Thief Taker

by Camille Oster

  "Fancy seeing you here, Miss Woodford," he said through sharp but calming breaths.

  "Just out for a stroll," she said, her voice teasing. If he hadn't had proof that she was teasing him before, he did now. "Beautiful night."

  "Carrying anything on you tonight, Miss Woodford?" he said, his breath finally calming as he watched her.

  "No. Like I said, just out for a stroll."

  "As you know, I can't take your word for it. I'll have to search you again. You so enjoyed it last time." He watched as her face drew together in anger. Oh, that had annoyed her. "Duty and such," he said, smiling.

  She looked over the edge of the ledge. "Well, you don't seem to be able to right now, Mr. Cox. Got yourself stuck on the wrong side of things. You seem to do that quite a bit—get the wrong side of the stick."

  His whole body burned with indignity. She would regret teasing him.

  Chuckling, she turned and lightly bounded away, lithe as a spring breeze across the dark spaces of the roof line. Completely impotent, he couldn't do anything but watch. He closed his eyes and choked on his anger. Consistently, she'd got the better of him and they both knew it. Perhaps she would in the end, but he refused to let that be the case. He would get her if it killed him.

  She was well ensconced in her house by the time he got there and there was nothing he could do about it as he effectively had nothing on her other than her unusual night-time strolls. A judge would laugh at him if he brought this to court. And she hadn't just been lucky; she'd beat him at the game. Too clever by far, thwarting him at every turn.

  Frustration made him uncomfortable in his own skin and he barely noticed the walk back to his house. There was nothing else for it that night—either go home or stand outside her house and burn in his own impotence.

  Walking to a door that wasn't his, he banged hard on the rough wood.

  "Christ, knock it down, why don't ya?" he heard a woman's voice inside. The door opened sharply, revealing a woman with her hand on her hip and her brown hair tied back messily, ready to give as good as she got. "Cox?"

  "I need you tonight, Lizzie."

  Turning her head to her side, she considered him. "Five minutes," she said and closed the door.

  Returning to his own rooms, he poured himself a whiskey from the half-full bottle into a glass. Closing his eyes, he took a deep sip, letting the liquid burn his throat.

  Lizzie appeared after a quiet knock and he moved to her when she'd closed the door behind her, pulling her into a kiss then backing her to the wall, where he drew her skirt out of the way and lifted her welcoming thighs around him. He was inside her, encased in her warmth.

  Her appreciative moans only drove him on, hard and fast seeking the release he needed so desperately. It stole through him fiercely, tensing his muscles as he released every taunt and failing, draining all the awfulness that boiled in him. It felt like heaven just to release it all—not to mention that he'd been pent up for days beforehand.

  Resting his head to hers, he calmed then set her down and backed away, feeling like he had nothing left. He needed sleep and maybe even food, but sat down at the table. "Something's got your ire up, Cox? Not that I don't appreciate a good, hard tumble, but it's not usually your style."

  Grabbing a second glass, he poured her a whiskey, which she brought to her nose and smelled before downing it all. "Had a bad night," he said.

  "Poor poppet," she smiled. He did like Lizzie. She was a whore and completely honest about it. She loved the independence of her life and was clever enough to make a decent living entertaining men she liked—and he was one of them. "You really should get yourself a woman," she said and sat down. "You're a decent man, who needs a woman to take care of you. Some woman from the country. This place sure could use a woman's touch."

  "I don’t think any sane woman would tolerate me. Too set in my ways. Besides, I've had all I can take with women at the moment."

  "Ah?" Lizzie said with a teasing smile. "Some girl's got ya all hot and bothered, eh? Haven't seen a girl got your ire up like that before. You're usually cool as ice." She placed her glass down and he poured her another whiskey. "Don't worry; you'll get her. You always do."

  "I do," he said. Lizzie's smile was infectious and he couldn't help but feel his own mouth tug.

