Читать книгу Regency Rogues: Candlelight Confessions - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 13

She meant it as a kiss to seal their bargain, but as soon as her lips touched his memories, real and imagined, made the taste of him headily familiar. Elliot’s hands settled on her hips, pulling her closer. Deborah linked her gloved hands around his neck, enjoying the lean length of his body hard against hers, just as before, in the dark of night, when he had landed on top of her.

His lips were warm on hers, every bit as sinfully delicious as she’d imagined, coaxing her mouth to flower open beneath his, teasing her lips into compliance, heating her gently, delicately, until his tongue touched hers. She shuddered, felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath. The kiss deepened, darkened, and Deborah forgot all about her surroundings as Elliot’s mouth claimed hers, as he pulled her into the hard warmth of his body, so close that she could feel the fob of his watch pressing into her stomach, smell the starch on his neckcloth.

It was a kiss like none she had ever tasted, heated by the bargain it concluded, fired by the very illicitness of their kissing here in a public space, where at any moment they could be discovered. She could not have imagined, could not have dreamed, that kissing—just kissing—could arouse her in this way. She had not thought it possible—had not even attributed such an awakening to Bella Donna.

The clop of a horse passing on the other side of the high hedge penetrated the hazy mists of her desire-fuelled mind. Deborah wrenched herself free even as Elliot released her. They stared at each other, breathing heavily. He tugged at his neckcloth as if it were constricting him. Her gloved hand touched her lips. They felt swollen.

Elliot picked his hat up from the ground where it had fallen, striving for a nonchalance he was far from feeling. The reality of Deborah Napier’s kisses made a poor shadow of his fantasies. It was complete folly, unbelievably risky, but if this intriguing creature wanted to join forces with his alter ego he could not refuse her.

He wanted her. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that, but he was sure he wanted to do something. Not that that was why he was going to agree to this madness. He was doing it for her. To relieve the darkness behind those beguiling eyes. To release her, if only temporarily, from the emotional embargo she seemed to have placed upon herself. That was the only reason. The main one, certainly.

‘Are you quite sure you want to do this?’ he asked.

Still dazed and confused by the delights of lip on lip, tongue on tongue, struggling to tamp down the shocking and wholly new passion which their kiss had lit, Deborah was not at first sure what he was asking. Then the meaning of his question sank home, and she smiled. It was not the tight, polite smile behind which she usually hid, but a wide, true smile which lit her eyes, wiping the haughty expression from her face and with it several years.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘I’m sure.’

A week went by before she heard from him again. A week when sanity took hold in the light of day and Deborah wondered what on earth had possessed her to suggest this wild escapade.

Housebreaking and stealing—the simple fact that they were illegal should be suffice to prevent her even contemplating them. Her conscience told her so several times a day, her head warned her of the possible consequences, yet her heart would listen to none of it. Whether she accompanied him or not, the Peacock would commit the crime. He was never caught. And even if she was discovered, there was the sad, indisputable fact, that she couldn’t make herself see the difference between the prison she already inhabited and gaol, no matter how often she told herself there was an enormous difference.

Had her doubts been more constant they would have prevailed, but the problem was they were fickle things, dissolving whenever she took up her pen, or played out her encounter with Elliot again, or with the coming of dusk. Excitement took hold of her then. Jagged and dangerous like one of the saw-toothed swords she had seen in an exhibition at Bullock’s Museum in Piccadilly, it was fatally enticing. For the first time in a very long time, she really wanted something.

She knew what she contemplated was reckless beyond belief, but still the logic of this failed to take root. She wanted the visceral thrill. She wanted to feel her blood coursing through her veins. She wanted to feel alive. And besides, she owed it to Bella, whose existence had seen her through the darkest of days, to gild her latest story with as much authenticity as possible.

