Touch of a Thief

by Mia Marlowe

  Quinn met her gaze and his storm-gray eyes glinted with dark fire. “What a little minx you’re becoming.”

  “And do you like minxes?”

  “More than breathing.” He dipped his head and suckled her again. A low drumbeat throbbed between her legs.

  “Or perhaps my nipples might only be visible at certain angles so I might pretend I’m unaware of the sensation I’m causing.”

  “How considerate, milady,” Quinn said, as he reached under her skirts and rifled through the layers of her petticoats. “It’s kind of you to forewarn me of your innate wickedness.”

  His hand found her knee and slid up her thigh. Her legs parted slightly of their own accord. She pressed her lips to the crown of his head since he’d bent to cover her breasts with kisses once more.

  “My wickedness is not innate. You must take credit for some of it,” she said breathlessly when his fingers found the slit in the crotch of her all-in-one. “You make me . . .”

  Quinn lifted his head and watched her intently as he began playing a lover’s game on her hot mound. She was so slick and wet, his fingers slid between her legs with languid ease.

  “I make you what?” he prompted.

  “Feel outrageous things,” she admitted as her head fell back with a sigh. He trailed a row of kisses along her neck and delight shivered over her whole body while his fingertips teased along her intimate folds. “Think outrageous things.”

  “Like what?” He circled her little sensitive spot, which had risen to his touch, with maddening slowness.

  She forced her mouth to form words, but his stroking was making conscious thought more difficult by the moment. “I picture myself in a formal assembly. I dip a low curtsy to the ambassador with the rosy tips of my breasts winking at him, bold as brass.”

  Quinn’s fingers moved with more speed and increased pressure right where she needed him. Her insides tightened, coiling for release.

  “His monocle will no doubt slip from his rheumy eye in surprise, but I won’t even blush.”

  “Jezebel,” he murmured as if it were an endearment. Quinn slipped a finger inside her to stroke her slick inner walls while his thumb continued to rub her spot.

  “My nipples will do the blushing for me,” she said, rocking her pelvis into his questing hand. She cried out when Quinn bit down on one of her tight pink buds. Viola dissolved in heat and friction and blinding need. She spiraled downward, nearly there, nearly incoherent with need, but he seemed to enjoy her naughty thoughts, so she went on. “I throb under the appalled, . . . roused, . . . unblinking gaze . . . of everyone . . . in the room.”

  “Everyone,” he repeated. Quinn’s hand stopped and he sat up straight. His face was stone. “Everyone like Beauchamp, you mean.”

  She suppressed a sob. She’d been so close. “No, I didn’t . . . Quinn, there’s nothing . . . I was just . . .”

  Her body screamed at him, begging him to finish her, but she knew he couldn’t hear it. She teetered on the ledge of a precipice, unable to stay as she was, unable to tumble over. A tear of frustration slid down her cheek and she tasted salt when it found the corner of her mouth. He pressed a kiss on that juncture of smooth skin and moist intimacy.

  Then he cupped her sex with his whole hand and the firm pressure was all she needed to push her over the edge. She pulsed into his palm as her insides unraveled. He cradled her head against his chest with his free hand, crooning urgent endearments in some language she couldn’t understand, while her body shuddered with the force of her release.

  When she settled, he continued to hold her, rocking her in time with the movement of the coach. Their breathing fell into rhythm with each other.

  “I’m an ass,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

  She lifted her head so she could look at him squarely. “Not that I’m contradicting you, but why do you think so?”

  “You were having a harmless little fantasy and I ruined it for you.”

  She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and her lips twitched in a smile. “It wasn’t completely ruined.”

  “I don’t share well, love. I can’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing you like this, anyone else holding you while you—”

  She palmed his cheeks. “No one else has ever made me feel the things you do, Quinn.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  The coach slowed. Viola slid off Quinn’s lap and peeked out a slit in the curtains at the sleepy little village of Celle. Their coach lumbered through the narrow lanes, barely able to squeeze through in spots. Viola could have snatched a posy from the window boxes as they passed if she’d wished.

