The Vixen (Wicked Wallflowers Book 2)

by Christi Caldwell

  “Hmm,” he protested, closing the space between them. He cupped her cheek in a firm but gentle grip. “You are only human, Ophelia. You were just a girl, and even if you hadn’t been, there is nothing wrong in wanting to be safe.”

  “But . . . there was shame in it, and I was rightfully punished for those sins.”

  He stiffened; his arm fell to his side. Had he prodded . . . had he asked a single question or made a hint of a sound, she’d not have gone on. Mayhap it was his skill as an investigator. Or mayhap he’d been the only true friend she’d had and innately knew that she wouldn’t continue. But he met her silent tumult with an equal quiet.

  “I had handlers. Two of them. Diggory knew my worth.”

  Ya’re worth more than both yar sisters combined, girl. Don’t ya dare get yarself ’urt.

  Words from a father that hadn’t been issued out of any concern but for the monetary value she represented to him.

  “Oi ’ad a place down an alley in the Dials. ’ad to walk hours to get there because Diggory didn’t want to risk that someone in St. Giles remembered Oi was just a pickpocket turned gypsy. A fancy lord came. Foine garments. ’ad a daughter loike me, ’e said. ’is wife ’ad just died, an’ he wanted to know the future that awaited him.” Another tear streaked down her cheek.

  Unable to meet Connor’s unnerving gaze, a gaze that saw too much, she turned away and wandered off several steps.

  “It was going to be so easy. Oi knew precisely wot ’e hoped to ’ear. A new love, a new mother for his girl. Oi let my guard down. Oi didn’t allow myself to see the hardness in his eyes, the way he looked at moi chest and not my eyes as he spoke.” She forced her feet back around, forced herself to meet this man’s eyes, needing him to understand why she’d spent so many years fearful of that lot he so trusted. “When I went down that alley, Oi learned real fast that Oi’d never been the lucky one.”

  When he was just a boy, he’d nicked his first pocket. His nerves had made him sloppy and careless. One clumsy grab had alerted the gent to his intentions. The shout had gone up, followed by a cry as hands shot out and a sea of strangers made to grab him. Until the day he drew his last breath, he’d recall the thundering of his heart, the absolute absence of sufficient air for his lungs.

  Standing there, with Ophelia huddled within herself, her story unfinished, he felt very much the way he had then.

  His pulse raced, and coward as he’d always been, he wanted to retreat once more, wanted to halt a telling, for he knew. Knew before she even continued what happened to girls who wandered down those alleys.

  “What happened?” he forced himself to ask.

  She lifted her slender shoulders in a stiff shrug. “He told me ’ow pretty Oi was. Told me moi ’air was beautiful. Then he touched it.”

  Oh, God. His stomach pitched as those imaginings slapped at his mind. Of Ophelia, a small girl, and some bloody nobleman collecting those silken strands in his fingers.

  “’e wasn’t the first,” she said, her voice faint. “All the lords and ladies wanted to touch my ’air. They thought it was magic. Sometimes Oi even sold them an extra touch for a pence.” Her throat moved rhythmically. “Oi sold him a touch that day. Oi thought Oi was so c-clever. He said Oi invited it. That Oi wanted it.”

  He moaned. “It wasn’t your fault. He had no right . . . to any of it.” He ached to take her in his arms but knew if he did, she’d cease her telling, and so he stood there, his arms hanging tense at his sides.

  “He ripped moi dress.” A half laugh, half sob tore from her; the pained sound shredded his frantically pounding heart. “That was the first thing Oi thought. And then it all happened so fast. Touched me . . .” She squeezed the burden she clutched harder against her chest. “. . . here. Then jammed a knee between moi legs.”

  Did that low groan better suited to a wounded animal belong to Connor? How was he even capable of a single utterance through her telling?

