A Kiss from a Rogue

by Elisa Braden

  When he wasn’t running such low schemes, Lynch was a petty smuggler loathed by other smugglers for selling their names to save his own neck. This explained his penchant for caves and whisky.

  By the time Eddie had finished, Jonas had a clear portrait of the man—he was Bertie Pickens only handsomer.

  Jonas glanced to Lady Wallingham. “How much of this did you know?”

  She raised a brow. “The better question is: How much of this would I have predicted? The answer is all of it. Should you manage to locate the blackguard, you will understand. He is a low creature. His resemblance to Bainbridge men is but a mockery of their superior character.” She sniffed and gestured toward her nephew. “Cecil notwithstanding.”

  Cecil sat up taller in his chair. “A low creature, indeed. His talk is grandiose, a lot of falderal. But in the matter of his parentage, I fear he has grown impassioned. He believes himself a Bainbridge, Aunt. He believes himself entitled to a share of Wallingham’s fortune.”

  Wallingham frowned at his cousin. “You think he is still nearby, then.” At Cecil’s nod, Wallingham looked to Jonas. “How do we find him?”

  “Revisit his hiding places, perhaps. The caves. Alnwick.” Jonas glanced at Reaver, who stood cross-armed and glowering in his usual fashion.

  “’Tis a start,” Reaver agreed. “Though, we may want to search the castle grounds, as well.”

  “Aye,” Jonas said, following the logic. Lynch had stolen the trunk thinking it would offer a key to the Bainbridge fortune, or at least proof of his parentage. It didn’t, of course, but a desperate man accustomed to telling grandiose tales might eventually convince himself of his own rubbish. There was only one reason to remain in Northumberland, only one reason to send Eddie to guard the cave. “He still thinks the trunk is some sort of treasure map.”

  Reaver grunted his agreement. “He’ll come for it again. His accomplices have been captured, and he’s being hunted. Desperate men do desperate things.”

  Voices sounded outside the drawing room. Nash entered looking solemn and far less starchy than usual. He was followed by a trembling, tearful Claudette.

  Jonas’s heart froze. Ice filled his chest.

  “I beg your pardons, my lady, my lords,” the butler said. “We have an intruder in the castle.”

  Nash’s voice faded behind the blood pounding in Jonas’s ears. All he saw was Claudette, whose fearful gaze found him just before she rushed forward, clutching a white shawl in her hands.

  He was shaking his head when she reached him, her eyes beseeching. Distraught. Desperate.

  “H-he has a knife, Mr. Hawthorn,” she said, plunging him into a nightmare. “I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I will show you. But we must hurry.” The maid wrung the shawl between her hands. “Please, sir. We must save her.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Thieves are the worst sort of vermin. Given the choice, I should prefer rats. One need not involve a magistrate in the disposal of rats.”

  —Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter explaining the need to hire a less verminous lady’s maid.

  Great evil differed from common villainy in ways most people were blessed never to learn. Hannah was not so blessed. She’d known the slithery shape of evil. Felt its vile touch. Stared into its malevolent eyes while it claimed to love her.

  Which was how she knew the man currently holding her in the tiny, dark cellar was a villain, but merely one of the common variety.

  “What a beauty you are. Come now, tell me your name. I must know.”

  In the dark, she couldn’t see his face any better than he could see hers. All she had was his voice, which was pleasant enough but suffered from forced charm. She found the theatrical tone irritating.

  She preferred a voice with a steadier cadence, a lower pitch, hints of Norwich and Dorchester and London. A bit rough and a lot tempting.

  The thief sighed. “I’ve never seen eyes of such an astonishing color.” Where he gripped her upper arm, his thumb began to stroke her in circles. “Puts me in mind of a pair of earbobs I once sold to a jeweler in Paris. Lightest jade. Fetched a princely sum.”

  He hoped to charm her into compliance. From the moment they’d entered the cellar, he hadn’t ceased with the overweening compliments, the “casual” mentions of his travels. Apparently, Paris was impressive to other females. He’d mentioned it four times in five minutes.

