Lois Greiman (27 page)

“That charming, are you?” she asked, but there was a breathlessness to her tone.

“Well that, of course,” he said, and kissed her neck. “And the fact that you’re of royal blood.”

“An immodest lot?”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, needing that contact. “Decidedly scandalous.”

“Dancer,” she said, but her voice was breathy.

“Ben,” he corrected, and pulled her fully against him.

Her breath came in soft rasps against his face. “You’re drawing attention to us.”

“Shandria.” He remembered how her legs felt around him. How she’d pulled him in, almost desperately, almost lovingly. “You cannot walk into a room and fail to draw attention. To make men dream. To make them
hope.” He slipped his hand lower, over the sweet curve of her bottom.

“Quit that,” she breathed. “Before you get us tossed out.”

“We’re amongst the gentry,” he argued, and kissed her, slow and long. “We are more likely to garner applause.”

She drew back, looking disoriented, but found her voice in a moment. “We dare not be so conspicuous.”

“But what would be more conspicuous?” he asked, and pulled her gently back into his arms. “Cowering in a corner, or proving we’ve nothing to hide?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips were too enticing. He kissed them again.

“No one would believe I could resist you,” he whispered.

“What has come over you?” she asked, her voice breathless.

Beauty. Hope. Life, and the knowledge that it could all end in a flash. That one must hold on to it whenever possible. “Perhaps it’s the music,” he said and reveled in the feel of her breasts pressed against him.

“I wasn’t aware it was so dangerous,” she whispered.

He tried not to be drawn into her eyes, tried to be strong, but he was not. “Shandria,” he murmured.

But she turned away. “No. Don’t say it. Please. I must see this done.”

But he loved her, and surely it was a sin not to admit it. A crime not to tell the world. But fear was back in her eyes, shining like a beacon.

“Then promise me,” he said.

Her lips were parted, her eyes huge behind the feline mask.

“Swear you’ll leave him, and I’ll not forestall you.”

Her lips moved, but no sound came.

“On your mother’s life, lass. Swear it.”

“I swear,” she vowed and he dragged her into his arms and kissed her, drinking her in, devouring her.

When he drew back, she felt limp in his arms, soft and awed and vulnerable. He couldn’t resist kissing her again, but she stopped him with a hand to his chest. Her eyes skimmed sideways. It wasn’t until then that he remembered they were not alone. Not until then that he realized they were being watched. But it failed to matter.

“Please,” she whispered. “The papers.”

He scowled, trying to focus. “Where will they be?”

“Upstairs,” she breathed, and he needed no more excuse. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her up the carpeted steps.

And true to his word, applause broke out behind them. He ignored it completely, as he did the bluestockings who glared as they hurried past.

“Which way?” he asked, when they’d reached the top.

Perhaps she planned to answer, but her parted lips were too alluring, so he kissed her again, and when he drew back, she seemed to have forgotten how to speak. He turned right.

“Which one?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He stopped at the first door and found her lips with his own. She kissed him back, her mouth open, her tongue soft and imploring.

“Lass,” he breathed, and reached for the door handle. It opened beneath his fingers.

“It’ll be locked,” she said.

“What?”

“The room. ’Twill be locked.”

It still took him a moment to understand, but finally he did. She could be his. But not then. He had but to wait, to finish this mission, to see her safely away.

They hurried down the hall. Three more doors opened beneath his hand. The fourth resisted.

Their eyes met, then she slipped her hand behind his neck and kissed him. He let her slide her feet to the floor, but once there, he found he could not loose her. Instead, he pressed her back against the wall. Her breasts felt high and firm in the palms of his hands.

Someone hurried down the hall, but Will failed to notice, for her fingers were twisted in his hair, pulling his head lower. Her flesh was soft and yielding above the ivory bodice. His cock throbbed with pounding impatience. But suddenly she was backing away, through the magically opened door. For a fraction of an instant he was aware that she held a slim piece of metal in her hand, but then she was kissing him again. The door closed, shutting them into the darkness.