  "I best go," she said and stood. He followed suit, handing her a crown, which she pocketed quickly. "Ta, darling," she said and reached up, kissing him. "Come see me whenever you need to," she said and patted him on the cheek. "I always make you feel better."

  Closing the door behind her, he turned back and poured himself another whiskey. Lizzie did make him feel better. Her cool approach and acceptance had wiped the worst of his anger away, leaving him utterly drained. Sitting down at the table, he took another sip, slowly this time. He might have dealt with his sheer frustration, but he was nowhere near winning this battle.

  Something he refused to admit was that in his mind it wasn't Lizzie's body he'd just spent himself in, which might just be the biggest problem he was facing right now. That was not a direction he could afford to go in.

  Chapter 15:

  * * *

  She probably shouldn't have teased him like she had; she didn't know what had overcome her. Why don't I agitate the dangerous man who means me ill, she said to herself as she sat on the end of her bed closing her eyes to the actions she'd perpetrated last night. Mary came to assist her dress, with its tight, confining stays that kept her strong and upright, no matter what. She needed the bolstering right now, suspecting that her teasing last night might have repercussions.

  Once dressed, she went over to the window to see if he was down on the street—something she'd wanted to do since the moment she’d woken, but refused to do while still in her nightgown. There had been enough intimacy between them as it was without him seeing her that way.

  He wasn't there. Absurdly, she almost felt a pang of disappointment—then maybe, he'd given up, realizing that even if he'd chased her down, searched her body like he had before, he still couldn't get her. Her strategy of unlinking was working and it kept her safe.

  That's not to say that she wasn't a ball of nerves—since the moment he'd first arrived, she hadn't had a moment’s peace. She never thought she could endure this endless tension, but she had to. Perhaps that's why she'd done her best to offend him last night.

  Walking downstairs, she had a funny feeling—something would happen today. There was a vibration in the air. Her thoughts immediately returned to the man who sat in her thoughts relentlessly.

  "Captain Heresworth is set to call," Mrs. Rushmore said when Serephina arrived in the dining room.

  Serephina smiled as she picked up a pair of silver tongs and assembled her breakfast. "He appears to be quite taken with Millie. We should encourage Millie to rise. We certainly can't have her running around in her nightgown when he arrives. I will go wake her after I've eaten."

  Mrs. Rushmore had finished and rose from the table. "How did it go last night?"

  "Well," Serephina said, omitting the more interesting parts of the evening. "I have placed the item in the Dellington's hedge, by the wall."

  Mrs. Rushmore tsked. "Practically in plain sight."

  "If one were to go dredging through hedges, then yes. We cannot afford to bring anything back here now—particularly as that policeman doesn't seem to have any qualms about entering the house."

  "Speaking of," Mrs. Rushmore said, with the deepest disapproval, "that dratted man is back."

  Serephina felt herself flush all over. She almost felt better knowing where he was. "We will just have to persevere and ignore him."

  "We must get that piece to Turner today."

  "He will follow me if I leave the house."

  "It is criminal what he's doing."

  Serephina smiled at the rather ironic statement. "Perhaps we can use that to our advantage. We can place him exactly where we want him when the time comes."

  Mrs. Rushmore turned from the window. "You will ha
ve to lead him on a chase and I will retrieve the object and deliver it to Turner—after Captain Heresworth calls."

  There was an awkwardness in the room when the tall and lean Captain Heresworth was announced. By the look of him, he was extremely nervous which meant there was either good news or bad. Millie looked particularly lovely and his eyes sought her immediately, softening as he spotted her.

  "Is something the matter, Captain Heresworth?" Millie said, obviously picking up on his peculiar manner.

  "There's …" he stated then cleared his throat. "There is something I wish to discuss. In private."

  Serephina glanced at Mrs. Rushmore, who was failing to hide a proud smile. There were only a few reasons for which he could insist on a private discussion. "Please, use the dining room," Serephina said. "If that is alright with you, Millie?"

