“I know what you’ve been doing,” Colonel Gregory shouted. “You’re after Lady Marchant—”
Now the entire crowd gasped. The circle tightened.
Eyes avid, Valda leaned forward.
Mr. Monroe swung at Colonel Gregory. Colonel Gregory went spinning away. Women screamed. Men shouted.
And Valda felt a tug on her precious reticule.
She grabbed at it. It still hung on her arm. She spun toward the person beside her—the person who tried who steal the map.
It was that thief. That tall governess with the white-blonde hair. That Miss Penny Gast. Swift as a snake, Valda grabbed that fiendish girl’s wrist and twisted. “Give it back!”
“What?” Miss Gast pretended to be bewildered.
With her other hand, Valda reached into the pocket hidden in her skirt. Wrapping her fingers around the cool butt of her new pistol, she clumsily drew it. Pointing it at Miss Gast, she said, “Give it back!”
“Ruddy ‘ell!” Miss Gast tried to step back as she stared at the pistol. The crowd hemmed her in, holding her in place.
Lady Marchant shoved at Valda. “Lady Featherstonebaugh, what are you doing?”
People around them were noticing the pistol. The women screamed louder. The fight between Colonel Gregory and Mr. Monroe died.
“Give it back!” Valda demanded again.
Miss Gast held up her hands, showed her empty palms. “I don’t have anything. See?”
“What’s going on?” Colonel Gregory shouldered his way toward them.
Valda stuck the pistol in Miss Gast’s stomach.
Colonel Gregory froze. “Don’t move. Samantha, don’t move.”
“She stole my . . . my paper,” Valda said. “Everyone knows she’s a pickpocket.”
That bitch Lady Marchant interfered. “No, she’s not. I told you she wasn’t. You’ve got her name wrong.”
“For God’s sake, Valda, are you mad?” Rupert stared over the top of the crowd.
“I don’t have anything. See?” Miss Gast spoke in this soothing tone which irritated Valda almost to madness.
Valda wanted to shoot them all, but she had only one bullet. One bullet to use on this bitch who had stolen the map. “No one steals from me.”
Moving slowly, Miss Gast showed her empty hands. “Why don’t you check on your paper? You’ll see I don’t have it.”
Valda hesitated.
Miss Gast seemed sincere.
Lady Marchant sounded irritated.
Colonel Gregory looked . . . pale.
With her free hand, Valda squeezed the soft sides of her reticule. Inside she heard the crackle of paper. She began to feel ill. Cautiously, she withdrew the pistol from Miss Gast’s stomach. No one in the crowd moved as she pulled open the strings that held the reticule closed and peered inside.
There it was. The map, folded into a stiff square, the distinctive red ink clearly marking its importance.
The pistol drooped in her hand. “I . . . I’m sorry, Miss Gast. I thought you had . . . I thought you were someone else.”
“My name is Miss Prendregast.” The young woman’s voice was firm, but her hands trembled so hard she hid them in the folds of her skirts. “Miss Samantha Prendregast.”
Slipping forward out of the throng, Mr. Monroe appeared beside Valda and removed the pistol from her grip.
The crowd gave a collective sigh of relief.
Lady Marchant put her hand to her forehead and performed a most unladylike swoon, one that involved toppling over onto the marble floor so hard she bumped her cheek.
Mr. Monroe went onto his knees beside her, calling, “Smelling salts. We need smelling salts!”
Colonel Gregory grabbed Miss Gast and wrapped her in his arms.
For one moment, she looked as if she, too, might collapse. Then she lifted her head and fiercely said, “You don’t like me, I don’t like you, and I won’t be punished for your wife’s death. I won’t be the scapegoat for your shame. So release me—now!”
The expression on Colonel Gregory’s face was beyond price. Valda would gladly have stayed to hear the rest of the scene, but Rupert grabbed her and tried to hustle her toward the door. She resisted. But people were still looking at her. The ambassador and the head of the Home Office were eyeing her with peculiar intensity. Leaning down, she plucked her pistol off of the floor beside Mr. Monroe, tucked it into her pocket, and, head held high, sailed out the door with Rupert.
