Too Tempting to Resist (25 page)

“Actually, the moment is indelibly imprinted on my mind. And my body.” He pulled her into his lap. “Your lush little bum was wiggling against me, setting off all manner of improper urges.”

“Oh, I adore your urges.” She wagged her bottom back and forth, smiling as she felt him stir beneath her. “Though I’m surprised you didn’t toss me over your shoulder. I looked like something that had tumbled straight out of a crow’s nest.”

He chuckled. “I looked up through the leaves and there you were—the very picture of a wild woodland sprite with your paint-smudged dress, your delightfully bare feet, and your honeyed hair slipping free of restraint.” For a moment, the only sound was the steady thud of his heart. “I think I fell in love with you at that very instant.”

Eliza snuggled deeper into his hug. “You held me, and silly as it sounds, I knew I would always be safe in your arms.”

“I’ll never let you go,” he whispered.

Looking up she saw moonlight dancing along the curve of his mouth as his lips parted…

“Mmmm, I think I may stay out here all night.” She sighed, her body tingling all over from the long, lush kiss. “Simply to smile up at the heavens and count my lucky stars.”

“I’ve a better idea,” said Gryff. “I have a present for you to unwrap.”

“Another one?” She sat up. “What—”

“Open it and see.” From beneath the bench, he pulled out a long, narrow box wrapped in rose red paper. A scarlet ribbon twined around it, ending in a large bow.

“What is it?” she repeated.

“A wedding present.”

“We aren’t married.”

“Not yet. But I’m hoping that this might convince you to hurry along the preparations.”

Eliza unknotted the bow and carefully peeled away the wrapping, revealing an ornate rosewood box. She felt her heart begin to quicken. “No. Oh, it isn’t…”

The lid opened with a metallic snick.

Nestled on a bed of black velvet was Harry’s exotic sex toy, its brass manacles and carved rod winking in the starlight.

“I was thinking that we could rehang it in the guest suite of the Abbey.”

“That,” she murmured, “would be exceedingly wicked.”

“Yes. Exceedingly.” His eyes danced with amusement, along with some warmer emotion that made her insides melt into a slow, spinning vortex of heat. “Shall we?”

“The offer is…” Eliza leaned across the box and held out her wrists. “…too tempting to resist.”

T
he voice stirred a myriad of memories…
None of them good.

Soft and sensuous as summer sunlight, it tickled around his head, a tantalizing whisper, wrapping his brain in a seductive swirl of honeyed heat and gold-kissed sweetness.

Another word, and the sensation was now like a serpent, trailing its sensuous slither over bare flesh, only to strike with diamond-bright fangs.

Oh yes, he knew that voice—and it was poison to a man’s peace of mind.

And yet Cameron Daggett couldn’t help edging a little closer to the shadowed door and nudging it open a hairsbreadth wider.

He had just entered the building using the proprietor’s private entrance, so no one was aware of his presence. Peering through the sliver of space, he could just make out the two figures standing in the smoky half-light of the corridor walls’ sconces. The oil flames were kept deliberately low—the regular patrons of the establishment preferred to come and go discreetly. However, as the whisper had warned, the flickers of gold-lapped light showed the pair who were paused in deep conversation to be females. One of them was the familiar form of Sara Hawkins, the owner of The Wolf’s Lair. And the other was…

“This is
highly
irregular, Miss Lawrance,” said Sara in a low, taut murmur. “As a rule, I don’t allow wives or sisters, or others of our sex to intrude on the gentlemen who patronize this place. It’s bad fer business, if ye take my meaning. They expect privacy.”

“I understand,” replied the Voice from the Past. “Truly I do. And if it were not a matter of the utmost urgency, I would not dream of making such an irregular request. But the truth is…I am rather desperate.”

Desperate.
Cocking an ear, Cameron held himself very still.

“Yes, I can see that,” said Sara, heaving a reluctant sigh. “And so I will make a rare exception. Wait in there.” She indicated a small side parlor. “I will fetch the gentleman. But I must ask you to be quick—and fer God’s sake, ye must be quiet as well. No tears, no shrieks, no gnashing of teeth, else I will have te ask the porter to remove ye from the premises.”

“I will not make a scene,” promised Miss Sophie Lawrance, her earnest whisper coiling and clutching at his thumping heart.

“And when you are finished, ye must leave with all possible haste by the same way you came in,” added Sara. “Nothing personal, miss, but the sooner ye are gone from here, the better.”

Cameron’s own inner voice of Self-Preservation shouted a similar warning.
Turn and run like the Devil. And don’t look back.

After all, he had long ago mastered the art of staying one step ahead of personal demons—not to speak of more mundane threats like bailiffs and Bow Street Runners.

And yet…

And yet, at this moment Cameron found himself incapable of listening to reason. Instead of retreating, he slipped into one of the secret passageways used by the staff and waited for Sara to return with the man Sophie sought.

