Wicked Intentions

  “Can you guess who might’ve killed her?” Lord Caire asked suddenly.

  The boy’s eyes widened. “She was tied to the bed, her arms stretched above her head, her legs spread apart, and her face was covered with a hood. I knew at once who had killed her.”

  Lord Caire stared down at the boy. “Who?”

  Tommy smiled, but somehow his lips twisted in a way that took away all his beauty. “Why, you, my lord. Isn’t that how you liked to enjoy my sister?”

  LAZARUS STARED AT the pretty boy. Truly he hadn’t expected this charge—although he should have. He let the boy go, careful to keep from glancing at Mrs. Dews. What would she make of the boy’s revelation? What could she make of it, other than horror and disgust?

  “I have no further need of you,” he said, dismissing the boy.

  A look of disappointment crossed Tommy’s face. No doubt he’d expected an argument or even flustered denials.

  Damned if Lazarus would give the boy that.

  Tommy glanced at Mistress Pansy. She nodded at him, her odd face expressionless, and Tommy left.

  When the door had closed behind the boy, she turned to Lazarus. “Is that all?”

  “No.” He crossed to the small fireplace and stared into the flames, trying to think. This was a dead end in his investigations. If the boy—Marie’s brother, of all people—didn’t know who’d killed her, where could he turn now? He absently twisted his stick in his fist. And then the realization dawned. He knew he hadn’t tied Marie up in such a manner; therefore, some other man had—a man who in this, at least, shared his proclivities.

  He turned to Mistress Pansy. “You said this establishment catered to the whims of men like me.”

  The little woman raised her dark eyebrows. “Yes, of course. Would you like to see a selection of our wares?”

  He was aware that Mrs. Dews had drawn in her breath sharply. Though he still hadn’t looked at her, he knew she stood as if frozen in a corner of the room. Perhaps she was frozen in disgust.

  He shook his head. “No. What I want is information.”

  Mistress Pansy cocked her overlarge head, her eyes intelligent and sparkling now with the possibility of profit. “What kind of information, my lord?”

  “I want to know the names of the men who like to use the ties and hood.”

  She stared at him, her dark eyes considering. Then she abruptly shook her head. “You know I can’t give out the names of our customers.”

  He took out a purse from his pocket—larger than the one he’d given her before—and tossed it to the table at her elbow. “There’s fifty pounds in there.”

  She raised her eyebrows and picked up the purse, spilling it into her lap to count the coins one by one. She paused when she was finished as if considering; then she put them back into the purse and tucked it into her bosom.

  She sat back in her low, wide chair and looked at him. “Some gentlemen find it enjoyable to watch the play of others.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

  “Perhaps you’d like to indulge?”

  Lazarus nodded once, his pulse speeding.

  Pansy raised her voice. “Jacky!”

  The lackey appeared at the door.

  She gestured with her fingers. “Please take this gentleman to the peepholes. I think you’ll be most interested in room six, Lord Caire.”

  Jacky turned without a word, and Lazarus strode over to grasp Mrs. Dews’s wrist.

  She pulled against him, but he held her firm as he hauled her to the door. “What are you doing? I have no wish to see any ‘play.’ ”

  “I can’t leave you alone,” he growled under his breath. It was the truth, but not quite all of it. He wanted to show her what lurked deep within his soul. She’d be repulsed by his truth, he knew that, but he had a morbid urge to find out for himself what her reaction would be. To lay his secrets bare before her and await her sentence.

  Jacky led them up the narrow wooden stairs to a dim hallway above. Doors lined the hall, each marked with a crudely carved number. But instead of entering one, the man led them to the end of the hall to an unmarked door.

  Jacky opened the lock with a key and gestured them inside. “Go to th’ end and turn. One hour. No more.”

  And he closed the door behind them.

  Mrs. Dews started against Lazarus, and he could feel the tremble of her body. He bent to whisper in her ear, “Hush. The door is unlocked. We may leave whenever we wish.”

