Kisses to Steal

by Tilly Wallace

  "Is this all?" Hoth asked, taking the small container from her hands. There was a gleam to his dull gaze and a single bead of sweat made its way down his brow.

  Ianthe tapped the little box. "Yes. As I'm sure you are aware, Phillip never conducted any business here. These are just a few personal items he left behind."

  Hoth opened the lid and rattled around inside, picking up and discarding the contents. A pipe, a blue embroidered handkerchief, a small portrait in a tiny frame. Each item was pulled out and dropped back in.

  Quinn's curiosity was piqued and the single bead of moisture sliding down Hoth's face fascinated him. What could concern a soul eater who laughed in the face of a wolf? Or perhaps Quinn needed to examine the situation from the other angle. What would worry a banker? He itched to know if the sudden death of Dunne had left Hoth in a precarious situation. He spoke of missing papers and a planned meeting that never eventuated. What a shame if he were lacking some vital piece of intelligence. Men, whether Unnatural or not, made mistakes under pressure. While Hoth displayed the emotion of a frozen river, the drop of sweat was as telling as if the man had flown into a rage and flung the box against the wall while screaming, It's not here!

  Having examined the remnants of Phillip's life, Hoth grunted and slammed the lid back down. "Thank you, my dear. I shall leave you to your juvenile entertainments, and I look forward to seeing you at week's end for more adult pursuits."

  Quinn growled. Like hell. But he remained silent while he trailed them to the entranceway as Ianthe showed the viscount out. Hoth handed the box to Perkins as he drew on his gloves and top hat. Then he wrapped a hand around Ianthe's nape and pulled her to him. Like a snake dragging the helpless mouse to its open jaws, Viscount Hoth wet his lips and then pressed them against Ianthe's.

  Quinn drew a short breath to contain his anger and his blunt nails dug into his palms. Only the thought of inadvertently harming Ianthe stopped him from lunging and throwing the man out the door.

  Fortunately, Perkins read his mind and opened the door, allowing a gust of wind to blow in. Ianthe raised her hands and placed them on Hoth's chest.

  "Really, Septimus. Contain yourself, lest you overwhelm us both," she murmured, hiding behind lowered lashes.

  The old man bought the false platitude and shot a victorious look at Quinn.

  "I have so much to show you, my dear." He stroked a gloved finger along her cheek. "My years of experience will send you to heights you have never imagined." With a nod, he grabbed the box and took his leave.

  "I can imagine a height," Quinn muttered as Perkins closed the front door. The height he was contemplating was the one he pushed Hoth from and found out whether he could fly like a bat or not.

  As soon as the door slammed, Ianthe sprang into action. She rounded on him, grabbed the loose ends of his cravat, and hauled him back into the little library.

  "Blast it, woman, I'm not a child!" he raged as she tugged on the fabric around his neck. She had a fair grasp on her and his oxygen supply was threatened.

  She let go and kicked the door shut behind them. "If you behave like a child, I shall treat you like one. Thank goodness you cannot shift, for I half expected you to snarl and piss on his leg."

  Quinn rolled his shoulders and loosened the noose around his neck. There was so much he wanted to say, most of it angry words about the other man touching her. He wanted to kiss her senseless until he was sure no trace of Hoth lingered on her skin. She was his, and it turned his stomach to watch the other man paw at her like a cooked chicken in the market. He was somewhat mollified when she poured a drink and swirled the liquor around in her mouth, washing away the vile taste of Hoth.

  "It would appear the viscount does not like me being here, under your roof. You would almost think I was infringing on some prior claim of his." Quinn brought his temper under control, one deep breath at a time. He would never direct anger at her, but the sight of that abominable creature leering at her drove him to distraction. It took all of his control to wrestle the wolf back down.

  Ianthe swallowed her drink and then placed the tumbler on the sideboard. Unable to meet his gaze, she walked to the window. With her back to him, she stared out at the passing carriages and pedestrians.

  Calm ebbed back into his body and the wolf slumped inside him. "Does he, Ianthe? Does he have a claim on you? What happens at the end of the week?" He needed to know, and yet, he was terrified of the answer. The man baldly stated he intended to consume her. Quinn would see him executed for his crimes against his former mistresses before Hoth would ever touch his mate. He just had to uncover proof.