  "Of course," Millie said, flushing furiously. Serephina wondered if Millie's hopes were about to come to fruition. Millie followed the young man into the dining room and closed the door behind them.

  Staring down at her lap, Serephina sat and waited, not having experienced anything so awkward before. Unable to take anymore, she rose and walk over to the window, spotting Mr. Cox sitting on Mr. Marchams stairs, reading the morning paper. He was educated, she noted, not sure why she hadn't expected him to be—perhaps because he looked like a brute. That wasn't fair perhaps—he looked strong, like Italian sculptures. Muscular legs stretched out down the stairs, covered in rough pants—woollen and dark grey, stretching to a pair of dark leather boots. He could have been anyone of the lower class—a dockman, a laborer. Instead, he was her inspecter, her tormentor. Millie got her Captain Heresworth and she got him.

  The dining room doors parted and the pair came out, beaming, with Millie being led by his arm. They looked like a couple—a perfectly matched pair. It had obviously been good news. "Captain Heresworth has asked me to be his wife," Millie said, clearly excited and happy. They smiled up at each other, a deep understanding running between them.

  Serephina's mouth ached she smiled so much, and Mrs. Rushmore went to fuss. "There is so much that needs doing," Mrs. Rushmore said. "Have you set a date?"

  "A month," Millie said. "At the Foxerly chapel. It is where Captain Heresworth's family lives."

  "That sounds lovely," Mrs. Rushmore said, hastily giving Serephina a look and Serephina continued to smile. The cost of the wedding would fall on her, which meant there was more money needed, but the end was in sight. Turning to the window again, she studied her adversary again. She was so close, but she couldn't give up just yet.

  Millie disappeared with Mary, going calling on her friends to inform them of the happy news. Serephina sighed deeply. Everything she'd worked so hard for was paying dividend and there were only a couple of things left to work toward—the wedding, an annuity for Mrs. Rushmore. As for herself, she still couldn't imagine a future. Ever since the death of her mother, she'd frantically been holding everything together, by the skin of her teeth at times—from her father's unstoppable decline, to the disastrous turn of events after his death. For once, she'd just like to breathe without feeling like the world held together through her effort.

  "I shall go for a walk then," Serephina said with another deep sigh, "hopefully drawing my shadow with me. You will take care of the other matter?"

  "I will. Now go. I wish Mary was here to go with you, but understandably, Millie wants the whole world to know of her happiness. It couldn't have worked out better," Mrs. Rushmore said, still flushed from the morning's developments.

  Donning her jacket, Serephina buttoned it and grabbed the umbrella in case it rained, unsure how long she would have Mr. Cox chase her around. Hyde Park.

  His eyes were on her the moment she stepped out the door; she felt them take in her form. She was different now, a proper lady. Taking the umbrella in hand, she strolled down the street toward Hyde Park. It was a perfect day for a walk—the air was crisp and the sky clear. But she was not the only person to think of going for a stroll that day.

  Keeping her back straight, she walked without looking behind her, knowing he would follow—out of spite if nothing else as he couldn't expect her to go gallivanting around rooftops in this dress; she couldn't move for one.

  The pond was melted now and a few daring ducks had taken to the water.

  "Venturing out without your maid now?" she heard a voice behind her, full of dark promises. She couldn't keep track of all the things he'd promised her. His presence was hardly a surprise as she'd heard him approach across the gravel.

  "I am embracing my spinsterhood," she responded, turning to face him. He was much larger this close than standing across the street—or rooftops.

  "And who was that man you were walking with the other day?"

  "I believe that is none of your affair," she said, using all the haughtiness her position would allow.

  "I think we have discussed your lack of privacy in regards to your affairs," he said, looking out across the pond. His stern face looking strong and unyielding. He seemed out of place there amongst the grass and ducks—a creature of the city.

  "Not even you shall ruin this day for me," she said and walked away from him, along the pond.

