Thief of Shadows
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?
It didn’t matter at the moment: either way, he’d failed this night. He hadn’t saved the children.
Winter picked up the lantern and left. Outside, the wind had risen, blowing raindrops into his face. He listened, but there was no other sound save the creaking of the chandler shop sign overhead. The dragoons must be hunting in another part of St. Giles. He replaced the lantern and then bent into the wind, walking swiftly. Twice he darted into alleys or doorways to avoid another night pedestrian, and once he was forced to take to the rooftops to avoid the dragoons. He did all this almost mechanically, and it wasn’t until he stood in a neat garden on the west side of London that he realized which way he’d taken.
He stood outside Isabel’s town house, staring up at the windows in back, wondering which was her bedroom. Odd that his feet should instinctively take him here. She was not of his world. She wouldn’t offer him tea and bread toasted over a fire like a housewife in St. Giles. Wouldn’t understand the gaping hole of want that was St. Giles or the need that drove him to try to fill it. Or perhaps she would. Isabel had proven herself a more complex woman than he’d first thought.
But their differences were of no consequence anyway when what drew them together was as old as Adam and Eve. She’d brought out the beast, made him feel when he’d always lived in a cold, still world. No other woman had ever done that. No other woman ever would. She was the only woman for him now. Perhaps he ought to show her that.
As he stood there, the clouds opened up and the rain began in earnest. Winter lifted his face to the downpour, letting the rain wash away doubts and the failure of the night. Letting the rain wash him clean.
A light began to glow in a ground-floor window. It was well past midnight. Perhaps a maid was tidying up. Or a footman was taking an illicit drink of brandy. Or maybe Isabel couldn’t sleep.
In any case, he’d soon find out.
Chapter Twelve
—from The Legend of the Harlequin Ghost of St. Giles
This was stupid.
Isabel stared sightlessly at Edmund’s carefully compiled library. Her late husband had enjoyed owning an outrageously expensive collection of books, though he’d hardly read any of them. Still, they were a source of solace for her on nights like this when sleep stubbornly stayed just out of her grasp.
She sighed and took a small book of erotic poetry off the shelf. It was rather banal—the poet had been entirely too pleased with his own wit—but perhaps that would make her drowsy. She’d already taken a hot bath and called for both warm milk and a glass of wine. Little else was left to try if she were to get any sleep this night.
Isabel settled into a deep leather chair before the unlit fireplace, tucking her slippered feet beneath the skirts of her wrap. The room was a bit chilly without the fire, but she wouldn’t stay long enough to make it worthwhile to light it.
She opened the book, tilting it to catch the light of her candle, and began to read.
The poetry must’ve done its job, for she didn’t know how much longer it was when next she looked up, and at first she wondered if she might be dreaming.
He stood there, only a few paces in front of her, still in full Ghost of St. Giles regalia.
Her heart leaped with foolish joy. Until now she’d wondered if it had only been a physical relief for him. Like eating a nice meal when one was particularly peckish. One was grateful and happy for the meal, but one never really thought about it afterward.
He’d come to her again unbidden, though. At least she wasn’t a steak and kidney pie to him.
“You’re dripping on my hearthrug,” she said.
He took off his mask, moving rather slowly. “You need new locks.”
She raised her eyebrows and closed her book. “My locks aren’t that old.”
“Yes, but”—he drew off the silk mask as well and let it drop to the hearthrug—“they’re more ornamental than useful.”
She watched as he doffed his hat. “Does that explain how you got in?”
“Partially.” He unbuckled his sword belt and carefully laid it on the tiles before the fireplace. “I would’ve gotten in anyway, no matter how good your locks, but I shouldn’t have gotten in quite so easily.”
He began unbuttoning his tunic.
“Perhaps I don’t have anything worth locking away,” she said a bit distractedly.
He shot her a sparkling glance from underneath lowered brows. “You have yourself.”
