Prince of Swords

  “My lord...” she whispered, quite desperate.

  “Alistair,” he corrected her, his mouth hovering above hers like a hawk over a wounded sparrow.

  “Please,” she said.

  “Yes. I do please.” And he pulled her into his arms, settling her body against his as his mouth captured hers.

  She meant to keep her eyes open, to keep her senses in order, but he was too practiced, too clever, and his lips against hers were damp, clinging, tasting her own in soft little bites that pulled and drew her, and her eyelids fluttered closed in the shadowy darkness as she opened her mouth for him.

  His arms no longer imprisoned her—she clung to him of her own accord, and his hands were free, free to reach between their bodies and cup her breast. She knew she should protest, pull her mouth away from his in outrage, but she couldn’t. He mesmerized her, and she told herself she had no will of her own.

  But it wasn’t true. She had a very strong will. And her fierce will wanted Alistair MacAlpin’s hands on her breasts.

  His mouth slid along her jawline, hot and seeking. “Where did you get such a hideous dress?” he murmured. “You should wear silks and lace and diamonds. Or nothing at all.”

  Her wits seemed to have scattered. “It was my mother’s,” she murmured, lifting her jaw to give his mouth access to the sensitive line of her neck above the plain dress.

  “Your mother has execrable taste,” he said, and she could feel his hands tugging at the laces impatiently. “I want you out of it.” And she could feel the material part as he tugged it down over her shoulders, and the coolness of the window behind her made her shiver in sudden fear as sanity struggled to return.

  She wanted his mouth on hers. She wanted his hands on her breasts. She wanted him to strip her of her ugly clothes and cover her body with his beautiful one, but she knew such wants were wicked and mad. And profoundly dangerous. He would take everything from her, her innocence, her peace of mind... and her gift. And leave her empty and aching.

  “Release me,” she said in a raw voice.

  He’d managed to pull her dress down her arms, exposing the top part of her breasts above the corset, and after a moment of silent perusal his eyes met hers. “No,” he said.

  He would take her, she knew it. He would do as he said he would, strip off her clothes and his and take her on the floor of his hostess’s little-used music room with the silver-bright moon their witness, and she would revel in it. And she would risk everything, including her precious gift—for a rare pleasure that would break her heart and ruin her life.

  She gave him no warning, simply shoved hard, propelling herself away from him and against the glass doors, which shattered with a loud crack.

  For a moment she felt nothing, just coldness and pressure on her exposed back. And then heat and dampness as Alistair yanked her away, cursing underneath his breath.

  “You don’t have to court defenestration to get away from me,” he muttered under his breath in a less passionate voice, turning her around so that she faced away from him. A perfect time to run, except that he held her shoulders in a painful grip that she couldn’t wriggle out of. “You’ve scraped your back.”

  “You wouldn’t let me go,” she said, willing herself not to feel faint. She was made of stronger stuff than that, wasn’t she? She was brave and bold and strong, wasn’t she? To be sure, she’d never been terribly stalwart at the sight of blood, but surely this time she could face it with equanimity. Couldn’t she?

  He turned her back to face him before she could gather enough strength to make a break for it. “Sit down,” he said irritably, “and I’ll find something to bandage it.”

  She looked at him. He had blood on his hand. Her blood. “Of course,” she said faintly. And sank to the floor in a graceless heap.

  Alistair looked down at her for a moment. He should have known she was about to faint—her color, even in the moonlight, had been ashen. With a resigned sigh he scooped her up, careful to avoid getting her blood on the pale blue satin of his coat. She was heavier than he would have expected, but still no particular burden. He was stronger than most, and he managed to lift her limp body into his arms with only reasonable effort.

  She was more rounded than he’d realized, a fact that pleased him. He had every intention of discovering just how rounded she was, and he was going to taste those curves, luxuriate in them—once he managed to wake her up and bandage the scrape along her back.

