Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (27 page)

“Fine,” she gasped. Shaking the hair away from her face, she sat up, clenching him so tightly within her he thought he might expire. She swallowed. “It’s so much…”

It might just kill him, but he had to offer, “Do you want to stop?”

“Just give me a moment.”

She stirred above him, and groaned. He felt the ripple from the head of his manhood to every part of his body.

“It hurts?” he bit out.

She shook her head, her golden hair shimmering in the light. “No,” she breathed. “It feels, really…” Slowly, she shifted again. “…
really
good.”

Her hips undulated.

His body thrummed, as if she were the musician and he her perfectly harmonious instrument. It felt so bloody sweet, he had to fight the desperate urge to close his eyes. But he wanted to see her face, appreciate her pleasure.

She smiled, moving this way, then that. He marveled at her obvious delight. She was like a child in a candy shop, hesitant at first, then relaxing and taking her fill.

Her pace quickened.

Her smile faded. Her brow locked with concentration. Her eyes closed, her mouth opened. Her golden hair whipped about her face as she rode him, spearing him deeper and deeper inside of her with every thrust. Her breasts bounced to her rhythm and he reached for them, grasping the soft mounds and teasing the hard, rosy nubs.

Her breath came fast as she placed her hands flat on his chest. “Am I doing this right?”

“Oh, yes.”

“But you’re watching me.”

“You’re exquisite,” he breathed. “I want to see your beautiful face when you take your pleasure.”
For the first time.
But it wouldn’t be her last…

“But I don’t want you watching me. I want you…” She ground her hips, rolling them back then forward, an excruciatingly delicious gyration. Pleasure rocketed straight through his shaft, making him gasp from it.

“Dear God!”

“…Riding the wind with me.”

“Don’t stop,” he choked out, clenching her waist.

He couldn’t see her expression, his eyes were rammed shut. But she got the message. She gyrated her hips with that fantastic forward-and-back motion that made him want to scream, if he’d had any breath left in him.

A red haze swept over him where he only knew the heat, the raw animal tension, the yearning drive propelling him to that demanded release. So close, so damned close.

Blindly, he reached forward, finding the tight bud at the juncture of her thighs.

He heard a strangled cry. Her hot inner muscles clenched wildly, taking him over the edge, milking him. Lifting his hips, he pounded into her, pouring his seed, with a harsh grunt. His world collapsed into itself.

Cat fell atop him, their sweaty bodies slipping together in a vapor of musky passion. He could hardly breathe, simply gasped over and over, struggling for air. For sanity.

His arms were like deadweights as he wrapped them around her and cuddled close. He’d never felt this way before, he realized sleepily. He felt…home.

M
arcus woke to the sounds of boot steps clomping on wood. Years of training had him out of the bed and reaching for his uniform before he’d even woken. But his uniform wasn’t where it was supposed to be on the edge of the bed.

He blinked, trying to stir the cobwebs from his mind. His clothes were strewn on the floor of the outer salon where Cat had ripped them off of his eager body. Cat. She was gone.

He almost wished that he hadn’t insisted she leave for propriety’s sake. She was probably at the main house seeing to Evie or Devane or handling the myriad issues he admired her for.

Deep voices filtered in through the wooden walls. He could count three, no four men outside. The outer door opened, then closed. They were in the salon.

He thanked his lucky stars that Cat was not here, as he grabbed the sheet and wrapped it about his waist. The last thing in the world she needed was to get caught in bed
with him. He distantly recognized that the idea of a scandal that might force her to wed him held some appeal. But it would take more than a scandal to win Catherine’s hand.

Wrapped only in a bedsheet, Marcus reached for his sword. Unsheathing it, he positioned himself a few paces directly before the threshold.

Tam opened the door.

Marcus let out a breath, relieved. He lowered his weapon. “Glad to see you, Tam.”

“You as well, sir.” The trusty sergeant had a pained expression on his face. From the look in his eyes, Marcus knew trouble was afoot.

“Who’s outside?”

Closing the door, Tam approached and lowered his voice. “There’s three men wantin’ a word with you.”

Resheathing his sword, Marcus dropped the sheet. “Hand me my boots.”

“Uniform might be in order for this instance, if ya don’t mind me saying so, sir.”

Setting the sword within hand’s stretch on the dresser, Marcus opened the wardrobe and reached for his white breeches. “Where’s Cat?”

“Up at the main house.”

“Did she see the men?”

“No, Timmy, the stable lad, sent them here first.”

Score one for Timmy.

“The leader is a gent calling himself a Solicitor General,” Tam explained as he helped Marcus into his shirt. “The other two are Bow Street Runners.”

“They like to be called police constables or officers.”

“I know.” Tam walked over to the wardrobe and removed Marcus’s crimson shako. He fluffed the white plume, and adjusted the gold adornment. “What’s a Solicitor General, anyway?”

Marcus grabbed his crimson-and-gold coat and shrugged it on his shoulders. Oddly, Marcus felt somewhat uneasy putting it on. Probably because he hadn’t worn it in a while, he dismissed. “He’s a Law Officer of the Crown.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nonmilitary. He’s the Crown’s legal representative on matters involving public welfare. In the courts, providing legal advice, questions or authority and the like.”

