When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 12

  “I’m not wearing yellow,” he said tightly, still staring at the damned stage. “Or pink. And I’m not wearing a bloody wig.”

  “I think a wig would be quite becoming on you.”

  He turned to look at her in horror.

  A slight smile was playing about her mouth.

  Was she joking with him?

  Messalina rolled her eyes. “Very well. But you’ll certainly need several new suits.”

  “Ah.” He tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. “What would you recommend?”

  She glanced speculatively at him. “Perhaps red or sapphire?”

  Gideon winced.

  She sighed. “Gray?”

  “Fine.” He spent a moment more scowling at the stage. A performer in a comically wide frock was dancing. He narrowed his eyes. A man, if he wasn’t mistaken. Gideon cleared his throat. “Perhaps you might accompany me on a visit to my tailor.”

  She shook her head, and for a second his heart plummeted. “I think you need a new tailor altogether. One who is aware of the current fashions.”

  He blew out a breath in frustration. “And how am I supposed to find this wonderful tailor?”

  “You could ask your wife.”

  He turned to meet her soft gray eyes, and for a moment couldn’t think. He blinked. He’d never asked anyone for help, but he’d be a fool to toss aside this olive branch. “Will you help me?”

  “Yes.” She turned back to the play, but he could see her smile. “Of course, I’ll want to help pick out the style and materials of your suits.”

  “Of course.” His words were rote, but in truth he was rather amazed by her.

  Messalina spoke as if no other thought but to help him had entered her mind. As if this was a joint venture, a goal they would achieve together.

  Gideon watched her, his beautiful society lady, bred and raised in a world entirely alien to his, and for the first time realized that she could be not just his wife or a stepping stone to something greater, but his ally.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly.

  She looked surprised. “What for?”

  He cleared his throat, waving a hand. “For this. For helping me.”

  “Oh. Of course.” The smile she bestowed upon him was sardonic, but there were the beginnings of real humor. “I am your wife.”

  * * *

  What have I done? Messalina wondered nervously as she and Hawthorne stepped from the theater several hours later. She’d agreed to help him. It was a small thing, really, finding a tailor for him. Picking out new suits. But it represented a softening in her thoughts toward him.

  A possible weakness.

  If all went well, she’d be gone shortly after she received the dowry portion he’d promised her. That was her goal. Her plan from the very start, and she meant to carry it out. She couldn’t begin a—a friendship with Hawthorne now.

  She meant to leave him. She wouldn’t feel guilty for pursuing her own dreams.

  She wouldn’t.

  She glanced at Hawthorne as he offered his arm to her. A smile was tilting his devilish lips.

  Blast it, she felt guilty.

  No! Messalina mentally shook herself and gazed up at the full ivory moon hanging just over the rooftops of London.

  “What a lovely night,” she murmured to distract herself.

  “It is.” Hawthorne guided her past the crowded front of the theater.

  The street was too narrow and busy for carriages to pass. Messalina was glad that the night air was balmy, for they’d have to walk a bit to where Reggie had parked their carriage.

  She glanced at Hawthorne. The bright torches and lanterns outside the theater dimmed as they strolled. Still a few shop lanterns glowed by themselves on the lane. In the moonlight her husband’s profile was austere, nearly menacing.

  And yet he no longer seemed as frightening to her.

  Hawthorne cleared his throat. “I hope you enjoyed the play.”

  “It was quite funny,” Messalina replied.

  She felt him look at her. “You didn’t find the humor too…coarse?”

  “Oh, a little coarse.” She shrugged. “But sometimes one needs a belly laugh instead of complex witticisms. Besides, I couldn’t help noticing that you seemed to enjoy the jokes.” She’d caught her husband grinning more than once during the performance.

  The sight had made something catch in her throat.

  “I did enjoy the jokes,” he replied, his voice sounding self-deprecating, “but then I’m a common sort of man.”

