Star Crossed Seduction (3 page)

Taking his time, Trev made a great show of replacing his long, curved saber in its scabbard. Then he demanded of the shoemaker. “How big a reward do you expect to get for her?”

The man growled, “Reckon ten pound. More if she’s been in the jug before.”

“You deserve more for having apprehended her.” He reached into his belt and extracted a few notes. “Here’s twenty. Give her to me and take it for your trouble. I’ll see that she is punished.”

“So you say.” The man eyed him warily. “But how am I to know justice will be done?”

“Do you question the honor of an officer of the King’s Dragoons?”

The threat in his tone made the shoemaker hesitate, and when Major Stanley took a step toward him, his hand on his saber, the man standing beside the shoemaker intervened. “Come away, Tom. Sommat’s better than nowt. The girl might be clean, and you’d get nothing from the magistrate. I say take the captain’s money and to hell with her.”

The shoemaker briefly considered this. Then he reached for the notes Trev held out and pocketed them. Grabbing the girl by the leather lacing he’d used to bind her wrists, he dragged her toward Trev.

“She’s yours, Captain. And good riddance to the drab. Reckon you’ll find you paid too much for her.”

A stocky man in a porter’s garb called out, “What about the shilling she forked off me, eh?”

“I didn’t fork nothing off you, porter,” the girl shot back. “If I were to steal, it wouldn’t be from the likes of you, but from the rich. They steal more from the poor than I ever could. But you’ll never see them hang for it.”

“Aye, she’s got a point,” the porter said. “The rich bleed us dry, they do. Who pays for their diamonds and jewels but the workingman?”

The mood of the crowd shifted again, as a few men shouted the Radicals’ slogan, “Liberty for all!”

“Come on, then,” Trev said to the girl, brusquely. “Before they turn on both of us.”

He grasped her by the wrists and pulled her toward the edge of the crowd. She hung back for a moment, putting all her weight on her heels as she resisted him, but as the muttering around them grew louder, she saw reason at last and gave in though she kept her chin up and straightened her shoulders as he led her out of the crowd.

As they reached the edge, her eyes dropped to the cobbles, and he followed her gaze. When he saw what it was that had captured her attention, he gestured to Major Stanley to hold her for a moment and dove back into the mass of onlookers to get the bedraggled black straw hat that had fallen under their feet. He picked up it and brought it back to her.

“Yours, I believe?” he asked.

Warily, she nodded, as if unwilling to show anything that might be interpreted as gratitude. But even so, he could tell his small gesture of kindness had surprised her. Before restoring it to her, he examined the hat closely and brushed it with his sleeve, to rub off the streaks of dust it had acquired during its progress down the pavement. Then he did what he could to smooth out the crumpled feather and carefully set the hat on her head, giving it a slight tilt before he stepped back to admire his handiwork.

She pursed her lips as if she would repay him for his thoughtfulness by spitting at him, but at the last moment, she thought better of it. He took her bound wrists from the major and led her out of the crowd, drawing her toward the main street. When they had reached an empty stretch of pavement, Major Stanley asked, “Whatever will you do with her?”

“Damned if I know. But you’d best go on to Mother Bristwick’s without me.”

He glanced at the girl. Her expression was impenetrable. He would have given a lot to know her thoughts in the moment.

“Well, you’ve found plenty with which to warm your corpuscular molecules,” the major said. “By God she is a beauty, Trev. Can’t say I don’t envy you. Though you’d best keep a good eye on your wallet now that she knows where you keep your brass.”

Chapter 2

T
he bastard. The bloody stinking bastard of a dragoon. She’d been mad to try to rob him, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Not when she’d seen him standing there, every inch the proud officer, slumming, sneering at her and the crowd, not bothering to hide his contempt. The look of disgust she’d seen in his eyes as he’d listened to old Barrow’s ballad had pushed her over the edge. How dare he exhibit such scorn for her and her people!

When she’d seen that expression of loathing fill his eyes, she’d wanted to do more than steal his coins. She’d wanted to wipe that disgusted look off his face. She’d wanted to slash his dashing blue uniform and smear his close-cropped curls with filth ’til he was as ragged and soiled as the men he so disdained.

What did he have to be so proud about? He was a dragoon, a tool of the greedy rich, a heartless killer, just like the dragoons who’d ridden down the protesters at Peterloo—trampling down women and children while wearing, no doubt, that same insolent sneer.

A dragoon like the one who had murdered Randall.

The familiar pain lanced through her heart as it always did when she remembered her lost love. But she shouldn’t have let her anger make her careless. Randall had warned her there was no room for passion in a pickpocket’s heart—not when they plied their trade. He’d been so right, he who’d taught her all she knew of the knuckling lay.

But she’d ignored his advice and given in to the impulse of the moment. She was lucky she wasn’t on her way to the hulks. This cursed officer might have saved her from rotting in one of those floating prisons, but she owed him no thanks. It had been a dragoon just like him who’d killed Randall—murdered him and dumped his body in the Thames.

