The Millionaire Rogue (4 page)

As noiselessly as he could manage, Hope tried to reach for the pistol in his jacket. But Miss Blaise was wound too tightly in his arms for him to access it; he had no room in which to move besides.

The scraping sound of the intruder's hand halted just as suddenly as it began. Hope nearly choked with relief; Miss Blaise remained stiff and shivering against him.

Hope removed his hand from her mouth. As if on cue, Miss Blaise whimpered, a small but succinct sound.

She froze. He froze. The voices in the room went silent.

La Reinette tried to pass the sound off as her own, and began offering her unwanted guests the company of her girls.

But they were not listening.

Their footsteps were impatient and heavy as they hurried toward the closet, cursing with glee in their native tongue. With their gloved hands they pressed against the panel where it met with Hope's shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the tight burn that laced through his arm. He pulled Sophia against him, and braced himself for—

Well. For whatever came next.

Y
es, Sophia was in a state of most acute distress; yes, she was, in the next five minutes, likely to face death and dismemberment; and yes, she was in the arms of an apparently dangerous, definitely handsome man, the crisp lapels of his dinner jacket sliding up and down her breasts with each breath he took, his scent of sandalwood and lemon faint but delicious.

Even in the midst of such ghastly circumstances, she marveled at her stupidity. Though the whimper had escaped her lips instinctively, without invitation, she cursed herself for ruining their chances of escaping these goons unscathed.

Never mind the fact that the whimper had nothing at all to do with said goons. She'd whimpered not out of fear or distress or panic. No.

Sophia had whimpered at the loss of Mr. Thomas Hope's touch. Oh, that
touch
.

It was confident and urgent and very warm. A lovely little shiver had raced through her at the sensation of his skin pressed against her own. Combined with the heat of their tangled limbs, it was enough to fill Sophia's head with all sorts of salacious imaginings. How it would feel, for example, if it were his lips pressed against her mouth, instead of his palm. How that palm might make its way down the slope of her neck to cup her shoulder, then her breast—

Good God. La Reinette's tales of romance and adventure had certainly taken root in Sophia's fertile imagination.

But now that Sophia was in the midst of her own adventure—the romance bit had yet to materialize, but she apparently longed for it, madly—she was making a muck of it. Indeed, if she kept whimpering—really, who
whimpered
?—this was going to be her first, and last, adventure. Ever.

Sophia's bare hands were caught between their bodies, her palms pressed against Mr. Hope's broad, solid chest. She felt his heart pounding beneath the layers of his clothes, and pound yet harder when the men chasing him began clawing at the panel behind which she and Hope were hiding.

This was bad. Very,
very
bad.

Panic sliced through her. Instinctively her fingers clenched on Hope's chest, pulling at the fine fabric of his jacket. The first two fingers stilled when they gathered between them something jarringly hard and shapely tucked into his waistcoat.

Her fingers went to work, tracing the outline of what felt to be—oh dear, it was indeed—a pistol.

Her blood jumped.
A pistol!
Hysteria sparked at the back of her throat, stoked to flames by the intruders' incessant pounding against the closet panel. She tried to draw her hand away but Mr. Hope held her too tightly, pressing her hand firmly against his weapon.

La Reinette would have used just such a euphemism in her tales, Sophia thought wildly, and together they would have laughed about it over their pages and their wine.

The thought calmed Sophia, and she wondered what, exactly, would La Reinette, that great admirer of dangerous men, do in this situation?

As soon as she asked the question, Sophia knew the answer.

La Reinette would take matters into her own hands. Literally.

Mr. Hope's pistol pressed invitingly against Sophia's palm. She knew he could not reach the pistol himself, his arms stuck akimbo in the tiny closet. In the darkness she tapped twice on the gun, and while she could not see his face, she felt his eyes upon her. A beat of understanding passed between them; Hope loosened his grip on her so that she might grasp the pistol.

She curled her fingers around the metal, warm after having been tucked against the heat of his body. The weight of it nearly snapped her wrist as she pulled it from Hope's waistcoat. It was bigger than she'd imagined, and felt sinister in her hand.

