If he was taken aback by her use of his name, he did not show it. Instead, a corner of his mouth edged upward. Her artist’s eye couldn’t help but notice how his mask framed the sensual shape of his lips: the bottom one was slightly fuller, its curve juxtaposed against the unyielding line of his jaw.
“Fourteen years, my lady,” he said with a bow.
She squelched the teensy spurt of pleasure that he’d remembered her. Instead, she took note of the changes: his polished accent and gentlemanly manners, which were at odds with his casual and rather well-worn attire.
“After all this time, why are our paths crossing?” she asked coolly.
Pippa cast a pointed look at the trio who’d interrupted her encounter with Hastings. The children looked as innocent as ever, munching on meat pies and watching the exchange between her and their leader like they might a performance of Punch and Judy. When the littlest one, the bespectacled scamp, came over and wordlessly offered her a pie from a greasy sack, Pippa had to fight a smile and shake her head.
She reminded herself that mudlarks—no matter how adorable they appeared—could be dangerous. Two other members of the gang, a tall lad and curly-haired girl, trained watchful stares upon her. She had to understand what the mudlarks wanted…why they’d put themselves at cross purposes with her.
“This is a discussion better had in private,” Cullen said. “Shall we withdraw to the cabin?”
Pippa didn’t take the arm he offered. While her instincts told her he posed no threat, she would not lower her guard, nor let him treat this like a social call.
In businesslike tones, she said, “Lead the way.”
He studied her, and his mouth gave an odd twitch.
“As you wish,” he said gravely.
She followed him, aware of the gazes that tracked them.
3
Cull led the way into the cabin. As the barge had been fashioned with speed in mind, the space was small and Spartan, furnished with a table and cushioned benches against the walls. Narrow windows gave views of the passing river. Pulling the curtains closed, he faced the woman who’d haunted his dreams since he was a lad…and realized that she’d changed.
Pippa was no longer the young miss of his fantasies. Her cheeks had lost some of their youthful roundness, her bones elegantly pronounced in her sculpted face. While the color of her eyes hadn’t altered, the way they looked upon the world had. Her gaze was no longer guileless and sparkling with spirited innocence; instead, it was shadowed by suspicion. She studied him, taking his measure, the same way he took hers.
She was still tall and slender, maturity adding to her curves. When she’d been draped over him, he would’ve had to be a saint not to notice the soft bounty of her tits pressed against his chest. She had bound them to go along with her disguise, but he would have wagered money that he’d felt the enchanting poke of her budded nipples. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Still, he hadn’t imagined the lushness of the hips he’d grabbed onto when trying to break her fall…or the sleekness of her thigh when it had rubbed against his burgeoning erection.
God, she made him hard.
Age had deepened her power over him, for now she was no longer a pretty, well-bred virgin on a pedestal beyond his reach. She was a stunning, sensual, experienced widow…
And even more out of your reach,his inner voice pointed out.She’s a bleeding countess now.And you…have you forgotten what is beneath your mask?
Cull hadn’t, of course. He saw himself every morning in the looking glass when he shaved…the side of his face that still sprouted whiskers, that was. He’d never been a man who avoided reality. In the rookery, doing so would get a man killed, and there was a reason he’d reached the ripe old age of nine-and-twenty.
He focused instead on the opportunity before him. To spend a few stolen moments with Pippa. To hear her voice, which still had the sweet lilt of birdsong that her newfound willfulness couldn’t hide. Not that he blamed her for being prickly. She’d been through a lot, waiting years for that sod Longmere to marry her, only for him to get himself killed and in such a bloodystupidfashion.
Any man blessed with a wife like Pippa ought to do everything in his power to keep breathing and, more importantly, to make her happy. Longmere, the asinine fop, had done neither. Instead, he’d left Pippa with a broken heart, burdening her with grief and regret. A volatile mix for anyone to contend with, let alone a sweet and gentle creature like Pippa.
Was it any wonder that she’d sought out distraction? That she’d used adventure and, aye, danger, as a shield against pain? Cull didn’t account himself an expert in much, but having observed Pippa for years, he had an inkling of her inner workings. At present, she reminded him of the wounded birds in his sanctuary. In the glass aviary he’d built for them atop the Nest, they flapped in crazed trajectories until they found their wings again.
He could help Pippa. Be her friend in this moment if she let him. Although he longed for more, he would take what he could get.
“Well, Mr. Cullen?” Pippa arched her curving brows, which were a shade darker than her hair. “We have privacy. Would you care to explain why you have been meddling in my affairs?”
Even dressed like a dockworker, she had a countess’s poise. She’d put the table between them, her chin angled up and arms crossed. Her hair was a golden cascade that reached her hips. She kept her balance like a ballerina, her slender body swaying gracefully with the river’s currents.
“It’s Cull,” he reminded her. “We were friends once.”
“I am not interested in the past.” She narrowed her glorious eyes at him. “What I want to know is why you got in my way this eve.”
There was no point beating around the bush. From the information Cull had gathered, she’d been avoiding the Hunts, her loving family. She’d told her parents that she needed privacy to mourn, and they’d given her what she asked for…enough rope to hang herself.
No, what Pippa needed wasn’t solitude; it was the company of truth.