  “Then let’s go at once,” she hissed back.

  “No.” His heart was beating fast, and he tightened his grip on her wrist.

  They were in a low, narrow passage. He felt with his hand along one wall as he obeyed Jacky’s instructions to go to the end. The passage made an abrupt turn here, and he squinted down it. At first it had seemed pitch-black, but as his eyes adjusted, he could make out tiny pinpricks of light at regular intervals along one wall. He neared the first and saw it was a peephole. Underneath, just visible in the light from the room beyond, was the number nine.

  Mrs. Dews tugged on his wrist. “Please let us go.”

  He glanced through the peephole and turned to her, drawing her close. “No. Take a look.”

  She shook her head, but her resistance was weak as he guided her to the wall. He knew the moment she saw what was within, for her whole body went taut. She faced the wall, away from him, and he moved behind her.

  He bent his head close to her ear. “What do you see?”

  She trembled but was mute.

  Not that he needed her words to know what was in the room beyond. He’d seen it all when he’d looked: a man and a woman, the man entirely naked, the woman still wearing a chemise. The woman knelt at the man’s feet, his tool between her lips.

  “Do you like it?” he whispered. “Does it arouse you?”

  He felt her tremble against him, a hare within the hawk’s grasp. She was so proper on the surface, but he knew, in a part of him beyond mind and spirit, that she had carnal depths that she struggled to hide. He wanted to explore those depths. Bring them to the light of day and revel in them. They were as much a part of her as the gold flecks in her eyes, and he longed to feast upon her cravings.

  “Come, let us see what else there is to see.” He took her hand, less resisting now, and led her to the second peephole. A quick glance proved the room was empty.

  But the next certainly was not.

  “Look,” he murmured, pressing her to the wall with his body. “What do you see?”

  She shook her head, but she whispered nonetheless, “He’s… taking her from behind.”

  “Like a stallion covering a mare,” he said low, his body hard against hers.

  She nodded jerkily.

  “Do you like it?”

  But she refused to reply to that.

  He drew her away, checking at the next little hole, the one Mistress Pansy had sent them to view. The sight within made him swallow convulsively. He turned and guided Mrs. Dews to the hole without a word. He knew the moment she understood. Her body stilled and the hand clutching his squeezed hard.

  He moved behind her, covering and pressing her to the wall so that there was no escape possible. She was warm and soft beneath his larger body.

  “What do you see?” he breathed against her ear.

  She shook her head, but he took both her hands, spreading them wide against the wall, his own hands covering hers. He felt his cock, thick and throbbing, pressing against the fall of his breeches, pressing into her soft backside.

  “Tell me,” he demanded.

  Her swallow was audible in the quiet of the dark passage. “The woman is beautiful. She has red hair and white skin.”

  “And?”

  “And she’s naked and tied to the bed.”

  “How?” He smoothed his mouth against her neck. Her scent was strong this close, the scent of a woman. He wished he could cast off the plain white cap she wore, tear the pins from her hair, and bury his face in her tresses. “Tell me how.”
br />   “Her hands are above her head, tied together to the top of the bed.” Her voice was throaty, low and sensuous. “Her legs are spread apart, her ankles tied to the posts at the end of the bed. She’s quite naked and her… her…” She gulped, unable to voice the word.

  “Her cunny?” he drawled against her cheek. His hips surged instinctively against her at the word, as if seeking out that part of her.

  “Yes, that. She’s completely exposed.” She whimpered as he licked the side of her throat.

  “And?” he prompted.

  “Oh!” She took a breath as if to steady herself. “She has a scarf tied over her eyes.”

  “The man?”

  “He’s tall and dark, and he’s completely dressed; even his wig is still in place.”

  He smiled against her skin, grinding his hips into her bottom. He would raise her skirt right now, seek that soft, wet place at her center, if he was not sure it would draw her from her trance.

  “What is he doing?” He bit gently on her ear.

  She gasped. “He’s kneeling between her legs and he’s—Oh, God!”

