All he found was Regan, sitting upright. Her red hair spilled over her pale shoulders and white nightgown. Her eyes were wide with fear as her mouth hung open and she sucked in deep breaths. Her fingers dug into the covers around her, twisting them in her hands.
He snapped his gaze about the room, probing for someone. Anyone. But as Jack swung his eyes to the tall, curtained windows, then to her armoire, and back to the bed, but saw no one. “What is it? What happened?” he demanded.
Regan’s stared at him, her face pale in the faint light.
Slowly, Jack lowered his pistol. He kept his finger resting just by the trigger. “You screamed.”
She looked down, the muscles working in her throat. “I—I had a dream—And it was…” She broke off. Lady Regan lifted a slender hand to her mouth. “It was terrifying,” she whispered.
A dream? Jack let out a sigh of relief as he shut the door behind him. He strode towards the bed and grabbed the small tinderbox sitting beside the taper candle. He quickly struck it to life. Light sputtered from the candle, dancing over Regan’s face and body.
The soft light touched her skin as intimately as a caress. It fell over the hollow of her throat and the gentle slope of her pale neck. And it silhouetted her body beneath her gown. Jack swallowed. Shadows darkened the undersides of her full breasts and one of the shoulders of her gown had slipped down her arm, exposing her pale skin.
Crouching, he leaned his forearms on the goose down mattress. He understood dreams. Had awoken himself many times, bathed in a cold sweat. The images of a past he wanted to forget trapped inside his head. “Dreams can be terrible things,” he soothed. “I should know.”
Meeting his eyes, a tentative smile lifted her pink lips. “You cannot be frightened by such things.”
God, if she only knew the terror he had suffered the nights he still dreamed of the workhouse. “Not all is as it seems.”
He paused, glancing up into her face, framed with her tumbling red hair. “Would you like me to leave?”
Her eyes, almost black in the candlelight, widened. “No,” she breathed. “Would you stay? For a moment.”
“Of course.” He only wished there had been someone who could have protected him and Devlin on those cold nights when they had sat in horror of every creak and shudder of the workhouse. He glanced about, looking for a place to sit.
It struck him, for a moment, as odd that none of her family had come running. But then again, he was aware Lady Sylvia was out… And he’d discovered that Lord Geoffrey Chance had a predilection for downing bottles of brandy before he passed out every night.
She reached down and gently placed her fingers on his arm. “You could sit here…” her words trailed off and her chest lifted in a slow breath. “I don’t mean for—”
“Shhh. I understand.” He did understand, but hell, he was still a man. Not a nanny. The soft swell of her breasts drew his attention away from her face and he resisted the urge to lift his hands to their roundness. Instead, he placed his hand over hers and slowly shifted his weight onto the bed, sitting on the edge.
He trailed his fingers over her skin, stroking her. Soothing her, and savoring the feel of her. “In truth, my lady, you are wrong. I have been truly disturbed by dreams.”
She leaned back against the piled pillows, her hair flowing out around her, dark against the white sheets. “You?”
A soft laugh rumbled from his chest. “Of course. Do you not think me human?” Human? Bloody hell, he was beginning to feel too damned human. He was sitting on a bed with a beautiful woman in her nightdress. A woman he wanted with a powerful need. There wasn’t much stopping him from pressing the situation, except that once again, she was vulnerable.
She rolled onto her side, cupping her chin with her hand. The thin fabric of her gown slipped over her body, pressing against her breasts. “I suppose. I simply thought you to be too strong.”
She thought him strong, did she? The sudden desire to show her how strong and how he could use that strength, to please her, tightened his body. Lady Regan was deceptively quiet, but he could see her own strength; a fired steel, glowing in her eyes.
A single strand of long hair fell onto her face as she looked down. Jack brushed it between his fingers. Caressing the cool softness of it, he placed it behind her shoulder. He wanted to plunge his whole hand into her hair and let it wash his skin while he tasted her mouth.