Another euphemism that would have made La Reinette proud.

“Be careful,” Mr. Hope hissed. “Have you ever shot before?”

“No-o?”

“Well,” he answered tightly. “There's a first time for everything, isn't there, Miss Blaise?”

The intruders' pounding became unbearable. The wall that hid Sophia and Hope clattered against its frame, and finally splintered with a heartrending
crack
.

“Careful!” Hope breathed into her ear as the light from Madame's chamber flooded the closet.

The intruders, their masked, unshaven faces feral, peered over the debris like two red-eyed raccoons. They pulled what was left of the panel away from the closet. One of them—Sophia knew he was the cigar-voiced man, just by looking at him—sneered and lunged forward.

Mr. Hope propelled their bodies out of the closet, tucking Sophia behind his broad shoulders. She glanced down at the pistol, able to see it at last in the light.

It was enormous.

Not only that. It was enormously complicated-looking.

Oh dear.

The sneering intruder was on them now, swinging at Hope. He ducked just in time, allowing Sophia the perfect shot: the intruder's wide chest was exposed as he fell headfirst toward her.

She stepped forward and raised the gun, using both arms to support its weight. Slipping her finger into the inviting arc of the trigger, she gritted her teeth and pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled.

Nothing happened.

“Deuced thing!” she cried.

Before she could try again, Mr. Hope was behind her, wrapping his arms around her own as he took the pistol in his hand. In the space of a single blink—really, that's all it took—he pulled back what appeared to be another trigger on top of the gun and fired it.

Sophia started at the awesome force of it, the sound so loud that for several seconds afterward she couldn't hear much of anything. A cloud of singed smoke enveloped them, and in the fog Sophia felt the floor beneath her feet vibrate with a single, distinct thud.

The intruder had fallen.

Behind her Mr. Hope was shouting, and La Reinette was shouting back from somewhere in the chamber. Their voices were curiously faint.

And then she and Hope were running, her legs moving as if through water; they were at once heavy and weightless, taking her out of Madame's chamber, through the gallery, and down a narrow, winding stair hidden behind an iron balustrade.

Sophia looked down to see her hand clasped firmly in Mr. Hope's. She looked up to see the gleaming line of his jaw twitch with murderous intent, his dark curls wild around the inviting curve of his ear.

Behind them came the sound of heavy footsteps. One or both of those dreadful Frenchmen were still in pursuit.

Hope increased his pace without looking back, tugging Sophia along behind him. Her heart knocked painfully against her lungs, her every muscle begging her to stop the assault.

Just when she thought she might collapse, they stumbled through an unfamiliar door and out onto a dark lane that stank of refuse and horse manure. The night was close and complete here; Sophia found it difficult to breathe.

“This way!” Hope skidded on the gravel around a corner and broke into an all-out sprint. He glanced back at Sophia, his blue eyes translucent in the darkness.

“Not,” he panted, “much. Farther.”

She began to fall back, and felt herself become a weight on Mr. Hope's arm. Dear God, she was going to collapse. The air was too thick, her legs too heavy.

But then the sound of hurried footsteps again broke out behind them. Her panic propelled her forward, her gait pulling her in line with Hope.

Together they skidded around another corner and drew up before the dark shadow of an unmarked coach. Tendrils of smoke rose from its recently extinguished lamps.

“Get in!” a man called from the coachman's bench. He snapped the reins, and the horses began to move, leading the carriage out into the lane.

Hope reached for the carriage door and pried it open, trotting beside the vehicle as it quickened pace.

“You. First,” he said to Sophia. He pulled her against him and looped his palms through her underarms. “Pull. And I. Will push!”

Sophia reached for the carriage and managed to grasp either side of the door opening. Gritting her teeth against the pain of her exertion, she pulled with what was left of her strength. The force of Hope's push knocked her breathless as she somersaulted into the coach.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew her ungainly leap had exposed a goodly bit of thigh, and probably more than that. But such virginal considerations seemed to hardly signify in the face of pistols and feral Frenchmen.

