by Shana Galen
Marlowe nodded. She could have eaten ten bowls of it. It was the best thing she’d had in…well, as long as she could remember. She probably shouldn’t be accepting anything from the bastard, but she figured he owed her. She hadn’t asked to be nabbed.
She ate two more bowls, and then she was so full she worried she’d have to be rolled out of there. Her stomach, used to being empty, hurt from swelling. But it was a good hurt, and now she felt sleepy. She yawned.
“Let’s get you to bed,” the bastard said. For some reason, a shiver ran up her spine at his words.
She shook it off. “I’m not sharing a dab with you! If you try and touch me, you’ll find your arm missing your hand.”
The cook made a strained sound, then pretended to be very busy cleaning up. But she was obviously still listening. The bastard opened his mouth to say something more, and that was when the other servants walked in. They’d been doing something in the other room, and now a mopsqueezer entered, carrying Marlowe’s clothing.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lord,” the slavey said with a curtsy. Marlowe rolled her eyes. As if the man was worth all that fawning. “What should I do with…these?”
“Burn them.”
“Hey!” Marlowe tried to snatch her dress away. “Those are mine!”
The swell stepped in front of her, and the maid shrank back as though Marlowe would attack. “You can go,” the bastard told the slaveys. They ran off as though his words came from heaven.
He was still standing in front of her, and she could smell the clean scent of him. He didn’t smell like flowers, but like something masculine and fresh. She wanted to move closer and inhale more deeply. Instead, she looked up at him, and for some reason, she felt dizzy. He was looking at her, those brown eyes focused on her face, and she felt too warm and short of breath. Maybe the soup had been poisoned.
“Follow me,” he said curtly.
She put her hands on her hips. His eyes followed the movement, and she saw his throat move as he swallowed.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
He sighed. “Marlowe, there is an easy way to do things and a hard way. I take it you prefer the hard way.”
She frowned. When he spoke, she had the feeling he was saying more than his words would indicate. It was almost as though he was making fun of her. There often seemed no right answer to his questions, so she kept silent.
“In this case, the easy way is for you to follow me to my room.”
“No.” She said it flatly. She was not going to this man’s room.
“The hard way it is.” He reached for her, and before she could jump out of the way, he scooped her into his arms. She fought him, more comfortable now in the trousers and man’s shirt, but he was prepared. He tossed her over his shoulder and held her legs at the knees to stop her from kicking him. Despite her struggles, she caught the shocked look of the cook, and then they were outside. Marlowe didn’t pay much attention to where they were, she just fought and screamed, and finally they stepped in the house and she had to catch her breath.
“You have another choice,” he said ominously. “Keep screaming and I bind your mouth, or keep quiet and you remain free.”
She took a moment to think about it. Part of her wanted to scream just to spite him, just to wake the whole house up. But another part of her did not relish being gaped at by the family or being bound. He would do it. She knew that much about him now. “Fine,” she said quietly.
He set her down, which surprised her.
“Want to try walking?”
But she was speechless now. Before, she’d been staring at the shiny marble floor, now she looked around her and gawked. The entryway was the most gorgeous room she had ever seen. The ceiling soared and seemed to go up and up and then up some more. An enormous column of stairs spread before them, and that too curved gracefully upward. A chandelier with what looked like diamonds glittered above her. It was not lit, but the lamp left burning on an entry table illuminated its glory. What must it look like when lit? It would be as bright as day in here.
A long, wide hallway led to other rooms. She peered down it, but she could not see the end. This house was a castle. She turned her head to stare at the bastard. Who was he? Some sort of king?
He gestured toward the stairs. “This way,” he said quietly and began ascending. She followed, pausing when her feet stepped onto the runner. The carpet was so soft and plush, she all but sank into it. Finally, she began walking again, looking around her as she did. Framed paintings of old men and women, as well as country fields, hung on the walls. When she peered over the stone banister, she saw plants and a large wooden door. The butler she had seen earlier was locking it now. He lifted the lamp and followed them at a discreet distance.
She had been in the homes of the wealthy. She could scan this house and know immediately what items would fetch the highest prices—silver glim-sticks, a gilt frame, a marble bust—but she had never been in a home like this one. If she and Gideon could pilfer this house, they would be made for life.
The bastard had reached the landing, and she almost ran into him. He was obviously waiting for her. Now he gave her a knowing look. “Tallying the value?”
She scowled at him. He had an annoying habit of guessing what she was thinking. “No.”
He laughed. “One more flight up.”
“How many floors are there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know? Perhaps I should just leave the doors unlocked and give you the house plans.”
“That would be helpful,” she agreed.
He started up the next set of stairs. “Apparently, today I am nothing if not helpful.”
