Pride & Passion

by Charlotte Featherstone

  A dog howled, making her shiver as she cast her gaze left then right, searching through the misty gloom for any sign of danger. She must be mad to be out here at this hour of the night. What fool would risk her reputation, and her very life, by walking the streets of Mayfair at one in the morning? It wasn’t even the Season, after all, when Mayfair would still be bustling with carriages and elegantly dressed couples strolling from ball to ball. No, it was November, and the West End was all but deserted, its residents at home, tucked warmly before their hearths, or beneath their down bedding.

  And here she was, on a fool’s errand. Or so many would believe.

  Come to me tonight. Walk to Mount Street and round the corner, where a carriage will await you at one.

  There would be no better timing. Papa had not been home, out as he always was. More and more, her father had taken to spending his nights at the old Lodge, for what purpose she could not fathom.

  Ever since her mother had died, Stonebrook had taken to spending his days and nights away from their home. They had not even left the city for the country and the Stonebrook seat. But then, in the country, her father would be obliged to adhere to country hours, and country living, which meant he would be home—in proximity to his daughter. The child he had nothing in common with. The one person in the world he had no clue how to talk to.

  It did not take any amount of brilliance to reason out that her father chose not to be at home for any length of time because he wished to avoid her.

  Painful as that admission was, Lucy had forced herself to admit the truth. By the age of ten she had realized she was alone in the world, and this little jaunt tonight, walking the dim gaslit streets with nary a soul around, only served to reinforce the sentiment. And it was that very thought that had propelled her into action tonight.

  Thomas was alive and he wanted her to come to him. She needed answers, to know why he’d allowed her to believe him dead. Surely he would have thought she would grieve for him. That she would, at the very least, be upset by the news. And she also needed to hear that Sussex was wrong, that Thomas was the not the man he hunted for. The only reason Sussex believed that her former lover was Orpheus was that he carried her lace. It was only a coincidence, and she would prove it.

  “And where would you be off to at this time of night?” The voice reaching out to her in the quiet was like a lance down her spine. “Who’s there?” she asked, searching the shadows, careful to remain beneath the light of the lamppost. She wasn’t far now from the corner. Just feet to go, then she would round the corner and find the carriage Thomas had sent for her waiting there.

  Nothing but the rhythmic tapping of rainwater dripping from a drainage pipe met her question, and she hurried on, clutching the braided strings of her reticule tighter between her gloved hands, while her hurried stride sent the velvet skirts of her gown swirling around her boots as she moved quickly down Mount Street.

  She sensed the man following her, and she picked up her pace, her lungs burning in her chest as her rapid breaths blew against the black veil she had used to disguise her identity. Tightening her hand on the strings of her reticule, she strove for composure even as her nerves took flight in the darkness.

  Casting a fearful glance over her shoulder, her gaze caught something golden, a fleeting flash, and she stopped, stared into the darkness, her gaze narrowed as she tried to peer deeper into the inky blackness.

  “Thomas?”

  Something reached out of the darkness—for her—and she shrieked, the sound muffled by a large hand encased in leather. Pulling her into the shadows, Lucy felt her body held in place with something viselike around her midriff. Behind her, through her woolen cloak, she could feel steel beneath skin, a tower of unyielding muscled flesh that pressed unmercifully into her small frame, while the hand across her mouth stayed frozen.

  “Is that who you’re meeting? I’d wondered.”

  The voice was deep, husky in the darkness as the villain lowered his head, allowing his breath to caress her throat.

  Frozen, she could not process what was happening. She was terrified as she was pulled deeper into the shadows between two houses. In the silence, she heard the distant echo of horses’ hooves clopping along the thoroughfare followed by the clacking of carriage wheels. The sound became fainter, telling her that the carriage was moving away, not coming to her rescue.

  The reality of what was happening to her began to sink in, and she struggled, only to be held tightly—and oh so easily—by one thick arm.