The last words she heard, spoken by a furious Colonel Gregory, were, “Miss Prendregast, pack your bags. You’ll be returned to London first thing in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-six
William stalked into his bedchamber and pointed to his valet. “Out! Get out!”
“Aye, sir, don’t have to tell me twice.” Cleavers stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
William stared after him. What the hell was wrong with him? What was wrong with everyone? Even his guests, who should have known better, had acted as if they couldn’t wait to get away from him. They behaved as if he had drowned a kitten, when all he’d done was what any sensible man would do when he found a thief in his nest. He’d routed that thief. Never mind that she was beautiful and everyone loved her. Never mind that she’d brought peace and music to his household. Never mind that he’d taken her maidenhead with all the finesse of a rampaging sailor and she’d given it to him with all the grace of a . . . a woman. The woman for him.
But she was a thief, and once a thief, always a thief. She’d done him, them, England a favor, and risked her life doing so. If that had been all she’d done, he would have compromised his principles and married her.
But she’d also stolen from him. Just little things, some not important, some very much so. She hadn’t returned them. Against all evidence, she hadn’t admitted to taking them, had said she didn’t know where they were, and he could tell by her expression she did. She was a liar as well as a thief.
He tore off his cravat and his collar. Discarded his tailcoat and his waistcoat. Looked out the window into night, trying to see the lights from her cottage.
He ought to imprison her here. Put her in the jail in Hawksmouth with instructions that she never be released.
But he couldn’t. He was as soft as treacle pudding when it came to Samantha, and why?
Because he couldn’t forget how she looked with the moonlight on her bare shoulders, and the pain of her upbringing, and, dear God, when he remembered how she loved his children . . .
Sitting in the chair, he began the difficult process of pulling off his tight boots.
So he would send her back to London. Foist her back on Lady Bucknell with a letter warning her of Samantha’s larcenous bent. Then Samantha would be without honest employment. She’d be forced to return to the streets, to cut purses for a living, until they caught her and hung her by her slender neck.
Horror brought him to his feet. He stomped his foot back in his boot.
No. He wasn’t doing the right thing. It wasn’t right that he inflict Samantha on the London populace. Nor should he stand by while she went to hell with all the defiance of her fiery nature.
After all, she was not the only one at fault. He had seduced her.
He should have known better.
He was out the door and running down the stairs before he could reconsider. The footman jumped to attention and opened the door; then William was outside and racing to the cottage where Samantha was incarcerated. He slammed his fist on the door.
Clarinda came in a hurry, and even in the dim light on the porch, he could see her dismay. “Colonel! Miss Prendregast didn’t wish want t’ see anyone.”
Taking Clarinda’s arm, he pulled her through the entrance while he stepped inside. “Don’t come back.” He shut the door in her face and faced a room alive with the light of a fire in the central fireplace and a branch of candles set by the packed trunk.
“Clarinda?” Samantha called from the bedchamber. “Who was it this time? Please
don’t tell me it was one of the children. I couldn’t bear turning one of them”—she stepped into the doorway and her voice trailed off—“away.” She stood, silhouetted against the candlelight from the other room, arms upraised to brush her hair, hand holding an ivory brush. As she had the first time he kissed her, she wore her modest white nightgown, and her blue robe hung open.
Beautiful. She was beautiful. His heart ached at the sight of her, and he wanted only one thing. To have her for his own.
Seeing him, she stood immobile for a long moment. Slowly, she drew the bristles through her platinum blonde hair, smoothing the length over her bosom.
Then swiftly, quietly, she stepped back into the bedchamber and shut the door.
It was rejection, clean and final. His ire rose at her gall. When he heard the key turn in the lock, his rage took form.
Striding to the door, he kicked at the lock. The door was sturdy, but the lock was not. A trivial lock, one created for privacy, not safety.
