by Anne Mallory
Gabriel strode into the Middlesex house. He wondered if Jeremy and John had finished their tasks. His steps echoed in the empty house, up the empty stairs. Empty of Marietta, who was somewhere else, somewhere his murdering self was not. Every one of his repressed emotions tripped over themselves, racing to the surface. Anger, pain, betrayal, longing, fear. He viciously tugged his cravat. He should have gone back to his Mayfair house and his valet. Why had he come here?
If she hadn’t hated him before, she surely did now. Daggered comments. Cruel remarks. He’d taken his pain and rage and twisted it against her. And even though she had done the same, it still made him feel ill. Unforgivable.
Why had he come here?
He ripped the cravat from his neck and tossed it on the side table in his room, then worked on the buttons of his shirt. He opened the linen press to grab a change of clothing and froze as he looked into the mirror above the table.
“Marietta.”
Chapter 19
Gabriel slowly closed the linen press and turned around. She was sitting in a chair in the corner—her legs pressed together and to the side, her hands folded in her lap—the calm presence of a lady but for the nervous twitch in her right foot.
“Gabriel.”
He leaned against the press and fiddled with his cuffs, not looking away from her. “I thought you would be well away from here.”
“I did leave—to help Jeremy and Alcroft with their task.”
He watched her, unsure what was happening or where he stood. His freed emotions tore the foundations of the cage he had constructed for them. Perhaps for good.
“I returned,” she said.
“I see.” He carefully placed a link on the side table, like a hunter not wanting to frighten the hunted away with any sudden movements.
“Do you?”
He touched his other cuff, for once completely unsure of himself and how to answer. He shook his head without taking his gaze away.
“I know you didn’t murder those women, Gabriel.”
“That is good to know.” He carefully removed the other link and set it down too, his eyes still on hers. “When did you figure this out?”
“I knew by the end of the conversation in the kitchen this morning.” The word conversation was a bit off as a description. “And then I heard you speaking in the other room.”
“Eavesdropping?”
Her right foot stilled. “Yes.”
He nodded. “That doesn’t explain why you are still here. I gathered that you wished yourself far from this house.”
“And I gathered that you wished me far from here.”
“Double the reasons for you not to appear. Why are you here, Marietta?”
He wanted her here. But he couldn’t let things go. Couldn’t let things stand. He expected, feared, that she’d walk from the room at his question.
“I came to apologize. For what I said to you at the end. About—About them. And for thinking you the murderer.”
He undid the last button on his expensive shirt and shrugged it off, pulling one sleeve down at a time. “I was in a rather dubious position, as it was.” He kept his voice even and calm, deliberately evading the first part of her apology and answering the last. “I shouldn’t have expected you to trust me.”
“You don’t think highly of me, I know.” Her head was high and she continued to meet his eyes.
“On the contrary, I think you quite extraordinary.” He looked down and took hold of his undershirt.
“What?”
“I think you quite extraordinary.” He used the action of pulling off his undershirt to hide his face. Bare to the waist, he didn’t feel as naked now that there was more exposed than just his expression.
“I don’t understand. I thought you said I was judgmental and harsh.” The little bob in her throat betrayed her nerves and calmed his.
He tossed the shirt aside. “Those qualities combined with your others make you more extraordinary, not less.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You told me I used my sexuality against others.” He changed the topic and leaned against the press, his fingers touching the tops of his trousers.
“You do,” she whispered, her body framed for flight. Or framed to stop him from flight.
“It is a very useful weapon. I learned to use everything at my disposal.” He slid a finger along the button at the top.
“But you have plenty of weapons at your disposal now. You don’t need to use it, if you don’t want. If it bothers you, and I can see it does.”
Something thrummed through him. Excitement. Increased nerves. “You are still watching me, reading my eyes. I don’t know whether to be pleased or worried.”
“It depends on what you have in mind.”
“Yes, I suppose it would at that.”
He undid the button and ran his fingers along the second.
“Gabriel, I—I still want to be part of the search. I know you told me to leave…” She looked at her hands. “I don’t think you know how hard this is for me to say.”
“I told you to leave if that is what you wished.”
She looked up. “You said I was a little rich girl gone poor and tattered.”
He saw the hurt in her eyes and wanted to soothe it, but honesty kept him still. “Aren’t you?”
Her mouth set in a straight line and she rose gracefully. “It’s hardly a flattering description.”
“It won’t take much for you to turn the poor and tattered aspect around. To be what you were bred for.”
“Highly doubtful.”
“That you have overcome your circumstances shows you are a survivor.”
She searched his face. “And you prize that trait, don’t you?”
“I do. That is why I help those who come looking for it. Those who are fierce in wanting it.”
“And you saw…this fierceness…in me?”
He took in her bedraggled appearance. Bonnet askew, hem muddied, dress creased, just as she had looked that first night. Not pretty in the conventional sense, though there was something about her that he found beautiful. The set of her shoulders, her determined expression, the way her body reacted to his. The way his reacted to hers. How he felt when she was near, or when she spoke. Something indefinable. Something beyond appearance and determination. Something elemental.
