When a Lady Deceives (Her Majesty’s Most Secret Service) (3 page)

“What sort of matters?” she asked in a voice stripped of its edge.

“Are you always so inquisitive?”

She allowed her mouth to hitch into a shy smile. “I always take an interest in a man who’s charged to my rescue.”

He laughed, a hearty sound she found surprisingly pleasing. “God knows how many pitchers you would have destroyed, if I hadn’t.”

“I was entirely justified in my actions. I may well have to burn my clothing after that smelly beast pawed me.” She honeyed her voice. “I shudder to think what might have happened if you had not taken matters in hand.”

“Somehow, I suspect the bloke would’ve got the worst of it.” He studied her for a long moment. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

She shot him a glance beneath her lashes. His mouth had flattened to a seam, his eyes cool. Challenging. Not at all the reaction she’d expected. Drat it all, she was bloody useless at flirtation. But if she could tempt Colton to keep talking, her efforts, pitiful as they were, might elicit some shred of information she could use. The man was a key to her investigation of Harwick’s criminal operations. Who better to detail the ugly truth of Harwick’s doings than his top lieutenant?

“I would not have submitted meekly to his vile treatment. But I cannot deny the brute’s superior strength.”

He slowly shook his head. “A woman like you has many weapons at her disposal. One cry from that pretty mouth of yours, and I don’t doubt a dozen or more Lancelots would charge to the fair maiden’s rescue.”

So, the man was indeed seeking a challenge. If it got him talking, she’d bloody well hand it to him.

“Chivalry is quite dead, Mr. Colton. Why, a cynic might even view your actions as practical rather than gallant.”

“Do I detect tarnish on my shining armor?”

“Perhaps the slightest bit. But you must admit enforcing general civility in the establishment is to your advantage.”

“Ah, you’ve figured me out. Quite the relief, actually. I wouldn’t want anyone conjuring the ridiculous notion that I am a gentleman.”

“Gentleman? Another rare breed,” she said, flashing him a challenge of her own. “I’ve had little good fortune with the male of the species.”

He moved to a sideboard by the window and filled a crystal glass with two fingers of whiskey. “A wronged woman?” he asked before he lifted the tumbler to his lips.

“Simply one who has learned the value of caution.”

He took a hearty draught of the amber liquid. “Caution? Is that what you call your little talk with Poole?”

“If I’d intended to tempt the man, I would not have required your intervention.”

“You like to believe you’re in control?”

“In my experience, I have found little alternative.”

He took another drink, seeming to consider her words. “Pity. At times, surrender is more rewarding than victory.”

She fixed her gaze on his strong features. Heat blazed in those dark eyes. A peculiar warmth kindled deep within her, unsettling in its intensity. She took a step back, then another. How he’d unnerved her with a few simple words.

“I’ve never allowed a man such opportunity.” No untruth in those words. Surrender had no place in her existence, no matter how tempting. She’d no need of an anchor tethered to her dreams, no use for home and hearth when her investigations beckoned.

“And that, Miss Danvers, is a damnable shame.”

He set the glass on the sideboard and prowled toward her. Clasping his hand over hers, he pulled her close. His arms enfolded her, the rough texture of stubble on his jaw surprisingly sensuous against her cheek. The scent of bay rum wafted to her nostrils, and for a fleeting moment of insanity, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be released.

“So, I am to understand you’ve erected a shield around yourself?” His voice had gone deeper. Huskier. All the more delicious.

“Perhaps.” His insight was keen, indeed. Suddenly, she no longer felt she was playing a charade. Rather, she’d been drawn into a reality she’d never anticipated.

He ducked his head, and for a heartbeat, she thought he would kiss her. His breath trailed the curve of her throat, a light, undemanding caress, infinitely more dangerous than a passionate siege on her senses.

Swept into the pleasure of his warmth, she clawed herself back to sanity. She should push him away. Despite his value to her investigation, permitting such liberties would only give him the upper hand. She had to play the part of skittish female, if only to draw him further into the challenge of pursuit. She’d stirred his appetite. Now, she needed to keep him at a distance, eager to persuade her of the benefits of a liaison. In those moments, he’d be most likely to reveal the truths she needed to bring Mary’s killer to justice.

If only Matthew Colton’s touch did not stir her every cell to delicious awareness.

She pressed her palms to his shoulders. “Mr. Colton, this is most improper.” Her words were a halfhearted whisper.

