Tempted by His Touch: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Dukes, Rogues, & Alpha Heroes Historical Romance Novels

by Darcy Burke

  “Bloody hell. You can come inside.” She took his hand in hers. It would be the last time they’d touch—she could let herself have this moment of contact.

  They entered the tenement house, took the steps that led to her room. He followed in after her, sitting down next to her on the bed.

  “I didn’t bring you in here so we could have intercourse.” She specifically chose a word that would sound clinical. Anything more maudlin would touch her too deep, nourishing that small part of her that begged to be treated like the rich merchant’s daughter she’d once been.

  “It didn’t cross my mind.”

  That was a lie. Of course it had occurred to him; he was male and thus he thought about sex. Hell, as he sat so close to her, she couldn’t stop the flow of memories. Daniel above her, plowing into her with powerful strokes in a perfect, blissful rhythm. The gleam of sweat upon his brow, head thrown back as he groaned his release. Kate gulped down much needed air, ignoring the building tension in her belly.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened at the bordello?” Each word was slow, emphasized. That should’ve irritated her but somehow helped her to sort out her mind.

  Shrugging off her coat, Kate hung it on one of the four posts of her bed. Without the voluminous material around her, hiding her frame for all to see, she was laid bare to him.

  “It happened right after the bankers took control of our townhouse.” She forced herself to meet his eye, determined to be strong enough to finally have a voice.

  Daniel nodded, his attention rapt upon her.

  Kate squeezed her hands into a fist, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palm until a quick prick of pain shot through her. “I had nowhere else to go. I ended up outside Emporia’s old warehouses at three in the morning, damned cold and starving. A porter saw me and said he knew of a woman who’d let me stay in her boarding house in exchange for some light work. Mrs. Hartwick would be glad to have me and I’d fit in well. I’m certain you can surmise what happened from there. I should’ve known. I was foolish not to know.”

  Foolish, foolish, foolish. The litany repeated in her mind, over and over again as it had every day since that night. Put up in a room with twelve other girls, she shared a bed with a young Chinese woman named Mei, who had been sold by her parents to the abbess when she was twelve. Mei told her story with little aplomb, accepting her fate for it was better than she had back at home. Stuck in that room, the doors locked so the girls wouldn’t try to escape, Kate suddenly understood that the last trappings of her prior existence were truly gone.

  Her hand stroked the fabric of Papa’s greatcoat absently. Daniel leaned in closer to her. Shoulder to shoulder, his mouth set in a grim line and his brows furrowed, the heat radiating from his body sung through her. She tilted her head toward him as he placed his hand over hers, a silent gesture that meant more to her than any words he could have said.

  “When dawn came they placed me in a room with a man who smelled of piss and gin. An initiation for the new tail, they said, laughing when I yelled that they didn’t know who I was and they’d have hell to pay.” Instead she’d stayed, huddled against the wall, her dress stolen for the madam to sell to the used clothing stalls. Clothed in only her petticoat and chemise, the man’s blood-red gaze on her bosom, she’d been powerless to do anything against him. No gun, no knife.

  Daniel gave her hand a squeeze as the tears started to come. She rubbed at them furiously, hating the sign of weakness but unable to staunch the flow. “He didn’t wait until they’d left to launch himself at me. I yelled, tried to shake him off but he kept coming.” He’d undone his trousers, his cock hardened by her struggles. He maneuvered her against the wall, sliding his hand up her skirt, finding the slit in her drawers.

  You like it when I stick my fingers in your cunny, don’t you, you sick bitch?

  “The things he said, what he was about to do…but I took care of him, didn’t I, when I shot him in the shoulder later? The wound got infected and they had to amputate his whole bloody arm.” A nasty grin slipped onto her lips. “He won’t come after me again.”

  Daniel’s expression was too blank. She knew she’d shocked him. In a second, he’d say what men always said: he didn’t want her. He couldn’t, now that he knew she’d been spoiled.

  “How did you get away?” He asked flatly.