But this one would not harm
her,
not if she could keep her wits about her. Everything about him might radiate insolence, even the way his cloak snapped in the wind, but she wouldn’t let that bother her. Let him think he’d found himself a bit of fun. He’d soon learn his lesson, the proud bastard. If he thought he had her where he wanted her, he’d soon find out his mistake.

This wasn’t the first time she’d found herself at the mercy of some man who expected his superior strength to give him the advantage over her, but they never reckoned on the strength of her wits. She’d get herself out of this scrape, too. She must just forget about Randall, set aside her rage, and clear her mind. She must study this man, whose iron grip confined her wrists, charm him, and find his weakness. All men had one—usually greed or lust. For all his proud demeanor, this one would be no different. And when she’d found what made him tick, she’d use it to win back her freedom.

She let her shoulders slump. Let him think her defeated; it would keep him from being on his guard. He’d revel in his power, and, with luck, it would make him sloppy. But she must be careful, so very careful. She hadn’t liked what he’d said to the shoemaker about punishing her.

As the captain led her toward a darkened alley, striding ahead of her on those long legs of his, he fixed her now and then with a probing gaze. His eyes were set deep beneath the straight brows that slashed across his forehead and far too observant. He wasn’t stupid, despite being an officer, which was a shame. Stupid men were easier to deal with, and as she struggled to keep up with him, it became clear this man was no uniformed popinjay, either.

The long muscles in his legs rippled beneath the tightly-stretched buckskin breeches. They were strong muscles, which told her he spent his days doing more than just prancing around a ballroom. And that scar that slashed up from his lip and kept his face from having the beauty it might have otherwise possessed. How had he got that?

It might have been from dueling in the park over some imagined slight. The dragoons in London were an idle bunch, given to gambling and fighting amongst themselves. But somehow she thought not. It might just as easily have been earned in battle. There was something about this man that was different from those she’d seen before.

When he finally came to a halt, she asked him, “Where’d you do your fighting, soldier?” Men loved to talk about themselves and brag about their courage. Time to get to work on him if she were to get herself out of this situation safely.

His brows lifted, as if he were surprised to learn she could talk. “Poona,” he said.

“That same Poona, in India, where they had that battle Barrow was shouting about?”

He nodded.

“How long you been back?”

“A week.”

A gust of relief swept through her. At least he had not been at Peterloo. Or with the troop that had hunted down Randall after the Cato Street Conspiracy had failed.

“Seen a lot of action?”

“More than enough.” He said it in a way that shut down further conversation. She wouldn’t be able to get him to relax bragging about himself, so she changed the subject. “India! You
have
seen the world. How I should like to see it, with its caves full of jewels, and rich spices—and the beautiful women locked in harems—just like in
The
Arabian Nights
.”

“You’ve read
The Arabian Nights
?” His voice betrayed surprise. Did he think that just because she was poor she was stupid?

“I’ve read it and a lot more.” Let him chew on that.

“You’re not a Cockney, are you?” he asked. “Your accent is that of the Midlands. How long have you been in London?”

“Long enough.” It was three years since she’d left home with Randall, just after her fifteenth birthday. Not that it was any of his business.

“Come here,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow alleyway. “There may still be men in the crowd who’d like to do you harm. We’ll be safer here.”

She didn’t believe for a minute he was leading her there to protect her, but the rope around her wrists gave her no choice but to follow him. When they had gone deeper into the shadows, he stopped and turned toward her. “Why did you steal, just now?” he demanded. “I know you did, so don’t bother lying. Just tell me the truth.” The set of his deeply cleft chin told her only the truth would do.

She struggled to think of how to phrase it. At last she said, “People depend on me. I couldn’t let them down.”

“They need you to find them money?”

“Yes. Two pounds by the morrow. They’re going to tear down the place we been dossing in, to put up some new mansion for the rich.”

“And if you don’t find those two pounds? What then.”

“Clary goes back to whoring. She’s only fourteen.”

“And you too?” His interest was unmistakable.

“I’m eighteen.”

“That’s not what I was asking.”

“I’ve never sold myself.”

He said nothing, evaluating the truth of her statement. His deep-set eyes dropped to her bosom and drifted lower. The crotch of his breeches bulged. So that was the key to handling this man. Lust. Not greed or glory.

He repeated, “You’ve never sold yourself?”

She took a deep breath. “Never.” She paused. Then hazarding all on a lucky throw, she added, “ ’Til now.”

He grinned. It made the scar at the corner of his lip deepen, but strangely, though it should have made him fearsome, it had the opposite effect. The look it gave his stern face intrigued her. Despite herself, she enjoyed making this man smile.

“Would you be my Scheherazade, then?”

“Scheherazade told stories. Is that what you want from me?” Her tone let him know she doubted it.

“That’s what she does in the expurgated edition. But I’ve read the original Arabic. It tells a spicier tale.”

