The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (Paranormal Investigator)

by Jillian Stone

  “Yes, oh yes—give it to me.” Warm flesh quivered as her words gave way to lusty exhales.

  “Happy to oblige.” As he growled his lust like some kind of wild beast, his fingers pressed into the flesh of her buttocks.

  Heavier footsteps this time and the harsh, exhausted breath of hunters in pursuit of runaway prey. The men circled closer, near enough to make out her features or wardrobe.

  “Bugger off.” Phaeton barked over his shoulder. “Get your own doxy, mate.” Inarticulate grunts accompanied his intensified thrusts as her pursuers changed course and ran off toward the Embankment.

  Arousal heightened by their public exhibitionism, the little minx moaned a fiery incantation. “Jesufina, Marianna, Josephina.”

  He was close. On the very edge of climax. He opened his eyes to view the beauty who had captured him. Her eyelids fluttered. Momentarily, she was incapacitated.

  A fierce wave of pleasure slammed through his body. Phaeton let loose.

  His prick throbbed inside her. A long moment passed before he remembered the blade. In one swift move, he grabbed the knife and twisted it out of her hands.

  Those slightly exotic, almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “Get off me.”

  One last glimpse up and down the alley. “Very well.” He kept her pressed to the wall and slipped out. “Lovely, unexpected diversion.”

  Pants buttoned, he looked up in time to avoid the blow of her fist. The ferocity of her swing caused a temporary loss of balance and the lady tumbled into an iron basement railing.

  Phaeton leaned over. “Blimey, she’s knocked out cold.”

  He had little choice but to pick her up and throw her over his shoulder. The pirates might double back this way. Pirates? Was she daft, or was he? More likely she was some kind of common street thief. He retraced his steps out of the row and onto the busy thoroughfare of the Strand. Lizzie, dear girl, stood under the street lamp right where he had left her.

  Quickly, he settled both women into a waiting carriage. The coach lurched off, rocking Lizzie back and forth. She tilted her head and studied the young lady. “Who is she?”

  “A mystery.” Gaslight briefly lit the interior of the cabin. Enough for him to note his little cohort’s sallow cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. “Lizzie, anything unusual to report this evening? Perhaps a flying phantasm or two?”

  “Nothing much, sir.” She hesitated.

  Phaeton removed her gloves and chafed icy hands between his. “Tell me, Lizzie.”

  “Well, sir, a very beautiful woman approached me. Pale she was and stood real close, wanting a bit of warmth.” Lizzie pulled at the collar of her dress and began a raspy struggle for air. “I don’t remember much after—”

  He pulled her onto his lap. Gently, he brushed back loose curls to expose a lissome neck and two perfectly dainty puncture wounds.

  A dull ache of drums nagged at the back of her head. She moved to stretch and found her wrists tied to the arms of an oversized upholstered chair. Her pulse throbbed under the bindings. Assessing her circumstances, she closed her eyes and feigned a long awakening.

  “Good morning, my dove.”

  She sensed the unmistakable power of his essence. He was a channeler. A mortal being haunted by demons, or enchanted by fairies. Hard to say which, perhaps both. Genteel society would likely call him a wretched man afflicted by a mental disorder. Wretched? Possibly. But a rare gent he was, and no doubt gifted in peculiar ways.

  Aware of a bubbling teakettle and the familiar clink of china cups set on saucers, she opened an eye to observe the dark-haired man from last evening. The man who had thrust into her woman parts. Deep inside, she could still feel the effects of his churlish prick.

  The shadowed niche of the alley had afforded scant illumination. This morning she revised her assessment of him. A bit swarthy, he hadn’t shaved as yet and wore no cravat. His waistcoat remained unbuttoned, but she could see enough to know he was nicely made. Genuinely handsome, if a bit untamed.

  His nose was strong and straight, but in profile appeared slightly beakish. His mouth was full and, yes, sensuous and kissable. Hair much too long to be fashionable, but there was something about the mode. Bohemian, perhaps? She examined his body as he moved around the stove. He was a nice size. Large enough but not imposing. And that rude shaft was plenty of male.

  “If you are quite finished with your assessment of me, I would like to begin one of my own.”

