Olivia Twist

by Lorie Langdon

  Her cheeks flushed bright even in the dim candlelight. “I assumed you would appreciate my skills of deception, Mr. MacCarron, since you seem to be a master yourself.” Her words were a whispered hiss, her eyes shooting fire.

  “Honestly, my dear, I have to concede the title of master to one who deceives those around her into believing her a lady, when she follows men she just met into the bowels of London and robs them blind.” Her fingers dug into the muscles of his arm, but he ignored the warning and leaned closer. Her scent of sunshine and vanilla flooded his senses as he murmured, “Not to mention, she slips from her bed in the dead of night, for what intention I cannot possibly imagine.”

  Olivia sucked in a breath, and Jack met her startled gaze, letting his lips slide into a slow leer. “Actually, I can imagine all sorts of thought-provoking possibilities.”

  With a jerk of her head, Olivia lifted her chin. “Mr. MacCarron, it does not surprise me that you would accuse me of impropriety. However, I would not be so quick to cast the first stone. The only way you could possibly have the intimate knowledge of my sleeping habits is if you are a deranged prowler.”

  Their gazes locked and held as they spun around the room, moving in perfect time. Tension coiled tighter in Jack’s gut until he thought he might snap. Provoking the girl was not advantageous to his cause. Besides, there were far more enjoyable ways to sway a lady to his intentions.

  “Miss Brownlow, your lovely face is only surpassed by your brilliant wit.” Unintentionally, his voice had dropped low and soft, and with a start he realized he meant every word. Recovering, he wiped the besotted look off his face and quipped, “What a sparkling treasure you are.”

  “Nice try, Mr. MacCarron. Just tell me what it is you want and I’ll consider whether to grant your request.”

  “You have something that is mine, and I intend to have it back.”

  “Considering the source, it seems it was never yours to begin with.”

  Jack pulled back and watched her under lowered lids, calculating how far he could push. “The money you took may seem a trifle to you, but ’tis of the upmost importance to me. Ask anything of me and it’s yours.” Tightening his hold on her waist, he pulled her closer and breathed in her ear, “Think carefully. What is it you want, Miss Brownlow?”

  A proper lady would have slapped his face and left him on the dance floor long ago. But this vivacious girl had not. That’s how Jack knew he had her hooked.

  CHAPTER 6

  Olivia searched Jack MacCarron’s heavy-lidded gaze, a slim crescent of crystal blue visible under the fringe of his raven lashes, and felt as if she were under a magician’s hypnosis. What did she want? Her eyes wandered down the strong line of his nose, to his finely sculpted mouth.

  Just being in his arms—the solid heat of his grip on her waist, his large fingers enveloping her gloved hand—made her more aware. More alive.

  More.

  But she wanted more answers. How had he gone from brilliant street thief to sought-after gentleman?

  She wanted more of this thrill coursing through her veins. How was it that every point where he touched her felt amplified by a thousand?

  What she wanted popped, unbidden, into her mind.

  She wanted more of him.

  Olivia sunk her teeth into her lip to keep the words from spilling out and lifted her gaze to his. Jack’s stare flickered from her mouth to her eyes and back. She released her lip and realized they stood still in each other’s arms, no longer dancing. “I want—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. MacCarron. Might I borrow my … er … Miss Brownlow for this next quadrille?”

  At the sound of Maxwell’s voice, Olivia jerked and pulled out of Jack’s arms. Max hovered behind Jack’s shoulder, his hands clasped behind his back, his face an emotionless slate.

  Jack took a smooth step back and dipped into a shallow bow, his stare boring into hers as if to say, This isn’t over. Olivia dropped a quick curtsy, daring to give him a brief nod of acquiescence. Then Jack turned and addressed Max. “Ah yes, Grimwig, isn’t it?”

  Max nodded, digging his finger between his stiff collar and his blotchy neck before offering his hand to Olivia. “Miss Brownlow, would you care to dance?” Max’s posture was so erect as he bowed, Olivia worried he might snap in half. Guilt dropped like a stone into her gut.

