A Midsummer Night's Sin (21 page)

Men were doomed, it seemed apparent to Puck now, when it came to knowing how to say
no
to the women who recognized the power they held over them. Except
for Jack, of course. Clearly he’d said no. Just as clearly, he still regretted it.

Puck could only pray he would not live to regret saying yes.

“We don’t have a lot of time. Come on,” he said gruffly, grabbing her hand and half pulling her toward the hallway, on his way upstairs to his chambers and the disguises Gaston had procured for them. He’d find something appropriate for her to wear, even help her manage the unfamiliar buttons and whatever. He wouldn’t leave her side for a minute, because he would need every second of that time to bring home to her the dangers she insisted on facing, brave, foolish girl that she was. Idiot that he was….

R
EGINA BELIEVED SHE
should be ashamed of herself for bullying Puck into agreeing to take her along tonight, but she was too determined to take the time to indulge in such womanish emotion. Puck might not be convinced that Reginald Hackett was behind the terrible crimes taking place in London right now, but Regina believed in her father’s guilt with her whole heart.

She also didn’t have time to investigate exactly why she believed it, knowing some of her reasons were self-serving and others meant that they were nearer now to finding Miranda than they would ever be otherwise.

And if she was wrong, if they all were wrong, well then, didn’t they need to know that, as well?

“What are you doing?” she asked Puck once they were in his dressing room and he was looking at her
as if trying to decide something. “You’re not changing your mind, are you?”

“No. But I don’t think any of Gaston’s array of costumes will work for you tonight. Widow, streetwalker, matron. Stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Yes, sir,” she said dutifully, and then immediately
moved
once he was gone. She walked over to his dressing table, picking up one of a pair of silver-backed brushes and admiring the flowing script of his initials, as they’d been engraved on each one. With the tip of one finger, she lifted the cover of a small, ivory-inlaid jewelry box and inspected the pieces she found inside, most taken by the large gold ring with the enormous black onyx stone at its center. His brother wore a similar ring on his index finger; she’d noticed it the first time they’d met.

“A gift from my mother,” Puck said from behind her, “on the twenty-first anniversary of my birth. We each got one when we reached our majorities. Beau traded his somewhere on the Peninsula for enough chickens to feed his troops.”

“Jack wears his,” Regina said, replacing the ring. “I wasn’t being nosy, you know. I was only…all right, I was being nosy. Why don’t you wear yours?”

“Perhaps because I can’t help but wonder if the
B
carved into the stone stands for Blackthorn or bastard. Our mother has a perverse sort of humor. The better question might be to ask why Jack wears his. But don’t, because I have no answer for that one. I’ve found you something to wear.”

Only then did she notice the clothing folded over his arm and the pair of soft suede boots he carried in his hand. “You expect me to wear breeches?”

“No. I expect you to stay here and wait for me to return. But since you insist on coming along, I don’t want to have to deal with skirts and shoes impossible to run in if running becomes necessary. These won’t be perfect, but Gaston is nearer to your size than anyone else I can think of. Now, let’s get you undressed.”

“Now?” she asked, noticing that there were enough candles lit in this small dressing room to make maidenly modesty impossible. Not that she was a maiden anymore, but that didn’t mean she had changed overnight from modest to…well, whatever was the opposite of modest. “I’m sure Hanks could help me…”

“Don’t deny me the only pleasure I might have this evening, puss,” Puck said, tossing the clothing onto a nearby chair and advancing toward her, the devil in his eyes. “I said we don’t have much time. But we have enough.”

Regina felt that now-familiar tingle between her legs that signaled to her that her body would rather she didn’t
doth protest too much,
which she hadn’t wanted to do in the first place, although surely she should make at least a show of reluctance.

“Do…are you going to change, as well?”

His answer was to strip off his jacket and begin working on loosening his neck cloth.

“You’re impossible. You do know that, Puck, don’t you?” she said, backing up a step, her gaze riveted to
his chest as he opened the buttons on his waistcoat and then immediately began loosing the buttons of his shirt, even while the neck cloth hung loose around his neck.

“I’m also ahead of you,” he pointed out as he tugged the tails of his shirt from his waistband.

She knew what he was doing. He was distracting her. Putting on a bit of foolery to mitigate some of the horribleness of what she had witnessed today, shift her mind from the pathways that led her to more fear for Miranda and away from disturbing thoughts about her father’s possible involvement in the most despicable occupation on earth.

And, bless him, it was working. Or maybe she just wanted it to work. Whatever the reasons, his and hers, the world had suddenly narrowed to this small room…and that was fine with Regina.