  With trembling fingers, Ophelia set her papers down. “Said moi mouth was a whore’s mouth that he couldn’t kiss, that he ’ad other uses for it.” As she spoke, her telling took on a methodical quality where each word she spoke hit like a lance to his chest. “Oi knew wot the girls did with their mouths. Oi’d even seen it. Oi’d always been sick at the thought of . . . it. ’e stuck ’is fingers in me first.” A heartrending shame dripped from that whisper and cut him to the core. “It was real painful. Oi fought h-him.” Her voice broke on that imagery that conjured Ophelia as she’d been—alone, riddled with terror, desperately fighting off the attack of a treacherous nobleman. “’e enjoyed it. Urged me on.”

  He concentrated on drawing in slow, even breaths, wanting to be strong, for she deserved that strength. She’d been strong when any other man, woman, or child would have cracked and crumbled.

  “Then Oi let myself go limp.” A triumphant grin curved her quivering lips. “That was ’is misstep that day. Oi grabbed moi knife while he was loosening his falls, cut him.” She motioned to her thigh. “He screamed loike a stuck pig an’ Oi took off running. Oi burned that dress,” she added on a whispery afterthought. “Beat by Diggory for losing it. It was the first beating Oi actually wanted because Oi deserved it. Because Oi’d encouraged him.”

  Groaning, Connor came forward and then stopped. Not knowing what to say . . . afraid to touch her.

  “Don’t do that.” Her voice broke.

  He shook his head.

  She lifted ravaged eyes to his, and those shimmering crystalline pools of despair hit him like a kick to the gut. “Please don’t look at me loike ya don’t know ’ow to be with me.”

  Taking the permission she granted, he folded her close as he’d ached to since she’d begun. She turned her head, layering it against his chest, and he continued to hold her. Resting his cheek against the silken crown of pale curls, he clung to her.

  All the while a white-hot rage pulsed through his veins, a primal yearning to hunt down and find the stranger responsible for her nightmares and take him apart limb by limb.

  Time melted away, ceasing to mean anything more than an irrelevant click on the mahogany wall clock, as Connor just held her. Since their first meeting, he’d touted the honor and goodness in the nobility, when every experience she’d ever had, every exchange, was tainted by ugliness. When one of those same gentlemen had attempted to rape her, and very nearly would have if it hadn’t been for her own resourcefulness. “I am an arrogant, unmitigated fool,” he said, hollow inside and out. “Taking you to task for not seeing the good.” A broken, cynical laugh rumbled in his chest. “All along I was the one who was so wrong.”

  She pushed away, and he mourned the space she erected between them. “No,” she said, frustration lending her voice strength. She gave her head a shake. “That isn’t why I told you . . . about that day. I told you because you were right.”

  He briefly closed his eyes. How in God’s earth could that horror she’d recounted show him anything of the sort? “I couldn’t have been further from the mark.”

  Ophelia sighed. “Part of me, I fear, will always be wary of the nobility.”

  How could she not? He wanted to toss his head back and rage at the world for what she’d endured.

  “But you’ve taught me . . . you’ve shown me,” she amended. “There are lords and ladies who are good. Like Eve Dabney and the Duke and Duchess of Somerset. They are all people who have included me in their lives, despite their knowing precisely who I am . . . and what I’ve done. And your . . . father . . .” His father was undeserving in this instance of that honorable placement she gave him. “. . . and Lady Bethany.”

  Connor palmed her cheek, and she leaned into his touch. “You are a remarkable woman, Ophelia Killoran.”

  “I’m not,” she said simply. “I’m just a woman who realized you were correct.” Her eyes held his. “I have not helped you in your investigation because I feared the intentions of the gentleman you work for. I’m not afraid anymore. I trust you, Connor. I trust that these children”�
�she picked up the forgotten pages—“will not come to any harm.” Ophelia placed that burden in his arms.

  Blinking, he looked at the stack. “What is this?”

  “It is everything. All the children I’ve hired, the details I recall about their pasts. The boys and girls who belonged to Diggory’s gang, those who remained on with us, those who died . . .” Her words trailed off.

