The Notorious Scoundrel (13 page)

He stiffened, the kiss hard, and she hesitated, but soon the surprise in his bones passed away and his taut muscles softened…the kiss softened, too.

She sighed as he parted his lips and took her mouth in a more passionate gesture. She wanted him to guide her through the unfamiliar movements, to take possession of her body. And he did. The man’s strapping arms circled her midriff and squeezed her ribs. His mouth moved over her lips with greater pressure, an urgent, almost hungry appeal for more, and she gave him more. She matched his hard thrusts, kissing him with zeal. She raked her fingers over his shoulders and wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hold.

In his embrace, the world seemed at right. But it was unwise to find succor with him, a scoundrel; she knew that in the rational part of her mind…yet he teased her senses with such sensual pleasure she needed to let him inside her being, if only to restore the joy that had died there so many years ago.

I want you.

He growled low in his throat.
She
was moaning softly, too, so unladylike. But she wanted the scoundrel in a very
un
ladylike way. She cleaved to him, burrowed her fingernails into his stout neck. She demanded more from him than tenderness. She demanded passion. She wanted to
feel
. She wanted to keep the hot blood flowing through her veins, for it washed away the years of torment.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

Amy staggered, her footfalls fumbled. Had Edmund
pushed her away? No. He looked as winded as she was. She had pushed him away. And with reason. She glanced at the bed, where the ignominious remark had stemmed from, and witnessed Quincy as he rolled over the feather tick’s edge and retched into the chamber pot.

She closed her eyes and sighed, trembling, weak. It wasn’t the sight of them kissing that had sickened him, but the opium. She was still flustered, though, as Edmund dutifully treaded across the room to attend his brother’s needs.

Quincy yowled as he rested again. “I hate being sick.”

Edmund poured him a glass of water. “Here,” he said hoarsely. “Drink this.”

Quincy complied. With his brother’s support, he downed the tonic.

“Ouch.” Quincy massaged his arms, his midriff. “What the devil happened to me?”

“We wrestled you to the ground last night.” He set the empty glass aside. “You tried to jump from the window.”

Quincy looked confused. “I did?”

“You were hallucinating.” Edmund glanced at her hotly. “If it hadn’t been for Amy, you would’ve leaped to your death. You might even have taken her with you to your doom if she hadn’t the strength and wherewithal to keep you secured until James and I had entered the room.”

The scamp paled. He looked at Amy with a welter of pain. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she was quick to assure him. “I’m fine.”

But Quincy still seemed gloomy, distraught. She, too, trembled, her nerves still frazzled. She reckoned it might be a good idea if she tiptoed from the room and composed herself, allowed the brothers some privacy, as well.

She headed for the door, casting Edmund one last, furtive look, but he had sensed her ogling and had matched her expression with a fiery one of his own.

I want you, too, Amy.

She rushed from the room, stifled. In the cool passageway, she stilled and placed her hand on the wall for support. She touched her mouth, the flesh swelling with blood.

She had kissed Edmund.

She
had kissed him!

And she’d aroused the scoundrel. The sentiment had pulsed through his taut muscles, in his sensual stare, his raspy voice…

She quickly skirted off. She had embroiled herself in a tight fix. How was she going to disentangle herself from it now?

“Bullocks.”

“Y
ou don’t belong here, mate.”

Edmund bristled. As he fisted his palms, he glanced at the looming figure that had sneaked up on him. He had failed to detect the other man’s stealthy approach, his thoughts engaged elsewhere, and in a wicked den like the Red Dragon that was a dangerous misstep.

“I don’t belong here, do I?”

Edmund relaxed his taut muscles and kicked the empty chair across from him, inviting the Bow Street Runner to join him at the table.

John Dunbar accepted the invitation and settled his long bones into the seat, removing his cap, allowing his mussed, sandy brown hair loose.

“You look more and more like a bloody nob, Eddie.”

“The devil I do,” he groused.

