Touch of a Thief (8 page)

His lingam stood upright between her wet folds. He matched her breath and felt her heart pounding between her legs, throbbing around him. If he didn’t want a fountain to erupt between them, he needed to enter her now.

He lifted her again, positioning her above him so he could impale her by finger widths, drawing out their torment. The tip of him slid into her yoni. He narrowly restrained himself from driving in his full length in a single quick stroke.

Before he could lower her onto himself, she lifted the blindfold and looked down at him. A cat’s smile played about her mouth. “Not until you tell me what happened at the lake,” she whispered. “I need to know who you are.”

Quinn jerked awake. It was only a dream. She didn’t know anything. She couldn’t know. No one did.

Except his father, may he rot in hell.

Viola’s gentle breathing was undisturbed but his came in short pants. His cock was set to go off. Only a tug or two would do the trick.

But self-gratification was a cheat, Padmaa had explained. A useful exercise in discovering one’s limits of control perhaps, but if one wished to experience the heights of the act of love, one needed to save one’s energy and seed for release with a partner.

Quinn wondered if the Indian courtesan wasn’t in collusion with his vicar. The man constantly warned of blindness and other ills if young men “abused” themselves.

“Delay brings delight,” Padmaa was fond of saying.

Try telling that to my cock
, he thought, grinding his teeth with frustration.

Viola had meant it when she’d turned him down. She wouldn’t bed him unless he allowed her to ferret out his secrets. Quinn would be willing to tell Viola about his time at Eaton, his stint in the military, even his relationship with Padmaa, but how by all that was holy had she latched onto the one thing he’d never told another soul?

No, his mind was playing tricks on him. That was only in his dream. Viola might have sensed his estrangement from Lord Kilmaine, his father the viscount, but he’d never let anything slip about the lake. Not to anyone.

And he intended to keep it that way.

He rolled onto his side and wondered how much longer it was till dawn.

Willie
pushed his way through the knots of passengers on the paddle-wheel steamer and tromped down the gangplank. He was so eager to get off the ship, he didn’t care if he ran someone down. He’d never suspected he had that much puke in him till he crossed the Channel. He narrowly resisted the urge to fling himself to the ground and kiss the cobbles of Calais.

The worst of it was that, even though he’d nipped down the Thames in the fastest riverboat he could find, Lady Viola wasn’t aboard the steamer. He’d let her get too far ahead of him. After questioning an unfortunate steward with threats of more than a black eye, he learned no lady of her description traveling with a gentleman of military bearing had been aboard the previous sailing either.

Duncan better not be wrong about this.
Willie ground a fist into his other palm.

When his shop boy had come back with the news that Lady Viola was off for Paris in the company of a gentleman, most people would have suspected the lady had found a lover.

Not Willie.

She was too good a thief to be sidetracked by a prick.

He nosed around a bit and came across the rumor of an Indian diamond on its way to the Royal Collection. That made a good deal more sense to Willie’s mind. If the lady was bound for Paris, the diamond must be on its way there as well. Lady Viola must have taken a different route than the paddle steamer.

He elbowed his way to the head of the line to purchase a seat on the next coach to Paris. There were only a few hotels in the French capital where the English upper crust would deign to stay. He’d find her right enough.

Lady Viola had to be taught a lesson and Willie was just the bloke to do it. She stole for him and he’d not allow his best set of light fingers to work for someone else. The sooner she realized that was way of the world, and the way it would stay, the better.

As for that Indian diamond, by God, she bloody well wasn’t going to cut Willie out of his share.

Sharing the small cabin with Greydon Quinn was even more trouble than Viola expected.

And she’d expected quite a lot.

She took great pains to protect her modesty. Every morning she remained snug in bed until after Sanjay arrived with their breakfast. Then she lifted her robe from its peg and wiggled into it beneath her sheets before she emerged from the bunk to break her fast.

Not Lieutenant Quinn. He greeted her each morning wearing nothing but the blanket he’d slept in and a smile.

“Do you mind?” Viola crossed her arms over her chest.