Each small move he made sent the taut muscles of his chest and stomach to rippling, which for some reason made her mouth go suddenly dry. He’d slipped off the black riband that held his long hair in place so that his hair fell forward around his face, making him look young and yet somehow dangerous. The stark white of his shirt contrasted with the golden tan of his skin. The soft mat of blond hair on his chest glinted dully in the candlelight.

The man was beautiful. The man was a menace.

Regina lifted her hands to her bodice and began unbuttoning the row of small pearl buttons that helped contain the too-lush breasts that had once been the bane
of her existence but that, she thought privately, Puck had found no complaint with the previous night.

The buttons undone and the style of the gown simple, it was easy enough to gather up her skirts and tug the whole thing up and over her head and toss it aside, leaving her clad only in her chemise. And her evening slippers. And her strand of pearls. And her blushes.

He smiled, and she felt her nipples growing taut beneath the thin cloth.

He shrugged out of his shirt and waistcoat at the same time and then took hold of one end of his neck cloth and slowly dragged it from his neck. He was bare to the waist now, with only his tight breeches and high-top boots remaining to keep her from having to bury her head in her hands or stare until her eyes popped out of her head. As it was, there was no ignoring the bulge in his breeches.

She backed up another two steps, only to feel the closed door to his bedchamber at her back.

“You…you make everything a game.”

“And every day an adventure,” he agreed, picking up a small, straight-backed chair and moving toward her. “I want you to prove to me that you’ll obey me tonight, Regina. Without hesitation. Without question. We’ll call this part of your preparation. Are you willing?”

She was half lost in fascination, in feeling. And yet he’d not even touched her.

“Yes.” She felt her stomach flutter, the tightness between her thighs sending out a silent call to be noticed, attended to. If this was the blood of Grandmother Hack
ett now heating in her veins, some earthiness her patrician mother feared, then
huzzah
for Grandmother Hackett. “Yes.”

Puck placed the chair just beside her. “Put your hands on my shoulders, Regina. For balance.”

She did as he said, her palms burning when they touched his bare flesh. They were only inches apart now, and she needed him closer, needed his mouth on her, his hands on her.

“Now raise your right leg for me, sweetings. Rest your foot on the seat of the chair.”

“But—” At her protest, he raised one eyebrow and smiled at her, as if to question her reluctance.

She did as he said to do, even as she lowered her forehead against his shoulder. Grandmother Hackett’s blood could only take her so far. The rest she had to leave up to the hypnotic sounds of Puck’s voice, the hungry yet somehow amused and adventurous look in his eyes.

“Give me a moment,” he told her, his hands leaving her. “Ah, that should do. The French are good for a few things. Their wine, their language…their clever inventions. This time I won’t leave you. I promise.”

What followed was all sensation. All surprise and reaction and glory as he lifted the hem of her chemise and put his hand between her legs, finding her, stroking her, calling up feelings that robbed her of all her strength, her will, so that she could only give herself over to him, to whatever he wanted to do, however he wanted to use her.

When she felt him push inside her she nearly wept with the feel of the way he filled her, completed her.

Yet she couldn’t get enough, there would never be enough.

He kept his mouth close beside her ear, whispering to her in French, the words bold, explicit, describing what he was doing to her even as he was doing it, telling her how she made him feel, how tight she was, how her heat enflamed him.

His words as much as his body took her beyond rational thought, fueled her hunger with more hunger until he put his hand between them and lightly pinched at her most vulnerable, sensitive center, taking her abruptly from mere delight to euphoria, to a place where there was only physical pleasure, only her core, her white-hot center and what he was doing to her, how he was doing it, how he should never stop, never stop, never stop.

“Venez avec moi, Regina. Meurent la petite mort avec moi et jugent quelle vie est tout environ. Faites-la maintenant…la font maintenant! Ah, cher Dieu,
sweetings,
oui! Est-ce qu’il est d’être vivant!”
Come with me, Regina. Die the small death with me and feel what life is all about. Do it now…do it now! Ah, dear God, sweetings, yes! This is what it is to be alive!

Sobbing, Regina clung to him, all the horror of the day gone, forgotten, and life made bearable again….

I
F
P
UCK DIED TO NIGHT
and woke up in Hell, he wouldn’t ask why Heaven had been denied him. He’d know why.

Regina would follow him anywhere now, without question, without hesitation. That he had brought her along on this fool’s mission was the most damning of the things he had done since he’d first met her, and the most potentially dangerous.