She didn't know why any of this was happening, or where the carriage would take her. But this was just the sort of adventure that she so admired in La Reinette's tales, and if such adventure involved nudity, then so be it.

By now the horses were in an all-out gallop, the carriage heaving violently behind them. Sophia scrambled to her feet and reached out for Hope. He took her hands and with an ungainly leap fell into the coach, his legs dangling out the open door.

When at last she managed to wiggle the rest of his great bulk into the carriage, Sophia collapsed on the floor, gasping for air. Mr. Hope rose to his knees as he reached for the door, which was swinging wildly in time to the coach's erratic movement.

“Who the devil. Was that?” Mr. Hope called out the open door.

“Who the devil is
she
?” came the coachman's shout.

Mr. Hope slammed the door shut in reply, and with a tremendous sigh fell heavily on the ground beside Sophia.

Shoulder to shoulder, they sat together gasping for several beats.

“Oh. Miss Blaise.” Hope turned his head to look at her. “You visited La. Reinette on the wrong. Night I'm. Afraid.”

Sophia glanced up to meet his eyes.
Those eyes
. He was looking at her closely, carefully. With great interest.

Looking at her like no one—man or woman, save perhaps her dearest mama—had ever looked at her before.

She quickly looked away, focusing her gaze on her lap. A moment ago she believed her heart beat as quickly and as vigorously as it could as she ran side by side with Hope from The Glossy.

Now she knew differently. It seemed with his gaze alone, Mr. Hope could very well coax her heart to explode from the prison of her ribs.

She swallowed. Hard.

“Is this what you do every Wednesday night?” She smiled into her lap. “If I had known bankers lived such exciting lives I would've angled to become one myself.”

Mr. Hope paused, taken aback by her words; and then he laughed, laughed and put his hand on her knee. “Oh. Miss Blaise,” he said again. “If I experienced such excitement every Wednesday, I daresay I'd be dead.”

Sophia stared at his hand in the darkness, feeling the warmth of his fingers through the thin muslin of her gown. They were handsome fingers, broad but well kept and elegant, capable-looking, just like the rest of him.

She felt the heat rising to her cheeks. So much
touching
. It made her want to reach out and touch him back, to feel the heat of someone else's thrill beneath her palm.

Mr. Hope must have noticed, for he cleared his throat and pulled his hand away.

Sophia shifted uncomfortably as a beat of awkward silence stretched between them. She let her head fall back against the side of the coach, and tried not to wince as they clattered over a particularly jarring bump.

“You mustn't tell anyone,” she said, closing her eyes. “Everything. Anything. I know Violet trusts you, but—”

“You have my word, Miss Blaise. I daresay I must ask the same courtesy of you. You see, I don't usually—”

The carriage lurched; suddenly the pounding of hooves, not far behind, filled the night.

The Frenchman was back, and in hot pursuit on horseback. Sophia's blood ran cold at the memory of his greedy eyes peeking over the debris of the plasterwork.

“Bloody hell.” Hope rose into a seat and carefully pulled Sophia up beside him as the carriage bumped and jostled them against one another. He pounded the ceiling with his fist. “He's back!”

“I
see
that!” the coachman replied.

As if on cue, the rider appeared by the window at Sophia's side. She could see the gleam of his teeth as he grinned at her, holding the reins in one hand while in the other he brandished a pistol—Hope's pistol.

Sophia screamed. She heard the discharge of the gun just as the carriage jerked forward, Mr. Hope pressing her head into his lap. The window shattered and there was a great, billowing sound, like close thunder.

She managed to glance up at Mr. Hope. He was grinning. “He missed!” he shouted.

The carriage bolted left, throwing them against the far wall; then it bolted right, and Sophia nearly careened out the broken window before Mr. Hope grabbed her by her wrists and hauled her back against him.

For what seemed an eternity the chase continued in such a fashion, the coach leaping and groaning as it hurtled toward God knew where. Sophia was possessed of a strong stomach, but even so she felt the threat at the back of her throat of losing dinner more than once. Together she and Hope held on for dear life as they raced through the streets of Mayfair.