  “Don’t think to struggle,” the voice growled, and she tried, through her terror and panic, to place the voice. Different, yet somehow familiar. Even the scent of him was familiar, but fear fogged her mind, and she found herself stilling in his arms, if for nothing other than self-preservation. Good God, she was terrified!

  “Please, sir,” she mumbled beneath his hand. “Pl-please don’t hurt me.”

  The body which had been so stiff, so unforgiving in its strength suddenly yielded the slightest bit. She was no longer held rigidly against him, but rather more softly, as if he were molding her body into his.

  “Never,” he said, his voice still husky, but filled with a deep sensuality. His breath was warm against her cheek, the scent of whiskey strong, yet strangely, not at all offensive, but rather…alarmingly enticing.

  Time stood frozen for what seemed like minutes, but then, through the tendrils of fog, she saw the image of a man, tall, dressed in black, carrying a torchlight, and realized it was the night watchman making his rounds. Invigorated by the sight of safety, Lucy whimpered, kicking and flailing, fighting her assailant with everything she had, but he subdued her with his arm, pulling her tighter against him so that she was lifted up from her toes, to press along the length of his body.

  His palm, she realized, was just beneath her breast, his hand, so large that the tips of his fingers touched her other breast. He could crush her, she realized. Do unspeakable, horrifying things to her in this alley…

  “Who’s there!”

  The night watchman’s gravelly voice echoed between the houses. She saw his arm rise, preparing to lift his torch and sweep the alley with the light. He would find her there, held in the brutal arms of her assailant, her eyes wide with terror, as the brute’s hand covered her mouth.

  “I hear ye,” the watchman growled. “Come out, now.”

  To her horror, Lucy found herself lifted effortlessly against him as her assailant pulled her deeper into the bowels of the narrow alley. She reached out, her arm outstretched, pleading in muted silence for the watchman to see her—to save her. But his light did not reach this deeply, and she was being pulled back as if everything was in slow motion.

  She would die tonight. She knew it. But it would be a painful, agonizing death, for she knew what the villain wanted from her. She could feel it, the hardness of his body pressing insistently against her.

  Well, she would not be a victim—not without a fight.

  Lucy waited until the right moment, the second when he found a wall and turned her to face him, bracing her against it. In the darkness, she could not see him—only smell him, the scent of linen and wool, and the freshness of mint, and rain. The warmth of whiskey as his mouth came closer to hers.

  She did not fight him then, she was too small. Too weak. She waited…waited until he was closer, until his leather-encased hand caressed her chilled cheek, then down to her jaw, where his fingers curled gently around her throat, and his breath rasped in excitement. She waited until his mouth was descending, angling…until she raised her arm up between their bodies, a show of submission and desire, as she curled her fingers into the breadth of his shoulder. And then, while she was anchored to him, she tipped her head back, surrendering to the feel of his whiskey laced breath against her mouth.

  “Christ, how much I want you,” he breathed.

  “Yes,” she replied, feeling his body almost fall into hers. And that was the moment, when someone like her, small and insignificant, could overp
ower a man who was well over six feet.

  His head lowered to hers, blocking out the faint shaft of moonlight, cocooning her in his warmth and scent. His breath—hot mist—bathed her lips. Pressing her fingers tighter against him, she heard his growl of desire, and she raised her leg, making him think her wanton. When he moaned in approval, she lifted it higher, thrusting her knee between his legs. With a savage upward thrust, she forced her knee against him a second time, making him groan in agony.

  But he did not let go of her like she supposed, and she tried again, but his hand found her knee, stopping her as his fingers cupped her leg, squeezing it.

  “Jesus Christ,” he rasped as he struggled to gain air through pained breaths, “you’ve managed to kick my cods to my throat.”

  Time stood still, and the blood blanched from her face. That voice…she knew that voice.

  “Your…grace?” she asked incredulously.

  He gagged, doubling forward in pain, but never once lifting his hold on her leg.