“It’s the hair.” John fingered his own unruly crop of curls, smoothing the locks. “The fashionable cut gives you away.”

Edmund humphed. He might look like a gentleman, but he didn’t feel like one. He possessed the same tainted blood as the thugs and wenches who filled the flash house with their hoarse guffaws and salacious antics.

John squinted in the dim room. “Have you quarreled with one of these roughs?”

“I’ve quarreled with
a
rough, but don’t worry about it.” He thumbed the glass of gin. “Would you like a drink, John?”

“No.” He set his cap on the table and placed his patched elbows on the soiled surface. “Is there a reason we always meet in the seediest pub in London?”

He shrugged. “I like it here.”

“You’re determined to get me killed, aren’t you?” he queried askance. “I suspect it’s retribution for almost arresting you last year.”

Edmund snorted at the absurd idea. He had no ill will toward his friend. A year ago, Edmund was involved in a dockside brawl that had aroused the River Police. The
Bonny Meg
had waited in queue in the Thames, the quays too small to accommodate the pressing ship traffic. With the ship a prime target for robbery, thieves had attempted to unload the schooner’s cargo, and a scuffle had erupted between the ruffians and the
Bonny Meg
’s crew.

The Bow Street Runners had arrived to assist the River Police in keeping the fray from turning into a riot and spilling into the city. John had attempted to apprehend Edmund during the struggle, but in the tussle, pis
tols had fired. It was Edmund who had pushed John out of the way of a bullet, and it was that episode that had united the pair as comrades…though Edmund had yet to admit he hadn’t
intended
to save John from the bullet; he’d merely tackled the Runner to the ground in hopes of disabling him and avoiding arrest.

Still, their pairing proved a curious one. Not for John, who wasn’t privy to Edmund’s past as a pirate, but for Edmund, who was reminded of their juxtapositions every time they gathered in public. In truth, he enjoyed keeping John as an acquaintance, for he admired and respected the man, but there was another, less wholesome, reason he maintained the amity—he knew it would turn his brothers’ hair white if they ever learned he was chums with a Bow Street Runner.

The twenty-seven-year-old investigator smiled, his brown eyes brimming with jest. “Have you ever thought about joining the Bow Street Magistrates’ Office?”

“No,” Edmund returned brusquely…but the twisted humor in the matter perked his interest. A former pirate serving the law? It was an amusing idea. He also wouldn’t have to confront the darker side of being a privateer in the Royal Navy’s African Squadron.

The caustic smile that had touched his swollen lips quickly faded away as he remembered the deep-rooted groans and the haunting iron scuffs as hundreds of manacles clashed together. The sounds wouldn’t wail in his ears at night anymore, he thought.

“The profession might suit you, Eddie, since you already combat the slave trade. And you fit into the un
derworld so well; you know the haunt of every villain.” He scratched his chin in deliberation. “I think you must have been a member of the underworld at some point in the past.”

“Do you?” he drawled.

John shrugged. “Well, I know you’d get the criminals confessing their sins, that’s for sure.”

“Why do you think that?”

“You have a sour look about you, Eddie. A ‘give me what I want or I’ll draw your cork’ sort of look. Add to it the fact that
you
were a member of the crew that destroyed the infamous pirate Black Hawk, and it makes for an intimidating front. You have a sound sense of justice, too.”

Edmund refrained from smirking.

“I can put in a good word for you at the magistrates’ office, if you’d like.”

“Thank you for the offer, John, but I’m not interested in the post.” He had not invited his comrade to the flash house for idle chitchat. He had a more pressing matter to impart. “I need a favor.”

“I don’t know.” John sighed and rubbed his brow, etched with fatigue. “I’m in the midst of an investigation. I haven’t the time for favors.”

“What are you investigating?”

“The dowager Lady Stevenson’s jewels are missing.” He yawned. “We suspect one of the servants, a footman, the culprit. He was apprehended by the other staff members, skulking from the country house after the jewels had disappeared. He must have tossed or hidden
the jewels, though, for they weren’t on his person when he was detained, and he won’t utter a word about their location.”

