by Zoë Archer
Eva held up two official-looking documents. “Deeds. One to a property here in London—a town house in Knightsbridge by the looks of it—and a house in Somerset.” She studied them closer. “The name of the deed holder has been left blank.”
“He must’ve swindled them from someone,” Lazarus suggested.
“It’s a veritable trove of villainy,” Harriet said, shaking her head.
Jack clamped down on his edginess. “None of this’s what we’re looking for.”
More silence as Eva rifled through the papers. It seemed Rockley had gotten involved in a sodding heap of crime, or at least liked to hang on to evidence of other people’s offenses for his own use.
It took them nearly half an hour to go through all the documents, sorting them, studying them.
Finally, Eva said, “Yes. This.” She untied a cord binding a set of papers. It appeared to be columns of numbers, with notations scribbled beside the figures.
“Is that it?” Simon demanded.
“A full accounting of the government contract for the cartridges.” She scanned the documents and muttered a curse. “That son of a bitch. He and Gilling took more than half the money allocated for the production of the cartridges. Rockley got the lion’s share, but Gilling made a profit, too. With the rest, they purchased substandard manufacturing materials from foreign suppliers. Bills of sale, as proof.” She pointed to several sheets of paper.
Simon examined the bills, and his upper-class features twisted with a snarl. “He fucking sold out British soldiers. How many men died because of him?” He flung the papers onto the table. “I’ll kill him.”
Jack smiled grimly. At last the toff understood the fury and need for vengeance that ate at him. “Get in the queue, mate.”
Slowly, Eva got to her feet. She gathered all the papers and set them back in the strongbox. “No one’s killing anyone. We’ve got the evidence we need against him, and we’re going to make use of it. He will be made to pay for his misconduct.”
He bristled. “You sound so bloody calm about it.”
“I’m feeling anything but tranquil,” she answered, meeting his gaze. In the lamplight, she looked carved from golden marble. It was the coolness, he realized, she used to shield herself, a kind of armor she made with her mind. The more the world threatened to shatter apart, the calmer she became. “He’s kept a good record of his crimes—and there are many. When it comes time to lead the charge against him, I’ll be right there, sword in hand.”
Her voice was flat, detached, but he understood now. He saw it in her eyes, and could feel it in the fury that turned her so perfectly still—when it came time for Eva to unleash the fierceness within herself, God help whoever stood in her way.
And damn him if he didn’t want to be there to see it.
* * *
Returning to her simple, ordinary rooms after the events of the night felt as though she were visiting someone else’s life. And she was—except the life she visited was her own. There, on her table, were lesson plans and books. There, propped upon the mantel was a photograph of her parents that had come in their last letter. Unsurprisingly, her father and mother looked stern and righteous as they posed outside the school they had built in the depths of Nigeria.
Their letter, penned by her mother, was tucked into the top drawer of Eva’s nightstand. Once again, her mother had urged her to join them, to give up tutoring for a higher calling. Your talents are too exceptional to be wasted on the bored daughters of the bourgeoisie, Elizabeth Warrick had written. There is a young missionary here who is in search of a wife and helpmeet. I should be very happy to pass along your permission for him to write to you. Use your life for some greater purpose.
Eva hadn’t yet replied to the letter.
Clad now in her nightgown but unable to sleep, she strode to her desk, preparing to finally answer. Yet before she wrote a single line, she flung her pen to the desk and leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling.
What would she tell them? How could she describe her and Jack storming into a brothel to steal documents belonging to a corrupt nobleman? And what would she say about Jack, the escaped convict who fought like a brute but had a soul of incomparable depth. And the way he kissed her … heat streaked through her, simply remembering the feel of his lips against hers, how he seemed to breathe her in, taking her into himself as though she were a vital part of him he couldn’t survive without.
