Where The Heart Leads (24 page)

When a soft moan escaped her, when her clenched fingers slackened in his curls, he knew he was safe.

He moved lower still, trailing his lips down the center of her body.

His tongue delved into her navel; Penelope gasped and clutched his head again, too rocked by the novel sensation to even think. Forming thoughts—coherent ones—was far beyond her. Her wits were overrun. He’d used sensation to completely overwhelm them.

All she had left to her was feeling. The most glorious panoply of cresting sensations that built and crashed over her, then washed through her in waves.

Delicious, illicit, dangerous perhaps, yet without thought or reservation she gave herself over to all he offered, all he wished; she’d wanted to know and he was teaching her—more than she’d ever dreamed.

He moved lower still, his hard body sliding down between her legs, forcing her knees apart so he could lie comfortably; she accommodated him without thought. Hot, openmouthed kisses punctuated with gentle nips peppered her stomach; she squirmed, the hot ache inside flickering and flaring.

The sensation of his skin sliding against hers was a curious, surprising, distracting delight. Tougher and rougher, dusted with crinkly abrading hair, stretched over flesh and muscle much harder than her own, his skin played against hers, in comparison so soft and delicate,
a primal physical manifestation of his maleness and her femaleness—and the elemental contrasts between.

His lips slid to the crease between thigh and torso, refocusing her attention. With the tip of his tongue, he traced inward, a hot line like an arrow leading to…

She inwardly frowned. What…?

His “what next” had her swallowing a shriek.

At the second, more intrusive brush of his lips over her curls, she struggled, then tried to grab his shoulders, but his arm across her waist held her back, down—while his other hand grasped one thigh just above the knee and moved it aside…

Opening her so he could look at her there.

Sheer shock held her immobile, her gaze locked on his face—on what she could read in the hard, angular planes. What she could see…heaven help her.

Then he bent his head, and set his lips to her flesh.

On a breathless gasp, she shrieked his name, tried desperately to twist away, failed, grabbed his head, fingers locking in his hair, felt her entire body jolt as the sensation of him kissing, then licking—and then, oh God,
sucking
—raced like wildfire through her, a roaring conflagration that melted her nerves and left her a molten puddle of need.

Of hunger burning. Under her skin, through her veins, deep in her body.

She lay back on a moan. Eyes closed, she had no choice but to lie there and let him show her what she’d wished to know—to let the sensations ride her, let them fill her mind and overload her senses.

Let him, and them, sweep her away.

To where desire ruled and passion held sway, to where nothing mattered beyond their heat, and the rapacious, ravenous need that flowed in its wake.

His tongue lapped, stroked, his lips caressed, and the heat within her coalesced. With every touch, the fire burned brighter. Tighter. More intense.

Until it became her all, the one thing that in that instant mattered.

A true consuming. A real surrender.

But the fiery tension only grew more intense. Until she couldn’t
breathe. Until the strands of desire, all fire and heat, wrapped about her so tightly she felt she’d implode.

Then with his tongue he mimicked what he’d earlier done with his finger, a slow, languid penetration and retreat.

And she shattered.

Fractured into a million shards of heat and light and glory.

She gasped, rode the moment—greedily absorbing all she could. But the brightness faded, leaving her dazed, yet strangely empty. Oddly expectant, as if there should be more.

Every muscle in her body felt liquefied, all tension released, yet…still she hungered.

Opening her eyes, she looked down at him. He’d lifted his head, and was watching her.

He studied her eyes, then shifted, rising like some powerful god over her.

Raising one hand, she set her palm to his chest, stroked lightly. Even through the gentle touch she could feel the steely tension coiled within him. Feeling entirely too powerful—knowing that tension was because of her, was born of desire for her—she found the strength to arch her brows. “Is that it?”

She knew perfectly well it wasn’t.

From under heavy lids, his eyes met hers. He’d set her thighs wide; now he wedged his hips between. She felt the broad head of his erection seek, and find, her entrance; it hovered there, and she quivered.

Bracing his forearms on the pillows, caging her head, he bent his and found her lips—took her mouth in a slow, deep, soul-stealing kiss that once again had her wits whirling, that when he finally lifted his head left her breathless.