  “Hm,” she hummed doubtfully. “I’ve noticed that most men—of whatever stature in life—seem to derive unreasonable amounts of pleasure from comedy involving buttocks, fornicating, and the breaking of wind.”

  He snorted.

  She had to hide a smile.

  “Perhaps we could attend again,” he rumbled beside her. Why had she never noticed how smooth and deep his voice was?

  “I’d like that,” she replied truthfully.

  He nodded, but he seemed distracted.

  Their footsteps echoed in the lane.

  Messalina glanced around, realizing for the first time that the street was no longer populated. They’d walked into a nearly deserted area of closed shops.

  The carriage was still not in sight.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  The muscles of his forearm tensing beneath her fingers was her only warning.

  Hawthorne yanked her, all but flinging her against a shop. “Stay behind me!”

  Messalina gasped at the painful impact.

  She glanced up in time to see her husband turn his back to her and face three men—ugly, armed, and frighteningly big.

  Footpads.

  Except the strangers didn’t demand their purses.

  They simply attacked.

  Messalina screamed as all three charged Hawthorne.

  He crouched, his feet spread, and in a darting, snakelike movement lunged at the man on his right.

  The man gave a cry, falling to the ground, a spray of blood spattering to the cobblestones.

  How—?

  The remaining two men skipped back warily. One had a club with a spike at the end. The other had either a long knife or a short sword.

  “Thief! Thief!” Messalina shouted as loud as she could. She had no weapon nor anything to use as a weapon. Even with one footpad down, that left two against Hawthorne. Her heart was beating fast with fear. “Help!”

  Moonlight glinted off something in Hawthorne’s right hand. He held a thin blade almost delicately in his fingertips and waved it in front of himself idly.

  The still-standing footpads parted, spreading to opposite sides of Hawthorne.

  They were going to try to divide his attention. Make him turn his back on one of them.

  The wounded man had regained his feet. Half of his face was painted with blood from the cheek down. He looked uncertainly at the other two men.

  “What are you waiting for?” Hawthorne rasped, and the words made goosebumps come up on Messalina’s skin. His voice was soft. Dark. Deep, with a tinge of laughter in it.

  What sort of man laughed in the middle of a fight?

  “My wife’s lungs are strong,” Hawthorne continued. “You’d best run or have another try at me. Help will be here soon.”

  At his words the man with the knife darted at him with a wild cry.

  Hawthorne moved fluidly, his hand thrust out, almost too fast to follow.

  His attacker wavered, his fingers clutching his side.

  Hawthorne moved in, holding the man in what looked like an embrace as he stabbed the footpad. Again and again and again, too many times to count, his fist a blur.

  Grinning all the while.

  Messalina realized that she had covered her mouth with her palm.

  The footpad slipped from Hawthorne’s grasp and fell to the ground unmoving.

  Hawthorne resumed his ready crouch in front of her almost lazily.

  “Jaysus,” one
of the remaining men gasped.

  Someone shouted from down the lane.

  Both footpads’ heads turned to the sound.

  Then they were off, running away into the dark.

  For a moment Hawthorne was still, as if making sure there was no other danger.

  He turned to Messalina. “Are you hurt?”

  “They didn’t come near me.” She stared at him. His knife was put away already, but his hand was wet with something. Blood. “You’re hurt.”

  He followed her gaze and then grimaced, wiping his hand on a handkerchief. “It’s not mine.”

  She glanced at the man on the ground. He was very still. Had Hawthorne—?

  Pounding footsteps approached as Hawthorne caught her arm, turning her away from the body.

  Reggie skidded to a stop before them, two other men that Messalina didn’t know behind him. “All right, guv?”

  “Yes,” Hawthorne growled menacingly. “No thanks to you and the bloody coachman taking the carriage so far away. My wife was nearly killed.”

  Reggie blanched. “I-I’m sorry, guv. Won’t ’appen again. I swear it.”

  “It had better not,” Hawthorne snapped. “Now I want to get my wife to safety.”

