“I have no wish for martyrdom,” he said mildly as he watched her fling his hat and leather mask to the floor and untie his cloak.
“You have a very odd way of showing it.” She scowled at the buttons on his tunic—it was that or weep. “If they catch you, they’ll hang you as soon as possible, and there won’t be a last-minute rescue as there was for Mickey O’Connor. There isn’t anyone to rescue you.”
“Isabel.” He caught her trembling hands, holding them firm even when she tried to pull away. “Hush. No one is going to capture me.”
She wouldn’t cry in front of him. “You’re not invincible,” she whispered. “I know you think you are, but you aren’t. You’re simply flesh and blood, as vulnerable as any other man.”
“Don’t take on so,” he whispered, brushing his mouth over her neck.
“How can I not when you insist on risking your life like this?”
He picked her up and set her on the library table, standing between her spread legs. “I must find these kidnapped children. They need me, Isabel.”
“Everyone in St. Giles needs you.” She grasped his hair with both hands. “Yet if you needed them, they wouldn’t care one whit. Why, they chased and beat you when you saved the pirate!”
“Should I help only those brave enough to help me?” he murmured as he bunched her skirts in his fists. “Perhaps only save those who pass some test of charity?”
“No, of course not.” She gasped as he ran his broad palms over her thighs. She glared at him. “Even if such a test could be devised, you would completely ignore it. You rescue the deserving and the undeserving without regard. You’re a blasted saint.”
He huffed a single chuckle, and she noted with one part of her mind that it was the first time she’d heard the sound.
Then his hands were there and all thought left her mind.
He leaned close, watching her as his clever fingers found her point and gently stroked. “I’m sorry to worry you. I’d do anything to make you happy.”
She opened her eyes wide and reached out to stroke his cheek. “Even quit being the Ghost of St. Giles?”
But he didn’t answer—either because he didn’t want to disappoint her or because her fingers working on the opening to his breeches distracted him.
He turned his face toward her just as she found the last of his buttons and slipped her hand inside. He was hard and hot, as she knew he would be, waiting for her impatiently. She grasped him as she accepted his tongue into her mouth, his fingers into her depths, and moaned. She knew she must be drenching him, but she couldn’t help it. It had never been like this before—so urgent, so sparklingly real. All the colors of her world sprang into focus when she was around him. He made her quicken.
He made her come alive.
She was at the edge, but she didn’t want to fall without him. She broke their kiss, gasping against his lips, “Come inside me.”
He kissed her openmouthed, ferociously, sliding his fingers slowly from her sheath. His hips nudged her thighs farther apart as he brought himself closer to her center.
He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. “Like this?”
She slid the head of his cock through her moisture, closing her eyes for a moment as she rubbed him against her peak. Then she looked him in the eye as she pushed him down, until he was just inside her entrance.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Exactly like this.”
Then he was shoving strongly inside her, widening her, stretching her muscles, making room for himself. She clutched his shoulders and wound her legs high over his hips, balancing on the edge of the table, entirely open and vulnerable to him.
He grasped her hip, withdrawing slowly, his eyes focused on the spot where his flesh was connected to hers. She felt the slide of his cock, the controlled strength of his retreat, and knew if he continued so gradually, she might very well lose her mind.
“Faster,” she demanded, squeezing his shoulders. “Faster.”
He shook his head. “Don’t rush it.”
And he reversed himself, inexorably plowing back into her, inch by inch. Slowly.
Too slowly.
“Winter,” she pleaded, twisting against him, trying to find purchase, trying to hurry him.
But he suddenly lifted her, taking her right off the table.
She squealed, clutching at him, afraid to fall.
He stood with her wrapped about him like a limpet; then he inhaled slowly, his chest rising beneath her.
“Slowly,” he whispered, and covered her mouth with his.
For a moment she forgot everything. His tongue was in her mouth, warm and strong, masculine and insistent, and his cock was pushed so far inside her that her feminine lips were spread wide. He had her. He was in control.
Then he began walking, still kissing her, and the motion was exquisitely seductive, a subtle nudging, a sweet, rhythmic rocking.
She moaned against his lips. “Winter.”
“Yes,” he murmured back. “Yes.”
Then her back was against a wall and he’d braced his legs. Suddenly he was driving into her. Fast. Hard. Deep. Exactly right.
His teeth were bared, his lips pulled back, and his eyes glittered as he stared at her. “Yes.”
She knew it was coming, feared she would lose all control. She caught his mouth, biting his lip, sobbing as she fell apart. He was so strong, so broad, so right. She’d never find another man like him as long as she lived. He was ruining her for any other, and the pleasure of it was beyond bearing.
She felt his muscles stiffen under her, felt him bear into her, thrusting the small of her back hard against the wall. He held himself there as his penis pulsed within her and his mouth softened under hers.
He was murmuring something, whispering, muttering, even as his body continued to spasm, and so great was her own ordeal that it took her several moments to realize what he said. And when she did, she pulled back, staring in horror.
He looked just the same, sure of himself, confident of his own ability. “I love you.”