She’d hated having to leave him at headquarters an hour ago. She wanted him here, with her. In her bed. But with all of Nemesis watching, she couldn’t very well take him by the hand and lead him out the door. They’d question her judgment—Simon most of all—in entangling herself with Jack whilst in the middle of a mission. She questioned her judgment, too. There wasn’t anything wise or careful about wanting him. And she had ever been wise and careful.
She started at the sound of a tap on her window. A dark shape loomed there. Grabbing her pistol, she edged closer. Perhaps Rockley had been able to find her and send one of his thugs in pursuit. Her rooms were on the top floor of her building—whoever it was had skill in climbing.
A face appeared in the window. Jack.
Exhaling raggedly, she moved to the casement and unfastened the lock. As soon as she slid open the window, Jack climbed inside with that surprising agility given his size. She stepped back to give him room.
He’d found some dark clothing, and with his black hair and stubble-shadowed jaw, he appeared to be the night come to life. She’d never seen such fire in his eyes. In her tidy little rooms, he looked big, dangerous—irresistible.
His gaze flicked down to the gun still in her hand. “Reminds me of the first time I met you.”
Turning away, she set the pistol on a nearby table. “I usually don’t receive visitors at this hour. Especially not at the window.”
She tried for flippancy, a final measure of self-protection, but even to her own ears she sounded breathless. No need to ask him how he’d gotten here. He already knew how to escape from headquarters without being seen, and he knew where she lived. He didn’t have any money, but she could well imagine him running through the streets, dark as the shadows themselves. Intent on one purpose—her.
He came up behind her. She didn’t hear him move, but felt him there, the warmth of his body, the hot intensity of his presence. His skin and clothing carried the scent of cool night air. Already her flesh became tight, achingly sensitive, her body reacting to his nearness alone. Yet she couldn’t turn around. Couldn’t face him. Not much frightened her, but he did. No, not him, but the way she responded to him, the way he made her feel.
They both knew why he was here in her rooms. She ought to demand that he leave. Threaten him with the gun if he didn’t. But she couldn’t do that. She wanted him here, so badly that she was rooted to the spot, unable to do anything but look at her pistol on the table and listen to the sounds of their roughened breathing.
The floorboards creaked beneath him. He’d done that deliberately. Giving her time to choose. Move away or stay.
She stayed.
He stood directly behind her, his heat seeping into her body, yet they didn’t touch. She heard the slight shift of his clothing as he moved. She braced herself, expecting him to be rough and urgent.
Instead, his large hand slid slowly, deliberately up her back. From the small of her back all the way along her spine, tracing her shape, until his palm rested just beneath her nape. She gasped at the sensation, as though his touch were flame.
He tugged her robe down her shoulders and she helped push it to the ground. Then he repeated his touch along her back, with only the thin cotton of her nightgown separating her flesh from his, and her gasp turned into a moan. His palm moved along her shoulders, her arms, as if learning her. When he stroked along the curves of her buttocks, he rumbled.
“I knew it,” he said, his breath on her neck. “Knew you’d have the sweetest round arse. Wanted my hands on it since the beginning.”
She
exhaled a laugh. Leave it to Jack to speak only the earthiest of poetry. And it aroused her, far more than pretty metaphors or lyrical praise.
Deliberately, she took a step back, bringing their bodies together. His chest against her back. Her buttocks against his groin. Despite his clothing, she felt the shape of his hard, thick cock as it nestled against her. An animal growl escaped him.
His hands curved over her ribs, then up. She held herself in eager anticipation as she waited, waited, and then, oh yes, his hands covered her breasts. For a moment, he simply held her, as though reveling in the sensation of her breasts in his hands, but his stillness didn’t last long. He cupped her, stroked her, arousing her nipples into stiff points. When he pinched them, his teeth raked her neck.
Arching her back, she couldn’t stop her moan. The sensation of his teeth and fingers shot through her, gathering hotly between her legs.
She twisted her head to the side. “Kiss me, damn it.”
He chuckled quietly, then took her lips. Openmouthed, they kissed, ravenous, as he continued to caress and stroke her breasts.
