Wind howled somewhere. There was a storm outside, but her attention was only on him. "Please," she whispered. Sitting up, he kissed her, drawing her to him, seeking the warmth of her lips and mouth. Soft lips kissed him back, coaxing his tongue deeper, into her impossibly soft mouth.
He knew this was wrong, but was entirely unable to stop himself. Her hand gently pushed him back down into the soft mattress and roamed across his chest. He was naked and her fingers teased across his skin as his breath struggled in his throat.
Her eyes sought his and he saw only desire in their depths—what he wanted to see. Slowly leaning down, she kissed him again, her hand traveling lower down his sides, toward his straining cock. He wanted her to touch yet didn't. Deep breaths worked through his entire body as the tips of her breasts touched his chest. He wanted to feel her on him, her breasts pressed to him. Understanding his need, she complied and he groaned with the beckoning sensation.
Unsure he wanted to do this, something drew him forward, perhaps because he knew this was an imposition on her of the most intimate form. Bringing her body up, he could see all of her—her slim waist, the soft, womanly stomach and perfect flare of her hips. She was stunningly beautiful and her eyes said she wanted him, but still not touching him where he needed to be touched.
"Do you want me?" she asked, her voice sounding distant like she was much further away than the sight indicated.
"Yes."
Straddling him, she pushed down on his length and the sweetest sensation stole through his entire being, radiating like a shuddering vibration. Lowering gently, he was enveloped in her heat, utterly and completely. His hands moved her hips and she undulated them forward, riding him. He couldn't breathe. The agonizing slowness of her movement only drawing out the exquisite pleasure.
Her hands were on his chest, supporting her as she rode him, picking up speed. Her head fell back and deep groans of pleasure escaped her throat, only making him harder inside her. He went to rise, but she pushed him back, warning that it was her controlling this.
Moving up, she descended on his length again and again, the tension building, her cries growing stronger. He shouldn't be doing this, but he couldn't stop. Buried deep inside her, he wanted to release everything. His body tightened painfully and he couldn't be still with the force of it. He shouldn't—there would be a mess to deal with when he woke, but he couldn't stop, her eyes beseeched him.
Her urgent cried wanting him to push into her that little bit further. Unable to breathe, he arched back, releasing powerfully into her tight heat, making him crying out with sheer, animalistic need. Waves of pleasure stole through his entire consciousness, so strong he couldn't do anything by face the assault.
Even now, he didn't want to stop, feeling unsated need driving him still. "No," he said when she faded from him and he reached for her as blackness claimed him.
Snapping awake, sunlight assaulted his eyes. Tightening his fists, he swore at himself, anger flowing through his veins. She was a criminal and he could not be having such unwelcome dreams about her. Not only was it an imposition on her being, which he felt sorry for, but it was grossly inappropriate. He would bring her to justice and it didn't matter if she rode him in his dreams. He was utterly disappointed in himself—just because the perpetrator was female didn't mean he had to develop a raging stiffness for her.
Against his will, the sweetness of the dream returned, making him painfully hard again. Growling with dismay, he rose out of bed, assaulting his body with the cool air and walked over to the dresser where a bowl of freezing cold water sat. He cleaned himself, letting the cold water shock his skin, and he felt a curious mix of hot and cold after, but it served to calm his body and the ire he felt with himself.
He needed distraction, so left his rooms and sought the warmth of the coffee house down the street. It was crowded this time of the morning, but a seat was vacating as he searched. Sitting down, he ordered a coffee and tried to get his thoughts straight, supposing it wasn't a wonder that he'd developed urges for her. She did defy him at every point, challenging his effectiveness professionally. Somehow that challenge had turned into a questioning of his value as a man, which is something he had to root out and destroy. She was a criminal—cunning and conniving, but nothing more, and he would bring her to justice.
She wasn't the first woman he'd nabbed, but she was the first one to leave him powerless, and that was the true source of this urge in him—to re-establish control.
The warm, dark liquid soothed him. The sun was shining, slowly warming the city. His thoughts again turned to his mouse, the source of all his problems. There would be no peace until she was caught and squared away. And there was no way around it, no matter how things went. Developing urges for her, or worse feelings, would only make things harder for him. He had no power to change the outcome for her, even if he wanted to. Society demanded she be caught and punished, and that is what would happen, whether he brought it about or someone else. The outcome was inevitable—it always was.
"The Commissioner wants to see you," Mr. Alstrom said as soon as Rowan walked into the building. Seemingly, the man had been standing by the entrance, waiting for Rowan’s arrival. Rowan nodded. He'd been expecting the call and decided he might as well deal with it now.
"How does the investigation fare?" Lord Stansom asked as soon as Rowan appeared at the door to his office. "Are you sure it's this girl?" he said, still looking uncomfortable with the nature of the criminal.
"I am positive. I have caught her numerous times now, but she is clever—never carries anything incriminating with her."
Lord Stansom sighed and sat down heavily in his chair. "Then we must get the proof we need. You must catch her in the act. Our effectiveness is being challenged with this failure to catch this thief. Time is running short. What resources can we deploy to make this move faster?"