  She closed her eye. Blood accelerated through every pathway in her body.

  “You must know you have nothing to fear from me.”

  Still, a throb of alarm surged in her ears. She shifted her head and forced herself to open both eyes. He stood close by, scratching a raised brow.

  “If I have nothing to fear, why have you made me your prisoner?”

  “Ah, the ties.” He tugged a side of his mouth upward. “For my own protection.”

  She strained against her bindings as he circled the chair. “While the Darjeeling steeps, why don’t we revisit our precious moments together, last evening?”

  He had a kind of unruffled, arrogant way about him. She squirmed in the chair. “I prefer an Oolong. Or a nice, smoky Lapsang Souchong.”

  His eyes crinkled, but his expression otherwise remained stoic. “You know your tea, Miss, but I shall not be diverted. Evening last, I was having a chase down Savoy Row after a pesky, flirty little phantasm when I was abducted by an equally trifling, yet forward olive-skinned maiden who put a dagger to my neck and proceeded to abuse me.”

  His gaze wandered between several undone buttons that exposed much of her flimsy chemise. “Care to explain?”

  In the blink of an eye, she moved into a trance. Transporting herself back a few hours, she recalled a whisper of chimera and a tingle of demon. Her eyelashes dropped lower. “I sense unfathomable powers and yet almost unendurable exhaustion. Not death, but a weakness of spirit.” She looked up into his eyes. “And great sadness.”

  He studied her. “You have abilities?

  She nodded quickly and shook off the spell. “My mother had gifts. A Cajun witch, powerful, beautiful.”

  “A Vauda?”

  She eyed him suspiciously before nodding. “You know the sang mélangé français ways?

  “Your name, mademoiselle?”

  “Why should I tell you my name? You hold me captive, sir. Why should I reveal anything to you?”

  “Because I believe in civility.” Caught in his own deceit, he shrugged. “Let’s just say I prefer a name. If not possible before intercourse, after will do.”

  “I had no idea a man could get up a shag with a knife at his throat.” Was that a smirk or a lopsided grin from him? “That wasn’t a compliment,” she growled.

  “Honestly?” He tilted his head back. “Sounded like flattery.”

  “You raped me.”

  “You demanded it.” He placed a hand on each chair arm and leaned forward. “Why didn’t you cut me ear to ear?”

  Her glare faltered. Why hadn’t she killed him? The evidence of her knife was right in front of her. A fresh scar slashed across the side of his throat. If she had pressed harder, he would be dead.

  She chose not to respond to his question because she didn’t like the answer. How could she forget those intense waves of arousal? Pleasure that was both frightening and miraculous. She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  His gaze lowered to rudely ogle her mouth. “Our first time was rushed, wouldn’t you say?” Grazing the curve of her cheek, his lips brushed closer to her mouth.

  Weakly, she parted her lips. “You took advantage of me, sir.”

  “I heard little protest.” He held back, his words delivered as a soft caress. “Only oohs and aahs. Your hot, breathless words in my ear.”

  She curled the tip of her tongue over the edge of her upper lip. With his attention on her mouth, she furtively lifted a knee between them. “How could I complain with a band of filthy pirates after me?”

  “Mmm, most taxing.”
His exhale buffeted softly over her cheek. “But, did you enjoy yourself, miss?”

  “Yes.” With one swift kick, she shoved him off.

  He bellowed a hellish groan, as his hand flew to his crotch. Apparently she had clipped the jewels. Bent over, he walked off his agony by rubbing himself into impressive arousal.

  “Happy now?” She braced for a beating. But none came.

  Spurning the steeping teapot, he went straight for a bottle of whiskey and popped the cork. She gave him high marks for grog guzzling and pain tolerance.

  He sputtered and coughed. “Delighted.”

  Phaeton and America’s adventures continue in

  The Moonstone and Miss Jones

  A Brava trade paperback on sale now.

  Turn the page for a special excerpt . . .

