Thief of Shadows

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Isabel took the opportunity to ask, “Did you find the workshop that employs children?”

  Winter shook his head, looking bitterly disappointed as he lifted his wineglass. “Only rumors. There’re stories of children living in an attic somewhere, but my source—who I had to pay double to talk—was vague on the location. I tried one likely building but was driven away by the dragoons from another. I’ll have to try again another night.”

  His going out night after night with the dragoons hot on his trail scared her to bits.

  “I’m sorry,” she said cautiously, “but can you at least wait a couple of nights before you go out again?”

  He cast an impatient glance at her from under his brows. “Every day I can’t find them, those children are abused.”

  She shook her head and frowned down at her plate, wishing she could help in some way before another thought occurred. “And Joseph Tinbox? How did he take the news of his commission?”

  “Not well.” Winter sipped the wine, for a moment closing his eyes at the taste. Then he opened them and looked at her. “I had to tell him he has no choice but to take the offer. When I left, he was no longer speaking to me.”

  “Oh, Winter.” She started to reach across the table to touch his hand when Will opened the door.

  Will served the fish in silence, darting a nervous glance between Winter and her.

  “That will be all,” Isabel said firmly.

  “Yes, my lady,” the footman murmured as he backed out the door. No doubt all her servants were waiting in the corridor to hear Will’s report.

  Isabel sighed and looked at Winter.

  He took another sip of the wine. “This is very good. Italian?”

  “Yes, I just got it in.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the son of a beer brewer. How do you come to know about wine?”

  Was that a hint of embarrassment in his eyes? He shrugged. “I like wine.”

  “Just when I think I’ve come to know you, you reveal something entirely unexpected about yourself,” she said.

  “Ah.” He set his wineglass down. “That’s where you and I differ. I don’t expect to ever know all of your secrets. I look forward, years from now, to making new discoveries each day.”

  “Winter…” Her heart near broke at the warmth in his brown eyes. She couldn’t let him think that she might change her mind. “You know we have no future together.”

  He didn’t reply, instead taking a bite of the fish, but his very silence shouted his stubbornness.

  She sighed. “What will you do now?”

  “I’ve thought that I might take up tutoring,” he replied, “of a young boy.”

  Her brows knit. “Who do you know who has—”

  He smiled as her eyes widened in comprehension.

  “But Christopher is only five,” she protested. “Far too young for a tutor.”

  “I’ve found that teaching children—especially boys—is best started as early as possible,” he said, unperturbed. “I’ll begin lessons with Christopher tomorrow.”

  “But… but…” She tried to think of an excuse for him not to begin lessons with Christopher, but the fact was that Christopher would undoubtedly do well with some masculine discipline. Lord knew that he was nearly a feral child with only Carruthers trying to tame him.

  “Good. I’m glad that’s settled,” Winter said as if she’d given her full and grateful consent. “I’ll just take my things upstairs.”

  “Now see here—” she began before his last words sank in. She brought herself up short, blinking in confusion. “What?”

  His smile had turned definitely wolfish as he pushed himself away from the table. “One of the benefits of being a private tutor instead of a schoolmaster: tutors live with the family. Now what room would you like to put me in?”

  THREE DAYS LATER, Winter sat at a low table in Isabel’s nursery. It was a room at the top of the house, but well appointed for all that. Tall windows gave in light and were properly barred at the bottom to forestall any accidents. An impressive set of tin soldiers marched along a bookcase and a rather battered stuffed lion lounged in the chair next to his pupil.

  Winter pushed a plate of tiny cakes to the center of a table. “Now, then, Christopher. Cook has kindly made fairy cakes for our tea. How many did she give us?”

  The boy, sitting at the table opposite, leaned on his elbows to study the iced cakes. Each had a strawberry on top and they looked quite appealing.

  “Twelve!” he said after a moment spent moving his lips as he counted.

  “Quite correct,” Winter said. “If we were to split the cakes between us, how many would we each have?”

