by Anne Renwick
“Please, you’re anything but common,” he scoffed. Society might look askance at her unusual eyes, but they conferred upon her amazing nighttime vision. Her other senses were heightened as well, not to mention her physical prowess. “Four years living this dual life and not once caught.”
“Five,” she corrected, stopping in front of him. Close enough so that he could see the fine locks of hair that had wrestled free from a twisted knot at her nape. “A lady without plans to marry needs to look after herself.” The faint, familiar scent of wildflowers drifted past—now mixed with a hint of whisky—and his breath caught, trapping the scent within his lungs.
“Without plans, or without offers?” Yes, he was fishing. And hoping for a glimmer of encouragement. He knew a few agents who mixed business with pleasure. A few ended up married, the exact state to which he aspired. Would a brief alliance with a competent—his gaze skimmed over the curve of her neck—and beautiful thief help or hurt his cause?
Her eyes narrowed. “Does it matter?”
“Only if you’re about to inform me I’ve competition for your attention.” Her face froze, and a crack shot through his hopes, threatening to shatter his plans. He prayed she wouldn’t mention another man’s name. “Work called me away before I had a chance to speak.”
“Is that an apology?”
“It is.” He stared into her amber eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“Marriage,” she huffed. “I’ve no interest in agreeing to terms that would force me to curtail any of my activities.”
“Nor should you.” The crack retreated, and he found himself able to breathe deeply once more.
A single step brought her body mere inches away from his. “Most of the ton—most men—would disagree.”
“Not this man.” He struggled to hold on to the thread of their conversation. “A woman should not be forced to waste her talents.”
Her eyes flashed. “Yet, more often than not, we must hide them.”
As she had hers. “But not from me.”
“Trust that I place in your word as a gentleman and a Queen’s agent… and our mutual ability to reveal the other’s predilection for nighttime prowling…”
“From which you’ve announced your retirement. I do hope you’ll reconsider, but in the meantime, do you propose to resume your celebration?”
“Possibly.” She tipped her head. “Provided you’ve no conditions, no assumptions that what we share here, tonight, will lead any further?”
“None. Hopes, yes. But I’ll not force them upon you.” His gaze fixed upon her soft, wide mouth. “Does that qualify me to join the festivities?”
Her fingers wrapped about the black, silk cravat at his throat, and she tugged him closer. “It does.”
Dropping his hands lightly upon the warm leather encasing her narrow waist, he lowered his mouth to hers, intending to gently explore the shape of her lips, to tease forth her arousal. But as her lips parted, her fingers slid about his neck urging him closer and shattering the last of his preconceptions about her experience. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness to her response that might encourage him to slow down. Instead, her soft moan was pure carnality.
Desire surged, and his tongue slipped inside her mouth to tangle with her own, to drink in her taste. Whisky, rich and seductive with a hint of spice. Warm and intoxicating, like the scent of her skin.
With a throaty growl, he slid his hands down her back, past her bottom to catch at her thighs. Lifting her firmly against his hard length, he spun about to drop her onto the edge of the desk.
Without breaking their kiss, he circled his fingers about her ankles, then dragged his palms upward over leather and lacing until they reached her knees. With a mewl of approval, she spread her legs, inviting him yet closer. A roar rushed through his veins.
Aether, she was a perfect fit.
He nudged against her, and her body shuddered. Kissing her, holding her, touching her was all consuming. His heart raced as fantasies of taking her on the desk swirled through his mind. No, not fantasies, for even now her fingers tugged at the clasps that held his trousers closed. Not in ages had such wild anticipation driven him senseless. He flexed his hips, and she groaned her encouragement.
But one moment his fingers were dipping beneath the rise of her corset, and the next she’d shoved him away. “Did you hear that?” she hissed. “Someone is coming.”
Nick heard nothing but the pounding of blood in his ears.
“Go!” She pushed at his shoulder as she dropped onto her feet. “The window!”
He heard the footsteps now—growing closer—and turned to follow. She was already halfway out and reaching for a drainpipe.