From a distance of mere inches, Barnaby met her gaze. “That was the prelude.
This
”—he thrust slowly, powerfully, and steadily, deep into her slick heat—“is the beginning of the main event.”

He felt the restriction of her maidenhead, tested it, then withdrew and thrust sharply, more powerfully, breaching the barrier and riding deep into her luscious body.

Shock lanced through her; her features pinched, reflecting pain.

Inwardly cursing, he held still, jaw clenched with the effort to deny his raging impulses—his primitive side that wanted immediately
to plunder and ravish unrestrained; despite having been more than ready, she was small—and he wasn’t.

Head bowing, muscles bunching and flickering, his breathing harsh in his ears, he fought to give her time to adjust.

She did. In tortuous increments. As if unsure how far she should go, how far it was safe to relax. Her muscles unclenched in stages.

Gritting his teeth, he gave her as long as he could, then looked at her—met her eyes. “You’re all right.”

Not a question. She blinked up at him, her eyes dark, lustrous pools in the candlelight. Their expression grew briefly distant, as if she were checking the validity of his statement, then she refocused on him. And there was wonder in her eyes. “Yes. You’re right.” Her lips curved. The last of her panicked tension evaporated.

Tension of a different sort returned to fill the void, and called to him. To every instinct he possessed.

The sudden glow in her eyes, the subtle deepening of her sirenlike smile, the way her hand slid up to cradle his nape, the way she met his gaze—inviting, alluring, a female who sensed her worth—said she knew it, knew the effect she had on him, knew exactly what he wanted to do—and approved. Wholeheartedly.

On a groan, he surrendered to her urging and lowered his lips to hers.

And gave them both what they wanted.

He took her mouth in a soul-deep kiss, anchoring them. Then he withdrew and thrust again, whirling them into a landscape he knew well, one of sensual pleasure. He kept them there with each slow, measured thrust, every deep, forceful penetration.

As when they waltzed, she followed his lead. Her body undulated beneath his, complementing, matching, receiving, taking, giving.

The pleasure swelled, welled, swirled through them as they danced, growing ever hotter, ever more insistent, ever more intense.

He refused to rush, and wonder of wonders she didn’t press him to; rather, she matched him, readily rode with him, her curiosity and delight apparent in every gasp, every encouraging murmur, every evocative touch of her fingers on his skin.

Wherever she touched, he burned, but that was nothing—no comparison to—the fiery heat of her sheath. It gripped him, drew him in; scalding and wet, she took him in and plainly gloried in the act.

Beneath him, she writhed; as the tempo inevitably increased, she clutched, nails digging in as she held tight and urged him—drove him—on.

He dragged in a shuddering breath and complied. The sensations that surrounded him, her lush body, her passion, her readily offered desire, colored his familiar landscape more brightly, more intensely, than it had ever been before.

Every movement, every touch, of his body and hers, every exchange seemed more laden with feeling. Tactile sensation, true, yet it carried something deeper, something finer—something other.

Some intangible part of them both. As if on this familiar landscape they’d somehow shifted onto some higher plane and were communing at a more elemental level.

He couldn’t think about it, define it, now. His mind was too awash with whatever he was feeling. The intensity alone, the heightened sensations, battered at his mind.

He wouldn’t have believed it if he’d been told—that she, an innocent no matter how well read, could so easily and completely and utterly engage with him, with his sensual side, one so very experienced—more, with the primitive passions he normally suppressed, normally kept on a tight leash so he wouldn’t shock his partner.

She—patently—saw no purpose in any leash. As their passions rose higher, as locked together, arms banding, hands grasping, they rode the moment wildly, far from falling back from him, she only grew more demanding.

Until he simply surrendered, let the leashes fall, and let them both revel in his—and her—unfettered desire.

She gasped; without direction, she lifted her legs and wrapped them about his hips, and took him deeper. Urged him deeper still.

Until he felt as if he touched the very sun.

On a smothered scream, she shattered.

And took him with her, her contractions calling on his climax, her powerful, unrestrained release unchaining his, setting it—for what in that glorious instant felt like the first time in his life—totally and utterly free.

In the instant he emptied himself into her, he felt like he’d given her his soul.

Uncounted heartbeats later, he cracked open his eyes and looked down—at her, sprawled beneath him, eyes closed, features passion-blank, except for the glorious smile curving her lips.

