Lois Greiman (7 page)

“Who are you?” she hissed, but her lips were achingly pretty, bright and mobile and tempting. He leaned toward them.

Her lips parted, then she pressed her cloth against his wound.

Pain flashed like lightning in his chest. He hissed through his teeth and found her eyes. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Who are you?” she repeated.

But he’d found his wits. “Vic’s killer,” he said, though he knew it was a lie. There had been two thieves there in the darkness with him that night. One of them had killed Vic. It didn’t matter which one, just as long as they didn’t show up to contest his story.

She stared at him for several seconds, then breathed a laugh. “It doesn’t matter who you are,” she said. “Not to Poke.”

She was so close, so breathtakingly lovely that he found he wanted nothing more than to make her stay. “And who is Poke? Truly?” he asked.

Her eyes flitted to his. “No one to fool with,” she warned.

He forced a casual shrug. “Then ’tis a good thing I’ve no intention of fooling with him.”

Their gazes flashed and melded.

“You’re far out of your depth, Dancer.”

And being pulled deeper still, but he dare not admit it.

“Am I?” he asked.

“Aye. You’ve no idea what you’ve stumbled into,” she said, and pulled her attention back to his wound.

“Then why don’t you tell me, Princess?”

She pursed her lips as she smoothed some noxious ointment over his injury. The movement of her fingers against his flesh felt ridiculously erotic, but in a moment her gaze flickered to his again.

“Perhaps he seems harmless to you, Dancer. Perhaps to a man of your—”

“Harmless!” He caught her wrist, unable to bear another intoxicating second of her skin against his. “What the hell are you talking about? He was going to burn you!”

She scowled directly into his eyes as if she didn’t remember, as if the glory of being with the master sucked such thoughts from her head.

“Your arm,” he reminded her, turning her wrist so that the delicate underside showed. It looked hopelessly fragile, enticingly smooth. He pulled his gaze from it with an effort. “What kind of an animal would do that to someone as…” Don’t say it. Don’t. “…breathtaking as you.”

The words fell like darkness into the room. He’d known better than to loose them, of course, but they were free now, and he couldn’t seem to regret them, or to keep from stroking her skin. It was as soft as he had
imagined. He smoothed his knuckles along her forearm and down her wrist where her tendons were taut and sharp. Her hand was narrow, her fingers long and delicate. He eased them open and felt her shiver. He imagined them against the heat of his flesh and couldn’t help but kiss her there in the center of her palm.

“Quit that!” she hissed, and snatched her hand away.

He barely managed to catch her elbow. “You’re too good for him,” he rasped, but she yanked her arm free and turned away. Hope went with her, spilling him back into the darkness. “William,” he added, and waited for her to turn back, waited for her eyes to meet his with a jolt. “My given name is William.”

W
illiam. She stared at him, knowing she should leave, knowing she should back away and never return. But he’d trusted her with his name. And it suited him. He would be called Will by those who loved him. Willie, when he was child, before the world had wounded him. Before the sorrow came to live in his eyes.

“My apologies.” His voice was soft now, quiet and deep, a poet’s voice. “’Tis just…I cannot understand. Why would a woman like you tolerate such abuse?”

“A woman like me?” She should not speak, should not return to his bedside, and yet she did, slowly, warily. “And what sort of woman might that be, Dancer?”

Emotion burned in his eyes. Passion just muted by caution.

She sank onto the cushion beside him, letting her hip graze his. Did he catch his breath at the contact? Did his eyes darken and his muscles contract? “What kind of woman am I?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, but it was the caution that spoke. “I wish I knew.”

“I was certain Vic’s killer knew everything.”

“Were you?” He reached for her hand, and though she knew better than to allow his touch, she did so. His skin
was dark against hers, his fingers warm and strong.

“No,” she said, ignoring the flash of feeling that spurred up her arm. “I’m lying.”

“About everything?” he asked, and smoothed his thumb along her knuckles. Disconcerting feelings shimmered across her skin.

She forced a shrug. “Everything I can think of.”

His expression remained sober, but there was something in his eyes, a hint of laughter, a trace of momentary happiness. And it captivated her, not only because she was certain it was a rare thing, but because she knew, somehow, that few others would recognize it, would see beyond the shield he showed the world.

“Don’t tell me your name’s not really Princess,” he said.

“I believe I explained that before.”

“Ahh, yes, I am to think of it as a title.”

“Exactly.”

“And your given name?”

He asked flippantly, but there was interest in his eyes, and the truth could do no harm. Many knew her Christian name. She drew a slow breath and let it out just as carefully. “My mother named me Shandria,” she said. “I was born in England, some distance from Bradford.”

“Shandria,” he repeated, sounding surprised, as he turned her hand and skimmed his thumb across her wrist.

She stifled a shiver, calmed her breathing. “’Twas my grandmother’s name,” she said. “And what of you? Why William?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps they thought Slate too graceless.”

“They were considering the name Slate for their…”
She paused a moment, watching him and guessing. “Heir?”

“
Heir!
” He laughed, but the sound was not quite right. “You make me sound like nobility.”