“Ugh, a
lawyer
.”

“They do make the world a wordy place,” Marcus muttered, fastening the final brass buttons of his coat. “By the by, how are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been trampled by that blasted mount instead of riding it.” Tam handed him his sword. “But I’ve been worse.”

“And you’ll be better.” Marcus secured his weapon and checked the knife in his boot. Wondering what an Officer of the Crown would want with him, he asked, “What’s this Solicitor General’s name?”

“Dagwood.”

Something inside of Marcus hardened. “So he’s not a magistrate anymore…”

“You know him?”

“I haven’t seen him in a long time.” About seven years. The last encounter involving Dagwood had gone dreadfully. Marcus had been so overwrought by his father’s betrayal he could hardly stand.

But Marcus no longer felt like that enraged twenty-one-year-old. He was a man, well regarded, and…he suddenly realized, well loved. Catherine’s kisses still felt as if they were upon him, marking him. He could almost hear her loving whispers still in his ear. The scent of their sweet lovemaking hovered all around him.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Marcus didn’t feel like the rug was about to be pulled out from under him. He felt good. He felt whole. Not even Dagwood could bother him now.

“Let us greet our guests, shall we?” He smiled, feeling better than he had in years.

“Magistrate Dagwood!” Marcus cried as he opened the door and stepped into the salon. He was relieved to see that trusty Tam had removed Marcus’s strewn clothing. There was no evidence of the incredible seduction that had taken place only a few short hours before.

Dagwood lounged with his cane near the sofa, behind him the police officers were positioned near the closed door. Each Bow Street Runner wore street clothes with the requisite tipstaff hanging from his hip. One was wheat-haired, the other carrot-topped, close to the color Prescott’s used to be. The men’s hands rested easily at their sides and their faces were composed, as if they did not anticipate trouble. Marcus wondered what Dagwood had told them, then dismissed the thought. Dagwood was too self-preserving to share his secrets.

“It’s Solicitor General, now, Dunn,” Dagwood drawled with obvious irritation. Except for the streaks of silver at his temples, the attorney didn’t appear much older than he’d been seven years before. Much of his hair remained jet-black, cut short in the Greek style, and his pallid face bore few of the telling lines of age. Still, some things never changed. Dagwood’s eyes were still like black coals of burning ambition. The man had probably chewed his way to the top.

Marcus smiled. If the man gave him trouble, Marcus would give him something to chew on. Dagwood was a sheep to his wolf. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“You know why I’m here.”

Marcus scratched his ear, commenting. “No, but I’m sure that you’ll enlighten me soon enough.” He waved to the sofa. “If you would?”

The attorney sat, making a production of adjusting his elegantly designed coat. It looked to be a Weston cut, dark blue with gilt buttons, with a pale cream waistcoat underneath topped by an enormous beige neckcloth and pointed collar. His black cane and hat appeared upper-notch as well.

“You’ve done well for yourself, Dagwood.” Marcus positioned himself across from the man in a hard-backed wooden chair.

“By appearances you would seem to have done the same,
Major
.” The attorney peered through his quizzing glass. “But I know better.”

“How’s that?”

Dagwood jerked his chin. “What happened to your injury? Last I saw you, you were practically an invalid. Now suddenly you are fit and whole. A contrivance, perhaps?”

“You saw me?”

“On Bond Street.”

“And you didn’t stop to acknowledge me?” Marcus pressed his hand to his heart. “I am wounded.”

Dagwood scowled. “So what happened to your leg?”

“Luckily for me, I’m a quick healer.”

Through the quizzing glass Dagwood gave Marcus a long, hard stare.

Marcus wondered if that actually worked to intimidate people. He realized that he no longer had the patience he once did for such games. Now, he had a woman to woo. “It’s kind of you to visit, Dagwood. But I am a bit late for an appointment…” Marcus stood, indicating dismissal.

Dagwood dropped the monocle. “I’m not finished with you!”

“Then perhaps you would do me the courtesy of getting started.” His tone was meant to be terse.

The attorney frowned. This interview was obviously not going as he had expected. “I am no longer a simple magistrate, Dunn. Try not to forget that my office supplies me with a certain amount of influence that can be exercised in many different ways.”

Marcus didn’t know to what exactly the man was referring, but he schooled himself to be careful. A Solicitor General could cause Andersen Hall unnecessary grief, and he did not want Cat or the children to have to pay for his insolence. Still, a man could only take so much.

“I simply do not wish to waste any more of your valuable time than I have to.” Marcus leveled his tone. “So if you would simply get to the point of your visit, we would both be better served.”

Dagwood blinked, staring at Marcus as if he were a conundrum. Seemingly less certain of himself, he turned to the police officers. “If you men would wait outside?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marcus nodded to Tam. The sergeant followed the men out and closed the door.

The attorney adjusted his coat and rearranged his legs before him, obviously priming himself for a verbal sparring.

Marcus tried to contain his inner groan.

