Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  No, her concern regarding Mr Muir was with the way her heart had stuttered when he offered her an escape. She thought that organ in her chest was long dead, and it distressed her to think the youth could inspire a reaction from her. Escape from her path was an enticing offer, but it would close around her like a trap. Better to stay clear of him and the foolishness he represented.

  "So this is where you are hiding, my dear. I have been searching for you," a voice broke through her thoughts.

  A shiver ran down her spine, and she was glad her gaze was on the garden beyond. It allowed her valuable moments to school her emotions. Bland smile in place, Ianthe turned.

  "Viscount Hoth, how delightful. I have not seen you since Phillip's funeral." She stepped forward and kissed the air next to his cold cheek.

  His hands went to her shoulders, and she thought herself in the grip of death. Septimus was of average height, but lean, which made him appear taller. In his mid-forties, his black hair had turned grey at the sides, and it appeared as though wings streaked over his ears. His gaunt face seldom smiled, and his unchanging expression made his features seem carved from granite. His long fingers were chill on her skin and his sharp nails pricked into her skin and caused another shiver to race down her back.

  A flash of her vision returned. The wolf fought the shadow demon over the fallen horse. She was close to understanding what it meant, but it dissolved before she could grasp it.

  "I have wanted to speak with you, Ianthe." His dull gaze penetrated her. "I saw your difficulty with Lady Dunne."

  She swallowed and took his hand off her shoulder to hold it, mainly to release his grasp on her. She didn't want to return to the parlour with nail marks on her skin. "You are most kind, Septimus, to bother with me."

  She trod a careful line. From long association, she knew not to underestimate the powerful banker. Here was a man whose face remained impassive while he closed factories and sent entire families to the poorhouse. No man could appeal to his sentiment; you had to satisfy his pocketbook.

  Viscount Hoth and Phillip had held many a late-night meeting at her house. Cloistered in the petite office, they talked until the sun peeked over the horizon. Hoth always gathered his papers and vanished before dawn. Ianthe never asked what the men spoke about, nor did she listen at the keyhole. She merely stirred the burned papers in the hearth to ensure they were destroyed before the maid re-laid the fire.

  Septimus traced the curve of her face with a sharpened fingernail, and she wondered if he used it to flick through papers, or to etch lines in flesh. "I have long coveted you, Ianthe. Phillip was a dashed lucky chap to secure your affection. It was the only point of acrimony between us."

  She dropped her gaze and lowered her lashes, unable to look at him. "Phillip was a kind and generous man. I consider myself fortunate to have known him." She just wished he had handed over the deeds to her house before he’d died on top of her.

  "I, too, will be a generous patron. I only ask that you service all my needs." His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper and he leaned his face closer as he spoke.

  The stutter in her heart that had begun when she looked at the young and vibrant Quinn froze under the touch of the older and grim Septimus. Odd how contact with one man could bestow life, whereas the other drew it away.

  "How is Alice?” she asked, speaking of his previous mistress. “We have not seen her for some months now, and I do so miss her." Ianthe had often shared a glass of champagne and a laugh with the vibrant young woman, until she had sickened and retreated from society.

  "I found a quiet place in the countryside where she is recuperating, but I find myself in need of a more practiced replacement." Nothing flickered behind his gaze, no hint of emotion for the young girl he had used and cast aside.

  How many others had there been over the years? All young vivacious things that had been used and discarded by Hoth, the women never seen again in London but were all retired to the country.

  "I am still mourning Phillip. I do not think I am yet ready for another patron." Ianthe's mind scrambled for an excuse, anything to throw in this man's path to slow his advance. She just needed time to entice another man to offer for her patronage.

  He barked in laughter. "Oh, my dear. We both know you have expenses to meet. And there is the little matter of the roof over your head."

  Her head shot up and she met his gaze. "You can help?"

