The Seduction of Phaeton Black

by Jillian Stone

  America fanned herself with a hand. “Well, this is stimulating.”

  “Mmm.” His lips brushed the back of her neck. “No argument there.” As the atmosphere in the small crypt warmed, gentlemen retrieved pocket squares and loosened starched collars. Anubis reached further under his wife’s skirt and the goddess flung back her head and moaned.

  Phaeton pressed her hard against him. “I have to have you.” His cock stiffened, no doubt along with every other man’s in the room. America turned enough for him to see the edge of her grin. “Randy lot, you Brits.”

  Slowly, he bunched up the back of her skirt. She waited, in anticipation of his caress. She got the distinct impression he was taking his sweet time. He wanted to make her long for the slide of his hand up her trembling thighs. And then it came; softly his fingers played along the inside of her leg flesh, sliding under French pantalettes. He was about to take her from behind, right here, in front of God and everyone.

  She pushed away. “Mr. Black, we’re in public.”

  He pulled her farther into the dark corner. “Not so public.”

  She couldn’t quite stifle a giggle. “You are completely mad.”

  “Ah, you’ve been warned about me.” Phaeton licked the underside of her earlobe. A string of tingles prickled her skin. Weak in the knees and lustful, she rested her head back against his shoulder. His hand wrapped around her breast. A thumbnail rubbed through silky fabric, pricking up a nipple. Another surge of arousal shot through her body. The more intimacies she allowed this man, the more she desired him. And worst of all, there were these new, nagging affections for him.

  In one swift move, the god-creature grabbed hold of spread legs and pulled his goddess to the edge of the sarcophagus. The beastly ebony sword bobbed in anticipation. Jaws dropped around the room. America had overheard sailors boast of sights not half this prurient in the pleasure houses of Macau.

  Wickedly, she rubbed her buttocks back and forth across Phaeton’s throbbing cock.

  Anubis groaned.

  Phaeton groaned.

  Stickles coughed. “Beg pardon, sir.”

  Phaeton straightened and let down her dress. The elder gentleman’s gaze traveled up into the cobwebs crisscrossing the corner above them. “What is it, Stickles?”

  “I am told there is a messenger outside. An urgent wire for you.”

  For a moment, Phaeton appeared as though he might explode or cry. Instead, he took her by the hand. The older man trailed after them. “Oh, Mr. Black?”

  “What is it now?”

  Stickles cleared his throat, gesturing toward the spectacle on top of the sarcophagus. “Should I ask for privacy?”

  Phaeton halted their exit. The goddess wrapped both beautiful legs around Anubis and trust upward. “Do they look like they mind an audience?”

  Chapter Thirty

  SUSPECT LOCATED IN LIMEHOUSE STOP CAN YOU SPARE A FEW MEN FOR DAWN RAID STOP THE WHITE SWAN

  “DEX HAS YOUR PIRATE CORNERED.” Phaeton passed the wire to America, who read the words by lamplight. Slanted green eyes flashed over the words pasted on paper. Her face animated. Such a game young woman. He quite enjoyed that about her. Bright. Spirited. Vengeful. And, oh yes, exceedingly beddable.

  “You will help him, won’t you Phaeton?”

  He smiled. Dear God, how he would miss her. Hair a bit wild, cheeks flushed a peachy copper hue. She took his breath away. He thought about the long carriage ride across town, alone, with Miss Jones. Without taking his eyes off her, he spoke to the elderly gent nearby. “Mr. Stickles, might you wheedle Doctor Exeter away from the risqué burlesque going on in the crypt?”

  He smiled at America. “No reason why this operation can’t spare a few men. Anubis has agreed to settle down for a good long ocean voyage back to his—port of origin—shall we say?”

  “You got him to agree to that?”

  “Easily done. I promised him sex.”

  She rolled her eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. “Are all men so bloody simple?”

  “Yes.” His lip twitched. “Gods and jackals as well, it would seem.” He lifted the folded telegram from her hand and shoved it in his pocket.

  “I do hope this is important, Phaeton. He’s got the flail out.” Exeter approached with a wink.

