No Place for a Lady (24 page)

He should leave. He should go home to a warm fire and a brandy. But he did not. He remained by her window, wondering if the clouds would clear away from the nearly full moon. Even in the half-light, he could see how the ivy beneath Fantine's window had been torn or broken. Someone had certainly been climbing in and out of her bedroom, and he was determined to discover who.

Then came a thump. Not a loud thump, but a soft thud as a side of mutton dropped to the ground. It was followed by a rope and then a most darling derriere clad in tight breeches. It was Fantine, of course, climbing backward out of her window. She had a huge canvas satchel slung over one shoulder and banging awkwardly against her side.

The sight was quite delightful. The satchel caused her to wiggle in the most interesting ways as she descended, and Marcus nearly forget to move. Then when he did, it was hastily, without the subtlety he intended, as he half tripped, half jumped over the mutton to stand beneath her.

Fortunately, she was too busy cursing the awkward sack to listen for him. So when she finally dropped to the earth, he easily circled her with his arms, pulling her luscious body against his own.

"Sink me!" he drawled. "I say a burglar has robbed my sister's home! Shall I call the watch?"

Her body was tense, already beginning to fight him, but at his words, she relaxed, her back settling against him with erotic familiarity. "Marcus! You startled me."

"Oh, no!" he said as he shifted her, turning her to face him before pressing her back against the wall. "I shall not call the watch," he continued. "I should punish her."

He could see her eyes widen at his husky tone. Indeed, he could not blame her. He was as startled as she. But over the last hour, a strange anger had taken hold of him. He was Lord Chadwick, a future earl, and yet he waited for hours in a damp alley for a street girl who had not the brains to take the opportunities offered to her.

So when she dropped so unceremoniously into his arms, he wanted to punish her—just a little—for the damage to his dignity. Or perhaps he simply liked the feel of her in his arms. And against his chest. And pressed hot against his groin.

"Marc—!" Her word was cut off as he claimed her mouth.

His kiss was hard and hot, and though she began stiff and unyielding, she soon softened. A heartbeat later, she returned his passion. The more he demanded of her, the more she struggled, not against him, but with him, taking what he could give her, and urging him on.

Her pelvis rocked against him, and he groaned. He pushed his arm beneath the satchel and took her breast, pinching her nipple as she wrapped her hands around his back. Her shirt was a rough fabric that he could easily rip apart, but he did not bother. He lifted it up, letting both his hands slide beneath the shirt to grope and explore like the veriest cad.

She was the one who pulled the shirt open, exposing her flesh to the silvery moonlight. Then she arched against him, her own hands slipping down his back until she gripped his hips and ground him against her. He could not help thrusting, again and again, in a movement that was as hungry as it was frustrated. There were too many clothes between them, they were too exposed.

And the damned sack kept bouncing against his elbow, as if trying to push him away.

"I want you, Fantine," he gasped, in a desperate bid to regain his thoughts. "God, I need you." Then he dropped to one knee before her and began kissing her breast, teasing the nipple until her breathing came in loud pants.

The sack rolled with her movements, bumping him in the head. He heard a crack, but it barely registered in his thoughts. Pushing irritably at it, he resumed his place, using his hands to mold and shape her tender flesh.

Then he felt her knees spread, and he let his hands slide lower, over her belly, and down.

Thud.
The sack again, landing against his temple. He pulled angrily at it, but she had wrapped it securely about her. If he ripped it off her, he risked choking her with the rope. He had no patience with the knot, indeed he had no patience with anything but her body, still writhing enticingly.

He leaned forward to take her breast again.

Thud.
Only this time the thud felt more like a wet splat.

"Fantine," he gasped, pushing the sack away.

Splat.
It returned harder against his temple.

"What the devil—"

His words were cut off as the sack again rolled against him. He reared away, wiping some sort of slime from his forehead.

"Marcus?" Her voice was low and husky, a siren call despite the confusion in the word.

"What the devil is in that sack? Can you not put it down?"

"The sack?" She straightened, pulling away from the wall as she inspected the offensive item. "Ugh! You have broken the eggs. Damn, Marcus, they are all over everything!"

"I have broken the eggs!" he cried, unsuccessfully trying to wipe the slime from his hands onto the nearby brick. "I was not the one who packed eggs in a ridiculous sachel! My word, it is all over me! Take the damned thing off!"

She twisted against him, her face flushed, even in the silvery moonlight. "Take it off! But then what am I to do with the eggs? I need those eggs!"

"Well, you cannot have them," he retorted hotly. "They are all over me! My entire coat is ruined!"

"Your coat? What do I care about your coat. The eggs—"

"Hang the eggs!"

"Hang your coat!"

They stared at each other, frustration and anger tightening their expressions, while shadows chased across their bodies.

Then suddenly Marcus laughed. It was not a full bellied laugh. It was more a snort as he looked down at the slick goo all over his hands. Fantine let her gaze slide away, but he saw the pull to her lips as she too fought a smile. It was all he needed for his snort to become a guffaw.

"Shhh," she said urgently, though the sound was cut off by her own giggle. "We shall wake the entire neighborhood."

"Let them wake," he said, unable to contain himself.

"Hush!" she admonished. "Your reputation will be ruined."

That sobered his laugh into chuckles. "Since when do you care about my reputation?"

"Since it is your family sponsoring my coming-out!"

He straightened, though he still felt mischief like a potent liquor in his blood. "Is your coming-out so important to you?"

She nodded, a curt slash of her chin as her smile faded.

"Good. Then get back in the house with your ridiculous bag of smashed eggs and do not come out again."

"But—"

"Go!"

