by Gina Conkle
Even the primmest preacher would throb with lust should he cross the White Lamb’s threshold.
“There you are!” His cousin sidled up to him, breathless with excitement. “Quite a lively reel, isn’t it?”
Thumb hooked in his waistcoat pocket, he soaked in the revelry. “Been to my share of country assemblies, but I’ve never seen a reel like that.”
Which made his cousin laugh. She linked arms with him, and he smelled spiced rum. It had been a long, long time since he’d last set foot in the White Lamb. It was quieter then: thieves and cutthroats, harlots and humble travelers, all taking respite from the thirsty business of life. If what he was witnessing tonight was how a newborn marriage came about, he needed to get out more. Perhaps he’d kept too much to himself laboring for West and Sons Shipping. Most days, once the work was done, he’d find a chophouse, get his fill of food, and find his bed—alone.
A deep itch grabbed hold, and he searched the dancers for a seditious raven-haired woman. All and sundry in this establishment would test the limits of their bed ropes.
Why shouldn’t he do the same?
“Mr. Gladwell’s daughter, Hannah, wed one Mr. James Hadley.” His cousin stood on tiptoe and pointed. “There they are.”
A ginger-haired man tossed a laughing, comely maid high in the air. Flowers crowned her head, and pink ribbons twined blond locks.
“He looks happily leg shackled.”
His cousin leaned against him, her visage wistful and soft. “He most certainly is. Mr. Hadley was part of a company of rogues. The best Spruce Prigs in London, and he gave it all up. For her.” She sighed. “Now he’s going to help Mr. Gladwell, owner and proprietor of this establishment.”
“True love, I’m sure.”
She eyed him. “Too quaint an emotion for you?”
“Too costly.”
His cousin’s mouth curved, worldly and wise. “Well, you’re sure to find whatever your heart desires . . . to the extent your purse can pay for it.”
Was that a warning? Did she see him as a sheep among wolves? Could be he still exuded rustic highlander, the kind who spent more time hunting wild game than chasing pretty women. Or his cousin swam regularly in a pool of iniquity and was quite jaded.
A pair of smiling blondes ambled by. Lips rouged, cheeks flushed, and one with a red flower in her hair. She gave him a come-hither look before blending into a cluster of friends. Her blue-eyed stare cut across the room past bobbing heads and found him once more.
His cousin’s voice floated artfully beside him. “And there are plenty of women willing to oblige your company without benefit of payment. I could make introductions.”
He briefly held that blue-eyed connection, then severed it to watch a smiling groom dance with his joyous bride. Blue-eyed women were everywhere and not so desirable.
“I’m here to watch over you and Anne.”
“Of course. The night’s business,” his cousin said, smiling coyly. “You’ll need a drink for that.” She tugged his sleeve and led the way, speaking over her shoulder. “While you’re watching over us, have a care with your coin purse.”
He patted his pocket, the coin purse still there.
Spruce Prigs were a cunning lot. Pickpocketing wasn’t their usual mode, but one could never be too careful. Well dressed and well mannered, the rogues sneaked into the City’s best social events and robbed the master of the house blind. A particularly bold band of Spruce Prigs had opened a store off Threadneedle and sold the goods back to the owners for twice their value.
Smart and pretty or scarred and vile, the White Lamb hosted rogues of every order.
His cousin cut a path through the hive-ish mob when her arm slipped free. A clutch of thrum-capped sailors claimed her. She smiled grandly and pointed at a corner, “Over there!” before melting into the crowd.
He hesitated, but her full-throated laughter was the sign he needed. Cecelia MacDonald was just fine, which was a good thing. Another woman called him, one with firm command of her life and a vexing way of stirring his.
Something happened when they were alone in the salon today, and he hungered to finish it.
Slogging through the crowd, he was hot and impatient. The music loud, the voices louder. Ale was spilled on the toes of his boots. Elbows jabbed his back. He plowed on, scanning faces as if he’d waited eight years for this night. His journey had taken him through rebellion, imprisonment, and a string of unwise days frittered in London. Now it landed him here, his final steps in this boisterous public house.