  His heart started as the enormity of her faith and trust slammed into him. Connor skimmed through the sheets in his hands and all the information contained upon those pages. “Ophelia,” he said hoarsely.

  She held up a staying hand. “A debt owed.”

  Required a debt be paid. He stilled, braced for the demand she’d put to him.

  Ophelia breathed deeply. “I want you to make love to me.”

  Chapter 16

  Ophelia’s heart hammered, threatening to beat a path out of her chest.

  She’d said it.

  She’d put her request to him.

  It was wicked and scandalous but surely no more wicked or scandalous than she’d been in the whole of her existence. A proper lady, a virgin at that, would never dare enter into a bargain with a request to be . . . to be . . . relieved of one’s virtue, but she’d never been one of those proper ladies and had never sought to shape herself into the one her brother wished her to be.

  All she knew was that before she forced herself to give up Connor O’Roarke, she wanted to know the pleasure to be found in his arms, to taste passion without fear, to experience desire without shame.

  Connor remained as motionless as those carved statues outside the Devil’s Den.

  Ophelia shifted on her feet. “Th-that isn’t altogether true. I . . . I wanted you to have it anyway. The information, that is.” Ophelia wetted her lips, and his gaze immediately went to her mouth. His eyes darkened. “I wanted to help you in your case because it is right.” She rambled on. “And I will still help even if you don’t wish to . . . even if you can’t bring yourself to . . .”

  Abandoning the sheets he held, Connor cupped her nape and covered her mouth with his.

  It was a tender meeting, searing for the heat of it and yet so very gentle. His lips, firm yet soft, explored the contours of that flesh she’d spent her life hating. Now she relished the attention he showed it. With each brush of his mouth against hers, sparks kindled, and warmth continued pooling low in her belly.

  Her lids heavy with her hungering for him, she fought to keep them open. So she might imprint upon her mind and memory thoughts of this moment: the shadow of a day’s growth upon his rugged cheeks, his own eyes weighted closed by desire, shielded by those thick gypsy’s lashes.

  Ophelia threaded her fingers through the tangle of his loose midnight curls, luxuriating in the satiny softness of those strands against her coarse palms. She met his kiss. Tilted her head and opened herself to each stroke of his mouth. Until the tenderness of that kiss slowly melted away, replaced by a straining need that she felt spill from his wildly taut frame.

  She parted her lips, letting him sweep his tongue inside, and tasted only desire.

  With a little moan, Ophelia layered herself closer, wanting more of his kiss. Of him. Of a night she wanted to go on forever.

  Connor filled his hands with her buttocks, sculpting his large palms against that flesh. He brought her close.

  His length, hard and hot and straining against the front of his trousers, pressed her belly, a marked sign of his want.

  Ophelia stilled, a whisper of fear slipping in. Of another. Forcing her . . . touching her . . .

  As though Connor sensed the tension building in her, threatening to carry her from this moment, he lightened his hold, gentling his kiss once more and then breaking it altogether. She wanted to cry out from the loss of it. Gripping him by the lapels of his jacket, she drew herself closer to him.

  Except he didn’t step away. He merely shifted his lips, trailing a path elsewhere: kissing the corner of her mouth, worshipping her cheek, the sensitive shell of her ear. On a breathy half moan, half laugh, she tipped her head, opening herself to those ministrations.

  “You are so beautiful,” Connor murmured against the column of her throat. His breath came quick, like one who’d run a hard race.

  She arched her neck, allowing him access to the place where her pulse beat erratically for him.

  He lightly sucked and then nibbled at the flesh. Working a hand between them, he slipped her dark jacket free. It landed noisily at their feet. Connor reclaimed her lips, and she parted her mouth, allowing him entry. Their tongues touched, met, and danced in a primitive battle, dueling as they reacquainted each other with the moist contours of those caverns.