  Phaeton stared at Exeter. “You don’t say.” He leaned backward, for a glimpse down the triangular shaped passageway. “Miss Jones and I are needed in Limehouse.”

  Exeter folded his arms across his chest. “You want me to see those two safely entombed inside the sarcophagus, while you and Miss Jones go chasing after pirates?”

  “Exactly. We’ll also need the use of your carriage.”

  Was that a growl from Exeter? Certainly there were narrowed eyes. “Very well, Phaeton. How do you want me to handle this?”

  “Anubis made a covenant. Gods, generally, abide by their promises. His mate, as well, finds London dreary. I don’t think you will get much resistance from either one.” Phaeton removed his hat and scratched his head. “Make a ritual or ceremony out of it. Might ask Zander Farrell to sing a refrain or two from Aida—wife claims he’s a lovely tenor.” He tried a grin to further cajole. “Soothe the savage god-beast, wot?”

  “Leastwise, a fitting aria.” Torrid moans echoed from the crypt. All three of them craned their necks for a good long, openmouthed stare down the corridor. Strands of whip feathered over Qadesh’s trembling bottom. Phaeton wiped the sweat off his brow and adjusted for an uncontrollable surge of blood below the belt.

  “Is that our plan then?” Exeter’s eyes never left the spectacle on the stone. “Chilcott asked if we had one.”

  “Pray tell, what did you advise?”

  The doctor faced him. “I told him—” A subtle lift edged a thinly clasped mouth. “You’re going to have to learn to trust Phaeton.”

  He tore his eyes off the lusty scene at the end of the passageway. “You said that?”

  “I did.” Exeter stepped farther into the crypt. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  Phaeton called after him. “Have Zander send a few men on to The White Swan, Commerical Road.” America tugged at his arm. “Soon as possible.”

  They made a hurried dash through the cemetery to the carriage. He lifted America into the cabin and jumped in after. He yanked her into his arms, but stopped short of plundering her mouth. Instead, he bit down and tugged on a plump lower lip. Tasting, savoring her for several blissful moments. He hardly recognized the husky voice that spoke softly to her. “Something dangerous is happening, Miss Jones.”

  A mysterious smile formed on the unfathomable mouth he continued to nip at. Sensuous, moist lips teased, returned his ardor, made him wonder if she took his meaning. Did she, as well, feel this growing attachment between them? A tremble shuddered through him, enough to shake off the soppy romantic reverie. He jerked himself back to the task at hand, his aching prick.

  “As much as I would enjoy ravaging you here on the spot, I’m going to have to ask you to undress, Miss Jones.”

  Reaching behind her, he pulled down the widow shade. “Slowly.”

  A quirk of mouth. A darling smirk. He fought an urge to rip that pretty bodice right off those pert—“The buttons on your dress. Are they decorative, or functional?”

  “Functional, and don’t you dare.” A tantalizing hesitation proceeded a wicked smile. She began to unbutton. A deep breath revealed lovely rounded mounds. He nuzzled into her cleavage, trailing his lips past her collarbone and along an elegant bend of neck.

  She exhaled a heavenly sigh. “I suppose all you men are a cock-up bunch tonight.”

  He covered her mouth and she opened. After a stimulating chase of tongue, he eased back. “Mrs. Chilcott might have a surprise coming.” He winked.

  Even her chortle of laughter aroused him. She pressed him back onto the leather-covered bench, hiked up her skirt, and straddled his torso. A breast escaped from her loosened chemise. He pulled her close and caught the nipple between his teeth.


  There was a rap at the coach door. “Need a bit of privacy, Mr. Black?”

  He grabbed the front of her dress and held it together. Carefully, he lifted her off his belly and angled himself toward the coach door. Christ, they weren’t even moving. In his haste to make love to Miss Jones, he had forgotten to give the driver directions.

  Phaeton sighed. “Decent, my dove?”

  “Comme il faut.” Her whisper musical with amusement.

  “You speak near perfect Parisian French; certainly you did not learn that from your Cajun maman?”

  “Pas Paris, monsieur, Brugge. Three horrid long years in a Catholic boarding school.”

  “Ah, no doubt you ran away.”