"More men, sir," Rowan said. The noose was tightening around her. "There is also the potential to set traps." Lord Stansom's interest perked. "It is harder to pick where she will strike, but we could place a few pieces that would be of interest to her. She seems to strike particularly disagreeable women," Rowan said.
Lord Stansom snorted. "She has a pick of prospects then," he said. "If there is something society specializes in, it is disagreeable women. Where is she being invited to next?" he asked Alstrom, who was standing in the doorway.
"I'm not sure, sir," Alstrom responsed, embarrassed.
"Find out, and return an acceptance on my part. I will watch her behavior during the evening, note any people she takes an interest in."
Rowan nodded, almost feeling anticipation. With Lord Stansom's help, he was able to reach into her world, study her in the places he could not go. She would make a mistake and it would be all over.
Returning to his desk, he crossed his arms and stared out the window. When the time came, he would try to ensure she wasn't hurt in the process—the bobbies could be rough.
Chapter 17:
* * *
Breathing frantically, Serephina woke with a start, desperately searching the room. It had felt like he was there in the room, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. He'd chased her down endless corridors throughout the night. At times, she'd thought she'd lost him, but he was always there. She never saw him, but felt him there, getting closer. The worst part was there was a part of her that wanted to fail, to discover what happened when he caught her—which was ridiculous. Quickening anxiety filled her at the thought.
Moving her hands along her cheeks she tried to calm down, then grew nervous again when she realized he might be outside. Stepping quietly to the window, she peeked out. She still didn't want him to see her in her nightdress, so intimate and vulnerable, but she also didn't want to spend the next half-hour wondering.
Peeking through the curtains, she surveyed the street below. He wasn't there. Slumping on the edge of the wall, she wondered where he was—where he went when he wasn't here. He might even have a family he returned to, but s
omehow she didn’t think he did. It was hard to imagine he could, as he seemed like a tormentor created just for her—but he was a man and he had a life somewhere. And she was a passing interest for him—a professional interest; she couldn't forget that.
Millie was getting married. It was the best news she'd had in a long time. They weren't quite over the finish line yet, but there was one now.
Actually, Serephina didn't feel like dressing at all today—she wanted to stay in her room and not do anything, read maybe. Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine a day when these pressures lifted from her. It would happen—Millie was getting married.
Millie bounded into the room making Serephina jump. "Heavens, Millie," she said tersely. "You scared me half to death. You need to start behaving properly; you're about to be married. Why are you up so early?"
"We have to go to the dress maker," she said. "I want to pick my material."
Of course, the dress. Serephina smiled. She'd never been a part of creating a wedding dress. Their mother's dress had been sold a long time ago, which was a shame, but then Millie was never as sentimental as Serephina—perhaps because she was younger and her memories of their mother more sketchy. "Then let's go after breakfast. Now go be excited somewhere else. It is too early for me today."
"What's the matter? You seem a bit blue." Millie looked concerned.
"I'm a bit tired. And even though I am very happy for you, I am also a little bit sorry that you will be moving away from us."
"Awh," Millie said and came over to embrace Serephina. "I won't be far. We can visit every day."
"I know. It's just an ending of a chapter, that's all. Now, I'll get dressed, shall I?" Serephina smiled and Millie left, going in search for Mrs. Rushmore. This was what she'd worked for—it was strange being dispirited about it now. It was the best of outcomes, and she needed to shake these unaccountable morose thoughts.
They went to one of the larger dressmakers, who stocked a vast selection of white material especially for wedding dresses. Millie would have her way on what her dress looked like and even though Mrs. Rushmore tried to sway her, she would not deviate from what she wanted.
Serephina walked around the store, looking at all the fine material. There were some beautiful dress materials, rolled up like scrolls. Dressmakers were rushing around to tend to Millie and her requirements, leaving Serephina to her own thoughts.
The prices were exorbitant, but there was nothing else for it. Serephina had to acquire the money to pay for this. But it was an eye-watering amount and it would completely wipe out their meager funds. They wouldn't eat if she didn't continue her activities. She'd felt a bit hesitant of late, particularly as she had to tackle the obstacle course Mr. Cox placed in her way.
Feeling it all overwhelm her for a moment, she excused herself to take a breath of fresh air, which was in itself a complete misnomer in London, but she could pretend she was standing in a fresh meadow somewhere. When this was all over, she would turn her thoughts to her own future, and there would be a fresh meadow involved somewhere. A small cottage perhaps. She didn't need a fine existence—just peace.
Stepping out of the store, the bell rang when the door hit it. She took a moment and looked back through the window at Millie, who was surrounded by material being drawn out for her perusal. She looked incredibly happy and it was lovely to see.
"Who's getting married?" She knew the deep voice she’d learnt to recognize without looking. He'd followed her. Somehow she didn't see him when he did that. Serephina felt dread and anticipation snake up her spine. Her neck felt exposed and she suppressed an urge to rub it, protect it.
"My sister," she said, not able to think of a reason not to say it. It was obvious what was happening.
He moved and she felt him beside her. "Congratulations," he said.
"Thank you."
"You will be alone." He said it so matter of factly, there was no arguing it.