  “Tell me your name, beauty. Tell me, and I shall put the knife away.”

  In the beginning, she’d had to fight to stay grounded, to force the fear to recede. She’d touched her wedding ring and pictured Jonas. His eyes as he’d spoken his vows. His hands as he’d held her face for a kiss. His mouth as he’d spoken her name. She’d imagined him holding their first babe. Winning his first game of garden chess. Loving her in the moonlight. Visions of him had kept her calm, which helped her see the villain clearly.

  The thief wore a disguise, much as Jonas did. He was handsome, as Jonas was. But the two men could not be more dissimilar.

  Jonas was good—dangerous but good. His charm was a tool he used in furtherance of honorable goals.

  The thief was bad—not evil, but bad. His charm was a lie in furtherance of greed. He used his handsomeness to prey upon those of weak mind.

  In the dark, this became impossible not to see.

  “My name is Mrs. Hawthorn,” she answered, delaying as long as she could.

  The blade eased away from her ribs. “Mrs. Hawthorn. Well, it’s pleased I am to make your acquaintance, missus. Though, I’d be more pleased if you were a miss.” He made an annoying clicking sound with his tongue. “Doubly so if you weren’t a Hawthorn.”

  She didn’t bother with a reply. The man obviously recognized Jonas’s name. The missing maid must have told him.

  “I believe your husband may have stolen my stolen trunk, Mrs. Hawthorn. I’m afraid I must have it back.” His hand continued to stroke her upper arm. He made her skin crawl. “I am a Bainbridge, you see. The old dragon simply refuses to admit it.”

  “Was there something in the trunk that proves your claim?”

  “Letters. Nothing said in so many words, of course. But with more time, all will come clear.”

  Some part of him touched her hair. His chin, perhaps. Or his nose.

  He tugged her closer. “My sincere apologies for the necessity of holding you like this. Were there any other way—”

  “There are always other ways,” she said calmly. “You’ve chosen the worst one. The wrong one, as you’ll soon discover.”

  The knife returned to its previous position. “Is that what you think?”

  “I wouldn’t have said it if I did not think it.”

  His chuckle was condescension. “A beauty with fire. I’m intrigued. Perhaps when I have my fortune, we may come to an … agreeable arrangement.”

  She didn’t reply. The thought was too revolting to contemplate.

  “You’ve done well choosing this place,” he said, his breath washing over her ear. “I could almost imagine you planned for us to spend hours together in dark, intimate quarters.” His chin nuzzled her cheek. “Nobody will find us here, hmm? If you were to permit me certain liberties, nobody would be the wiser.”

  She pictured Jonas. Pressed her moon-and-stars ring into her hand. Breathed.

  “I’ll not hurt you, beauty. Our circumstances are unfortunate, but you mustn’t fear me.”

  Closing her eyes, she listened to her heart beating, to the hush of the chamber, to the faintest sound of rain. She turned her head until her lips were near his. “Shall I tell you a secret?” she whispered. “I don’t.”

  His hand loosened. His lips lowered.

  The door opened.

  She tore free.

  A wolf prowled into the cellar. In his hand was a pistol. In his eyes, death.

  Dangerous. And goo
d.

  Hannah ran to him. Slid her arms inside his coat. Plastered her body around his, as close as she could get.

  “Everything all right, love?” His voice was calm. Low. A bit rough.

  God, how she loved him. “Yes,” she answered. “I hoped you would arrive a minute sooner, but this will do.”

  “I will always come for you.”

  “I know.”

  “Shall I kill him?”

  She laid her hand over his heart. Laid her ear upon his chest. Listened to the reassuring drum. The cadence was fast. Powerful. “No. He didn’t hurt me.”

  “But you were hurt because of him. That requires punishment.”

  “Yes.”

  A pause. “You want me to let the hangman have him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He sighed, his free arm tightening around her waist. “Bloody hell.”

  Reaver entered, taking half the space inside the cellar. He grasped the thief’s wrist and twisted then removed the knife neatly from the man’s hand. Stopping only long enough to murmur in his low rumble, “Ye’re safe now, Hannah,” he hauled the thief through the door.

