Page 37 of Thief Taker

Cole touched his shoulder, pressing his fingers into muscle and bone. “I’ll help you,” he said, his voice unexpectedly warm. “Whatever your brother’s done, I’ll find a way to help you. I swear it.”

Kit didn’t know how to respond; it sounded so genuine, as if Cole really was on Kit’s side. Which was nonsense, of course.

Raising the stakes—it was no hardship—Kit leaned sideways and rested his cheek against Cole’s stomach.

Cole’s breath caught, his hand twitching against Kit’s shoulder. Triumphant, he hid a smile as Cole quickly let go. But just as Kit was about to pull away himself, tentative fingers touched his hair, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. “There now,” Cole said gruffly. “There now…Kit.”

Half wanting, half fearing, Kit closed his eyes. He should refuse to keep playing this game; the stakes were mounting. Except he still had the upper hand and if he backed away now, he risked throwing away that advantage.

Because game or not, he’d seen real heat in Cole’s eyes. He’d felt his reaction to Kit’s touch. And so, with relief and trepidation, he buried his face against Cole’s stomach.

Warmth and tenderness—how long had it been since he’d felt either? As Cole held him with both hands, one cradling the back of his head and the other carding fingers through his hair, an all-too-real flare of want took Kit’s breath. Carnal desire, yes—the deliciously firm muscle of Cole’s belly, the possessive tug of his fingers in Kit’s hair shot through him like lightning. But more than that was the simple comfort of physical connection, of companionship. And no matter how forcefully he told himself that nothing about the moment was real, his body told him otherwise.

For the longest time they stayed just as they were.

No words were spoken, but in a moment of mutual understanding Cole let go and Kit pulled away. Shaken, he stared at the floor, and, after another beat of silence, Cole stooped to collect the flannel and bowl and carried them into the dressing room.

It gave Kit time to gather himself enough that, when Cole returned, Kit was standing up. They regarded each other across the evocative expanse of the bed. “Thank you,” Kit said at last. “Thank you for your kindness, Cole.” He even meant it.

But Cole just shook his head, frowning down at his feet. “It’s nothing. Don’t think about it.” Then he lifted his chin, shoulders braced, and said, “Will there be anything else, sir?”

Yes, Kit thought with a stab of confused longing, but nothing I dare ask for. What he said was, “No, thank you, Cole.”

With a nod, Cole moved to open the door.

“Wait.”

He half turned. “Sir?”

“Do you—?” Kit cleared his throat, reminding himself that he too was playing a part. “I don’t know your Christian name.”

Cole was silent for a beat and then said, “It’s Elias, sir. Elias Cole.”

“Very good,” he said, though his heart raced. “Thank you, Cole.”

Elias.

“Mr. Duvall.”

When the door closed, Kit sank down onto the bed, pushed his face into the cool linen of the sheets and tried to stop thinking.

Chapter 12

After a restless night, Elias rose early.

Sitting on the edge of his bed in the servants’ quarters, he watched the single candle guttering next to the draughty window and tried to marshal his thoughts.

The problem was that he could still feel Duvall’s hair—Kit’s hair—threading through his fingers. He could still feel the press of Kit’s head against his stomach, his silent distress. And it was the last thing he needed; it muddied his thinking to be feeling anything for this nob, let alone something so…soft. Tender, almost. But how could he help it when he knew what the poor bastard would have to face when he, Elias, had done what he must?

Because Rowsley was his target now—a man so indebted that he’d borrow from Hal Foxe and risk his family estate to pay his creditors. Who had better motive than Rowsley for targeting the men who had beggared him?

What kind of man exploited his own father’s weakness and robbed his family of their inheritance and home? The same kind of bastard as robbed on the highway, that’s who. The same kind who’d gutted his brother for a handful of coin and left him to crawl home—

He cut off that line of thought and pushed to his feet. There was work to be done.

The kitchen was already busy when he went downstairs, even though it was only a little past six. Rowsley had returned last night, or this morning, depending how you counted, and the kitchen staff had been roused early and were none too happy about it. Elias was about to make himself scarce when Flannigan stomped in from the stables with the satisfied glow of a man about to impart something dreadful.

“Highwaymen in Hyde bloody Park!” he announced. “Sir Gideon Osborne was robbed blind last night—by Wessex himself!”