“Give it up!” Trevillion shouted. “We have you cornered.”
And indeed he could see that the dragoons were in the lane to his right as well. There were dozens this time. Why had Trevillion suddenly decided to bring out all his troops?
He had no choice now.
Winter backed two paces and began running along the roof edge, toward the house closest.
“You’ll never make it, man!”
A shot rang out and he grunted as he leaped. Too far. Too far.
Winter hit the edge of the next building, the impact sending searing pain through his chest. His arms were outstretched, his fingertips scrabbling, and then he began to fall. He slid backward, the leather of his gloves tearing on the rough shingles.
And then he caught.
Only a moment he hung, whispering thanks to God, and then he pushed up with his toes against the house wall and was up and over the edge.
Running for his life.
THE SOUND OF gunfire boomed through the night.
Isabel gasped as if she’d been hit herself. She opened the carriage door and, hanging on to the strap inside, stuck her head out of the moving vehicle. “Drive toward the gunshots, John Coachman!”
Her coachman was usually an imperturbable man, but at her words he swung around, his expression alarmed. “Are you sure, my lady?”
“Yes, yes. Just do as I say.”
Isabel shut the door again but stayed near the window, peering anxiously outside. As soon as she’d heard that the Ghost was being blamed for Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s murder, she’d known that Winter was in dire peril. He’d left before the news of the murder and thus did not know that this night of all nights he must not go out as the Ghost.
She cocked her head, listening anxiously. The shots had been very near. If it was Winter being shot at, then he must be close. Unless the shots had hit their target…
A shadow moved in the gloom.
Her heart jolted. Isabel flung open the door even before she recognized the long-nosed mask. “Quickly! In here.”
He leaped inside the carriage without waiting for it to slow. Isabel slammed shut the door and rapped on the roof. “Home, John!”
Then she sat back on the squabs and stared across at him. His gloves were torn, but otherwise his costume was in place. He was alive. Alive, alive, alive! Thank God and all the angels and any saint that happened to be hanging about. Dear God, she was so relieved!
He took off his floppy hat and threw it on the cushions and then began removing his gloves as if he weren’t put out at all. As if she hadn’t just died a thousand deaths looking for him. And—and!—were it up to him, she wouldn’t have been looking at all because she wouldn’t have known he was the Ghost. Rage—white, hot, and clean—began boiling in her breast.
“You idiot man,” she hissed low. “Don’t you know that every soldier in London is searching for you with orders to take you dead or alive?”
He simply sat, breathing hard, not saying a word as he tucked the gloves into his belt.
She wanted to shake him. “Winter!”
He stilled before tearing the leather mask from his face and the silk mask underneath. His expression was forbidding, but she could see that his eyes were burning even in the dim carriage. “So you know.”
“You weren’t ever going to tell me, were you?” She laughed angrily, too many emotions swirling in her breast. “Of course I know. Do you think I can kiss a man and not know who he is?”
If anything, his face became more stern. “Then you knew earlier tonight when you…”
“Sucked your cock?” If she thought to shock him, she was disappointed.
He didn’t even flinch. He simply watched her with eyes she could not read, no matter how she tried.
Her laughter this time verged on the hysterical. “Were you jealous of yourself, Mr. Makepeace, or did you think me such a wanton that I seek out gentlemen at balls specifically to—”
He never let her finish the awful words. He lunged across the carriage, grabbing her in strong arms, and hauled her back before she could even gasp. She lay across his lap like some thief’s prize, entirely at his mercy.
Something inside of her quieted.
“Don’t,” he muttered, staring at her mouth. “I swore I wouldn’t do this. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
He never let her answer; instead he caught her mouth with his.
Her mouth trembled and she sobbed, just once. For the scare he’d given her, for the grief Lady Margaret suffered, for all the hopes and dreams that would never be.
That was all behind her, though. Here, now, there was only this man.
So Isabel framed his face with her palms, accepting his kiss, opening her mouth for his tongue, reveling in his sudden aggression. He was big and hot beneath her, his kiss urgent with male need. It lit an answering fire within her. She wanted this man. Wanted him inside her. Wanted him now. She caught his bottom lip between her teeth and gently bit down and was rewarded by a feral growl from him. His wildness should put fear into her heart, make her more cautious. Instead it spurred her own feminine urges.
She slid her hands down his tunic, feeling the hard muscles of his chest beneath her fingers. He was like a young tiger, all muscle and passion, and she wanted to ride him—not to tame the beast, but to feel for a small moment all of his vitality.
She reached for his falls, and he groaned and canted his head to kiss her even more desperately. He was already erect beneath her fingers, alive and hot. She fumbled, her usually nimble fingers made clumsy with want, and for a moment she thought she might have to rip the cloth, so desperate was she for his bare flesh.
But the buttons finally gave way and she mewled into his mouth as she felt his hot skin against her palms. He was so hard it was like grasping iron draped in velvet: soft and yet unyielding. She caressed his flesh, squeezing gently.
When he began to urgently pull at her skirts, she lifted her bottom to help him drag them aside.