“The East is famous for its spices,” she parried. “But I know naught of ’em. I’m only a humble English girl.”

“English, yes. But hardly humble. You’re as proud as a queen. I doubt you’d disappoint me.” His eyes held a look of anticipation. Yes, lust would be the key to getting away from him.

“Surely you’ve had real houris in India, a handsome man like yourself.” A little flattery never hurt.

“Some. But I have had my fill of curry and yearn to taste good English cooking.”

“What’s curry?

“Food as hot as this cold November night is cold. Food that inflames the passions and fills the heart with courage.”

“You may yearn for English cooking,” she said, arranging her features in an arch expression. “But by the sound of it, I think I should like to taste this curry.” She batted her lashes to give him no doubt she was issuing an invitation.

His eyes lit up, softening the harsh planes of his cheeks. “It would be my pleasure to introduce you to it,” he said. “You are strong enough to endure it. Perhaps you might come to enjoy it. Some Englishwomen do. A few. Though most complain it pains them. I wonder—”

A look she could not entirely interpret swept over his features, as if he were considering something dangerous and weighing the cost. She shivered, hoping it was just a response to the icy breeze that blew rubbish down the deserted alleyway.

Then he reached for his sword and pulled it out of its scabbard. Even in the gloom of the alley, its sharp edge glinted. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded. “Keep still.”

Her gut clenched. They were alone, unobserved. His last speech had made her uneasy, with its talk of pain and endurance. He was a dragoon, a man who took pleasure in killing. Perhaps he took pleasure in causing pain, too.

But she had no choice but to comply. Her wrists were tightly bound, she couldn’t break free. She must submit to whatever he had in mind and wait for her opportunity. Cautiously, she extended her arms toward him. She held her breath, hoping she had not made a terrible mistake.

After grasping her forearm with his free hand, with a single swift motion, he brought the tip of his blade to her wrists and sawed through the leather thong that bound them. Her hands sprang free. Then he smiled at her in a way that, had he been anyone but a dragoon, she would have thought was kindly.

“Rub them to get the circulation going. They’ll feel better soon.” He sounded as if he knew what he was talking about. A moment later he asked, “Have your hands stopped tingling?”

She nodded with a shy smile, and once again his eyes lit up as if he cared. But though he had freed her of the bindings, he still maintained his grip on her arm.

“What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Scheherazade. It’s too much of a mouthful.”

“Temperance Smith.”

“Another mouthful.”

“Folk call me Tem.”

“Captain Miles Trevelyan, at your service. My friends call me Trev.”

“Am I to be your friend?” She lowered her lashes and looked up from under them in the way that men always found irresistible. She licked her lips.

“That is up to you,” he said, his scarred lip quirking up into a smile. Then, moving so quickly she had no way of protecting herself from him, he lowered his head and set his lips firmly on hers.

H
e couldn’t help himself. It was wrong, and he knew it, but the way she’d flirted with him had been like dangling raw meat before a starving wolf. It had not been lust alone that had made him save her, and when he had, he’d not meant to make her pay for her rescue with her body. But he was a normal male—with an abnormally strong animal nature. He’d not been able to resist the temptation of those fluttering lashes or the unmistakable invitation he’d heard in her voice. And now it was too late for regret.

He gave himself up to the pleasure he found as he pressed his lips against hers. They were so alive, so responsive. He could almost believe she wanted him. He told himself he would take nothing from her she didn’t wish to give, but he could not stop himself from trying to make her want to give him everything.

He teased her lips with the tip of his tongue, taking his time and resisting the temptation to invade her mouth too soon. He caressed her neck with one hand and stroked the delicate down behind her ear in the way he knew must increase her pleasure.

She’d been stiff with resistance when he’d given in to the urge to kiss her, but as he worked on her, she responded to his coaxing and relaxed. She opened her lips. Her breath was fresh, her taste intoxicating. Responding to this new invitation, his tongue explored the pulsing warmth of her mouth, and, as she flicked her own tongue against his, without warning, his whole body came alive.

A shock ran through him. It surged up his spine, filling his body with light and awakening every nerve. His heart pounded with joy until he thought it would burst. Life coursed through his veins. And yet, in the midst of this excitement, a strange peace flooded through him, as if he were home at last, at rest. He clung to her, comforted but stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening to them both, knowing only that he’d die if he let her go.

He must be drunker than he’d thought.

But he wasn’t drunk. Everything was brighter and clearer than usual, not dulled as it was with alcohol. Something new intoxicated him, and he had no ability to stop it. He inhaled deeply the faint scent of oranges that wafted from her hair and held on to her more tightly.

When, after centuries had passed, he released her, she staggered back. Would she flee him, now that he’d given her the chance? The confusion in her eyes matched his own. She was breathing quickly and looked dazed. Had she felt what he had, or something else? It was impossible to know, but it tormented him to think she might be feeling anything but the bliss that filled him now.