In truth, when Deborah’s heart quailed at the prospect of aiding and abetting the Peacock, it was Bella’s ruthless courage which bolstered her. It was through Bella’s eyes that she peered out into the dimly lit street from her drawing-room window some eight days after that encounter in the park, her heart fluttering with fear—not of what was to come, but of what she would feel if Elliot did not turn up.

His promise, so reluctantly given, could so easily be reneged upon. She knew nothing of him, after all, and despite his having surrendered his name, she had made no enquiries, having neither trusted friends nor trusted servants. Had he been similarly reticent? It hadn’t occurred to her until now that he might ask about her, though it should have. Jeremy’s title meant nothing to her; the penurious state in which he had left her made it easy for her to fade into the background of a society she had never really been permitted to inhabit even when he was alive, but she was still, unfortunately, the Dowager Countess of Kinsail. And though Jeremy had been gone two years, the scandal of his debts, his premature death, were not so easily buried as his corpse.

Deborah clenched her fists inside the pockets of the greatcoat she wore. Elliot would not judge her. It wasn’t possible—no one knew the murky details of her marriage. He would come. He had given his word and he had not the look of a man who would break a promise. Casting a quick glance out at the empty street, she retrieved the note from behind the clock, scanning the terse content by the light of the single candle.

It is set for tonight. I will call for you at fifteen minutes past midnight. If you have changed your mind, send word with the boy.

No signature. No address. The boy referred to was the street urchin who had delivered the note earlier in the day. Surely, surely, surely, if Elliot Marchmont had reservations about her, he would not have sent such a note? After all, even if she did know where he lived—which she did not—she was hardly likely to come hammering on his door, demanding that he fulfil his promise. It had been a test, this silence, a test of trust, and she had not failed. He would come, she told herself. He cared naught for her past, and why should he? Besides, she thought defiantly, returning to her vigil at the window, it was not Deborah, Dowager Countess of Kinsail, who would be his aider and abettor, any more than it was Elliot Marchmont who would commit the crime. Tonight it was the Peacock and Bella Donna.

She smiled into the darkness and let go the last of her doubts as the clock chimed the hour. Midnight. The witching hour. The hour of transformations and magic. Bella’s hour. Deborah’s reservations must bide their time until morning.

She was waiting for him on the doorstep. He saw the pale glimmer of her hair, stark against the dark of her clothing, as he rounded the corner. Elliot was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. No, that was a lie, he knew perfectly well how he felt, and it was the direct opposite of what he ought to. Something like a ripple shimmered through his blood as he strode quickly across the street. Reckless, foolish, crazy as it was to be taking her with him, it was what he wanted. It wasn’t just that he was curious, and it wasn’t just that he desired her either—not wholly, though that was part of it. He didn’t know what it was. The unknown, maybe? Something different? Something more? He didn’t care. What mattered now, at this moment, was that she was here and her very presence made everything sharper, more attenuated.

She was wearing some sort of greatcoat. Her smile was tremulous. No gloves. Her hands, when he took them in his, were icy. ‘It’s not too late, you can still change your mind,’ Elliot said softly, but Deborah shook her head, gave him that look, that haughty, determined one. Did she know what a challenge it was? He doubted it. ‘Are you sure?’

‘You sound as if you’re the one who’s having second thoughts.’

‘I should be, but I’m not,’ Elliot replied.

Looking up at him, Deborah felt that kick-in-the-stomach pull of attraction. He was not handsome, his face was too hard for that, but he was charismatic. She pulled her hand from his. ‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see.’

‘Have you a carriage? A horse?’

‘It’s not that far.’

Deborah sucked in her breath. ‘You mean we’re going to—here, in town? But isn’t that …’

‘Risky? Wasn’t that rather the point?’

She shivered. She had imagined a house like Kinsail Manor. The dark of night. The silence of the country. For a few seconds, reality intruded. Streetlamps. Night watchmen. Late-night revellers. And surely more locks, bolts and servants to contend with.

‘Having second thoughts, Lady Kinsail?’

His mocking tone made her stiffen. ‘No. And don’t call me that.’

‘Deborah.’

