by Darcy Burke
She snuck a quick glance in his direction. “I suppose.” She still sounded doubtful.
What he was about to ask wasn’t going to help matters, but it had to be done. “I, ah, I’ll need your help removing my boots.”
Her head snapped up. “Oh.” She came toward him and he prayed she wouldn’t kneel at his feet. He recognized he was attracted to her, but he hadn’t taken things further in his mind. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel outright desire. But then, dear God, she kneeled, and for the first time, his body tightened with lust in her presence. He forced himself to look away and steeled his nerves for her touch.
Her fingers wrapped around his calf and drew the boot from his foot. Then she repeated the action on the second leg and quickly stood. By the time he dared look at her, she’d retreated to the other side of the bed and was busily rolling up the blanket.
After she’d placed the barrier in the middle of the bed, she crawled beneath the coverlet. “Sleep well,” she said as she turned to her side.
He was about to ask why she was sleeping fully clothed, but decided even he wasn’t that much of a brute. She was a chaste young woman and he would let her be.
For the hundredth time, he asked himself what the hell he was doing with her. She was a chaste young woman whom everyone probably thought he’d kidnapped. Or at least Bow Street would think that. What did anyone else know of her disappearance? Dread curdled his gut.
Did his brother think he’d kidnapped her? They’d only just reached some sort of accord. Ethan hoped Jason would give him the benefit of the doubt. Logically, however, Ethan had to ask why he would. Ethan had given Jason very little reason to trust him and had made it clear he couldn’t trust anyone in return.
Jason’s fiancée, Lydia, was Audrey’s closest friend. She had to be overwrought with worry. He grimaced against the twinge of regret. He wished there was a way he could communicate to them what had happened and that Audrey was safe, but he daren’t send any correspondence. Bow Street was too close.
Ethan stretched his legs out and slid down the chair until the back of his head rested against the top.
For the first time in over a decade, he had no firm plan. His father had died when Ethan was ten, leaving him and his mother with nothing save the small house he’d purchased for her when Ethan had been born. The house would’ve been a decent legacy, if his mother hadn’t sold it to settle debts. When she’d joined his father in death four years later, Ethan had been cast into the world alone with only his mother’s former lover, Davis, to guide him. With no money and no prospects, Ethan had consented to train as a thief-taker at Davis’s side. Until Ethan had been forced to choose his own life over Davis’s.
Ethan had spent the years since living by that creed—survive at any cost. He still lived by it, or he might not have killed that highwayman. An image of Audrey’s terrorized expression stole into his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish it. He’d tried to change, dammit. He wanted to change. He’d established a relationship with Jason, the only family he had left, and he wanted it to continue. It was the whole reason he’d executed the failed plan to take Gin Jimmy down. The permanent removal of Gin Jimmy was the only way Ethan could be truly free of the criminal life he regretted.
Disgust knifed through him. The future he wanted with Jason was gone. The minute Ethan set foot back in London, he would be arrested for murder, tried, and likely hanged. Or, mayhap Gin Jimmy’s men would get to him first and his fate would be far worse. Since neither option was acceptable, that left leaving the life he wanted behind.
But for what? Jaunting around the countryside with Audrey?
He pushed himself up from the chair and went to the bed. She was still on her side with her back to him, the coverlet pulled to her ears. Her dark curls were drawn up, but several of them had escaped their pins. They lay in stark contrast against the ivory pillow beneath her head. He longed to loop his finger through one of them and satisfy his curiosity regarding its softness. Since the days of their secret waltzing lessons, he’d admired the beauty of her hair, which seemed to have a mind of its own with the way it unerringly escaped from any proper style.
He lay down on the bed and stretched out his aching muscles, save his arm, which wouldn’t put up with such activity.
She was a proper young lady. Who’d escaped London with him, and had opted to continue along with him for the sake of adventure. Had she really tried to run off to America? He could imagine her sailing for an unknown land, her hair exhibiting a similar independence and working its way completely free from its reins, blowing haphazardly and beautifully in the salty breeze. He could join her, start anew in America.