  He chuckled darkly. “He’s worshipping her cunny, isn’t he? He’s tonguing her, kissing her, licking right through her pink lips, tasting her essence.”

  She moaned and pressed back against him—but not in escape. Her bottom rubbed his hard cock, and triumph leapt within him.

  He tongued her ear, licking around the delicate outer edge. “Would you like that? Would you like my mouth against your center, my tongue against your bud? I’d lick you there, tasting you, savoring you, until you bucked beneath me, but I wouldn’t let you go. I’d hold you down, your thighs widespread, your cunny open to me, and I’d lick you until you came over and over.”

  She struggled against him then, half turning in his grasp, and he bent and kissed her hard, his mouth grinding hers open, thrusting his tongue into her mouth as savagely as he wanted to thrust his cock into her body. God! He was in danger of coming in his breeches, and he didn’t give a damn. She was finally breaking, his little martyr, and her surrender was sweeter than any honey.

  He jammed his leg between hers, high so that she was forced to ride him. He caught at her skirts, yanking them up, his entire being on but one goal. He no longer cared where they were, who she was, and who he was and his own damnable past. All he wanted was her warm, wet flesh around him. Now.

  But she dug her nails into his hair and pulled suddenly, surprising an exclamation of pain from him.

  It was all she needed. She darted, a fleeing hare before a hawk, wildly dashing down the dark corridor.

  HE’D BEWITCHED HER.

  Temperance panted as she rounded the corner of the dark passage. Panic was a live thing in her throat, fluttering and threatening to choke off her air. To drive reason itself from her mind.

  How had he known? Was her shame a blaze upon her face for all men to see? Or was he a wizard who could discern the sensual weaknesses of women? For she’d been weakened. Her legs had quivered under him; her center had turned liquid with shameful want. She’d gazed through that awful peephole and described the scene within, and dear God, she’d liked it. The terrible words he’d whispered in her ear as he thrust against her bottom had left her hot and lusting. She’d wanted him to mount her like a rutting stallion in the sordid little passage of a brothel.

  Perhaps she’d already lost her mind.

  The door to the outer hallway was unlocked. It sprang open at her touch, and then she was flying down the stairs, the heavy tread of Lord Caire’s boots right behind her. She made the square little hall and heard him curse and stumble. Thank goodness! Whatever his delay, it gave her a few extra seconds. She flung open the door to the brothel and fled into the night.

  The wind took her breath, and something small and mean and four-legged scuttled from her path. She ducked into a tiny covered alley, her footsteps echoing against the ancient stone walls. She ran without direction or thought, panic beating at her breast. If he caught her, he’d kiss her again. He’d press his length to her, and she’d taste his mouth, feel his touch, and she wouldn’t be able to break away a second time. She’d succumb, wallowing in her own sinful nature.

  She couldn’t let that happen.

  So when she heard him call her name behind her, she made herself slow down, made herself move more stealthily. The covered alley opened into a tiny courtyard. She glanced behind her and darted across it. Her breast was burning, and she wanted to gasp, but she made herself breathe slowly, softly, and look behind her. The courtyard was empty. His voice had been distant. Perhaps she’d lost him.

  Temperance crept through an alley, ducked into a side street, and then turned down another passage. The moon was out, giving her some feeble light. She’d run so fast and in such a rush that she had no idea where she was now. The buildings to either side were dark. She crossed a street, running fast again, a thrill of fear bolting up her back. She paused for a moment in the shadows of a house, peering behind her. She couldn’t see Lord Caire. Perhaps he’d given up the chase? Except that didn’t seem very like—

  “You fool!” he hissed into her ear.

  She yelped, an ignoble sound, but he’d scared the wits out of her.

  He took her upper arms and shook her, his voice rasping with rage. “Have you no sense? I promised your brother I’d take care of you, and then you go running willy-nilly into the worst part of St. Giles.”