He kicked at it again.
The lock creaked.
He flung himself at the door and smashed through, stumbling into her bedchamber.
And she said in a cool voice, “The window’s open. At thief school, they teach us to take the easiest route.”
She knew she shouldn’t taunt him. He stood, hands hanging loose at his sides, shoulders hunched, head down, watching her like a bull about to charge. Heat radiated from him; he wanted to somehow pay her back for besmirching his reputation.
She didn’t care that violence set his fingers trembling. She wanted to hit, too. She wanted to throw caution to the wind. She wanted to shriek and shout and slap, because once again, William had taught her a lesson she should have learned so many times before.
It didn’t matter that she’d changed her life. That she worked to be better. That she stole . . . nothing.
She had once been a pickpocket, and she was forever tainted.
And he . . . the man she loved. The man she’d given herself to. He should have believed in her, and he was the first to condemn her. To condemn her, and to use her for his own ends.
Her hand tightened on the brush handle until the ivory marked her hand.
He took a long breath, one exhausting in its length. “I’ve decided to marry you.”
She took a breath to match his—then released it in a burst of raucous laughter. “Marry? Me? Have you lost your mind?”
His fists clenched. Red rose from his neck to his forehead. He wasn’t a man anymore; he was a beast, grunting and primal, trying to cover himself with a veneer of civilization. As if that would save him from his real self. “You were an innocent in the physical sense, at least, and I took that from you.”
“Ah. So you’re a thief too.” She smiled brightly. “Well, like follows like.”
He growled. There wasn’t another word for it. He definitely growled. “I am not a thief. But you are, and I can’t in all honor allow you to go out and wreak crime on the world.”
“So you’re making a sacrifice by taking me to your bed.” The words were acid on her tongue. “You really are noble.”
“You have a good heart. You need a man’s guidance.”
His? He must be jesting! With one hand she smoothed the nightgown over her breast, her belly, her thighs, showing him her form, taunting him with herself. “Are you sure of your motive? Are you sure you’re not marrying me because you . . . want me?”
“No. I’m not sure.” His guttural voice vibrated with desire. “I do want you.”
She smiled with wicked delight.
“I’ll watch you. I’ll keep you honest. I’ll keep you pregnant with my babies.” He stood straighter as he spoke. “You probably already are pregnant.”
Her smile faded. “I spoke with Terry, and it’s doubtful. She says it’s the wrong time of the month.”
“I’ll keep you here, and we’ll see. In the meantime, I’ll keep you so busy you won’t have time to indulge in your predilection for larceny.”
Fury blazed up as hot as hell’s fires. “Blighter. Bloody damned blighter!” She threw the brush at his head. “How dare you? How dare—”
He ducked. He charged. He caught her around the waist and carried her backward onto the bed.
She landed on the mattress, on her back, with him on top of her, and the rage of the past day blew like a blocked teakettle. She struck out at him blindly, hitting his head, his chest, his shoulders. She landed a few good, hard blows before he caught first one fist, then the other, and trapped them over her head.
They sank into the feathers, his weight bearing her down when she wanted to jump up and . . . no, not flee. Nothing so intelligent. She wanted to kick him. “Get off of me, you flaming . . . righteous . . . stupid . . . bully.”
He didn’t get off her. He bit her throat, a light scoring of teeth across her skin.
She screamed and thrashed beneath him. He was a beast, and she hated him with all her heart.
He restrained her as she fought, holding her wrists, keeping his body atop hers, until the first flurry of struggle was over and her strength failed.
Then he licked the spot he had bit.
She panted. From the struggle. From his weight. “I wouldn’t marry you if Queen Victoria herself offered you on a silver platter.”
He lifted himself above her.
She got a look at him. His blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, blazed with emotion. Fury . . . no, passion.
He wasn’t biting her as a punishment. He was marking her. He was making her feel what he wanted her to feel, and that was . . . “Anger. You want me to be angry. You don’t care how furious you make me.”
