by Shana Abe
“If you truly believe you can find me anywhere, my lord, I fail to understand why you'd insist we never part.”
“I enjoy your company.”
“Alas, if only it were mutual.”
He took a step toward her in the dark. “It could be.”
His chest brushed hers, a fleet, electric shock to her senses. It seemed to take them both aback; she froze as he did, the striped air and wood walls suddenly much too dense, too filled with him. She tried not to inhale, she tried to hold her breath, but couldn't seem to manage it: with every rise and fall of her chest her nipples grazed him, and it was like a fierce, hot drowning in her lungs, a terrible ache that spread through her body and left her weak-kneed and foolish.
He was so warm. He was so near. A solitary band of light laid amber over the brown of his lashes and turned his eyes to jade. She watched them drift lower, a leisurely perusal of her face.
“Don't . . .” Kit whispered, and bent his head, his lips finding hers.
She'd never known a kiss could be so soft. In her many disguises, in her years here in London—the comte she'd invented, chambermaids, seamstresses, once even a courtesan with Mim—she'd learned of kisses, and enough of courtiers' ways to keep them brief and coolly cerebral. A kiss was only another weapon, as useful and impersonal as a pistol or a blade.
She'd never kissed, or been kissed, with passion before, with tenderness. She'd never known what it could mean to have a man explore the corners of her mouth, to feel him drag his lips over hers, so slowly, so sweetly, that breathing no longer seemed possible or even necessary. To have his hands reach up to cradle the back of her neck, his thumbs against her cheeks, stroking as his mouth stroked, in heady, exquisite circles. Rough beard, gentle tongue. The taste of him, the musky scent. The wall behind her but the fever of him ahead, as he captured her with only his fingers and lips, their bodies never touching . . . and yet he drew magic from her into him, offering it back again with every languorous caress.
His hair made a gold-silk curtain between them, a haze of color. She felt light and burning, a leaf brushed by the wind beyond her measure; she remembered distantly something someone—a baron, one night at a ball—said of her:lips like a cherry's pucker, a ripe red bite. And she'd never fully fathomed that until now.
“Don't what?” Rue managed, her voice a thin thread of itself.
“Hmmm?” Kit nuzzled her throat. She felt his teeth against her skin.
“Don't what?” she asked again, as her own hands were coming up to his shoulders, finding the smooth curves of him there, the way his muscles felt like supple stone, yielding and not. He brought his mouth back to hers as she dragged her palms down his arms and up again, something restless waking in her, something eager and unknown.
He closed the last step between them, breathing a laugh against her temple. “Move.” His body was pure, hard heaven against hers; his lips skimmed her nose, her cheekbone, her jaw—tiny, teasing kisses that turned into a groan as their bodies aligned in perfect pleasure. “Don't move, little mouse.”
She shut her eyes. She pushed her hips against his and took his tongue into her mouth, letting him fill her with himself, lost to the yearning that uncurled through her body, a heavy, liquid fire that built, unbearable—as if it had only been waiting to do so, years, lifetimes, for the right touch, the right man, the right moment . . .
. . . in an empty house. In the dark. Like strangers.
Which they were.
She curved her fingers into his arms, stiff instead of soft, and Christoff felt the difference. Yet it took some while for his brain to register the fact of her new resistance; he was drowning in her, in the luscious shape pressed up against him, in the shallow wisps of her breath against his cheeks, and lilies, God, even here, even now, a fragrance that set his nerve endings alight with an excruciating combination of anticipation and soul-wrenching desire.
But her fingers actually hurt. Kit lifted his head, taking in the ivory purity of her face. Her eyes, dark and startled.
“Not here?” he murmured, unable, just yet, to withdraw from the silken bliss of her body.
“Not ever,” she said in a voice that belied the dewy, star-eyed look.