The way he said her name, giving it a dusky note it had never contained before, made her belly clench. His nearness threatened to overset her. She pushed back her greatcoat in an effort to distract herself. ‘What do you think of my clothing? Is it appropriate for a housebreaker?’

The breeches and boots revealed long, long legs. Blood rushed to Elliot’s groin. He tried not to imagine what her derrière would look like, tried not to picture those fabulous legs wrapped around him. Was she wearing corsets beneath that coat? ‘It’s very …’ Revealing? Erotic? Stimulating? Dear God! ‘Very practical,’ he said, dragging his eyes away. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d done this before.’

‘I found the clothes in a trunk in the house when I moved in. They must have belonged to the previous tenant. I kept them, but he never came back for them. He must have been quite a small man, for they are a perfect fit, don’t you think?’

She pushed the greatcoat further back and posed for his inspection, quite oblivious of the effect her display of leg was having on him. ‘I think we had best make tracks,’ Elliot said brusquely.

Pulling the greatcoat back around her and jamming her hat on to her head, Deborah hurried after him as he crossed the road. ‘Where are we going? What are we going to steal? Whose house is it?’ Her questions were breathless for she was struggling to keep pace with him as they skirted the beginnings of the new buildings to the east of Hans Town, avoiding the main thoroughfares, heading towards Hyde Park.

‘The less you know the better,’ Elliot replied.

Her booted feet stumbled on the mix of cobbles and mud as they wended north along mews and through stables. The houses grew grander as they passed Berkeley Square. Crossing Mount Street and into another mews, Deborah’s nerves began to take hold. When Elliot pulled her down a shallow flight of steps and into the shelter of the basement wall, she looked up and up and up at the massive building in front of which they stood, and thought she might actually be sick. ‘This is Grosvenor Square,’ she whispered.

Elliot nodded. She caught the gleam of his smile and remembered her first impression of him. Dangerous. Her fear was dissipated by anticipation, pounding through her veins in a rush. ‘Is this it?’ she asked, looking with awe at the elegant town house, the rows of windows like blank, sleeping eyes.

‘This is your last chance to change your mind. After this there is no going back, do you understand?’

He was standing close enough for her to sense his excitement. It was contagious. Her stomach felt as if it were tied in a knot. Deborah nodded.

Elliot’s laugh, the low growl she had first heard in the grounds of Kinsail Manor, quivered over her. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘now listen very carefully.’

Slowly, methodically, he went over the details of his plan, details she realised he could only have compiled as a result of thorough observation and reconnaissance. He had an impressive eye for minutiae. She understood now why it had taken him over a week to contact her. She listened so carefully she scarcely dared breathe before reciting each step back to him slowly, painstakingly, a frown furrowing her brows, determined to miss nothing, to prove herself worthy.

‘Good. You have an excellent memory,’ Elliot said, when she had repeated it a second time.

‘You are impressively well prepared,’ Deborah returned with a grin.

‘Know your territory. I’ve had plenty of practice.’

‘Another unexpected bonus of your army training, no doubt. If only they knew.’

‘And yet another is that I expect to be obeyed. Remember that.’

He spoke lightly, but she was in no doubt that he meant it, nor in any doubt that he had always achieved absolute obedience. It was not fear of retribution, but implicit trust that would have inspired the same loyalty in his troops which she felt stirring her courage. A determination not to let him down, to live up to the expectations he had of her. ‘Understood,’ Deborah said, with a mock salute which made him smile.

The watch called the hour from the other side of the mews. Across the way, a candle flame reflected in the dimpled glass of a window pane was snuffed out. Above, the town house was in complete darkness. ‘They are early to bed, our occupants,’ Elliot whispered. ‘And early to rise too.’ When he awoke tomorrow, the Minister would be the poorer and the men he had deprived would be his beneficiaries. Justice of the sort which the government seemed incapable of delivering would be served. The glow of satisfaction warmed him. ‘Ready?’ he asked Deborah.