  Reggie nodded. “John Coachman is bringing the carriage.”

  “Good.” He jerked his head to the body. “Take care of that.”

  “Right away, guv, right away.”

  Hawthorne hurried Messalina along, craning his head to look around, obviously watching for another attack.

  Somehow she’d forgotten.

  That he was used to fighting. That in her uncle’s service he’d done much worse.

  Hawthorne was deadly.

  Her breath was coming fast in her breast. She ought to be scared, she knew. Horrified by what had just happened. But all she could think was that Hawthorne had kept her safe.

  That she felt safe right now in the company of a man who had just killed.

  The carriage rattled around the corner up ahead. Hawthorne barely waited for the coachman to bring the horses to a stop before hauling open the carriage door and shoving her inside roughly.

  He jumped in behind her and knocked on the roof.

  Then he was beside her and throwing an arm around her shoulders.

  She looked up at him. His eyes glittered wildly, his body strung taut.

  She couldn’t look away.

  Something inside her melted under his savage gaze.

  “You didn’t answer me back there,” he panted. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. No, not at all.” She glared up at him. “You were the one fighting three men, not me.”

  He grinned suddenly. “Brave girl.”

  His head obliterated the light from outside the carriage as he bent to kiss her.

  * * *

  It was a strange thing that happened sometimes—the urge to fuck after a fight. The raging of a libido glad to be alive. Gideon hadn’t experienced it in years. Perhaps it was because Messalina had been in danger.

  Or perhaps it was simply Messalina—her courage, her intelligence, her warmth.

  He gathered her close, pressing the lush expanse of her breasts against his chest. The low neckline of her dress had been driving him mad all night, and he wanted to tear the cloth from her body. To lick and press and suckle the delicate skin he knew lay underneath. He wanted more than this. More than simply her mouth and her arms. He wanted her belly and thighs, the sweet scent of her cunny.

  He wanted to bury himself in her and never leave.

  He angled his mouth over hers seeking the warm, wet depths between her lips. Wanting.

  Wanting.

  But he felt her go still in his arms. Stiffen and pull back. And he knew that if he didn’t stop, he’d lose what ground he’d gained.

  He broke away, feeling as if he tore the skin from his body as he did so. He could still feel the panting of her breath on his lips as the carriage bumped over something in the road, jostling them together. The scent of bergamot surrounded him, a siren’s lure, and he nearly took her again.

  Damn it. He’d survived winters without proper shoes or regular food as a boy. He could survive one carriage ride with Messalina.

  “Have I frightened you?” he asked, his voice rasping even to his own ears.

  “No. A kiss—even from you—is not enough to frighten me.” Her voice caught and she whispered, her words ghosting over his cheek, “I thought they might kill you.”

  He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. “They were common footpads—nothing I can’t handle.” Except they’d seemed more intent on murder than theft. More like paid—if unskilled—assassins.

  “There were three of them.” Her voice brought him back from his black thoughts.

  A corner of his mouth kicked up. He supposed he should be insulted that she thought he might be taken down by footpads, but he found instead that her worry was charming. “I assure you I’ve taken on bigger and better-skilled men before.”

  “Still,” she said worriedly.

  He turned his head to see her face and discern her expression, but the carriage was too dark. All he could see was the shimmer of pale skin flashing in and out from the lanterns on the street. A cheek, the length of her neck, the slope of her pretty breasts.

  Jesus. How was he to survive a month like this? But he had to if he wanted Messalina in his bed of her own accord.

  And he did.

  He inhaled and said quietly, “By the time I was fifteen my knife had become a part of me. I’d learned to attack without hesitation or quarter. To put aside fear and thought and simply live to best my opponent. I never lost a fight after that.”

  He felt her finger trace the scar on his cheek. “I’m glad,” she said softly. “I’m glad you learned to be so ruthless if it saved your life tonight.”