He cocked his head back to rest against the press. “I still do.”
She wet her lips. “Why?”
“Do you trust me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you trust me?”
“What happened at the market?”
Her fingers gripped her skirt. “I ran into Jacob Worley.”
He crossed his arms. He had thought as much. Had seen something in her eyes. Had been stupid to let her leave without him. As soon as he’d gotten the information he needed, he had run back. Gone around to the kitchen, knowing that something was off.
“And what did he have to tell you?”
“That you were the killer. That his precious Melissande was next, and then it would be my turn.”
Dark thoughts wound through his head. “His precious Lady Dentry is next. But you should be nowhere on the list.”
“Perhaps it was his way to scare me.” She gripped her skirt. “It worked.”
“Why did he think you were next? What did he say?” Fear coursed through him.
“That was all.”
He walked forward and touched her chin, lifting it so he could see everything in her eyes. “What did he say?”
She swallowed, her eyes still locked with his. “He said I had to kill you first, or you’d kill me.”
“And nothing else? He just mentioned me?” His knees locked.
“Yes.”
He dropped his hand and stepped back, his fingers unwilling to relinquish touching her on their own. He opened the linen press door. “I will take you to the house where your brother is. It will take an hour to make sure we aren’t followed. Gather your things now.”
>
“What?”
He undid the other button on his trousers, letting them hang loose, and reached for a new shirt. A hand curled around his arm and forcefully tried to turn him. His shirt dropped to the floor.
“I am not going anywhere.”
He turned the rest of the way toward her, her fingers burned his flesh. “There is the possibility you have been targeted.”
“That makes no sense. I had nothing to do with—”
He grabbed the hand branding his arm. A strange tingle of panic ran through him. “It doesn’t matter. We aren’t dealing with someone who has a full set of faculties. If Worley is at all involved, he may have targeted you.”
“But you said Worley didn’t do it.”
“That doesn’t mean he isn’t in the midst of it. What if he switches his ire to you? Instead of doing me harm, he decides to harm you instead?”
He could see the shaken look in her brown eyes, and it echoed in the pit of his stomach. “No.”
“Yes. Now go pack.”
She crossed her arms, the long smooth curve of her neck tilting toward him. “I’m not leaving.”
“Now is not the time for heroics. You have helped your brother. We will find out who is responsible. Your family will be back together by the end of the week. You will be safe.”
She poked him in the chest, hard, her fingertip resting against his bare skin. “I’m not leaving you.”
“You are.”
“You are in far greater danger than I.” Her finger trailed an inch down his chest before dropping to her side.
“I’m in no more danger than I’ve ever been. Especially from myself, it seems.”
She looked down. “Oh, Gabriel.”
He bent over to pick up his shirt, unwilling to look at her any further.
“I’m so sorry for what I said.”
“It was nothing that wasn’t the truth,” he said with forced lightness. “It should be I on bended knee before you.”
She stopped him from putting his arm through the hole. “No. It wasn’t the truth. Please.”
There was something so heated and fierce in her eyes that he nearly lost control.
“You are nothing like them. Any gestures you might have picked up are just those—gestures. Not used in any sort of cruel manner. It is the will that is important. It’s the intention behind the action. Pleasure, not guile. And when I look in your eyes, I see—I see you.”
He threw the shirt down and pulled her to him, mouth fused to hers, and spun toward the wall, pressing her against it, her legs climbing his, her heel pressing into his calf, the disjointed slide of his trousers to the floor. He stepped out of one puddled leg and insinuated it between hers, rubbing up, making her ride his thigh, causing those deliciously caught cries in her throat as her hands pressed into his hair, trapping his mouth to hers and pulling him into her. He pulled a hand down her side, down her back, cupping her buttocks and grinding her against him, pushing her back into the wall and forward onto him.
His fingers wound under the fabric and between her thighs, and she was wet and hot and pushing into his hand. He pulled his forefinger along her. God, she was hot and ready and all he wanted to do was to push into her so hard that she was permanently part of the woodwork. He pushed his finger back along her and curled the tip inside, the sound of it pushing him further over the edge.
“Please, please.”
He wasn’t sure who said it, but he brought his hand up to touch her cheek and aligned their bodies, hitching her higher against the wall, feeling her slide down onto him, fitting firmly over the top. He buried his face into her hair, her throat, and thrust upward, her cries breathy and stuttered against his ear.
He withdrew and pushed into her harder and farther. Incredible and frustrating. And just there. He wanted, needed, to be just a bit farther. He pulled her against him, away from the wall. She wrapped her fingers around his neck, her eyes drugged and unfocused, and he quickly spun them to the bed, pushing her down on top, bending over her, feet still on the floor, driving into her, and God, yes, this was what he needed. Her head thrust back, her dress crushed and splayed indecently between them. Her heels climbed the small of his back as he pulled out and thrust as deeply into her as it was possible to go.
