Page 33 of Thief Taker

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.

And suddenly he was aware that his whole body was pressed against Duvall’s. He started to back off, but Duvall grabbed his hip, stilling him. Those eyes of his were focused and dark, searching for something in Elias’s face. Duvall’s lips parted, the tip of his tongue wetting them. “Cole…” he said, the word breathless and heavy with invitation.

God in heaven, but Elias wanted what he was offering. It would be so easy to lean in, to close the few inches separating them.

So easy, so thrilling. So reckless.

Duvall’s fingers tightened on his hip, pulling him closer, and Elias wasn’t resisting. He couldn’t. He wanted it too—

A door slammed in the alley. Startled, they both turned to look. Duvall’s fingers flexed nervously against Elias’s hip and Elias made himself pull away, taut with thwarted desire.

He couldn’t look at Duvall, only caught the soft breath of a frustrated sigh.

“Come on,” Elias breathed, quiet as possible. “This way.” He tugged on the other man’s sleeve and led him down the narrow twisting passage, along the side of the stables. It brought them out onto Jermyn Street. He took them in the opposite direction to Salter’s, towards Duke Street and back to Piccadilly.

Neither of them said a word, which suited Elias well. It was taking all his attention to keep from pushing Duvall up against the nearest wall and finishing what they’d so nearly started. To the ruin of them both, no doubt.

They had to stop when they crossed Piccadilly, waiting for the traffic to pass, and Duvall cleared his throat. He stared straight ahead, but his voice sounded rough when he said, “Tobin will have your guts, coming back looking like that.”

Elias glanced at himself. He was covered in filth from the knees down.

“I’ll, um, detain him at the front door,” Duvall offered, “and give you time to go inside and change.”

Something inside Elias quivered, right in the core of him. Perhaps it was from the fight? Whatever it was, it made him shivery, giddy. “Thank you,” he said and risked a quick look at Duvall as a carriage trundled past, kicking up slushy mud. Face taut, jaw tense, lips pursed, he appeared troubled. “Listen,” Elias said as they began to cross the street, “thanks for getting me out of that.”

Duvall gave a little shake of his head. “It was me who got you into it.”

That was what he thought. Elias felt a twinge of guilt at his deception. “Even so, you have to be more careful. Fighting that bully was reckless—you should have run. You’ve got a reputation to lose.”

Duvall’s lips tilted slightly. “Do you think so?” He didn’t pause for an answer, rushing on to add, “Cole, I wish to make one thing clear. I’m not the sort of master who abuses his position regarding those in his service.”

Elias nodded. “I know that, sir. Thank you.” And although he wasn’t really a servant, and Duvall had no power over him, it pleased him to hear the reassurance. It proved what he’d thought from the start: Duvall had been born with all the goodness in the family, and his brother with none. “I think perhaps the danger of the moment got the better of us both,” he said lightly, “but good sense prevailed in the end. Probably for the best.”

After a telling pause, Duvall said, “Probably.” Then, “We should perhaps take a different route from here. So as not to arrive back together. I’ll take the longer way.”

It made a great deal of sense and yet, when they parted, there was a weight in Elias’s chest that was entirely built of regret.

I should’ve kissed him when I had the chance.

Chapter 11

Kit walked slowly back to Curzon Street, replaying the events of the evening.

His hand hurt like the devil from the punch he’d landed on the brute who’d grabbed Cole. The sight of him on his knees in the filth, that brutish man holding him there, had turned Kit’s stomach. Even the memory of it sent something hot and sharp spiking up into his throat.

A soldier’s instinct to protect a fallen comrade.

And it had been worth it; Cole was grateful to him now, Kit was sure of it. With luck, whatever suspicion he had of Kit would fade. They were friends now, were they not?

Friends, and something more. Cole couldn’t have feigned the heat that had flared between them in the aftermath of the fight, his hand pressed over Kit’s mouth and their hearts thundering together. If that was a trick, Cole was a magician.

Still, desire didn’t mean loyalty. And it didn’t mean Cole wouldn’t use it to his own advantage, either. Kit needed no reminder of that. But, Lord, in the heat of the fire, with his blood up, all sense had fled. An irresistible magnetism had drawn them together, and without thought Kit had reached for him—

He flexed his hand, could feel the warm pressure of Cole’s hip beneath his fingers, the way he’d swayed closer, the darkening of his eyes…

Damn, even the memory stirred him.

No, that had all been real; he could not believe otherwise. Real and dangerous. Useful, too—Kit had learned from a master how to turn another’s desire to your advantage.