  “My screams attracted attention.” She wouldn’t tell him that Mei had saved her, risking her own safety when she rushed into the room. With a force she hadn’t known such a tiny woman could possess, Mei had smacked Kate’s valise into the man’s head. He slumped to the ground, knocked unconscious by the blow.

  Go. You are not meant for this life. Mei had tossed her bag at her and opened the window. Once Kate touched the ground, she was gone, with a promise to never reveal Mei’s identity.

  Some promises were meant to be kept.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bile seized Daniel’s throat. He swallowed back the sickening taste, for this was not about him. He didn’t get a chance to grieve for the loss of innocence in the woman he loved. He didn’t know what to say. How could he? He couldn’t take away this pain.

  Her sniffles echoed in the silent room. A heavy weight on his chest made breathing difficult. The act of forming words seemed impossible. He must soldier on, for her and for her alone because he’d been a fool. He had acted like things could so quickly go back to the way they’d been between them, like nothing had changed. If it was the last blooming thing he’d do, he’d carve out a new life for her, one free of the stain and horror of these rookeries.

  “Bloody hell.” He thought of the brothels he’d visited when foxed out of his mind back home. Bollocks, how many women like her had he helped abuse? He’d never stopped to contemplate it.

  Some bastard had hurt Kate, his Kate, and he’d finish the job she’d started on him. Maybe that’d be some sort of penance. Or maybe it’d make him what England already believed him—a murderer.

  He didn’t care, as long as it helped Kate find peace.

  “Go on.” Kate’s command shattered his daze, her voice strong despite the tremor. “Tell me I’m a whore now. Tell me you couldn’t possibly ever want me again, knowing what’s been done to me.”

  “Christ, Katiebelle.” He sat up straighter, like a bolt of lightning had shot down his spine and remained firmly wedged. “I’d never say that to you. This isn’t your fault. You shouldn’t have to expect that a blackguard would come at you because you agreed to do some housework. That’s not how the world should work. I sure as hell would never judge you for it.”

  “You say that now.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

  He’d thought it obvious that he wanted her—that he needed her—but if she required proof he’d do whatever it took. Leaning forward, he held her chin gently and tilted it upwards. He kissed her softly, without the burning heat that always threatened to besiege him when he was with her.

  Daniel waited until she responded before he pulled back. He let go of her chin, albeit reluctantly, and held her gaze. “You listen to me, and you listen to me now. You are still the girl I fell in love with.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not. I can’t possibly be anymore.”

  “Then whoever you are now, I love you still. My feelings haven’t changed because of this.” He stroked his thumb across her palm slowly. “I am honored that you have trusted me with something so private. I’ll prove that I didn’t murder Dalton and I’ll work to deserve you, Kate, for you are far braver and far stronger than I’ve been. That is what I want to work toward, without the aid of gin.”

  She exhaled, a long breath that he wondered if she’d been holding this entire time. Shifting to rest her head upon his shoulder, she snuggled in the folds of his coat and shirtsleeves.

  “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled, but he could distinguish what she’d said.

  He blinked. “For what? I have done nothing.”

  “Just...for being here.” She stifled a yawn, covering h
er mouth quickly.

  “I am not going anywhere, love.” He laid a kiss upon her head.

  “For tonight, and tonight alone, I accept that.” She tilted her head up to look at him, smiling slowly.

  He’d do anything if she’d look at him like that for the rest of his life. He leaned back against the wall and she followed, eyes closing. He ran his hand through her hair, waiting until her breathing slowed into a quiet rhythm before he slept.

  ***

  Kate awoke suddenly. Underneath her head was certainly not a pillow, but instead a living, breathing man. She could hear his heartbeat, his slow, resting breathing echoing through her small flat. Hazarding a glance upwards, she saw Daniel’s serene, sleeping face. His hand was on her hip.

  Shit.

  He wore no neckcloth, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal the strong line of his throat. She slid her hand down, touching his buckskin breeches. At least they were fully clothed. She wore the walking dress from the day before, the heavy fabric now set with wrinkles. It came back to her then, how she’d asked him to stay over. She had been too tired to change into her nightgown.