He felt his own lips curve in similar sated delight. He withdrew and collapsed beside her, reaching for her to hold her close.

As satiation spread its soft wings about them, he prayed that if he had indeed surrendered his soul, she would agree, at some point soon, to reciprocate and surrender hers.

I
f it hadn’t been for a feline altercation on a nearby wall, it might have fallen to Mostyn to wake them.

Even as, alerted to the encroaching dawn, Barnaby hurried Penelope—who didn’t want to wake up, and wanted even less to leave his bed—to do both, and dress, and let him lead her downstairs, even as he let them both out of the front door and set out to walk her home, some small part of him was disappointed he hadn’t learned how his stultifyingly correct gentleman’s gentleman would have coped.

The chill of predawn penetrated his greatcoat. His brain growing more alert, he decided it was just as well he’d acted on instinct and got Penelope away; he wasn’t at all sure that, had Mostyn encountered her in his bed, his henchman wouldn’t have felt moved to write to his, Barnaby’s, mother.

And that would definitely not do.

Not because his mother might disapprove; what he feared—to his toes—was that she might decide he needed help and descend to offer hers.

Just the thought was enough to make him shudder.

He glanced at Penelope. Her arm linked with his, she was matching his stride—shortened to accommodate hers—but her thoughts were clearly far away. Despite the remarkable vigor of their coupling, she seemed unaffected, untroubled. Indeed, if she’d had her way they would still be in his bed, exploring further.

She’d actually pouted when he’d insisted they had to leave.

Her lips weren’t pouting now. They were relaxed, rosy red, as luscious as ever.

A few paces later, he realized he was staring, fantasizing again. Shaking the salacious images from his head, he faced forward, and focused his thoughts on where they now were, where he wished them to be, and how to get from one point to the other.

Which, as it happened, was also the route to converting his salacious fantasies to realities.

Concentrating wasn’t all that hard.

They’d decided against bothering trying to find a hackney; at this hour, it was likely to be just as fast to walk to Mount Street. In the small hours between the end of one day and the start of the next, there were few people on the streets of Mayfair, either on foot or in carriages.

The night was dark, moonless, at least beneath the November clouds. Although all was quiet, the silence wasn’t absolute; the sleeping rumble of the huge city at night, a blanket of distant, muffled sounds, enveloped them.

They were both used to such city silence; unperturbed, they walked along, wreathed in the drifting fog, both busy with their thoughts.

He had little idea what she might be pondering, or even if she was truly thinking at all. Regardless, he’d been left in no doubt of her response to the night’s developments, which was, in its way, comforting. He didn’t have to wonder if she’d enjoyed it, or if she would be interested in continuing their liaison; she’d already made her views on those matters absolutely clear.

Thinking back…he recalled where they’d been before she’d appeared on his doorstep. Or at least where
he’d
thought they’d been. He’d thought the next move in their game was his. She, clearly, had been following different rules.

Indeed, now he came to think of it, he didn’t know—had no idea—what had prompted her to call on him, let alone in such an eccentric fashion, cosh in hand.

He glanced at her, eyes narrowing as he pieced together what he knew: that she must have come in her brother’s town carriage—the plain black carriage that had pulled away just before she’d rushed at
him—and instructed the coachman to leave her on the street, Jermyn Street at close to midnight. And the coachman had obeyed.

She was a menace; God only knew what potential dangers might have lurked.

“It occurs to me.” He paused until, alerted by the cool steel in his tone, she glanced at him; he caught her eyes. “That your brother clearly fails to exercise sufficient authority, let alone control, over you. Being let out of a carriage in Jermyn Street late at night, rushing up to me wielding a cosh—you had no idea what might have happened. Someone might have seen you, and rushed to my assistance—
I
might have seen you sooner and struck out with my cane.” The thought made him feel ill. He scowled at her. “Your brother has no business letting you run amok.”

She studied his eyes, then humphed and looked ahead. “Rubbish. My plan worked perfectly well. And as for Luc—he’s the very best of brothers. Even if he is sometimes priggish and stupidly overprotective. He’s always insisted that we could go our own ways, make our own decisions on how to live our lives. He’s allowed us to—even encouraged us to—make our own choices, and because of that you are not allowed to say so much as one word against him.”