Her eyes fixed on his. The temperature in the room lifted. And he went hard. So hard it almost hurt.
But she looked away. “What kind of dreams?” she questioned.
Jack drew in a deep breath. How could he tell her? The dreams of men torn apart? Of children starved and neglected? “Things from my childhood.”
She turned back to him, sympathy softening her blue eyes. Bloody hell, he didn’t wish her sympathy. He was not worthy of it. How could he be? He was comforting her over a nightmare, but all he wanted to do was slip the folds of her gown over her head and thrust deep into her body till she felt nothing but him.
*
Regan pushed herself up onto her elbow. She desperately wished to slide the covers back. She felt so hot. But she couldn’t do that with him here. And she didn’t wish him to leave. As improper as it was, she felt safe.
But he wanted her. She could feel it the air, as if there was no separation between them. Even though his hands were on the mattress inches away from her, she felt like he was already intimate with her.
She’d seen sex. Men and women coupling quickly in an alley. Sylvia had alluded to hours of pleasure with the right man. What terrified Regan the most was that Hazard seemed too much like the right man. That was a thought she couldn’t allow herself to contemplate. “Captain Hazard, might I ask you a question?”
His dark eyes narrowed. “I won’t guarantee an answer.”
She wanted to know what his nightmares were. Did he dream of battle? “What did you do in the military?”
Captain Hazard leaned back, his back as straight as any Brigadier General. “I killed the French, or anyone who supported Napoleon.”
Harsh energy crackled from him, as if daring her to ask more. Regan grasped the sheet beneath her fingers, the linen cool.
“I see.” She shook her head. “Actually, I don’t see. Exactly. Were you a—” She didn’t know the proper terms. While she had followed the movements of the armies, the small details had never interested her. “A foot soldier?”
“You mean infantry?”
Regan nodded, half afraid of what he might say. But a strong need to know his past tugged at her. Besides, if she didn’t keep speaking, her thoughts would drift back to the hard muscles of his body.
“In a way, yes. But I did many things in my course of time in the Army.” His sooty eyes shuttered his thoughts away, taunting her with his abrupt distance. But a spark of pain flickered in his gaze, deep. So deep, Regan knew it cut into his soul.
The abrupt urge to take the large man in her arms and soothe away his suffering hit her like a wave. It was completely irrational and utterly compelling. “How long were you in the military?”
Captain Hazard shifted on the bed, suddenly appearing uncomfortable. “Fourteen years.”
Regan pushed herself all the way up into a seated position and tugged the blanket with her, despite the heat. “I thought you left the military directly after Waterloo?”
“I did.”
Tilting her head to the side, Regan rapidly calculated the years in her head. He could not be more than thirty-one. Thirty-two perhaps? What he was saying could not be right. “But that would have made you fourteen or fifteen when you joined.”
“Eleven,” he stated like a school master informing a student that two and two are four.
“Merciful heavens,” she gasped.
“Lady Regan, do not concern yourself over my past. What has been done is done.”
“Yes, but—”
“Truly.” His lips curled in a hard smile that did not reach his eyes. “Now let us
change the subject. Have you seen Cosi fan tutte?” he said carelessly. “I thought it ridiculous.”
Regan blinked. Eleven? That would place him at twenty-nine years of age. Dear God, he’d seemed so much older. But he’d only been a little boy. Where had his parents been to allow such a thing? Probably dead.
“Lady Regan, do you dislike Mozart that much?”
“Please. Call me Regan.”
He let out a growling laugh. “Not wise. Remember, I am little more than a servant. And I don’t wish to provoke the wrath of a Chance.”
“This may be true, but you are also a respected businessman who rubs shoulders with Carlton House.” She quickly searched for some reason to justify such a request. “I call my footman Charlie. So why shouldn’t you call me Regan?”
He laughed, a low rumble that washed over her skin. “You’ve got the logic of a bleedin’ con. Right then. Regan it is.”
