Night of the Scoundrel

by Bowen, Kelly

  Because boys like Elliot generally died by their twelfth birthday, killed by their prey or fellow hunters. Because Elliot reminded him of Evan, not just in looks but in the way he defended those whom he cared for.

  “Because I did not wish to see such talent wasted in the rookeries.” He cleared his throat and started up the stairs. “You should retire. It’s been a long night.”

  “I should what?” She was behind him, sounding somewhat incredulous.

  “I believe I will retire as well,” he continued brusquely, ignoring her question and reaching the long, narrow hallway above lit intermittently by sconces. He paused at the second door on his left and pushed it open. “Your rooms,” he announced. “We can discuss our business arrangement further on the morrow.” Not now, and certainly not standing in the hall outside her bedroom with soft light playing across her skin.

  Adeline stepped into the room but stopped and turned almost immediately. “We have unfinished business, King. I think we need to talk about what you—”

  “I have nothing further to say to you tonight.” It sounded cold, but he didn’t trust himself with a woman who stole his breath, his composure, and his control merely by looking at him. Unlike earlier, King recognized the danger of allowing weakness and emotion to dictate action. He had survived unspeakable things on his own. He would survive this too.

  “King, I—”

  “Good night, Adeline.” He closed her bedroom door.

  Chapter 9

  The snow that had been falling earlier had stopped, leaving a blanket of white over the grounds beyond the tall windows. Moonlight reflected off the sparkling crust and filtered through the diamond-shaped panes, filling the room with an eerie silver light. A massive bed dominated the far-right corner, a darkened door beyond leading into what was likely a dressing room. A small desk sat at the end of the bed, a discarded book resting on a simple wooden chair. In a near corner, a chaise was situated, a coat and waistcoat tossed over the brocaded back, a pair of boots abandoned at its feet, the polished toes gleaming dully in the light from the nearby hearth.

  But all these details were insignificant, her attention riveted on the figure at the pianoforte on the far side, his back to her. And for the first time since she’d slipped into King’s rooms, Adeline wondered if she’d made a mistake.

  King was seated on a bench, his fingers flying over the keys, his head down. Music filled the room, reaching a crescendo before becoming subdued, only to rise again in a haunting, stirring rhythm. Adeline’s mouth went dry at the sight of his lean power illuminated in the moonlight. He’d stripped down to his shirt and trousers, his sleeves shoved to his elbows. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he swayed and bent, his shirt stretching across his shoulders, his red-gold hair falling just over his forehead as the music and his movements became more frantic.

  The urge to push that hair away, to put a soothing hand on his back, was overwhelming. He was playing like a man possessed and, in essence, he was—held captive by the demons that had emerged from his past with the return of John Westerleigh. Which was why Adeline would not let him alone anywhere near Baron Marstowe tomorrow. A man who slew another in broad daylight in the middle of a churchyard would hang, no matter who he was.

  She moved into the center of the room. “We need to talk.”

  His head snapped up, a discordant crash of notes ending his exertions, but the rest of him remained motionless. “There are locks on my doors.”

  “Not good ones.”

  “On the contrary.” Still he didn’t turn around. “You could have knocked.”

  “You wouldn’t have answered.”

  “You can’t be here.”

  “What’s at the St James churchyard?” she asked.

  “A church.”

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  His head dropped, his hands gripping the edge of the keys. He looked like a man caught in a struggle that only he could see. She’d had glimpses of that struggle in Lavoie’s, in the carriage ride home, in the hallway outside her bedroom. A man fighting his memories, fighting his emotions, fighting his instincts, and fighting her.

  “It’s where Evan is buried.”

  Adeline took a few more careful steps closer. “Thank you.”

  “What do you want, Adeline?” he demanded, turning around but remaining seated on the bench. He crossed his arms over his chest, his forearms flexing, and for the first time, she noticed his scars. They were old and faded, thick bands of discolored skin that circled both wrists. She had seen scars like that before.

  In places where men and women spent their lives chained to walls.

  She swallowed and dragged her gaze away from his scars and back to his face. His cool eyes impaled her, and she felt the force of that stare all the way through her body.

  “I want to know the price you wish John Westerleigh to pay that will give you peace.” She asked the question that she needed the answer to the most.

  Even in the shadows, the anguish that tore across King’s carefully cloaked features was easily visible. Adeline had seen that before too—a soul forced to relive a moment from which it had never truly healed.

  King stood, stalking away from the bench and coming to stand in front of the windows. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and King was silhouetted by the ghostly white gardens beyond. Adeline followed him, her own shape a reflection in the glass as she came to stand beside him.

  She had changed out of her dress, pulling on her black trousers and coat for both warmth and practicality.

  “Marstowe’s money is gone,” she said. “Is that enough?”

  “No. There is no amount of money that is worth Evan’s life.”

  Adeline sighed. She hadn’t expected a different answer. “Would you see him lose his seat in the House? See him publicly accused? Imprisoned?”

  He put one hand against the glass, his other clenched at his side. “I want him to know fear. I want him to feel what Evan felt in those moments before he stole his life. I want him to know what it’s like to be thrust alone into a nightmare from which he cannot wake.”