  A blindingly white lime-washed castle loomed over the cluster of thatch-roofed homes.

  “We’re nearly there,” she said covering his bulging groin with her palm. “I’m sorry to leave you so dissatisfied.”

  “Not dissatisfied. I prefer to think of my current state as hopeful.”

  He was lying, of course, but he did it with such charm she couldn’t help smiling at him.

  “Hope is a good quality in a man.”

  “Then I shall try to remain hopeful,” he said with a wicked grin. “But if we are nearly there, we need to put you back together. However delicious it may be for me to enjoy your bare breasts, I don’t want to extend that pleasure to others.”

  He wanted her only for himself. It wasn’t a declaration of undying love, but her heart warmed to his words.

  He eased her breasts back beneath her corset and tied up her chemise. She was just fastening the last button at her neck and retying the bow of her bonnet when the coach rumbled to a stop.

  Quinn opened the door and handed her down from the coach. The moat had been filled in so there was no drawbridge to cross. They had already entered the central courtyard and were stopped in the center of the bailey, a broad parade ground surrounded by the outer castle walls. A fair complement of Hessian soldiers patrolled the top of the curtain wall and manned the turrets at each of the four corners. A loud thud told Viola the portcullis had been lowered behind them.

  “There you are!” Neville emerged from one of the many doors opening onto the bailey and hurried toward them with a pair of liveried footmen flanking him. He snapped his fingers and the servants unloaded Viola and Quinn’s baggage from the carriage boot. “Welcome to Celle.”

  Viola smiled and nodded her thanks. After Quinn’s display of jealousy, she didn’t want to add fuel to that fire with a more effusive display of gratitude.

  “You didn’t bring your Indian servant?” Neville asked Viola.

  “Sanjay is in Hanover, waiting for a telegram from one of my regimental friends,” Quinn said, yanking away from her the opportunity to answer Neville.

  She stifled her irritation at his high-handedness.

  “The telegram is late and we nearly delayed our trip to Celle on account of it,” she told Neville. “But we’re glad to be here now.”

  Every third day or so, Quinn received a tar from a Lt. Worthington with news about developments in India. The lieutenant had missed the last designated day for a missive and Viola suspected Quinn worried over it, though he said little about it beyond making excuses for his distant friend.

  “My servant will rejoin us once he collects the telegram coming from Delhi,” Quinn explained.

  Neville curled his lip slightly. “Still reliving your glory days in the Gorgeous East? Well, it may interest you to know we’re expecting a fellow who’s come directly from India any day now. Perhaps Mr. Chesterton can sate your need for news of the exotic.”

  Viola and Quinn exchanged a quick glance. Based on her vision from the ruby in the ambassador’s office, she’d been certain the diamond would come through Hanover. Now Quinn was, too.

  “In the meantime, I’m sure we can scare up a valet for you, milord,” Neville said. “And an abigail for you, Lady Ashford. This way, if you please, and I’ll show you to your rooms.”

  “Rooms?” Quinn said. “The lady and I
are on our honeymoon, Beauchamp. One room will suffice.”

  “Your recent nuptials notwithstanding, it’s not at all the done thing for a husband and wife to share the same quarters in Celle,” Neville said with a frown.

  Quinn placed a proprietary hand on Viola’s waist and pulled her close. “Do I look as if I give a tinker’s damn whether it’s the done thing?”

  Viola flashed Neville a look of entreaty. The last thing they needed was another brawl to break out.

  “As you wish,” Neville said stonily. “This way, if you please.”

  The interior corridors of the castle stored cold better than an ice house. Chill leached from the bare stone walls and floors. It slipped beneath Viola’s hem and crept indecently up her shins. Her teeth threatened to start chattering by the time they mounted the third set of stairs that led up to the guest rooms.

  “This is your chamber, milady,” Neville said as he opened one of the heavy plank doors leading off the frigid corridor.