Regan slipped her fingers over the top of his hand and squeezed. She nearly groaned at the friction of his warm skin under hers. His thumb closed over the tips of her fingers, locking them in his grasp.
Their eyes met. Suddenly Regan was hit by an onslaught of senses. The spicy smell of him, herbs she did not know, filled the air. The broadness of his chest, inches from her own, heightened Regan’s awareness.
He was too near. Too large. Too wide for a gentleman. And the heat flowing from his hand to hers traveled through her veins like wine.
Tilting his head down so that his eyes were level with hers, he said, “Jack. Please call me Jack.”
Regan wet her lips, and whispered, “Jack.” The name crossed her lips like a forbidden word, filling her with pleasure and a touch of fear.
In his eyes raged a storm of pain. And… something else. Something Regan wanted to understand. She lowered her eyes to his lips. She’d never kissed a man in her entire life, never had time to. But if she were ever to kiss one, he would be the one. Slowly, Regan raised her hand to the side of his face and pressed her mouth lightly to his.
Salty, warm skin burned against her mouth. Her body tensed. She wanted to open her lips and taste him, but she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to do such a thing. Even as her body urged her to take more, Regan forced herself to lean back.
Jack’s broad chest rose in a long breath, then he took the blanket in his strong fingers and inch by slow inch, pulled it down her legs.
As the soft wool caressed her skin, Regan’s eyes widened as desire pooled in her limbs. She bit her lower lip. No idea what was going to happen next. But whatever it was, she wanted to experience it.
His hands slid around her waist and covered the small of her back. Their gentle power seared through the thin fabric of her gown, igniting the skin beneath his hands.
Jack pulled her across the narrow space. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He lowered his lips to her mouth. She should stop, but she wanted this.
One of his hands appeared at her throat, caressing it. His fingers brushed her chin, angling her head. His lips moved over hers, touching in long, soft strokes.
Regan gasped against his mouth, shocked by his tenderness. It melted her against him. How could a man who’d lived such a violent life hold her with such gentle need and desire?
Her fingers tightened on the hard muscles of his arms, uncertain if she should pull back from his kiss or lean further into him. But his fingers at her neck circled into her hair. Regan gave in to the soft sensation of his mouth over hers. Gently, he slipped his tongue between her lips.
A moan of need escaped her mouth. He growled in response, a deep, possessive sound as his arm tightened around her waist. The hot taste of him hit Regan like a tidal wave. She dragged her hands up his arms and clung to his neck. The softness of his hair trailed over her fingers.
Right or wrong, Regan caressed his tongue with the tip of hers. His hand ran along her back, supporting her weight as he tilted her into his arm, deepening their kiss.
His hand stole to the edge of the hem of her gown. Every nerve in her body urged him to stroke her thigh. Oh God, what was she doing?
Regan’s hands froze on his body. Fear tunneled through her. She was kissing a man in her bed and she couldn’t behave thusly. If she did, she would set her feet on a path that she couldn’t return from.
His lips moved over hers, hot and warm. Perfect. Oh, how she wanted him. Wanted this. But she could not. Could not. Too much was at stake.
Regan pulled back. What had she done? Shaking her head, she pushed at his shoulders. Regan welcomed the cold air engulfing the front length of her body.
She’d kissed him. She’d bloody kissed him! This was her fault.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, her breath tight and short. Like traitors, her fingers ached for the soft strands of his hair and the strength of his muscles.
He dropped his hands from her, his eyes flashing with desire. The muscles in his throat stood taut as chords. Stepping away from the bed, his chest lifted up and down. A large, hard bulge pressed against the front of his trousers. Regan stared for a moment, unable to look away from it. She’d done that to him. He wanted her. Regan looked up into his eyes.
A wild need flickered in them as the sound of their breathing filled the small room. It still felt as if his hands were on her. His taste lingered in her mouth. Regan fought the urge to lift her fingers to her lips.
He closed his eyes for a long moment, his face tense.
