Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  It didn’t matter at the moment: either way, he’d failed this night. He hadn’t saved the children.

  Winter picked up the lantern and left. Outside, the wind had risen, blowing raindrops into his face. He listened, but there was no other sound save the creaking of the chandler shop sign overhead. The dragoons must be hunting in another part of St. Giles. He replaced the lantern and then bent into the wind, walking swiftly. Twice he darted into alleys or doorways to avoid another night pedestrian, and once he was forced to take to the rooftops to avoid the dragoons. He did all this almost mechanically, and it wasn’t until he stood in a neat garden on the west side of London that he realized which way he’d taken.

  He stood outside Isabel’s town house, staring up at the windows in back, wondering which was her bedroom. Odd that his feet should instinctively take him here. She was not of his world. She wouldn’t offer him tea and bread toasted over a fire like a housewife in St. Giles. Wouldn’t understand the gaping hole of want that was St. Giles or the need that drove him to try to fill it. Or perhaps she would. Isabel had proven herself a more complex woman than he’d first thought.

  But their differences were of no consequence anyway when what drew them together was as old as Adam and Eve. She’d brought out the beast, made him feel when he’d always lived in a cold, still world. No other woman had ever done that. No other woman ever would. She was the only woman for him now. Perhaps he ought to show her that.

  As he stood there, the clouds opened up and the rain began in earnest. Winter lifted his face to the downpour, letting the rain wash away doubts and the failure of the night. Letting the rain wash him clean.

  A light began to glow in a ground-floor window. It was well past midnight. Perhaps a maid was tidying up. Or a footman was taking an illicit drink of brandy. Or maybe Isabel couldn’t sleep.

  In any case, he’d soon find out.

  Chapter Twelve

  The True Love thought long and hard about the wisewoman’s words. Then she unbound her long, golden hair and, plucking several strands, began to braid them into a fine cord. And as she did so, she thought of all the hours she had known the Harlequin, all the moments she’d longed for him, and all the thousands of seconds she’d loved him…

  —from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles

  This was stupid.

  Isabel stared sightlessly at Edmund’s carefully compiled library. Her late husband had enjoyed owning an outrageously expensive collection of books, though he’d hardly read any of them. Still, they were a source of solace for her on nights like this when sleep stubbornly stayed just out of her grasp.

  She sighed and took a small book of erotic poetry off the shelf. It was rather banal—the poet had been entirely too pleased with his own wit—but perhaps that would make her drowsy. She’d already taken a hot bath and called for both warm milk and a glass of wine. Little else was left to try if she were to get any sleep this night.

  Isabel settled into a deep leather chair before the unlit fireplace, tucking her slippered feet beneath the skirts of her wrap. The room was a bit chilly without the fire, but she wouldn’t stay long enough to make it worthwhile to light it.

  She opened the book, tilting it to catch the light of her candle, and began to read.

  The poetry must’ve done its job, for she didn’t know how much longer it was when next she looked up, and at first she wondered if she might be dreaming.

  He stood there, only a few paces in front of her, still in full Ghost of St. Giles regalia.

  Her heart leaped with foolish joy. Until now she’d wondered if it had only been a physical relief for him. Like eating a nice meal when one was particularly peckish. One was grateful and happy for the meal, but one never really thought about it afterward.

  He’d come to her again unbidden, though. At least she wasn’t a steak and kidney pie to him.

  “You’re dripping on my hearthrug,” she said.

  He took off his mask, moving rather slowly. “You need new locks.”

  She raised her eyebrows and closed her book. “My locks aren’t that old.”

  “Yes, but”—he drew off the silk mask as well and let it drop to the hearthrug—“they’re more ornamental than useful.”

  She watched as he doffed his hat. “Does that explain how you got in?”

  “Partially.” He unbuckled his sword belt and carefully laid it on the tiles before the fireplace. “I would’ve gotten in anyway, no matter how good your locks, but I shouldn’t have gotten in quite so easily.”

  He began unbuttoning his tunic.

  “Perhaps I don’t have anything worth locking away,” she said a bit distractedly.

  He shot her a sparkling glance from underneath lowered brows. “You have yourself.”

  Gratifying. Why did his plain words mean so much more than any number of flowery flatteries she’d received in the past?

  Isabel bit her lip. “What are you doing here?”

  He removed his tunic but didn’t bother looking up as he sat to take off his boots. “I want you to show me.”

  “Show you what?”

  He did look up at that, one boot in his hands, and his eyes bored straight into her woman’s soul. “Everything.”

  She swallowed, for she’d clenched internally at his single word. “What makes you think I’m interested in teaching you?”

  He stilled and his sudden and complete lack of movement made her heart beat faster, as if he were a predator readying to pounce. “Do I presume?”

  She licked dry lips. “No.”

  “Don’t tease, Isabel.” He bent to the other boot.

  She watched for a minute as he stripped the boot from his foot and then unbuttoned his shirt. “Why do you do it?”

  He shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head, revealing again that wonderfully muscled chest. “No one misses them.”

  “Who?”