What a load of horseshit. He was Ethan bloody Jagger. No, Lockwood. Son of a viscount and brother to a viscount. He was not going to run off with his tail between his legs. He wanted the life he deserved, the life he’d just begun to taste at his brother’s side.
He turned and looked at Audrey sleeping. And imagined the life he might’ve led if his father hadn’t died. Or if his mother hadn’t died and left him with nothing. Or if Davis hadn’t recruited him. Or if he hadn’t so easily and thoroughly allowed himself to be corrupted.
Looking back, it seemed everything was destined to happen as it did. No matter how much he wanted things to be different, he couldn’t change who he was, who he was likely always meant to be: a criminal.
Audrey awoke just after the sun rose. She wasn’t typically an early riser, but she also didn’t typically share a bed. With anyone, let alone a man. The barrier she’d placed between them was still in place. She peeked over it. Mr. Locke was on his back, his good arm flung above his head, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. She stared at those lashes, marveling at how long and luxurious they appeared, completely unfair for a man to possess. Audrey wished hers were that spectacular. Instead, they were just brown and somewhat nondescript. Like the rest of her.
In repose, Mr. Locke looked younger. His ink-dark hair was thick and in need of a trim. His beard was longer still, and Audrey was surprised to find she still found it attractive. Despite the growth of hair, his chin was squared and strong. He might look youthful in sleep, but he also exuded a power and magnetism that was undeniable. At least to her.
Mr. Locke’s eyes shot open and he was suddenly on top of her. He’d rolled like quicksilver, pinning her to the mattress.
She gasped—both with surprise and with the shock of his masculine body pressed atop hers. He was hard and muscular, and for the first time in her life she felt dainty and impossibly feminine.
His gray eyes focused on her, but she couldn’t immediately discern what he was thinking. Then his brow arched and he drawled, “Good morning” without sounding the least bit apologetic.
“I beg your pardon,” she said, trying desperately not to blush in his presence for the thousandth time.
He stared down at her, studying her face. His hands were on either side of her head while his hips were settled firmly against hers.
She squirmed beneath him, which only served to heighten the closeness. Shards of heat sparked between her legs, and made her want to invite him to do more.
He rolled off her, gently, so that his hips brushed hers as he retreated to his side of the bed.
She jumped up, eager to put space between them. “Was that necessary?”
He massaged his bandaged arm. “We’re in a precarious situation. I’m on my guard.”
“You thought I posed a threat?”
“Not you exactly. I didn’t immediately process who you were. Forgive me if I’m not used to waking up beside beautiful young society misses.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed.
He thought her beautiful? Warmth suffused her. He’d paid her similar compliments when she’d taught him to waltz, had flirted with her, but she’d written it off as a gentleman’s charm. He was ridiculously handsome, and men who looked like him flirted with everyone. Well, everyone except her.
She fetched his shirt and helped him don th
e garment, working to keep her gaze averted from the muscles rippling in his back and chest and arms. He had muscles everywhere. It was very disconcerting. Once he was covered, she took a deep, sustaining breath. Much better.
She brought his boots over and tugged them up his calves after he’d stuck his foot inside. “I’d best tie your cravat again.” She slid the linen around his neck and adjusted the collar of his shirt.
He stared at her intently, his eyes boring into her with a heat she felt all the way to her toes. Was it purposeful? Was he flirting with her again? She wasn’t sure she could bear it. No one had ever flirted with her until him.
She dropped her gaze to the cravat her clumsy fingers were trying to knot. “Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
She chanced a glance at him and was sorry for it because his gaze had only intensified, if that were possible. Plus, he’d arched his brow again in that frustratingly provocative manner. “Oh, never mind.” She knew she mumbled, but she deeply regretted drawing attention to her discomfort. The constant blushing was bad enough.