  Olivia curtsied deeply to Max, and as she straightened, gave him a wide smile she knew displayed the dimples in each of her cheeks. “I appreciate the invitation, Mr. Grimwig, but I find it uncomfortably warm. Shall we take a turn about the garden instead?”

  “Certainly,” Max said with a spark of pleasure in his eyes. “Shall I fetch you some punch first?

  “If ye’ll excuse me, I’ll be off to other amusements.” With the crooked smirk of a pirate, Jack turned and made a beeline through the crowd to a waiting Francesca.

  The spell broken, Olivia had no idea what she’d been thinking to want more of anything from that devil. He was still the same self-centered swindler he’d always been.

  “Errrherm.” Max cleared his throat beside her, and she realized she was watching Jack as he bowed over Frannie’s hand.

  Olivia turned to her companion. “Shall we have that fresh air, then?”

  “Yes, of course.” Max grinned and offered her his arm.

  Outside, a crisp breeze tugged strands of Olivia’s hair across her eyes and cheeks, loosening the elaborate coiffure it had taken Fran’s maid over an hour to concoct. Olivia didn’t care. She longed to tug the pins from her hair and let it fly in the wind. To spin and dance. To live.

  Autumn always stirred a restless urgency within her that she couldn’t’ve explained to anyone. Except Jack, she admitted with reluctance. Only someone who’d lived on the streets could understand that the advent of winter was like the coming of death. The months leading up to it the last hurrah before every second was spent evading the lethal blow of the reaper’s staff.

  She’d have to get out to the Hill, and the sooner the better. Not only did she need the outing herself—free of the encumbrance of heavy skirts and propriety—the boys would be feeling the same impatient energy, and she didn’t want them doing anything reckless.

  Under the harvest moon, she strolled arm in arm with Max through the decaying garden. Leaves skittered across the path, crunching beneath their shoes. Olivia breathed deeply of the musky scent of dried foliage on the cool night air, and leaned into Max’s slight warmth. Always attentive, he inquired about her day, her uncle’s health, and even Brom. Remembering that she’d found Brom four years ago on this date, she reminded Max of the rather intense debate they’d had over Brom’s name the day after she’d found him.

  Max chuckled before answering, “Ah yes, that scruffy little mutt. I think I only argued to distract you from his dilapidated state. I was fairly certain he wouldn’t live through the night.”

  “He was pretty beat up, wasn’t he?” Olivia shook her head as Max led her to a bench tucked into a stand of trees, their brilliant orange and crimson wrappers shivering in the wind. “But he was scrappy! I knew he’d fight his way through.”

  “That he did,” Max commented as she tucked her skirts around her legs to make room for him on the narrow seat. She patted the cool stone, inviting him to sit, before he settled his lanky frame beside her.

  “Oh, but you hated that I chose to name him after Brom Bones.” Olivia pictured that tiny pup, large chunks of his black-and-brown fur missing, blood soaking the rest. He’d captured her heart from the moment she’d found him shivering in the alley behind Millie’s Bakery.

  “If you were going to choose a name from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” with those skinny legs and giant paws, Ichabod would’ve been a preferable appellation. I could never understand why you’d want to name a pet after a villain.” Max shook his head, as if he were still in disbelief.

  “But Brom Bones isn’t a villain at all. He’s simply misunderstood.”

  “That’s what you said then too.” Max plucked a
scarlet leaf from his coat, his thoughts seeming far away. “That was the day I knew I wanted to marry you.”

  Olivia’s breath hitched, and she had to force herself to meet her friend’s gaze. “Why?”

  “Because as I watched you tend that battered little mutt, you were the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing convulsively as he took both her gloved hands in his. “Olivia Brownlow, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  He lowered to one knee before her and she searched his face. This was Max, with the same neatly combed brown hair and lanky limbs he’d had since they met at twelve. He was kind, had impeccable manners, and always wore just the right cravat to complement his waistcoat and jacket. She admired Max. She even loved him, but she didn’t feel fluttery inside at the prospect of seeing him, or find excuses to touch him, or long for his company. She wasn’t in love with him.

