He lifted his penetrating gaze as he rubbed my hands, and though we’d looked into each other’s eyes countless times, things were different.
A couple walked down Berner Street, drawing my attention away from Austen, and my body went stiff.
“There,” I whispered.
It was Elizabeth again. She was still wearing the black skirt and jacket, and I could see the red posy in her lapel. The man at her side was medium height, wearing a peaked cap and an oversized jacket, and he was carrying some sort of package.
Was I looking at Jack the Ripper? The shiver that ran up my spine this time was from terror and fascination.
We were so far away, it was impossible to make out either of their features in the darkness and rain. I couldn’t see the color of his hair or what his face looked like. All I knew was his height and approximate build, but there were thousands of men who shared the same description.
The couple stopped at the grocer’s and spoke to the proprietor for a few minutes. They accepted a handful of grapes and then crossed the street—not far from where we were standing, though they would struggle to see us in the alcove.
I held my breath as I tried to listen to their muffled conversation. I couldn’t make out their words, but I heard the low hum of their voices and Elizabeth’s laugh now and again.
Many people said that Jack had to be charming. It was the only way he could convince women to go into dark alleys with him while a murderer was on the loose. From the sound of Elizabeth’s voice, this man was doing a good job convincing her he was safe. He was also dressed well—not as shabby as many of the men in Whitechapel, but not like a dandy, either.
Austen stood just as still and stiff beside me, holding my hand.
The couple began to move in our direction, something I hadn’t anticipated. If they walked past us, they would see us standing there, and if they looked close enough, they’d be able to see our faces. The last thing I wanted was for Jack the Ripper to get a goodlook at either of us. If he was someone prominent or a person that one of us might recognize, then it went without saying that he might know us, too, and we’d be in danger.
As the couple moved closer, I sensed that Austen was thinking the same thing, and without warning, he turned so his back was toward the street and he was standing face to face with me.
My breath caught as I looked up at him. He placed his hands on either side of my face and lowered his lips to mine, hovering for just a moment, as if allowing me to say no.
But I didn’t say no. Instead, I grasped his forearms and lifted myself just enough for his mouth to meet mine.
His lips were soft, and his kiss was achingly tender. He seemed on the brink of pulling away, so I slipped my hands up to his face, inviting his unexpected kiss.
He paused for only a heartbeat, and then he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close as he deepened the kiss. This was no longer a kiss to temporarily distract the passersby.
This was a kiss years in the making.
Everything began to fade. The rain, the smell of the street, the fear of Jack the Ripper. All I could feel was Austen. All I could think about was his lips upon mine, his arms wrapped around me, and my body pressed against his.
And I wanted more of it.
He slipped his hand up to the back of my head and drew me closer, his chest rising and falling against mine. His other hand pressed against my low back as my arms went around his neck. He was warm and gentle, yet I sensed something powerful and raw just beyond my reach.
He was restraining himself.
I recalled the words he’d said in the garden. He wanted to kiss me until the madness inside of him subsided and he could think clearly for the first time in fourteen years.
As I responded to his kiss, I suddenly understood the madness he spoke about. The deep yearning that enveloped me and overpoweredall my senses. Yet it wasn’t subsiding as we kissed. It was only growing with intensity.
When he finally pulled away, he was breathing heavily, and his body was trembling. Or was it mine?
“Kate,” he whispered my name on a ragged breath, half apology, half question.
I slowly lowered my hands and tried to take a step back, but the wall was behind me and there was nowhere to go.
He took a few more breaths and then straightened.
We stood that way for several heartbeats, and then I realized there were no more footsteps nearby. The emergency had passed. The couple was just entering the gate leading to Dutfield’s Yard.
“I think we’re safe,” I whispered.
“Are we?” Austen asked, but he wasn’t looking at the gate.