She nodded. Her eyes glittered in the dim light. He leaned towards her, pressing a swift kiss to her icy lips. ‘Let’s go.’

Though the lock was easily picked, the door on to the mews was bolted on the inside, as he had expected. The lower windows were barred. The wave of crime which the upright citizens of London blamed on the soldiers they had once revered had weighted the coffers of locksmiths and ironmongers, who did a roaring trade these days in providing protection against the poor wretches who had perforce resorted to theft. Nodding to Deborah to assume her post as lookout at the top of the steps on to the mews, Elliot untied the length of rope from his waist and attached the little hook which had been made by the regiment’s smithy to his own design. The cotton which was wrapped around it muffled the report as the hook found its mark on the first throw. Testing it with a sharp tug, Elliot climbed swiftly to the second floor. The lock on this window gave way to his jemmy. It was the work of moments to pull in the rope, detach the hook, close the window, jump lightly down from the sill and make his way stealthily back down into the bowels of the house.

Deborah was waiting at the door as he slid the bolts back. She slipped silently into the narrow corridor and followed him back through the flagstoned kitchen where the banked fire provided a modicum of light, into the gloom of the servants’ staircase and up.

He dared not use his lantern. Behind him, Deborah, obviously as able to see in the dark as he was, did not stumble. He was impressed by her courage and excited by her presence there in his shadow.

The painting was in the study, at the back of the house adjacent to the room he had first entered. ‘An early study of Philip the Fourth,’ Elliot whispered to Deborah. ‘It’s bigger than I remember. But then, the last time I saw it, it was hanging in a rather larger house.’

She stared at the decidedly ugly subject, resplendent in black and silver. She could see it was beautifully executed, but she could not like it. ‘You said you’ve seen it before?’

‘In Madrid. In the house of one of our senior Spanish allies.’

‘Then how did it get here?’

Elliot shrugged. ‘Plunder. A gift. A bribe. I don’t know,’ he said, pressing the button which released the blade of his knife. Quickly, he cut the painting from its heavy frame and rolled it up before handing it to Deborah.

She took it gingerly. ‘How did you know where to find it?’

‘I have my sources.’

‘You said that before.’

He caught her wrist and pulled her close. ‘This may well be a game to you, but you have to realise, you’re playing with fire. If we are caught …’

‘We won’t be. You’re the Peacock, you never have been yet.’

Her utter confidence in him was flattering, there was no denying it, but a tiny noise outside the door distracted him. Quickly, Elliot pulled Deborah towards the cover of the window curtains. ‘Hush!’

His hand covered her mouth. Her back was pressed into his body. Her heart thudded much too loud. She listened hard, but could hear nothing save the rasp of her own breathing, the softer whisper of his. The curtains smelled musty. They waited, motionless, for what seemed like aeons. Her nose tickled. She was acutely conscious of him, tensed behind her. She was inappropriately conscious of her legs, her bottom, her back, moulded against the front of his body. Everything felt stretched, more real, and yet unreal. The air crackled with tension. Between them, an invisible cord of awareness. She had never felt more alive.

She felt him relax before he moved his hand from her mouth. ‘What …?’

He turned her around. She caught the gleam of his smile, heard the little huff of his chuckle. ‘I thought I heard someone, but it must have been a rat.’

Deborah shuddered. ‘I hate rats.’ Elliot laughed again. She felt it this time, vibrating in his chest against hers. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You follow me across London in the middle of the night dressed as a man, break into a house and steal a priceless painting with barely a tremble, but a rat makes you shiver. Would you rather we’d encountered the master of the house? He is a rat of an altogether different order.’

‘I’d rather we didn’t encounter anyone.’

‘Then we should make haste.’ From his pocket, Elliot produced the feather and handed it to Deborah. ‘My calling card. Will you do the honours?’

She placed it carefully on the ledge of the empty frame. ‘You made this seem so easy,’ she said.