“Is this the right room?”

“Yes,” she murmured, and pulled his head back down.

Holy hell, he must be crazed. “How do you know?”

“I know,” she said, and suddenly her hand was inside his pants, slipping along the hard length of his erection. He gritted his teeth and tried to stop her, but he failed to do more than rasp out a throaty groan.

Was there something they were supposed to do? Something…

“Lass,” he said, but she squeezed and suddenly he was pulling up her gown. And underneath…Underneath there was nothing. Her buttocks felt firm and smooth, her legs strong. He grasped her thighs, pulling them up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him
with explosive passion. He lifted her onto his erection. She arched back. He groaned at the rasp of torturous pleasure and dipped his mouth to her breasts. They were warm and high and well exposed above the smooth ivory gown. She squeezed around him, drawing him deeper inside, drowning him in surging need.

He bucked against her and she answered back, straining against his desire, riding hard. It was all he could do to keep up. He matched her pace and she held on to his hair, grating, pushing, gasping for breath, until she spasmed wildly. It was too much to bear. He pumped into her, heard her rasp of pleasure, felt her legs loosen, let her slide away from him. Bracing his back against the door, Will closed his eyes and struggled to remain on his feet.

The hiss of a striking match made him open his eyes. Footsteps in the hall made his breath stop, but he grasped the latch at the same time. The footfalls stopped. The door latch wriggled, but he held it tight.

From below, a waltz drifted into the room, overrun by the sound of his pounding heart. And then the footsteps rapped away.

He let his eyes drop closed.

“We can’t stay,” he whispered, but she was already beside him, a scroll in her hand.

“Is that it?”

She merely nodded, and it disappeared. Her gown fell back into place. Glancing up at him, she reached for the door latch. He barely managed to step aside and then she was through. He followed her, and she took his arm, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her skirt.

It was the simplest thing in the world to escape Shirlmire Court even though it seemed that every person there turned to watch their exit.

They were settled into the carriage in a matter of minutes. The night streamed past them.

She’d only removed her mask a few minutes before, but she looked no less exotic. No easier to understand.

“Were you just trying to distract me?” he asked, and found her eyes. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.” The muscles of his thighs were still twitching. “But I would know. Was it an act to keep me from causing you trouble? Or will you leave him?”

She drew a careful breath. “I still have my knife, Dancer, had I simply wanted to distract you.”

“As I said, I wasn’t complaining.”

She smiled and, slipping across the carriage, sat beside him. Her lips were as soft as a dream against his. And it was strange, for even now, with his muscles screaming and his life in mortal danger, there was nothing he could do but lay her back against the seat and drown in her beauty.

The sun was just rising when the carriage slowed.

Will touched Shandria’s shoulder, rousing her from sleep. She woke, instantly alert as she straightened from his lap. It was the first time he had ever watched her sleep, and it was entirely possible that his heart would never be the same.

But there was no time to dwell on that. He had to be sharp, be ready, for he would not fail her, no matter the circumstances, no matter the cost. This once, he would do what was right.

The carriage rolled to a halt. She retrieved the scroll from the opposite seat, then lifted her gaze to his.

“If I asked you to leave—”

“No,” he said.

The journey up the broken walkway to the Den seemed to last a lifetime.

Voices sounded from the sitting room as they entered the moldering old house. Shandria’s back was absolutely straight as she followed the sound of the conversation.

Poke rose from a chair near the fire when she stepped into the room. “Ahh.” His voice was as melodious as a chant, his eyes as bewitching as a serpent’s. Will remained perfectly still, ready, praying. “My little cubs have returned. And how did you fare?”

She held the scroll in her palm. “I believe this might be it,” she said, and handed it over.

Will watched his face. Watched him smile. Watched him beam.

“Well done,” he said. “Well done indeed. Wouldn’t you say, Bentor?”

“Indeed,” another agreed from the far side of the room, and Will’s blood froze.