  Chapter One

  FRANÇAIS TÉLÉGRAPHE AND CABLE

  4 SEPTEMBER 1889 11:10 AM

  DX MARSEILLES PHAETON BLACK

  CPT AMERICA JONES

  C/O CHERBOURG LE HAVRE CALAIS

  SHANGHAIED IN SHANGHAI STOP MEET ME

  BELOW STAIRS AT THE OLD FLAT

  “I SWEAR I’LL SEE PHAETON BLACK HANG FROM A YARDARM.” America Jones crushed the wire in her fist and tossed the message aside. The crumpled paper bounced along the bustling street of Le Havre in carefree ignorance of her angry heart.

  Her boatswain, Ned McCafferty, flattened one side of his mouth into a thin line. She knew his grimace well. The very one he used to hide his amusement so as not to provoke her. “I wouldna’ advise ye string up Mr. Black, Cap’ain Miss, not in y’er condition.”

  She sighed. “I suppose it defeats the purpose of chasing him halfway around the world. Perhaps I will torture him first.” She’d do it, too, except the devilish man would have her strip down to camisole and pantalettes and swish a riding crop about.

  America stepped off the curb and crossed Rue Dauphine. The harbor breeze stirred memories of Phaeton on a balmy Polynesian night. Bare-chested, a trickle of sweat ran down his torso. America caught her breath as a surge of arousal coursed through her body. “Drat!” He had entered her mind for a mere moment and rekindled her passion. And something else—an awful, unbearable yearning.

  “First, I suggest ye catch him, lass.” Ned purposely fell back and swept up the discarded telegram. He opened the crumpled paper and read aloud. “Shanghaied in Shanghai. Stop.” His mumble followed on behind her as she turned the corner and set a brisk pace in the direction of the Port Authority. She tossed a glare over her shoulder. “I thank you kindly not to read my personal messages.”

  “Hold on there, Cap’ain. He might have been shanghaied—or worse.”

  She stopped in her tracks, brows knit together. “What are you saying, Ned?”

  He removed his cap to scratch his head. “Stop and think now, Miss. Say your Mr. Black was kidnapped. Might of taken him a good while to get a message off ship.”

  “What if—might have? Just like a man to give Phaeton the benefit of the doubt.” Hands on her hips, she leaned into Ned’s face. “And he might have run off.” America caught a lower lip under her teeth and chewed, a nervous habit that Phaeton often provoked, especially when she was cross. And she was thoroughly vexed at the moment.

  Had Ned and Phaeton formed a bond during the voyage? She certainly hadn’t noticed. But then why would she? She’d danced around the deck of the Topaz like a giddy young girl in love. Too deliriously happy, she supposed.

  The wretched truth of it was she’d never been happier in her entire life. Not even when Papa was alive had she known such contentment and genuine affection from a man. While it lasted. America wound a circuitous path around dockworkers and drays. She missed him. These last weeks had been a misery without Phaeton by her side.

  And in her bed.

  America exhaled a deep sigh. Her eyes moistened and she blinked hard, refusing to cry a single tear for the man. “I suppose we’ll find out the truth soon enough.”

  For some weeks now she had sensed they were closing in on the rapscallion. Once aboard ship she’d give the order to make ready. They’d shove off under a full moon, have a skim across the channel, and up the Thames. The Topaz would make Port of London before morning—quick as you please.

  Phaeton’s wire had been held at the telegraph office for several days, but the cable had been sent from Marseilles. Might it be possible the Topaz, fast as she was, had nearly caught up with his ship? Her heart thumped erratically in her chest. She revisited his cryptic words. Shanghaied in Shanghai? It had been his first and only communication since his disappearance. What was she to make of such a message? Just like Phaeton to be clever in such a dire moment. In fact, the more life threatening the situation, the more amusing he often became.

  Whether it be abandonment or abduction, she’d get to the bottom of his disappearance. She supposed she should be elated to know he was alive. To know she would once again be able to look into his devilish dark gaze. Eyes that bespoke a sharp mind and a lust for adventure.

  As much as she was drawn to him, a fearful, nagging thought lingered. A worry that had never quite left her mind or her heart. Perhaps it wasn’t possible to settle down with a man like Phaeton Black. Perhaps it might be better to move on and try to put him behind her. She swept a few unruly wisps of curl from her eyes and made her way down Pier 12.