Elliot, who had been in the process of retrieving his grappling hook from the floor, heard the note of disappointment in her voice. It was ridiculous to add danger to risk, but he sensed it was danger she craved. Hastily, he cut his grappling hook free of its rope and crammed it into his pocket, before securing the long cord by twisting it around the gilded legs of the heavy marble-topped table which filled the window embrasure. ‘Give me the painting,’ he said.

Deborah handed over the rolled canvas. ‘Aren’t we going back down the stairs?’

‘You’ll get a more authentic experience leaving this way. If you dare, that is,’ Elliot replied. They were two storeys up, nothing for one so used to shimmying up and down ropes, but as Deborah leaned cautiously out of the window and peered down, he saw the sheer drop through her eyes. ‘We’ll use the stairs,’ he said, making to pull the rope in.

She stayed his hand. ‘Absolutely not! You’re quite right, what is the use in half an experience?’ she said. ‘Just show me what to do.’

‘You could be badly hurt if you fall.’ Elliot was already regretting having teased her. He should have known she would rise to the challenge.

‘I could hang if we’re caught,’ Deborah retorted. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

She was deliberately courting danger. He recognised that, because he did it so often himself. The tilt of her chin, the determination in her voice made it impossible for him to deny her, much as he knew he ought. She seemed always to have this effect on him. A connection between them crackled and briefly flared. ‘Very well,’ Elliot said, tearing his eyes away, ‘I’ll go first, that way I can catch you if you fall. Watch what I do. Wait until I’m on the ground before you come out.’

A clock chimed in the hallway outside the room, making Deborah jump. ‘What if someone comes?’

Elliot picked up her hat and jammed it back on her head. ‘They won’t. You’re perfectly safe, you’re with the Peacock, remember? Now pay attention. It’s all in the way you hold the rope.’

Deborah watched, heart drumming, as he showed her what to do with her hands and feet. Her palms were damp as she leaned out, seeing him disappear swiftly down, making it seem effortless. It was a long way. If she fell—but she would not fall. She cast another glance over her shoulder at the door. She listened hard, but could hear nothing. The room seemed larger, darker, much more sinister without Elliot’s presence. Fear crept stealthily up from her booted feet, winding its way like a vine, making her legs shake, her hands too. The urge to turn tail, to flee out of the door, down the servants’ staircase to the kitchen, was almost overwhelming. Only the stronger fear, that without Elliot to guide her she would be lost, overturn something, rouse the household, kept her rooted to the spot. Right at this moment, she effectively held his life in her hands. She would not let him down. She would not!

Determination to prove herself worthy uprooted her feet. Deborah’s heart still pounded so hard and fast she felt faint, but she bit her lip hard, wiped her damp palms on her breeches and sat gingerly on the edge of the sill. Elliot was already on the ground, looking up anxiously. She waved. The ground swam. Don’t look down!

She grasped the rope as he had shown her. She edged out. Her legs dangled in the air. Breathing quickly to still the panic, she floundered for the rope with her feet, found it, gripped it tight between her thighs. Her arms were surely too frail to support her. She dangled, half in, half out of the window, for a dreadful moment. Then she kicked away from the ledge and began to descend. Slowly she went, shakily, her hands burning on the rope, losing it, retrieving it, gripping tighter. Her shoulders ached. Her thighs, too. Down. Slowly down, looking neither up at the window nor towards Elliot. One floor. If she fell now, she would probably survive. A broken limb or so. Small consolation. Don’t think about falling. Down. Her arms felt as if they would part company with her shoulders. Thank heavens she wore breeches. Even so, she would be bruised. Down.

‘Not far to go now. Hold on.’

Elliot’s voice sounded strained, for the first time that night. Deborah risked a downward glance. Her foot dangled about a yard from his upturned face. Relieved and triumphant, she grinned. ‘Did you think I would fall on you? As you did at Kinsail Manor?’

Elliot grabbed her ankle. ‘It crossed my mind!’