He knew that voice. He knew that name. Lord Bentor. Cask! His old drinking companion. Will turned slowly, and the baron was there, tall and paunchy, his expression affable, his fist wrapped around a pewter mug.

“Well done indeed,” Cask said. “I would never have thought you had it in you, Will.”

W
ill’s mind seemed to swing in a slow, lethargic circle. Lord Bentor. There. In the Thieves’ Den. Why? He had no answers. Indeed, he feared to voice the questions, for even the most innocuous action might be a deadly mistake. And he could not die. Not yet.

“You know our friend here?” Poke asked, surprise in his tone.

Cask’s gaze never left Will’s. “Indeed I do,” he said, and drank.

“Truly?” Poke said. “Then you must enlighten us.”

Silence spilled into the room, then, “Might you remember a certain lady?” Cask began and narrowed his eyes as if in thought. “The incident took place sometime ago. She was in a carriage. You were to stop her conveyance and retrieve certain documents in her possession.”

Though Will kept his gaze on Bentor, he could feel Poke’s eyes on him, cunning as a serpent.

“Ahh yes, the lady of Landow, I believe she was. A spirited woman if I remember correctly. She refused to yield. Told her driver to ply the whip.”

Cask sighed. “That does indeed sound like our dear Elli.”

Going to the sideboard, Poke poured himself a drink. “But what has this to do with our own Mr. Slate?”

Bentor smiled. “Slate?” he said, and laughed. “Is that what you call yourself these days, William?”

Will remained quiet, silently calculating. Why was the baron there? Why would he come?

“I fear I misjudged you, Will. I wouldn’t have thought you had that much imagination,” Bentor continued. “Or backbone. Whatever are you doing here?”

“A fine question,” said Poke, and glanced toward Ox, who loomed nearer. “Why have you blessed us with your company, Mr. Slate. Or, my apologies, William, is it?”

“We knew there was a traitor,” Will said.

The room fell into silence. “What’s that?” Cask’s expression tensed marginally.

So he’d struck a nerve, had guessed right. Excitement sizzled in Will’s veins.

“Sedonia’s intelligence has grown considerably since its union with Teleere,” he said. “Queen Tatiana knew someone was spilling our best-kept secrets.”

“Are you saying you’re a spy, Will?” The baron’s tone was disbelieving, mocking, but his eyes…

Will remained silent. He could feel his heart pounding against his ribs, but he forced a shrug and paced to the left, away from Shandria, away from her escape. “They approached me after Elli’s death. Said she’d been killed because of experiments she was conducting for the crown.”

Cask tsked, seeming to relax. “She was killed,” he said, “because of her own foolishness. She had concocted an interesting little formula and was ready to turn it over to king and country. But I had other buyers who were willing to pay a good deal for it. She had but to hand it over, and all would have been well. My friend, Lord
Wheaton here, is a professional, after all. Unfortunately, your wife had a good deal more spunk than you did, William,” he said, and, smiling, lifted his gaze to Shandria. “Perhaps ’tis a trend. Who is this lovely maid?”

Fear and rage twisted like brambles through Will, but he kept himself perfectly still. “They know, Cask,” he said.

The other tipped up his mug, drinking. “And what is it they know, my friend?”

“They know where I am. They know about the document. They planted it at Shirlmire, in fact, to determine the traitor’s true identity.”

“What an interesting theory.”

“Darktowne is surrounded.”

Cask’s eyes narrowed, but in a moment he threw back his head and laughed. “Truly, I owe you my sincerest apologies. I had no idea you were so imaginative.”

“The truth takes little imagination.”

“Lord Wheaton,” Cask said, not turning away, “is Darktowne surrounded?”

“Indeed it is,” Poke said, taking an elegant sip of aged Scotch. “And I pay my men well for their services.”

Desperation brewed frantic schemes, bubbling them into Will’s system like wine. He turned his gaze with deliberate slowness to the Den’s master. “Queen Tatiana pays them better,” he said.