He loosened the circle of his arms without releasing her. His eyes gleamed with equal parts desire and suspicion. “You’re right,” he said, his low tones smooth and tempting as fine sherry. “But then again, nothing about this night falls under the realm of propriety.”

“I can hear the tongues wagging as we speak.”

His fingertips grazed her nape, his touch light against the sensitive flesh. Did he dare to unpin her hair?

His hand stilled, as if he’d reconsidered plucking the pins from her upswept tresses and letting her hair down for his eyes. “Miss Danvers, half the tavern witnessed me carrying you up here. Since that time, no physician has come to attend your injury and you haven’t screamed for assistance. The seeds of scandal have already been planted.”

She regarded him beneath the veil of her lashes. “Are you suggesting we justify their blather?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard enough to know I gave up caring for society’s regard a long time ago. And now, I have a beautiful woman at my mercy. Perhaps I feel the urge to justify a bit of my wicked reputation.”

Praying he hadn’t detected the acceleration of her pulse, she met his gaze. “At your mercy? Need I remind you of my skill with a pitcher, Mr. Colton?”

He made a show of glancing around the room. “Not a single pitcher in sight, save for my Scotch decanter.” He drew the pad of his thumb over her cheek. “Somehow, I can’t imagine you’d ever be at a man’s mercy.”

“I am confident I’d find my way out of any predicament.” Good heavens, how her traitorous knees trembled beneath her skirts in contradiction.

“Is that so?” His husky voice washed over her.

“You’ve seen that for yourself,” she murmured with a smile.

“I’ll need to keep you from the crystal. But I must confess I feel a responsibility to convince you that all men aren’t loathsome beasts. For the good of my species, you see.”

His mouth quirked at the corners. Bloody unsporting of him to infuse his words with the slightest trace of humor. She most definitely did not want to find him appealing. Not that it would matter in any case. She knew better than to be drawn in by a man’s charms—any man, much less a man like Matthew Colton.

If only she could stop thinking about that sensuous mouth of his.

Would his kiss pose a subtle seduction? Or would he stake a bold claim, unleashing the intensity behind those dark eyes?

Her stomach did a little flip. What on earth had come over her? It wasn’t as if she was a giddy miss experiencing her first flirtation. No, she was a modern woman. She knew how to keep her head about her. And she most certainly knew that allowing Matthew Colton to tempt her…to kiss her…was completely and absolutely out of the question. Odd, how disappointment twinged through her at the thought.

Well, there was nothing to be done about it. She could not indulge her curiosity, for surely that was at the heart of her interest. Pulling in a breath, she cocked her chin. “And precisely how do you propose to go about doing that?” Her heart tapped in rhythm with her brisk words.

His hands threaded through her hair. His fingertips were rough-textured, the hands of someone not averse to using his natural strength. Somehow, she liked that. The room spun, and she knew it had absolutely nothing to do with the blow to her head.

“Like this.”

His mouth claimed hers. Caressing, savoring, he nudged her lips to part for his possession. He tasted like expensive whiskey, entirely masculine, luring her senses to the brink of surrender with his commanding tenderness. This was no fumbling schoolboy intent on stealing a few kisses and forbidden touches.

This was a man.

The undeniable evidence of his masculine hunger pressed against her belly. A potent blend of desire and alarm flooded her veins.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Jennie,” he whispered. “So, so beautiful.”

The honest need in his voice cascaded liquid warmth through her core. If only he’d stop saying her name. On his lips, the husky sound was a sonnet. Nibbling the area beneath her earlobe, he resumed his tender conquest of her senses.

Such sweet madness.

She needed to retreat while she still maintained the allure of future surrender. If he kissed her again, she might well forget this man was a source, not a lover. Bracing her hands against his chest, she separated their bodies with a determined thrust.

“We must stop this.” Her words came in one great rush.

His hooded eyes betrayed his intrigue and his desire. He drew the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, and then, his arms fell to his sides.

She steadied her ragged breath. If only her pulse would slow. “Perhaps you are a gentleman, after all.”

His mouth hitched into a rogue’s smile as he slowly shook his head. “I know a lady when I see one. I’ll escort you home.”

Something in that smile made her heart stutter. “That’s not necessary.”