  Christopher’s brow furrowed ferociously as he mulled over the question. Winter poured him a cup of milky tea with a spoonful of sugar as he waited.

  “Six?” the boy finally asked.

  “Indeed.” Winter smiled his approval. “But six fairy cakes apiece would no doubt result in a tummy ache for you and the possibility of gout for me. Thus”—he nodded to Isabel as she entered the nursery—“we are very fortunate indeed that Lady Beckinhall has come to join us for our tea.”

  Isabel smiled. “Good afternoon, Mr. Makepeace. Christopher.”

  “We’re doing maths, my lady!” Christopher bounced in his seat. “And Cook made fairy cakes for tea.”

  “Marvelous!” Isabel cast a sidelong smile at Winter as she sat. In the last few days, there had been a marked improvement in her comfort around Christopher. “What else have you discussed with Mr. Makepeace today?”

  Winter took a hasty sip of tea, avoiding her eyes.

  Christopher in contrast leaned forward conspiratorially. “The Battle of Hastings. Did you know that King Harold was killed by an arrow in his eye?”

  “Really?” Isabel’s voice sounded a bit weak. “And is that a proper subject for little boys, Mr. Makepeace?”

  Winter cleared his throat. “I find when discussing history, the most, er, colorful moments are more apt to hold a boy’s attention.”

  “Hmm.” She poured herself a cup of tea, adding cream and sugar. “I had no idea that tutoring little boys was so, um, dramatic.”

  “It is a fascinating occupation,” Winter said gravely. “For instance, Christopher and I are about to discuss division. Now, Christopher, we need to divide these fairy cakes equally among Lady Beckinhall, myself, and you. How many do you think we shall each get?”

  Christopher wrinkled his nose in thought. “Five?”

  “Ah. Shall we test your guess?”

  Christopher nodded vigorously.

  “Then please apportion out the fairy cakes equally.”

  Winter sipped his tea and watched as Christopher carefully placed a fairy cake on each of their plates in turn until all the cakes were gone from the serving plate.

  “Good,” Winter said. “Now—”

  “Will we be able to eventually eat these cakes?” Isabel muttered, eyeing the cakes on her plate.

  “Patience, Lady Beckinhall. Scholarship must not be rushed,” he chided her. She shot him a look promising retribution. “Now, then, Christopher, can you count the cakes on your plate?”

  Christopher counted. “Four.”

  “And there are three of us,” Winter said. “So three times four is…?”

  Christopher’s eyes darted between the plates before his entire little face lit up. “Twelve! Three times four is twelve, Mr. Makepeace!”

  “Quite so, Christopher,” he said with approval. “And now, Lady Beckinhall, we may eat our cakes.”

  “Huzzah!” cried Christopher as he attempted to stuff an entire fairy cake into his mouth.

  Well. Table manners were a subject they could discuss later.

  He watched Isabel take a dainty bite of her cake, licking a crumb from the corner of her mouth, and felt his loins tighten. He’d hidden it well, he thought, but living in the same house as her, taking his meals with her—as she’d insisted—even simply breathing the same air was next to agony.

&nb
sp; Winter grimly took a bite of cake and chewed. He’d vowed not to mention the subject of marriage again until she became used to the idea. Obviously he’d proposed much too soon for her tastes. Thus, he must play a waiting game, gradually letting her become accustomed to his presence in her life. And, he’d decided, it was best to abstain from sex during that time. A decision he was beginning to regret.

  “Would you like some more tea?” She leaned over to pour herself another cup of tea, the movement affording him a wonderful view of her bosom. “Mr. Makepeace?”

  He brought his gaze back up. She was blinking at him innocently. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  This wait might very well kill him.

  She smiled as she poured tea into his cup. “I hope you find your rooms comfortable?”

  “Quite.” He took a too-hasty sip of tea and scalded his tongue.

  “The view is to your liking?”

  He had a view of a brick wall. “Indeed.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him over the rim of her teacup. “And the bed. Is it soft and… yielding?”