“Of course he won’t confess to their location. He’ll hang.”

“Aye.” John stroked his head. “It means
I
’ve got to comb the house and the grounds in search of the blasted baubles. I suspect the footman intended to evade capture and later return for the prize. I’m sure the jewels are still somewhere on the property.”

“Have you checked the well?”

John snorted. “I sincerely doubt the vandal drowned the priceless ornaments.”

“I would.” He shrugged. “Gold doesn’t rust. Besides, no one would think to look in the well…right?”

John stared at him thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll inspect the well on the property. And if I find the jewels, I guess I owe you that favor. What is it about anyway?”

As soon as Edmund envisioned the spirited lass, his blood warmed. He rubbed his lips together at the memory of her sweet mouth pressed hard over his, seeking kisses.

She wanted him.

He was tempted to let her have him, too, but he set aside his desires, determined to put the matter of her abduction to rest. Was there a family out there, looking for her? He’d be remiss in his duty as her guardian if he didn’t make some inquiries into the unpleasant affair.

“I need you to look through the files at the magistrates’ office, going back about thirteen years, perhaps more.”

“What am I searching for?” said John.

“A report about a missing girl. Her name is Amy. The surname might be Peel. And she possesses a birthmark.”

“Do you know how many ‘missing’ children there are in the city? The last survey places the figure well into the tens of thousands! Most parents don’t even report the child’s disappearance, they’re too thankful to be rid of the spare mouth.”

“I understand, but I’d still like you to search for the potential record.”

John sighed. “Why the interest in the girl?”

“I can’t tell you that.” He stood and prepared to depart from the flash house. “Don’t reveal our conversation to anyone. Let me know what you find.”

“If
your tip about the well proves fruitful.”

“It will.”

Amy entered the dining parlor—and paused. She admired the elegant table settings and inhaled the rich scent of freshly cooked fare. Candlelight flickered across the green-and-gold striped papered walls. In the narrow room with a high ceiling, the flames skipped over the dark woodwork, giving the polished furnishings a warm and lustrous glow.

Slowly she lifted her gaze and narrowed her eyes on the scoundrel standing behind one of the high-back
chairs, carved in the classical baroque style. He offered her a sensual smile.

“Good evening, Miss Peel.”

A tremor skipped along her backbone. “What’s going on, Edmund?”

“I thought we’d continue our lessons.” He pulled out the chair for her; its legs scraped softly across the floor. “With dinner etiquette.”

She remained standing beside the door, transfixed on a single thought. “Alone?”

“James and Sophia have departed for Mayfair, William’s away on business, and Quincy’s still resting.” He gestured toward the chair. “That leaves you and me, Miss Peel.”

Amy stared at the offered seat and balled her fingers into fists. What must he think of her after their morning kiss? That she was a brazen harlot? Was that why he’d arranged for such an intimate dinner? To seduce her?

She wanted to be a lady’s maid or companion. She hadn’t behaved like one, though. She had forsaken her good sense and polite manners for a scandalous kiss. And now he was treating her like a strumpet.

“Edmund—”

As she was still rooted to the spot beside the door, he crossed the room and cupped her elbow, escorting her to the round table. She assumed the seat with a sigh.

“We don’t use first names at the table,” he said, and occupied the seat opposite her. “It boasts a level of intimacy one might not share with the other dinner companions.”

She glanced around the room. “But it’s just the two of us at dinner.”

He removed the napkin from its gold ring, flapped the crisp linen, unraveling it, then set it across his lap. “And are we intimately acquainted, Miss Peel?”

“Ed—”

He raised a brow.

“Mr. Hawkins,” she said tightly as she followed his mannerisms, covering her skirt with the napkin. “I must talk with you about—”

“You’ve placed the ring on the wrong side of your plate.”

