The Hellion is Tamed

by Tracy Sumner

  But a fist to the heart was possible.

  Emmaline Breslin was, like it or not, his problem.

  She had been from the moment she’d stepped into his life, hushed presence before a lonely boy or not.

  He forced aside the pinch of emotion in his gut, ignoring the emphasis he’d unintentionally placed on the very possessive his.

  Halting before the cloakroom door, Simon glanced over his shoulder at the haunt who’d followed him down the stairs. An older gent, Henry, who seemed to want nothing more than someone to talk to occasionally. “No,” he whispered, “not now. Later.” Henry blinked his watery green eyes once, gave a sharp salute, then continued down the unlit hallway and out of sight. Simon snicked open the door and stuck his head inside, immediately spotting the toes of the grubby boots Emma had traveled to 1882 in peeking from beneath a puddled mound of wool and linen.

  Clever time traveler, yes; able spy, no.

  As he closed the door gently behind him, the air shifted, the faintest hint of rosemary and lemon capturing the dimly lit space, shoving aside the baser fragrances of brandy, sweat and cigar smoke that had come in from the hall with him.

  Halting two paces from the coat rack, Simon dragged a rickety stool over with the heel of his boot and sprawled on it. Braced his elbow on his bent knee, took a silver cufflink he’d lifted from a baron two hours ago from his trouser pocket and began to rotate it between his fingers, gaslight from the sconce above his shoulder winking off the tarnished metal. Releasing a shallow breath he cared little if Emma heard him release, he settled in. Just him, the Dark Queen of the East End and a thousand glinting dust motes. She had no idea, Miss Breslin, but he was the patient Alexander. The brother with the fiercest temper perhaps…but also the one who could wait.

  He’d gladly sit all night in this stinky little room if that’s what it took to break her.

  Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long.

  With a scrunch of wool and linen, her head gradually emerged from amidst the rack of coats, her muffled complaint echoing off the walls. The cufflink fell still in his hand. Her hair was a marvel, a wondrous surprise every time he got a look at it. Unbound and flowing across her shoulders, gaslight sparked off the auburn tresses, hints of ginger like the inside of a chestnut, an unforeseen blaze in the darkness. Adding to the allure, those cobalt eyes traveling the length of him, leaving fiery eruptions in their wake.

  She stepped out with an impatient huff and unladylike shake of her skirts, ultimately giving up her ruse. She gave a bashful tuck to her hair, placing the loose strands hanging in her face neatly behind her ears. Simon rocked back on the stool, his breath stuttering. Beneath her shabby brown cloak was a gown he’d never seen. New, created for an evening event, unfinished, the ragged hem trailing along the warped floorboards, the bustle yet to be added, the final piece of the alteration process. A plunging neckline, which he didn’t need to make his life or his cock harder at the moment. The curve of her hip highlighted as she stepped forward, her long legs enchanting beneath clinging silk.

  He felt the surge. Lust, umbrage, sympathy. A crushing trifecta for any man.

  Silly to feel resentment when the gown was everything current style dictated. In a glorious shade he would have pegged as plum or eggplant, so opaque it was almost black, a flash of violet in the murky light.

  But it wasn’t the color, although that was a dazzling choice with her creamy skin and vibrant tresses.

  It was the fit.

  The rags he’d seen her in had been hiding a delicious body. He longed to strip that threadbare cloak from her shoulders and slide her gown in a deliberate exhibition to her feet. Then watch her step out of the puddle of material as she crossed to him.

  Caught outside his fantasy, she smoothed her palm shyly down the bodice, her glorious lips curling in what could only be construed as delight. So, she liked the new clothing. Even if she protested, which Delaney had told him she’d done. Mightily.

  They stared for a long moment before recognizing the pointlessness of such an endeavor. His shaft hardened a notch further, causing him to shift slightly to hide the reaction. Her eyes were wide, so damn blue, and amazingly easy to read. Layers of pain and sorrow, and like icing topping a cake, garnished with a glimmer of hope. His heart thumped once in his chest, his erection withering.

  He’d never held someone’s happiness this close—or been truly responsible.

  In a way, he wasn’t sure he wanted to be responsible.