  “And yours,” he murmured near the delicate curve of her ear. Tempting. So tempting. He pulled away. “Especially yours.”

  The carriage rattled through London as Gideon closed his eyes, leaning his head on the cool windowpane. He was battling his baser instincts, trying not to alarm her, but when Messalina slipped her small hand into his, he could not make himself let go.

  He held her hand all the way home.

  Gideon raised his head when the carriage stopped.

  Keys opened the door and met his eyes, giving a slight nod to indicate the way was safe.

  Gideon helped Messalina out, alert despite Keys’s assurance. He hurried her into the house and relaxed his shoulders only when the door shut behind them. Most likely it was him the assassins—if they were assassins—had been after, but he couldn’t discount the fact that Messalina had been with him.

  Was Windemere carrying out his threat to harm Messalina? It didn’t make any sense to Gideon, but then the duke didn’t always have logical reasons for his actions. Gideon hated the idea. If the old man—or any other person—thought they could hurt his Messalina they’d find out exactly how skilled he was with a blade.

  Keys had followed them inside, leaving Reggie to take the carriage to the stable yard.

  Keys glanced at Gideon with raised brows.

  Gideon shook his head. “Tomorrow. We’ll discuss business tomorrow.”

  Keys’s eyes darted to Messalina, and he seemed to catch Gideon’s meaning. Keys nodded and drifted into the shadows.

  “Come,” Gideon said to Messalina, trying to keep the darkness from his voice. “I think it time for bed. Unless you’d like some refreshment before you retire?”

  Messalina shook her head, stifling a yawn. “I’m exhausted suddenly. I don’t know why.”

  “The attack,” Gideon murmured as they mounted the stairs, his hand on her waist. “The danger brings first a pounding alertness followed by weariness. I’ve felt it before.”

  “Have you?” He knew her curious gaze was on him. “Outside of your prizefights?”

  He darted a glance at her. How much did she really want to know about him? What he’d done in the past? Su
rely she understood that his soul was blackened by his work? The thought made him uneasy. When he killed her brother his soul wouldn’t be just blackened.

  It would be devoured.

  His tone was rough, then, when he answered her. “Why do you ask?”

  She stopped on the landing. “I suppose I’m curious.” She lifted her chin. “Have you?”

  “Sometimes.” He was going to stop there, but something inside him urged him on. To reveal the truth she already knew. To make her see the worst of him. “Often while in your uncle’s service. Danger was what I did for him.”

  She licked her lips, drawing his eyes to her mouth. “What do you mean?”

  He leaned into her, propping his hand on the wall above her head. “I mean when your uncle wanted to scare someone or teach someone a lesson, he sent me. I was the one that put fear into their hearts.”

  She swallowed, but her gaze remained fixed on his. “You hurt people for him.”

  He nodded slowly. “For years and years.”

  “Did you—?” She inhaled as if steadying herself. “Did you kill?”

  The sound of their breaths was loud in his ear, and he wished suddenly that he’d never turned down this path.

  But he had. “No. Tonight was the first.”

  “Tonight?” Her eyes widened. Obviously she hadn’t expected that answer.

  “Yes. I’m not an assassin.” Or he hadn’t been. Once he murdered her brother he would be.

  If she knew, she’d never let him close again.

  And he needed her—her money and her advice for maneuvering through the aristocracy. He couldn’t give those things up.

  Couldn’t give her up.

  He inhaled and straightened, holding out his arm. “Come.”

  She nodded, though a line was still etched between her eyes. Had he lost all the ground he’d covered? Did she hate him now?

  His mood was foul as he escorted her to their bedroom. The maid was waiting up for them—or rather for Messalina. He hesitated, but really it was for the best. He needed to calm himself before he was near her again.

  Gideon bowed to Messalina. “I’ll be a few minutes before I retire.”

  She glanced at the maid and then him, and he thought there was apology in her eyes. But then that might’ve been wishful thinking. “I shan’t be long.”