  Well, she had a great deal more than herself to think about now. She stepped around cargo nets and stacked barrels of stout. Up ahead, through a crisscross of masts and rigging, a blazing red sky framed the eye-catching merchant ship. America shaded her eyes from the low rays and inhaled a deep, cleansing breath. Even with sails furled, her sleek lines and proud stature made the Topaz the fairest ship in port. Ned hurried his pace and helped her onto the gangway. Single-file, they climbed the steep ramp.

  Halfway up, she stopped and turned. “I caution you, Ned, not a word about my condition. ’Tis a secret between you and I. No one must know—especially Mr. Black.”

  Ned reached out to steady her. “If you say so, Cap’ain Miss.”

  She climbed the rest of the gangway stroking her barely swollen belly. “Forgive me, my little pea under the shell. Once we reach London, I fear you might well be fatherless.”

  “What can one say about you, Mr. Black? You are part devil and angel.” The bold beauty stepped closer. Hair a honeyed shade of brown, a lovely aquiline nose, and eyes that sparkled like gemstones—green, he thought. No, blue.

  No, green. The color of the seas off Crete.

  Phaeton took another leisurely perusal of the young lady’s wares. For the sparest of moments, he thought about warning off the intriguing girl. That was before his gaze lowered to her bosom. “I’d have to say largely devil.”

  Her pale hand swept over the buttons of his trousers. Brazen chit! Delicate fingers found what they searched for. “Largely, indeed.” Her touch was light and fleeting, but the very notion that she dared such public foreplay cheered him greatly. Apparently, it also amused the naughty little vixen. Those astonishing aquamarine eyes traced the bulge in his pants. “Rumor has it you are made of wicked wood and when you play the seducer you are so very, very . . .”

  A clearing of his throat ended in a grin. “Shocking?”

  Her faraway glance about the room returned to him. “Sublime.”

  He quirked a brow, but otherwise kept his gaze steady. “Are we discussing length and breadth or technique?”

  “Not sure.” The wily minx tossed a wink over her shoulder and flounced away. “But I mean to find out.” He watched the bob and sway of her bustle as she wove her retreat between chattering passengers.

  They were nearing the dinner hour. The ship’s salon swelled with first-class passengers swilling aperitifs. Phaeton drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. Miss Georgiana Ryder turned out to be a most charming ingénue with a saucy, hoyden-like quality about her. Quite irresistible, as were her siblings Velvet and Fleury, a delightful sisterly trio—each one as lovely as the next. He scanned
the salon and found Velvet standing among a cluster of oglers. Her gleaming dark eyes and sultry pout beckoned without words. He met her gaze and lingered for a brief flirtation before he caught a blur of Fleury. The fey, dancing, wisp of a girl instantly distracted. Phaeton watched the youngest sibling flutter about the room, much like a hummingbird hovers and flits from daisy to delphinium.

  “Are you enjoying the voyage, Mr. Black?”

  “My return trip to London grows more diverting by the hour.” Phaeton tore his eyes off the pretty chit and nodded a polite bow to the young lady’s mother. “Mrs. Ryder.” He feigned a pleasant expression. “Most especially since I have been fortunate enough to make acquaintance with you and your family.”

  If truth be told, he found the cloying mother barely tolerable and Mr. Ryder, the stout man slurping sherry in the corner, to be a degenerate troll who conducted himself as more of a procurer than a father anxious to see his daughters well spoken for. In point of fact, the entire family was odd. For one thing, they were inexplicably interested in him.

  He had dressed early for dinner and entered the main salon in hopes of finding a tumbler of whiskey. The Ryder clan, which included the mister, missus, and assorted lovelies, had singled him out from a number of wealthy, titled gentlemen aboard the RMS Empress of Asia. He considered the obvious question—why?—and decided it could wait for later.

  Yes, the voyage home was going to be interesting. The ocean journey that had once been tedious and despairing quite suddenly brimmed with intrigue. Phaeton nodded perfunctorily to the mother’s ramblings, as the woman found it an unnecessary bother to pause or think between sentences.

  He perused the room looking for his evening’s distraction, Georgiana. The young lady’s mother might indeed be a harpy in disguise and the father no better than a common pimp, but the eldest daughter? The bewitching dream of a young woman stood between two heavily whiskered gents whose eyes never left her astonishing assets.