Opening his eyes, his body relaxed. The earlier passion had entirely disappeared from them, reined in under tight control. “It is I who should apologize,” he said softly.
Regan grabbed at the blankets, wrapping them against her hot body. “I hope that—”
He gestured to a chair in the corner of the room. “Would you like me to sit until you fall asleep?”
“Jack, please, I—”
His eyes returned to hers and he said softly, “I should never have sat on your bed. I overstepped my bounds.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, Regan looked away. Pain stole up inside her chest. “We both did.”
Shaking his head, he strode to the chair and pulled it up towards the bed. “I’ll watch over you. Until you sleep.”
Regan nodded, her body still warm from his touch. Forbidden warmth. Forbidden by society and her own principles. Lowering herself back down to the goose down tick, Regan turned away from him as he settled into the chair. She could not yield to the temptation of having a man to love in her life. She had her work to do. And nothing could interfere with that.
Even if the sight of him sitting beside her bed was the most perfect sight she had seen in her life.
Chapter Thirteen
The crowd in the pub parted like the bloody Red Sea as he and O’Malley stepped through the arched doorway. They stared for a moment, the roughened faces peering up from their tankards. Jack tossed a coin at the fiddle player and he caught it in his wizened hand.
Screeching music flared to life as the musician dragged the bow over the strings and everyone returned to their own affairs. Jack let out a sigh. Whenever he walked amongst his own kind, they sensed there wasn’t something right about him. And they were dead on. He wasn’t one of them anymore. But he wasn’t anything else either. “Where is he?”
O’Malley cast his gaze over the worn faces, his hand tucked in his coat. No doubt wrapped around a wicked cudgel. “Not here yet.”
Jack shook his head and headed for a table at the back of the dark room. Smoke hovered overhead threading through the swinging wooden chandeliers. A woman in a stained dress, the bodice unlaced revealing a dirty corset, walked by. She eyed him up and her eyes flared with desire and the pleasure of spotting a customer who wasn’t missing a leg.
“Hello, luv,” she whispered as she sauntered past.
Jack nodded, focused on the task at hand. He settled down onto the rough seat and angled his body so he had the best view of the room.
O’Malley sat down across from him, his blue eyes sharp and wary. “Now, why did
the bloody bastard have to go and choose The Hangman’s Rope?”
Jack didn’t answer. O’Malley knew full well. Lieutenant Garret understood the advantages of a place like this. At any moment, all hell could break loose and if the right man wanted to, he could choose the when and the why.
“Any luck on the duke’s lad?” Jack asked.
Annoyance creased O’Malley’s already expressive brow. “Not so much as a whisper. They keep themselves to themselves when they’re together.”
Jack glared at O’Malley. There was no way in hell that Chiles wasn’t hiding some secret. “Keep digging.”
The pub grew silent again and Jack swung his attention back to the doors. “Shite,” he hissed.
The bugger was just as wild as Jack remembered. Only worse now.
Standing in at well over six feet in his mud-stained and used black great coat, Blake Garret towered over the other men standing at the bar. His thick, blond hair hung about his face like a lion’s shaggy mane and icy green eyes, the color of limes, stared out through the hazy smoke. As he slowly stalked through the room, the scar that ran down from his forehead, over his eye and across his cheek became more pronounced. The angry slit marred his angelic face, finally giving his outward appearance the darkness that had always been inside.
He stopped just before the table and stared down. His cold eyes trained in on Jack. “I see you brought the bog trotter.”
O’Malley tensed. “This bog trotter could have yer balls for breakfast.”
Garret narrowed his eyes and slowly turned his gaze on O’Malley. “Is that what you’re into, Paddy? Eating balls?”
O’Malley started up, his hand going for his weapon.
“Sit,” Jack barked, remaining seated. “Both of you.”
Like two bristling roosters facing off in a fight, the two men lowered themselves into seated positions. Garret grabbed a chair, put it between his legs and draped an arm over its back. He smiled coldly. “Certainly, Captain.”
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