This was madness; this was delirium.
He found her bare hips under her skirts and flexed his hands against them, his kiss growing wilder. She felt his fingers stroking her buttocks, then circling her thighs.
They were in a carriage, for God’s sake. She should end this now. But she didn’t want to; it was as simple as that. So much was denied her—was it terrible to take what she could?
She threw one leg over his and straddled his lap, then reached under herself and found him again.
He tore his mouth from hers. “Wait.”
“No.” She looked him frankly in the eyes. “I don’t care if you spill at once. I need you inside me now.”
His beautiful eyes widened and then narrowed. “You’ll not always hold the reins, my lady.”
She smiled sweetly. “Naturally not, but I do now.”
And she placed him at her entrance. She was already so slick that he slid partially in at once.
He moaned and his eyes closed, his head tilting back against the carriage seat as if she were torturing him.
The sight made her wetter.
She slowly slid down on him, biting her lip, smiling with the pure pleasure of it, watching his face as she sat completely on him.
He swallowed, his throat working, the muscles of his neck standing out in strong relief. Gently, tenderly, she rose, careful to keep his cock inside her, the friction making her sigh with pleasure.
“Don’t,” he whispered. “I’ll spill too soon.”
“I know,” she crooned, and licked his neck. “But you’ll never forget this. Never forget me.”
His eyes opened, his sensuous upper lip twisting in a snarl. “I’ll never forget you no matter what.”
And he grasped her hips firmly, shoving up into her. He was untried, inelegant, jerky, and rough—and she loved it.
She flung back her head and laughed breathlessly.
“Damn you,” he growled, jamming himself in and out of her, his cock ruthless and hard. “Do it.”
> She looked down at him, a goddess supreme. “Fuck, you mean?”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Make love. Make love to me. Now.”
His low words started her climax. She shivered, no longer laughing now, frantic to bring this to an end no matter what he cared to call it. She leaned against him, raising her bottom, slamming it down on him, making him gasp with the feel of their bodies working together.
She wanted… longed for… something.
She was a thing of pure desire. The carriage rocked through the streets and she rocked against him, amplifying the motion. Until stars glowed behind her closed eyelids. Until heat rose in a wave from her loins. Until she gasped, unable to draw breath, unable to think, able only to feel.
Him. In her.
And when he groaned, loud and long, she opened her eyes to see him grit his teeth as he pulled her savagely against himself. His cock was buried deep and she swore she felt the pulsations, the searing heat of his seed, filling her to the brim. It went on and on, like nothing she’d ever felt before, as if he were marking her in some primitive way.
At last she gasped, finally able to draw breath, and fell against him like a flower wilting in the heat.
She licked her lips, sighing, and said, “They think you murdered Roger Fraser-Burnsby.”
His arms tightened around her. “He’s dead?”
“Yes.” She braced her palms against his chest and pushed upright. His head was still tilted back on the seat and he watched her through half-open eyes. “Mr. Fraser-Burnsby’s footman told everyone at the ball the news—after you left.”
He didn’t even blush at the implied censor. “I didn’t murder Fraser-Burnsby.”
She grimaced. “I know that. You were with me.”
He lifted a brow. “Would you think the worst of me if I hadn’t been?”
“No, of course not,” she said impatiently. “You aren’t capable of murder.”
“You know me so well, then,” he said neutrally, though his tone was skeptical.
“I may not know everything about this”—she fingered the Ghost’s motley tunic—“but I think I know you well enough to believe that you would never do murder no matter what guise you wore.”
“Hmm,” was his only comment.
“Will you tell me?”
He glanced out the window. They were nearing her town house. “Tell you what?”
She stroked down the tunic. “Why you do this?”
He looked back sharply at her. “Perhaps. But now I have to leave before your carriage gets to your house.”
“What?” Isabel found herself deposited without ceremony on the seat opposite.
She watched, dumbfounded, as he put himself to rights with a few swift movements. “You can’t leave! The dragoons are out looking for you.”
He glanced up impatiently as he tied on the silk mask. “I have work yet to do tonight.”
“Are you insane?”
His mouth quirked beneath the leather, long-nosed mask. “Perhaps, but I have to do this.”
“No, you don’t—” she began, but he’d already opened the carriage door and jumped outside.
Isabel looked around the empty carriage. His seed still seeped from inside her, uselessly, but then that was nothing new.
MEGS SAT IN the window seat in her bedroom and stared out at the dark night.
Endless, endless night.
She’d wept when first she’d come home. She’d held it in until she could dismiss the maids and then she’d cried. Silently, relentlessly, until her eyelids had grown sore from the salt of her tears, until she lay, spent, openmouthed, lost. Now she was empty of tears and everything else.
Her mind turned in weary circles like an animal too long caged. Roger was dead. She’d seen him only days before and he’d been alive—gloriously alive, strong and intelligent and loving. But now he was dead.
Alive, then dead.
Perhaps they had made a mistake. Perhaps some other man—oh, wicked thought!—had been brutally murdered instead of Roger. Perhaps Roger had merely been wounded and the footman in his terror had rushed away to give the news too soon.