  Adeline chose her next words carefully. “Revenge is a dangerous mistress. Sir Francis Bacon once wrote, ‘A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.’”

  “You think that I should just forgive and forget?”

  “I didn’t say that. No one can ever truly forget. And forgiveness—well, that is something that I cannot determine for anyone. I’m only saying that, in some cases, the need to right the past comes at a high price to the future.”

  King remained motionless. “Sir Francis also wrote, ‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice’ and ‘If we do not maintain justice, justice will not maintain us.’”

  “He did.” It would seem the bookshelves in King’s study were not there for decoration. “But it’s a fine line, that which lies between justice and revenge. And neither can bring back the dead, nor undo past wrongs.”

  “I know that.”

  “Good.”

  “Why do you do this?” he demanded.

  “Do what?”

  “Seek revenge—justice for those you don’t even know. For people you do not care about.”

  “What?” She heard the edge to her question.

  “They’re nothing but clients, Adeline.”

  “They’re people first,” she said. “And I care very much about each person.”

  King made a sound in the back of his throat. “Even me?”

  The man who seemed to understand and accept her more than anyone had?

  “Especially you.” Her answer was barely a whisper.

  She didn’t really see him move. One second she was standing beside him, the next he was in front of her, her chest almost brushing his, her head tipped back so she could see his face.

  “You can’t be here,” he rasped.

  “You’ve left me little choice.”

  “You should go.”

  “No.”

 
; “I need you to leave.”

  “Tell me why.”

  His hand came up, and his fingers drifted along the side of her jaw, tangling in her hair. One by one, he pulled the pins from the back of her head, each falling to the floor, allowing her hair to spill over her shoulders. She shivered.

  “You and your damned questions,” he murmured.

  “Tell me why,” she said again. “And tell me the truth. And then I’ll go.”

  “Because you make me weak.” He sounded almost angry, even as his fingers were tracing the top of her ear with exquisite care, dropping down to her lobe and then her neck.

  The absurdity of that statement registered only dimly. Her entire body was a fiery mess of nerves, each stretched taut, yearning to discover where his fingers might go next. “You are not weak, King.”

  “I needed you earlier tonight.” His words were stilted. “I still do.”

  “Good,” she whispered.

  “No.” He shook his head and brushed his thumb over her lips. “Needing people makes one weak. But you…” He trailed off. “I need you. And I can’t stay away from you. I keep trying but—”

  “Then stop trying.” It was a reckless thing to say.

  He groaned softly and dipped his head, his lips finding the spot on her neck just behind her ear. A decadent throb ignited at the junction of her legs.

  “Perhaps I need you just as much,” she managed to gasp.

  He caught her earlobe with his teeth, tugging gently as his hands slid over her shoulders and down her arms. “I am not what you need.”

  Adeline’s head tipped back. “Let me be the judge of that.”

  His hands slipped to her lower back, pulling her against him. Her breasts pressed against his chest, heavy and aching, the friction against her nipples sending currents of pleasure burning through her.

  His lips hovered just over hers, not taking, only asking.

  Adeline slid her hands up his arms, over his shoulders, and cupped his face in her hands. The short stubble on his cheeks was rough beneath her fingers, his skin warm. “Kiss me,” she said.

  Very slowly, he brought his mouth to hers. It started gently at first, her lips tasting his, teasing and exploring the feel of him. One of his hands slid up her back, pulling her more firmly against him as he deepened the kiss. She parted her lips instantly, reveling in the heady feel of his tongue stroking hers, the heat and rhythm of his kiss making the pulsing throb between her legs intensify into an unbearable ache.

  Her hips tipped involuntarily, wanting to feel more of him.

  He groaned deep in his throat, a raw, unguarded sound that made her pulse skip. His unmistakable arousal was thick and hard beneath the fall of his trousers, pressing against her lower abdomen. That he was just as vulnerable to whatever this was between them was electrifying.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you from the moment you stepped into my study,” he said roughly. He nudged his thigh in between hers, pressing her back up against the cold glass of the window. With smooth motions he pulled her coat from her shoulders and let it drop, tracing the ridges of her collarbones beneath her shirt.

  Adeline closed her eyes, letting the sensation of his touch flood through her. His hands dropped to cup her breasts through the worn linen of her shirt, his thumbs gliding over her nipples. She moaned softly and arched, pushing herself more fully into his hands. His mouth drifted along her jaw, leaving embers over her skin in their wake.

  Adeline dropped her own hands, her fingers yanking the hem of his shirt from his waistband and then pushing the fabric up to explore the planes of his abdomen and chest. His muscles contracted beneath her touch, and his breath hissed in her ear.

  He shifted, and then his hands were cupping her buttocks, lifting her against him. Adeline gasped and wrapped her legs around his waist, the bulge in his trousers now pressed exactly where she needed it most. She twined her arms around his neck as he kissed her savagely, surrendering her mouth to his.

  This time it was King who rocked his hips into her, his tongue and his body once again keeping time.

  “Yes,” she gasped against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”

  There was something incredibly devastating about being wrapped around this man as he slowly took her apart, kiss by kiss, touch by touch. As if there were no real break to determine where he ended and she started.

