lovely.

Violet let out a sigh as she turned her head toward the house. “But I suppose one eventually must return to one’s life. They’ll be worried, my family.”

“Of course,” Harclay replied and slid to the ground. He reached up, his hands circling her waist, and helped her down beside him.

For a moment the two of them hesitated, his hands remaining on her body. His own was screaming in response; screaming with desire, the desire to possess her, take her home with him so that he might not have to let her go.

“Thank you,” she said. “For saving me. Even though it was your fault I was kidnapped in the first place. Will you miss it?”

“The diamond?” he replied. “I didn’t think twice about bargaining away the bloody thing, not with your life in the mix. I always thought it belonged around your neck, anyway, and your neck alone. Nothing—no one—makes it look lovelier than you, with those eyes of yours.”

Violet tilted her lips toward him at that and began to rise on her toes as if to kiss him, but just then the front door of the house burst open and Auntie George’s cries of relief filled the air.

Violet made to pull away from him, but he clasped her hand in his own and brought it to his lips. “Good night, Violet.”

She looked back at him, her smile wide. “Good night, William.”

 • • • 

D
espite Violet’s kind wish for a good night, Harclay found himself restless—surprising, when one considered he’d managed to get Violet kidnapped, and then save her again, all in the space of a single evening. His limbs ached for action, refused to stay still.

Hands clasped at the small of his back, he paced before the fire in his bedchamber, trying his damnedest not to look at the inviting mass of his bed. For when he thought of his bed he thought of Violet sprawled out naked upon it, and it was all he could do not to run out the door and into the street like a lunatic to find her.

The girl had just been
kidnapped
, for God’s sake. Poor dear was probably traumatized, and already asleep, her maid having tended her wounds. Surely she wasn’t awake in her room, thinking of him, of their adventures, as she’d called them. Surely not.

And yet—and yet
he
couldn’t help thinking of
her
. His pulse was racing; his thoughts, a jumbled, lustful tangle as he recalled with startling clarity the image of her, whirling to face him, her fingers wrapping around his pistol . . .

He smiled at that—and then he groaned. If
only.

Violet had been so self-assured then, so full of energy and life and resolve; and for the first time in an age he’d felt that same sense of purpose. As if he’d been placed on this earth solely to protect her, be with her, entwine his life with hers.

He shook the thought from his head. It was a dangerous thought, that one; it smacked of commitment, which of course meant marriage—

“Damn it all!” he cried out suddenly and reached for his coat.

He had to see her.

Avery, bless the man, must’ve read his master’s mind; for he was waiting by the back door with a taper in one hand and two fingers of brandy in the other. Without a word he passed the brandy to Harclay, who took it with a nod of gratitude.

“Don’t wait up for me, Avery,” Harclay said, wincing as he downed the brandy in a single gulp.

The butler bowed his assent. “Very well. I shall leave the fire lit in the kitchen and the door unlocked.”

“You’re too damned thoughtful for your own good. Thank you, good man.”

“You are most welcome, my lord.” Avery smiled. “And best of luck.”

I’m going to need it
, Harclay thought as he swept out into the night.
This woman, this clever, passionate, damnable woman, is going to be the end of me.

He went by foot. The streets were empty and quiet and full of shadows; and so, when he saw an approaching figure, he thought it nothing more than a trick of the gas lamps, perhaps, or a tree bending to the breeze. But as it approached, Harclay began to recognize that shape, those shoulders and the lovely, lithe neck.

The same neck and shoulders that had first caught his eye at Hope’s ball those few weeks ago.

Harclay started into a run. What was she doing, alone on the street and at this time of night?

She came into his arms, hard; against his breast her heart pounded, strong and willing; and light rose through his body from his legs up to his chest and lips. Of their own volition his hands found her face and he covered her mouth with his.

The kiss was savage and sweet all at once; he felt dizzy, as if the earth were shifting beneath his feet.

He took her hand and led her back to his house.

V
iolet felt the pounding of her heart pulse through her entire being as Harclay shoved open the door with his shoulder. The impatient static between them was palpable; she felt drawn as tight as a bowstring, her body screaming for release.

It had been foolish of her to sneak out in the middle of the night; even more foolish to make a dash for the cavernous house that belonged to Lord Harclay—
William
. But she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do anything except think of him, his words as he’d swept her out of the tavern.

None of this matters, has any meaning whatsoever to me, if you are gone.

It dawned on her then that she felt the same. What had started innocently—well, not
innocently
, but simply enough—as a game of cat and mouse had suddenly become something more.

There was Hope’s diamond to consider, of course, and the stock she held in his company. It was no small thing, and even now it made her head hurt to think of it. And though the thought of living without the security the stock afforded her family was terrifying, the idea of living without Lord Harclay—his maddening cockiness, his foolish thieving, his savage protectiveness, and, good God, those lips—filled her with an inexplicable sadness.