Poke’s rage was immediate and palpable, spewing into the room like venom. “You lie!” he rasped. “MacTavish’s bitch knows nothing of Darktowne!” Rage spilled from him like boiling tar, turning his hands to claws, his face to a murderous mask.

“As it turns out, you were quite unimportant, Poke,” Will continued. “Tatiana only wanted the man who was financing you.”

“You expect me to believe that our precious little
princess has concocted such an elaborate plan to catch me?” Cask asked.

“It doesn’t matter what you believe,” Will said. “Her troops are closing in even as we speak.”

Poke snarled something inaudible, but the baron of Bentor laughed.

“You needn’t worry,” he said. “William is lying. Fairly convincingly, but lying, nevertheless. The queen is naught more than a silly girl. She knows nothing.”

“Perhaps that was true once,” Will agreed. “But things have changed. She has learned a good deal, as much from her advisors as from her husband.” He turned his gaze casually back to Poke. “The laird of Teleere.”

“That bastard,” Poke snarled, “is not the laird of the isle.” And suddenly there was a knife in his hand. Beside him, Shandria hissed a gasp, but Will dared not glance her way.

“Let him kill me, Cask, and you’re as good as dead,” Will said. “That I promise you.”

Cask held out a restraining hand, stopping Wheaton in his tracks. “If what you say is true, I’m dead anyway. I fear Sedonia frowns on traitors.”

“’Tis true,” Will agreed. “But as you said, Tatiana is little more than a girl, with a girl’s softness. You are her favored advisor’s friend, or once were. Leave Darktowne with me now. Admit your part in this, and she will have—”

“What of you, Princess?” Poke interrupted, and Will’s heart jolted in his chest. His mind froze, and his hand trembled.

“She has nothing to do with this.” He tried to sound casual, but his muscles were petrified, his mind panicked.

Poke smiled and slipped back under control. “Is that true, love?”

“I’d never met her before Peter hauled me in,” Will insisted. “She suspected me from the first.”

“Aye,” Poke agreed, and held out his hand. “Come here, Princess. We’ll let these two fine gentlemen work out their differences. There’s no need for us to become involved.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, face immobile.

“Come,” he repeated, then smiled and nodded toward Ox, “and I’ll make certain no one harms our Mr. Slate.”

“No,” Will rasped, but she was already stepping forward, already sacrificing herself.

Will leapt forward, but Poke snatched her against him, spinning her about so that her back was pressed to his chest and a knife pricked her throat.

Will slammed to a halt. The world ground to a stop. Hope ceased to live, spilling him into darkness.

“Don’t harm her.” The words were Will’s, though he hadn’t consciously spoken. “Please.”

Cask glanced from him to Shandria and raised a fascinated brow.

Poke smiled and flicked the blade across her throat. She didn’t move, didn’t whimper, but a narrow rivulet of blood was already flowing down the satiny whiteness of her neck, nauseating with its stark contrast. But she was still alive, still breathing, still watching him.

“William.” Her voice whispered in the room. “Go,” she begged.

“Let her go.” His soul shook, but his voice was steady. He turned his gaze to Cask. “Take me hostage. We’ll leave Sedonia. I’m a lord of the realm, the viscount of Newburn’s good friend. They’ll not risk me.”

“William,” Cask tsked, his tone shocked, as he canted his head in vague fascination. “You’ve fallen in love.”

“I swear to you.” Will could barely hear his own voice.

Could barely breathe past the agony of fear. “She knows nothing of this.”

Cask laughed. “The lord of aloof,” he said. “The cold baron.”

“Let her go,” he said, “and I’ll not spill the truth. I’ll swear you’re innocent.” He brew a careful breath. “I’ll tell them I’m the traitor.”

But Cask shook his head. “My God, Will, what has happened to you? There was a time you had some pride.”

Will shot his gaze to Shandria. There was still hope. Reason to live, if only for a little while.

“I beg you,” he said, his voice steady in the pulsing tension.

“So you’ve betrayed me.” Poke’s voice was soft as he shifted his weight to look into Shandria’s face. “You’ve betrayed me…for him.”