  “The poor, the children of St. Giles.” He paused, his hands on the fall of his breeches, and glanced at her. She saw that there was an angry fire in his eyes. “They send soldiers in for the death of one aristocrat, yet dozens of children die every month and they care not.”

  She cocked her head to the side, realizing that she must speak cautiously. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was a good man.”

  He nodded. “And had he beat his servants, seduced maidens, and neglected his elderly parents, his murderer would still be hunted just as ferociously.”

  “True.” His anger was more fresh tonight. Something had happened after he’d left her carriage. “What would you have society do, exactly?”

  “Care.” He ripped open his breeches and stepped from them, standing only in his smallclothes. His erection strained at the thin material. “I want them to care just as much about a poor child as they do a gentleman. I want them to make sure every child is fed and clothed and housed. I want them to see that London cannot continue this way with people dying in the gutter.”

  “You talk revolution,” she murmured.

  “And if I do?” His hands clenched into fists. “Perhaps we need another revolution—one of necessity instead of religion this time. I’m tired of rescuing orphaned and abandoned children. I want to never nurse a child through the night and see him die before daybreak, never have to bury another baby, never have to search for abandoned children only to find…” He choked suddenly, looking away from her.

  Ah, they were drawing closer to what made him so edgy. She wanted to wrap her arms around him but was afraid he would rebuff such compassion. “What happened tonight?”

  His mouth twisted. “I’ve been hunting for a workshop run by child kidnappers who make the children labor with no money and little food. I thought I’d found the place tonight—finally, after days of searching—only to discover the shop empty. The children are missing again, either removed to another place or perhaps even killed to leave no evidence.”

  He looked at her, and she caught her breath at the anguish in his eyes. “Surely you alone cannot expect to bea
r this burden? Isn’t that a sin of pride, Mr. Makepeace?”

  Any other man would’ve scoffed. He closed his eyes instead. “Perhaps. Perhaps I have too much pride.” His eyes flashed open. “But that does not excuse the fact that I was too late. I failed those children.”

  She bowed her head. How could she help him, this man who felt too intensely, who bore all the problems of St. Giles on his shoulders? What could she offer him except what she’d already given him—her body?

  She carefully put her book down on the table by her candle. Then she picked up the candlestick and crossed to the fireplace. The coals were already laid. She knelt and put fire to them.

  “What are you doing?” he asked behind her.

  She straightened and turned to face him. “I thought we might need some warmth for what you want.”

  Then she let her wrap drop to the floor. Underneath was her night rail, a frivolous thing of lace and silk. She drew it off over her head and kicked the slippers from her feet. That left her naked and standing before him like some aging Venus. She threw her shoulders back, smiling at him defiantly.

  Except his gaze wasn’t at all disappointed. In fact, he looked a little awestruck.

  She wet her lips, noting that they trembled slightly, and walked toward him. “Now, what exactly do you want me to show you?”

  “Everything,” he repeated.

  A daunting word, for with another man it might be hyperbole. With Winter Makepeace it was not.

  “Then touch me,” she said huskily.

  His hand was broad and fit almost exactly over her left breast. He laid it there, hot and strong, then lifted to stroke around her areola delicately.

  “Like this?” His words were rumbled, his gaze intent on what his hand touched.

  “Yes, that’s nice,” she said.

  His eyes flicked to hers. “Nice.”

  She smiled. “Pinch my nipple.”

  He squeezed gently—too gently.

  “Harder.”

  He frowned. “I will not hurt you.”

  “You won’t,” she whispered.

  The pinch this time went straight to her feminine valley. He cupped both hands over her breasts, fondling and pinching until her breath became heavy.

  Then he stepped back.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, a bit sharply, for simply standing there receiving his ministrations had been oddly arousing.

  “Lie down,” he said. “I want to see all of you.”

  She swallowed but carefully straightened her silk chemise on the hearthrug and lay down upon it. She watched as he stripped his smalls off and then knelt beside her, entirely nude.

  The firelight made his skin glow, sent shadows and light dancing over the hard muscles of his arms and chest. His hair was tied back still, but as he paused to stare at her body, she reached up to pull away the simple black cord.

  He looked at her, startled.

  She smiled, threading her fingers through his straight brown hair. It was shoulder-length, and when it was about his face, he looked less civilized. “Fair is fair.”

  Was that a blush darkening his lean cheeks?

  “I want to touch you,” he said low. “Feel and… taste.”

  She nodded, the breath suddenly gone from her lungs.

  He bent over her, bracing one arm by her face, like a wildcat claiming its prey. She watched as he lowered his head toward her breast and then had to close her eyes as his tongue touched her nipple. He was gentle, exploring. Was this how Adam had first touched Eve? With wonder, even reverence?

  He closed his teeth suddenly on her nipple and she gasped.

  He released her at once, looking at her through his hair. “I hurt you?”

  “No.” She bit her lip. “It’s… it’s fine.”

  He stared at her a moment longer as if analyzing her reaction, then bent toward her again. This time he lapped at her nipple with long, firm strokes before suddenly sucking the tip into his mouth.

  She had to ball her fists so as not to make a sound. He might stop if she did and she’d really rather he didn’t.