Violet had meant to catch the earl, trap him in his own game and ruin him for what he’d done to her and to Mr. Hope. And though she hadn’t entirely lost her way, she’d been unquestionably sidetracked—and now here she was, being led by William into his house in the middle of the night, her pulse racing with anticipation. She had no foolish notions about his intentions . . . and certainly none about her own.

She’d come to be ravished—no,
pleasured
, as the earl had so eloquently put it—diamond be damned.

William led her over the threshold—she smiled wryly at that—and with a small kick closed the door behind them. At once the house’s scent filled her lungs, and she felt a longing so powerful it left her breathless. She clung tighter to Harclay, and he in turn pressed her more firmly against him.

They came upon the kitchen, a fire glowing in the hearth and a single candle flame waving from the heavy plank table in the center of the room. Heat bloomed in Violet’s belly at the sight; how reminiscent it was of the night she’d spent in Harclay’s bath before the fire, his fingers all over and in and around her—

William made as if for the stairs to his bedchamber, but Violet tugged on his coat. “Wait,” she whispered.

He drew her against him, coaxing her into the kitchen until the backs of her thighs rested against the table. Her hair pooled around her shoulders and face; she looked up at him to find a man transformed. His dark eyes were liquid, wild; he bent his neck, his lips hovering over hers before he kissed her, gently, deeply. His tongue moved along the inside of her lips, opening her to him, and he took, and kept taking, until they were both breathless from the assault.

William dropped his hands from her face, and Violet moaned at the loss of his touch. With his one free arm, he cleared the table, glasses and china and candlesticks shattering to the floor, and through the clank and clatter she could feel his desire quicken pace. He reached for her and lifted her in his arms, laying her down on the table. She struggled to find his lips, and when she did, she parted them with her tongue. He kissed her back with great concentration, moving inside her mouth, savoring every slope, every sinew.

He moved over her and she gathered him between her legs, cradling his waist with her knees. She pulled him toward her, pressing her body against his. The crushing weight of him shocked her, delighted her, and the kiss became frantic, messy. He took her leg in his hand and pushed back her skirts, running his fingers up her thigh. His touch sent waves of heat through her belly and chest. His thumb crawled up the inside of her leg, edging closer, closer. His lips moved over her jaw and down her throat, sending her pulse racing, and she arched her back, pressing more tightly against him. Her hands clutched the back of his neck and shoulders possessively, marveling at the strength and breadth of his frame as his hardened muscles tightened beneath her fingers.

He kissed her throat, brushing his lips against the blood that pulsed just beneath her skin. “Heaven help me,” Violet whispered, pulling his hair with her fingers.

“Are you all right?” He stopped to look at her, brushing his nose against hers.

His eyes were wide with desire, with fear, and inside her chest she felt her heart skip a beat. Somewhere in the back of her mind she felt her control slip, her body hot and liquid and dangerous. An ache, at once warm and painful, settled into the hollow in her belly.

Good
God
, he was good; better than that.

“Yes,” she said breathily. “Yes, please don’t stop, William.”

And so he resumed his assault on her senses. He reared up over her, terrifying, hellishly handsome; and taking her pelisse in both his hands, he tore it off her. The fabric made a terrific rending noise as William pulled it from her body, revealing the thin muslin gown beneath.

He sucked in his breath at the sight of her breasts, straining against the gown’s neckline as she tried, and failed, to catch her own. They met eyes for a beat; and then he was tearing at the fabric, his fingers working feverishly to gain access to her flesh.

Her gown came loose at the seams, and again that ripping noise that further stoked the pressure building between her legs. She threw her head back, allowing him to do as he pleased, and watched as their shadows moved over and through each other on the ceiling.

At last—my God, my
God
, at last—his fingers brushed against her bare skin. William clawed his way through the gown, tossing it to the ground. He tore at her stays, and she breathed a sigh of relief as they loosened and fell to the floor.

All that was left between her and the earl was her chemise. He slithered down toward her feet and grasped the fine linen with both hands. Meeting her eyes above the slope of her body with a sinister smile, he ripped the chemise down the middle.

Swaths of her skin were revealed, burnished gold by the light of the fire. The air felt cool and poignant against her skin, and with a wave of pleasantly painful sensation, her breasts hardened to fine dark points.

His eyes swept the length of her; she could see his Adam’s apple working as he swallowed, hard, in appreciation.

“Violet,” he began, and he raked a trembling hand through his hair. “You are so lovely.”

In response, she reached for his lapels and pulled him toward her, pressed her mouth to his. Her bruised lip began to bleed and throb but it only served to stoke her desire. Her fingers tangled in his cravat, trying to tug it loose, but he wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her away from him.

“But I want to see you—”

“Not yet,” he growled. “We must tend to you first.”

He gathered both her wrists in a single hand and wrenched her arms above her head. He stifled her cry with a ravenous, violent kiss.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered, staring down at her from above.

She smiled slyly at that. “I don’t very well have a choice, do I?”