  He nearly choked on the bite of cake he’d just taken.

  “Or do you prefer a firmer bed?” she asked sweetly. “One that refuses to yield too soon?”

  “I think”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“whatever mattress I have on the bed you gave me is perfect. But tell me, my lady, what sort of mattress do you prefer? All soft goose down or one that’s a bit… harder?”

  It was very fast, but he saw it: Her gaze flashed down to the juncture of his thighs and then up again. If there hadn’t been anything to see there before, there certainly was now.

  “Oh, I like a nice stiff mattress,” she purred. “Well warmed and ready for a long ride.”

  His nostrils flared involuntarily, for he swore he could scent her—soft and ready for him. If they were alone, if there was a bed nearby or even—

  “Why do you ride your mattress, my lady?” Christopher asked indistinctly around a mouthful of cake. “I like to sleep in my bed.”

  “Um…” Isabel squinted as she tried to find an answer to the innocent inquiry.

  “Lady Beckinhall sleeps in her bed as well, Christopher,” Winter said without any emphasis at all. “Now remember not to speak with your mouth full and have some more tea.”

  The boy happily held out his cup.

  Winter filled it, carefully not looking at Isabel. If only he could distract his appetites as easily as he did Christopher…

  Chapter Sixteen

  At long last the Harlequin’s True Love heard a shout and the sound of men in combat. Instead of fleeing the violence, she crept closer, peering around a corner. There in a small square, she saw the Harlequin fighting five men at once. The men about him shouted and grunted with the exertion of their labor, but the Harlequin made not a sound himself as he methodically cut his enemies down, one by one…

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

  Isabel lay in bed that night, her silk coverlet pulled to her chin, and wondered what she was doing. She’d rejected Winter—told him flatly that she could not marry him. With any other man, the news might’ve been met with relief: He could continue a clandestine affair with her without the commitment of matrimony. His choices then were either to continue as they were or to break the thing off.

  Instead he’d managed to move into her household.

  She wasn’t naïve. The man was stubborn and proud. He hadn’t given up his ridiculous notion of marrying her. Perhaps he really did love her.

  She closed her eyes in the darkness, her heart squeezing painfully in fear at the thought. She hadn’t let herself think it before now. It was simply too terrible to contemplate. She wasn’t like him, a person capable of deep caring. She’d shied away from strong emotions of any sort practically all her life. In her heart Isabel knew: She simply wasn’t worthy of his love. Someday he’d find that out, and when he did—

  There was no sound, but she felt a movement, a shifting of the air in her room, the warmth of another presence.

  Isabel opened her eyes. He was there, at the foot of her bed, a single candle in his hand, dressed only in shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and breeches.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered as he set the candle down. “I could not stay away.”

  She lifted herself on her elbows, her pulse beginning to speed as she watched him shrug out of his coat.

  “It’s an oddity, actually,” he said, almost as if he were musing to himself. “My self-control is rather strong as a rule. I’ve managed to keep the secret of the Ghost for nine years, from both friends and family. I don’t lose my temper often. I’ve sustained wounds and never by action or word let anyone know, even if it meant cleaning and sewing up a wound myself.”

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat. “I think, objectively, that we can agree that my control is better than the average man’s. I was, after all, celibate until I met you, and nearly content with that state of affairs.”

  He folded his waistcoat and placed it on a chair. “But then I did meet you and everything flew out the window, including, it seems, all of my rules of behavior, which, I think, is entirely your fault.”

  That outrageous remark prompted Isabel into speech for the first time since he’d entered her bedroom. “My fault?”

  He nodded, as somber as a judge. “Indeed. Let us look at the facts. You joined the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children and immediately began a campaign of taunting me.”

  She sat fully up, fascinated both by this line of thought and the fact that he was now removing his shirt. Really, his chest might be her favorite thing in the entire world.

  Not that she was about to tell him that. “Taunting?”