  Minutes later, she was hugging a weepy Claudette in Lady Wallingham’s drawing room while Jonas presented the thief to the dowager marchioness like a wolf offering a kill.

  Lady Wallingham nodded her approval. “Well done, Mr. Hawthorn. The bounty is yours.”

  He gave her a bow and a grin.

  With her son standing beside her, the dowager leveled the thief with a scathing glare. “You’ve erred rather badly, Mr. Lynch. Stealing from me? Ordering your man to fire upon Mr. Hawthorn’s wife? Taking said wife hostage? Some might draw comparisons to great piles of manure, but as Lord Holstoke would no doubt argue, manure may end in a prosperous garden. Whereas your end shall be far less pleasant.”

  “I am a Bainbridge,” the thief snarled. “I’ll prove—”

  “You shall be in prison,” she snapped, her voice echoing like a queen’s command. “Or buried in whatever hole the executioner designates for forgotten refuse.”

  “I look exactly like him. Your husband. The thirteenth bloody Marquess of Wallingham. I am his son!”

  She arched a brow. A small smile curved her mouth. “You are nothing like him. Nothing at all.”

  “How do you explain it?” the thief demanded, his chest heaving as he pulled against Jonas’s grip. “I am owed a portion, you bloody—”

  Jonas wrapped an arm across the man’s throat. “Keep a civil tongue, or I will cut it out.”

  Hannah blinked at her husband’s controlled savagery. She wasn’t certain how much was real and how much a tactic of intimidation, but it was clear he was still battling his anger.

  “Bastards are owed nothing whatever, Mr. Lynch,” Lady Wallingham instructed calmly. “Your resemblance to my husband is no more remarkable than the resemblance between milk and pearl. They share a common color, perhaps. But whilst one is rare and prized for its beauty, the other is sold for farthings and may be had of any cow who wanders a field.”

  Lynch gasped and choked against Jonas’s hold until Reaver stepped in to pat his shoulder. “Mightn’t wish to kill him just yet, Hawthorn. Easy, now.”

  Breaths fast and rhythmic, Jonas backed away, allowing Reaver to take over restraining the thief.

  Lady Wallingham gestured to the group of footmen waiting to haul Lynch to gaol, and they rushed forward to answer her unspoken command.

  As soon as the thief was gone, Lord Wallingham shook his head, frowning down upon his mother’s imperious head. “The resemblance is uncanny, Mother. I don’t see how you can deny it.”

  “Oh, I don’t deny it.”

  Appearing flummoxed, his frown deepened. “You don’t?”

  She glanced up at her son. Patted his hand where it rested upon the back of her chair in a rare maternal gesture. “He is not your brother, Charles.” Her gaze moved to Cecil Bainbridge, seated a fair distance away nursing a cup of tea and looking miserable. “He may be Cecil’s brother, however. Your uncle’s third mistress had similar eyes. He married Cecil’s mother shortly after she left him for Lord Muggeridge.”

  “A cousin, then.”

  “A bastard,” she countered. “But not one of any worth. Had he been, then I should think your infernal generosity warranted. You inherited that trait from your father, along with your chin.”

  Wallingham looked to the trunk, which sat on the floor beside her feet. He cradled his mother’s hand then gently lifted it to his lips. “I am gratified your possessions are back where they belong,” he said softly. “Where they have always belonged.”

  While Hannah marveled at the tender moment between mother and son, Jonas approached. His eyes were stormy, as though the need for violence had gone unquenched. “Perhaps you should lie down, love. Let Claudette take you upstairs.”

  She shook her head. “I am fine.”

  “You are not fine; you are injured.” His jaw flexed as the storm grew.

  “Jonas, you mustn’t worry—”

  “I do worry. Bloody hell, you were taken. Right under my nose. He held a knife to your …” He ground his teeth. Silver flashed like lightning. His chest heaved.

  Reaching for him helplessly, her fingers barely touched his shirt before he flinched away from her.

  His eyes pulled away from her.