  He’d already investigated the house thoroughly. It was a simple enough matter to make his way back to his own rooms, carrying his burden, with no one watching. He kicked the door shut silently behind him, then laid her facedown on the wide bed. She didn’t move, and he had no doubt she was still unconscious. Once she regained her senses she’d be off again, probably screaming bloody murder.

  He stripped off his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them aside, and rolled up the lacy sleeves of his shirt. It was simple enough to finish unfastening the back of her plain dress, and if the scrape wasn’t still bleeding, he would have concentrated on the laces of her corset. As it was, he fetched a damp towel and carefully washed her back. The scrape wasn’t deep but it needed bandaging. And he found himself wondering whether she’d still be able to lie on her back when he made love to her.

  She looked utterly delicious lying on the soft feather bed, and he wanted to mount her, take her, and bite her neck as he did it. She brought out a savagely erotic streak that astonished him, and most likely would terrify her. He needed to rein in that fiery need, or she might leap through another bloody window.

  Fortunately a gentleman in his line of work came prepared for all eventualities, and he had bandages and basilicum ointment stashed among his clean linen in case some energetic thief-taker might venture a bit too close. It was a simple enough matter to cleanse the wound and bandage it, and if his hands happened to stray perilously close to her breasts, she wasn’t conscious enough to be outraged. When he finished she looked so peaceful, he gave in to temptation, not quite certain why.

  He couldn’t ravish her while she was unconscious, and he suspected the scrape, though not serious, would be uncomfortable enough to distract her from his nefarious designs. He simply stretched out next to her on the soft bed, lying on his side, facing her. He touched her soft skin, loosening her hair so that it slid over his hands. He breathed in her scent, flowers and soap and warm flesh, and he wanted to pull her into his arms and simply hold her. An odd notion, he thought vaguely, resisting the temptation. He contented himself with catching a thick strand of her hair and bringing it to his face, to his mouth. And he closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into a sweetly erotic dream.

  For a moment she didn’t know where she was. Her back stung, her right side was chilled, her left side deliciously warm. There was a heavy weight pressing against her in the darkness, a weight she welcomed, and for a moment she thought she was back in her family home in Northumberland with her wolfhound curled up beside her.

  But her dog had died when she was fourteen, and the house had been lost two years later. And she was lying in a strange bed, next to a warm body that most definitely did not belong to her sister.

  Enough moonlight remained to filter into the room, and as her eyes grew accustomed to it, her memory returned. And she knew whose bed she shared.

  She tried to turn her head to verify her suspicions, but something had trapped her long, loose hair. Tentatively, grimacing at the stinging sensation in her back, she reached up to see what had entangled her hair, only to discover a hand wrapped around the long strands.

  Alistair slept deeply. She eased her hair free slowly, carefully easing her body from the wickedly soft comfort of the feather bed. Glenshiel slept on, oblivious of her escape.

  She was dressed only in her chemise, petticoats, and corset. There was no sign of her mother’s dress in the room, and she dared not take the time to search for it. Nor could she wander out in the hallway in her current dishabille.

  A white shirt l
ay tossed across a chair, and Jessamine retrieved it, drawing it around her narrow shoulders. The bottom came down to her knees, the frothy lace of the cuffs spilled down over her hands, but at least it managed to cover her. If it also managed to smell deliciously like Glenshiel, it was a fitting punishment for her having given in to temptation and not running away the moment he’d entered the music room.

  She crossed to the bed. She could always reach out and shake him awake and demand to know what he had done with her missing clothes.

  He turned then, onto his back, still soundly asleep, and Jessamine drew in a strangled breath. His shirt, a twin to the one she’d purloined and now had wrapped around her, was unfastened and pulled from his satin evening breeches, exposing his chest. His skin was white-gold in the moonlight, and for a brief, mad moment she wanted to crawl back on that bed with him and put her head against the smooth, warm skin of his chest, and have him hold her.

  She’d never seen a man’s chest before, and she wondered if all of them were quite so... disturbing. So well-formed, so beckoning to the touch. Or, as Alistair had warned her, whether she responded so madly only to him.