She finished her work as quickly as possible and helped him don the coat. At last, they were ready to leave.
“What about your hair?” he asked.
She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten all about her own toilette. Of course her hair would be a disaster, but she had no brush and she’d lost more pins than she had left. A small glass on the wall revealed a completely disheveled mess. She now doubted the veracity of his flirtation—he was surely bamming her. No one would find her attractive, least of all a man like him.
She pulled what pins remained out of her hair and looked about for a place to set them.
He appeared beside her with his palm open. Three hairpins were already lying there.
She looked up at him. “Where did you find those?”
“In the bed.” The mere mention of the word bed threatened to send heat up her neck again, but she managed to keep it at bay. “I’ll hold the others while you make repairs. I’m sorry you don’t have a brush.” The fact that he sounded genuinely apologetic only made things worse. Why did he have to be so gentlemanly when she was perfectly aware he was probably no gentleman?
She deposited the pins in his hand. “Thank you.” Trying to work her hair into a serviceable knot was nearly impossible, but she managed to secure it, at least for now. Doubtless, when they got on their way, it would begin its inevitable descent.
“Ready?” he asked, going to the door.
“Yes.” She followed him out of the room and down the narrow stairs to the small common area.
The innkeeper’s wife greeted them and offered them a modest repast of potatoes, ham, and bread. When they were finished and preparing to leave, she approached Audrey with a small bag. “This is for your luncheon,” she said warmly. “And I also have these for you.” She handed Audrey a bonnet and a . . . brush.
Audrey glanced at Mr. Locke, who was conversing with the innkeeper near the front door. He’d procured these things for her, she was certain of it.
“And don’t worry,” the innkeeper’s wife said, “your secret is safe with us. No one shall know the Millers passed through. I realize Miller isn’t likely your real name.” She winked at Audrey and gave her a quick hug.
What sort of secret had Mr. Locke told them? Audrey set the bonnet atop her head and tucked the brush into the food bag. “Thank you for your kindness.” She turned and joined Mr. Locke.
He opened the door for her and they stepped out into the overcast morning. “What’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the bag.
“Food from Mrs. Hodges. Thank you for asking for the bonnet and brush.”
He looked at her askance. “How did you know that was me?”
“How else would she have known?”
He shrugged, moving toward the lean-to where their horse was stabled. “Maybe she was just observant.”
Audrey stared after him. “Are you saying it’s obvious my hair was in want of a brush?”
He turned. “Are you trying to make me into a villain?”
She cringed internally. Wasn’t he a villain? “What story did you tell them?”
“What we agreed to, that we were a young married couple.”
The untied ribbons of her bonnet lifted in the breeze. “That can’t be all you said. Mrs. Hodges told me not to worry, that our ‘secret’ was safe.”
He exhaled and came toward her. He took her hand and pulled her toward the lean-to. “We need to be on our way.”
“You’re not going to tell me what you said, are you?”
“What does it matter?” He let go of her hand when they got to the lean-to.
She wanted to know the truth. She felt fairly certain by now that he was a criminal. He had to be. Why else would he run from Bow Street? And why else would he keep the truth from her? More importantly, if she believed he was a criminal, why was she trusting him? She’d given him a portion of her funds the previous night so he could pay for their lodgings. Had he used it all? He hadn’t given her any of it back.
“Where’s the rest of the money I gave you?” she asked, her suspicion getting the better of her.
He took the bag from her and tied it to the back of the horse, which was now sporting a saddle. “I had to use it all.”
She was glad she hadn’t given him the lot. “Why?”
He untied the horse and led her into the yard. “The lodgings, your accoutrements, the saddle, and a second horse, which we’ll need to have someone return at some point. I couldn’t afford to buy her outright.” He inclined his head toward the lane.
A boy was leading another horse toward them. He came into the yard, touched his cap and handed the lead to Mr. Locke.