And yet, as he watched her, sitting at the same desk Silas Lamott had occupied only hours earlier, carefully turning the pages in one of the journals they’d found, he couldn’t help but admire her courage, her intelligence. Had it been worse of him to bring her along or worse to say her sex somehow made her unqualified to be a part of what was happening all around her?

“Mr. Lamott was right, Puck,” she told him, closing the large book and placing her folded hands on top of it. “There are twenty-three ships named here but none of them the
Pride and the Prize.
And yet it’s tied up just outside. We just saw it.”

“And riding high in the water,” Jack said as he rejoined them in the small office, “ready for cargo. This place is nearly as large and sprawling as Buckingham Palace, although not quite as aesthetically pleasing. I
had time for only a cursory examination, but none of the crates nearest the front of the warehouse is marked for the
Pride and the Prize.
Whatever is to be loaded onboard isn’t here. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? You told me your Mr. Lamott said the ship is scheduled to sail in two days.”

“That two days might have changed, now that some of the cargo has been lost,” Puck said, wincing at his own words. Three women had died. He couldn’t think of them as cargo.

“London’s streets are never safe, according to my father,” Regina said, getting to her feet, smoothing down her breeches. “But tonight, they’re probably more dangerous than ever before.”

“I put a word in the ear of our friend, Mr. Porter,” Puck told them both. “He agreed to alert his— We’ll call them fellow entrepreneurs, shall we? In any event, there’s bound to be a dearth of prostitutes walking the streets for the next few days. But no longer than that. Mr. Porter made that plain, as well. Losing the occasional female is all a part of his cost of doing business. Blow out that candle, sweetings. We’re done here. It’s that cunning suspended room I want to see before we leave.”

He carefully slid the black key in amongst a pile of papers on the desk, having no more need of it. He’d already bent open the ring that had held it with the other keys on Lamott’s key ring, so that it might be supposed the loss had been accidental. The key might be discovered, it might not, but at least it lent some credence to
the idea that it had been misplaced, not taken. In fact, they’d already planned to smash in the small doors to both the warehouse and the office as they left, breaking the locks, so that no one would stumble onto the notion that Mr. Lamott’s visitor of earlier today had come back tonight to have himself a look-round.

After all, how else could the two currently unconscious guards be explained away?

“How many crates did Dickie and Henry take?” he asked Jack as they made their way toward the long, narrow flight of stairs. The break-in should look like a robbery, but to have simply broken down the door at the outset would mean more chance of discovery, so they’d decided to leave that bit of vandalism until last.

“Four. It seemed a nice round number. Dickie’s hoping for tea, but he’ll just as easily settle for bolts of cloth. His mother, I understand, is partial to French silks.”

“And you really believe my father will swallow the idea that this was nothing more than a robbery?” Regina asked, her strides getting longer and more confident as she seemed to become accustomed to the freedom of breeches. He might have a problem on his hands if she enjoyed that freedom too much. Although he, in turn, could think of little to argue against the sight of her womanly form in Gaston’s best buckskins.

“One can’t be sure, but one feels obliged to at least make the effort,” Jack told her, flashing one of his rare smiles.

“You live for this, don’t you?” Puck asked quietly as
they stopped at the base of the stairs, peering up into near ink-dark blackness, for the moon was no longer full and the light coming through the high windows was minimal. There were at least four landings that Puck could see, the stairs cutting back on themselves as they climbed into the dark.

“I confess to some small joy in my work, yes. Hold tight to the railings. I don’t wish to end my evening by scraping either one of you up from the floor.”

Jack started up the steps first, Regina behind him and Puck bringing up the rear, in case she might stumble.

“You’ll remain on the topmost landing, remember?” he reminded her as they climbed, carefully, slowly. “Until we see what’s inside.”

“I remember,” she said, and Puck went back to wishing the moon full once more, as he was sure it would improve the view in front of him. He settled for giving her backside a quick pat and rub, which nearly made her stumble.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

“No, you’re not,” was her quick answer, and he chuckled softly at her boldness. He’d never met her like and knew he never would again.

“Locked,” Jack said once they’d reached the final narrow landing. “This is one door we definitely don’t want to force. I bow to your expertise, brother.”

“Yes, as well you should.” Puck knelt down on one knee even as he extracted a small, flat leather packet
from his pocket and selected one of the tools, the use of which had been meticulously taught to him by Gaston.

In a moment, the door was open and Puck stepped inside the inky blackness.