“Rue,” he began, but the pressure on his arms intensified. He allowed her to push him away. It wasn't far. The cupola wasn't meant to hold two people. Certainly not two unclothed, panting people trying not to touch each other. He clenched his teeth and sucked in a lungful of cool, smoggy air. It helped chill his body but not his mind; his thoughts still swam with the promise of her and him and his bed, swathed in eiderdown and French satin, just two floors below.
Kit decided to abandon caution.
“Rue-flower. You feel it. You know it as well as I. We're mated.”
“We arenot mated.”
“Well, not yet.” He tried a smile, winding the tip of his finger around a lock of her hair. “But I'm hoping . . . any moment.”
She said flatly, “You are delirious.” And pulled her hair free.
For no other reason than the sudden emptiness of his hand, Christoff came back to himself. To the rough floor beneath his feet, and the taste of metal in his mouth, and all his plans for her set to unravel with just one more careless mistake. He'd alarmed her; he hadn't intended to, and she'd never admit it, but it was as obvious to him as the knot of her fingers and the quick, nervous blink of her eyes as she gazed up at him.
In a way, this was far more her world than his. If she bolted now he'd have the devil of the time convincing her to come back to him willingly.
He turned to the trapdoor. “You may be right. I'm famished. There's usually something passable in the larder.” And he descended the steps again, leaving her before he did something truly irreparable. At the bottom of the garret landing he paused, listening; she hadn't Turned, but she hadn't moved yet either. He counted a full minute before one delicate foot was placed upon the top step, followed by its mate. Kit released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
“This way,” he said once more, quietly, and found the second crook in the stairs, the one that would lead down to the third floor of the mansion. She followed this time, silent as smoke.
His house was filled with wraiths of furniture, almost everything shrouded from tip to floor in heavy sheets. Christoff gave none of the gloomy pale shapes a second glance; he passed by dead clocks and marble busts and what must have been a spare bed crammed in an upper hallway with equal indifference. On the second floor—more gracious, with portraits along the walls and a frescoed ceiling of gods at a feast, grapes and chalices and cherubs—he went straight to a door on their right and vanished into the chamber beyond, never once looking back.
She knew him unclad, by sight and now by touch. She knew the taut, contained edges of him, the color of his skin by both starlight and candlelight, the crisp, enticing sprinkle of golden hair on his chest. The feel of him below, the rigid urgency of his sex, a hot thrust against her belly. His kisses, his caresses, his ungentle demands: she knew these intimate things. It frightened her that she wished to know so much more.
But he had faded into the dusk of his mansion. The room he'd entered was nearly as dark as the hallway, the four windows sealed with shutters and long, wine-colored shades. It was a corner room, jumbled with the discards of fashion, chairs and dressers and folding screens, cupboards and statues, some with the sheets pulled askew. He slipped between a pair of fat Oriental vases to one of the taller ghost shapes and whisked off the cloth, dispersing a shower of grit.
Rue covered her mouth not to cough. He'd unveiled a satinwood armoire inlaid with lapis and malachite, a brass key resting in its lock. The twin doors opened with a strong waft of cedar. Kit gestured her forward; inside Rue ran her fingers over layers and layers of ravishing, useless gowns.
She lifted the edge of a petticoat gleaming with garnets. “None of these will do.”
“Why not?”
“Aside from the fact that everything here is approximately a quart
er century out of fashion, these are ball gowns.”
“Of course,” drawled the marquess. “You're quite right. No doubt you prefer to visit the kitchenen déshabillé .”
“We are trying to blend in, Lord Langford.”
“I don't imagine Mr. Stilson and his wife are quite such sticklers to propriety—but if you wish, we shall endeavor to find you something else.”
“I have my own garments at home.”
“Yes. But we're here now, aren't we?” He began to circle the room, tossing aside more sheets. “I believe there's a trunk in here somewhere that held spare livery for the staff. I used to raid it as a boy. Very useful for stealing out of the house.”
“Listen—I'll just wear something of yours.”
He glanced up at her, framed against a red-wine window. She could not see his look, not with the streetlight behind him, but she could feel it.
“What an interesting notion,” he said. “You, in breeches.”