  Compelling him, she stared. Right at him, right through him. He hoped like hell he’d cloaked the thoughts racing through his mind before they showed on his face. He hadn’t done well hiding what being this close to her had done to his body.

  Then with a daring glance, she stepped out of the shadows and into his space. Into his life. Unapologetic, fearless Emmaline. And Simon realized with a surge of some deeply held emotion that she wasn’t meant to be tamed.

  Not this girl.

  She would run free until a man just as formidable was courageous enough to seize her.

  Chapter 3

  Simon looked like a tiger lying in wait for his prey.

  Relaxing in a masculine sprawl on a dented stool that was struggling to hold his long, lean body. Looking like he was seconds away from pouncing. On her.

  Emma didn’t take the way he finessed that cufflink between his fingers as anything but a ploy to distract them both.

  The faintest hint of gin, and mint, swept into her nostrils. He smelled like something very agreeable she yearned to take a sip of. A bite of. Dressed entirely in black, except for his shirt, the snowy-white collar marked by an infuriating smudge of rouge. Apart from the fetching eyes she’d seen in her dreams, as dark as the darkest tea she’d ever brewed, he looked nothing like the boy she’d left behind. He’d grown up, his cheeks full, his jaw hard. Shoulders broad. Legs long. Hair deepened to a color somewhere between fresh wheat and a dying ray of sunlight, the strands caressing the nape of his neck with each breath he took.

  Against her will, her skin flushed, and she warned herself that she didn’t know him. A man the old Emma would have called a bang-up cove. What the new and improved Emma would simply call dashing.

  Discomfited, she elbowed through the coats, fumbled, finally locating her parasol and yanking it free.

  Simon laughed, the glossy echo skating down her spine. He could have touched her and gotten less of a response, her body heated so quickly. “A weapon, Miss Breslin? Are you going to need one?” The cufflink flashed as he spun it between his fingers. “Maybe you will, as we shouldn’t be alone like this. Your reputation would suffer greatly should we be found. Has the duchess gotten to the propriety portion yet? Meeting the owner of a gaming hell in said gaming hell is not recommended. Or are you merely ignoring every damned thing she’s told you?”

  Emma spun around, brandishing the parasol like a sword. “My reputation is an asset, Simon Alexander. And don’t you ever say it isn’t.”

  “One question before we resolve the sorrowful predicament in which you find yourself. How did you end up in here?” He gestured to the tight, dark space. “Although, I’m thanking the gods you didn’t end up on one of the hazard tables. Or in some bloke’s lap.”

  Emma panted an exasperated breath, a strand of silken hair that had long ago left its confinement flying high. “I was outside, standing beneath that glorious set of lamp posts. Imagine—gas lights on every street! And curbs, real curbs, not the chipped disasters of my time. Anyway, the comings and goings are entertaining enough for an evening spent watching them, but a lady can’t stand on a street such as this without garnering the wrong kind of notice. I had no choice but to sneak in, you see. The only way I know how. I just closed my eyes, imagined a cozy nook, a closet of sorts, and here I was, moments later. I have no trouble staying on the same day and time if the distance is short. Dropped into that pile of clothing like a boulder.” She ticked off reasons on her fingers when she could see her explanation wasn’t getting through. �
�The main entrance was guarded by two fearsome brutes, the door off the alley, another two bounders. This place is fortified like Buckingham Palace, it is.”

  Simon scowled and did some little trick with his hands that made the cufflink disappear. “This isn’t a part of town where it’s wise, even for East End queens, to linger outside a gaming hell. A spot better than it was in your time, but not much.”

  “Pish-posh. I’m a girl used ta’ travelin’ the mean streets. I have a sharp blade tucked right here”—she tapped her parasol against her boot—“if it makes you feel better.” With a teasing laugh, she brushed the pointed tip across his shoulder. “And I know how to use it.”

  He batted the parasol away and rose to his feet, towering over her, cutting off the oxygen entering her lungs. He was a tall man, broad and uncompromising. Nothing, honestly, like the boy she remembered. “That doesn’t make me feel better, Miss Breslin. A man takes that knife from you, he’s going to be angry enough to turn it on you. The worst part? That you’d use your gift to get inside a gaming hell, of all places. Seems a waste of supernatural skill.”

