He got no further before Alice grasped hold of his shirt, pulled him against her, and gave him his wish. She kissed him rapaciously, devastating every barricade and barbed trap he had within. Sensation barreled free, overwhelming him with emotions. It was all he could do not to weep. He desired her with such intensity, the fact he had her in his hands now was a bomb he could not safely defuse. He tried to pull away but was holding her too tightly to escape.
Her hands roamed his back, fingernails digging through shirt linen, making new, tiny thorns amongst his inked roses. The pain was delicate, and it stirred him beyond lust into deep, warm fondness for the woman. Breaking the kiss, he gazed down at her lovely face, tenderly stroking loose strands of hair away from—
Thud.Pain burst through him as Alice shoved him back against a wardrobe, his head smacking on the wood. Stars filled his vision.
Idiot, he cursed himself, even as Alice lifted a hand to strike.No goddamn light touches. Blocking her attack effortlessly, he ducked, slipping around behind her, and shoved her in turn against the wardrobe. Twisting her arm back, he pressed his body to hers so she could not move.
She whimpered.
And then—“Harder,” she commanded.
Everything in him went instantly, obediently hard, even as he angled her arm further.
“I still have a hand free,” she pointed out.
He lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “You don’t scare me, Alice.”
She went so still at the sound of her name in his mouth, Daniel wondered for a moment if she was going to detonate. But then she gave a soft, quiet sigh. It seemed to echo the yearning he felt, and he closed his eyes, bent his brow to the back of her head, as if she was an altar he would pray on.
“I scare the living daylights out of myself,” she confessed. “We should probably stop.”
Fine. That was fine. He had no need to caress her, nor kiss her rosy mouth until the razor-sharp edges of his heart began to soften. He needed nothing at all but a gun and a rule to live by. Releasing her, he stepped back—
“Tsk,”she said.
And he frowned, feeling more lost than he’d ever been in his life. “Perhaps you could help me understand what you want?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, never mind his heart.
Alice turned to face him, leaning back against the wardrobe. Her hair was disheveled, her face almost white in the mingling gaslamp-and-moon light, except where shadows limned her eyes. Daniel could hardly fathom such loveliness.
“I want to not be ruled byshouldandought,” she said. “I want—” She paused, then huffed a brief, sardonic laugh. “I want to be to my own self true. But I cannot, can I? Neither can you. We live to serve.”
The sentiment nauseated him, because it was true. Suddenly he burned with a furious desire to destroy every single Academy teacher who had broken Alice Dearlove’s will and manipulated her into doing only what benefited A.U.N.T., just as they had to him. But he stayed calm, focused, the way he did when faced with any other monstrous villainy.
“You’re right,” he said. “My whole life has been in service. Only books have given me any kind of escape. But this week I’ve been starting to realize I want more than that. For example, I want you.”
Alice flushed in a way he loved to see, going all hot for him. But her gaze slipped away over his shoulder. “No one wants me,” she said, “except as a fixer. A servant who can fetch their handkerchief, carry their hatbox, disarm their villainous criminal. What can I do for you, Mr. Bixby?”
“Nothing,” he said instantly—then paused to think it through, to give her a real answer. She had already said it herself: “Be your own self true. I wantyou.”
Emotion rippled over Alice’s face—grief, maybe, swamping her eyes with tears; or perhaps it was anger, making her jaw muscles gotap-tap; or God only knows—Daniel could have done with an instruction manual on women just at that moment, along with a cross-referencing bibliography and several diagrams.
“I am dangerous,” she said.
“You won’t hurt me,” he answered at once. “I won’t let you.”
She gave him a cynical look. “Good luck with that, Mr. Bixby.”
“I don’t need luck.” Reaching out fearlessly, he took hold of a satinbutton on her bodice, and rolling it between two fingers, he recited a slow, sensual line of Latin poetry. The wardrobe behind them lifted, floating across to the door, where it settled to strengthen the barricade.
“Witchcraft!” Alice gasped. “Does A.U.N.T. know you can do that?”
“What do you think?” He slipped the button from its fastening. “You’ve spent a few days in pirates’ company and admit yourself corrupted. I spentyearswith them. Share the night with me, Alice.”
“I rather have to,” she answered. “There seems no safe way out of here except—”
“I mean,” he interrupted with endless patience, “making love together. Just us, Daniel and Alice, not Agents A and B, not Mr. and Mrs. Blakeney. Our own selves true. Only—only if you want, though, of course.”
Forcing himself into silence before he could utter a cringing apology, he reached for the next button on her bodice.