“Do I?”

Loosing her hand, he skimmed his fingers up her arm, sending frenzied shimmers in all directions. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me,” he said.

“I didn’t say I think well of the nobility.”

“Ahh.” He sighed as if deeply disappointed. “Then it’s just as well I am known as naught but Slate.”

“By the ladies in London,” she said.

“Of course.”

“And what are you doing here in Darktowne, William?”

He lowered a brow as if disconcerted that she had chosen this one time to call him by his given name. “Just trying to make my way in the world, lass.”

“Surely it would be safer in your…” She shrugged. “Manor house.”

His lips lifted roguishly at one corner, as if amused by her foolish guess, and for once she could not read his eyes. “Believe this, sweet Shandria,” he said. “If there were somewhere safe for me, I would be there now.”

“So you are penniless?” she asked, and, for just an instant, allowed her fingers to brush his.

A muscle jumped in his dark bristled jaw, but his tone was light when he spoke. “I am not quite so inept as Nim implied.”

How did he know Nimble Jack? And what were his plans? Thievery, as he suggested? Thrills? Or were his motives more sinister, something she could not see in his eyes. Had he come for revenge? She felt her heart con
tract. Had Nim done something to bring this man into their midst? “I would suppose not,” she said, and leaned forward a bit so that her breasts nearly touched his chest. “Not if you were able to kill Lord Rambert.”

“He was just a man,” he said, and, reaching slowly up, brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She let her eyes fall closed. “No,” she whispered.

“No?”

She opened her eyes, finding his immediately. “He was an animal.”

“Did he…” His tone was taut suddenly, his eyes turbulent, as if he cared, as if he could not bear to see her hurt. But she dare not let that sway her. Weakness was death. Hers and others’. “Did he touch you?”

“It doesn’t matter now.” She dropped her gaze again and smoothed her thumb along his. “I’ll not have to worry about him again.” She made certain her smile was tremulous when she lifted it to him. “And I have you to thank,” she said, and leaned closer still.

His breathing seemed shallow, but his eyes were as deep as forever. “You needn’t thank me,” he said.

“But I want to,” she countered, and, moving closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. Feelings sizzled through her like lightning, but it was nothing, just the thrill of her duplicitous scheme. “And I think…perhaps…” Lifting her hand, she touched his jaw with her fingertips. “Maybe you could be rid of Poke.”

“Poke!” He started back against his pillow, the single word breathy.

“Hush,” she warned, letting her eyes go wide and shifting them toward the door. “You must be careful.” She touched his jaw again. “He’s nobody’s fool.”

“But…you’re lovers,” he said.

She breathed a laugh as though he must surely understand her reasons. “He’s a powerful man.”

“He forces you?” His voice was rife with rage, and for a moment she almost quailed. But she must not.

“There are all kinds of force,” she murmured. “All kinds of power. At first…” She glanced at his lips. They were full and slightly parted. “I thought you had none. But I see now that I was wrong. If you killed Vic…” She shrugged. It was not difficult to appear nervous. “You could do the same to Poke.” Her breast touched the bare skin of his chest, burning on contact. “He’s dangerous, Will. More so than you know. And devious. No one is safe from him.”

The muscles of his chest flexed beneath her breasts. “Then why do you stay?”

“Why?” She breathed a careful laugh. “Where would I go that he could not find me?”

“Surely if you went back to England…” he said, “or even—”

“You don’t understand,” she hissed. “He is powerful beyond your imagination. And wealthy.”

“Then why does he remain here?”

“He has plans,” she murmured. “And Darktowne amuses him. We all amuse him. Perhaps that’s the true reason. I can’t say for certain, but this I know—people will suffer every day that he lives. Gem…” She winced, though she had not meant to. “She acts as if she’s invincible, but underneath…” She tightened her hand in his blanket. “She’s just a child, Will, with a child’s dreams. A child’s…” Her voice broke. What a marvelous actress she was.

“He would harm Gem?” His voice was low and deep, poet turned warrior, and for a moment she was over-
whelmed by his feral protectiveness for a girl he barely knew.

“Who are you?” she whispered, but continued before he could respond. “Can you be so naive? Aye, he would harm Gem. He would harm anyone.” She slid her hand onto his chest. His heart thrummed hard and heavy against her palm. His skin was warm, his eyes intense, and for an instant she wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth. To bare her soul. But fools did not survive in Darktowne. “Perhaps you were sent to us for a reason.”

Silence sat between them, pulsing in rhythm with his heart, then she kissed him. His lips were firm, his touch a promise as he reached up to cup her face. But she did not believe in promises. She drew slowly back, holding his gaze.

“What do you want me to do?” he rasped.

She drew in a sharp, quiet breath, as though she couldn’t quite believe he had asked and leaned eagerly against his chest. “If I obtain a weapon, could you use it?”

Something flared in his eyes. “Guns—”

“No,” she whispered, and glanced furtively toward the door. “It must be done quietly.”

“Why—”

“If Ox hears…” She shifted her gaze, then settled it restlessly back on his. “If any of them hear, we’ll—”

“Any of who?”