She needed more, of him, his touch and hunger. She fumbled with the buttons lining the front of her nightgown, her fingers shaking, but she managed to undo them to her waist. The fabric gaped open.
Clever as she’d always known him to be, he took the invitation for what it was, peeling back the cotton to bare her breasts. Then they were in his hands, his incredible, big hands that were callused and not at all refined, and she seemed to spin away, lost in the feel of him touching her this way, skin to skin. He rolled her nipples between his fingers and caught her gasp in his mouth.
One of his hands drifted from her breast, moving down her torso over the curve of her stomach. Then he gathered up the hem of her nightgown and stroked between her legs. A cry broke from her at his intimate touch.
“God,” he rasped in approval, “you’re so goddamn wet.” His fingers slipped between her folds, sliding over her soaked flesh. When he rubbed her clit in slow, deliberate circles, pleasure clawed through her. She had to lean against him or else slide to the floor.
He worked her like this, one hand caressing her breast, the other stroking between her legs, and his mouth on hers, swallowing her every moan and whimper. She never thought a man like him could be this way, commanding and tender, touching her as though they belonged to each other and this was only right, only proper.
He slid a thick finger inside her and at once her body tightened, readying itself for release.
But then he took his finger away, and she cried out in protest.
When he spun her around to face him, his face was carved, brutal with desire. He kissed her, hard, then said, “The first time you come, it’ll be with my mouth on you.”
Her face flamed, while another heat poured through her. She started toward the bed, but he scooped her up in his arms with shocking ease. Instead of taking her to bed, he strode to the table and sat her down upon the edge. When he knelt down before her, her heart beat thickly in her chest and breath became scarce.
She stared down at him, so impossibly big, kneeling yet far from subservient. They both held power. Never had she felt stronger than at that moment, seeing the hunger and need in his gaze and the rigid line of his jaw. For her. All for her.
He stroked up her thighs, pushing her nightgown back. Revealing her legs and then—
“Ah, there it is,” he rumbled. He teased her pussy with his fingers, and his eyes blazed. “Know how many nights I’ve thought of nothing but this? How much I’ve wanted to taste you? This gorgeous cunt. My tongue on your pretty quim, eating you up.”
“I’ve wanted that, too,” she gasped.
“Hell.” One hand he used to continue to stroke her, the other flew to the buttons of his trousers. She watched, fascinated, as he tore them open and pulled out his cock. It was huge and dark and beautiful, straining upward in a thick curve. He pumped it as he caressed her.
The vision of his broad length in his own hand as he knelt between her legs—she nearly climaxed from the sight alone. And when he bent his head to her, and licked her in one long, slow stroke, she had to bite down on her lip to keep from screaming.
He feasted on her, licking, tracing her with his supple tongue. She draped her thighs over the unbending breadth of his shoulders. Sounds of approval and pleasure rumbled from him. He took her clit between his lips and sucked.
She bowed upward, no longer able to hold back her climax. It was a tightening and a release, as expansive and devastating as time itself. And endless. For he continued to lick and taste her, taking her to ecstasy too many times for her to count. She knew only the feel of him and how he drank of her with a brutal reverence.
She kept her eyes open, watching him, his mouth on her, his hand on his cock. She clutched the back of his head with one hand, and the other she used to stroke and rub her nipples.
He pulled back enough to say hoarsely, “You hide this, don’t you? Won’t show anyone what you’re really like. How wild you are. How hot you burn.”
“Not with you,” she moaned. “Can’t hide…”
“That’s right.” His voice was deep, unyielding. “Only I get to see this.” He licked her again, and another climax shuddered through her.
“Enough,” she said when she could speak again. She pushed him back, and his eyes blazed.
“We ain’t done,” he growled.
“We surely aren’t.” She pointed to the bed. “Take off your clothes and lie there.”