  The room was sun-splashed since the shutters had been thrown open onto the bailey below. The bed was built into the wall in Teutonic fashion with curtains to enclose it against nighttime chills. The footmen carried their luggage into the space and left them for the abigail and valet to unload later. There were half a dozen hat boxes, along with her valises and a good sized trunk. Those held only her wardrobe. Viola was mildly surprised by how much she’d accumulated in the way of worldly goods since joining forces with Quinn.

  “The chamber is a bit small. It was designed with one guest in mind, and at a time when people seemed to be a good deal shorter. Many of the private chambers are snug like this.” Neville shot a look at Quinn. “The room I’d chosen for you had higher ceilings, Ashford, if you’d care to change your mind about sharing.”

  “Not bloody likely.” Quinn bared his teeth in a feral smile.

  “This room is lovely. Thank you,” Viola said, untying her bonnet. “We’ll be quite cozy here.”

  Fortunately, a blue tiled stove squatted in one corner of their accommodations. Someone had banked a small fire in it and the room was a comfortable temperature compared to the hallway. An overstuffed chair bathed in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window. Beside it on a small table, fresh cut tulips nodded in a Delft vase.

  Viola’s heart gave a small lurch. Neville had remembered how she loved tulips.

  “Now perhaps you’d like a tour of the castle?” Neville directed his suggestion to her, pointedly ignoring Quinn.

  “Not really,” Quinn intervened. “We’ve traveled a good way this afternoon. I think perhaps a nap before supper is warranted. When is supper, by the way?”

  Neville’s narrow-eyed gaze was just shy of a glare. “Nine o’clock. Attire is formal.”

  “Very good. Arrange for a bath to be brought up for us around seven then, there’s a good fellow.” Quinn yawned hugely and stretched his arms, filling the space and brushing the low ceiling with his extended fingers. “Off you go now, Beauchamp.”

  Neville turned to Viola. “Is there anything else you require?”

  “A dressing screen would be nice,” she said.

  “But not necessary,” Quinn added as he started to unbutton his own collar. He flashed a wicked grin at Viola. “Honeymoon, you know.”

  Neville swept a low bow to Viola and gave the shallowest of nods in Quinn’s general direction. Then he turned and stalked out with the retreating footmen.

  “Did you have to do that?” she demanded once Neville was gone.

  “Do what?”

  “Rub his nose in it with all that honeymoon talk. The man has feelings.”

  “And none of them do him credit, I assure you.” Quinn stripped off his jacket. “The jackal used you once and he’ll do it again in a heartbeat if you give him the least encouragement.”

  “There are those who might say you’re using me as well.”

  “I’m using you? Hmpf!” He sat down and toed off his boots, stretching out his long legs. “As I recall, only one of us was forced to remain merely ‘hopeful’ on the drive here.”

  “I’m not talking about that,” she snapped. Devil if she’d give him anything to hope for now. “Aren’t you coercing me into committing a burglary?”

  The irritation drained from his face. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want. You always have a choice, Viola.”

  His silky bass washed over her, but she resisted the way his deep voice made her knees wobble.

  “You didn’t give me one when we started this.”

  “No, I didn’t.” He rose and crossed over to test the bed for firmness. “But to be fair, when I set out to capture the Mayfair Jewel Thief, I expected you to be a man.”

  “The way you keep bringing that up makes me think you’re disappointed.”

  His hot gaze sizzled across the room toward her. “You know better than that.”

  She refused to be sucked in by the desire in his eyes. “For tuppence, I’d—”

  A sudden wave of nausea coursed through her and she nearly doubled over. As it was, she had to grasp the back of the chair to keep from going down.

  Then she heard it, a low vibration on the farthest edge of sound. It reverberated in her chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat with difficulty.

  “Viola, what’s wrong?” Quinn was by her side in a heartbeat. “Are you ill?”

  She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt. Though she’d been cold not five minutes before, a bead of perspiration slid hotly down her spine.

  The bass note droned on in a slow pulse. It echoed in her head, boring deeper into her mind with each ponderous blat of sound.