Chapter Fourteen
Finally, the Harlequin’s True Love bowed her head, folded her hands, and prayed to the saints and angels and God himself for the Hope she needed to save the Harlequin from the ugly fate that entrapped him. She prayed until the moon rose that night; then, gathering the Cord of Love, the Vial of Sorrow, and her own Hope about her, she rose and ventured out, her path set for St. Giles…
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
Winter knew at once that he’d made a tactical error. He scrambled mentally, trying to think. There was no use attempting to cover his mistake. When you’ve exposed a weakness in battle, attack, don’t retreat.
It was too soon, he knew that, but there was no help for it now. He inhaled, catching his breath, and then looked her in the eye. “Will you marry me?”
Her eyes were already wide in shock, but her sweet mouth actually dropped open at his words. If the situation weren’t so dire, he’d have laughed.
“Are you mad?”
As it was, he couldn’t prevent his lips from twitching. “Some would no doubt think me so.”
“I can’t marry you!” He’d been expecting the blow, but it still hit him hard. Her face was so incredulous.
At least he no longer felt the desire to laugh. “Actually, you can. I am not promised to another; you are not promised to another. I have said I love you, and you have already given yourself to me.”
They were still locked together, his erection not entirely subsided. She could hardly deny the point.
And yet she still did.
“I didn’t give myself to you,” she huffed, her face still flushed prettily from their lovemaking. “This was a moment of sport, nothing else.”
She was a strong-willed woman, older and of a rank far above his. If he let her, she would ride roughshod over him. This, then, was where he needed to make a stand, cast a template for how they would get along in the future.
&nb
sp; For he fully intended to be with her in the future—legally and sanctioned by the church in public, intimate and loving in private. He’d never bared his soul to another as he had to her. She saw his animal and had the temerity to pet it.
He loved her.
And he believed she loved him—even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it yet. If he let her drive him away, they would never find this bond again. They’d be what they were before: two souls drifting, alone and isolated, apart eternally from the people around them.
He couldn’t live like that again, and he wasn’t about to let her return to that limbo.
So he leaned into her, using his greater strength and height to emphasize his words. Oh, and the rude flesh still embedded in hers. That he used as well.
He shoved his hips against her, reminding her of what they had just done, and said, “I had never bedded a woman before you. I made that plain. Did you think I let you seduce me lightly? No, I did not. You made a deal with me the moment you gave me entry into your body.”
“I made no such deal!” Her eyes were angry—and frightened—but he would not let her make him back down.
“Precious Isabel,” he whispered. “You made a deal with your heart, your soul, and your body, and you sealed it with the wash of your climax on my cock.”
She blinked, looking dazed. He’d never used such words before, especially not with her, but their bluntness was necessary.
“I… I can’t marry you,” she murmured almost to herself. There were tears in her eyes and she looked trapped. He mourned the anxiety this was causing her, but he would not let her go. “You’re nothing but a poor schoolmaster. What makes you think I’d marry you?”
Her words were hurtful and he did not appreciate them, so his answer was crude and to the point. He tilted his pelvis into hers, sliding his reawakening erection against her slippery passage.
She gasped, her eyes locking with his, and he saw the moment when all her specious arguments fell away. When her hope of getting out of this easily died.
“I’m barren.”
The words were stark, bitter. He heard them and then he heard nothing else for a little bit. He watched her sad face, pinched and somehow lonely as she told him.
“By the third miscarriage, I knew I’d never birth a live child,” she was saying when his hearing came back to him. “Despite all the doctors that Edmund brought in. But it was the fourth miscarriage that was the worst. I bled for a very long time, and the doctors said I was lucky to live, but there was a price, they said. I was damaged beyond repair internally.”
She said it calmly, but he knew she must’ve screamed and wailed at the news, for his Isabel was not a passive woman. She would’ve fought the verdict. Would’ve died trying to have another child. Thank God that was impossible.
Winter knew that soon, very soon, he would need to mourn the children he would never have. At the moment, though, he had but one goal.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said when she stopped to draw breath.
She looked at him almost scornfully. “Of course it matters. All men want children of their blood, and I cannot provide you with them. I can never have what other women have so easily. A baby—children—are lost to me.”
“It is a loss, I agree,” he said, gently withdrawing from her.
He let her legs touch the ground, but when she would’ve fled from him, he simply picked her up in his arms and crossed to a settee, settling her in his lap like a little child. He couldn’t count the number of times he had comforted weeping children in this position.
“Winter—” she began.
“Shhh.” He put his fingers to her lips. “Hear me out. I cannot deny that I would’ve liked to have made babies with you. A little girl with your hair and eyes would’ve been the delight of my life. But it is you that I want primarily, not mythical children. I can survive the loss of something I’ve never had. I cannot survive losing you.”
She was already shaking her head, disobeying his wish to be heard. “You’re a young man, Winter Makepeace. You may think now that you don’t care about your own children, but that will change. Why do you think I’ve never remarried? Someday you’ll look at me and see a barren hag.”