She looked at the table. “What?”

“The ring sits to the left of your plate.”

She moved the article. “It matters where I set the napkin ring?”

“It matters if you’d like to be invited back to dinner. Don’t underestimate the smallest detail, Miss Peel.”

The weighty warning sobered her, and she quickly firmed her lips, studying the man’s movements, mimicking his posture.

As the soup was already presented in the bowls, Edmund picked up a spoon and tasted the steaming first course.

Amy followed his movements. “Shouldn’t you wait for the lady to begin?”

“It’s old-fashioned and crude to wait for the other guests. One dines as soon as one is served.”

“Oh.”

Amy brought the spoon to her lips and sighed at the
refreshing scent, rather hungry herself. She tasted the soup; scrumptious.

Edmund set down the cutlery. “You’ve just ruined yourself, Miss Peel.”

Aghast, Amy placed the spoon into the bowl. “How?”

“I heard the little noise you made.”

Heat filled her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”

“You slurped your soup. You must
never
make a sound while eating soup.”

“I see,” she said stiffly.

She picked up the spoon again, drinking the repast with an unsteady hand, but she managed not to make another indelicate noise.

“The soup was delicious. Can I have—?”

“No.” He cleared the table of soup dishes and retrieved two plates with roasted ham and potatoes from the serving cart. “One doesn’t ask for seconds.” He set the plates over the gold chargers. “It holds up the next course for the other guests.”

Amy wiped her mouth.

Slowly Edmund lowered himself back into his seat, staring at her.

“What?” she demanded.

He lifted his napkin. “Tap your lips.” He gestured. “Like this.”

Her heart fluttered as he caressed his mouth in demonstration, his lips sensuous, inviting. Her mouth slightly ajar, she quickly clamped her lips together, chastising herself for her folly. The etiquette lesson was
stirring very
im
proper feelings in her blood, and setting aside her desire to learn and practice proper dinner manners, she realized she still had to set the scoundrel straight about their earlier kiss.

He poured her a glass of wine. “A miss might drink up to three glasses of wine during dinner; however, a married woman might have up to six.”

“Six?” She cut into the ham. “I’d lose my faculties after one.”

He arched a black brow again.

“I mean, I have to talk with you—”

“Never speak with food in your mouth.”

She quickly swallowed and parted her lips to speak—

“And don’t talk about yourself at the dinner table; it’s rude.”

She glared at him. “All right,” she said tightly. “What did you do today, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I visited with a friend.”

“That’s nice. Well, I—”

“Keep your elbows off the table.” He gestured. “Wrists only.”

“How about if I slit your wrists?” she muttered under her breath. At his questioning look, she swallowed the threat. “Well?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about my day?”

“I already know what you did today.” There was heat in his eyes, his voice. “And it isn’t necessary to reciprocate with the same question.”

Amy shivered at the man’s knowing expression, the approval in his gaze. He wasn’t the least bit put off by her scandalous behavior, scoundrel that he was.

“Tell me, Miss Peel. What do you remember about your childhood?”

She stiffened at the unexpected query. “Very little.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why are you asking me about the past?” she snapped.

“I’m curious to know more about you.”

Amy took in a deep breath. It was one thing to collect trinkets that reminded her of better days, but it was another thing entirely to dredge up the past, to talk about wistful memories.

She folded her napkin and set it aside. “I’ve lost my appetite, Mr. Hawkins.” She headed for the door. “Good evening.”

“Amy, wait.”

But she disregarded his entreaty and bustled toward her private room. Once inside the large bedroom, she sighed and examined her surroundings. A small fire burned in the hearth, casting the furnishings in a glistening aura. The bulk of the pieces belonged to her; she had arranged them in such a way that the configuration reminded her of…a time long ago.

She approached the tall vanity, skipped her fingers over the scattered toiletries: hairbrushes, hand mirrors, perfume bottles—remnants from the past. She found little comfort in the familiar articles, now.