She covered the final few feet quickly, safe in the knowledge that he had her. If he had not held her when she landed, she would have sunk to the cobbles, for her legs felt as if the bones had been removed. ‘Sorry.’ She clutched at Elliot’s coat. ‘I just need …’

Anxiously casting a glance to the end of the mews where the rumbling of a carriage slowed, Elliot put his arm around her waist. ‘We must make haste. If anyone comes—that rope is rather a giveaway, I’m afraid.’

Guiltily, Deborah realised she hadn’t even closed over the window. It gaped, wide and betraying, the rope hanging like a declaration. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, straightening, ignoring the pain shooting through her legs and taking a stumbling step towards the other end of the mews. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to walk.

‘Not too fast, or we will draw unwanted attention. Push your hat down over your face.’ Elliot caught up with her, put his arm through hers. His grip tightened.

They walked together back to Hans Town through streets blanketed in silence. Now that it was over, Elliot was astounded at himself for placing Deborah in such danger. ‘I should not have brought you.’

She turned the key in her door and pushed it open. ‘Don’t say that. I’m glad you did, Elliot. It was wonderful. Please don’t say you regret it.’

‘I would be lying if I did,’ he replied gruffly.

She was safe home and it was over. Deborah was awed by her own daring, filled with an exuberance that made her want to clap her hands with glee. ‘I can’t believe we did it,’ she said. ‘We really did it. We really did!’ She felt buoyant, her delight fizzing, bubbling over, making her want to laugh so much that she had to stifle the sound with her hand.

Plucking Deborah’s hand from her mouth, Elliot pressed his lips to the palm. Her presence had added spice to the whole venture, there was no denying it. Her daring roused him. Her excitement, too. He licked the raw, slightly swollen pad of her thumb where the rope had chafed. He felt the intake of her breath. She leaned into him. His exhilaration sharpened and focused into desire, like molten metal poured into the mould of a blade. He pulled her roughly into his arms and took possession of her mouth.

It was a kiss without finesse. A hard, dangerous and demanding kiss. For a moment Deborah did not respond, shocked by the rawness of his barely leashed passion. This was not the Elliot she had kissed before, but some other, more feral creature of the night. As she was, tonight. Just for tonight.

But his ardour, the very unstoppableness of it, unleashed her inhibitions. As Elliot pressed her against her own front door, feverishly seeking the soft flesh concealed beneath the constricting layers of her clothing, Deborah kissed him back. Her tongue clashed with his, her mouth opened to him and she returned his kiss with a fervour that cut them both free of thought and control. Where he led she followed. When he kissed her more deeply, his tongue penetrating, thrusting, she kissed him back, her tongue duelling with his, her lips clinging.

Never, ever, not even in her darkest fantasies, had Deborah been kissed like this. Never had she kissed like this. Not even Bella had kissed like this, for Bella was at heart a creature driven by colder, darker motives than plain passion. Deborah’s kisses, like Elliot’s, were pure passion in that moment, wild and fierce, abandoned kisses, transporting them both to a place which was all red velvet and raw silk.

His mouth plundered hers, but she did not feel conquered, incited instead to return pressure for pressure, by doing so asking for more, and still more. Nothing mattered, save that she have more. It was as if everything that had transpired this night had been arrowing to this moment, as if all she had experienced had by some process of alchemy transformed itself into this white-hot lust, must culminate in this rushing, tumbling, headlong flight to fulfilment.

She moaned in frustration as Elliot’s seeking fingers found only layers of clothing and buttons. He fumbled for the latch and they tumbled together into the dark seclusion of the narrow hallway, still kissing.

The back of her legs encountered the hall table. The candlestick atop it fell over. He wrested her greatcoat to the floor, his own following. Her hat and his, too, her hair unfurling. She curled her fingers into the soft silk of his skin, on the nape of his neck above his neckcloth. Warm skin. He smelled of sweat and soap. Salty and tangy. Irreducibly male.

