by Kate Bateman
She must have taken his silence for hesitation. “Changed your mind, Harland?” she whispered, and he could hear the breathless challenge in her tone, alongside the bravado.
Cheeky little minx.
He tilted his hips and entered her just a fraction, and felt her tense. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He wanted to plunge forward, to bury himself to the hilt, but he forced himself to keep his promise. He didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted her to experience the same heart-bursting pleasure he did. But God, the feel of her.
He slid his hand beneath her thigh, lifted her to a better angle, and clenched his teeth as he slid forward another inch. He withdrew, then pushed into her again, and this time, he heard her gasp. Her fingers encircled his wrists like manacles. She squeezed, and he found he loved the sensation; she held him captive with only a touch.
He hated that he couldn’t see her. Being completely blind was his worst nightmare. It reminded him too forcefully of those moments right after the battlefield blast that had stolen part of his vision. He’d lain stunned on the ground, his ears ringing, all other sounds muffled by his perforated eardrums. For a moment of utter panic, he’d thought he’d lost his sight completely. Then his vision had cleared, and he’d seen smoke, and sky, and Seb stumbling toward him, blood streaming down the side of his face. Never had he been so glad to see his friend.
And now here he was, in the dark with Emmy Danvers, and his worst nightmare had suddenly become his hottest fantasy.
The darkness should have allowed him to pretend she was someone else, but it was impossible to forget who he was with. The maddening scent of her filled his nose. The taste of her skin was hers alone, floral and delicious. It was inescapably her pinned beneath him. Emmeline Danvers, the bloody Nightjar.
She wriggled, impatient, and he entered her full-length.
“Fuuuuck,” he groaned.
He sucked in a breath, determined to give her time to get used to his body’s invasion, but she squirmed beneath him again, and his brain went a little fuzzy. He rocked back and forth until he slid in easily, and reveled in her hum of delight when he found the perfect rhythm.
His usual finesse abandoned him. He was hungry for her. Desperate. Her hands roamed over his body, threading through his hair, clutching at his biceps. Her nails scored his back with a pleasure-pain that made him shudder.
“Who has you?” he heard himself growl.
“You,” she panted, “Alex Harland.” Her voice held a delight and disbelief that mirrored his own.
He increased the tempo, and she ground against him, unconsciously seeking her own climax.
“It’s always been you,” she choked out.
Alex caught his breath. He hadn’t heard that right. He couldn’t have done. But still, it almost sent him over the edge. Her body clutched his as she reached the peak again, and he was about to finish himself when sanity made a brief reappearance.
Not inside her. With a hoarse cry, he pulled out of her and spent himself on the bedsheets.
Chapter 26.
Emmy lay sweaty and panting against the rapidly cooling sheets. She stared into the darkness as her thundering heart slowly resumed its natural rhythm.
What had she done? That had been such a glorious madness, an impulsive flurry of passion. Everything Sally had described and more.
She wanted to laugh crazily, and maybe cry a little too. She felt shaky-limbed and breathless, as if she’d stumbled near the edge of a cliff and managed to right herself at the very last moment, just inches from the drop.
She was no longer a virgin. In society terms, she was ruined, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. What did social standing matter when she was about to be incarcerated and tried for robbery? The gravity of that certainly put things in perspective.
Still, she had no regrets. If this was to be her one and only experience of lovemaking, then she was fiercely glad that it had been with Harland. She’d never imagined giving herself to anyone else; it had always been him.
The echo of that thought made her pause. Had she actually said that out loud? She’d certainly thought it. It was nothing more than the truth. She’d never wanted another man as much as she’d wanted him. Her feelings toward him were so complex, she didn’t even try to understand them. She desired him, even when he opposed her. She thought about him constantly. She cared for his good opinion.
Was she was in love with him? It seemed ridiculous, impossible, and yet it was more than mere lust, more than simple attraction. The more she’d come to know him, the more she admired him.
There was absolutely no reason for him to know that, however.
Harland. She couldn’t allow herself to think of him as Alex, despite the intimacy they’d just shared. She couldn’t afford to forget who or what he was.
He lay next to her in the darkness; she could hear the deep exhalations of his breathing, feel the unfamiliar warmth of his body next to hers. She should be taking advantage of his exhausted lethargy. She should be leaping to her feet and running out of the room. But she felt just as exhausted. Her limbs were leaden, as if her bones had dissolved.
Besides, she had to face reality. Even if she managed to escape this room, this building, where would she go? She couldn’t escape her fate. Luc was still in the cells at Bow Street. Sally and Camille were still at home. She couldn’t possibly get them far enough away before Harland caught up with them again.
Emmy exhaled slowly. She was so tired. It was almost a relief to have been caught.
Almost.
The heavy weight of despair crushed her chest and squeezed the air from her lungs. No more running. Her life, as she knew it, was over. When dawn came, everything would be different. Worse. Infinitely worse. Would she even get to speak to her family before she was locked away?
She jumped as Harland shifted on the bed. The mattress bounced as he sat up and moved away, and she heard the rustle of sheets. What would happen now? Was he getting dressed? Was he about to put on the light? Interrogate her?