  "Something special about this day?"

  "Yes," she said, "even beyond an entertaining evening last night." She really couldn't stop herself antagonizing him.

  Coming up behind her, he cut her off along a fence. She almost banged into him. "There is always the next. I will not stop. You cannot walk away from me, Miss Woodford. I will endure."

  He was blocking her way, as solid as a wall. "You cannot harass me like this," she said. "You will damage my regard."

  "I am going to do more than damage your reputation."

  She felt a frisson of tension work through her body. "Well, not today," she said sharply. "This is the day, and now it is my city. You implied so yourself."

  "Because I said the night was mine, does not mean I will leave you in peace during the day." He actually smiled. He was enjoying this banter. There was also a certain forthrightness that hadn't been there before, prior to her attempts to antagonize him. Maybe he was giving as good as he got and ratcheting up the game in response.

  He watched her, his eye seeing every little movement, expression and nuance. How long was she going to be plagued by him? "I'm hardly going to confess to these supposed crimes because you harass me."

  Crossing her arms, she looked him in the eye, refusing to cower or back down. Something flashed in his eyes—challenge. It only made him step a little closer—too close. The solid form of his body much too close for comfort, let alone propriety, and his hand moved up and grabbed the iron spike of the fence railing just in front of her—the hand that had roamed over every part of her body not very long ago. She couldn't help feel intimidated, which was the point. It wasn't exactly violence he was threatening, something else. He couldn't touch her—not here, during the day, and she didn't dare to think what he would do if night had fallen and they were here alone and out of sight. She stepped back, not even allowing herself the images that threatened to form in her mind. "If you will excuse me, Mr. Cox, I have things to do."

  Stepping aside him, he let her go. Whatever convoluted message he'd just sent her, she'd received it. It said he was held in check by the daylight—come night, it would be another story. Not that he'd actually said anything—the promise was in his eyes as they looked down on her, hard and unflinching. He was coming for her, exactly like he'd promised, but there was something in those depths that hadn't been there before, something that made her mouth go dry and her body tingle.

  "Good day, Miss Woodford," he said as she walked away. There was still a slight undertone of promise in his voice. "Till next time."

  Refusing to look back, she kept walking, alarm shooting up her spine, forcing her heart to beat at a faster rate. Pursing her lips, she admitted that he'd done an excellent job intimidating her and he hadn't really said anything. He hadn't touched her or done anythi
ng else she could really report as abusive. It had all been in his eyes and the stance of his body, but she couldn't even place what. She certainly couldn't report that he'd looked at her disagreeably, but his eyes had unnerved her, and he bloody well knew it.

  He was toying with her—maybe even her innocence. Him searching her person had shocked her, but he certainly hadn't threatened anything despicable—only that he'd chase her down, catch her. What remained unsaid was what he'd do with her when he did.

  Chapter 16:

  * * *

  He was somewhere soft and warm, without place or time. A sense of anticipation hung in the air, creeping into his body like dread, but much sweeter.

  Thoughts formed and eyes materialized—her eyes—clear, seeking and beckoning. He knew he was dreaming. She sat above him, pink-tipped full breasts, in silence that welcomed him. Soft hair hung around her milky shoulders, and she moved, drawing his attention like thick molasses to her form. Slim waist and perfect breasts. Reaching up, he touched the warm skin and felt the heavy mound in his hand. Moving her head back, she groaned with pleasure and he was hard, so hard he was in threat of bursting.

  Looking down at him, her face was flushed and her eyes glassy, wanting him. Her legs rubbed together, drawing his attention to her most intimate part. This was too good to be true and he knew it. His mind was creating a display for him, and he hoped it wouldn't be cruel and just tease him with it—he needed more.

  Leaning back, she let him see her, every curve and soft plane, welcoming him to touch. She was utterly perfect and he reached out, placing his hand on her thigh, which felt like the softest velvet.