“Thank you, lad.” Mr. Locke gave him a penny and the boy turned and ran back the way he’d come. “Actually, that was the last of the money.”
She eyed the second horse. “Why did we need another mount?”
“I thought we’d make better time if we rode separately. And I thought you might appreciate your own horse—with a sidesaddle—you’re a very fine horsewoman.”
Another compliment and another flush of pleasure. She had to admit it was probably safer—at least for her sensibilities—if he wasn’t pressed behind her. “Thank you.”
“May I help you up?”
She tied her bonnet beneath her chin. “Yes, please. Does she have a name?”
“I was told she’s called Athena.” He boosted her onto the horse and climbed atop the one they’d stolen the day before. “We’ll have to keep referring to this one as ‘girl,’ I suppose.”
Audrey felt bad about stealing the first horse, and felt much better that they’d paid for everything today, even if it meant their funds were running low. And she was also glad he’d done the paying instead of resorting to thievery. Maybe he wasn’t truly a criminal after all. “Do you think we could return your horse to that farmer we, uh, borrowed it from?”
“I suppose.” He didn’t sound as if he’d given it any thought. “To be honest, I don’t even know how we’ll get anyone to return your horse.”
Had he lied? “But you told them you would. Return it, I mean.”
“I did, and I will try.” He gave her a hard look. “Sometimes life doesn’t work out the way we plan.”
She was well aware of that. Still, she felt a bit uneasy.
As they rode out of the yard, he turned to her and said, “Mr. Hodges gave me directions on how to get to Wootton Bassett. Without taking the main roads of course.”
Of course. Surely Mr. Hodges had found that odd. Suddenly she was quite fed up with him withholding information. “Why is Bow Street chasing you? I think I’ve a right to know what I’m fleeing.”
“You’re not fleeing anything.” He kicked his horse into a trot.
She followed him and easily caught up. She wasn’t going to let him ignore her questions again. Perhaps she could try another way to learn his closely-guarded secrets. �
�I’ve been thinking about you. You clearly know how to steal. I wonder if you stole a lady’s heart. You’re certainly charming and handsome enough.”
He looked over at her. “Very amusing.”
“Of course, Bow Street wouldn’t actually pursue you for such nonsense. So maybe you stole something else.”
He was looking forward once more, but she could make out his scowl in profile.
She continued on her path of inquiry. “Or perhaps it was some other crime entirely. Perhaps you exhibited public drunkenness.”
“Haven’t we all? Save you of course, unless your two sherries at Michaelmas induced you to run amok in public.”
She smiled. “What about blasphemy? You certainly like to swear a lot.”
“Are you having fun?”
“In the absence of your forthrightness, I have to make my own assumptions.” And yes, she was having fun. “I know! Adultery. As I said, you’re too handsome for your own good.”
“Fine.” He slid her an embittered glance. “If I tell you something, will you stop?”
She’d been hoping to divert him, but that was proving to be difficult. “That depends on what you tell me.”
“When I was a lad, I was called ‘Pretty Boy.’” His tone held a weary scorn that provoked her to laugh.
She looked over at him. Yes, he had a pretty face, but his attraction was so much more than that. He had a presence about him—of authority and arrogance, of intelligence and wit that gave him an aura of power, as if he was in absolute control of any situation. “Can I call you Pretty Boy?”
He turned his head and their gazes connected. She chilled at the ice in his eyes. “No, you may not,” he said. “I hated that nickname. No one ever took me seriously.” He slowed his horse to a stop, and she did the same because she was absolutely compelled by him.
“Would you like to know how I got rid of that nickname?” he asked softly. Dangerously.
A shiver curled in her belly. “Yes.” The word was barely a whisper.
“As a lad, I worked in a theft gang. When I was fifteen, I was tired of being discounted because of the way I looked. I wanted power. Prestige. Respect. So I killed the leader of the gang and assumed his place. No one ever called me ‘Pretty Boy’ again.”