He eyed the tip of her nose, which had risen significantly higher; he continued to frown. “That’s a…rather unconventional attitude. I’ve met Luc. He doesn’t seem the sort to be so lenient.”

“You mean he’s the sort who ought to have locked his four sisters in some tower—or at least confined us to Calverton Chase—to be allowed out only after our weddings?”

“To attend your weddings, but not before. Something along those lines.”

She smiled. “I daresay he would have been like that—you’re correct in thinking that’s more his true nature—but Luc himself was almost forced to marry to rescue the family fortunes years ago. He didn’t—he couldn’t—so he worked like the devil at finances and rescued us that way, and then Amelia proposed to him and he’d always wanted to marry her, so everything turned out perfectly in the end, but only because he stuck to his guns and did what he felt he should, not what society thought he ought.”

Barnaby’s frown remained. “Don’t you mean he proposed to Amelia?”

“No. She proposed.” They walked on a few paces, then she added,
breaking into his bemusement, “If you must know, that was where I got the idea of rescuing you on your doorstep in order to end in your bedroom with you, alone. Amelia waylaid Luc one night as he was coming home.”

He stared at her. “Did she hit him with a cosh, too?”

She shook her head. “She didn’t have to. Luc was five sheets to the wind at the time, after celebrating freeing the family from debt.”

“Three sheets.”

“What?”

“It’s three sheets to the wind.” Looking ahead, he paced on. “That’s the saying.”

“I know. But Luc was definitely five sheets, or so Amelia says. He collapsed at her feet.”

Barnaby decided he now knew more than he needed to about Luc and his wife. Yet the man he knew as Viscount Calverton…had as sharp and shrewd a brain…as his sister. And according to Penelope, who could be trusted to know the truth, Luc had always wanted to marry Amelia. So when Amelia had proposed…

Calverton, Barnaby decided, was a lucky dog.

Not having to go down on bended knee and beg, not even metaphorically.

Indeed…now he thought of it, having a lady propose marriage had a great deal to recommend it—specifically and importantly because it excused the gentleman involved from having to declare his lovelorn state.

The more he considered that, the more he saw it as a highly significant, indeed strategic, benefit—especially if the lady involved was Penelope.

As they left Berkeley Square and turned into Mount Street, he glanced at her face—serene, confident, the face of a lady who knew what she wanted and, as she’d had demonstrated on several occasions, that night being the most recent, wasn’t in the least reluctant to act to satisfy her needs.

Recalling his earlier assessment of where they now were, and where he wanted them to be, as, fingers tightening about her elbow, he turned with her up the Calverton House steps, it seemed that, courtesy of her most recent plan, he’d just discovered the very best way to realize his ultimate goal.

“Thank you, Mrs. Epps. I’ll let my da know.” With a smile, Griselda disengaged from the old lady who’d claimed her attention to ask about her widowed father.

Playing his part, Stokes grunted—a universal male “about time” sound—cast Mrs. Epps a frowning nod, and hand locked about Griselda’s elbow, hauled her away.

Five paces on, Griselda smiled. “Thank you. I thought I’d never get free.”

“So did I.” Continuing to frown, Stokes scanned the street along which they were walking. Although the original cobbled width was reasonable, the houses had encroached in myriad ways, deep overhangs above, enclosed and extended porches at street level; with the crates and boxes piled outside various abodes, the route was now little more than a winding passage. “You’re sure it’s this way?”

Griselda threw him another of her amused glances. “Yes, I am.” Looking ahead, she added, “It’s not that long ago that I used to live in the area.”

He snorted. “It has to be at least…ten years.”

Her smile grew. “How tactful of you. It’s sixteen. I left at fifteen to start my apprenticeship, but I’ve visited often enough so I’ve never completely lost touch—let alone lost my sense of direction.”

Stokes humphed; just as well—in the close, winding streets, with the smog above blocking the sun, he was having difficulty knowing which way was which. But he’d finally learned her age—fifteen plus sixteen equaled thirty-one—a few years older than he’d thought her. Which was excellent, given he was thirty-nine.