  "There is no arrangement yet," she said. "But I am in need of a patron and he is one of a handful I am considering."

  "You cannot do this. He is an Unnatural." If she would just ask him, he would protect her from the world, shelter her and love her. He swallowed and thought of open fields where foals ran and frolicked, and wildflowers that would tickle her naked skin as he made love to her in a meadow.

  "As are you. But at least the viscount has a title and wealth to compensate for it. You forget, Quinn, this is how I survive. I sell my body to the man with the largest purse." Her voice was a mere whisper, so small and so achingly alone.

  "Would you sell your soul as well?"

  A visible shudder ran through her frame. He couldn't leave Ianthe isolated by her thoughts. Quinn strode over to window, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her back against his chest. He pressed his cheek to the top of her silken curls. "You have a dream, Ianthe. You will breed the best riding horses in England. Ladies of the ton will clamour for a sidesaddle mount started by Ianthe Wynn. And just maybe, Galahad will breed the fastest racehorse in Europe, if I can sneak my mare into his stall."

  Ianthe laughed, but it was tinged with sadness. She turned in his arms and nestled into him. "You offer me a dream, but Viscount Hoth is cold reality."

  He stroked her hair. "Don't do this, Ianthe, please. Aster believes Hoth to be a soul eater. He will consume you like the other women."

  Her hands curled under the edges of his waistcoat. "You don't know that. We have no proof. Alice was his mistress for two years. When we find her we will know for sure."

  He rested his cheek against the top of her head. "Don't let go of your dream, for tomorrow it could be reality. This is how we steer our course in life; we navigate by our dreams. Don't ever let it go, Ianthe. Keep it in mind and it will happen."

  He was going to make damned sure of it. Quinn had a plan. Defeat Hoth, deliver Ianthe's dream, and win his mate's heart.

  17

  Quinn

  * * *

  All through dinner, Quinn brooded over how much he loathed Hoth. The soul eater's presence in the house had cast a damp, gloomy blanket over Ianthe. Perhaps that was how his affliction worked—he sucked the living joy out of those around him?

  As they sat in the blood-red dining room, neither of them showed any interest in the meal served before them. Ianthe pinched the bridge of her nose, and then she rose and pled a headache. Quinn followed her up the stairs, but Sarah refused him admittance to her bedroom. She had the nerve to narrow her gaze and shoo him out, as if he were the source of the headache. Inconceivable.

  He paced up and down the corridor like a worried father, until the abigail emerged.

  "Is she all right?" he asked, trying to peer over her shoulder into the darkened room.

  She held a finger to her lips and pulled the door closed. "She'll be fine. These headaches descend occasionally. Often they are a result of the second sight."

  He frowned. Ianthe had not mentioned having a vision, and he thought the headache's origin was more nightmare.

  "It was Hoth." Quinn's heart squeezed tight to imagine Ianthe in her bedroom, drowning in an ocean of despair, alone, without him to buoy her up.

  Sarah narrowed her gaze at him and made a noise of agreement in the back of her throat. "Perhaps. That one certainly gives me a headache."

  "Is there anythin
g I can do? Read to her?" He stared at the closed door. He wanted to help. If there were anything that would ease her pain, he would do it.

  Sarah gave a rare smile and laid her hand on his arm. "You're a good lad, but what she needs is sleep. I've seen these turns come and go over the last eight years, and she will be fine by morning. I will have Perkins hail a carriage. You should go out and enjoy the evening."

  A refusal leapt to the tip of his tongue. He wanted to stay where Ianthe was, but then his fledgling plan burst to life in his mind. Quinn had much to do, if he was to bring some ease into Ianthe's life. "Yes, if she is asleep, I believe I shall go out."

  The two retainers stopped him in the entranceway and tackled him like some well-coordinated military unit. Perkins untied and retied his cravat, while Sarah slicked back his hair. They even made him turn around and tweaked his jacket and top hat before he was allowed out the door. The attention made him smile. While under Ianthe's roof they had taken it upon themselves to ensure he cast no discredit on their mistress. They also seemed to be warming to him, and their scowls were replaced by lighter smirks.