“Hurry!” Her eyes flashed green-gold.
He followed quickly, but by the time his feet hit the ground, she was gone.
Chapter Two
“I can’t believe Lady Sophia would do such a thing.” Isabella shuddered. “She’s so quiet and demure… and with her debut tomorrow night!”
Eyebrows arched, Colleen looked over her shoulder to where her aunt—in name only, for Isabella was but two years older—leaned against the bedpost. Her hand smoothed across her lower abdomen where a gentle roundness had begun to announce the eventual arrival of her uncle’s heir. For after five years of barrenness, Isabella insisted the child would not dare be anything but male, refusing to discuss any other possibility.
Including the near certainty that the growing babe was not her husband’s.
Colleen wasn’t the only one sneaking in and out of the townhouse windows during the night. Isabella had taken a lover. A nimble one, given the paucity of vegetation surrounding her aunt’s window. Though they’d been careful to be quiet, Colleen’s ears had heard far more than she wished.
Worried, she’d forced the topic a few nights past. “You’re certain my uncle doesn’t suspect?” She’d spoken gently. “He has a vindictive streak.”
“It was his idea,” Isabella had stammered. “I didn’t wish to be unfaithful, but he insisted there must be a child. What I didn’t expect was to…”
“Fall in love?” Colleen had finished. There was, after all, no longer a need for her paramour’s continued attention. Though she wished her aunt every happiness, her uncle’s conceit would not tolerate any societal doubt. “Be careful. Of late Mr. Vanderburn has begun conducting nighttime patrols of the grounds. Now that the deed is done, your husband won’t chance any rumors clouding the infant’s birth.” So ended their conversation. Soon after, such visits had ceased, and Isabella had folded into herself, growing quiet and pensive.
Not that it terminated Mr. Vanderburn’s steely-eyed vigil. For years, her uncle’s thick-necked henchman carried out his errands via the service entrance, rarely lingering longer than it took to steal a treat from the kitchens. Of late, however, he’d begun turning up in the most unlikely places at the most inconvenient of times, hampering her ease of movement. Something she considered suspicious, given it was the dead of winter.
It was a most excellent time to retire.
The steam maid huffed, waiting impatiently for her charge to face forward once more. Steam Adelle—a fancy, new model imported from France—had little patience for her Scottish charge. They were always in conflict, for Colleen refused to bend to the steambot’s notions of fashion.
“It’s always the quiet ones.” She ignored the puffs of steam escaping the steambot’s collar. “Have you learned nothing from my stories?”
Isabella—her uncle’s bride of six months when Colleen arrived—had quickly grown wise to her plea of a headache to absent herself from various social events. Isabella had taken to arriving at her door—curative cup of tea in hand—at inconvenient moments asking questions Colleen did not care to answer. She’d dodged them all… until she’d been caught with one leg out her window.
Ever since, Isabella had become her partner-in-crime. In exchange for scandalous—yet professionally filtered—gossip, her aunt helped conceal Colleen’s odd comings and
goings, prattling on about her niece’s delicate health.
“Enough to deftly navigate the tangles of society. The occasional well-placed comment has kept the sharp-tongued matrons at bay.” Isabella threw her a satisfied smile. “No worries, I’ve not once even hinted at my source.”
“Nor have I intentionally applied my skills to interfere with your… diversion.” For they kept each other’s secrets close. “I’ve no idea who he is, but if there’s ever trouble, you need only ask for my assistance.”
Isabella gave a nod, but her gaze fell away. “He’s said much the same.” She crossed to the window—always cracked open, even in the dead of winter—and peered down at the saucer of milk that balanced on a ledge outside. Legend insisted that such offerings would dispose the cat sìth to offer good blessings in return. “Sorcha’s been away for nearly two weeks now. Longer than usual.”
An undisguised appeal for another topic of conversation.