The rasp of his chin on the soft skin of her face reminded her of the stinging sensation of the rough rope chafing her legs. She was burning between her thighs, but it had nothing to do with the descent. She wanted him there. Touching her. Plunging into her. Shocking images, vivid in their clarity despite her lack of experience, filled Deborah’s mind, making her moan. The solid ridge of his shaft was hard against her belly. Powerful. Fierce. Like the rest of him, incredibly, intensely male. Man. Elliot was all man. And such a man. She moaned again as he ground his hips against hers.

Elliot’s breath came in harsh gasps. Under her coat, Deborah wore a shirt. No waistcoat. And no corsets. Oh God, no corsets. Her nipples thrust at him through the linen. He cupped one of her breasts, his thumb stroking the delightfully hard nub, relishing the way it made her quiver, made the blood pulse in his already aching groin. Her kisses were like molten silver, burning and searing. His knees bumped against the legs of some sort of table. He picked her up, placed her on to it, spreading her legs, one hand in the heavy fall of her hair, the other on her breast, cupping, stroking, moulding. He wanted to feel her flesh. Tugging the shirt from her breeches he nudged between her legs, wrapping them around his thighs, dipping his head to taste the hard peaks of her nipple.

Her heels dug into his buttocks; her fingers plucked ineffectually at the big silver buttons of his coat. The table shook. It was just the right height to allow him to slide into her, thrusting into the welcoming heat, the slick tightness of her that would envelop him. He was so hard, the release would be spectacular. He had known it would be like this. He had known it! He put his hands around the curve of her bottom to pull her closer. She was still trying to free his coat buttons. Impatiently, Elliot yanked them open.

The crushed canvas fell on to the floor.

‘Damn!’

‘What? What was that?’ Deborah was hazily aware of a pain in her back. She tried to sit up and whatever she was perched on rocked violently. She was sitting on a table!

‘The painting,’ Elliot muttered. ‘I dropped it. I can’t see a damn thing.’

She seemed to have lost a good many of her clothes. And the painting, which they had risked life and limb for, was on the floor somewhere. Deborah slithered back down to reality considerably more quickly than she had slithered down the rope not long before. The candle she’d left for her return was on the floor somewhere, too. It would be easier to fetch another from the parlour. ‘Just a minute,’ she muttered, stumbling down the hallway, feeling her way to the door, trying to tuck her shirt back into her breeches at the same time.

Lighting the candle from the still-smouldering embers of the parlour fire, she studiously avoided looking in the mirror above the mantel as she did so, having no wish to see her shame confirmed in her wanton reflection. Concentrating on trying to get her breathing back under control, she made her way back to the hallway. Elliot was as dishevelled as she. Clothes awry. Neckcloth untied. His lips looked frayed. Such kisses! Deborah held the candle aloft, well away from her own face, turning her gaze to the floor. ‘Here it is.’ The canvas had rolled under the table. She picked it up and handed it to him, embarrassed in the frail light, mortified by her behaviour in the dark. She had more or less ravaged the man. Savaged him more like, for she clearly remembered biting into him, her nails tearing at his skin. Oh God!

Elliot made no attempt to look at the painting. He wished to hell he’d let the bloody thing lie. Another minute of those kisses of hers and he wouldn’t have given a damn. Looking at her now though, seeing the way she avoided his gaze, he knew the chances of him having another minute of her kisses were almost nil. Whatever had caused her to let go that iron control of hers was now firmly leashed.

And it was probably just as well. He, who prided himself on his finesse, had all but ravished her in the hallway, for God’s sake! To say nothing of the fact that in their lust they had forgotten all about the extremely valuable painting they had stolen. A painting which was now looking rather the worse for wear. A wholly inappropriate desire to laugh took hold of him. He struggled, but could not stifle it. ‘I’m sorry,’ Elliot said helplessly, ‘it’s just—well, ludicrous. I assure you I didn’t plan it. The last bit, I mean—at least not like that. Only you were so—and I was so—and there was the painting abandoned on the floor, after we went to such extremes to get it.’