  “A young priest chased me around the Rectory one afternoon.” Her gown rustled from a shrug. “I’d had enough.”

  “Gave his bollocks the boot, I hope. You’re rather good at that, as I recall.”

  Another maddening rap at the door. Phaeton kicked the latch and the door swung open.

  Several men, Metropolitan police, stood outside the carriage.

  His eyes narrowed into slits. “What is it, officers?”

  “Detective Farrell ordered us to Limehouse. Sez you requested a few men. Mind if we catch a ride, sir?”

  He cursed under his breath. Damn his bloody soul to Hades. One hellish hard-on and the worst case of the devil’s blue balls he had ever experienced. He had no idea how the words escaped between clenched teeth. “Get in.”

  Phaeton held a hand out and tightened his grip on her small fingers. Dexter Moore led them into the blackness of a narrow alleyway. Still hours to go before sunrise. “The Chinaman’s shop faces out onto Pennyfields, but the opium parlor is here, in the back.”

  Phaeton took cover beside Moore, keeping America close beside him. “You’re quite sure Yanky is still inside?”

  “I’ve got men stationed outside the shop, in the lane and the alley. He was spotted hours ago.” Dexter’s eyes never left the door. “I wager he’s had a pipe or two and is off in dreamland.”

  “If that’s the case, we can nick the mattress and carry him off to the lockup.” Phaeton winked at America. “Hardly need the extra men.”

  Dexter’s grin flattened. “A precaution. In case the den is a hideout.”

  In the dim light of a single gas lamp, a freshly painted orange door belied the squalor around them. Not ten feet away, farther down the alley, Phaeton noted a brightly colored green door and beyond that a sleek, black enameled entryway with the address 55 Pennyfields etched upon a polished brass mail slot. “None of the dens have names in this part of Limehouse.”

  Moore snorted. “You would be the one to know, Phaeton.”

  Indeed, there were a great many goings on in this alley, too disturbing to reveal to the average citizen. Especially the odd persuasion of gentlemen secreted behind the elegant, numbered door at the end of Pennyfields Lane.

  America’s slanted eyes rounded. “Are you infatuated with opium, Phaeton?”

  “Nothing compares to my fascination with you.” He slipped an arm around her. “Ma petite colombe.”

  Moore frowned at them both. “I rather wish you had not insisted on bringing Miss Jones on a raid.”

  Phaeton’s jaw clenched. “Send your men in, Dex. We’ll follow along once you’ve got their backs to the wall.”

  Dexter swallowed. “You’re not coming in with us?”

  “Get Yanky Willem in cuffs and give us a yell. I’m sure Miss Jones would love to get within spitting distance.”

  An urgent, ebullient kiss brushed his cheek. Liquid eyes glittered as she nodded her head.

  On Dexter’s signal, two men approached the door with crowbars and made short work of the locks. Dexter and several others followed the men into the opium den.

  Phaeton held a hand up and ordered their reinforcements to take cover. “Across the alley and keep a lookout.” He nodded to the second floor of the building.

  America sidled closer. “What’s going on Phaeton?”

  He removed his pistol from his jacket pocket and a number of bullets from his waistcoat. “Ever since we took cover behind this dustbin, a window curtain across the way has parted several times.” Phaeton nodded upward. “Second floor.”

  “They’ve spotted us.” Wheels turned behind her bright green eyes. “Once Dexter and the others are inside, they’ll try for an escape.”

  “Pick your skirts up, lass.” Phaeton grabbed her hand, and they crossed the alley. At the last possible moment, he shunned the doorway of the opium den and made for a covered walk between buildings.

  A few shouts and a number of loud thuds emanated from behind the broken down door. A struggle was on. America’s nostrils twitched. The distinctive, sweet odor of burning opiates suffused the static air around them. “I want you to run like the wind down this walkway. Send any officers you find out front to the alley entrance. Do not accompany them, Miss Jones.” He looked up from loading his gun. “Promise me.”

  She nodded her head and received a buss on the mouth. Even in these perilous circumstances he made her toes tingle. “I promise, Phaeton.”