“I will see you safely to your doorstep. I’ll send for my driver.” He scooped up his sack coat and draped the heavy garment over her shoulders. The hem grazed the floor and the sleeves hung well past her fingertips, but the stout wool would provide protection against the chill and the leering stares of neighborhood vagrants.

“Thank you, but I prefer to walk.”

“I won’t see you on the street alone tonight. Not with the likes of Poole lurking about. I’ll join you.”

Amazing, how civil they seemed. How polite and well-mannered. And this, moments after he’d branded her to the marrow with his kiss.

She drew the collar to her chin, as if that might protect her from the oh-too-recent memory. “I suppose there’s no harm in that. I have a room near Charing Cross.”

He lightly grasped her elbow. His gaze swept over her. A whisper of amusement softened his eyes. “I don’t think I could even find you inside that coat.”

“Should I be relieved, Mr. Colton?”

“Absolutely.”

She bundled the coat around her like armor. Silence settled between them as they made their way down the back stairs of the tavern and covered the distance to the boardinghouse. A single lamp glowed in the windows of the worn brick building.

“Thank you for your assistance tonight.” She removed the coat and handed it to him. “Good night, Mr. Colton.”

“Good night, Jennie.”

A bold one he was, using her given name. But then again, he’d kissed her ’til her knees went weak, so proper decorum did seem a bit of an afterthought. Her cheeks flamed with warmth.

She rushed through the door without a backward glance and made her way up the two flights to her room. Hurling herself onto the bed, she clutched a pillow to her chest. The pleasant scent of a lavender sachet tucked inside the freshly washed pillowcase could not banish her thirst for Matthew Colton’s masculine essence. Her body ached with yearning. Even when she squeezed her lids shut, she saw his eyes, the dark irises shadowed with masculine hunger. He’d wanted her, and she’d craved surrender.

She rolled onto her back, the truth a stab of misery through her heart. Covering her eyes with her forearm, Jennie’s disgust bubbled up in the form of a sigh. She’d come so close to ruining everything. She needed to find Mary’s diary, and she needed to uncover the evidence that would bring the woman’s killer to justice. If Colton suspected the truth about why she’d taken on a barmaid’s role at the Lancaster, she’d need to get away from London as fast and far as the nearest train could carry her. Claude Harwick would want her silenced.

And Colton might well be the man tasked with carrying out the deed.

Her protector was no white knight. Matthew Colton had forged a reputation for ruthlessness. The man was a criminal, the trusted lieutenant of the most feared man in London. Few angered Claude Harwick and lived to tell about it.

Especially not Mary McDaniel.

…

He shouldn’t have touched the barmaid. Turning away from the nondescript brick building where she lived, Matthew Colton cursed his own weakness. He should have known better. He should have stayed in the shadows of his office and dispatched one of his mountainous associates to take care of the drunken oaf. But he’d wanted to play the champion, if only for a brief moment. The chance to come to the rescue of the pretty but aloof barmaid who’d caught his eye was too great a temptation to resist. For so long, he’d been playing the villain.

Christ, he was a fool.

She’d intrigued him from the first. Now, more than ever, he wanted to puzzle her out. He knew how to read people. He heard the lies hidden in a smile and saw the menace an expensive suit couldn’t disguise. In his business, that skill made the difference between taking a bullet and living to see the next sunrise.

And something didn’t fit about this barmaid. Jennie Danvers spoke in refined tones she made no attempt to roughen, and while her unadorned wool skirt and white blouse were serviceable yet well-worn, her kidskin leather shoes spoke of tin far exceeding a barmaid’s means. Her skin bore the subtle fragrance of fine soap, and her clean, upswept auburn hair felt like silk and smelled of lemon water. She either had money, or she’d been exposed to it. Why would she choose to live in a dreary boardinghouse and spend her nights fetching liquor for sots? Was she a rich man’s discarded mistress?

Not likely. Jennie didn’t appear to need a wealthy protector or a liaison to pave her way to the stage. She’d made no effort to attract the attention of the wealthy showmen who frequented the tavern. As Matthew oversaw Harwick’s business from the shadows of the Lancaster, he’d watched the producer of the most popular musical in the West End single her out night after night. Roger Dawson’s advances had not even merited a smile from her luscious, prim mouth. She’d politely declined and left the vain little man standing alone with his drink. If Jennie dreamed of becoming the next Lillie Langtry or a pampered trophy on a rich man’s arm, she’d know better than to refuse a man like Dawson.