But no. They had retrieved his body. Her maids had told her so as they were undressing her. Gossip traveled so fast among the servants, and their voices had been almost eager as they had described how Roger had been laid, all bloody and lifeless, in Lord d’Arque’s carriage and brought home. Lord d’Arque would not have mistaken someone else for Roger.
Megs had had to fight not to slap the maids—a thing she’d never done before. Instead, she’d ordered them away much too sharply. Lady Beckinhall would disapprove. Her tone had not been discreet, and her maids had looked at her curiously as they’d left.
Somehow Megs found it impossible to care.
Her left foot had gone to sleep. She shifted, the sudden prick of the pins and needles an unwelcome sign of life. As she shifted, something rustled. She felt underneath her and brought out a letter. Of course. It was from Hero, her brother Griffin’s wife, and had been delivered as she’d been dressing for the ball tonight. She’d tossed it to the window seat to enjoy later.
Well, this was later.
Megs stood and lit a candle from the fireplace embers before returning to the window. Concentrating carefully, she lifted the seal and unfolded the piece of paper.
Dearest sister, Hero began. It was rather sweet. As soon as she’d married Griffin, Hero had taken to addressing Megs thus when writing. Megs almost smiled before she remembered. The letter was long and chatty, telling of a new wing on Griffin’s country home, a difficulty with the cook, and the planting of apple trees in the garden. Hero saved the news that must’ve excited her most until the last:
… and, darling, I think you will be happy to hear my secret: I am increasing and over the moon with happiness. Your brother is delighted, but quite annoying sometimes with his concern over my welfare. I think he will be a proud papa come winter.
For a moment, Megs simply stared at the paper in her hand. Happy, she should be happy for her brother and for Hero.
She bowed her head and wept.
HE’D JUST EXPERIENCED the most wondrous thing.
Winter glided into the shadows of a doorway and paused to watch Isabel’s carriage disappear around a far street corner. Had she felt the same? Was it as glorious for her as it had been for him? Or was he like every other man she’d tupped before?
His upper lip lifted in a snarl at the thought before he even realized it. He refused to be just another lover to her—easily discarded, easily forgotten. He might be a mere schoolmaster and she a baroness, but together, just the two of them, he was a man and she a woman. Some things were fundamental.
He pushed aside the hot tide of jealousy. It would do him no good and he had other matters to attend to before he could confront Isabel again.
Winter turned and loped toward St. Giles. No doubt the dragoons would still be looking for him—the murder of an aristocrat was shocking business to those who held the power in London. They would put every soldier at their disposal into the hunt for him. Winter wondered who had really killed Fraser-Burnsby, but then he dismissed the matter from his mind. Probably it had been a robbery and the Ghost of St. Giles was a convenient culprit.
Twenty minutes later, he neared Calfshead Lane, moving cautiously. He glided past 10 Calfshead Lane without pause. The chandler’s shop sign was beyond it. He’d caught the sign out of the corner of his eye just as Trevillion’s dragoons had born down on him. He must have missed it in his previous searches of St. Giles. The sign was small and worn—easily overlooked in the myriad of signs that perched above the streets and lanes of St. Giles like a flock of dingy crows.
The door under the sign was narrow and battered, but the lock on it was newer and in better shape. Winter tried the handle and was surprised when the door swung easily inward. The room inside was pitch-black. Winter waited for his eyes to adjust, but there was no light at all. Closing the door again, he retraced his steps back down the
lane to a shop where a small lantern hung. He snagged the lantern and returned to the tiny chandler’s shop.
This time when he opened the door, his borrowed lantern illuminated a wide but shallow room. Narrow shelves and hooks were placed haphazardly on the walls, presumably for the chandler’s wares. They were all empty, though, and from the dust, had been so for some time.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the door and something scurried in the shadows.
Winter raised the lantern and saw a rat trotting along the wall. The vermin didn’t even pause in its nightly round.
Behind the rat, though, was another door. Winter crossed to it and cautiously put his ear to the wood. He waited a beat, listening to his own breathing and the scrabbling of the rat, but heard nothing on the other side.
Backing a pace, he drew both swords, and set down the lantern on the floor where it would illuminate the room when the door was opened.
Then he kicked in the door.
He stood to the side, away from any attack from within, but none came. The room seemed empty.
Winter waited, listening. Nothing came to his ears but the wind. Cautiously, he sheathed his long sword, picked up the lantern, and advanced inside. There was a faint stink about the place that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck: urine, vomit, fear. The place was empty save for the skeletal remains of a rat and a few rags.
Something glittered in the cracks of the floor when he turned around, holding the lantern high. He bent and examined the dusty floorboard. A glittering thread was caught there. Carefully he prized it out with the point of his short sword and held it up to the lantern’s light.
A silk thread.
He set down the lantern and drew off his glove with his teeth. Then he picked the thread from the tip of his sword and tucked it into his tunic.
There was nothing here for him. They’d obviously deserted the place. Was the workshop permanently closed, or had they simply moved the children and their terrible work?