Isabel bit her lip. “What are you doing here?”
He removed his tunic but didn’t bother looking up as he sat to take off his boots. “I want you to show me.”
“Show you what?”
He did look up at that, one boot in his hands, and his eyes bored straight into her woman’s soul. “Everything.”
She swallowed, for she’d clenched internally at his single word. “What makes you think I’m interested in teaching you?”
He stilled and his sudden and complete lack of movement made her heart beat faster, as if he were a predator readying to pounce. “Do I presume?”
She licked dry lips. “No.”
“Don’t tease, Isabel.” He bent to the other boot.
She watched for a minute as he stripped the boot from his foot and then unbuttoned his shirt. “Why do you do it?”
He shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head, revealing again that wonderfully muscled chest. “No one misses them.”
“Who?”
“The poor, the children of St. Giles.” He paused, his hands on the fall of his breeches, and glanced at her. She saw that there was an angry fire in his eyes. “They send soldiers in for the death of one aristocrat, yet dozens of children die every month and they care not.”
She cocked her head to the side, realizing that she must speak cautiously. “Roger Fraser-Burnsby was a good man.”
He nodded. “And had he beat his servants, seduced maidens, and neglected his elderly parents, his murderer would still be hunted just as ferociously.”
“True.” His anger was more fresh tonight. Something had happened after he’d left her carriage. “What would you have society do, exactly?”
“Care.” He ripped open his breeches and stepped from them, standing only in his smallclothes. His erection strained at the thin material. “I want them to care just as much about a poor child as they do a gentleman. I want them to make sure every child is fed and clothed and housed. I want them to see that London cannot continue this way with people dying in the gutter.”
“You talk revolution,” she murmured.
“And if I do?” His hands clenched into fists. “Perhaps we need another revolution—one of necessity instead of religion this time. I’m tired of rescuing orphaned and abandoned children. I want to never nurse a child through the night and see him die before daybreak, never have to bury another baby, never have to search for abandoned children only to find…” He choked suddenly, looking away from her.
Ah, they were drawing closer to what made him so edgy. She wanted to wrap her arms around him but was afraid he would rebuff such compassion. “What happened tonight?”
He looked at her, and she caught her breath at the anguish in his eyes. “Surely you alone cannot expect to bear this burden? Isn’t that a sin of pride, Mr. Makepeace?”
Any other man would’ve scoffed. He closed his eyes instead. “Perhaps. Perhaps I have too much pride.” His eyes flashed open. “But that does not excuse the fact that I was too late. I failed those children.”
She bowed her head. How could she help him, this man who felt too intensely, who bore all the problems of St. Giles on his shoulders? What could she offer him except what she’d already given him—her body?
She carefully put her book down on the table by her candle. Then she picked up the candlestick and crossed to the fireplace. The coals were already laid. She knelt and put fire to them.
“What are you doing?” he asked behind her.
She straightened and turned to face him. “I thought we might need some warmth for what you want.”
Then she let her wrap drop to the floor. Underneath was her night rail, a frivolous thing of lace and silk. She drew it off over her head and kicked the slippers from her feet. That left her naked and standing before him like some aging Venus. She threw her shoulders back, smiling at him defiantly.
Except his gaze wasn’t at all disappointed. In fact, he looked a little awestruck.
She wet her lips, noting that they trembled slightly, and walked toward him. “Now, what exactly do you want me to show you?”
“Everything,” he repeated.
A daunting word, for with another man it might be hyperbole. With Winter Makepeace it was not.
“Then touch me,” she said huskily.
His hand was broad and fit almost exactly over her left breast. He laid it there, hot and strong, then lifted to stroke around her areola delicately.
“Like this?” His words were rumbled, his gaze intent on what his hand touched.
“Yes, that’s nice,” she said.
His eyes flicked to hers. “Nice.”
She smiled. “Pinch my nipple.”
He squeezed gently—too gently.
“Harder.”