by Anne Mallory
She blinked at that.
“Boys can be . . . unkind . . . on the streets, unless you already are someone, or are protected by someone. And sometimes not even that helps. The newest sweeps get tortured and beaten. And, well, let’s just say that Andreas didn’t take well to anyone laying a hand on him. Or, after I’d forced him to accept me, on me.”
“Runaway,” she murmured. Abused child. From a wealthy house too, perchance, with the way he spoke.
Roman laughed without warmth. “No, but that is his story to tell.”
His fingers pulled along her collarbone, making her shiver.
“Our second week on the job, and I thought I’d never scrape the soot from my lungs. Andreas was up the bricks, cleaning, when one of the boys lit the straw beneath, telling him he was going too slowly and had better hurry.”
She closed her eyes, his hands moving over her like burning rushes.
“I knocked it away and got thrown into the bricks for the trouble. Bastards charged us for that later, when we couldn’t get the blood out of the mortar.”
His lips coasted over her throat, and she thought of the faintly raised scar behind his ear that she could feel sometimes when her fingers ran through his hair.
“Andreas went silent. That should have been their first hint. But the idiot then shoved a poker up the chimney, trying to do damage. He lit another rushlight when that failed.”
“What happened?”
“Suffice to say, Andreas dropped to one knee amidst the flames and shot out swinging.”
“And the boys?”
“One ran like the coward he was. One never quite learned to work his jaw correctly again. And the one who had been in charge still wears his patch today.” The last was said a bit fondly.
Her head jerked up. “But . . .”
Roman merely shrugged. “People change. I trust him with my life now. Another tale, and one that happened years later. As Bill says, fate can be a pox-ridden whore. And I’ve always had a tendency to collect strays.” His finger worked beneath her chin, then down her throat.
“With one swift stroke though, we were mostly left alone. Became crossing sweepers the next day with the notoriety in our empty pockets, seeing as we were already a set, and that is when everything changed.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, simply stared at his fingers ghosting over her skin. She took his hand and turned to her side, propping the side of her chin on her hand, fingers playing over his.
“We started running errands for Nicholas Merrick, a small-time thug who managed a gaming hell and ran a few businesses on the side.
“We started working more and more at the hell. Took the notice of the owner. Sent me to school. To gain some polish.” He flashed a smile, letting his full accent through. “To make contacts.”
“And your brother?”
“Andreas hardly needed school.” Again the accent. “Instead, he got the quick and dirty education in keeping—and cooking—the books.”
“Took over the business a few years later when Old Merrick kicked it. Then bought out the owner. Earned enough to buy some land. That turned into two plats, then three.”
Landholding was key. She knew better than anyone. The Chatsworths should have sold their country estate long ago, but her father needed the status. Landholders had far more rights.
“We quickly made people take notice. Between the two of us, with such different and complementary skills, it was easy.”
Roman the face of the business, its charisma and mercurial danger, and Andreas the hardened, ruthless spine.
“More land, more businesses. Started buying debts when we earned just enough prestige to make it work. If there is one thing people hate, it’s creditors, after all. You have to carry enough weight to create a pause. A big enough stick to get things done. And a twist to how you do things, for we usually don’t take the debts ourselves, we just make them available. Which helps some people and ruins others.”
She pinned him with a look. “Depending on if you like them.”
He feigned a look of outrage. “You make me sound like an ogre. Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me Andreas.”
Charlotte wanted desperately to know if he held all of her father’s debts. If that is what had her father drinking more heavily, acting more desperate.
His eyes held hers, watching, waiting for her to ask.
“No, I think I’ll continue to call you Roman.”
His fingers worked into her nape, pulling her head back slightly, exposing her neck. “That is good. I am fond of my brother, even when he is being an ass, and would hate to have to hurt him.”
His lips grazed her skin. “There, now you know all about me,” he said lightly.
There was something entirely too light about the statement. She touched his cheek, making him look at her. There was no emotion so easily defined as fear in his light eyes. Nor of concern or trepidation. Yet . . .
“While that tells me a very abbreviated version of your past,” she said softly—and some seed that had long been there, fed small chugs of water, growing slowly without her notice—suddenly pushed out its leaves. It made her breath quicken, stirrings of panic pushing at a strange river of calm. “I know much about you already, do I not?”
He raised a brow, but there was something dark in his eyes, quickly covered. Something that made her heart increase. So very close.
“Oh?”
“And all of those boys downstairs, running around, clean and clothed. From the streets? Chimney sweeps and crossing sweeps and orphans?” Her voice nearly stuttered at the end, reacting to his expression—he was going to deny it. And yet, she knew. She knew. That little one with the scar? The pride and satisfaction on Roman’s face?
The something swelled within her. Terrifying. Exhilarating. She couldn’t control her breathing. She needed to look away from him, but couldn’t.
“Don’t be fooled.” His eyes narrowed, and she wondered what he read on her face in that moment. “We hire them for our own benefit. Who takes notice of a child, after all?” He said it offhandedly, with a dismissive wave of his hand.