He took a swig of tea, then set the cup down and stood to hold her chair for her. The blanket rode low on his hips. “Where are my manners?”

“Where indeed?” she murmured as she perched on the chair and allowed him to push her closer to the table. She poured the steaming tea into her cup and added a dollop of milk.

“You’re welcome,” he said pointedly.

She shot him a glare, then dropped her gaze lest she linger too long over his bare chest. “Why should I thank you for showing me such disrespect?”

His fingers splayed over that incredible chest in a gesture of mock surprise.

He returned to his chair and hooked an ankle over his knee, displaying a bare, long-toed foot. “In what manner have I failed you, milady?”

“We may be posing as husband and wife, but we need only keep up the appearance of intimacy when we are in public.” She buried her nose in her teacup to keep from staring at his well-muscled torso. “Did it occur to you that I wouldn’t appreciate such a display of flesh in private?”

“Not really.” He tapped his boiled egg with the edge of his butter knife and peeled off the shell. “I haven’t forced you to look in my direction. But if your sidelong glances are any measure, I’d say you’re properly appreciative.”

Drat the man!
He was right, but it would take an hour with thumbscrews to make her admit it.

“This cabin is small enough to make it impossible not to inadvertently glance your way on occasion.”
Only every other heartbeat.
“I would prefer it if you exercised a bit more modesty.”

“As you wish.” He stood and began untucking the blanket from around his waist.

“What are you doing?”

“Just honoring a lady’s request.” He held the blanket out in front of him. “I’ll attach it to the beam and find my way into a few more clothes.” He suited his actions to words and walled himself in on the far side of the table. “Might I suggest you use this time to dress as well? We should be approaching Paris this morning. You’ll want to take a turn around the deck and see the sights as we make port. Have you ever been to Paris before?”

“No.” There was a threadbare spot in the blanket, thin enough she could see his flesh-toned form through it. She looked at her own lap, trying to steel herself against the temptation. Quinn was totally amenable to discussing matters of the flesh, but he’d resisted all her efforts to draw him into conversation about himself. “I’ve been wondering something.”

“Of course you have. You wouldn’t be a woman if you weren’t curious. What now?”

She heard the rustle of small clothes being drawn over his body. It reminded her that he tended to dress more quickly than she, so she unfastened her robe and shrugged out of it.

“Your father is Viscount Kilmaine. According to DeBrett’s, he also claims a barony. Ashford, isn’t it? I was wondering why you go by your military rank instead of your courtesy title, Lord Ashford.”

“I may have purchased a commission, but believe me, I earned my rank.” His voice held a hard edge that surprised her. “Besides, I wasn’t born to the title.”

“No, your brother was. I understand that. But still, you’re heir to Lord Kilmaine now and you’re entitled to use his lesser title.” She pulled on her stockings and gartered them at her knee. “A title always smoothes a man’s way in the world. I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to use it.”

“Ah, I see it now. You want to be introduced as Lady Ashford instead of Mrs. Quinn.”

Through the bare spot in the blanket, she caught a glimpse of his navel and the narrow strip of dark hair that led downward from it. Heat crept up her neck.

“Lady Ashford does have a grander ring to it, doesn’t it?” His elbow bumped the blanket and her view of his belly disappeared.

“Since I’m not really your wife, it hardly matters.” She looked away from the thin place in the blanket, wiggled into her drawers and tied the drawstring at her waist.

Once again he’d deflected a personal question by speculating on why she wanted to know. And put her on the defensive.

“If I were the sort who cared about such things, I’d never have married you in any case.” She drew off her nightshift, opened her valise beneath the bunk, and pulled out a fresh chemise. Time to put
him
on the defensive. “A daughter of an earl might be said to have married down since you’re merely the son of a viscount.”

“Ouch, milady.” He was silent a few moments. “Are you the sort who cares about such things?”

At one time, yes
, she admitted to herself as she slipped into the chemise. Such things mattered a great deal.

Neville Beauchamp was heir apparent to his uncle, who was a marquis. She’d fully expected to be the ninth Marchioness of Sudbury. But her father died and so did Neville’s regard for her. Apparently, his uncle was a light-in-the-pockets marquis and aside from her maidenhead and sumptuous dowry, Viola held no real value for Neville.

