Goodness.
“What would you suggest?” she purred. No really, she did, and linked her arms about his neck. Positively wanton.
“We could go to Gretna Green or get a licence?” His face remained serious and fierce.
“A kiss might help me decide.”
Achingly tender, his lips brushed hers, bestowing light touches, and then he drew away. She pulled the hair at his nape. “Kiss me properly,” she implored.
So he did. A slow, deep kiss that rolled the senses and made her ache in a truly unladylike way. She returned his kiss, copying his movements, heard his moan.
“I love you, James,” she breathed against his mouth, feeling his arms tense. “I don’t care where we go, as long as it’s together.”
Chapter Seventeen
Mirror, mirror on the wall…
Queen Street was no place to hasten in daylight hours, let alone the dead of night.
A few swaggering bucks wandered the streets, looking for trouble, but he ignored their drunken hoots, aware he was late for his assignation with Bluey.
The night had grown cold, even keeping the fog at bay, yet a damp still choked the lungs if one breathed too deeply.
Rakecombe buttoned his old greatcoat before plunging one gloved hand into the large pocket, the other maintaining a tight hold on his cane.
Anger still crawled in his belly and yet if someone had asked him why, he was aware he had no answer.
It felt as though he’d been angry forever but had sought to quash it, only keeping it hidden under a mien of self-control: a kindling of flames that had never really been doused, solely awaiting favourable conditions. A gust of soft Irish wind from the west and now the conflagration had grown beyond its confines.
Anger at Lord White for steering him to espionage whilst at Oxford.
Anger at Gwen for being so bold and thoughtless.
Anger at himself for being so bloody green as a youth.
Anger at the monster who’d spilt his family’s blood…
The only person he didn’t feel anger for was Aideen.
She’d known it was him at the Miltons’ masquerade. Of course she’d damn well known. No one would ever fool his wife; it was one of the reasons he adored her so.
Scowling, he picked up speed as a bitter gust chilled his skin.
Perhaps he should visit her bed again. Unsated lust still burned within and her toying with him at the Miltons’ and the kiss tonight had simply made it worse. The fact his desires weren’t uniquely for her body, but also her tender voice and caring eyes, he refused to consider; those desires would take what he could give and be content.
The corner of Queen Street came into view and he narrowed his eyes.
His wife also needed to learn he wasn’t some callow stripling to be taunted. Playing with a raging inferno got you bur–
A harsh cry from the street ahead and he broke into a run.
The night was murky and shadowed but a few doorways held dim lanterns, and in the distance a man lay on the ground, surrounded by another two kicking him in the guts.
Harrowing grunts echoed around the narrow dwellings, but no faces peered from the windows or called for the night watch.
“Hey,” he shouted, rushing on.
In an instant, he’d yanked the pistol from his greatcoat and aimed as one of the men drew a knife, arm hauling back for the throw, but the wielder fell with the slam of his bullet, the sound ricocheting, smoke curling, and the rat clutched at his bloodied shoulder, scrabbling desperately in the gutter for his fallen weapon.