She followed him to another level, but this one did not require ascending quite so many stairs to reach. At the top, he turned right and motioned for her to follow him. These were bedrooms, she assumed. The doors were closed, and it appeared all in the house were sleeping. How many people lived here? Oh, she knew enough to guess that the servants slept on the attic floor. This was clearly not that level. But how many people shared this enormous house? At any given time there were ten to twelve cubs sharing a space not even the size of the entryway to this house. Did this man live here alone? No…he’d mentioned a sister and a mother. And there was his brother. If Sir Brook lived here, that was four people and all of this space.
She was amazed and also a little angry. What made him so special that he got all of this when she had to settle for a cramped corner in a cold, wet, rickety building?
They reached the destination, and he opened the door. It was dark inside, but she went in anyway, not wishing to be carried. The butler, who had been following them, handed him the lamp and murmured something she did not hear.
The bastard declined the butler’s offer, then closed the door. He went to a table near the door, slid a drawer open, and took out a key. Inserting the key into the lock, he dubbed up and pocketed the key.
She was alone with him in his bedroom.
* * *
Dane put the key in his pocket and watched as her eyes grew wide. Devil take him if she started wailing and screaming again. To stave it off, he said, “I’m not going to touch you. I only want to sleep.” He held up his hands as if to show he was harmless and had no interest in anything other than sleeping. The girl was little more than an animal from what he’d seen of her manners. Still…
When the idea of having her in his room came to him, he had no other intentions, but that was before she’d come out of the bath. He’d immediately regretted giving in to her request to wear men’s clothing. They clung to her in ways they never would on a man. Her breasts pushed at the fabric of the shirt, stretching it. The outline of her nipples had been visible, and he realized she wasn’t wearing any undergarments. That fact was made more obvious when she began to talk about binding her breasts. He had put an immediate stop to that conversation. He did not wa
nt to talk about her anatomy, especially not when his body was reacting to it against his will.
He tried looking away from her chest and wished he had not forced her to bathe. One look at her face made it obvious she was not a boy. The dirt and grime had hid pale, delicate skin, milky white and translucent. She’d stuffed her hair under a cap, but he’d already seen how long it was. Did it fall enticingly about her breasts when she was unclothed?
He’d shaken his head and forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. Dane was good at concentrating. He’d been trained to put his own needs and wants second. He was able to ignore her enticing body for several minutes—that was, until she put her hands on her hips, and the material of her shirt rose. Her hips curved the trousers in ways he found incredibly erotic. He could imagine the sweet shape of her bottom, and had the urge to turn her so he could see that part of her as well. Worst of all, one of the buttons on the shirt popped off at her actions, exposing the creamy flesh of her collarbone.
Now she stood before him, looking at him as though he were a wolf and she the sheep. As much as he might reassure her, she was right to distrust him. The entire time he’d carried her in from the kitchen, those soft, full breasts pressing into his shoulder, he had thought of nothing but stripping her naked.
“I’m not going to touch you,” he repeated, more for his sake than hers. “We are just going to sleep.”
She watched him, warily.
“You can sleep in that chair.” He pointed to a comfortable armchair beside his bed.
“Some nob,” she said, “giving a lady a chair.”
“I don’t know you’re a lady yet, Marlowe,” he said. “If it turns out you are Lady Elizabeth, I will apologize profusely.” She could say what she wanted. He was not giving up his bed to some street urchin Brook had abducted in Cheapside.
And he was not going to feel guilty about it.
Not very guilty, anyway.
Damn it! The chair was comfortable! He’d fallen asleep in it a time or two when reading. She’d be fine.
But would he? Or would she wait until he fell asleep, steal the key, and escape? Or worse, would she slit his throat?
He didn’t have any weapons in his room, but an enterprising girl like her might find something she could use. The letter opener, for example. He swallowed.
With new determination, he went to the drapes and loosed the cords used to hold them back during the day. Thank God he’d given his valet two days off to visit his mother. In the morning, he did not want to have to explain why he had a girl dressed as a boy tied to his chair.
“What are you doing with those?” she asked, backing up. She backed all the way to the door of his dressing room.
“Give me your hands.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to be tied.”
“I can’t trust you. I’m only going to tie you to the chair so you cannot escape. I’ll give you plenty of slack.”
“No!”
He shrugged. “Marlowe, the easy way or the hard way? I believe we’ve established I have more brute strength than you. One way or another, I will bind you.”
He could have sworn a tear glistened in her eyes, but she swiped at her cheek, and then nothing was there. Had he imagined it?
She held out her hands, the expression on her face ugly and stubborn, and he bound them together tightly. Then he pulled her gently to the chair and tied her to the heavy table beside it. She wasn’t going anywhere. When he put his hands on her shoulders to sit her in the chair, he felt her trembling.
“Cold?” he asked. “I’ll get you a blanket.”
“I’m not cold,” she spat. But why else would she be shivering? He found a blanket in his clothespress and covered her with it. She kicked it off, and he shrugged and yanked off his coat. Customarily, he would have asked Crawford to serve as valet, but when the butler had inquired as to whether his services would be required, Dane had told him no. Dane reached for his cravat to loosen it, and realized he had an audience. Perhaps he should not undress in front of her. Typically, he slept in the nude, but how was he going to do so with her sitting there?
