“We were able to alter the dress and the spencer quickly, Captain Pike,” Mrs. Allen said. “They had been meant for someone else, but she won’t be coming to get them for two more weeks so we will make copies.”
“’Tis two dresses, Jack,” Helen said when they left, a paper-wrapped parcel under her arm. Her voice was harsh, choked by some emotion he couldn’t place. “The one she is making and this one. With the jacket. I cannae afford it.”
“Don’t worry about the cost. She owes me a favor.”
“Is she one of yer women?”
“No.”
“Do ye take yer women there for dresses?”
He shook his head. Mrs. Allen’s shop hadn’t been fancy enough for Elizabeth. It wasn’t on Bond Street. It wasn’t French. And Jack had never given presents to his married mistresses.
“Mrs. Allen is the widow of a man who served under me. I set her up in the shop.”
A hand on his forearm, squeezing tightly. “Thank ye.”
He looked at her face, pointed toward the oncoming pedestrians. Her forehead, that broad forehead, not furrowed with rage for once. That strong nose. Because it was strong, wasn’t it? Not too big, as he had first thought it. It was right for her face. And now he admired the fine bone that defined her nose and made it as uncompromising and rugged as the Benrancree mountains. That nose he had bumped with his own as he had sought her mouth last night, again and again. Giving her the kisses she wanted along with his cock.
Her hand was off his arm now and she was stepping away from him, into the street to avoid a group of tradesmen. Wait, shouldn’t he have been on the outside?
And there were horses and a carriage coming and he was weaving and grabbing and pulling her out of the way, jerking her into him and onto the safety of the pavement. Her body against his.
He looked around the street, not at her, he couldn’t look at her, and he saw an alley and he dragged her into it and pushed her against the wall there and kissed her.
God help him, he kissed her. He kissed her cider-flavored mouth and pressed his groin against her and crushed her into the bricks of the wall of that alleyway. He didn’t notice if she was kissing him back, if she was pushing or pulling him away.
He grabbed her arm and took her back out onto the pavement, walking quickly, tugging her to his side.
Her voice, out of breath. “Aren’t ye going the wrong way?
“We’re not going back to the rooms.”
“I told Mags and Duncan—”
“They’ll be fine.”
She fell silent, trying to match his swift pace.
Nineteen
Ashabby place, an inn, half a street away. Mrs. Allen’s shop was, as Elizabeth had pointed out years ago, only a good one, not a fine one. It was not in the best part of London.
He would not be recognized.
Even when they got into the inn bedchamber and Jack locked the door behind them, Helen said nothing. She put her parcel down on a chair and shrugged her way out of her new spencer. As she turned away from Jack to hang the jacket on the back of a chair, he came up behind her and unbuttoned her new dress. His cock pushed at the fall of his trousers, reaching toward her. Her own hands reached back and clutched the sides of his thighs, pulling him closer. He undressed her and backed away and undressed himself. She did not go to the bed but stood, watching him take off his clothes. Not hiding her body but not presenting it either. Just letting him see her, like she was standing in her own keep, fully dressed, holding a cup of hot water to her lips, thanking him for listening to her.
When he was naked as well, she went to the bed and pulled down the coarse blanket and rough sheets and got in. He followed her, sliding in next to her, taking her in his arms. She felt so much smaller here in the bed than she had looked moments ago as she had watched him undress.
She kissed him. His mouth, his jaw, his neck. He rolled on top of her. She spread her legs. His cock rubbed her cleft and she was as wet as she had been last night.
She winced.
“You’re sore.”
“Aye. Just a little. It dinnae matter. Please, Jack.”
“No, Helen. I want it to be good for you.”