  "I can indeed. I happen to have the papers Phillip had drawn up in your name. His widow might wish to see them destroyed, but I had already retrieved them from his office." His steady gaze never left her face, and she wondered if this was how the mouse felt under the stare of a serpent: mesmerised, knowing doom awaited, but unable to dart away. She should run, but Viscount Hoth had the power to compel her actions as though she were a marionette. She wanted to sob that life was unfair, as he pulled her strings and made her say the words.

  "I would be most grateful if you would deliver them to me," her voice whispered over a dry throat. How cruel was fate, to dangle the prize before her, only to have it in this man's control. She should have been free, as Phillip promised.

  "Of course. I shall place the deeds in your hands on our first night together." A smile tugged one corner of his lips, but it looked more a self-satisfied smirk. He was the serpent that had devoured the mouse, and now licked its lips to savour the taste.

  She couldn't breathe. Even with short stays, her lungs struggled to fill with air. She could not be bound to this man. The trace of mage blood in her veins screamed a warning. She didn't need a vision to know what it meant. Not him. Tears stung the back of her eyes. "I am still grieving for Phillip."

  "I will give you until the end of the month. Otherwise I am afraid you will find the deeds sold to another, who may be far less generous than I." There was no hint of emotion behind his eyes, no glimmer of any concern for her situation, no humanity to warm his offer. He wanted her and he would purchase her. It was that simple to him.

  Her heart squeezed. The end of the month was just ten days away. She had only ten days before he claimed her. There was only one way she could respond, only one thing to say. "Thank you, Septimus. Until then."

  She leaned up to kiss his cheek, but the viscount caught her face in his hands and pressed his clammy lips to hers. Years of control enabled her to relax her body, to soften her lips and sigh softly, even as the invasion of his tongue repulsed her. He thrust into her and took what he wanted, uncaring of her reaction. She was but a vessel, to be filled or plundered as men wanted.

  His dark eyes gleamed when he released her. "Until then, Ianthe. I have so many plans for us and I must prepare."

  He walked back into the room and left her alone in turmoil. Only when she was sure he had gone did she sob and bite the back of her hand to stop from crying out. She wiped her mouth, but the sharp taste of him remained. Something bitter and unpleasant clung to her tongue. She had just ten days to determine how to gain control of her life, or surrender to his cold embrace.

  There were those in the demi-monde who referred to Viscount Hoth as the Reaper, half-joking that he collected the souls of those he touched. Or could there be more to his nickname? None had ever whispered that he might be an Unnatural but there was something not quite right about him, a permanent sense of cold as though his soul, if he had one, was encased in ice.

  Ianthe recollected Alice Sheppard, his previous mistress. She was once a vibrant and beautiful girl. Dukes and princes courted her and vied for her affection, but it was Hoth who had snatched her away from them all with his extravagant promises. Over a period of long months as his mistress, Alice had changed.

  The last time Ianthe saw her, her friend had stumbled through life as though sleep-walking, unable to raise her eyes to meet Ianthe's, and her words had been reduced to bare whispers. People murmured that sickness had befallen her, and that was why Hoth had retired her to the country, because of her delicate health. But others whispered that her mind had been shattered by the dark a
cts he forced her to perform. No one knew, but none of them wanted to be the next Cyprian to find out.

  Thinking of Hoth's previous mistress made an image flare bright in her mind. Piles of dull cream bones, all tied with ribbons in varying colours, as though they were presents under a Christmas tree. One sad stack had a pink ribbon wound around it, another a bright yellow ribbon with white flowers that was achingly familiar.

  "Impossible," Ianthe whispered and waved her hand to dismiss the sight. It was a figment of her worried imagination and not a true vision. If Hoth were killing his former mistresses and collecting their bones, someone would know and speak up. Wouldn't they?

  Heading back through the rooms, she took up one glass of champagne after another. Ianthe had taken a small measure of her tonic to steel herself for the evening, but the effect scurried away after her encounter with Septimus. She needed something to insulate her against the wall of despair that threatened to crash over her. The alcohol soothed her nerves and wore the edges from her anxiety. It added warmth to her veins where none had existed before. It also made her rash. Before she realised it, Ianthe found herself seated at a gaming table, cards in her hands, as the stakes kept mounting.