  He alighted at Covent Garden. The popular area teemed with life, noise, and light. Quinn stood and absorbed the atmosphere. London fascinated him—the sheer weight and smell of all those people, so different to the haunting loneliness of the Highlands. When he first heard their mission would take them to London, he had longed for the experience of big city life. Now, with each day that passed, he found himself thinking of mist-covered hills and green pastures. He imagined a stout and robust stone house nestled at the foot of a hillock, and a very particular woman standing in the doorway. His sensitive nose had also had its full of the rancid odour of unwashed bodies, and longed for the clean scent of damp earth.

  As he walked amongst the night-time crush, women called and beckoned, but none appealed, and none had Ianthe's poise or beauty. They were crude clay replicas compared to a marble masterpiece from ancient Rome. He waved them away, kept his hands on his money to deter the pickpockets, and headed for the gaming hells.

  As he approached, he recognised a familiar shape, moving like a predator on the hunt.

  "Ewan," he called out.

  The other man stopped and turned. Ewan was immaculately clad in evening attire. His waistcoat had subtle midnight blue embroidery that exactly matched the stripe on his cravat.

  "Quinn, impeccable knot in your cravat tonight," the lieutenant said.

  "The handiwork of Ianthe's man, not my own." He resisted the urge to tug at the knot and undo Perkins's work.

  "All alone this evening?" Ewan cast around as they crossed the road.

  "Ianthe has a headache and I was chased from the house." He frowned. It worried him that Sarah said the headaches were a regular occurrence. Another reason to encourage her dream of a life outside London. Country air would be much better for her.

  A rare smile touched Ewan's lips. "Don't try and understand women, Quinn. Just do as instructed. I am sure she will be fine tomorrow."

  The club he attended tonight was not of the same class as the night he won Ianthe. This place was frequented by those men who were refused admittance to White's, Brooks’s, or Boodle's. Standards were lower but the stakes were just as high, and there were many rash and wealthy men vying for a seat at the tables. Quinn avoided dice games; the little cubes were too easily manipulated or weighted. He preferred to have more even odds and had no intention of donating his hard-won money to the evening's banker.

  At a young age, Quinn had discovered a natural talent with cards. It was as if a deck had been inscribed in his mind, perhaps because his older siblings repeatedly threw a pack at his head. At any game, he could mentally cross off those cards played or dealt, and knew which remained unseen. As he grew older, he became better at calculating the probability of which card would appear next, which greatly increased his chances of knowing when to hold on to the cards in his hand and when to toss them out. Coupled with that talent, Quinn became a keen observer of his fellow players and the tiny nuances that gave away the type of hand clutched in their fingers.

  When he joined the army his luck at cards flourished, but he was also beaten up regularly by men unhappy at losing to the much younger man. It was Ewan who taught him how to lose a little and win slightly more, and then to move on before he attracted notice. His nose stopped being broken when he discovered it was healthier to win lots of small amounts, rather than one large pot.

  He used the same technique this evening, as Ewan employed his talents. The man had an unerring ability to make people talk, and he gathered intelligence like a country maid picked wildflowers. Over a few hours, Quinn transformed a small handful of shillings into guineas, and then that grew into a modest roll of bank notes tucked securely in his jacket.

  "How goes the mission? Any tidbits to share?" Ewan asked as they conferred during a quiet moment. The lieutenant sipped his drink and surveyed the company in attendance.

  "Apparently Dunne and Hoth used to shut themselves in Ianthe's parlour and discuss business long into the night." Quinn also ran his gaze over the crowd, but for a different reason. He was looking for the right opponent to seat himself at the high-stakes table. "Hoth arrived today, asking if Dunne had left anything behind. He was particularly interested in any scraps of paper with what might appear to be random scribblings upon them."

  One black eyebrow arched. "An odd thing to seek. It could be something relevant to our mission. If one were seeking missing papers, one would look at Dunne’s office, not his mistress's house. The description of ‘odd scribblings’ makes me think he is after an encoded message. How did Ianthe react?"