Low voices. A door opening and closing. The click of Sara’s heeled shoes as she returned to her private office.

Moving silently as a stalking panther, Cameron darted out of his hiding place and approached the parlor.

What reason, he wondered, had brought saintly Sophie Lawrance to one of London’s most notorious dens of iniquity? Set deep in the dangerous slums of Southwark, The Wolf’s Lair was a high-stakes gaming house and brothel that catered to rakehells and rogues who played fast and loose with the rules of Society.

And why, after all these years, should he care?

Because I am a god-benighted fool
, thought Cameron with a shiver of self-loathing.

The door was shut tightly with the lock engaged. Drawing a thin shaft of steel from his boot, Cameron expertly eased the latch open. A touch of his gloved fingertips coaxed the paneled wood to shift just a fraction.

Sophie was heavily veiled, the dark mesh muffling her already low whisper. Her companion was speaking in equally low tones, making it impossible to hear their words. However, he saw a small package change hands.

The gentleman let out a low, brandy-fuzzed laugh as he tucked it into his pocket.

Sliding back into hiding, Cameron watched Sophie hurry away down the corridor, her indigo cloak skirling with the shadows until she was swallowed in the darkness. A moment later, the gentleman emerged from the parlor, still chuckling softly. He turned for the gaming rooms, a flicker of lamplight catching the curl of his mouth and the slight swaying of his steps.

Cameron recognized him as Lord Hollis, a dissolute viscount with an appetite for reckless pleasures.

Hollis and Sophie?
An odd couple if ever there was one. The Sophie Lawrance he knew was anything but reckless. She was sensible—too damnably sensible to ever throw caution to the wind.

But people change
, thought Cameron sardonically. He had only to look at himself—there wasn’t the least resemblance between his present persona and the callow youth of…

Shaking off mordant memories, he followed Hollis into the card room. Timing his steps, he brushed by the viscount just as he started to sit down at one of the tables.

“Join us for a hand, Daggett?” called one of the other players.

“Not tonight,” answered Cameron. “I’ve an assignation with an old friend.”

The man leered. “A
lady
friend?”

“Pray tell, who?” chorused the man’s cronies.

“Gentlemanly honor compels Daggett to remain silent on that question,” pointed out the dealer.

Smiling, Cameron inclined a mocking bow and sauntered away, Sophie’s package now firmly tucked away in his pocket.

How fortunate that I have no pretensions to acting honorably. 

Drawing in a great lungful of the chill night air, Sophie Lawrance forced herself to choke back the urge to retch.
Steady, steady—ignore the sickening smells, the sordid encounter.
And yet, the bitter taste of bile rose again in her throat, and she felt the oozy ground beneath her feet begin to sway.
Breathe, breathe.
She would not—
could not
—give in to fear. Predators pounced on any show of weakness, and this godforsaken slum was perhaps the most savage spot in all of England.

“Allow me to be of assistance.” A hand suddenly gripped her arm to keep her upright and a snowy white handkerchief, scented with a pleasant tang of citrus and spice, fluttered in front of her veiled face. “You appear to be in some distress.”

“I…I…” Her stomach gave another little lurch. “I thank you, sir.” Swallowing her pride, Sophie took the silk square from the shadowy stranger and held it close to her nose. Oddly enough, the fragrance seemed to calm the churning of her insides. She inhaled several slow, deep breaths, savoring the richly nuanced scent.

“Better?”

“Much.” Now that her head had cleared, Sophie was eager to escape the dark, filth-strewn alley and the horrid nightmare of the evening. “A momentary indisposition, that is all.” She shrugged off his hold and held out the handkerchief. “It has passed.”

The stranger made no effort to take it back. “You had better keep it if you mean to wander around this neighborhood.” The alley was dark, with only an intermittent wink of starlight penetrating through the clouds, so for the moment she had only a dim impression of his person.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Strong hands, surprisingly gentle and warm.

His voice, however, was coolly cynical. “Though I would recommend a more effective implement of protection if you mean to enter places like The Wolf’s Lair. Say, a pistol or a knife. A lady’s virtue won’t last long without such a weapon.” A pause, and then his voice turned even more sardonic. “But perhaps your intentions aren’t virtuous.”

“I—I assure you, sir,” said Sophie tightly. “I am
not
in the habit of coming to…depraved places like this.”

“Oh?” Skepticism shaded his voice. “Then what brings you here tonight, if not a craving for danger?”

“That, sir, is none of your business.” Lifting her chin, she ventured a look at him, trying to make out some identifying feature.

However, the stranger had his hat pulled low, the wide brim shading his face. In the swirl of murky shadows, Sophie could make out naught but the vague shapes of a straight nose, a sensual mouth. The only clear-cut view was of long, raven-dark hair and the rakish glimmer of a pearl earring.

Danger.
His last word seemed a deliberately tickling, taunting challenge. Sophie sucked in her breath, suddenly aware of a strange prickling taking hold of her body, as if daggerpoints were dancing over every inch of her flesh. “In another few minutes I shall be safe from danger. That is, unless I’ve had the misfortune to cross paths with a pirate,” she said, trying to mask her emotions by matching his cynical tone.