  Olivia was unsure what she wanted for her future, but a lifetime as Max’s wife—designing the perfect place settings for dinner parties, keeping his house running with precision, throwing extravagant balls—didn’t appeal to her in the least. Especially now.

  If she said no, she would not only crush the hope in her friend’s eyes, she’d lose the opportunity to support Uncle Brownlow when he needed her most. At their current rate of expenditures, Uncle feared they would need to downsize homes again and lay off the staff within six months.

  But as she remembered Max’s thin lips on hers, a shudder scraped across her skin. “Max, I—”

  “I know you see me as a friend, Olivia. But I believe in time that I could be more. Your uncle shared with me your past … that your mother ran away with your father, a lowborn inventor.” Olivia shifted on the bench, the cold of the stone seeping through the layers of her dress. “It was a bit of a shock, as you can imagine. Especially how your mother died. Horrible stuff.”

  Unable to understand why her uncle would share this part of her past, Olivia sat frozen, Max’s words like nails driven into her brain. Decorum and social standing were everything to the Grimwig family. How shocked would they be if they knew she’d been raised in a workhouse and then lived as a thief on the streets?

  He moved back to sit on the bench beside her, keeping her lifeless hands in his. “But I’ve worked through it, and there’s no reason why Mother and Father need to know. No one needs to know. It can be our secret.”

  “Secret?” she muttered. “And you’d still stoop to marry me?”

  “Well, yes. Your unfortunate birth is not your fault. I understand, since your mother died in labor, that your occasional breaches of comportment are due to your lack of feminine influence.” He smiled with confidence. “But not to worry; my mother is an excellent teacher, and I’m sure she’ll take you under her wing.”

  “Unfortunate birth?” Olivia pulled her hands from his and stood.

  “Olivia?” Max shot to his feet and reached toward her. Olivia stumbled back, grabbing on to a branch to break her fall. She moved away from the tree and continued to put distance between them, walking backward and shaking her head in denial.

  “No, you don’t understand.” Max followed her. “Olivia, I swear I won’t tell anyone …”

  Olivia picked up her skirts, turned, and ran blindly down the path.

  He couldn’t do it.

  Jack stalked down the darkened hallway, too annoyed to keep to the shadows, as he knew he ought. There had been no mark planned for this party, but he needed a distraction from what surely was about to transpire below stairs.

  He had known for days about Maxwell’s intentions and couldn’t do anything to stop the inevitable, but he’d rather pull out his fingernails one by one than join the engagement celebration and act as if it was a match made in heaven. A match made in hell, more like. That bloomin’ tosser couldn’t fight his way out of a wet paper sack, let alone keep up with a force of nature like Olivia Brownlow.

  A noise up ahead caused Jack to stop and press back into a doorframe. He sucked in a breath and stood very still. There it was again; a clattering followed by a voice, singing, or laughing, he couldn’t tell. He let out a breath. Likely a servant or a maid, but he’d investigate before continuing.

  Creeping forward, he ran the pads of his fingers along the wall to feel for vibrations—footsteps, doors opening and closing. He grew closer to the noise, and words began to reach his ears.

  “… unfortunate … I’ll show …” Slam! “Blast it!” in a furious whisper.

  Jack reached a door rimmed with faint light and stopped. He glanced over his shoulder, and finding it clear, eased the door open enough to peek inside. A woman hunched over a dressing table, presumably searching for something, while muttering. “I suppose I should be thanking my lucky stars for such a generous offer.”

  He knew that voice, and recognized the elegant drape of peach silk from narrow waist to delicate lace hem that, as she reached to grab a gilded brush set, lifted to reveal trim, stocking-covered ankles and delicate heeled slippers. She turned in profile and shoved the grooming implements into her reticule. Olivia.

  Jack slipped into the room and shut the door soundlessly behind him. This was not her room. She could not possibly be staying here, since she lived not four blocks away. But here she was, pocketing some unknown lady’s personal items. He watched as she weighed a costume-jeweled hairclip in her bare hand and tucked it into her bag.

  “… that waxed string bean will be lucky if I ever speak to him again!”