“Why would I? I like it.” His chest heaved against hers. “It’s something, my darling, that we have in common.”
Her captured hands curled. Her nails bit into her palms. “We share nothing in common, remember, guv’nor? Oi’m a street urchin, a thief, a cutpurse, an’ ye’re a ruddy colonel in ‘Er Majesty’s army. A commander who never in ‘is life ever did anything dis’onorable.”
He laughed, deep, low, menacing. “I remember one thing we have in common.” He transferred both of her wrists to one of his hands.
She knew what he was going to do. No matter how she detested their empathy, she could read his intentions, and she writhed away from him.
Pulling his knife from his pocket, he flipped the shining blade open.
Her throat dried.
“Don’t move,” he whispered. Tucking the blade into her neckline, he sliced her nightgown open.
The material tugged, but the blade was sharp and worked only too well. His hand slid past her chest, over her breast.
His black hair curled over his forehead. The candles cast a golden glow over his complexion. His jaw was carved marble, but his lips . . . as his hand brushed past her breast, his lips curved upward in the kind of buccaneer smile she never expected—never wanted—to see from him.
What an idiot she was for loving him. And how this love heated and burned.
He sat up, straddled her hips, and sliced the material down past her knees.
“What are you doing?” she shouted. “Are you mad?”
“I want the nightgown off. I want the robe off. I want you bare and defenseless. It’s the only way to deal with you, Samantha. If it were up to me, I’d imprison you in a tower and keep you there.”
He sounded so intense, so sincere, she noted the stirrings of fear deep in her belly. But she mocked him. “I would steal away.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was smiling again. He made a show of clicking the knife shut and putting it in his pocket. With his free hand, he unbuttoned his trousers, loosened his drawers.
She watched, eyes wide, as he freed himself.
As slowly as a man dancing a minuet, he slid his knee between her legs.
She struggled to keep her thighs together.
He separated them. Bending close to her ear, he murmured, “Do you understand ruthlessness?”
&nbs
p; He wouldn’t . . . would he? She knew that he wouldn’t . . . but she also knew he wouldn’t cut off her nightgown, or keep her captive by his weight, or imprison her wrists.
She didn’t really know him. She didn’t know him at all.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she answered.
“For what?” He layered a kiss on her lips. “For making you like it?” He kissed her brow, her eyelids, her blazing cheeks. With his tongue, he circled the petals of her ear, and sucked on the lobe.
And she realized what he meant. He might hold her wrists. They might be sprawled sideways across the bed. Resentment and hurt might be eating at both of them. But between them burned a fire nothing could quench.
There was a reason why she’d come to him a virgin. There was a reason why he’d been celibate since his wife died. They’d been waiting for each other. Waiting for the conflagration that consumed them. Nothing could halt its advance. No matter what hurt stood between them or the insults they flung at each other’s heads, they wanted each other. Nothing could change that.
The scent of him enveloped her, earthy and male. His shirt, loose, white and soft, brushed the tips of her breasts, over and over. His thigh nudged between her legs, a pale imitation of intercourse. Making her want the real thing. His mouth on her skin, his hands holding her down, his knee . . .
“No!” She turned her head away, kicked at his legs.
In the soft voice of pure menace, he asked, “What’s the matter? Do you like that too much? Does it make your skin flush, your loins burn?” He trailed his lips over her chin and down her throat. “If I put my fingers in you, will they slide in because you’re damp and slick from wanting me?”
Everything he said was true, and hearing him say so made it worse. It was almost as if he could talk her to an unwilling climax.
“I ought to cut your robe off completely,” he mused.
“No!”
“No, you’re right. I like holding you like this. Helpless, waiting and wondering what I’ll do next.” He gazed down at her bosom, and his smile produced a most peculiar tightening in her belly. “You have such pretty breasts. I never got to see them properly last time. It was dark and I was desperate. But they’re everything I imagined. Pale, with rose-colored nipples that tighten when you’re excited. As you are now.”
My Favorite Bride Page 24