“You don’t think he controls Darktowne alone. He’s got men stationed everywhere. We’re surrounded by his hirelings. Protected, he says. But who protects us from them? From him? Do you think you can simply walk into the Den?” She shook her head and dropped her attention to his chest. His wound was healing, but he would for
ever bear the scar. She brushed his skin with her fingertips and watched his nipples tighten, his muscles dance. “Strong as you are…brave as you are…” she said, lifting her gaze imploringly to his eyes. “You were only allowed entrance because Peter brought you.”

“The house is guarded?”

She laughed, but the sound was soft and breathy. “All of Darktowne is guarded. But I can get us out…if Poke falls.”

“Where would you wish to go?”

“It matters not. I shall find a job,” she whispered, and found that, despite her duplicity, the idea was dreamlike in its beauty, enticing and seductive. But she was not easily seduced. Not anymore. She smiled wistfully and found her equilibrium. “My mother didn’t raise me to be a thief. I simply…” She closed her eyes and opened them slowly. “But she didn’t raise me to endanger another either.” Drawing back slightly, she kept her gaze on his. “My apologies,” she said, and shook her head as she straightened further. “You’re not the sort to take another’s life. Not that sort a’tall.” Bending down one last time, she kissed his lips. “I’m sorry, Dancer. I’ll not—”

“Get me a knife.” The words seemed to be torn from him.

She froze. “What?”

“He’ll not harm you again,” he vowed.

“You’ll kill him?” she whispered. She was stretched across his body, hip to hip, breast to chest.

“Aye, lass,” he murmured. “I will.”

She moved closer. He closed his eyes to the caress.

“You fool!” she hissed.

He snapped his gaze to hers, but she was already on her feet, enraged and shaken and terrified. Aye, she had tried to trap him so that she might use his own words
against him, but a part of her had hoped it could not be done, that he would not be so foolish.

“You can’t best Poke!” she snarled, and curled her fist into his blanket as she drew herself close. “If he knew your plans…if he even suspected…he’d butcher you like a bloody shoat. He’d eat you alive.”

“So this was all an act?” he asked, and the little boy was gone from his eyes, replaced by jaded amusement. “It was all a game?”

She laughed, feeling dirty and old. “You make it too easy to call it a game,
William
.”

“Then you plan to tell Poke.”

She snorted and turned away, but he was out of bed in an instant and spinning her toward him. She scrambled to escape, but he pressed her up against the wall, pinning her with his body, and she stilled, shushing the panic. He held a wrist in each hand, and one of her legs was propped between his. She could feel the hard length of his erection against her thigh.

He closed his eyes, breathing hard, and she wondered for a moment if he would faint. But determination won out. He dragged his eyes open, though his head listed slightly to the left. “Will you tell him?” he asked, tightening his grip on her arms.

“Will you leave the boy be?” she hissed.

“What?” His knees buckled, almost spilling him to the floor, but he managed to stay erect. “What the devil are you talking about?”

She tried to jerk her arms away, but he held tight, wrestling them back up the wall. “How did you know his name?” she rasped.

He frowned as if trying to remain lucid, to follow her line of thought. Did that mean that his appearance in
Darktowne had nothing to do with Jack? Or was he such an exquisite liar? And what of the swirling emotions in his eyes? Did they lie, too? She would have sworn it was not so, but she had judged men wrong before and could not afford to do so again. “Like the lad said, we’d met before.”

“In Berrywood. I remember,” she said, and watched him.

“That’s right,” he said, and not a hint of a lie showed in his eyes.

“Where you were swindling a gent,” she whispered.

He watched her lips move, and leaned slowly nearer. But only a fool would be tempted. Only a fool, regardless of his shabby beauty, his wounded eyes, his…

His lips touched hers. Desire whispered through her like billowing mist, drowning her in silvery shadows. She allowed one moment of pleasure, one heart pounding instant of titillation, then, “But Jack said you were at the docks,” she murmured.

He drew back with careful precision, his eyes steady on hers. “Tell me, Princess,” he said and loosing one wrist, caressed her cheek. “Is your every word a trick?”

“You’d best get used to it, Dancer, if you hope to survive here.”

“And what about this?” Lifting his hand, he pressed his palm against her chest. Her heart hammered frantically against his fingertips. “Your pulse is racing. Is that a trick, too?”

“No, I really have a heart,” she said, and he laughed.

“Do you?” he asked, and kissed her again.

Desire swirled through her like windswept clouds, but she would not play the fool. She turned her head and struggled to control her breathing. “Promise me, you’ll not bother Jack,” she murmured.

He scowled at her. She could feel the intensity of his gaze. “Why? What is he to you?”

“He’s a boy,” she said, skimming her eyes to his. “An innocent—”

“Innocent!” he scoffed, and tightened his grip when she tried to pull away. “He’s no more innocent than you are, Princess. In fact you’re quite similar in…” His eyes narrowed. “Is that it, then? Is he your son?”

The thought was strange, but almost soothing. Almost kindly. She could imagine the boy as an infant, soft and peaceful in her arms. Had she borne him, she would have been able to protect him, to—