  One by one, the other players tossed their cards to the felt, until there was only her and one opponent waging war for the pile of notes and coins. She should never have wagered so much. Before her was laid all the money she carried on her, plus the modest winnings from earlier in the night. The choices life offered her weighed heavily. The very roof over her head was at risk unless she took Septimus's offer. Not to mention the very large bill that fell due this week. She eyed the notes. If she won this hand, at least one outstanding invoice could be satisfied and she could breathe a little easier.

  The remaining player dropped another coin on the pile. "Call."

  She looked up at her opponent—Quinn Muir. The man had somehow manoeuvred himself opposite her, and his warm gaze kept sweeping over her body. She couldn't scold him, not when she had her wares displayed. But she was looking for a buyer with a title and wealth, not an impoverished youth, no matter how handsome he was.

  Ianthe avoided eye contact least it reveal too much and instead studied the cards in her hand. There was a reasonable chance she would win. The larger problem was that she had nothing more to match his raised bet. Her fingers tightened on the cards. She could not afford to fold, not when the entire pot was within her grasp. But what could she offer up? She only had one other thing of value. The very thing his gaze lingered over with palpable desire.

  Herself.

  Ewan Shaw stood at Quinn's shoulder, and his piercing blue gaze lighted on her. "That's quite a tempting pot before us. There must be enough to buy at least one night of your company, wouldn't you say, Ianthe?"

  She swore the man was mage-blooded; his gaze could uncover a person's innermost thoughts. She laughed, and the alcohol and fear spoke for her. "A night? The stakes are high enough to purchase seven nights and the days to match."

  "Shall we change the wager to that?" Quinn suggested, as he ran a fingertip over his cards.

  "Pardon?" Ianthe said. She wanted to grasp the words and call them back to her tongue. The liquor slowed her brain, and she wasn't quite sure what she offered. Was there something of value to tempt him that could lighten her burden, if only by a fraction?

  Quinn's warm gaze met hers. "I offer a proposal. Regardless of the cards you hold, the pool is yours. But if I win, I claim seven days and nights with you."

  A sob of relief nearly burst from her chest at his words. Regardless of the cards you hold, the pool is yours. The cash was hers, and one worry could be settled. But if she lost, it would mean a week with the young man with the eager gleam in his eye. Was a week so intolerable, when she had been selling herself for ten years? Truth be told, it was more than the thought of lost sleep that made her pause.

  Quinn Muir made something deep inside her stir, something that needed to stay buried if she was to survive in this world. But she could not ignore the promise of ready money glinting on the green felt. When life offered few choices, you had to grab those that presented themselves. There was just one tiny matter to settle first.

  Her fingers tightened on the cards. "I said the pot is enough to buy my company, not my body."

  Quinn frowned. "Elaborate."

  A sliver of confidence ran down her spine. There was a way this could work. "How can I make it plainer? The amount on the table buys my time, but not my person. Do you wish to reconsider?"

  He stared at the ceiling for a moment as he mulled over her words. He tapped the cards against his chin, then met her gaze and the smile returned to his face. "I offer a compromise, of a kiss. One kiss for each day. Seven nights, seven days, seven kisses."

  A scoff of denial sprung to her tongue. She never kissed; it was far too intimate. But was she so confident of her hand? Did she dare risk losing everything on the table for the sake of a press of lips once a day for a week? Septimus had just done it, and she had managed to swallow back the bile. Somehow, she doubted Quinn would rouse such revulsion.

  Their game had attracted attention. Chatter swept through the crowd that the two negotiated for a week of her time. Septimus Fletcher moved closer to the table and scowled at her. Ianthe's thoughts rioted; the viscount's displeasure was obvious. He didn't like other people touching things he deemed his. What would he demand from her, in exchange for the house deeds? She thought of Alice and the haunted look in her eyes the last time they spoke. A handful of kisses with a handsome young man seemed so innocent by comparison to the black shadow Viscount Hoth would spread over her life.