He decided to sleep in a loose shirt and trousers, and he emerged from his dressing room wearing that. He had no night clothes to speak of. He’d always felt they were more like dresses than something a man would wear.
He extinguished the lamp and climbed into bed, frowning at how cold it was. No bed warmer. He would be glad when this night was over, the girl was gone, and he had his normal life back. He plumped the pillow and settled down.
But he could hear her breathing. He swore he could hear her shivering, too. “Do you want the blanket back?” he asked, aware she could probably reach it.
“No.”
“If you’re cold—”
“Stubble it!” she retorted.
He ought to tan her hide for speaking to him thus, but with her tied to the chair, he had the advantage.
He settled down again and pulled the pillow over his head. He felt as though he needed some barrier to keep her at bay. He was beginning to doze when he heard her moving about. He tried to ignore her. She was probably just getting comfortable.
She moved again, and he heard a distinct thud. Dane sat. “What the deuce is going on?”
“Nothing.”
But he could see she had toppled the chair and was now lying under it. He should have left her there. Instead, he rose and righted it, then lifted her back into it. He held her in his arms for just a little longer than was necessary. She did feel cold, and he had the impulse to warm her. But more than that, her skin was soft against his fingertips, and her flesh was enticingly round where their bodies brushed together. He had the urge to pass a hand over that roundness, but stifled the urge by saying the first thought that came to mind. “Were you trying to retrieve the blanket?”
No answer.
He wrapped the blanket about her as much to hide her lush figure as to keep her warm. This time she didn’t fling it off. He could see her face in the light from the hearth, and the flickering made it look almost tear-stained. He paused to look at her.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“That’s up to my brother.” He rose because, even though her body was hidden, her scent teased his senses. She smelled clean and slightly floral, and underneath all of it was a scent that was woman. That scent drew him, made him long to bury his face in her hair and put his hands on her body.
“I want to go home,” she said.
He opened his mouth to make some retort, and at the last minute changed his mind. “Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I mean, what is waiting for you at home? I imagine it is some sort of hovel you share with a flock of pickpockets and thieves. If you are Lady Elizabeth, why go back?”
She sniffed and looked away from him. The gesture reminded him exactly of something a miffed duchess would do. It made him wonder. But if she didn’t want to talk, that was fine with him. He was exhausted. She might be light, but it had been taxing to fight her and then carry her.
Silence descended, and he heard the ticking of the clock. He tried to sleep, even closed his eyes.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she said finally, breaking the silence.
“Try me.”
“My cronies are my family.”
“And there’s loyalty even among thieves, correct?”
“Loyalty, yes,” she said, but he could hear in her voice there was more.
He rose on one elbow, interested now despite his intention of ignoring her and going to sleep.
“Have you considered that if you don’t let me go, they might come looking for me?”
“Have you considered they might not care?”
“Oh, they care,” she said, her voice strange and flat. “And if you care about your family a
nd your pretty house, you’ll let me go before Satin comes for me.” He heard the hitch in her voice. “Before it’s too late for both of us.”
Thank you for reading!
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The book you’ve just finished is a novella in the Covent Garden Cubs series. Book 1, Earls Just Want to Have Fun will be available February 2015. In case you missed them, her previous series are Jewels of the Ton, Lord and Lady Spy, and Sons of the Revolution. If you loved Viscount of Vice, check out our mailing list for updates on new releases and access to exclusive content.
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Acknowledgments
I want to thank my friends and family for their help and support on this project. Tera Lynn Childs and Gayle Cochrane gave me excellent feedback and never once pointed out how lame my lame first draft really was. Thanks to Sophie Jordan for her help with edits.
Vanessa Kelly, a fabulous author with her own books to write, took time away from her work to help me with research on Bath, suggesting books on Bath and giving me tidbits about Avon Street.
Alison Levy at the Bath Visitor Information Centre also pointed me in the right direction when I queried her about unsavory areas of Regency-era Bath.
Thank you to my agents, Danielle Egan-Miller and Joanna MacKenzie; my editor Deb Werksman; my publicists Danielle Dresser and Amelia Narigon; and all the wonderful professionals I’m privileged to work with at Sourcebooks, especially Susie Benton and Eliza Smith, who gave me such great suggestions for this novella.
Lastly, thank you to my husband and my daughter for all your patience and love.
About the Author
Shana Galen is the bestselling author of fast-paced adventurous Regency historicals, including the RT Reviewers’ Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Booklist says, “Galen expertly entwines espionage-flavored intrigue with sizzling passion,” and RT Book Reviews calls her “a grand mistress of the action/adventure subgenre.” She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston’s inner city. Now she writes full time. She’s happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making. Shana loves to hear from readers: visit her website at www.shanagalen.com, download her free author app for exclusive content and first looks, or see what she’s up to daily on Facebook and Twitter.