Until he saw what he wanted. Anne tucked in a corner, hair tumbled, skin sheened.
Dumbstruck, he breathed in her magic.
Could a man see a woman for the first time, twice in his life?
Anne must’ve danced a reel or three or four. Ruby-red lips parted, and she drank from a pewter cup. He would feast on this picture except his vision expanded. Two men flanked her, the taller one whispering in her ear. A first mate, he guessed, by the cut of the man’s coat and his stance.
A peal of laughter was her answer.
Both hands curled into fists. The men would leave, or he’d hammer them.
Patrons jostled, and he moved, the planked floor sticky against the soles of his boots. Hands clapped in time to the music. The beat matched his pulse. Winding around giggling harlots, he waited for Anne to feel his presence. He felt hers, the fey night creature exposed, her darkness brightly fascinating.
She made everything vivid. Songs were spirited, colors clear, and touch . . .
His mouth quirked.
Lasses with the right touch . . . his weakness.
But touching her was only a memory. A wise man would leave the past where it belonged, yet standing in the White Lamb he was far from wisdom’s gates.
And only Anne had what he wanted.
Watching her, he knew when awareness struck. The hitch of her body, her rum-glistened mouth still until her reckless gaze found his.
Like flint to steel. He burned.
She drank again from her cup, her fearless emerald eyes locked with his in a blatant carnal stare. Sensuality fused to his skin. His joints taut, he pushed past throngs of couples until the last, a young man trying hard with a serving wench.
“Not now, Thomas. I’m working.” The harried woman wiped her brow and tucked a rag in her apron pocket.
The poor lass blocked Will, but he’d wait impatiently.
Anne called out a neutral, “I’d given up on you coming.”
“Why wouldn’t I? We are betrothed,” he said with relish.
His reward was her eyes rounding and one man’s face draining color. Had she forgotten their ruse? Apparently. His chest swelled with satisfaction at reminding her, while pewter clanked and the serving wench between them sped off, mugs in her clutches and an ardent swain in tow.
Finally, Anne. Except . . .
Anger and lust bolted him. “What the devil . . .”
She was perched on a barrel, slender legs crossed with skirts foaming around white-stockinged knees. A black silk shoe dangling off her toes, Anne was sin and innocence.
She wasn’t waiting for trouble. She was looking for it.
Chapter Eight
Will’s bone-cleaving stare traveled from one man to the other.
“Leave.”
She was shocked to her toes. At his harsh command and her dancing pulse. At Mr. Gunderson’s hasty exit (no loss there, the man was a trifle dull). At Mr. Harrison briefly sizing up Will before bidding her adieu with a neat bow. She expected more from him. Mr. Harrison had sailed around the world twice and fought pirates, if his tales were true. How could he give up so easily?
It might be the tiny detail of her sudden betrothal, but she couldn’t fully countenance that. A woman at the White Lamb was fair game until she was wedded and bedded, and even that was negotiable to some. Men were wolves on the hunt, seeking where they might scatter their seed.
Or was it the hulking beast who scared them off?
Will. Upon spying her legs, his calm humor coiled to a snarl. His size would daunt the heartiest, and his hair was on the mussed side, the queue loose with hanks of hair framing a handsome, if unfriendly face. Definitely not Hades. That version of him was rough refinement. This man was nostrils flaring, eyes burning, tension on two legs. He prowled. A great grace surrounded him and she fell into the depths of his amber eyes.
The beast she’d unchained from Marshalsea was back. He’d cleared the field, and by the look, he’d walked all the way from Southwark to do it.
New heat washed her limbs, sounding an alarm. No rules, save one, existed in their new arrangement. She was to give him something in return for his service to the league. Beyond that, theirs was an open field, tenuous and unnegotiated.
She needed to . . . reassemble.
She sipped rum and twirled her foot. “You might as well post a no trespassing sign.”
“Your garter is showing, madame.”