  Her elbow collided with his side. He groaned, his eyes popping open.

  Shit, and the sewers it collected in.

  “Good morning.” His hand came up to brush away a lock of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Tenderly, he stroked her hair.

  She leaned into his touch, telling herself that this was acceptable because she was barely awake and no one expected coherence in the early morning.

  “How did you sleep?” he asked, ceasing movement.

  “The same as always,” she lied. For the first time in three years, she’d slept soundly.

  “That could either be a very good thing, or a very bad. Which is it?” There went his fingers again.

  If this kept up, she’d lay in his arms all day. Kate pushed herself up fully, his finger snagging on a knot in her hair as she tugged back. Even her traitorous body was against her.

  She vaulted from the bed, ignoring the crick in her limbs from sleeping so crammed into her tiny bed. She rubbed at her shoulder. Tender skin screamed back at her and she winced.

  “Here, let me do that.” He was up, feet on the ground and already over to her side of the bed. How did he move so damn fast in the morning? He should be groggy, like she was, so that she had an equal chance.

  Daniel stood behind her, pushing her hand away from her shoulder. The back of his hand held her steady, while his fingers wrapped around her shoulder blade. His thumb found the sorest spot, rubbing back and forth in a circular motion until the stiffness started to ebb from her body.

  “You’re so tense.” He brushed her hair back, kissing her bared neck.

  Her stomach fluttered, a thousand butterflies begging to be released. Warmth coiled up in her, the same blasted fire lit whenever he was near. He worked at her shoulders again, his hands loosening the knots. He unbuttoned the top button of her gown, sliding his fingers in the opening created to continue massaging.

  Kate jumped back.

  “Daniel.” Doing the button up hurriedly, she glared at him.

  He was sheepish. “It’s hard not get carried away around you.”

  “Contain yourself.” She used the hard edge to her voice as a whip. If she cracked it hard enough, he might not remember she’d invited him to stay in the first place.

  An awkward silence filled the room. It was worse than their stilted conversation, yet she could not bring herself to break it. What could she even say? The night before, she’d felt close to him again. Perilously close.

  He went to make tea, sorting through her smattering of cracked dishes. She frowned at his back. She could guess what he thought: this was a stark comparison to her suite in her father’s old townhouse, with dainty antique furniture and bedding and curtains that cost more than his yearly salary. The lone chair she had was a hideous paisley and missing one arm. The only other furniture in her flat was a table, armoire, and her bed.

  She went to the battered chest of drawers pushed up against the window, as far away as she could get from Daniel without leaving the room. From the top drawer she pulled out a fresh dress to change into when he left.

  She kept her head up, eyes on the grainy wood of the door. Her stocking-clad foot stepped on a letter, slipped underneath the door by the landlord. Kate leaned down, scooping up the missive.

  Daniel stared unabashedly, a crooked grin stretched across his lips. Spying upon her rear, as if they’d slipped back into their old courtship ways.

  You let him think you’d take him back.

  No, Kate reasoned, she’d done no such thing. At every point, she’d been completely clear—she was in this to show that her father’s company had no connection to Dalton’s murder and to collect funds from him. That was it, that was all, and the kiss in the carriage had meant not a damn thing.

  If she told herself this often enough, she might start to believe it.

  “Didn’t think the Post would deliver this far back off the Highway.” Daniel nodded to the letter clutched in her hands.

  “They don’t.” Her nose wrinkled as she turned the sheet of foolscap over. “I try not to let it be known where I live. I don’t receive goods here.”

  The stationary was flimsy and cheap, unlike the thick paper her father had preferred. A brown stain dotted the right corner, the color of dirt or tea grounds. A dollop of cheap wax sealed the folds, with no signet pressed into the wax.

  She flipped the letter again, scanning the back. No postage was applied. The back read “Kate Morgan - Ratcliffe, London” in a spidery scrawl. Someone had dropped it off specifically for her, likely employing a child to run an errand in exchange for a hunk of bread. Somehow that made it more personal, the intent behind it suddenly threatening.

