"There you are." Mouth setting in a grim line, he bolted out of the room so fast that Lilly's hair whipped across her cheek.
She jumped when the door hit the wall. Jumped again when it rebounded and slammed shut. For a moment she stood frozen save the quick rise and fall of her chest as she tried to catch the breath that had been stolen from her when she'd been dragged up the stairs and thrown onto the hard mattress. Sickness stirred in her stomach and rose up into her throat as she thought of what the sailors would have done if Juliet hadn't stopped them. What they might still do if she did not take measures to guard herself against them.
Pressing a fist against her belly to hold the sickness inside, she hurried to the door. But before her trembling fingers could slide the bolt lock into place it swung towards her with so much strength that she was knocked off her feet.
She landed hard on her backside and her head hit the floor with enough force to send bright dancing lights flashing in front of her eyes. Dazed, she tried to stagger to her feet, only to lose her balance and fall back against the bed. A mewling cry of distress spilled from her lips when she felt strong hands close around her waist and pull her up into a sitting position.
"Stop!" she cried, using what little strength she had left to slap at the stranger's arms. To her surprise he immediately let her go and stepped back, a frown touching the corners of his mouth as he gazed down at her.
"Easy love, I'm not going to hurt ye. I was just seeing if ye were all right. That was a hard tumble ye took." The concern in his husky voice caught her off guard, as did the warmth in his gaze.
As stunned by his kindness as she had been by the sailor's cruelty, Lilly stared up at him in silence. His eyes were a clear, icy blue surrounded by thick lashes several shades darker than his hair. Thick and wavy, the sleek brown locks tumbled rakishly across his brow. His nose was distinctly shaped, as if it had been broken and reset more than once. His lips were bold and sensual. He had a strong chin and a rigid jawline complete with side whiskers that extended down past his ears, giving him a rakish appearance.
He was, without a doubt, the handsomest man she had ever seen. No that he had much competition. The men who frequented The Lusty Mermaid were not only ugly in appearance, they were ugly in heart and soul.
They were men who leered and pinched and grabbed. Men who thought that because she brought them their ale she ought to sit on their lap and let them paw at her tits and shove their hands up her skirts. They were men who did not see her as a person, but as an object. One to be used and discarded at their will.
"...say, ye are lookin' a touch out of it. How many fingers am I holding up?"
Belatedly realizing that the handsome stranger had been speaking to her while she'd been busy looking up at him like a love-struck fawn, Lilly blinked and drew back when he waved three fingers in front of her face.
"Three," she said automatically. "I'm not blind."
"I didn't say ye were." A line creased the middle of his forehead. "What's a lovely lass like ye doing in a place like this?"
He thought she was lovely? Lilly felt her cheeks warm as she dropped her gaze to her lap where her hands were clenched together in a tight knot. "It's - it's a long story," she said softly.
"And a hard one, I'd imagine." He held out his hand, palm facing upwards. "Come on, love. Let's get ye somewhere safe."
She studied his fingers. Like the rest of him, they were long and lean. His nails were neatly trimmed and free of dirt, although she could see a rough callous on the pad of his thumb. Biting her bottom lip, she peered up at him through a sweep of pale lashes. "Are you going to rape me?"
"Am I - no. No," he said forcibly, blue eyes flashing. "I'm not in the habit of takin' women against their will. Nor do I keep company with any men who do." His gaze softened. "Ye don't have to come with me if ye don't want to. But I think ye would be a great deal better off if ye did."
The last time Lilly had made an impulsive decision it had cost her more than she could have possibly imagined. She had no reason to trust the handsome stranger with the kind voice. No reason to think he was any better than the men who had held her pinned to this very bed. No reason to believe he was the knight in shining armor she had been desperately wishing for all her life.
"All right." She slid her hand slowly over top of his and felt the heat of his skin. The steady throb of his pulse. The strength of his grip as their fingers entwined. Yes, she thought. This feels right. "I'll go with you."