  Abruptly he abandoned her breast, sitting back to stare at her once more. “I want to discover all of you.”

  “Then do so,” she said, her voice a low purr.

  He traced with gentle fingertips the curve of her breast, following it up to her armpit and over to her collarbone. Then he took her hand and pulled her arm over her head to stroke the underside of her upper arm.

  She squirmed.

  He darted a look at her. “It hurts?”

  “No, of course not,” she gasped. “You’re tickling me!”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up and his hand suddenly dove for the vulnerable skin just under her armpit.

  “Oh!” She convulsed, giggling, and he flung himself on top of her to keep her from wriggling away.

  “Lie still,” he said sternly, his mouth only inches from hers.

  “Then stop tickling me,” she murmured. She watched his eyes, deep and mysterious, and felt the firm nudge of his erection on her belly.

  His face grew grave again. He nodded and levered himself off her slowly, as if waiting to see if she’d flee.

  She spread her arms wide on the hearthrug and smiled, though her lips trembled.

  He watched her a moment and then backed, lowering his head to her belly.

  She sucked in a breath.

  “Tickles?” he murmured against her skin.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Mmm.” His hum vibrated against her belly, making her toes flex.

  He skimmed, openmouthed, around her belly button and then slowed as he explored her lower tummy with his tongue. When he got to her maiden hair, he paused.

  “Your skin is so soft,” he rumbled. “Teach me. I don’t know what to do.”

  His breath warmed her maiden hair and his knuckles skimmed her cleft, making quite explicit what he wanted her to teach him.

  She widened her legs and took a steadying breath. “There is a little nubbin, hidden at the top of my slit.”

  His fingers were there, parting, discovering. “Here?” He brushed gently against her.

  She closed her eyes in reaction. “Yes. Just… touch me there.”

  He stilled and she could almost hear him thinking. Had his fingers been anywhere else, she might’ve smiled, but at the moment… well, it was simply beyond her. She waited, breathing in, breathing out and listening to the gentle crackle of the fire. Strange. Men had touched her there before, but they’d never asked how. If they’d been skilled, she’d rejoiced; if they hadn’t, she’d directed them elsewhere. Male pride was such a delicate thing. Never had she thought to tell them how to touch her.

  Tell them what she liked best.

  Finally he moved, a tentative poke.

  She bit her lip. “Could you… stroke?”

  “Like this?”

  She inhaled. “Softer.”

  “This?”

  She laughed, but the sound was frustrated. He was too high, hadn’t quite found the right place. Perhaps she should—

  “Isabel,” he suddenly breathed by her ear. “I have all night. Surely by dawn I can learn this. Please show me.”

  Well, that was quite frank. And oddly, he didn’t sound as if his male pride was hurt. He merely sounded… curious.

  If he could speak of this frankly, then so could she. After all, she was supposed to be the more sophisticated, the more worldly. Surely that meant she was more open to sexual exploration than he.

  Didn’t it?

  Or perhaps there was an entire side to simple schoolmasters that she’d never seen.

  She’d hesitated too long.

  “Isabel.”

  “Just…” She reached down and encountered his hand, large and capable. For a moment her fingers entangled with his. “It’s not very big, merely the size of a large pea, yet it’s quite sensitive and must be stroked on the right spot.”

  She guided him. “There’s a little hood—like yo
ur foreskin, I suppose. Touching it produces the strongest sensation, but I don’t like to have it drawn back. If you’ll merely…” She moved his middle finger in a gentle circle—the touch she liked the best. The touch a man had never done for her.

  “This?” he asked quietly. She felt his breath on her thigh.

  “Yes, yes, that’s quite…” She gulped, for it really was a wonderful sensation, lying here, letting him pet her. But if he continued…“Perhaps we should move on now.”

  “Fair is fair,” he said, and there was dark laughter in his voice. “I like watching you. I like smelling you.”

  Dear Lord!

  She felt him spread her thighs wider, felt his chest settle between them, felt his arms wrap around her legs. His face must be directly over her femininity, watching as she…

  His mouth settled on her parted labia and she gasped, unable to draw breath. His finger still worked her and—

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “No!” She grasped his hair and pulled him down, uncaring of modesty, sophistication, worldliness.

  And he was a quick learner. He licked her, his tongue swirling against his finger, parting her folds, kissing her deeply, until she was blown over by the storm, hard and fast, panting, gasping, losing all sense of herself and time. She arched under him, vaguely aware that he’d grasped her hips to keep from being dislodged, racing with the wind.

  When at last she opened her eyes, he was lounging beside her, waiting patiently, his hand placed possessively on her belly.

  She stretched out a hand, tracing the lines around his mouth wonderingly. “Come to me.”

  She spread her legs invitingly and he mounted her. She took his hard penis in her hand and guided him to her wet entrance, watching from under drooping eyelids the tense expression on his face.

  “Now,” she whispered, “now.”

  He rose, moving on her, moving in her, but obviously holding back.

  She arched her hips. “Let go.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “You won’t,” she whispered, smiling. “I want to feel you. Every inch of you.” And she pinched his nipple between thumb and forefinger.