  She peeked around the corner. Several men dropped to the ground from a second story window. Phaeton pulled her back against him. “If you find yourself in trouble, use this.” He pressed a knife into her palm.

  She gasped. “This is my knife.”

  “As I recall, you wield it well.” He stepped out into the middle of the alley, pointed and cocked his pistol. Two more of Willem’s men jumped to the ground. That made four. Even numbers.

  Her heart pounded inside her chest. She remembered to breathe and gulped in air.

  “Halt and surrender to arrest.” Phaeton stepped closer.

  When the pirates turned to run, the hidden officers stepped into the alley, blocking the exit.

  She did not recognize Yanky Willem among them. America leaned out for a better look.

  Phaeton glared. “Go, America.”

  She backed down the walkway into something hard and hulking. An arm snaked around her waist and a hand covered her mouth. She struggled and almost escaped before she was slammed against the brick building. She blinked at the sight confronting her.

  He’d shaved off the stubble and now dressed the part of a gentleman. But she’d recognize those pale eyes and that tobacco breath anywhere. He pressed her between his body and the wall. “You again, Miss Jones?”

  Shots rang out from the alley. She tried to wriggle away, but Willem leaned harder. “Meddling little whore. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  Even as his words tore into her soul he sought to muffle her curses. His hands raked through her hair, and the back of her head collided again with the brick wall.

  Shots. A battery of ricocheting bullets rang out from the alley. Willem’s eyes darted back and forth. Holding her against him, he retreated farther down the dim passageway. He meant to use her as a shield. Her fingers edged along the handle of the knife hidden in the folds of her skirt. She had never killed a man before. She had cut a man once. No, twice. She recalled the thin red slice across Phaeton’s neck.

  She dragged her heels and stomped on his boot. Scratching at his hand, she tore his hand off her mouth and managed a feeble cry. “Phaeton.”

  “Yes. My dove?”

  Willem froze. America felt the cold barrel of a gun against her temple. The silhouette of a man stood in the passageway framed by morning sunlight.

  She swung the knife backward and plunged the tip into her captor’s thigh. A hot gush of blood spurted over her hand, and a cry of pain. A blur of movement surrounded her. A gun fired, then another. Willem staggered backward, taking her down with him. The metallic stench of blood and gunpowder. A million shooting stars passed in front of her eyes.

  She felt no pain.

  “America?” She focused on his face. His chin and jaw all handsome angles and dark stubble. Phaeton smiled at her. “Can you stand darling? Let me help you.”

  Pha
eton swept her up and held on tight.

  She snuggled against his chest, trembling from shock, taking in one shallow breath after another. His hand stroked her back, soothing her, and he rocked her gently in his arms. She looked up at him. “I’m alive.”

  “Yes, of course you are.” He had a lovely, long dimple to one side of his face when he grinned broadly. She had never noticed.

  A jumble of men surrounded Yanky Willem. She lifted her head off Phaeton’s shoulder for a curious peek. “How is he?”

  Inspector Moore examined the crumpled body on the ground. “Got him square in the shoulder.”

  Phaeton’s grin flattened. “Disappointing.”

  Dexter wiped the stain of blood off his fingers. “Crack shot, Phaeton.”

  “I wanted him dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  A MUFFLED LAUGH AGAINST THE SOFT WEAVE OF HIS JACKET LAPEL ushered a myriad of scents. Woolen coat dampened by fog, the faintest trace of blood, and the man scent of Phaeton. She wanted to smother him in kisses. No worse. She wanted to do unspeakable things to him. Things like those wonderfully indecent strokes and caresses he had taught her in bed.

  She would grasp onto his hard prick, pitching and bobbing like the main mast in a storm, and taste velvet in her mouth. She placed her hand flat against his waistcoat and imagined the lovely ruff of hair hidden underneath that tapered down his torso. Absently, a finger trailed the buttons of his shirt.

  Phaeton caught her wandering index finger and brought it to his lips. “Soon.” She buried a grin in his shoulder.

  Wrapped in a police issue blanket, the blackguard was hauled away moaning. Dexter motioned to several sturdy young officers. “If St. Bartholomews has no room in the locked wards, take him straight to the Yard and call a surgeon.”