  “Taunting.” He folded the shirt as well, the muscles in his arms rippling in a quite distracting manner. “The little quips, the sly looks letting me know you’d once again thought yourself quite clever as you shot a dart at me, the low, provocative bodices—”

  Isabel involuntarily glanced down at her bosom. “My bodices aren’t provocative!” Well, not all the time, certainly.

  He glanced at her sternly. “Provocative.” He flicked open the buttons of his fall, and she nearly forgot what they were talking about. “And that doesn’t even take into account the later double entendres, the lessons in flirtation, and the dancing lessons in which you took every opportunity to touch my buttocks.”

  “I never, ever”—hardly ever—“touched your buttocks. On purpose.” She opened her eyes as wide as she could and cast a look of shock and innocence at him that would’ve melted a Spanish Inquisition priest’s heart.

  He lowered his brows into a thunderous glance and stripped off both his breeches and his smalls, revealing an erection that stood nearly vertical and stretched to his navel.

  “You,” he said softly, menacingly, as he advanced to the bed, “are a wanton seducer of innocent young men, too unworldly to escape from your whiles, even supposing they wanted to.”

  He was up on the bed, looming over her so suddenly, his heat beating against her, that she squeaked.

  He braced himself on one arm and ran his other hand down from her throat, between her breasts, over her belly, to her mound, where he spread his fingers wide in possession. For a moment he simply stared down at his hand covering her femininity.

  Then his gaze rose to hers and she saw that all teasing had left his eyes. They had gone so dark they were almost black. “How could I help falling under your seduction? How could I help succumbing to your lures? Is it any wonder at all that I’m here tonight?”

  She swallowed, for she’d never seen him in this mood. She realized now that his earlier joking had hidden the fact that he almost seemed to resent her and her “lures.” “What do you want?”

  His eyelids drooped as he examined her mouth. “Oh, you know very well what I want.”

  He didn’t wait for answer or permission. He simply took her mouth, opening his own wide over hers
as if he could swallow her.

  As if he could make her his.

  He licked and nipped at her lips, never letting her draw him in more deeply. Controlling and guiding their lovemaking. She could feel his naked chest under her palms, the strong, excited beat of his heart. His heat and tension were all around her, yet she could not get him to lie upon her. To seduce his tongue into her mouth.

  She whimpered under his teasing onslaught and she thought she heard him chuckle.

  That made her yank her head back and dig her fingernails into his chest muscles.

  “No,” he said firmly as if to a child. “I am the one in charge tonight, my lady. I am the one who holds the reins.”

  He rose over her, athletic and quick, and grasped her hips to flip her over.

  “Oof!” She struggled to get her hands under her, but now he had chosen to lay his entire length over her, pressing her into the mattress. “Winter, let me up.”

  “No,” he murmured in her ear. His hot breath stirred the hair on the side of her head as he gently brushed back the locks. He stroked her hair as if he had all the time in the world.

  As if his thick cock weren’t pressing firmly into her bottom.

  She wore only a thin silk chemise to bed, the fabric as delicate as tissue, and no barrier to the feel of his body on hers. In fact, it seemed to heighten the sensation, allowing him to slide against her with exquisite friction with every movement.

  “I adore your hair. Do you know that?” he whispered. “I used to dream about it in my lonely monk’s bed, long mahogany locks twining themselves about my limbs in my sleep. I’d wake aroused and aching and cursing you.”

  He tilted his hips into her bottom, his cock sliding sweetly against her, as if to emphasize his words.

  She felt her center go hot and liquid, yet she licked her lips and challenged him. “I don’t believe you. I’ve never heard you swear, even when you were in great pain.”

  “I consider it a sin to take the Lord’s name in vain,” he said as he smoothed aside her hair, baring her neck. “Yet you drive me to sin.”

  His mouth was on her skin, at the tender place where her neck met her shoulder. He licked her there, as if he would taste her essence, as if he was experimenting. Then suddenly he bit, his teeth sharp and hard, and she gasped.