Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(52)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

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.