“I hear Lord Wellington’s behind you.” Dagwood sounded impressed.

“What do you want, Dagwood?”

His dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “How do you think your General Wellesley is going to feel when he hears that you’ve been arrested?”

Marcus smiled. “That depends, I suppose, on the charge.”

“Burglary, of course.”

“Is your career in such straits that you need to dig up old ghosts?” Marcus scoffed, removing his shako and setting it on his knee. He ran his gloved hand through his hair; the scent of lemons mixed with the heady odor of Cat’s lovemaking was still upon him. Lord, he missed her already.

“Ghosts as old as last night?” Dagwood raised a brow.

Marcus scowled, annoyed. “What the blazes are you talking about?”

“Last night the Thief of Robinson Square burgled a fine home making off with, well, you know exactly what was stolen as”—he leaned forward dramatically—“you are the thief!”

“Did you come here expecting me to drop on my knees and confess?” Marcus shook his head, disbelieving. “Was that your grand plan?”

Dagwood’s face flushed pink.

“It had to be, for, undoubtedly, you have no evidence against me.” He shifted, uneasily recalling his father’s betrayal. “You didn’t seven years ago either. All you had was my father’s word.”

“I would have found the evidence—”

“And my father would have told your dirty secret to the world.” Marcus had to marvel at his father’s ingenuity. He did inform on his own son, but likewise found a way to save him from prosecution. For the first time, Marcus could truly appreciate his father’s ingenuity. “But all of this is water under the bridge—”

“It’s not; you broke your vow. We had a deal—”

“Which I have honored. Whatever you are talking about is not my doing.”

“But the evidence!” Dagwood defended, his face blotching red. “The feather calling card, the unseen entry—”

“Everyone in London knew that modus operandi.”

“But you’re back in town.”

“I was in Dover. Then Reigate. At Lord Hartz’s estate.” Marcus suddenly wondered why Cat hadn’t asked about his visit with the Hartzes. She was probably as overwhelmed as he by the events surrounding his return.

Dagwood leaned back, seemingly less sure. “When did you come back?”

“Just this morning.”

“You could have arrived early enough—”

“There are countless witnesses who can attest to my whereabouts at the inns where I took refreshments and changed horses.” Marcus stretched his arms above his head; he was still sore from the hard ride and the deliciously hard riding done to him. “Sorry to disappoint, Dagwood. But you will actually have to catch the thief this time.”

“But—”

Marcus dropped his arms. “There are no ‘buts,’ Dagwood. I didn’t do it. More importantly, if you try to pin it on me, you will have to explain to the world why you let me go seven years ago.”

Dagwood looked as if he’d swallowed a sour grape. “But if it’s not you, then who?”

“I don’t know and I don’t really care.” Marcus realized that that wasn’t quite true. It irked his pride that someone had the gall to try to attach a crime to him, even if it was to his former nom de guerre.

Dagwood’s face fell into a mask of defeat. At least he was smart enough to believe the truth when it was spelled out for him. The attorney shook his head, muttering to himself, “First Beaumont, now this…”

“Beaumont?” Marcus asked, curious at the man’s sudden droop.

“I got the wrong man,” Dagwood confessed, sighing. “I couldn’t truly be blamed; the evidence was all there…” He shook his head. “They set the stage well, but I should have seen it. I should have dug further…” He scratched his head. “It wasn’t even a case that I would normally assume…I was just so certain. So—”

“Bloody ambitious?” Marcus supplied.

Dagwood scowled, then shrugged, his face relaxing. “One does not become Solicitor General by resting on one’s laurels.” He exhaled noisily. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that someone was out to undermine me.”

Marcus shrugged. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

“I’m full of myself, Dunn.” Dagwood raised a brow. “But that does not mean that I imagine that the world revolves around me.”

Marcus hid his surprise. Dagwood wasn’t quite as contemptible as Marcus remembered him. But then again, Marcus had changed quite a bit himself in seven years.

“You’re here on a mission, aren’t you?” Dagwood suddenly asked.

Marcus didn’t bother to reply.

“I could see how a sharp blade like Lord Wellington would use a man of your…unique talents.”

Marcus straightened, warning calls sounding off in his head. “Don’t get any ideas, Dagwood…”

Dagwood leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Thief of Robinson Square is your persona. Doesn’t it bother you, just a pinch, that someone else is trying to blame you for his crimes?”

Marcus had to hand it to the man; he knew how to pull the puppet strings. But Marcus was not dancing.

Dagwood slapped his knee. “Of course it does. Can’t you just see the news accounts? ‘Thief of Robinson Square Strikes Again.’ Lord only knows what else they will try to blame you for.”

Marcus shifted, uneasy. “I really am quite occupied…”

“The next thing you know,” Dagwood continued, “you’ll be responsible for Napoleon’s next coup! And the thieves will get away, clean as a whistle, because of your inaction. Unless…” He scratched his chin, eyeing Marcus as if he were a shiny new sword all his own. “You help catch the thief usurping your name. Lord Wellington would certainly be willing to grant the Solicitor General a few days of your time if I explained how badly your skills are needed.”