Something in her voice made him look closer at her. Her eyes were haunted, her face ashamed. “Did your husband look at you thus?”
“No. No, of course not.” But she closed her eyes as if she couldn’t bear some awful pain. “Edmund was always the gentleman.”
“And yet he left you with his bastard to raise. Salt to rub in the wound.”
Her eyes flew open, desperate and wild. She shook her head even as she said, “I’ll not be a millstone about your neck keeping you from having a real family. I couldn’t bear for any man to look at me like that again, but especially not… not you.”
That small stutter at the end of her speech made his heart swell. He knew then that it was only a matter of time and patience. Probably quite a lot of patience.
“I’ll never look at you in any way but complete admiration.” He stroked her hair soothingly. “You will never be a millstone about my neck. Rather you’re the sunshine that brightens my day.” He swallowed. “Don’t you see? You brought me into the daylight. You’ve embraced parts of me that I was never able to let see light. Don’t make me retreat again into the night.”
She closed her eyes wearily. “It isn’t enough. Don’t do this to yourself—to me. Not even my money will make it seem worth marrying me in a couple of years.”
He winced at her jibe. Her husband had scarred her deeply and she was mentally fleeing in panic. He’d not talk her into this right now. Gently he set her on the settee and got up, fastening his breeches. “It’s evident that I’ll not convince you tonight. You’re tired and I confess so am I. Let us leave this for the morrow.”
Naturally she opened her mouth again, but he was expecting that and covered her sweet lips with his own mouth, kissing her until she softened.
Then he lifted his head. “And mind, precious Isabel, not to insult me too badly when we argue, hmm?”
He made sure to leave swiftly—before she could say more.
“MY LADY!”
Isabel opened her eyes to see Pinkney standing hesitantly by her bedside.
The maid proffered a folded scrap of paper. “My lady, this note came for you just now. The lad who brought it said he’d been paid a shilling extra to run it here. I think it must be important, don’t you?”
The events of the night before rushed back into her mind before she could brace herself against them. Winter’s proposal. Her own shocked decline. They’d enjoyed each other. Why did he want to change everything? Isabel just wanted to stick her head under the pillow.
She groaned. “What time is it?”
“Only one of the afternoon,” Pinkney said apologetically. Of course. The lady’s maid thought it the height of elegance to sleep in until midafternoon.
But Isabel was awake now.
She sat up in the bed. “Call for some coffee, will you? And let me see that note.”
The note was folded and sealed, and Isabel broke the wax as Pinkney went to the bedroom door to order the coffee. She opened the message and read:
L. Penelope accompanies L. d’Arque to the home this afternoon. I think they mean to send Mr. Makepeace away.
—A.G.
Artemis Greaves. The lady’s companion was risking her position. Isabel was already crumpling the note as she climbed from the bed.
He’d said he loved her. She couldn’t think about that now. Not if she were to help Winter.
“My lady?” Pinkney looked startled when she turned and found her mistress already up and rummaging through her chest of drawers.
“Never mind the coffee,” Isabel said distractedly as she threw the note into the fire. “Help me get dressed.”
Ten minutes later—an extraordinary record for her toilet, which nearly sent Pinkney into fits—Isabel was climbing into her carriage.
“If I’d only had
five more minutes, you could’ve worn your new green military jacket,” Pinkney moaned.
Isabel settled against the squabs, watching impatiently out the window. “But that’s just it—I didn’t have five minutes more. I only hope the time we did take didn’t delay us too much.”
The London streets seemed even more crowded than usual today. Twice her carriage was brought to a complete stop by animals in the roadway, and even when moving they hardly progressed at better than a walk.
It seemed to take agonizing hours to reach the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children, but it couldn’t have been more than half an hour.
Still, Viscount d’Arque’s carriage was already in front of the home when they stopped.
“Wait here,” Isabel instructed as she tumbled hastily from her carriage.
She ran up the front steps and tried the door. Locked. She lifted the knocker and let it fall, continuing with the racket until the door was abruptly pulled open. Mary Whitsun stared out, her face pale. From inside the home, Isabel could hear raised voices.
“Come quickly, my lady,” Mary gasped.
Without another word, she turned and fled back inside.
Isabel picked up her skirts and hurried after. Dear God, what was Lord d’Arque shouting about? For she could hear that it was his voice that was raised now.
She and Mary Whitsun entered the sitting room just as Viscount d’Arque swung around from the fireplace.
“—know this murderer, Makepeace! You’ve already admitted as much. Give over his name, then, if you please, or I’ll have you before a magistrate on charges of hiding a thief and murderer.”
The scene was dramatic. Lord d’Arque looked as if he’d not slept a wink since the news of his friend’s murder two nights before. His face was haggard, his eyes glittered maniacally, and there were actual stains on his coat and breeches. Beside him, the Earl of Kershaw and Mr. Seymour looked grim, while Lady Penelope seemed like she might burst from the excitement. Miss Greaves, standing behind her mistress, sent Isabel a guarded look.