  She was afraid of the answer. His long, dark hair was in his face, and she gave in to the temptation, lifting a strand and smoothing it away from his mouth.

  And then she backed away silently, afraid if she lingered for a moment longer she might betray herself even more profoundly.

  The door opened beneath her touch, the hall outside was dark, and she hesitated a brief moment.

  To hear his voice float toward her. “Aren’t you going to kiss me good night, Jessamine?”

  She slammed the door behind her and ran.

  Thirteen

  Alistair hadn’t planned to go a-thieving quite so soon. He’d expected to spend a boring few days with Sally Blaine’s tedious guests, flirting madly with Jessamine Maitland whenever he got the chance. Unfortunately his little midnight encounter had put a finish to that plan. If he had to spend another day cooped up in the house, he might do something very unwise.

  He’d been a fool to let her go. She’d been snuggled up so cozily next to him in that monstrously soft bed, and he’d lain there beside her, watching the rise and fall of her breasts in the moonlight, the pale, soft skin on her cheek. Her eyes were her most noticeable feature, and with them peacefully shut, he would have thought she’d look just like most other women.

  She didn’t. She looked delicate, though he knew she wasn’t, and utterly delicious. Some dark, twisted part of him had enjoyed lying there, watching her, wanting her, letting the need build and grow until he was ready to explode from it. It would have been a simple matter to take her hand and place it on his manhood. A shock to her maidenly senses, no doubt, which made it doubly appealing. But he hadn’t. He’d watched her awaken slowly, keeping his own eyelids lowered so she wouldn’t know he was acutely aware of everything about her—each indrawn breath, occasionally with a little catch. The pale fullness of her breasts spilling above the corset and chemise, the faint shadow of her nipple against the thin white cotton. He had stared at that shadow for moments, imagining the taste of her skin through the thin lawn.

  But she’d slid from his arms, from his bed, and he made no move to stop her. He wasn’t quite certain why. Perhaps it was simply that he wanted her to a dangerous extent, wanted her so much, his hands were trembling with it, wanted her so much that he was afraid, once he took her, he’d never want to let her go. And that was a weakness he could ill afford.

  In the light of day he realized how absurd such a notion was. Such romantic flights of fantasy were worthy of a gothic novelist, not a pragmatic, amoral creature like himself. He felt no duty, no attachment, no need for anything in his life apart from the occasional excitement of a bit of felony. Gaming bored him, hunting bored him, flirtations bored him, sex bored him. Except for the notion of sex with Miss Jessamine Maitland, which occupied a great deal of his less vigilant hours.

  He wondered whether she was a witch. It had been more than fifty years since witches were burned in England, but there were still some narrow-minded, old-fashioned souls who thought the cards were an instrument of the devil, and whoever read them the devil’s handmaiden.

  He wasn’t one to believe in such claptrap, nor to allow anyone or anything, supernatural or human, that much power over him.

  But whether he liked to admit it or not, Jessamine Maitland had bewitched him, enchanted him, so that he did things around her that were entirely out of character for a conscienceless rogue. He should have seduced her, deflowered her, instead of letting her escape so easily.

  And he shouldn’t be wanting to run, to push his plan ahead. If he had any sense whatsoever, he’d bide his time, give the runners a chance to settle in before he tried something startling.

  Ah, but he’d never been one to play it safe. His brother had been the safe, perfect gentleman who drank and gamed and lived well... and died for it. Alistair was damned if he’d go the same quick, sorry way.

  A few wicked games to distract the vigilant runners and bring excitement to the stultifying house party, and then he would set about his avocation in earnest. His blazing career as a thief was drawing to its inevitable conclusion.

  The Cat would go out in a blaze of glory, if he had to die. Otherwise he would carry off one final, shocking robbery, one of such monumental outrageousness that London society would never forget it. And then he would retire to the Continent, to live out his days in wicked profligacy in some wondrously decadent spot—perhaps Venice.

  And just to prove how soulless he really was, right before he made his escape he would efficiently, thoroughly, conscientiously deflower Miss Jessamine Maitland.