  “True, it’s less time travel and more walking through walls. Which may be a bit of a waste. But I can, so sometimes I do.” She raised her hand, her index finger and thumb held an inch apart. “I lose a minute, maybe five, ten at most. I’m keen at a near distance. Still the thirteenth, right?”

  Simon tunneled his hand inside his swank coat and came out with a gleaming timepiece she’d reckon cost more than food for a year for a family in the rookery. “Ten minutes before midnight, so yes. Technically.”

  “I did good, then. Technically. Maybe lost half an hour I didn’t need anyway.”

  Not inclined to agree, Simon snapped the case shut and jammed the pocket watch in place. Lifting his arm, he pointed to a spot above her head. “There’s a box on the shelf. Far right. You’re tall enough to reach it. Something there will match your captivating but half-finished gown, I’m sure.”

  Emma buried the impulse to argue. She’d didn’t like comments about her height because she was taller than most women and many men. But not taller than this one. With a cross reply muttered low enough to escape his ear, she anchored her parasol on the floor, bounced up on her toes and reached, her hand hitting the box. She felt inside, instantly recognizing what it contained. “Masks?”

  “Masks. For just such a calamity as the one you’ve presented this eve. A woman stumbling into the Blue Moon, one I feel it best our members do not recognize. You think to prance down these hallways, where anyone could come upon you, without concealment? My family’s efforts to reform you will be over the second the duke’s shy, sheltered cousin is seen at a gaming hell. Alone in a dim hallway. With me. Reputation shattered like crystal upon stone. You’ll have to retreat to the country for real.”

  Tugging a mask free, she faced him with a beaten sigh. “I can just pop right out once we’ve had our spot of discussion—”

  “Oh, I know all about this spot of conversation I owe you. Owe being the crucial word.”

  “Oh, that bleeding mindreader! Did Finn Alexander look inside without asking? Of all the…” She thumped the parasol on the floor with a growl.

  “What mindreader asks before nicking thoughts? Finn isn’t that accommodating.” He shifted, crowding her into the coat rack in a move she hadn’t anticipated. Halting before he touched her, heat from his body seeping through her gown and warming hers. Awareness flowing from her breasts to her toes. She’d never been affected in this way, never felt such sensation. Desire, need, want. She’d ridiculed people who let such yearning trip them up when she was as weak, it seemed. “I’ll ask him to give you privacy of the mind if you agree to no more time travel. For now.”

  “You don’t own me, Alexander,” she whispered with more bluster than she felt. “I came to 1882 because my time was doomed. I came tonight to find out how much ya’ know. About me, about my…gift.” In response, his gaze glittered in the sconce’s spit of light, dark as coal and telling her nothing. “If I stay, it’s because of the lamps on each and every city street. Fresh water flowing into the house directly. The fine clothes and heaps of food at every meal.” When he didn’t comment, she swallowed deeply, smoothing her hand over the bodice of the loveliest dress she’d ever seen, much less worn. “And maybe I came for the chance to finally find out who I am.”

  Reaching, Simon tipped her chin high. His pupils, unbelievably, had rings close to the color of her gown circling them. Something one would have to be practically touching him to see. She’d have said plum if called to describe it. And she’d always liked plums. “There’s small choice in rotten apples, darling Emmaline.”

  “You think ta’ quote Shakespeare to me? You think I won’t know.” She jerked her chin from his hold. “You buffoon.”

  Simon blinked, stunned, then a broad smile lit his face, his mahogany eyes glowing.

  What the bleeding hell is he smiling about? Emma jabbed the handle of the parasol into his chest and backed him up two steps. “Honest to heaven, I can read, ya’ know! My ma taught me. And she brought home piles of books.” Wedging the faux weapon beneath her arm, she fit the mask over her eyes and reached to tie the satin ribbons at the back of her head. “You must be half-sprung to be quotin’ literature without a chance of anything coming back to you for your fine effort.”