  He dropped his head, dragging his tongue over the hollow at the base of her throat, and Adeline moaned again. He nuzzled lower, and Adeline tipped her head back, and then his mouth was on her nipple, sucking through the threadbare linen. His teeth grazed the peak, sending a bolt of fire through her, and she bucked against him.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  He did it again, this time paying homage to her other breast as his hips rolled steadily, bringing her to the brink. His hands gripped her hard against him, and that perfect pressure sent her tumbling over the edge.

  Adeline curled her fingers into the back of his hair as white-hot pinwheels of ecstasy exploded behind her eyelids. Her entire body bowed, every muscle clenching as bright, blinding pleasure streaked through her, pulsing and pounding. King held her the entire time, pressed relentlessly to him as she rode out each wave, without giving her quarter.

  Adeline’s head fell to his shoulder, panting. He had just unraveled her fully clothed against a damn window. And holy hell, she wanted to experience that all again, but this time with him buried deep inside her. This time with nothing between their bodies.

  “Take me to bed,” she whispered. “Now.”

  King made a feral noise and spun her away from the window, carrying her over to his bed. He set her down on the coverlet, one knee between her legs, one hand braced at her shoulder. His eyes were blue flames again, his breathing ragged, his arousal undeniable.

  Adeline sprawled on the bed, breathless and aching, her clothing in disarray and her hair jumbled around her. She had never felt so gloriously feminine. So gloriously powerful.

  She lifted her arm and trailed a finger down his chest and abdomen, stopping at the waistband of his trousers. “Let me see you,” she whispered. “All of you.”

  King stared down at her, unmoving, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. He seized her wrist with his other hand. “No.”

  Adeline froze. Her heart stuttered. “No?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t.” She was dimly aware she was repeating him like a half-wit, but honestly, what the hell was happening here? There was pain and regret in his voice, but Adeline didn’t understand why.

  “I won’t,” he said hoarsely.

  “You won’t what?” Adeline tried to sit up, but he wouldn’t let her. Instead he crawled into the bed beside her, pulling her against him so that her back was pressed to his chest. His arm was like a steel band over her waist, his erection still hard against her buttocks.

  She arched against that hardness, wanting this man with every fiber in her body. Wanting to feel him move inside her, wanted to watch as she took him apart as he had her. “King—”

  “I won’t fuck you simply because I’m weak. Because that would make me no better than the man who tries to obliterate his regrets and woes in women or gin.”

  “That’s not at all what this—”

  “You deserve better, Adeline. A man so much better than I.” His voice was raw, yet he kept his arm tightly around her.

  She tried to turn but he wouldn’t let her. “Let me decide who—”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  Adeline exhaled and closed her eyes in frustration. “You’re not—”

  “Who taught you how to fight?” he whispered raggedly.

  “What?”

  “Will you tell me who taught you how to fight?”

  Adeline shifted her head on the pillow. She didn’t fully understand what was going through King’s mind, but she understood that, at this moment, this man needed something different. Something far more intimate than just her touch.

  “My father.” Sh
e found his hand with hers, covering it gently. He didn’t pull away. “Who taught you about art?”

  He drew in a sharp breath. “That’s not how this works.”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  His fingers grasped hers, and she could almost hear the war being waged in his head. “Yes,” he finally said, making Adeline’s heart expand with something that was almost as painful as it was tender.

  “Good. Because I don’t want to leave. Who taught you about art?”

  He might have chuckled, though it came out as more of a muffled groan. “Very well. Art was Evan’s passion even from a very young age. He taught me what he knew. The combined galleries and palaces of Italy taught me the rest.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “Many times. I highly recommend the Uffizi if you have not had the opportunity to experience it.”

  “I have not. But I’d like to.”

  “Then I’ll take you there one day,” he said in Italian.

  Adeline didn’t react. She hadn’t spoken Italian in years, but she understood what he had said, and she wasn’t sure if it was his unexpected mastery of the language or the vow he made that had her heart skipping.

  And it was far too easy to desperately want to believe that such a journey might one day be possible.

  He cleared his throat. “Your family was titled,” he rushed on, switching back to English.

  “What makes you think that?” She let him change the subject.

  “Your speech suggests an education that extends far beyond what a common pickpocket working the Paris cabarets might have expected.”

  “As does yours.”

  “I never worked the Paris cabarets,” he said. “And aside from your speech, your skill with that rapier suggests that your teacher was also very skilled. Thus, I can only conclude that your father was trained by the best. And the best is expensive. And exclusive. I’m not sure it was your father who taught you to fight with that knife, however. No gentleman learns that.”

  “Mon Dieu, all that from a single alley skirmish.” This time, she spoke in French.

  “Tell me if I’m right,” he replied in the same language.

  Adeline twisted and turned to face him, propping herself up on her elbow. He gazed up at her, one hand behind his head, the other resting easily on her hip. He looked rumpled and devastating and as unguarded as she had ever seen him. Her stomach did a slow flip through a storm of butterflies, and a soft warmth flooded through her. She looked away from his face, afraid that if she didn’t, she would give in to the impulse to kiss him again.