A smile curled on the corners of his mouth, half mocking, half…

Sophie couldn’t put a name to the flicker of emotion. It was gone in the blink of an eye, so perhaps she had merely imagined it.

“A pirate?” he repeated, making her feel slightly absurd. Like a silly schoolgirl who swooned over novels of swashbuckling heroes rescuing damsels in distress. His voice then took on a sharper edge. “Isn’t that just a romantic name for a ruthless cutthroat and a conniving thief?”

Sophie swallowed hard, feeling a shiver skate down her spine. “Who are you, sir?” she demanded.

“Why do you ask?” he countered. “Do you think we might be acquainted? Old friends, perhaps?”

“Impossible,” she whispered. “I can’t imagine that we move in the same worlds.” Her dizziness seemed to have returned, and with a vengeance. Off-kilter, she found herself adding, “And yet you…you remind me of someone I once knew, long, long ago.”

“You speak of him as if he were dead.” Without waiting for her to answer, he gave a strange laugh. “Perhaps I’m his ghost.”

Sophie wondered whether he was drunk.
Or demented.

Inching back a step she looked around for the alleyway leading out to the street where her hackney was waiting.

“You want a name, Madam or Miss Whoever-You-Are?” he continued. “My two friends and I are called the Hellhounds.” He let out a low, sarcastic bark. “I’m known as the Sleuth Hound, as I have a nose for sniffing out trouble.”

“I am surprised that you admit to such a beastly moniker,” she replied slowly.

“I make no bones about what I am,” he said softly. “What about you?” His head tilted down and then up, his unseen eyes leaving a trail of heat along her body. “Your manner of dress—sturdy country half boots, modest woolen cloak, prim headcovering—says you are a respectable country lady. But the fact that you are here, visiting a house of ill repute in the stews of Southwark, speaks an entirely different message.”

She felt her cheeks grow hot beneath the gauzy veil. That he was right only fanned the flames. “You are impertinent, sir.”

“No, I am observant.” A pause. “More so than you think. Indeed, from what I’ve seen, I would say you are playing a very dangerous game. Have a care, for in dealing with those who frequent The Wolf’s Lair, you are going up against the most ruthless men in London.”

“Including you?” challenged Sophie, though her heart was pounding hard enough to crack a rib.

“Oh, I’m among the very worst of the lot.”

“I must be going.” Slipping past him, Sophie hurried toward the narrow gap between the ramshackle buildings.

But to her dismay, the Pirate moved along with her. “Allow me to see you to your vehicle. It isn’t safe to walk through these alleys alone.”

“You needn’t bother.” She flinched slightly at the sound of scrabbling claws somewhere close by. “I—I will take my chances.”

“I think you have gambled enough for one evening,” he drawled. “Besides, I’d be willing to wager that you wouldn’t care to put your foot where you are about to step.”

She stopped short, as a horribly foul odor assaulted her nose.

“Nasty, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“I—”

His hands were suddenly around her waist, lifting her into his arms as if she were light as a feather. Beneath the folds of wool she was intimately aware of the lean, lithe flex of muscle.

Oh, what madness has taken hold of me?

Her wits were spinning and skittering topsy-turvy. How else to explain that the moment felt so hauntingly familiar? So achingly comforting.

Madness
, she repeated to herself. The meeting with Lord Hollis ought to be reminder enough that youth and innocence were long gone. Only a fool yearned to reach back and recapture the past.

Fisting her fingers, Sophie tried to squirm free. “Please, put me down, sir!”

“As you wish.” Her boots hit the ground with a soft squish. “We have passed through the worst. It’s just a little farther to where the hired carriages wait. You will soon be back to the respectable part of Town.”

Slipping, sliding, Sophie hurried awkwardly toward the weak glimmer of oily light up ahead. The Pirate glided alongside her with a smooth, silent step.

Spotting her hackney parked at the near corner of the rough-cobbled square, she skirted around the snorting horse and quickly unlatched the door.

“Thank you. Though you need not have troubled yourself…” A gust of wind swirled over the stones, catching at her cloak and lifting the thin scrim of her veil just as she turned to take her leave.

“No trouble at all,” replied the Pirate. He had moved close to help her climb up the iron rungs, and now their faces were but a hairsbreadth apart. “Indeed, I did warn you that I have a nose for trouble.”

And a mouth for sin.

For suddenly his lips possessed hers in a swift, searing kiss.

It was over in an instant. He pulled back, so quickly that she was sure the glimmer of green eyes must have been only a figment of her heated imagination.

“Fie, sir! N-no gentleman—”

Her stammering protest was stilled by a rumbled laugh.
A pirate laugh, redolent with hints of hellfire dangers and storm-tossed seas.

“Ah, but whoever said I was a gentleman?”