She moaned and the bed shook, and for the second time the world stood strangely on end. She pulled him back against her with her feet, her arms out, searching to bring him toward her and then dropping to clutch the coverlet, her stained dress, her body pulsing around his in frantic waves. And he kept driving, heady and crazy until someone roared and he was coming into her with a force that he didn’t think possible to possess.
Her legs fell to the side and he collapsed on top of her, breathing in deep clutching breaths, the echoes thrumming from her chest, her mouth.
He pulled her up with him as he crawled onto the bed, his knees crinkling the coverlet and her ravaged dress as he caught upon it, the dress pulling down to expose her neglected chest to his view.
She absently attempted to tug her dress back up, her gaze still unfocused. His position stopped the attempt and he leaned down to kiss her bared skin. Her breath hitched.
“Luscious Marietta, or Marvelous Marietta, perhaps that should be your new name?”
The tip of her breast peeked over the frill of her dress, and he ran his tongue over the top. She gripped the back of his head, her fingers pulling through the strands.
He rose on his elbow and lifted his knee to release her dress. She didn’t move and he felt a warm current. He tucked her up to him and scooted them both up the bed. She curled into him. A blast of something—desire, devotion, freedom—spun through him.
“I think you should stay with your brother for a few days. It won’t take longer than that. I can feel it.”
“And if I refuse? Will you lock me up with Mark?”
He threaded his fingers through her hair. “No.”
“And then?”
“We find the murderer and set your brother free.”
Unspoken, echoing around them, was the question: And after that? But she said nothing, her fingers gripping the bone of his hip. And he followed. Uttering no promises that could be broken.
Tomorrow was a new and unknown day. Today had been rough enough without worrying about where he’d be, where she’d be—where they’d be—tomorrow. Things he needed to think about, and things he’d rather not mull at all.
Some things did need to be said, however. “Lady Dentry made a list. My father is trying to locate a few of the Londoners on it.”
“How did the—the visit go?” Her voice was hesitant, cringing.
“She was her normal, lovely self.”
“She didn’t—do anything?”
He laughed darkly. “She can’t do anything.”
“Oh.”
She was silent, but he could feel her curiosity, her desire to speak. “What do you want to know, Marietta?”
She ran a hand down his arm. “How did you get started?”
“Started with what?”
“With this.”
He pulled two fingers along her leg, enjoying the catch in her breath, but she captured his fingers before he could continue.
“Not that. How did you start such an endeavor? To the point where people would spend ten thousand pounds for your services or offer you three future favors?”
He ran his fingers along her side and stared at the ceiling. That hadn’t been the question he’d thought she would ask. He didn’t know if it was an easier or harder question to answer, the topic flirting with the edge of the main issue.
“It didn’t start with ten thousand pounds or the favors.”
She said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
“I ran from the Dentry estate, as I’m sure you’ve deduced. Took Jeremy with me.” He tried to keep his voice breezy. “We hid in London for a while. We had nothing to our names, but we had contacts, knowledge. I started with a smile and the comprehension of how to work with the di
fferent classes. Desperation breeds other types of knowledge as well. Something that was very useful at the Dentry estate and later.”
The darkness hovered just at the edges, but it was lighter than it had been, less thick.
“I did a few favors, introduced people who could help each other, that type of thing. I didn’t realize how useful the talent was or what I could do with it until later.” His fingers skimmed her hip. “I had earned a little bit of money by then, a lot of contacts. I took a chance and charged fifty pounds to a man who could well afford to pay. He did. It was the beginning. I just kept moving up. Kept growing.”
He skimmed his fingers over her stomach.
“Soon I was able to easily charge whatever I needed. I had the network in place to get most anything done or discovered.”
“Do you get a lot of paying clients?”
“Yes. Only the most wealthy.”
She leaned on her elbow. “If you charged less, you would get more clients.”
“I know.”
“Why don’t you?”
“I don’t need the money. I have more than enough to have proven myself.” He gave her a self-degrading smile. “Besides, I’d have too many people at my door.”
She touched his side. “You are more interested in people who can’t afford your services. Working class folks.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you take my case?”
He didn’t say anything for a second. “From a purely predatory standpoint, I knew you’d be a strong asset with your blending looks, even if your cultured voice has proven a detriment at times. And you were determined and loyal. Interesting. Your brother’s situation was also interesting. Rockwood must have known I’d think so.”
“What did you do for Rockwood?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
“He’s rather like you about not wanting to be in debt to anyone, though he’s on a tight monetary leash with his father. I assume whatever you did for him, his father paid?”
He didn’t answer, instead moving his fingers along her rib cage. She arched into his fingers as they grazed her breast.
“Why had I never heard of you?”
“Too many people started requesting services. I couldn’t keep up and didn’t trust others enough to bring them into the fold. So I keep to a referral basis. The whole thing works better in secret, just under the eyes of the watchful.”