  Quinn weighed up the players at the tables, and discarded numerous fops, dandies, and nouveaux riches who either looked too in their cups to last long, or had the tell-tale threadbare cuffs that meant equally bereft pocketbooks. "She presented him with a small box of assorted belongings, but I got the distinct impression that whatever Hoth sought was not within it."

  Ewan kept his gaze on Quinn. "And what do you think?"

  He could no longer ignore his superior officer and met the cool blue gaze. "I believe she is afraid of Hoth, and I also suspect she knows far more than she is currently telling me. She knows he is an Unnatural and a suspected soul eater, but is still considering him as a replacement patron."

  No flicker of emotion crossed Ewan's face and Quinn reflected how similar he was to Hoth. Was this how the older man had started? Detached from life?

  "Hamish will need to report to Lord Bathurst soon. We need information about the traitor's plot and a way to find Forge. Keep your ears open and we will continue to dig into Hoth's personal life. We can hang him for two crimes just as easily as one."

  "I am always on my guard," Quinn murmured. He hadn't forgotten the French vampyre who had slit his throat. If it hadn't been for the protective chainmail and canvas collar, and his wolf's robust constitution, he would have bled out on a balcony. He hoped his luck would hold tonight, for he needed it to put a plan in place. He just needed someone with too much alcohol sloshing around in his brain and spare cash taking up room in his pockets.

  And just like that, his patience was rewarded and serendipity smiled upon him. A man who huffed and puffed with exertion sat at the table, a wad of notes clutched in his sweaty palms. His face and eyes were over-bright in a florid complexion. The man exuded an excess of alcohol and confidence in his own ability. Quinn took a seat opposite William St John, the man Ianthe referred to as her creator. Perfect.

  "Ha! The arrogant pup. Prepare for the thrashing you deserve," St John said as he called for more wine.

  Quinn resisted the noble's bait. There was only one man who would take a lashing this evening. Four other men pulled out chairs and they made a group of six as the cards were dealt. Quinn lost the first few rounds, then won enough to recoup his losses. Little by little, back and forth, he played a longer game than just the hand laid out on the felt.

  St John kept drinking, the liquor bol
stering his ego and his belief in his appeal to all of womankind. He also decided to lecture Quinn on how he would secure Ianthe. "She will come back to me. Fickle things, women. I am sure she still loves me—not that it matters, but women place value in hearing that word from a man."

  If he knew nothing else about the man, he would take pleasure in destroying him for that drunken statement. The buffoon thought love was merely a word to placate a woman, when it was an oath a man carved into his heart. A woman should never be left guessing if a man loved her or not. He should weave it around her, until it became the very air she breathed. The feelings a man had were nothing compared to the depths of a wolf's love for his mate. His every caress, look, word, and action would bathe Ianthe in his love.

  Quinn stared at the discards, crossing them off in his mind, and tried to ignore the facetious ass across from him. Ianthe no more loved St John than she did pickled eel, and both needed to be shoved off to the side or dumped in a potted plant. He found a strange sense of calm, despite St John trying to ruffle him. Her past was simply that to him, past and done. He did not judge her for how her life had unfolded. Her future, however, was an entirely different matter. Every day, month, and year to come would belong to him and him alone.

  "Deuced if I know what she sees in you," St John muttered darkly into his glass.

  Quinn frowned. "Really? Unnaturals have so much more to offer than mere men and I thought my charm was obvious. Ianthe did say she was with me for my talents." Now there was a rumour that stoked his ego. Words lightly thrown by Ianthe to tumble St John from his high horse, but they had taken hold in the collective mind of the demi-monde. Much to his amusement, Ianthe had already been questioned about his unnatural talents. Let them speculate. Even better if she yearned to know for herself.

  "Well, any man can do it doggie style if that's what she likes. There is nothing a sapling like you can do that I cannot." The man snorted and sneered. He looked around, expecting the assembled mass to laugh along with him. They did not. Instead, keen gazes rested on Quinn. The men evaluated a potential competitor, and the women were more open in their appraisal.