  Determinedly, she seized a butter knife from the table and slit the letter open.

  M. Morgan, if you wish to know who truly killed Tommy Dalton, you will come to Friggard’s Pawn in Bethnal Green at two in the afternoon tomorrow. Bring the Paddy.

  A squiggle adorned the bottom of the letter. Kate squinted. She recognized the mark from countless accountings from Emporia’s chief clerk, Laurence Bartleby. What could Bartleby possibly have to do with all this? A crotchety old man more apt to snap than compliment, he’d preferred numbers to people. Yet the use of the derogatory term aimed at Daniel’s nationality did fit.

  She handed the letter to Daniel wordlessly, address side up. He flipped the paper over, read the sparse contents, and set the foolscap down on the table.

  “Cryptic, I’d say.” He shot an expectant glance toward her.

  Under the weight of his gaze, she was competent. Self-assured, ready to develop a plan that would leave them straight to Dalton’s murderer. Her enemies would live to regret doubting her, starting with Jasper Finn.

  “I think it was sent by Laurence Bartleby.” Kate crossed to the bed, sitting primly on the edge of the thin coverlet.

  “My old friend.” Daniel ran a hand across the scruff of his chin, grimacing. “I’d ask you how he is, but I frankly can’t be pressed to care.”

  “Understandable. I haven’t spoken to him in years. Not an estrangement I particularly regret.” Absently, Kate plucked at a loose thread in the coverlet. The action spurred her mind onward until a plan started to form.

  When Emporia fell, Bartleby lost not only a generous salary as head account, but his easy source for ready money. He had started to embezzle money from the company when her father became sick. Money the bank needed to pay off the loans; money she could have bloody used. Perhaps he’d been doing it for years—no one thought to look for the funds until the bank came to collect.

  Bartleby had lost all chance at a good reference when his embezzlement was revealed. A bitter man with an agenda was a dangerous man. He’d make sure Daniel thought Papa was responsible for Dalton’s death.

  Spending time pursuing Bartleby’s falsehoods would only slow them down. A killer was still on
the loose.

  “We must go.” Daniel gestured at the letter. “As much as I don’t want to see him, if he knows something, we’ve got to investigate.”

  Kate scoffed. “You and I both know Bartleby would as soon send his own mother onto a hulk if it’d save his skin. That bastard stole from the company. You’ve been back in town, making inquiries about Dalton’s murder, and suddenly he comes forward? Where has he been these last three years? If he wanted to clear your name, he could have found me. He didn’t.”

  “That is suspicious, I’ll admit.” Daniel held up a hand when she opened her mouth to interject. “I can’t explain his motives without seeing him, and neither should you. Bartleby is a sniveling rascal, but he’s hardly a threat. I’m rather sure if I drew his cork, he’d fall flat.”

  “As delightful as it would be to watch you punch him in the nose, I question what we’d gain.” The coverlet thread had grown longer as she continued to pick at it, until it was the full length of her middle finger. “While I remember that being Bartleby’s signature, how do we know that he sent it? Someone could have forged it.”

  “Or Bartleby sent it himself. We’ll never know if we don’t go.” Earnestness lit up Daniel’s face, giving him an almost boyish quality. “Come, Kate. You’re always saying you can defend us.”

  Kate stiffened. “I can. But that doesn’t mean I like this.”

  “We’ll be careful. Leave at the first sign of danger,” Daniel’s posture was straight, his hands fisted at his side like he was ready to take on the world.

  If she didn’t agree to attend the docks meeting with him, he’d go without her and she’d lose any opportunity to stem the tide of Bartleby’s lies.

  “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” She pulled her jacket down from the bed post, digging into the pocket. “But I’m bringing my gun.”

  Daniel grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything else from you.”

  ***

  Daniel tugged at his neckcloth, pulling it up higher on his neck to block out the chill air. It had rained earlier, but an even bigger storm threatened to break, if the inky clouds were any indication. He’d take the weather as an omen that they were getting closer to the truth.