  “What the blazing blue ’ell are ye doin’ ’ere,” he gasped, his accent taking on a rougher, courser edge, surprising her.

  “Were you following me?” she asked in relief and outrage. “Oh, I cannot believe this. Let me go this instant!” she demanded, but his fingers only tightened.

  “Like hell!”

  With remarkable recovery, he caught her up against him, and carried her in his arms into the deepest, darkest part of the alley. What he was going to do with her now, Lucy had no idea, and feared to guess. She only knew nothing good would come of it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GOD HAVE MERCY, he was going to faint. Or cast up his accounts. He wasn’t quite certain in what order, he just knew that both were going to happen. Never in his life had he anticipated Lucy would kick his bollocks up far enough to knock against his teeth!

  Blackness edged his vision, and he struggled beneath her weight as he all but dragged her to the back of the town house.

  Goddamn, he begged beneath heavy breaths, don’t let me faint. Not now, of all the times and places to be rendered weak as a babe.

  Dear God, what did she mean by traveling the streets alone, at this time of night? And kicking blokes in the balls? he savagely thought.

  Rifling through his pocket, he pulled out the keys, watched as they jumbled in his shaking hand. Christ, the pain, it was all he could think about. And she was still going on, yapping to him about something, but he could hear of none of it, except for a curious swishing in his ears.

  “What the devil are you about, strolling the streets at this time of night—alone?”

  “I don’t believe I need to answer to you.”

  “You damn well will, you little baggage.”

  “One might also ask what you are doing lurking in an alley?”

  “Damn it, Lucy, you will answer the question, or I swear I will not be accountable for my behavior. This is not a game!”

  She struggled in his hold and, still off center from the savage kick to his groin, Adrian temporarily lost his grip on her arm, and she escaped him for a second, before he reached for her hand, just missing and capturing the fingertips of her gloves instead, which left Lucy free and him holding the glove. She gasped, a terrified-sounding little noise that made him still in confusion. It was followed by the tinkling sound of metal hitting the flags of the foyer floor.

  Lunging, she came forward, lowering herself nearly to her knees, but he was faster, despite his injury, and swooped down, seeing the shining object that had landed in the corner. He held it in his palm, studying it, then glanced quizzically at her. He thought her expression quite resembled that of a child’s stealing a sweet from the kitchen.

  “I suppose it would be superfluous to question where you got this coin?”

  Chagrin melted away, replaced by the beginnings of fear. It irked him. What did she think? That he would do her some harm?

  “Give it back.”

  He thought back to little less than an hour before, when Anastasia had showed him the same coin. You give it to the doorman, and he summons a footman to take you up to the club. It’s your ticket in.

  “You were going to meet him!” His gaze narrowed. “You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”

  Raising her chin in defiance, she replied, “I don’t believe I owe you any explanations.” Something snapped inside him, and roughly he reached for her arm and pulled her to him. He started to make his way deeper into the house, all but dragging her along, Lucy protesting bitterly. In the library he shoved her into the nearest chair and pulled his already loosened cravat from his neck.

  “You will start speaking now, or I swear…” he threatened, unable to finish the sentence. His mind was reeling with information, the implications, and the terror of knowing that Lucy was alone on that bloody street, intent on meeting her lover at the House of Orpheus.

  “I will not,” she sniffed haughtily as she artfully arranged her skirts. “If you want to know, you’ll have to drag it out of me—torture me with one of your Templar methods.”

  Oh, he’d love to, he thought as he stared down at her, mesmerized into pure idiocy as he focused on her mouth. He thought how he’d like to torture her—he’d start by unpinning that glorious mound of red hair. Shaking himself, he focused on the task at hand.

  “I could use a Brethren Guardian tactic,” he growled, unsure if the Brethren even had a torture tactic—certainly none that had ever been implemented in the past two or three centuries. “But you wouldn’t like it.” Which was the entire point of torture—you idiot!