With worship in their eyes, and thin layers of fat filling out their frames? She simply stared at him, the seed sprouting shoots in multiple directions. The feelings intensified. She cut a shoot before it grew too large, but it was simply replaced by a dozen others.
Normally she might wonder why she was panicking so fully at such a small series of internal revelations. But while the revelations themselves might be small, the consequences were anything but. For one revelation just pushed at a dozen thoughts and feelings that were already present, pushing them all together into a maelstrom within her. Pushing into one giant whole.
“You actually gave Trant’s money to a fund for orphans, didn’t you?” The words emerged a little hysterically.
“Only to irritate him.”
“And—”
Her words were cut off as his mouth covered hers. His hands wrapped around the edges of her waist and pressed her into the bed. “No more talking,” he said against her mouth, lips trailing over her cheek to her ear. “You have no idea what I’ve done in this life. It would curdle your blood. Make you shrink from me in horror. Giving a few boys a place doesn’t make a dent in my sins.”
“There are few of us without sin.”
“And there are a few of us with too much to ever be overcome,” he said in a low tone.
“You don’t think you deserve love?” she asked softly, rubbing her cheek so that she was speaking into his ear. Something inside of her rotating her panic and her need. Rotating all focus to him.
He froze.
She gently pushed him to the side, to his back, rolling over to straddle him. She pushed her hair back, leaning down over him.
“Why not, Roman? Do you see it as a cage? Or do you see yourself as the animal that the cage keeps out? The cat from attacking the canary?”
“Charlotte—”
“You want something. You t
hink you might find it in me,” she said hurriedly, terrified, elated, uncertain, assured. “And yet you are terrified too, aren’t you? I’m not alone in this.”
He was going to say no.
She pinned his shoulders, leaning over him, hair a curtain around them. “Tell me I’m alone in this feeling.” She slipped down so they were touching. He was already hard against her.
“Tell me.” She curled her fingers into his shoulders, lining them together. “Tell me if you can.”
“No.” He looked pained. His eyes closing as she brushed him, slipping along him.
“Why?”
“Always bloody why.” He pulled her hips so that she was over him, a thrust away from being completely inside of her. She shifted before he could do it, smiling at the frustrated expression on his face. But there was something vulnerable there too, not wanting to answer her question, and that was what she pressed against.
“Yes. For I want to know.” She pulled her hands over his chest. “All of you.”
“You won’t. I won’t let you.”
“That will likely be true,” she stated, feeling strangely calm all of a sudden. Calm and in control. “So I’ll tell you instead, Roman Merrick, that regardless of what happens after tonight, with whatever games you are playing outside of this—” She leaned down, touching her lips to his ear. “I will thank my lucky stars that you won me that night. That I’ve had all of these nights with you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t thank me.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, kissing his ear, the side of his throat. “Thank you.” Up under his chin. “Thank you.”
“I cheated. There was nothing lucky about it,” he said harshly, though his body strained into hers. “I cheated in that hand.”
She pulled her head back so she could see his eyes, their bodies still straining together, not caring about the words they exchanged. “You cheated to win me?”
“To beat Trant.” His teeth gritted together.
She searched his eyes. The heady excitement rushing through her at seeing everything she wanted to see. The debilitating terror rushing through her at seeing everything she wanted to see. “Mmmm.” She smiled at him, controlling the excitement, the terror, channeling them into her want of him, to the moment. “Well, then I will thank your lucky stars that you didn’t get caught. And that you needed to beat him so badly on that specific hand.”
He closed his eyes as she slipped down his frame, kissing each scar she came across, and there were many. “Charlotte—”
“I want you to know what you have given me, Roman.”
“Given you? Taking your virginity? Making you sneak around to see me? Ruining your future?”
She continued kissing him. “No. For other things. Things that I will never be able to repay.”
“Repay?” he asked harshly.
“Yes. For you have given me . . . me.” Movement in her reflection once more. The drive to be something more now, not later. Still uncertain, still a little broken. But helping to replace bitter strength with something more self-assured and far stronger.
She kissed her way back up. She could see him arguing with himself, eyes tightly shut. “Charlotte—”
She slipped over him. That perfect feeling of being joined together. Like the first time, like the last time.
Of finding someone she could love. Someone in the least likely or appropriate place.
His voice cut off, his hands automatically going to her hips, pulling her more fully on him, clasping her to him.
“You know my fears,” she whispered. “The silly and the real.”
Silly things like beauty and growing old and her worth wrapped up in everything superficial and fleeting. Real things like Emily and her parents and losing herself.
“And you make me want to be better than those fears.”
Even if she never saw Roman again after tonight, and the thought physically hurt that she might not, she was determined to keep that movement.
To keep the emotions the man below her inspired. A man who she both knew and knew not at all. For he was playing her in some way still. A game within.
“Charlotte—”
She rose and lowered herself again, pressing against him, and he closed his eyes, pulling her hips down to capture the deep curl of feeling underneath. God, it felt so wonderful. She had never realized that her body could feel this way. Could produce such spectacular feelings. And if that were only it, then she could dismiss it all as physical pleasure.