He had not expected her to obey. She was nothing if not contrary. But she surprised him. With a smile, she pulled off her satchel, dropping it heavily on his foot. "Very well. Please be sure to give these to Nameless. Thank you for taking on this task for me. And do not forget the mutton." She gestured to the meat still lying in the middle of the alley. Then with a nod, she began to scale the wall.

"What? Fantine!"

She paused, barely two feet off the ground. "Yes?"

He groped for something to say. The lust had dulled somewhat, dispelled by their sudden humor, but still the erotic tension remained. She needed to go before he succumbed to his baser instincts.

"Marcus?"

"Uh," he stammered, wondering what he had intended to say. Finally, his gaze fell on the heavy satchel. "You take Nameless food every night?"

She shrugged, an amazingly graceful movement considering she was still hanging by a rope. "Him and the other boys. But Lottie says my evenings will be busy soon. I thought to take enough to tide him and his boys over." Then she paused. "I also have them listening for news of Teggie or Wilberforce, but they have found nothing."

He nodded. "My efforts have yielded nothing as well." Then he hefted the bag, wincing as it landed heavily on his back. "Very well," he groaned. "Go back to bed."

She frowned at him. He saw it quite clearly. Then she dropped nimbly back to the ground. "You cannot mean to deliver this."

"I cannot?"

"Of course not. You are..."

"Too stiff? Too arrogant?"

"Yes."

"Ah, well," he said with a grin. "You have changed me, Fantine. Or I have succumbed to some mental disorder." He started walking away, and she scrambled to follow him, snatching up the mutton he had forgotten.

"But you do not know where to go."

"I expect Nameless will find me."

"But—"

He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. "Fantine, I brought you to my sister's house to protect you. Ballast still wants to hurt you, and Hurdy—"

"I am in no danger from Hurdy. He has not discussed matters with Teggie yet."

He paused, frowning at her. "How do you know that?" It frightened him to think she might have seen the villain alone.

"The boys," she repeated firmly. "So far, they say Hurdy has done nothing but the usual rookery games."

Marcus nodded, somewhat reassured. "Still, Ballast will be watching your associates, including Nameless and Louise."

"He will be watching for you, too."

He smiled at the clear note of worry in her voice. "I thank you for your concern." Marcus reached forward and tweaked an errant curl. Lottie had done wonders with Fantine's short mop and the style looked entirely fetching. "Now go back to your room. Ladies do not wander about at night."

Then he folded his arms across his chest and looked absolutely firm as he watched rebelliousness war with resignation on her face. In the end, reason won out.

"Very well," she said softly. Then with a nimbleness that surprised him, she climbed her rope and disappeared inside.

He did not make the mistake of leaving immediately. Instead, he waited in the dark for another ten minutes. Long enough for him to see her rope disappear into the confines of her room and to hear the creak of her bed as she settled into it. He was not sure he actually heard it, but his imagination did, just as it supplied graphic images of her in bed.

In the end, he resolutely turned to his task, wishing he could turn his back on his thoughts as well.

That was the moment he realized what he had just agreed to do. Sweet heaven, had he, a future earl, actually agreed to deliver a sackload of broken eggs and slimy foodstuffs in the middle of the night to a group of street urchins in the rookeries? It was not possible. But then he hoisted the sack and her blasted mutton and began trudging away toward his carriage, realizing that he had indeed changed.

And he was not at all sure he appreciated the new him.

"Take me near that pub beneath Fantine's home, Jacob," he said drearily as he unceremoniously tossed the satchel and mutton onto the floorboards of his conveyance.

"Milord?"

"I am to play Lady Bountiful and feed a bunch of starving urchins in the middle of the night."

"Of course, milord," the coachman responded evenly, as if this were the most normal thing for a peer to do.

Marcus climbed inside his carriage and pulled out his pistols, making sure they were primed. He might have nothing to fear from Nameless and his cohorts, but Ballast was still out there. Sprat would not have written his father yet, so Ballast would still be looking to take his revenge on both Marcus and Fantine. Marcus had no intention of making another trip to the back room of that dockside pub.

He had just finished his task when he felt the carriage dip. He would not have noticed if he had not been thinking of Fantine and street urchins and what she might have learned as a child. But he was thinking of it, and the thought brought an image of children stealing rides on the back of carriages.

Fantine would not... But of course she would.

Heedless of the still-moving carriage, Marcus flung open the side door and bellowed toward the rear.

"Fantine!"

At first there was no response except from Jacob as the coachman gently reined in the horses.

"Fantine, come in here or I shall be forced to haul you around by your hair!"

This time his bellow was rewarded by a cherubic face suddenly appearing around the corner of his carriage. Fantine. And with an expression that could charm a bird down from a tree.

"Was you wantin' me, guv?" she asked in her street voice.

"Fantine!" he exclaimed, more exasperated than angry. "I am trying to save your life."

"Ain't mine wot needs saving."

Marcus sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that we keep having the same argument over and over to no avail?"

Fantine shrugged. "Cain't really say. Perhaps you are a mite thickheaded."

He did not dare answer. So he addressed his coachman instead. "Turn us around, Jacob. I must take a miscreant home."

"Do not bother, Jacob," cried Fantine, as she blithely jumped off the carriage. "I can make it t' Nameless now without yer help."

Marcus jumped down as well, grabbing hold of her arm as quickly as possible. "You cannot possibly go wandering about the streets of London alone at this time of night." But even as he said the words, he realized how ridiculous they were. Of course she could wander about. She had done so for many years. Indeed, if Fantine chose to risk her life, then nothing short of clapping her in irons would prevent her. And he was not so sure about the irons.