She felt her skin begin to burn. “I've done it before. Often.”
“No doubt.” Outside a carriage rumbled past, the horses' hooves striking an iron-sharp counterpoint to the lighter jingle of harnesses and bells.
“Well?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying to envision Stilson's face when he catches sight of you.”
“I'll put my hair back. Introduce me as a man.”
He laughed, mirthless.
“It will work,” she said indignantly. “It always works. I've gone out in society a score of times as a man. A hundred times.”
“Society,” muttered Christoff, brushing past her to reach the doorway, “must be far, far more beef-witted than I even thought.”
But he did not have to introduce her. The kitchen's larder yielded a practical meal of smoked ham and rye and hard yellow cheese—his guest had turned up her nose at the pickled cucumbers, and at the jug of salted cod—and when it was done Kit had finally ventured to wake Mr. Stilson and his good wife, informing them through their door that he was in town for a short while, that he had brought with him an old Cambridge confidant, and that he had recently realized they were due for a holiday, which they could take as soon as they wished. They had a daughter in Cornwall; he'd be delighted to pay the fare there and back.
At that point Stilson had opened the door, unshaven but with his stock neatly tucked and his wig straight, his blue eyes beginning to water in the open glare of Kit's candle. Perhaps his years of stern employ under the old marquess had taught him not to question odd orders, or hours. He thanked Christoff for the offer and said that, with his lord's leave, he and his dame would be off in the morning.
Rue, out of sight back in the kitchen, made a ladylike snort. Kit hoped he was the only one who heard it.
“How well you do that,” she commented when he reappeared. She was seated on a stool by the chopping block, tearing a heel of bread into pieces by the shadow of the lamp he'd left her. There was always spare clothing in Far Perch for its lord; she was dressed as a nobleman now in buckskin and bleached lawn, but the effect was generally ruined by the fact that everything he owned was several sizes too large on her. The shirtsleeves, even rolled, flopped around her fingers; his breeches reached her shins. She looked like a schoolmaid in costume for a play, no matter how darkly keen her glance back at him.
He brought his candle to the block. “Do what?”
“Master people.” She popped a piece of bread into her mouth.
“Oh. Yes, I've been trained in the finer arts of mastering from a tender age. Although I've discovered it's quite helpful if you have a hand in someone's salary as well.”
She was gazing down at the bread, her hair sliding in a pretty waterfall over her shoulders. Lamplight lent her face and throat a tropical, sun-kissed glow.
“How many men have you killed?” she asked without looking up.
The chopping block was webbed with scars, a crisscrossing of lines that marked generations of salads and minced meats. He found a splintery groove and rubbed it with his thumb. “Three.”
“And how many of those drákon ?”
“Three.”
Her lashes lifted. “I'd heard five.”
“Well,” he shrugged. “People do enjoy a good slander.”
“Were they runners?”
He didn't answer. He didn't have to. She picked up another piece of bread and slowly plucked it into crumbs.
“Will you tell me his name now?” Kit asked. “We're together on this, after all.” She was quiet, frowning at her hands, so he added, “I'm here to help you, Rue, but you're keeping me at a dangerous disadvantage. Knowing his name—his family, his history—may hasten the hunt.”
“Is that truly what you want?” She dropped the last of the bread to the block, dusting her fingers clean. “To help me?”
“Of course.”
“Because I cannot but think that this situation is not particularly to your advantage in any case, Lord Langford. Perhaps you'd rather have a wife, not a diamond.”
“I assure you,” he said carefully, “that I want the diamond.”
“And me?”
“Yes,” he admitted, blunt. “And you. I won't lie about that. I've wanted you from the moment I first saw you in the museum. Before that. I wanted every part of you from the first time I felt you, your presence. I want you in the sky, and against the earth. I want to kiss you again, I want to touch you, I want to feel you in my arms and I want to hear you gasping my name when I'm inside you. I want all that, and I want it badly. Every time I look at you, I want it. So you're going to have to become used to that, Rue. It won't change. But I won't push you into anything that you don't want either. And I will help you find Herte. I give you my word.”