Especially once both were gone.

“No, Quinn,” she said softly. “Those things aren’t important to me.”

Her gaze fell on a silver tray where Sanjay had laid out Quinn’s wrist studs for the day. Garnets, by the look of them, set in silver.

Garnets weren’t the chattiest of gems, but if she were determined to learn more about Quinn, touching a jewel he wore each day would undoubtedly tell her more than he did.

Of course, using her gift was not without cost. If she maintained contact with a gem long enough to establish a link that let the stone send her a prolonged vision, she’d have a pounding headache for the rest of the day. There was also a chance Quinn would catch her mid-trance and discover the secret of her unique ability.

Or he might see her handling his studs and believe she meant to steal them.

If Quinn wouldn’t talk to her about himself, how else was she to learn anything about him? She stretched out her hand.

“Did Sanjay leave my wrist studs?”

She started guiltily. “Yes, they’re here on a tray.”

“Would you mind handing them to me? Or are you dressed enough that I can come round?”

“No, no!” Her breasts were still unbound. She picked up the tray and held them around the edge of the blanket. “Here they are.”

“Not terribly grand, are they?” Quinn took the tray from her.

“They seem fine enough.”

“They belonged to my uncle. He was a capital chap. Always drunk and disorderly, embarrassed my father every chance he got, but Uncle Bertram knew how to turn himself out well when he put his mind to it. He left me these and a set of pearl ones. And a silver snuffbox I never use but always carry. Odd, I suppose, but it helps me remember him.” The pearl studs were supposed to go to his brother, but like so much meant for Reggie, they’d come to him in the end instead.

“You cared a great deal for your uncle. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” Quinn bent to peer through a thin spot in the blanket.

“Why do you just suppose? Don’t you know?”

Quinn knew ogling a woman through a threadbare blanket made him a bit of a cad, but he’d like to shake the hand of the man who could resist the tempting bit of lace on the other side of the thin partition. Such a stalwart fellow would have to be a saint.

Or a eunuch.

Viola was fitting her corset around her body. She must have already adjusted the laces at the back to the required tightness. Now she only need fasten the hooks and eyes running alongside the busk.

The corset lifted her breasts and pressed them together. The creamy flesh bulged over the top of her chemise. So soft. So touchable. So—

“Quinn?”

He straightened to his full height and the enticing image blurred. “What?”

“Don’t you know whether or not you cared for your uncle?”

Oh, that
. Women were always prattling on about feelings and such rot. “Yes, I know. He was a regular corker and I admired him a great deal.” Especially Uncle Betram’s ability to send Quinn’s father into a near apoplectic fit. “But he’s gone now. I don’t feel the need to dwell on it.”

There. That should satisfy her.

“Why not? It’s certainly no weakness to admit to tender feelings. The people we choose to love reveal a good deal about us.”

“Becoming maudlin over one’s feelings, tender or otherwise, serves no useful purpose.”

Quinn heard the rustle of taffeta. Against his better judgment, he ducked down to peer at her again. The lace at her neckline was frayed and the petticoats she drew on were patched and mended. Her dresses were several seasons old, but her undergarments were in far worse condition. Only those ridiculous little hats she wore were in the first stare of fashion.

His chest constricted. She kept up a brave front.

“Our first stop in Paris will be at a modiste’s,” he said decisively.
That should end all talk of feelings.

“Why? I packed sufficient clothing for all normal purposes.”

“Whatever else our purposes are, they are not normal.” He pulled on his jacket and straightened his spine. “I think you’re right. No more Lieutenant Quinn. Time to put aside my military past. Lord Ashford desires to see his baroness turned out in the latest Parisian fashions. That way our trip to Paris serves three purposes.”

“A new wardrobe for me, a red diamond for you. What’s the third?”

He lifted the curtain in time to catch her fastening the last button on her bodice. “Why, milady, I’m cut to the quick. How could you forget? We’re on our honeymoon.”