  She swallowed. "Very well, then. If you win, seven days and seven kisses."

  They each laid down their cards. Ianthe held a good hand; Quinn Muir held a far superior one. She had won and lost. The money was hers, but so was the man opposite her, for an entire week.

  "Well played," he said, and began gathering up the notes and coins as the crowd around them applauded and erupted into loud chatter. He folded the notes neatly, with the coins tucked in the middle, and held the bundle out to her. "Shall we leave now?"

  5

  Quinn

  * * *

  Quinn tried not to grin, he really did, but he just couldn't help himself. It was probably just as well that he couldn't shift, as the wolf inside him was running around in circles chasing its tail with joy. Standing close to Ianthe and seeing the tiredness in her eyes had provoked his protective instinct. It also revealed a single truth to Quinn—she was his mate. He just needed to figure out how to awaken the same awareness in her. He had seven days and seven nights with her and he intended to mount an all-out assault on the wall around her heart. He also needed to find enough evidence to convince the other Highland Wolves she was innocent of any treachery.

  He handed over the winnings and she folded them into her reticule, drawing the string tight.

  "I'll fetch our coats and meet you by the front door," Quinn said. Then he bowed and dropped back through the tight pack of people. Men slapped him on the back as he passed and he was both congratulated and cursed for monopolising the courtesan before she had even made it back on the open market.

  As he asked a liveried footman to fetch their coats, Ewan caught up with him.

  The lieutenant waited until they were somewhat alone. "I see I have been out-manoeuvred. Well played, my friend, but tread carefully. Hoth is not pleased with tonight's outcome, and there is a man who doesn't like others touching his things. We'll be waiting to hear from you, when you have a free moment."

  If Quinn had a free moment, for he intended to make every minute of the forthcoming week count. "Hoth can go to hell before he lays a finger on her." Ianthe had cast a spell over him from the very first moment he laid eyes on her. Quinn intended to chase his fascination to the very end, and his wolf snarled that Hoth would not get within a mile of the ethereal courtesan.

  Ewan arched a dark brow. "Careful, Quinn, that you are not overly involved
. Keep a clear head."

  He might be young, but he was no fool. Quinn kept quiet that his wolf claimed Ianthe as its own. The concept was still new to the Wolves and they were all struggling to figure out what it meant and how it worked. Besides, it grated that the lieutenant assumed he was lacking in wits, as well as years. "I know our mission. What better place to learn if she knows anything, than at her side? If she trusts me, I have a greater chance of success. Could you send a few things along for me? I don't want to waste time returning to our rooms to pack."

  "Of course," Ewan murmured.

  The object of their conversation appeared in the entranceway. Ewan shook Quinn's shoulder and bowed to Ianthe. "Quinn often forgets his manners, so do feel free to cuff the pup around the ears if you find him too impertinent. I hear a rolled-up newspaper also works."

  She nodded at Ewan. "I'm sure we'll establish our boundaries early on in this arrangement."

  The footman appeared and Quinn took his top hat, draped their coats over one arm, and held out the other to the courtesan. "Shall we? I had a hackney hailed for us."

  Ianthe took his arm, and they walked out into the night. Light spilled behind them, and they cast long shadows that reached over the cobbles to the waiting hackney. He remembered her question about whether he had a fortune to make up for the lack of title. It irked that he had no fancy conveyance to offer her, but had to make use of public transport. The hackney stood to one side, away from the glossy carriages waiting for their aristocratic cargoes.

  He cast a glance back at the mansion. Within were lords, dukes, and even the prince regent. Their combined fortunes could buy an entire nation, and yet here was the fifth son of a minor noble, snatching away the evening's prize. He had no title or fortune, but he had something far better—luck.