  Scorched again with the heat of his embrace, Ophelia melted against him. He caught her close. All the while he searched his hands over her hips, lightly sinking his fingers into that flesh. His breath rasped within her mouth, and she swallowed those desperate, panicky sounds of his hungering.

  He kissed her deep in a kiss that went on forever and took with it time and left in its place only a burning-hot longing.

  Ophelia closed her eyes, clinging to the heady magnificence of his embrace. “With you, I feel safe,” she rasped between each kiss. I want to know only your embrace.

  Regret for what would never—could never—be allowed began to slip in, threatening the stolen moment of pretend she’d allowed herself. A tear spiraled down her cheek, and she prayed Connor wouldn’t see that token of her sadness. She wanted nothing to shatter this moment: not memory or nightmare or regret.

  Panting, Connor angled back, putting a small distance between them. She moaned, gripping at his shirt to pull him close again. He captured that lone drop with the pad of his thumb and wiped it away. “Please,” she whispered, her voice ragged. Ophelia raised heavy eyes to his. “Do not stop.” How could she live the rest of her days without knowing Connor O’Roarke in every way?

  He eyed her through heavy, dark lashes, caressing his molten gaze over every corner of her face. “From the moment I first met you, Ophelia Killoran, you captivated me.” Connor held her stare and slowly reached for the corners of her wool shirt, his meaning clear: she was free to step away. He wanted her to see and know precisely what he did.

  Her chest rose and fell quickly as he caught the fabric and slowly tugged her linen shirt free of the boy’s breeches she’d donned. His eyes never breaking contact with hers, Connor drew the coarse garment over her head and tossed it behind him.

  He paused, lingering on her bindings.

  Drawing in an uneven breath, she nodded.

  Without hesitation, Connor reached for the fabric and unwound strip after strip, until her breasts were bared to him.

  She automatically hugged her arms close, protectively covering herself. This was Connor, who’d never hurt or harmed her.

  With those assurances ringing around her brain, she let her arms fall to her sides.

  His breath caught, and he stretched out a hand. Reverent in his regard and touch, he filled a palm with the heavy flesh. Then, placing his other against the previously neglected mound, he cupped them both.

  Her pulse quickened as he weighed her breasts in his hands.

  Then he brushed his thumbs over the crescent peaks, sending sparks shooting through her from that fleeting, forbidden, and delicious caress.

  Ophelia bit her lower lip.

  He made to release her.

  She shot out her hands, covering his palms with her own, anchoring him in place, keeping him close, needing this, wanting it. “Don’t . . . stop,” she entreated.

  Inhaling between tightly clenched lips, Connor caressed and massaged that skin. She fluttered her lashes; his touch was thrilling. This was what so many of the women in the Devil’s Den whispered about. All along she’d believed them liars, mocked them in her mind, only to be proven so very wrong in Connor’s arms.

  He caressed his lips over the swollen tip of her right breast, bringing her eyes flying open. “What . . .” She bre
athed heavily; her words rolled together, incoherent. “Please . . . oh, God.” What did she even ask for? She no longer knew. She was incapable of anything but feeling.

  Then he closed his mouth around her nipple.

  A gasp ripped from her throat.

  He made to draw back, but she gripped his head, holding him firmly in place. “Do not . . . please . . . I want . . .”

  He laid his cheek against her chest. Her heart thumped wildly under the very place his head rested. The sigh of his breath cooled her perspiring skin. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice hoarsened by a restrained desire. “Do you want me to stop?” She loved him all the more for the pain in that question, one that said he’d release her no matter how much he wanted her.

  “Do not stop kissing me,” she whispered.

  With a groan of supplication, he took that bud between his lips once more, lapping at the flesh, teasing it with his tongue.

  “Connor,” she rasped.

  A slow-moving conflagration rippled through her, and she wanted to lose herself in the blaze, burn up like that sun, and know only the splendor of this moment.

  He shifted his attentions to the previously neglected tip. Drawing it between his lips, he suckled.

  Ophelia cried out, her hips arching with her need.