Juliet knew the exact moment Grant picked up her trail. She couldn't hear him. Couldn't see him. Couldn't smell him. But she knew he was there, just like she knew that this time she would not be able to elude him.
Even if her ankle was completely healed, she didn't know this part of the East End well enough to outrun a runner. Especially one as quick as Grant. He might have been called The Wolf, but he had the speed of a bloody horse, and there were simply too many alleys that twisted back on themselves or dead ended without warning. Or, worse yet, dumped straight into the Thames.
As she didn't fancy a midnight dip in the river, she angled towards Blackfriars Bridge. If she could reach the bridge - and cross it - she'd be able to disappear into Dickens Square. No matter how fast he was, Grant would never be able to catch her there. It was a veritable bramble thicket of tenements, alleys, and taverns, all of which had multiple entrances and exits.
The fog grew heavier the closer she got to the water's edge. Its smoky tendrils wrapped around her like a lover's embrace as she slowed her pace and squinted into the dark, trying to distinguish where the walkway ended and the bridge began. Nearly a thousand feet long and built of arched stone, it should have been easy to find, but the bloody fog was so thick it was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of her face.
A quiet rustle had her grabbing for her pistol. But when she whirled around there was no one there. Heart pounding, she strained to see into the impenetrable gray mist.
"Come any closer and I'll shoot." The click of the hammer being drawn back emphasized the seriousness of her threat. "I swear I will."
But if Grant heard her that was no sign, only the rhythmic slap of water against the hull of an invisible boat. Somewhere out in the harbor a lone gull cried out, its mournful cry causing a shiver to race down her spine.
To hell with this. Pointing the gun into the fog, she started to back up. One step. Two steps. Three steps. On the fourth she turned and ran.
Cold water soaked her trousers and jacket when she splashed through a puddle. Ignoring the wet, ignoring the dull throbbing in her ankle, she grabbed onto an old mooring pole, boots sliding on the wet dock planks as she made a sharp left hand turn.
She hissed out a breath when splinters gouged into her palm, but didn't slow down. In the distance she could just make out the glow of two tall gaslights. The bridge! She'd found it. She was nearly there. But as if summoned from the depths of hell, a dark rippling shadow suddenly appeared directly in front of her.
With a chortled cry of fury, she slid to a halt. She started to raise her pistol but Grant was one step ahead of her, and she froze when he pointed his gun at the middle of her heart.
Anger and defiance flashed in her eyes as he walked up to her. Yanking the gun out of her hand, he tossed it into the Thames with a careless flick of his wrist. She winced when she heard it hit the water. It was a foolish thing, to mourn a weapon. But that pistol had saved her life more times than she cared to count. Now it was gone, and with it any hope she had of escape.
"I told you I would find you," he said, his voice a throaty whisper as he leaned in close enough for her to see the throb of his pulse at the base of his neck. "And I always keep my word."
Chapter Fourteen
He'd finally caught her. As Grant met Juliet's defiant gaze, he felt a triumphant surge run hot and heavy through his veins. During his time on Bow Street he had captured his fair share of criminals. Murderers, thieves, and the like. But no victory had ever tasted as sweet as this...nor looked qu
ite so lovely.
Even with her hair hidden beneath an ugly brown cap and mud splattered across her high cheekbones, Juliet was a vision. He hadn't the faintest idea how she managed to pass as a boy. How could any man look at her and not see the luscious curves of a full grown woman? Baggy trousers or not, it was clear – at least to him – that she was pure female. Anyone who thought otherwise was a bloody fool.
"What now, runner?" Her pretty mouth curled in a sneer as she glared up him, inadvertently drawing his gaze to her plump bottom lip. His eyes darkened as he studied her plump pout.
What he wouldn't give to taste her again. To sink his hands into her hair and devour that impudent little mouth in one hungry bite. Transfixed on her lips, he actually started to lift his hand, fingers curling in anticipation of tangling in the silky strands of her hair...until he remembered that this fierce tigress bit back.