  Simon’s smile grew, nearly bursting his cheeks. “Anything coming back to me for my fine effort.” Throwing his head back, he laughed, offering a weak effort at the end to cut the sound by brushing his lips over his sleeve. “I’m only a quarter-sprung, thank you very much. If sober, my effort would be more than fine. It would be grand. And I’d have a lot coming back to me for my fine effort.”

  She hissed rather than reply, her fingers slipping on the ribbons.

  “Let me. You’re only making a muddle of this.” Brushing aside her hands and her bluster, he turned her by the shoulder until she faced away from him. “Hold the mask in place. You picked the fanciest in the box, by the way. I’m beginning to comprehend your style. Feathers, fake jewels, glitter.”

  “I couldn’t even see which one I grabbed!” Although Emma had felt the smooth facets of the jewels and the silky feathers. However, her words frittered away, her pulse skipping, her heart racing until it tapped her ribs. There was nothing vulgar or overt about her reaction to his breath stealing across her cheek. His fingertips skimming her hair, brushing the nape of her neck, the sensitive spot beneath her ear. It was a feminine mystery, pure and raw, hers and hers alone.

  Unless she let Simon know. Then it would be his, too, which she wasn’t going to ever do. Not when he hadn’t waited for her.

  “Don’t be vexed with Finn. He reads everyone’s mind unless his wife is around,” Simon murmured, his teasing scent drifting past her nose to twist her insides into a tighter knot than the satin ties Simon was manhandling. “Maybe I do owe you. I would’ve offered up information sooner, how I found you, everything I’ve learned about your gift over the years. But upon our return, I had to sleep for two days to recover from our adventure. To say traveling eighty years in minutes fatigued me would be understating the matter.” In a final move, he took a strand of her hair between his fingers and gave it a gentle tug she felt like a bolt of lightning between her thighs. “Too unique, this color. The inebriated benefactors currently losing their blunt at my gaming tables would remember it. God help us if we stumble upon one of them on our way out. Often, even the back alley is congested at this hour.”

  Emma wiggled from his grasp, unable to endure his touch a moment longer. Glanced over her shoulder to find he’d retreated, his back resting against the door, his expression in the shadowed dim unreadable. Hands braced on his hips, an intimidating stance.

  But she wasn’t intimidated; she was fascinated. Just like she’d been from the second she stepped into his world ten years ago.

  Pulling herself away from her pointless musings, she gave the mask a nudge with her knuckle to straighten it. “I g
uess you make use of these often.”

  She hoped she didn’t sound jealous when she was jealous. Of the women he’d taken to the apartment Madame Hebert had mentioned he kept upstairs. The carpet leading to his rooms likely worn thin from the traffic.

  “A temper that never tires.”

  Embarrassed, sure his soft smile meant he was teasing her, she dipped her chin in question. What did that mean?

  His smile grew, but it was subdued, his gaze dropping to his feet as he kicked one shiny boot out, scuffing the floor for no reason she could see other than it placed his gaze in a location where she was unable to study it. “Dickens.” When his dark eyes found hers, drawn like a magnet, his expression one of cautious delight, she could almost imagine that, someday, he was going to forgive her for leaving him.

  “Dickens,” she whispered. Not one her ma had stolen much of.

  His gaze fell to her hands, which she’d begun to twist around the parasol’s handle. “Your gloves tucked away there somewhere? Almost October. It’s getting colder at night. You’ll need them.”

  Emma gave the parasol an obscuring tap while curling her fingers into fists. Her nails, after a long soak and vigorous buffing, looked tolerable, but her hands were chapped and worthless as consideration for being a lady, according to every maid who’d thought to touch them. “I’m afraid to wear them. If I stain the blasted things before this bloody ball where the duchess plans to parade me around, that’s one more detail to fret about. She doesn’t want repayment, even if I could somehow find the funds. Convinced I helped her snag her duke, she is, when I was only using her to find the Soul Catcher. You remember? She tumbled from her mount when I stepped in front of her all those years ago, practically flopping into the duke’s arms. I’ve apologized, tried to tell her that’s just not so, my fault, all of it. She won’t listen, the stubborn chit.” She traced a scratch in the floorboard with the parasol’s pointed tip. “Curious, but my stealing the Soul Catcher and dumping her into the Oxfordshire dirt is now part of her love story.”