She turned her eyes toward his face. Gone was the mask. In its place was a swirl of haunted emotions. “He’s lying,” she hissed, teeth gritted. “I’m the spy. Let him go, and you might yet survive the day.”

“Two spies,” Poke said, and, smiling, leaned forward to kiss the corner of her mouth. “Such a pity,” he whispered and tightened his grip on his knife. “For both of you—”

Something flashed into her hand. She struck. Poke screamed and loosened his grip. She leapt away, but he was already reaching out, snatching at her.

Will lurched forward. Something exploded. Heat burned his arm. He staggered back, but Poke was close, knife in hand. He lunged again, and suddenly Poke was beneath him. Pain sliced his chest, but Will was already closing his hands around the other’s neck.

“Ox!” Poke rasped.

A movement behind him. Will shifted, rolling sideways. A knife slashed along his arm.

Ox snarled into his face, but suddenly there was a roar, and the Irishman was tossed aside.

The walls shook around him, but Poke twisted, gained his feet, and leapt away.

A pistol exploded. Someone screamed. From the corner of his eye, Will saw the Scotsman retrieve Ox and toss him into a trio of men who crowded the doorway, but Poke crouched only a few feet away, a knife uplifted.

“Traitor,” he rasped, and lunged. The blade hissed like a serpent past Will’s face, but he was already diving under the blade, slamming into Poke. He plowed forward. The wall stopped him. Poke grunted and jerked his knee up.

Will staggered sideways. His shoulder struck the wall. Poke lunged. Will caught his arm, but the knife hovered an inch from his face.

“I’ll butcher you like a steer!” he snarled. Drool dribbled from his gritted teeth. “Then I’ll kill her. Slow. Till she begs—”

Rage exploded like gunpowder. Will slammed Poke sideways. The thief’s head struck the oaken doorframe. His eyes widened in shock, then he dropped to his knees. He opened his mouth. Blood trickled from his lips, and he slumped slowly onto the floor, eyes wide and staring.

Will staggered about. The room was in chaos. The Highlander stood, besieged by a swarm of thieves. Cask was gone.

Shandria! He skimmed the room, and found her. Still alive, her arm bleeding. She held a knife in one hand, a chair leg in the other. He staggered toward her.

Someone lurched at him from the right. But she was there. So close. Nearly in his arms. It was all he could think. All he could do. “Shandria,” he whispered.

She screamed his name.

He watched her raise her arm. Saw a flash of silver arc
from her hand. A gun exploded near his ear. Pain erupted in his skull. He turned slowly. Someone crumpled at his feet, throwing his arms wide. The pistol fell from twitching fingers. Shandria’s knife quivered in his chest. Will watched it shiver like a silvery fish, like a mackerel running up a dark red stream. Almost pretty. Almost, he thought and dropped to his knees. His shoulder struck the floor, making his head reel.

“Will!” She rushed toward him, but from the corner of his eye he saw Poke roll to his side, saw him reach into his jacket. “Will.” She dropped down beside him, reaching for him. He couldn’t see past her. Couldn’t see Poke! Death swooped in. Her death. He roared a warning, tearing aside the oblivion and slamming her to the floor.

A gun exploded. He felt the impact in his side, felt the bullet burrow in even as he snatched up the fallen pistol. A spark pistoned from its muzzle. Poke jerked, slammed against the wall behind, and drifted languidly to the floor, blood smearing down the plaster.

Quiet settled into the room. Or was it just in his mind? But it didn’t matter, for she was safe. Whole. Will looked into her eyes and knew the truth. She would leave. She would live, because of him.

He heard footsteps echo against the floor, jarring him with the impact. But it felt like a distant dream. Almost pleasant. She was safe. She was well, and he was sleepy. He felt his eyes fall closed.

“No,” she whispered, touching his face. Her fingers were magic against his skin.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“No.” There were tears on her cheeks, but he could only smile, for she was safe.