She heard the click of a lock as he turned the key in the door, shutting them in together, and her heart began to thump against her ribs. He paced over to the window and checked the latch was secure. Apparently satisfied that all the exits had been dealt with, he returned to the bed and perched on one side, his broad back to her.
Emmy swallowed and found her voice. “Now what?”
* * *
Alex didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do with her. He should arrest her immediately, march her over to Bow Street and place her in the cell next to her brother. Hand her over to the proper authorities. Set the wheels of justice in motion.
But duty and honor seemed cold, abstract concepts compared to what they’d just done. There had been nothing cold about that. It had been heat—burning, fevered, incredible.
He imagined Emmy, cold and hungry in the cells at Bow Street, or worse, awaiting trial in the miserable conditions of Newgate, at the mercy of every vicious inmate, corrupt guard, and twisted official. She could be raped, beaten, killed.
Suspicion reared its ugly head. She’d said she wasn’t sleeping with him to get preferential treatment, but was she lying? Surely she’d do anything to avoid punishment? Had this been a last-ditch effort? One desperate attempt to sway him from his course?
He raked his hand through his hair. God, he didn’t know. Had she feigned her desire for him? He didn’t think so. Her responses had been ardent, her body wet and willing. His cock twitched in memory.
He’d never slept with a virgin before. It should have been tiresome, her lack of experience, but he hadn’t found the task onerous. He’d relished it. Her sweet enthusiasm had only made her more endearing. Alex frowned into the darkness. He should have gone slower. Been more careful. She was so small. Had he hurt her? Crushed something? Torn her inside? He’d heard some virgins bled the first time—
He stood and lit the lamp on the side table.
She blinked in the sudden flare of light and mad
e a panicked move to cover her nakedness. “Wait!” she shrieked. “I’m naked!”
Her hands fluttered ineffectually, trying to shield her breasts and the dark triangle between her legs.
“You’re naked!” she choked, stating the bloody obvious.
Before Alex could apologize, she caught the edge of the blanket, whipped it across herself, and disappeared beneath the sheets in a flash of pale skin. She pulled them up over her head.
He suppressed a reluctant smile. He was entirely at ease, being naked, as were the women he usually slept with. They were unashamed, proud of their bodies, and rightly so. The female form was lovely. Infinitely variable, soft and curved, with intriguing dips and hollows.
Emmy Danvers, recent virgin, was clearly mortified. She was a muffled lump under the covers.
He found his breeches in a rumpled mess on the floor and shucked into them. “You can come out,” he said. “I’m decent.”
She made what sounded like a snort.
“I’m covered,” he amended dryly. He might never be decent. What he’d done to her had been decidedly indecent. His worry returned. “I need to look at you. Is there blood?”
“What?”
Her voice was muffled by the bedclothes. He fisted the top of the sheet and pulled it down to expose her head. Her hair was tousled, shielding her face.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked again. “Sometimes, the first time—”
The skin he could see—part of her cheek and neck—turned a delicious shade of pink.
“Oh! No. I don’t think so. That is, it hurt a little bit, at first, when you, ah—I’m fine. Really I am.”
Alex frowned down at her, unsure whether to believe her. With no other choice, he sighed and extinguished the lamp.
He wasn’t thinking clearly enough to question her now. He needed sleep. He considered locking her in here and going to sleep in Benedict’s old room, but he didn’t trust her not to attempt an escape if he left her alone. He couldn’t let his guard down around her for one instant. Ergo, he would have to stay in here with her until morning.
With a deep sigh, he stretched himself back down on the bed. Before she could utter an objection, he snagged the covers from her, joined her beneath them, and gathered her into his arms. She froze.
Her back was to him and her naked form nestled perfectly within his own. Her small bottom was cradled sweetly up against his groin, and the top of her head fitted perfectly beneath his chin. Her bare back warmed his chest as he dragged the scent of her hair deep into his lungs.
God, he loved the scent of her.
His uppermost arm was around her shoulders and he made a gargantuan effort to fold it over her without caving in to the near-irresistible urge to cup her breast in his hand.
Perhaps noticing that he was still wearing his breeches, or perhaps because she knew escape would be impossible, she softened a fraction.
“I’m a very light sleeper,” he warned. “I’ll know the minute you try to escape. Don’t even think it.”
She made no answer, and Alex felt himself relax. He was filled with a deep sense of contentment, and yet torn between his head and his heart.
Or was it between his head and his crotch? Was this just temporary lust blinding him? He’d been fooled by an innocent-looking face before. Could he take the shot to bring Emmy down? Could he see her dead, like that bomber in Spain? He might not have to pull the trigger himself this time, but the end result would be the same.
He frowned into the darkness. The situations weren’t the same. Emmy had never physically hurt anyone. She’d pose no danger to the public if she were free. Would he trust her word if she promised to never steal again? He wasn’t sure. But something was clearly compelling her to keep stealing, even faced with very real danger. As soon as it was light, he would make her explain.
* * *
Emmy lay still, cradled in Harland’s arms, hardly able to believe the way the night had unfolded. Being held like this, surrounded by his huge body, should have felt like an imprisonment, but instead, it felt like … safety.