Her cheeks had flushed from rose to nearly ruby; her lips pinched together, as if holding back words. She was staring down at the block, her lashes very long, very dark, against her heated skin.
He had to lock his hands behind his back to stop himself from reaching for her.
“I don't know his name,” she said, after an endless, aching moment.
“What?”
“The thief. I don't know his name. I never said I did.” Her eyes flashed to his. “But I can still find him, and the diamond.”
He stared at her, silent.
“Daybreak's only a few hours off. I'd like to get some rest before that.” She swiveled on the stool to face him squarely. “I'm not sleeping with you.”
“No,” he said, and turned away to pick up the lamp. He cupped it with both hands, keeping his gaze on the flame. “Gentlemen guests at Far Perch are assigned their own chambers.”
He dreamed of blood. Not masses of blood, not gore, but the deathly elegant suggestion of it: a red crescent of dewdrops, spattered over snowy linen; the scarlet brilliance of a puddle soaking into a sawdust floor. The slick, hot syrup of it between his fingers. The coppery stink, burning in his nose.
The smell haunted him most. He turned his head to escape it and awoke to a painful sting at his throat.
Kit opened his eyes.
“Where is she?”
The voice was high and thin and directly by his left ear—also the location of the blade pressed up hard against his jawline.
“Where is she?” the voice demanded again, whispery words nearly spilling over one another in fury. “Tell me, you bastard! I'll kill you!”
Options flitted through his mind: this person was small, this person was young, it smelled like an urchin, the blade felt like a dagger or a dirk. He could break its arm or its neck, he could Turn and crush it from behind or more simply rip off its head—and the only thing that kept his body motionless in the bed was the realization that the creature was obviously speaking of Rue.
“Zane,” she said then, a single word that broke like a calm dream through the chamber. “Please do not kill the Marquess of Langford.”
The blade vanished. Kit sat up, using the sheet to dab away his blood, watching as the creature slinked across the darkened
room to where she stood in the doorway. She lifted an arm to it, taking hold of its shoulder before it could throw itself upon her. She wore one of Kit's dressing robes, belted into loose paisley folds.
The urchin—a boy—was covered in black. Kit suspected most of it was filth.
“How long did it take you?” she asked him conversationally.
“Two days. Sooner if that twit of a maid hadn't took up all the clothes for laundry.Laundry, ” he spat in disgust. “An' she never told me till it was done. Found his card. With the waistcoat an' all, it ticked up. I've been watching this place ever since. Late tonight, though. Business.”
“Yes. Lord Langford.” She directed her gaze to Kit. “May I introduce Zane, surname unknown. He is my—”
“Apprentice,” said the youth, thrusting the dirk into his belt.
“—domestic,” she finished firmly. “Apologize to his lordship.”
“Never mind that,” snarled Kit, swinging to his feet. “Just get the hell out.”
The urchin actually jerked a step toward him, kept in place only by Rue's hand, still curled over his skinny shoulder.
“I'm not bloody leavin' her withyou, you son of a—”
“Zane.” Her voice cut like sugared ice through his. “Obey me or, as the marquess said, get out.”
She released him. The boy shifted in place a moment. Kit very nearly felt the vibrations of his wrath, the face wan and pointed, a shock of tawny brown hair probably crawling with nits. But the child controlled himself; the bow he swept Kit was as polished as could be. She must have taught him that.
“Beg pardon,” he muttered.
“I'm afraid my hospitality does not extend to children who attempt to murder me in my sleep,” Kit said anyway. “You have found your mistress. Now kindly retreat to whichever gutter spawned you.”
“One minute, my lord.” Rue turned to the child. “What news?”
He threw a distrustful glance at Kit, but answered readily enough. “Spotted Dog's been raided. They nabbed Old Jinx and Nollie, but word is she's out tomorrow. Turk's Head is still taking numbers, but Pig and Poke ain't. Fat Paddy took one between the ribs last night.”