Aside from Colleen, Isabella was the only other human whose touch the cat permitted. The cat sìth was more wildcat than house cat and belonged in northern Scotland where several of her kind freely roamed the woods upon Stewart lands and beyond. Such cats were considered by many to be fairy creatures and featured prominently in the myths and legends of Scotland, including farfetched stories explaining her family’s origins. Rarely did any condescend to live inside four walls.
Sorcha was an exception. Colleen’s steadfast companion since before her parents’ death, the cat sìth had refused to stay behind when her favorite human was forced from her home, leaping onto the steam carriage as it carried Colleen away to London.
Though her uncle took a narrow-eyed view of his niece’s pet, he’d allowed the cat to stay, provided the creature remained above stairs or outside. The household at large took a dim view of her pet for most found Sorcha’s steady, golden stare unnerving and had a tendency to mutter with suspicion—and the atavistic fear that encompassed centuries of superstition—about the similarity of the cat’s eyes to Colleen’s.
Here in the city, her cat was less revered and more feared. She’d heard the word “familiar” muttered more than once. Only Mr. Torrington used the term in lighthearted jest.
“She’ll be back,” Colleen insisted, though her assurance sounded false even to her own ears. Three weeks was the longest the cat had ever vanished. Of late, she had begun to visit Sorcha’s London haunts, hoping to catch a glimpse of the feline.
“Are you certain you truly wish to retire, to leave town? I’ll miss you.” Isabella’s lips curved upward and a hint of cunning lit her eyes. “And the gossip. Perhaps when things grow dull or difficult, I’ll follow you north and fling myself upon your hospitality.”
“I will, of course, return for the child’s birth.” Colleen wouldn’t miss it. Assuming her uncle did not object. Steam Adelle let out a prolonged spout of steam, and Colleen turned back toward the dressing table to let the steam maid continue the work she found so necessary. “Though you—and your baby—will always be welcome at my home in Scotland. The air is fresh, and the landscape is stunning,” she sighed at the memory, “but you might grow weary of the quiet and the cold.”
Would she, rattling around the tower house all alone?
Years spent slinking about the gritty streets of London in the wee hours had honed her skills in a way that rural life could not. Houses here in the city were close enough that one might leap from roof to roof, feet never touching the ground. Gargoyled drainpipes and corniced ledges provided quick and convenient vertical ascents, with the ever-present crank hacks and steam carriages useful obstacles to dart between when one needed to evade a pursuer.
And a certain Queen’s agent might turn up at any moment. She’d miss their flirtations most of all.
The steam maid stabbed a final hairpin into Colleen’s hair, then rolled back, crossed her arms and huffed. A puff of acrid smoke escaped before she clamped her metal mouth shut. It was always the same silent argument with Steam Adelle. On the dressing table before Colleen was spread an assortment of punch cards, all programs for elaborate and popular upsweeps. All of which she’d rejected in favor of her usual, a simple chignon.
“As I’ve explained too many times to count, Steam Adelle,” Colleen grumbled, “plain is a necessity for afternoon tea.”
It was especially hard to hide in the small, brightly-lit parlor. But with no cosmetics and her spectacles—tinted a smoky gray with cerium to hide her amber eyes and block the glare of over-bright lights—no gentleman caller dared compliment her beauty lest he risk sounding like a fool. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Her walking dress—a muted blue and green tartan set with red—was but one more layer of camouflage. It over-emphasized her heritage and gave would-be suitors pause. The precise reason Colleen loved it. Fading into the background was an underappreciated talent.
“Are you certain you’ve told me everything about last night?” Isabella squinted at Colleen with suspicion. “Mr. Glover has returned from his journey and is certain to call, yet the usual irritation isn’t etched into your face.” She tapped her chin. “In fact, you look rather… high-spirited, considering your eyes have a touch of exhaustion about them.”
She cringed. With no plans to marry, Colleen had discreetly taken an occasional lover over the past few years, ones who assured her they had no designs upon matrimony. Women, after all, had the same urges as men, whether they wished to admit to it or not. Alas, her most recent affair had gone… badly.