Beginning at her lips, he traced his mouth down her neck, across her collarbones. Wave after wave of goose bumps rose on her skin; and when he took one nipple, then the other, between his teeth, she had to grit her own to keep from crying out.

Heat sliced between her legs over and over and over again as he kissed and touched and teased. Her body began writhing against him, seeking release in his solid weight; how heavenly it felt with him pressed to her, to be surrounded by his strength and self-assurance.

Just when she thought she might be drowned in the cresting wave within her, William kissed her hip bone, then moved to her thighs, drawing closer and closer—

Yes.

“God, yes,” she said on an inhale, digging her hands into his hair as he pressed his lips against her . . .
her
.

He shoved her legs apart and bent his neck lower, his tongue moving over and around and in her. He splayed the fingers of his right hand over the triangle of dark curls and with his thumb began stroking that small bead of flesh that was the very center of all this sensation.

He was, she was learning, very good at this.

Violet was blinded by it—his lips and tongue working on her in tandem with his finger, the pleasure of it so enormous it almost hurt.

He moved expertly, increasing the pressure and pace of his caresses in time to her rising desire. His mouth felt light and warm against her, stoking her higher and higher until she was crying out, begging for him to let her go.

She couldn’t stand it any longer; the pressure was too great, the pain searing and hot and terrible—

Her climax came in an explosion of light and sound, a pounding that wracked every corner of her body, left her gasping for air. She fell and fell and kept falling, waiting for the sensation to subside as she cried out his name.

When at last she opened her eyes, she saw William watching her from his perch between her legs, a strange gleam in his eye.

“I understand why,” she panted, trying to catch her breath, “you so enjoy pleasuring. You’re damnably good at it.”

One side of his mouth kicked up at her compliment. Slowly he rose to his knees and began untying his cravat. “Oh, I’m not through with you yet, Violet.”

“Again?” she said in disbelief. “But how—I don’t think I am able to bear it—”

He shook his head, that sly smile deepening. “Oh, I think you very able, darling.”

Her pulse, sluggish from the earl’s previous attentions, leapt at the endearment.

Darling.

Warmth, a different, but no less heady, kind, washed over her. She’d never thought about being anyone’s darling; but now that she was William’s, she felt very glad. What a thing to have missed all these years. What a gift, a joy, a wonder.

She started at the unexpected prick of tears. Violet was never one to weep, much less at a moment like
this
. What was there to cry about in the Earl of Harclay’s arms?

Right here, right now at this very moment, her world was whole and perfect. She’d never felt anything like it, this loveliness, this completeness. Nothing to fight and no one to protect. Just her, and William, and their wildly beating hearts between them.

A tear slid from the corner of her eye down her temple. Above her, she sensed the earl hesitate.

“Really, Violet, I hate to ask again. But are you sure you’re all right?” he said, his voice suddenly soft.

Blinking furiously to keep further tears from falling—this was too good to stop now; she wanted everything he could give her—she replied, “I’m fine. Better than that.”

“You don’t look fine.”

She swallowed and tried to smile, her eyes falling on his hands, which were poised above the last button on his waistcoat. Best to change the subject, she reasoned, get him away from this dangerous line of questioning.

“Why the hell are you stopping?” She nodded at his hands. “Please, keep going!”

A beat of silence passed as he surveyed her. She could tell he wasn’t entirely convinced that she was all right, but after a few moments, his smile returned, and he unbuttoned the waistcoat and flung it aside.

He stepped off the table to stand on the floor. She watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing bare shoulders and chest, and let out a little laugh of disbelief.

He was beautiful, every sloping muscle and taut plane of flesh a study in perfection. His arms were thickly corded; his hands, enormous and capable; and then he was unbuttoning his breeches, sliding them along with his smalls down his jutting hips.

His cock leapt free, rigid, brash, the skin smooth and glistening. Though she’d felt his hardness through her gown, she hadn’t quite expected
this
.

Despite her trepidation, her body leapt to the challenge. Again she felt the heat rising from low in her belly. She swallowed, fear and curiosity coursing through her in equal amounts, and met his eyes.

He slid a hand up the length of her, from her thigh across her belly and breast to her face and lips.

And then the earl was again on the table, rearing over her in a cloud of muscle and shadow. Against her he felt warm, and welcome, and entirely too lovely to possibly exist in this life.

When he kissed her, his lips were no longer violent but soft and pleading, and through them she felt the breadth of his affection for her, the desire he felt in his every limb.

Her body rose to meet his, and he pressed against her, his lips moving from her lips to her jaw to her throat. She closed her eyes at the pleasure that spiked through her, the bittersweet sensation of his teeth scraping her flesh.

His mouth again moved to one breast, then the other, and she cried out; her hips rose against his, pressing against him in a search for more sensation, more contact, more
everything
.

They fell back to the table, his bulk suddenly between her legs. He used his weight to pry them farther apart, supporting himself on elbows placed on either side of Violet’s head.