“So is your ill temper.” She couldn’t stop from peering at her knee.
A red silk bow peered back.
“Do you always conduct business with your petticoats at your knees?”
“When I want to, yes.”
Will leveled a hard look at her.
She feigned innocence and tucked her hem an inch higher. “Should my hem be here?”
Will’s gaze locked on the bit of skin exposed at her knee.
“Or . . . here?”
She baited the beast, nudging her hem another fraction of an inch. So her skirts had climbed that high. Blame the potent drink coursing her veins. She was deliciously light and free. It had been, well . . . forever since she’d last danced. Dancing was a frivolous pursuit when there was much work to do. A household to run, a warehouse to manage, Jacobite gold to hunt and steal. A woman’s work was never done.
And if she was perfectly honest, it had been forever since she’d satisfied that other frivolous pursuit.
“No man will ask me to dance. Not with you hulking about.” She toyed with lace trim on her underskirt. “It’s getting rather lonely . . . me and my hand.”
“What did you say?” he asked incredulously.
She dragged a finger over rum dripping down her cup and sucked her soft wet fingertip.
“A woman pleasuring herself.” Defiant words rolled off her tongue, fueled by rum and frustration. “The widow’s consolation prize.”
A slow grin fought his scowl. “What have you been pouring down your throat, lass?”
“A toddy.”
Will checked the bowl. Nutmeg dusted a mixture of rum, water, and sugar.
“Don’t you think you’ll need a clear head for tomorrow?” His voice roughed with concern.
“I’ll be fine.” She raised her mug in salute. Duty was her middle name.
Her spine hit the wall, and she was grumpy again, slouching as best a woman could in stiff stays. Neither of her two dead husbands ever worried over her. The newness of it was rather like tasting a foreign dish for the first time—did she like it? Or not?
“You could dance with me.”
She jerked at his gruff invitation. The beast would devour her, and by the currents snapping under her skin, she’d welcome it.
His mouth on her. Anywhere.
Everywhere.
Yes. That is the problem. Will was delectable and masculine with a tender underbelly, though few saw it. The outside was just as tempting. Light touched each teeth-achingly beautiful angle of his face, and tomorrow, they were supposed to work together. If sex muddled clear thinking, dancing with Will would baffle her senses. Hands touching, bodies brushing, faces close.
She gulped rum. “No.”
“Suit yourself.” He grabbed a Mortlake jug of ale and poured it into an empty tankard, muttering, “If you did, at least your legs’ll be decently covered.”
Her Catholic highlander was such a Puritan. His offer to take a turn at the reel was born of propriety. In the White Lamb? Where harlots flashed knees and thighs?
“Take a look around you. No one is going faint at the sight of my shins.”
His grunt was primordial. Will angled himself just so, shielding her from the rest of the tavern, and drank his ale. The beast on watch. No poaching here! His back stretched impossibly wide, narrowing by degrees to his waist. He was comfortable in his cast-off velvet coat, and she liked that about him. She always had. No airs, just Will being Will. A common laborer and one-time warrior, an unashamed man of the land. By day he worked with his hands, and by night he read, as evidenced by his collection of pamphlets and lone book, Dante’s Inferno. An interesting choice.
Will had depths worth exploring; their summer together she’d barely scratched the surface. But he was better suited for tame country assemblies with harmless punch and proper reels, though she couldn’t be completely sure. She’d never danced with him.
A crack split her heart. She never would.
Will would go his way, and she’d go hers. Again.
The room hazed. Duty was a lonely banner to carry. Leaning over, she dragged her mug through the toddy bowl atop a barrel beside her, her table for the night.
“This evening was supposed to be fun.”
Will braced a hand on the wall, his coat falling open. “I thought it was supposed to be work.”
A black waistcoat hugged him. The vee of his waist distracted her. Flat, narrow, flouting symmetry of an otherwise large male frame. Eyelids drooping, she stared.
“It was.” She cleared her throat and conjured her best woman-of-business voice. “I bought a drayage and two horses. They’ll be delivered to Cecelia’s house in three days.”