  “I am prepared.”

  With an arch of a brow, he reached for her reticule and snatched it from her, causing her to jump up in outrage. “That is private! You cannot simply just open my bag and go searching through my effects!”

  “Brethren tactic, remember?” She tried to wrestle it out of his hands, but he held firmly on to it, while forcing her gently back into the chair. “Why don’t you just explain what you were doing out there, at this time of night, and why you have the coin with the mark of Orpheus? That will do nicely for starters.”

  “Never! You’ll have to force it out of me!”

  He laughed despite his foul mood. “Dear me, Lucy, this is not the Crusades, and I’m not going to strap you down on the rack.”

  She eyed him speculatively. “We’re enemies.”

  “If I were to strap you down…” He shook his head and cleared his throat. Certainly he couldn’t finish the thought because he knew she would not like to hear how damn much he wanted to lay her down on his bed and torture her with pleasure until she screamed and called out his name.

  “Now, then,” he muttered, after steadying himself. “You may tell me your tale, or I will go rifling through your reticule. Your choice.”

  With a shrug, she nodded to the beaded bag he held in his hands. “Do your worst.”

  Such a dramatic little thing, he thought with a smile as he pulled on the corded and tasseled strings that held the purse closed. Such fire. It made him want to bed her—hard—riding her into submission. She would burn hot beneath him, every expression naked for him to see, just as her body would be. And her hair, it would resemble a river of flame over his pillow, and he would reach for it, wrap the silken strands around his hand and tilt her face up to look at him as he thrust hard into her, making her accept him. And in her inherent dramatic fashion she would come beautifully—and loudly—for him.

  Christ, he was hard as iron standing there, and he lowered the purse in his hands, trying to conceal the fact. He was supposed to be livid with her, not thinking of bedding her. He should be investigating her actions, discovering what the devil she was doing with this coin, but the image of her pale body arching beneath him, of her searching and reaching for the orgasm he masterfully held just out of her reach. By God, he would make her wait, make her teeter and fall, only to rise up again. He’d make her want…make her weep…keep her in an acute state of longing and aching need before he gave her wha
t she wanted—just like she had done with him.

  Get on with it, he reminded himself. And reluctantly he tore his gaze away from her face, and his mind from the fantasy of making love to her. He would—he vowed it. He would have Lucy Ashton, there was no mistaking that.

  Drawing the strings, he opened the reticule. There was some money—some coins, a key, presumably to her father’s house, which made him ask the asinine question, “Does your father know what you’re about tonight?”

  “Oh, certainly,” she replied mockingly. “I shook him awake and informed him I was going traipsing through Mayfair in the dead of night to meet with the man who took my innocence.”

  It was as though an electric bolt lanced through him. He had known what was in Lucy’s past, and he had discarded it. But now, hearing it from her own lips caused a new ravaging in his soul. Was it insufferably hypocritical and priggish for him to wish that he could have been her first? He had dreamed of it for so long, how it would have been between them. He would have taken such good care of her. Would have made it beautiful, and tender—and slow, not rushing her, just allowing her to experience every nuance of pleasure he and his body would give to her.

  With a savage oath, he picked through the bag until he came across a folded piece of paper. Her eyes widened, but their expression taunted him, dared him to unfold this bit of private correspondence, which did nothing to ease his riled, and feral—not to mention sexually frustrated—mood.

  “So this is the damning evidence, is it?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?”

  Opening it, he read the contents, and saw red as every vessel in his head began to bleed, leaching blood from his brain, to his eyes, until his vision was swimming in crimson.

  “Goddamn it!” he roared. “What the devil do you mean by obeying this summons? Alone? In the dark? My God, when I think of what might have happened to you. You’re reckless…a danger to yourself,” he huffed, quickly losing his control. “You ought to be tied up for your own good and safety and given to a man who will make it his life’s purpose to keep you out of mischief!” He reached for the cravat that lay pooled on the table.