  “Do you hear that?” she asked in a whisper.

  There was a clatter of hooves and the clack of wheels on cobbles in the bailey below.

  “Sounds like another carriage has arrived,” Quinn said.

  “No. That’s not what I mean,” Viola said as she collapsed into the chair. Her vision tunneled, but she fought the pull of darkness with a gulping breath. “It’s the diamond.”

  “The Blood of the Tiger?”

  “Yes,” she gasped. “It’s here.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Quinn scooped her up and carried her to the bed. Viola could only moan. Her cheeks flamed with scarlet patches. He put a hand to her forehead, then jerked his fingers away.

  “You’re burning with fever.”

  Panic rising in his gut, he sprinted to the washstand and poured water onto a cloth to drape across her forehead. It didn’t help.

  “No, I don’t need . . .” she mumbled, pulling the cloth off and letting it drop to the floor. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes, but she didn’t seem to be aware of them.

  “I’ll fetch a doctor.”

  He started to go, but she snatched at his arm with a surprisingly strong grip. “No. No doc—”

  One of her eyes was nearly black with a fully dilated pupil. The other was glazed over, the pupil no bigger than a pinprick. Her irises were pale, drained. Instead of their usual rich hazel, they were a sickly grayish green. He feared she saw nothing through either of them.

  “Jet. Silver,” she whimpered. “Get them.”

  “Hush, love. I’ll take care of you. They surely have a doctor here.” Quinn thought she must be delirious.

  Lord, how had it happened? One moment she was spitting mad and doing her best to pick a fight with him. The next she was so suddenly ill, he feared she’d slip away from him between one gasping breath and the next.

  “Jet. Silver,” she said between clenched teeth. A small muscle in her forearm jerked involuntarily beneath her skin. “Please.”

  It dawned on him that she wanted her damn jewelry. Quinn didn’t see what good it could do, but he was afraid to leave her side to shout down the echoing corridor for a doctor. He rifled through her valise for the black-stoned set.

  “Here, love.” He pressed them into her hands. He’d seen plenty of men die during his years as a soldier, fighting to the last breath a
gainst the inevitable pull of the great dark. For no reason he could tell, Viola was unexpectedly on the edge of that great gulf. She drifted from him by inches and he was helpless. There was nothing he could do but give her the baubles she asked for. “They’re right here.”

  Viola made no move to put the jewelry on. She simply clutched the jet between her breasts like a talisman against evil.

  As Quinn watched, the deep furrow between her brows relaxed. Her whole body loosened, the muscles unclenching, and she drew a slow deep breath. She closed her eyes and her head lolled to one side.

  “Viola, no.” Alarm shot through him as he cupped her cheek. The raging fever was gone. Her skin was eerily cool to the touch. “Stay with me.”

  Her chest rose and fell a couple times in measured breaths. Then she opened her eyes. To his relieved surprise, they were normal. Her pupils matched and her hazel irises were once again flecked with gold.

  She looked up at him and smiled thinly.

  “Good Lord, what happened to you, Viola?”

  Her lips pressed together for a moment as if she held back words she didn’t wish to speak. Then she whispered, “It’s nothing. It’s passing now.”

  “It’s not nothing, damn it! What brought this . . . this fit on?”

  “Please don’t shout.” She closed her eyes again and put a hand to her temple.

  Quinn was instantly contrite. He retrieved the discarded cloth, wet it afresh, and placed in on her forehead. She didn’t strip it off. He moved across the room and yanked on the bellpull to signal for a servant to bring tea. By the time he returned to Viola’s side, she was trying to fasten the clasp on one of her bracelets, without much success. The rest of the jewelry still rested between her breasts.

  “Help me do this.” Her voice was hoarse as if she’d screamed for an hour. “Please.”

  She’d never seemed to care too much for jewelry, but she was certainly intent on it now. Quinn helped her don both bracelet and ring sets. Then he propped her upright and fastened the jet and silver necklace at her nape. Her fingers worked at the row of buttons on her bodice.