  For the third time in two days one of Lady Sally’s guests had lost a valuable piece of jewelry, only to have it turn up in another guest’s astonished possession.

  “Someone’s having a game with you, Clegg,” Samuel Welch had the misfortune to point out.

  Brennan didn’t move. The three runners were alone in the estate office, having commandeered the room as a central headquarters. Clegg had taken the seat behind the desk, setting himself in charge even though his length of service and position with the runners was exactly equal to Brennan’s. Welch had already realized his mistake, and his swarthy face looked oddly pale in the murky light of a rainy day. As for Brennan, he simply puffed on his pipe, waiting to see what transpired.

  He knew it was one of his gifts as a member of Sir John’s men. His patience, his willingness to wait things out. He simply took his time and all sorts of interesting things revealed themselves. People had a tendency to say too much; they grew careless with their ill-gotten gains, and when that happened, Brennan was there to set things right.

  “You think so, Welch?” Clegg said softly. “There’s not many as makes a game of Josiah Clegg and lives to tell the tale.”

  Welch was beginning to look sick, and Brennan decided to bestir himself. He had a weakness for the downtrodden, and Clegg had been making a concerted effort to keep Welch subservient during the last two days at this godforsaken house party. Brennan felt called upon to interfere.

  “They’re making cakes out of all of us,” he said easily. “I fancy it’s just the gentry thinking up a new parlor game. I blame it on the Cat—he’s captured their interest far too well, and they’re play-acting robbery instead of theatricals.”

  “What do you know of the gentry and theatricals?” Clegg sneered. “You’re nothing but a north-country farmer at heart. I doubt you were called upon to do the pretty with the quality.”

  Clegg had long since lost the ability to annoy Brennan, despite his best efforts. Brennan simply nodded lazily. “You’re right, Josiah,” he said in a measured voice. “But I watch and I listen, and I pick up all sorts of information before I make my move. You can learn a lot that way—it’s not a bad habit to get into.”

  “Are you telling me how to do my job?” Clegg demanded in a deceptively affable growl, and for some reason Brennan was
reminded of poor Martin’s cut throat.

  “Wouldn’t think of it,” he replied, knocking the dottle out of his pipe. “Just pointing out that these robberies are hardly serious. If they were, the missing pretties wouldn’t turn up a few hours later in someone’s best linen.”

  “Do you think the Cat’s really here?” Welch asked eagerly, breaking in.

  “No,” said Clegg flatly. “Brennan’s right.” It looked like it pained him to admit it. “If it were the Cat’s doing, then the jewels wouldn’t be found so easily. Someone’s trying to distract us, and Josiah Clegg is not about to be distracted.”

  “But if it’s not the Cat, and no harm is being done, why should we bother?” Welch demanded.

  Brennan concentrated on his pipe. “I simply said the robberies were in the nature of a game, Samuel. I didn’t say the Cat wasn’t here.”

  Welch was suddenly all eagerness. “You think he is?”

  “I’m beginning to think he won’t be coming at all,” Clegg said with a sniff. “You never can trust informers, particularly when you’ve got a knife at their throat. They’ll say anything to keep from getting cut. What would the Cat be doing at a house party such as this one? I’ve hardly seen a jewel worth tempting anyone more than a launderer’s apprentice. He wouldn’t be wasting his time.”

  “Unless he had other reasons for being here,” Brennan observed.

  Clegg glared at him. “And what would that be?”

  Brennan gave him the unruffled smile he knew irritated Clegg beyond measure. “To tease us. The game with the missing jewels seems to support that theory. Mrs. Blaine loses a set of garnet earrings, and they appear in Mr. Arbuthnot’s dressing gown pocket. Miss Ermintrude Winters misses a diamond bracelet, and the same is discovered in a sugar pot. These are tricks, and I haven’t noticed any particular wit in the majority of the guests here.”

  “You must have a likely candidate for such a harebrained theory,” Clegg grumbled.