"Now I take you into Bow Street," he said coldly, disguising his desire behind an impassive countenance that could have been carved from stone. "You'll be held there overnight and transferred to the magistrate in the morning for sentencing."
Was that a flicker of fear he saw in her eyes? No. It couldn't be. Juliet did not fear anything or anyone. And yet...
"You will not be hurt." He didn't know why he felt the need to reassure her. Juliet was hard and tough and resourceful. Something he’d learned firsthand when she’d stolen his pistol right out from under his nose. But at the moment the woman glaring up at him didn’t look hard or tough. Behind the sneer he desperately wanted to kiss off her lips she looked frightened…and his chest ached when he thought of her sitting on the floor of a cold cell, that defiant light drained from her eyes and her shoulders slumped in defeat.
As his resolve to arrest her began to waver, he clenched his jaw tight. She was the one who had made the decisions that had led to this moment, not him, and he refused to feel sympathy for a common criminal. If Juliet was found guilty and sentenced to prison it would be no less than she deserved for breaking the law. She was no different from the hundreds of other thieves he had arrested over the years. She was not special. She did not mean anything to him.
Or so he told himself.
"If you believe having your freedom taken away doesn't hurt, think again, runner."
"Maybe you should have thought about that before you began a life of crime."
"And what else would you have had me do?" she demanded with a furious toss of her head that dislodged her hat and sent a mass of Titian curls tumbling down over her shoulders. “Earn five shillings an hour on the flat of my back?”
“No,” he said, his gut twisting at the thought of other men touching her. “I would never wish that fate upon any woman.”
“Oh, then I suppose you’d rather me starve to death?”
“Do not be ridiculous,” he scowled. “There are ways to make a decent wage other than stealing.”
“Like what?” she challenged, arching a brow. “A textile worker? I’d rather spend the rest of my life in Newgate. At least I have a better chance of survival there than in some factory.”
“Good, because that’s exactly where you’re going.” Tired of arguing with her, he pulled a pair of iron manacles off his belt and held them up in the air. “This is not a negotiation, Juliet. Turn around and hold out your hands.”
Her cheeks paled as her gaze dropped to the manacles, but when she looked up at him her eyes were filled with fire. “And if I don’t?” she said defiantly.
“Then I’ll do this.” Sliding his pistol into its holster, he grabbed her left arm just above the elbow and spun her around so she was facing away from him.
“Let me go!” She kicked back at him like a horse, and he grunted in pain when the sturdy heel of her boot connected with his shin. Grunted again with she drove her other elbow into his ribcage.
“It’s over.” The manacles dropped to the ground as he struggled to restrain her before simply pinning both of her hands to her sides. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her snugly against her chest. “It’s over, Juliet.”
“Get your bloody paws off me!” she cried.
“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.”
She began to paint the air blue with curses, but Grant was too distracted by the smell of her hair to take much offense. Carefully tipping his face down – he wouldn’t put it past her to slam her head back and break his damn nose – he inhaled the faintest hint of lavender. He wondered if that was the type of soap she used, for the scent wasn’t potent enough to be a perfume. And then, because he was a virile man holding a squirming woman, he wondered what she would look like in a bath.
Surrounded by bubbles, her auburn curls pinned messily to the top of her head so that a few tendrils clung to her damp skin. Her ivory countenance flushed a delightful, delectable pink. The tops of her breasts skimming the water as she washed herself, slowly trailing the sponge up one long, silky leg…
“That better be your pistol poking me in the back,” she said darkly.
It wasn’t.
Focus on the matter at hand, Hargrave, he ordered himself sternly. Unfortunately that was easier to say than do given what was in his hands.
He held eight stones of enraged female who would stab a dagger through his heart the first chance she got. He didn’t know why the devil that was so arousing, but then nothing about Juliet made any bloody sense.
If he believed in such things, he might have been tempted to think she was a witch…for surely only a supernatural being could make him feel both desire and loathing in such equal measure.