She squeezed her eyes tightly. So wrong, to seek comfort from a man who could only bring her pain.
When she’d been younger, she’d dreamed of what it would be like to have Alexander Harland on her side—as an ally, not an adversary. He would make a wonderful partner, clever enough to scheme and plan. Strong enough to protect her from the Dantons of the world. If only she’d had him at her side when that first letter had arrived.
Unfortunately, a thief couldn’t hire a Bow Street Runner to find the man who was blackmailing her. She almost snorted at the ludicrous idea.
She let her body relax a little more. Being held by a man was a foreign sensation, but it somehow felt completely natural, as if she’d curled up in his warm embrace a thousand times before. Such foolishness. This was a temporary truce, nothing more. When morning came, they would be enemies again. But just for a few hours she could pretend there would be no tomorrow.
“Sleep,” Harland murmured, and she felt the rumble of it pass from his chest into her back.
What else could she do? Emmy closed her eyes and let exhaustion overtake her.
Chapter 27.
It was almost dawn when she awoke. She lay on her side and watched the light change, from dove grey to pearl white and wished they could have stayed in the darkness forever.
Harland had released her at some point during the night. He was still asleep beside her, lying on his back, and his features became clearer with every passing minute. He was so handsome, it almost broke her heart. His hair was rumpled, his bare chest visible above the sheet that had fallen around his waist. She remembered the silky feel of that hair beneath her fingers.
Several small scars marred his skin, and she resisted the urge to reach out and trace them, to smooth her palms over the defined ridges of his muscles. He reminded her of the statue she’d seen in the British Museum. Not the gladiator—although he was similarly muscled—but the dying slave. His austere face was relaxed, his beautiful lips soft and dreadfully tempting. He looked powerful and yet strangely vulnerable, almost boyish.
Emmy sighed.
No more dreaming. It was time to face the new status quo.
Her exhalation roused him. His slate-blue eyes snapped to hers. For a moment she saw confusion and then incredulity in their depths, before recollection came to him and he went from asleep to fully alert in an instant. That ability must be the result of so many years as a soldier.
He sat up in a swift move and was off the bed and standing by the door before she could even blink. He reached down and picked up her shirt and breeches from where they’d fallen on the floor, and her skin heated at the reminder that she was completely naked beneath the sheet.
He tossed them to her, his face expressionless. “Get dressed. I’ll be waiting out there.”
As soon as he left, Emmy made use of the chamber pot and splashed her face with water she found in the wash jug. The cotton drying cloth smelled of him. One glance in the shaving mirror confirmed her worst fears; she barely recognized herself. Her hair was a tangled mess and her lips seemed fuller than usual. She ran her hands through her hair, then braided it in one long plait and used a thread of cotton pulled from the washcloth to secure the end.
Muscles she’d never noticed before in her stomach and thighs protested as she bent to put on her breeches, but once she was dressed, she felt better armed to face whatever was to come. She straightened her spine, opened the door, and strode into the lion’s den.
He’d taken up position in the chair behind the desk and gestured to the seat across the polished expanse of wood. Thankfully he’d donned a shirt; she doubted she’d have been able to think straight if she’d had his bare chest to distract her.
“Sit.”
Emmy sat.
He cleared his throat and levelled her with a piercing stare. “I believe we need to clarify our respective roles in this play, Miss Danvers.”
She winced at his r
eturn to formality but managed to match his tone. “Is it a farce? A comedy? A tragedy?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He placed his hands flat on the desk. She would not think of those hands on her body.
“Do you deny that you are the thief they call the Nightjar?”
She lifted one shoulder in an easy shrug and threw him an appeasing crumb. “That was my father.”
He frowned at her. She raised one brow. Battle lines had been drawn. Last night she’d been too panicked to think clearly, but this morning she wouldn’t go down without a fight.
“The only thing you can prove I’m guilty of is breaking into your bedroom,” she said calmly. “And that’s not much of a crime. I bet I’m not the first woman to visit your chamber uninvited in the middle of the night.”
She quashed a hot flash of jealousy at the thought.
He sent her an impatient look. “Your father is dead. A dead man didn’t break into Rundell and Bridge. A dead man didn’t steal the blue diamond from the British Museum.” He leaned closer. “A dead man didn’t call me an unresponsive lump of rock.”
Emmy bit her lip to suppress a smile. So that still rankled, did it? Good.
“What do you want me to say? That I took over as the Nightjar from my father? Do you think anyone will believe that? I’m just a weak and foolish woman.”
That, hopefully, would be the opinion of a bench full of judges, should she ever be brought to trial. She would play upon their standard male prejudices: A young woman like herself was too stupid to mastermind a string of audacious thefts, too feeble to carry them out.
“You didn’t work alone. I know full well your brother is involved. And that housekeeper of yours, Sally Hawkins.”
Damn. Emmy tried to keep her face impassive. She was prepared to take sole blame for the Nightjar’s crimes, provided the rest of her family were spared. Perhaps it was time to divert his attention. She sent him a wistful smile. “I truly wish we’d met under different circumstances, Lord Melton. But the fact of the matter is, I’m—”