“A legitimate purchase?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s no’ very exciting, buying a big side-less cart and two horses.”
She took in the width of his shoulders. “A necessity.”
Will took a swig of ale. “Why, Mrs. Neville, you make a life of crime sound almost boring.”
His brogue trilled warm and resonant. The little things about him got her. His slouching old boots and gilded-gold hair. And Will was so close. So touchable. She ran her fingers along his shirt’s open neck, the seam worn, the linen a textured grain.
“Most of my purchases are legitimate, Mr. MacDonald.” She stared at his mouth, the width and fullness of his lower lip. “There’s been only one illegitimate purchase.”
The tankard stopped halfway to his mouth. “Only one?”
“Yes. Though I prefer to think of him as a troublesome hire.”
Will’s eyes were glossy and black, ringed with amber. She could swim in their depths.
“Him, you say? And how do you keep this troublesome mon in line?”
She gripped his shirt with one hand and filled the other with velvet. “By giving him what he wants.”
“A perilous plan, lass.”
“Not any more perilous than committing a crime.”
Time slowed. She searched his face, his eyes fierce and clear. Theirs was a dance of stillness, him on the brink of crossing a boundary and her ready to smash them all. The tension was agony.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
His chest expanded and contracted with a mighty gust as if she’d laid a boon at his feet, yet he’d stay a gentleman. She didn’t want a gentleman; she wanted the beast. Or Hades. Both were versions of Will, and she wanted to taste them.
She scored old velvet with her fingernails, an image flashing: grabbing Will’s hand and racing out the door for the nearest dark alley. She’d lift her skirts and he’d take her against a wall. An act of steamy, grinding sex.
“Now is no’ the time or place for that,” he chided, thick voiced.
She begged to differ. Matters of the flesh had never been their problem.
Will set aside his ale and touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth. “You have a small mess here.” A gentle swipe and, “No thief should sport nutmeg on her mouth. It’s distracting. About as distracting as you t
alking about touching yourself.”
Lust danced like the devil between them. She was acutely aware of touching his clothes. If she touched him, she’d incinerate. Somewhere in their conversation, music had stopped and her legs had uncrossed. Her limbs, in fact, had a mind of their own. Her skirt was properly down but underneath her jellied knees were wide open. Will was between them.
His lips parted, a magnetic pull.
Her mouth was drawn to his, as necessary as breathing.
She tipped her head and—
“This is my cousin, Mr. Will MacDonald.”
Her shoe clattered to the floor. Cecelia! What piss-poor timing.
She grasped more velvet, stretching the cloth to its limit. Will checked her, a tense frown her answer. His private smile did nothing to erase her jagged edge. They untangled themselves, him smoothing his coat, and her hot skinned, tossing back unruly curls while wantonness streamed her veins.
“We were discussing today’s purchase,” she said as dignified as one could, sitting on a barrel with one shoe on and one shoe off.
“Of course, you were.” Cecelia’s cat-that-ate-the-cream smile stretched wide and introductions were made.
Cecelia was arms linked with Mr. Horatio Styles, cozy and friendly as was her way. Anne worked hard to be agreeable, but lust clung like a vapor, clouding her head. She liked Mr. Styles. He took his profession seriously. With gentle manners and a tutor’s mien, his past was unknown. Scholar? Actor? He could’ve been both or neither. Gray haired and smooth skinned, his age was uncertain, but his talent legendary. When he didn’t work, the man dressed well. Pink of the fashion.
“Mr. Styles is a counterfeit crank,” Cecelia explained to Will. “The best.”
“Thank you, Miss MacDonald.” Mr. Styles beamed. “I am happy to use my skills to help a friend.”
“A counterfeit crank?” Will’s brow furrowed. “How is your pretending to have the falling-down sickness getting me inside a house on Grosvenor Square?”
“Because I shall play the part of a rag-n-bone man afflicted with the falling-down sickness.”
“While you and Anne play a newly betrothed couple out for a stroll,” Cecelia said to Will.