To his surprise Deborah’s face lightened. She did not smile back, but she looked as if she might. ‘Is it always like this? After you have committed a crime, I mean? Is it always so—so intoxicating? Inflaming?’ she asked, daring to meet his gaze now.

‘I don’t know, I’ve never had an accomplice before.’

‘The painting—it’s not damaged, is it?’ Deborah asked anxiously.

Elliot unrolled the canvas and shook his head. ‘See for yourself.’ She came closer to inspect it. Her hair was perfectly straight, hanging well past her shoulders. If he looked, he would see the outline of her breasts under her shirt, for she had not put her coat back on. With a huge effort of restraint, he stopped himself.

‘Such an ugly man,’ Deborah said softly after a while of staring at the portrait. ‘I would not like to have this on my wall. Is it valuable?’

‘It’s by Velázquez. I should hope so.’

‘Will you sell it, then?’

Elliot began to roll the canvas back up, carefully this time. ‘Yes,’ he said tersely, ‘I’ll sell it.’

Deborah opened her mouth to ask what he did with the money, then thought better of it. Tiredness washed over her. Her shoulders began to ache. Anticlimax in every sense weighed like a heavy blanket, muffling her. ‘It’s late,’ she said wearily.

‘Yes.’ Elliot hesitated. He was edgy with frustration. She had been so aroused, he was sure he could easily rekindle the flame between them, but something held him back. Is it always like this? ‘It wasn’t the housebreaking that made me turn to you like that,’ he said, running his hand down the smooth cap of her hair, ‘it was you. Ever since we met, I’ve wanted you. You must know that, Deborah.’

She jerked her head away. ‘It will be light soon.’

‘I see.’ He didn’t see at all. Rebuffed, puzzled by the extreme swing in her mood, and too tired in the anticlimax to make sense of it, Elliot picked his hat up and, shrugging into his greatcoat, tucked the painting into a large inside pocket. ‘Did it work?’ he asked. ‘Did it do as you hoped, banish the black clouds, make you feel alive?’

Deborah smiled tremulously. ‘While it lasted. I shall keep a look out for reports of our heinous crime.’

‘And paste them in a keepsake book?’

‘Something like that.’

He kissed the fluttering pulse on her wrist, telling himself that her vulnerability was simply exhaustion. ‘Goodnight, Deborah.’

She swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Goodbye, Elliot. Be safe.’

The door closed softly behind him. The parlour clock struck three. Only three. Wearily, Deborah picked up her man’s coat and made her way up the creaky wooden stairs to her bed.

Outside, Elliot made his way home by a circuitous route through alleys and mews. She was like a chameleon, changing so quickly that he could not keep up with her. Her kisses. He groaned and the muscles in his stomach contracted. Such a delightful mixture of raw passion and innocence. Hot, burning kisses that even now made his blood surge and pound, yet they were neither knowing nor experienced. Deborah kissed with the savagery of a lion cub.

Elliot stood in the shadow of a stable building as the watch passed by, informing the empty street that all was well. It had frightened her, her passion; she had been far too eager to blame it on the extraordinary circumstances, as if by doing so she could distance herself from it. What kind of marriage had she had with that bastard of a fortune hunter?

He stepped out of the mews and made his way across Russell Square, letting himself in silently. A candle stood ready in the hall, reminding him of the clatter of the candlestick from the table at Deborah’s house. The evening had been full of surprises. He should not have allowed her to come down that rope, but the sight of her dangling over him had been …

Mounting the stairs, he tried to put if from his mind. He was exhausted. Carefully stashing the painting, he willed himself to think of the chain of events he must set in train to dispose of it, but as he climbed into bed, the memory of Deborah—her mouth, her hands, her breasts, those long legs, that pert derrière—climbed in with him. He was hard. Persistently hard. Lying back against the cool sheets, Elliot surrendered to the inevitable.