She represented everything that was morally corrupt in London. Everything that was wrong with society. Everything that he had spent his entire adult life trying to fix. And yet…and yet there was a part of him that did not want to fix her. There was a part of him that liked the wildness in her. That enjoyed seeing the flash of defiance in her eyes. That craved the violence simmering just beneath the surface.
“What are you doing?” she said warily when his grip loosened just enough to spin her around until they were thigh to thigh, belly to belly, face to face. She stared up him out of sharp green eyes filled with mistrust, her lips curved in a wary frown. “Runner? What are you doing?”
“Something I know I damn well shouldn’t.” Before he could change his mind he sank his hands into her hair, lowered his head, and roughly claimed her mouth with his.
Chapter Fifteen
Grant felt his sanity return when Juliet stiffened and tried to draw away. Part of him was grateful for it, as he knew he never should have kissed her to begin with. And certainly never like this. All raw, restless need and dark desire. Like a bloody wolf howling at the moon. But then he felt her soften…just a small, nearly imperceptible surrender.
And he was lost.
To hell with sanity, he thought as he plunged his tongue between her lips and dined on the sweetness of her mouth. Who the devil needs it?
He pressed himself against her and she pressed back, leaning against the hard planes of his body as her hands slid beneath his coat and her nails sank into his chest, summoning a deep growl of pleasure from the depths of his throat.
The kiss deepened into something neither one of them could control. Something neither one of them wanted to control as the boundaries separating them blurred and melted away.
At the foot of the bridge with the fog heavy at their feet and the smell of salt water in the air, they were not a runner and a thief, but a man and a woman. Controlled by instinct, driven by passion, they each took what they wanted and left nothing behind.
Her eyes glazed, Juliet’s head fell back as he nipped her earlobe before soothing the bite with a teasing lick. He tried to cup her breasts through the bulky fabric of her shirt, only to find them bound flat. With a snarl of frustration he returned to her mouth, sinking into her soft lips with all the reckless abandon of a ship plunging into a stormy sea. He bit her bottom lip just hard enough to make her quiver, and was rewarded wit
h a mewling whimper of desire that set his blood aflame.
She arched against his throbbing arousal, meeting fire with fire. The flames that burned between them was enough to set London ablaze and Grant would have happily burned to ash if it meant one more second with Juliet in his arms.
His hands dipped to her arse, squeezing her shapely buttocks as his mouth began a blazing descent down the slender column of her throat. She rubbed herself wantonly against him, stretching up on her toes so their pulsing centers met in a combustion of heat that elicited a growl from deep inside of his chest.
Driven half mad with lust, he was tempted to pin her against the mooring post and take her then and there. To rip down her boyish trousers and thrust into her hot, wet little sheath as she cried out his name. Until he felt cold, hard steel prick the side of his neck…and he opened his eyes to find her staring up at him with amusement, a smug little smirk curving her swollen lips.
“What the bollocks are you–”
“Arms behind your head. Slowly,” she warned and he hissed out a breath when the knife she held pressed against his throat drew blood. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”
A myriad of feelings filled Grant as he lifted his arms high in the air and locked his hands together behind his head.
Confusion.
Fury.
Disbelief.
Lust.
Even now, with a dagger at his neck and Juliet’s slender fingers wrapped around the handle, he still wanted her. And if that wasn’t the very definition of lunacy, he didn’t know what was.
Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
Fool me thrice…
A muscle high in his right cheek began to pulse as his teeth clenched together with so much force he felt something in his jaw give an audible pop. He never should have kissed Juliet the first time, let alone the second. What the hell had he been thinking?
That was the problem, he realized. He hadn’t been thinking. Where Juliet was concerned all of his logic and common sense flew out the bloody window. She was a siren to his sailor, and for the second time in a row he’d gleefully wrecked his ship upon the rocks just for a taste of her lips.
A Dangerous Affair (Bow Street Brides Book 3) Page 12