Curiosity—and perhaps a touch of bored irritation—had convinced her to permit one Mr. Travis Glover—tall, blond, and handsome—to coax her down a hallway and into a locked room while others still whirled upon the dance floor. A regrettable decision. Without preamble, he’d tossed her onto a divan and lifted her skirts. The experience had been a stunning disappointment. One she had no desire to repeat with him. Ever. Which had made his impassioned proposal the following day mystifying. She’d declined, of course. Yet ever since, he’d made a pest of himself.
He called at tea time and peppered her with endless questions about her Scottish estate, insisted upon a dance at every ball, and established an ill-defined partnership with her uncle. Of late, every time she turned about, he was present, staring at her with possessive eyes before making yet another attempt to worm his way into her life. It was exasperating.
This morning, flowers had arrived—an enormous bouquet of roses—and she’d allowed herself to hope. Were they from a certain man whose recent absence had stolen away the joy from her work, from her life? Whose unexpected return had flooded her heart with warmth?
Alas, they weren’t from Mr. Torrington. And they ought to be. For after years of turning her nose up at what the marriage mart had to offer, there was at last one particular eligible London gentleman whose suit she would consider. Consider. For though his words had hinted at a full partnership, both as his wife and as a business partner, she needed to be certain.
He knew about her lands in the north—and her unusual eyes bothered him not one bit. If he proposed, ought she accept? Scotland called to her, and she needed to go. Still, she clung to the possibility that could have the best of both worlds, spending time at Craigieburn in the north as well as in London.
Unless Mr. Torrington had reconsidered in the bright light of day? For there was no indication that he intended to make his romantic interest in her common knowledge. No note. No flowers. No meeting arranged to speak with her uncle, formality though it would be.
A forlorn ache settled beneath her ribs. The uncertainty would drive her mad.
“What is wrong with Mr. Glover?” her uncle had snarled at her across the breakfast table, fingers crumpling the edges of his neatly pressed newspaper. “He’s asked for your hand, and I’ve given my consent.”
Where to begin? But her uncle wanted her agreement, not her objections. Nothing good ever came from crossing him, so Colleen had kept her thoughts close and her gaze demurely lowered. “I don’t believe we suit,” she’d answere
d vaguely. As always, she had fixed her eyes upon a faint char mark, where a spark from a steambot had vaulted from its firebox onto the polished wood of the table.
“How many gentlemen have declared themselves willing to overlook your paltry dowry and low-bred background?”
“None.” Circumstances she’d actively encouraged. But her tone was respectful, as expected.
“Precisely.” He’d muttered about his sister abandoning her heritage to elope with an aberrant Scotsman. “Mr. Glover is a second son and holds a satisfactory position in society. Your stubborn refusal to consider his bid for your hand is unacceptable. There will be no more playing the invalid under my roof. You will attend any and all social events to which you have been invited—including the Aldridge girl’s debutant ball—wherein I expect you to entertain Mr. Glover’s attentions while you reconsider your stance.” His nostrils flared. “Am I clear?
“Yes, sir.” It was the expected reply, but gone were the days when a guardian could force a marriage. Had her father not seen fit to leave his estate in her uncle’s care until she was twenty-five, Colleen would have left this household the moment she reached her majority some four years past. Why her uncle had taken a sudden interest in seeing her married after so many years of virtual neglect, she could not begin to imagine, but she could certainly endure another three days of Mr. Glover’s stiff—if overly saccharine—courtship.
Particularly if Mr. Torrington also saw fit to reappear at ton gatherings. He could provide her with a public excuse to turn her back on Mr. Glover. Her heart gave a great thud.
Lying awake last night, Colleen’s mind had replayed their encounter over and over. A single kiss had tilted her world upon its axis, and a second had sent it spinning. Had they not been interrupted, where might the moment have led?
She’d barely slept at all.
“So? Is there a new gentleman in your life?” Isabella was still awaiting an answer. But Colleen wouldn’t be detailing how very exciting it had been to be dropped upon a solid desk and kissed by a man as if only she could quench the fire that burned within him.