His eyebrows rose at her imperious tone, but he did as she commanded. He stood and stripped off his clothing, flinging everything aside with flattering haste. His coat, waistcoat, shirt. Trousers and boots. Then he was naked. Standing in the middle of her rooms completely nude.
She’d seen him without his clothes once before, but they had been in a dark carriage, and she hadn’t had the luxury of time and light to truly look at him. Now she had both, and what she saw filled her with raw, female need.
His every muscle stood out in hard relief, from the round caps of his shoulders to the planes of his chest and down to the sharp delineations of his abdomen. He was everywhere muscled—arms, thighs, calves—and he was wondrous and stunning and not a little frightening. Without his clothing, he became the most primal essence of masculinity, timeless and potent.
As he turned to kick aside his clothes, she saw his back. Scars traversed it, the thick indelible mark of the lash. Her heart contracted.
He turned back to her, and her gaze followed the line of his hip as it arrowed down to his groin. His cock stood at full attention and seemed to twitch beneath her perusal.
He took a step toward her, but she pointed once more at the bed. “Go on,” she commanded.
He shot her a look that seemed to indicate he didn’t appreciate being ordered about, yet he moved fast enough, climbing onto her bed. As he did so, she took a selfish moment to admire the flex of his firm buttocks. The springs creaked and the mattress sagged beneath his weight. There was a very good chance they’d break her bed tonight. She didn’t care in the slightest.
“Bed’s too damned small to lie down,” he said.
“Sit at the edge.”
When he did so, and looked at her expectantly, she pulled off her nightgown and tossed it onto a nearby chair. He growled in response.
“Better not turn down the lights,” he said, staring at her, “because I’ve waited too long to see you like this.”
“I’ve wanted to be seen.”
She let him look his fill, reveling in the way he drank her in with his eyes. He was a man, so of course his gaze lingered on her breasts and between her legs, but he also traced the lengths of her arms, her legs, even taking note of her bare toes.
But there was only so much admiration from a distance either of them could stand.
“If you don’t bloody get over here, right now,” he said, “I’m coming to get you.”
“I don’t like being ordered around, either,” she answered.
She sauntered toward him, feeling the sway of her hips, the measure of her own power. And the way he watched her, as though she contained every answer to every mystery, filled her with strength.
His hands curved over her hips when she stood between his legs. Leaning forward, he nuzzled her breasts, the bristle of his jaw deliciously abrasive against her skin. He ran his tongue around her nipples, alternating between them, and she threaded her fingers into his hair, holding him close. More heat spiraled through her—feeling him, seeing him.
Reaching down, she grasped his cock. He rumbled against her breast as she encircled him. He was iron-hard, filling her hand. She stroked the wide head, down the shaft, then back up, lightly raking her nails over him. Sharply, he inhaled, his hips rising up. Ah, he liked that. So she did it again, punctuating her strokes with careful scrapes up his shaft.
His hand clamped down over hers. “Have to stop,” he grated. “Or I’ll go off in your hand.”
She smiled wickedly. “I wouldn’t mind.”
“I would, damn it. Enough talk—need to be inside you.” He pulled her closer.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, his hands on her hips, she straddled him, her legs wrapping around his waist. Their bodies pressed close, and they both groaned at the feel of his chest against her breasts, his flat abdomen and rigid cock tight to the curve of her stomach. She didn’t take him within her, not yet. For a lifetime it seemed she had waited for this, and she wouldn’t rush.
Canting her hips, she guided his cock between her folds. Up and down she moved, sliding him along her lips, over her clit, coating him with her wetness. Exquisite sensation flooded her to feel him like this, to watch the agonized pleasure on his face as she deliberately tortured them both.
“Ah, God, Eva,” he gasped. “That’s … God…” Yet even as they both shook with pleasure, he had reached his breaking point. Hands almost cruel on her hips, he lifted her up, notched his cock at her opening, then brought her down, surging into her.
She cried out.
Instantly, he stilled. “Hurting you?”