The problem was that she felt a similar euphoria whenever he was near. When he smiled, when he tweaked her, when the danger danced along his skin, sparking her. He was where the feeling emanated from. Becoming a hundred times as potent when he was inside of her.
Her body moved with the thoughts, wanting to please him, wanting to please herself, them together.
He groaned, drawing her more firmly down each time, moving her hips, pulling her that extra measure so they were so fully joined she didn’t know if they’d be able to separate. Then moving with her body to do it again. Never one to passively accept anything. Always demanding the same from her. “Charlotte, I—”
Vulnerability. Pupils swallowing the blue with desire. Need. Alarm.
She leaned over, rubbing her thumbs along his cheeks. “Shhh . . . all will be well, Roman. You have nothing to regret.” She watched his eyes, rims of sky around dark tunnels of black. “For no matter what . . .” She leaned down to his ear. “I won’t regret having and loving you.”
The certainty of the statement—the terror and euphoria collided. She felt the balloon fill . . . not a distention of despair but filling with a mist of warmth and determination. Squeezing her, as she squeezed him. And she was riding the wave of it as he went rigid beneath her, as he pulled her mouth to his, consuming her, plunging up into her again and again, driving her to the brink.
One finger grasping sanity’s edge as the rest of her fell over into the abyss.
He smiled cockily at her an hour later. “I should return you just like that.” He kissed the side of her neck as she continued to dress, everything about her appearance thoroughly debauched.
She sent him a raised brow. “Are you feeling the sudden urge to make a visit to the parson tomorrow?”
His shirt was half-done up, sleeves rolled, golden hair half-curling and falling in disarray around his face. He looked just like the decadent, fallen angel she had first thought him.
He touched her cheek, crooked smile still in place. “Mmmm, do you know any?” He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. It was so perfect, she heard what had to be a choir of angels.
Though if she was being honest, it sounded more like the stamping of hell’s minions. Cacophony growing closer from every direction. Still, she decided not to be picky. Angels were obviously a rowdy bunch.
She closed her eyes and leaned in to him, one hand gripping his half-open shirt, fingers of the other wrapping around the band of his arm.
The muscles beneath her fingers tightened suddenly, immeasurably, and the next thing she knew her nose was pressed against his back.
And the whistle of something whirred past her ear.
Chapter 20
She didn’t know how he moved so quickly, moving both of them together in one sharp, seamless movement. She had no idea how he had spun her behind him like that, nor how they moved from the bed to the wall so swiftly, but she found herself flattened against the smooth surface, his back pressed against her, his body completely blocking her. Long and wicked-looking knives glinted in his hands.
She had just watched him put that shirt on. How had he hidden knives in his sleeves without her noticing?
And Hell’s minions, indeed. It sounded like the entire neighborhood was outside, trying to break down the walls.
Roman’s entire body stiffened, and she had the feeling he would be doing something far different if she weren’t pressed behind him. It was as if he were expecting, almost resigned, to
being shot or—
A second whistle ended in a ping, shattering a decanter near her head. A spray of glass erupted to the floor, thankfully away from them.
Thankfully? She saw the flat knife that had fallen amidst the glass. Dear God, someone had thrown a knife at them. Suddenly, the whirring sound that had accompanied their movement to the wall connected with the evidence before her. A second knife.
But Roman still didn’t move. And the noise of the crowd far below grew louder.
“Merrick.” A voice called, and she could see black boots step forward out of the door’s shadows. She couldn’t see anything else, blocked as she was. “Merely a warning, as you’ve obviously guessed since we aren’t currently trading blood.” Something hit the ground, near their feet—a black card with a picture of a man hanging upon it. “I was hired. I have missed. Our debt is satisfied.”
“Who?” Roman’s voice was deadly flat.
“A surprise, to be sure. I hadn’t realized the ass was so well connected.” The voice was equally flat, almost bored, with just the slightest hint of irritation. “And if it’d been he as my target . . .”
It didn’t seem possible, but Roman’s body stiffened further.
“Ah, family betrayal. A lovely thing. Though I don’t believe anyone else has pieced it together,” the voice said, musing. A sudden increase in the rage of the crowd below nearly drowned his words. “But fair warning. The stirrings are enough to cause comment—everyone waits to see what will happen.”
Something fairly vibrated about Roman’s body. He wanted to be somewhere else now. But he tilted his head, waiting, and a second later the dark boots disappeared soundlessly into the shadows.
As soon as the man disappeared, Roman was in motion. “Andreas.” There was something of anguish to it.
Wait, what? Andreas had attacked them? Or had them attacked? And was the entire building under siege?
Roman’s hand whipped, and the knife in his right hand disappeared. He knelt and in two smooth motions pulled a pistol from under a pile of clothing and pulled a cord under the bed with his other hand. He cocked the pistol, pressing it into her hands, eyes locked with hers. “Shoot anything that moves. Reinforcements will be here in one minute.”