  She gaped up at him, stunned, her only thought that he was enraged because of fear for her. She’d thought he’d chased her out of sexual frenzy when all the time he’d been concerned for her safety. Temperance couldn’t help it. She threw back her head and laughed, the wind taking the sound from her lips and spinning it high.

  Lord Caire frowned down at her. “Stop that. It’s not funny.”

  Which, of course, only made her laugh harder.

  He sighed in male frustration and shook her again, but it was halfhearted. He began to pull her toward himself, and her fears of his attraction flooded back, sobering her. She placed her palms against his chest in weak protest.

  And then he shoved her roughly behind him.

  She stumbled at the sudden movement, then caught herself and looked up. A group of men had walked into the street, all of them armed with cudgels. Caire twisted and broke apart his walking stick. The short sword was in his right hand, the remainder of the stick in his left, and he didn’t hesitate but flew at the attackers.

  “Run!” he bellowed to her as he charged the men.

  They hadn’t expected such an abrupt offensive. Two of the men fell back, one hesitated, but the remaining two closed on Caire. Temperance felt for her pistol. She’d tied the sack she usually carried it in to her waist under her skirts, and she began hauling up the material.

  There was a short scream, horribly cut off. She looked up in time to see one of Caire’s attackers fall back, his face awash in blood. Caire was whirling gracefully, his cape flying out about him, as he thrust at another man.

  “Temperance! Obey me now. Run!”

  Abruptly, a thick arm wrapped around her neck, choking off her scream.

  “Throw down yer sword,” a rough voice said near her ear, “or I’ll break ’er neck.”

  Caire turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw her plight, and then the man holding Temperance grunted and went limp. She scrambled away as he fell to the ground. She gasped and looked up and saw…

  An apparition, moving silently and swiftly past her. The attackers never even knew he—it?—was there until one was run through. Was she dreaming? Had she been killed and not even known it? For the thing that fought silently and deadly beside Caire now was like nothing she’d ever seen.

  He was tall and lean and wearing a black and red motley tunic. His breeches, jackboots, and wide-brimmed hat were all black. A black half-mask covered the upper part of his face, the nose grotesquely long, and eerie lines carved around the eyes and protruding cheeks. He held a glittering sword in one hand and a long dagger in the o
ther, and he used both at once with deadly agility, skipping nimbly over the cobblestones as he fought.

  Caire stood back-to-back with the apparition, both figures fighting with grim precision. Caire blocked a blow with the stick in his left hand and followed through with a jab from the sword in his right. The remaining attackers circled the two men like a pack of rabid dogs. But Caire and the harlequin moved together as if they’d fought like this all their lives. No matter how the attackers tried to breach their defenses, they could find no hole. The apparition slashed a man across the chest even as Caire stabbed one in the thigh. One of the attackers gave a shout, and suddenly they fled, disappearing into the St. Giles night. Even the man who’d caught her from behind had recovered enough to run away.

  In the silence, Temperance could hear her own breath rasping in her throat. The pistol in her hands shook violently.

  The apparition turned gracefully, his boots whispering against the cobblestones. He swept the hat from his head as he bowed low. A scarlet feather fluttered in his hat as he replaced it on his head.

  Then he was gone as well.

  Temperance stared at Caire. “Are you badly hurt? Who was that?”

  “I have no idea.” He shook his head. His silver hair had come down from its customary tie during the fight, and it fanned against his black cloak. “But it would appear that the Ghost of St. Giles is no rumor.”

  Chapter Ten

  Meg shook her head. “That, Your Majesty, is not love.”

  “What?” The king looked ominous. “If not love, then what is it?”

  “Obedience,” Meg said. “Your guards tell you what you wish to hear out of obedience, Your Majesty.”

  Well! You could’ve heard the drop of a pin within the throne room. The little blue bird chirped, and the king let out a sigh.

  “Return her to the dungeons,” he ordered the guards. He added to Meg, “And when next you are in my presence, see to it you are properly washed.”

  Meg curtsied. “To wash, I’ll need water, soap, and cloth, if it please Your Majesty.”