They were trudging away from the city, Aldgate and Whitechapel at their backs, Stepney ahead of them, in pursuit of one Arnold Hornby. On Friday, after distributing the printed notices among the stallholders of both Petticoat Lane and Brick Lane, they’d “visited” the addresses they’d been given for Slater, then Watts, in each case watching long enough to be sure neither man was involved in anything illegal.

Stokes had considered interviewing Slater and Watts, but the risk that even if they knew nothing they’d mention the interest the police had in whatever school was currently running, thus indirectly alert
ing the schoolmaster, who would then shift his school and hide the boys, was too great.

“And,” Griselda had said, “we’ve still got names to chase.”

Which was what they were doing today, Saturday—chasing down Arnold Hornby.

They seemed to be trudging awfully far, into increasingly dangerous territory. He glanced at Griselda, but if she was uncomfortable or growing nervous, she gave no sign; even though they were both once more in disguise, in the slums into which they were heading, they were starting to stand out as too well dressed.

But she kept walking confidently on. He strode beside her, at her shoulder, constantly scanning, alert, and growing ever more tense as the potential for danger increased.

He was very aware that had he been alone, he wouldn’t have felt anywhere near the same tension.

They reached a fork. Without hesitation, she took the lane on the left, still heading away from London.

“I thought,” he grumbled, “that the East End was defined as within hearing of Bow Bells.”

She chuckled. “It is—but that depends on how the wind is blowing.”

After a moment, she added, “It’s not far now. Just beyond that next alley on the left.”

He glanced ahead. “The building with the green door?”

She nodded. “And how convenient—there’s a tavern directly opposite.”

He took her arm and they made for the tavern, barely glancing at the green-doored hovel. Lowering his head, Stokes murmured in Griselda’s ear, “We might be able to learn all we need while we eat.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, and let him steer her inside.

There were three bruisers lurking at a table toward the rear, but otherwise the small tavern was empty. It was nearing midday; presumably others would soon arrive. A table stood before the front window. The wooden shutters had been set wide, giving an unimpeded view of the residence opposite. Griselda headed for that table; Stokes followed.

There were rough chairs; he nearly pulled one out for her but
stopped himself in time. She claimed a chair and sat, facing the window. He pulled out the one beside her, angled it half toward her and sat, draping his arm along the back of her chair. It was a gesture that screamed his view of her as his. He glanced at the bruisers in the shadows to make sure they’d got his message. They shifted their gazes away.

Satisfied, he turned to Griselda and the view beyond the window.

She leaned toward him, patted the arm he’d rested on the table, and whispered, “No need to scare the locals.”

He met her amused eyes, then humphed and looked across the road. He left his arm where it was.

A wan waitress came out from the rear; barely beyond girlhood, she asked what they wanted. Beyond growling an order for a pint pot of ale, he left the girl to Griselda. Somewhat to his surprise, she didn’t angle for information but confined herself to ordering food for them both.

When the girl went off, he turned to Griselda and raised a brow.

She grimaced lightly. “She was looking at my clothes. We may as well eat and give her time to decide we’re no threat.”

He grunted and looked away. Reflecting that through most of the days they’d spent together, she must have heard more grunts than anything else from him, he cast about, then ventured, “She’s right—you don’t belong here.”

He looked at her.

She inclined her head. After a moment, her gaze on the green door, she said, “I left. I knew if I stayed there was a good chance I’d turn out like her”—with her head she indicated the waitress—“with no real hope of anything better.”

“So you worked, and left, and worked still harder to establish yourself outside the East End.”

She nodded, lips curving. “And I succeeded. So now”—she glanced at him, met his eyes—“I’m betwixt and between—not of the East End any longer, yet I don’t belong anywhere else, either.”

He saw beyond her easy smile. “I know how that feels.”

She raised her brows, not disbelieving so much as curious. “Do you?”

He held her gaze. “I’m not exactly a gentleman, yet I’m not your average rozzer, either.”

She smiled. “I’d noticed.” She studied him, then asked, “So where do you hail from? And how did that—being betwixt and between like me—come about?”

He gazed at the green door. “I was born in Colchester. My father was a merchant, my mother a clergyman’s daughter. I was an only child, as my mother had been. My grandfather—her father—took an interest in me, and had me educated at the local grammar school.”