It was true, and the thought had struck her this morning. "Yes."
"The uncompromising spinster." She wasn't entirely sure what he meant. Turning to him, she looked up at his countenance. He was looking inside the window, then turned his gaze to her. He stepped a little closer, bringing his mouth to her ear and his scent invaded her nostrils. It wasn’t unpleasant. "Although we both know your future lies with me." A frisson ran through her.
Serephina felt goose-bumps break out all over her body. It sounded so possessive, but it wasn't true. He meant her harm, like a form of siren that called enticingly, only to deceive and draw the unwary to their demise—so tempting the eventual outcome seemed unimportant.
He didn't move, instead remained where he was, his chest almost touching her shoulder. She felt his presence with every bone in her body, and she didn't understand what was occurring right that moment. An image flashed through her mind, of him catching her, his hand grabbing her arms, drawing her down. Craning her neck, she slowly looked up, drawn into his eyes, unable to read what was in them. There wasn't the amused intimidation of last time, something more unabashed and raw. She had no defenses against this and he saw right down into her soul. Her mouth went dry and she was stuck in the moment, unable to move. Then something shifted and he looked away, giving a sharp sniff as he stepped away. Serephina almost felt like she'd lost something—a kind of twisted intimacy.
Her body had drawn itself painfully tight somehow. She didn't understand what had just happened, but something had passed between them—a current of some kind. Dark images threatened her mind—ones she refused to explore.
Closing her eyes, she tried to get a hold of herself.
"Congratulations on the happy tidings," he said as he moved away.
Serephina only nodded, unable to trust her voice. Whatever she'd just experienced, it made her knees weak and her throat bone dry. "It is the purpose," she said. She hadn't meant to; it had just come out.
He stopped and turned, considering her. She'd just confessed in a manner, feeling heat and embarrassment at her own stupidity. It wasn't something he could use against her, but she had essentially admitted what she was doing and why.
He stood there for a while, his head tilted back slightly, just watching her. She had no idea what he was thinking—it didn't excuse what she was doing, but it was the reason. Why was she telling him that?
"It matters not," he said darkly. Serephina turned from him, supposing from his perspective it made absolutely no difference. He was a policeman and didn't care for the motive. It had been a mistake letting that slip—well, not a mistake perhaps, because he couldn't use it, but she had made him privy to her motives, and that was a mistake. "Till we meet again," he said, tipping his hat slightly.
Serephina watched him walk away, powerful strides. Again, she wondered where he was going, still having trouble seeing the man behind the tormentor. His statement returned to her as she stood there, staring at his retreating back. Her future lay with him. Nervous tension shot through her again. Millie got Captain Heresworth and she got him—maybe that was the price. The devil's due.
Chapter 18:
* * *
The carriage rumbled along slowly after endless hours of exactly the same. It was mid-afternoon and Serephina's back was sore and her shoulders tight. Stretching her neck, she tried to ease some of the tension, but admitted it was useless. Randomly the carriage lurched to the side with the imperfections of the roads.
Mrs. Rushmore was working on her embroidery and would tsk anytime the carriage swayed. Millie read, intermittently sighing with boredom.
Serephina's thoughts kept returning to her tormentor and the quickening tension she felt whenever he entered her mind, particularly as he had stood so close to her. She remembered his scent, dark and spicy. There was no sweetness, no flowers—no softness in him at all. Her eyes closed.
"We must be getting close. I suspect I'm going to have to take this journey more than once," Millie said with a wry smile. "It is a shame they live so far away."
"It will be better once th
e railroad runs out this way," Mrs. Rushmore said, stabbing her knitting with the needles.
"Is Captain Heresworth already there?" Serephina asked.
"He is supposed to be. It's beautiful country, though, isn't it?"
"Very pretty."
"I shall be happy here," Millie said, almost like she was trying to convince herself.
"And I am sure everyone will be very congenial. It is nice of the Vicar to allow us to stay."
Finally they rolled into a village. There wasn't much to it, but it did have a handful of stores providing to the people living there.
"It's a lovely village, Mrs. Rushmore. I wouldn't mind settling here myself," Serephina said.
"Would you?" Millie said hopefully.
"It's as good as any other."
Serephina looked out the window at the village with renewed eyes. This village was as good as any other. Maybe she should consider her future here as well. It still seemed odd to think as she had always lived in London, making it hard to imagine living in a small village where nothing ever happened. They used to spend summers in the country when she was young and her mother was still alive. She remembered those days fondly, although she wasn't entirely sure what of it had been true and what was conjecture—perhaps an amalgamation of the things she'd read.
The carriage stopped in front of a two-storey house and a couple came out to greet them. The Vicar, Mr. Partington, and his wife. They looked very kind, and must have been as they'd invited perfect strangers to stay with them during this visit with Captain Heresworth's family.
The Heresworths were not the premier family of the district, which was the Bellinghams, but they were a respected family who had lived in these parts as long as anyone could remember. They had a solid position in society—a middling position, well-respected, but of undetermined origins, as opposed to the heights of the aristocracy whose origins spanned back to the Norman conquest.
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