  At that, a spark of light ignited in Jack’s chest. There could only be one “waxed string bean” in their mutual acquaintance and, if her rant were any indication, he was not her newly betrothed.

  Silently, Jack moved farther into the room and leaned a shoulder against the bed frame. “I wouldn’t bother with that clip if I were you.”

  Olivia started and spun around.

  “Paste jewels won’t bring more than a tuppence.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Of course, if you want to wear it yourself, that’s a different matter. But I wouldn’t recommend it. Especially if you run in the same circles with its original owner.”

  “Mr. MacCarron … ah … this isn’t what it looks like.” She hadn’t moved a muscle, just stared at him as if he were a ghost.

  He couldn’t guess why she felt the need to steal, but apparently the money she’d taken from him was not an isolated case. Jack pushed off the bed and moved toward her. “Oh, I think it’s exactly what it looks like.” He didn’t stop until he was so close that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

  “Truly. My friend asked me to fetch her … her things.” He watched the delicate muscles in her throat contract as she swallowed.

  Slowly, he reached out, took the second hairclip from her trembling fingers, and set it on the table. “What are you doing, Olivia?”

  She was silent as her gaze drifted over his face and settled on his mouth. Heat rushed through his veins.

  Jack reached out and fingered one of the curls that had escaped her coiffure. She watched the motion of his hand, but didn’t swat him away or tell him to stop. “Have you decided what you want from me?”

  Her eyes blazed into his. “No,” she whispered.

  “Oh, I think you have.” He stepped closer.

  “Jack—”

  His name on her lips broke his self-control. Before she could continue speaking, he cupped her head, wrapped his arm around her waist, and took her lips. She melted into him, her fingers threading through his hair.

  Her body burned against his, and her mouth tasted like the flesh of oranges, luscious and sweet. The floor, the walls, the ceiling, every solid thing seemed to gravitate into the heat of their kiss until they were the only living things in the universe.

  Jack ran his hands up her back and cupped the soft skin of her neck. The room spinning, he gripped the dressing table with his other hand. But even as he lost his head, his sharply honed instincts began to sound. If they were caught, the consequences would be marriage. And he h
ad no intention of shackling himself to this girl, or any other.

  When she pulled in a soft, mewling breath, he let go and pushed her away.

  Olivia slumped back against the dressing table, her chest expanding with her breaths. Jack turned away from the alluring sight and shoved a hand through his hair.

  “Olivia, you need to go,” Jack ground out between clenched teeth.

  “But I—”

  “Now.” He turned to her with a warning glare.

  Hurt flashed in her eyes. She touched her lips. Then she pushed off the table and ran out the door without a backward glance.

  Away from the temptation of her presence, Jack could breathe again. He blew out the candle on the bureau. He’d lost his taste for thievery this night. The treasure he’d found in this room proved infinitely more amusing. Too bad he could never allow it to happen again.

  He kicked a pair of ladies’ boots under the ruffled bed skirt as he stalked toward the door. The chit still had his money, and he wasn’t one step closer to getting it back.

  CHAPTER 7

  We’re in danger, Ollie. We ’ave to move.” Brit paced in front of the crackling fire, his shadow throwing monstrous shapes around the room.

  “There’s nowhere to move!” Archie insisted from his perch on the windowsill. He hopped down and joined the gathering by the hearth. The bruise on his right cheek molted his freckles into a map of purple and green. “Where can we go? Other gangs own every piece of this city.”

  A barking cough drew Olivia’s attention to where Chip lolled on the floor, his head resting on Brom’s furry back. She squatted beside the little blond boy, whose skin had taken on a disturbing gray tinge. She rested a hand on his head, but he felt cool and dry.

  “Well, what do you suggest?” Brit asked. “We can’t just let that dinger Monks take everythin’ we’ve got!”

  “I say we fight!” Half of the boys cheered at Archie’s suggestion, while the other half stared wide-eyed at the two older boys.

  “Arch,” Brit said, “you know I’d never back down from a good brawl, but look at your face. And you saw Turner after Monks’s boys finished with him. What chance do we ’ave if they got the best of a bloomin’ blacksmith?”