  Her husband pulled away from her.

  He braced his hands on his hips. Stalked to the opposite end of the room and looked out the window rather than at her.

  Claudette, small and sweet, offered, “It has been a trying day for us all, mistress.”

  Hannah swallowed and nodded. He was pulling away. Again. Inside, where she’d fought to give him every part of herself, gray numbness began to rise and swirl.

  Distantly, she noticed Wallingham escorting his cousin from the room. Claudette said something about arranging tea. Soon, the room was empty of everyone except Hannah, Jonas, and Lady Wallingham.

  Noting how tired the dowager looked, she wandered closer. Glanced down at the trunk. Smelled the faint scent of sandalwood.

  “He was left-handed, wasn’t he?” she murmured softly.

  The white head came up. Ferocious emerald eyes blazed and glossed. A wrinkled mouth tightened. “Yes.”

  Hannah moved to the adjacent chair and sat. “This is how you remember him.”

  Silence.

  “It is a good way,” Hannah said. “Otherwise, how can you bear it?” She took a deep, shuddering breath. Braved a glance at her husband. “I could not bear it.”

  “You could,” the dowager said quietly.

  Hannah had never seen her look so creased, so worn. Like the letters she’d hidden away until the ink had faded and the paper had grown thin.

  “If you had his child to love, you could bear it.” Green eyes dropped to thin, wrinkled hands. “If you gathered friends round you and kept them close, you could bear it.” Her eyes came up.

  They seized Hannah’s heart in a relentless vise.

  “But you would never be whole. You would only ever be waiting.” Her gaze fell to the trunk. “And, in your weaker moments … remembering.”

  Hannah heard the drawing room door open then jolted as it slammed closed. It was Jonas.

  Leaving.

  On the heels of a fearsome dragon’s aching admission, his departure struck with icy devastation. The numbness spread its gray blanket inside her. Even that did not stop the bleeding.

  Her hand fluttered to her mouth. Her breaths grew shallow.

  “Calm yourself, dear,” came a commanding voice from beside her. “Look at me.”

  She couldn’t. He was gone.

  “Look here, girl. Now!”

  Hannah’s eyes flew to the old woman.

  “Better. Where did you run off to, hmm?”

  A chill settled over her. She had no answer.

  “He hasn’t left you.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know how to persuade him, my lady.”


  “Of what, precisely?”

  “To attach.”

  The old woman sighed. “Attachment takes time, girl. You are asking him to surrender after a mere week of marriage.”

  “Not surrender. Just … I want him to let me in.” It was the same thing he’d asked of her. And she had done it, but her fear of what might result had been fierce. Perhaps he was battling something equally daunting. “What will it take?”

  “For his part, courage. For yours, patience.” Lady Wallingham’s mouth curved. “He is already yours, my dear. Perhaps you didn’t notice that he resisted killing Mr. Lynch in your presence. For a man such as Hawthorn, this is all but an act of worship.”

  Hannah huffed. “Worship. Don’t be silly.”

  “I am never silly.”

  “He loves me. I can see it. But I also see his fear, and I do not know how to break through it.”

  “How did you break through your own fear?”

  She thought about it. Remembered all the steps she’d taken, small and large—enrolling in St. Catherine’s Academy, meeting Phineas, killing Lady Holstoke, letting Eugenia befriend her, learning to ride. And choosing to love Jonas. Perhaps that most of all.

  “Bit by bit,” Hannah whispered.

  “Quite right. For wild, solitary creatures, love is instinctive. Powerful. That force will keep him with you whilst you build more permanent structures. Count upon it.”

  Tears flooded Hannah’s eyes, turning light into a watery swirl. “H-how can you be sure?”

  “Simple, my dear.” Lady Wallingham nodded to her trunk. “Dragons need their treasure. Wolves need their moon.”

  *~*~*

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “When will I see you again? An eternity lives inside each passing hour.”

  —Dorothea Bainbridge, The Marchioness of Wallingham, to Malcolm Charles Bainbridge, the Marquess of Wallingham, in a letter written after too many eternities had passed.