He didn’t have to see anything to sense that the room was empty and that it had recently been occupied. He believed he could actually smell the fear that had resided here. The fear, the sweat, the rotted food, the stench of human waste.

“Oh, God,” Regina said from beside him, and he could tell that she had her hands pressed over her mouth and nose. “What went on here?”

“Stay still, sweetings,” Puck instructed as he took a short, fat candle from his pocket along with a small, cleverly designed tinderbox. Within a few moments, the candle was lit, and he was able to see a rusted ship’s lantern sitting on a table. He lit that, as well, the shadows cast by the light putting illumination to the ghastly scene.

There was a small desk and two chairs, giving credence to Lamott’s tale of the owners sometimes coming up here to watch the men working below them in the warehouse. A quick check of the single drawer in that desk showed it to be empty.

There were a total of four windows, but heavy leather shades had been not only lowered but bolted to the wood frames, with heavy locks holding those shades in place: not a temporary arrangement but one that could be employed when necessary. There were
two large buckets located near the pallets, taking the place of chamber pots and clearly not recently emptied.

The room, no more than twenty feet square, was otherwise bare, save for three rows of thin pallets placed directly on the rough wooden floor. Beside each pallet was a thick stake. Each had been nailed in place, a round hole neatly bored through the top.

“They ran the chains through those stakes,” Jack said, going down on his haunches to inspect them more closely. “See the wear on the wood? That’s from the sliding of the chain. I imagine there were manacles then attached along the length of the chain, one for each pallet. Can you picture it, Puck? I’m sure that’s how it works. Some limited movement allowed, but for the most part, they’d be confined to within a few feet of each pallet. Chained, suspended in the air, cut off from any help, a guard watching them, with them, at all times. Hell on earth, Puck, Hell on earth.”

“How many do you count?” Puck asked, watching Regina. Hands still to her mouth and nose, she had begun rocking back and forth on the heels of her borrowed boots. She’d questioned. Now she had answers. Not all the answers, but enough to have shattered her world.

“Two dozen even, if each pallet was occupied. And a tidy but not enormous profit. For all we know, the
Pride and the Prize
makes other stops along the English coast before heading out into the Channel and the open sea. To put up provisions they wouldn’t want to take the chance of doing here and to load more cargo. Then
there’s Calais, Caen, Brest—there’s no small number of ports before heading to the Mediterranean marketplaces, as it seems logical that this would be their final destination. All in all, perhaps one hundred at a time, with the virgins commanding the highest prices. I wonder how often the
Pride and the Prize
goes to sea.”

“Twice a year,” Puck answered, watching Regina as she slowly walked through the debris, kicking at it with the toe of her boot. Suddenly she squatted down, her hand out, reaching for something. “No, don’t touch anything, Regina,” he warned her. “It’s all filth.”

She didn’t listen to him, probably hadn’t even heard him. She picked up a long strip of material and turned her ashen, wide-eyed face to him. “I recognize this. Miranda’s gown that night…it was fashioned of this material.”

“Jesus, this isn’t right,” Puck swore quietly. “I have to get her out of here, Jack. Now. We’ve seen enough.”

Regina threw down the ragged strip of softly patterned, ivory silk. “She was here, Puck. Miranda was here. I told you I could be useful. You wouldn’t have known that. But I did. I do. Miranda was here, with all the others. Oh, God, Puck. Where is she?”

All three of them turned at the sound of a sailor’s whistle, the sound of five short, shrill pips coming to them through the open door to the stairs. It was the signal and the count they’d agreed upon when Dickie Carstairs and Baron Henry Sutton had been put to the job of sentries. Five pips, one for each two men.

“Company times ten,” Jack said shortly, blowing out
the lamp even as Puck reached for Regina and pulled her close beside him, afraid of losing her in the dark. “And we’re stuck up here with no way out but those stairs. Clever damn prison, I’ll give them that, and the last place we want to be right now. We have to get down the stairs while Dickie and Henry keep them busy as long as they can. Are you ready to run?”

“Ready,” Puck said, squeezing Regina’s hand before abruptly hefting her body up and over his right shoulder, both his arms wrapped tight around her legs. He’d planned that, as well, believing they’d move faster this way. That she didn’t protest told him she agreed.

Jack led the way, pistols in either hand, while Puck was fully occupied in holding Regina safely against him. Down they went, negotiating turn after turn, the staircase seemingly endless as it disappeared into the gloom below them, their boots loud and echoing on the bare wood. Everything depended on being able to be free of the steps before anyone else entered the building.

As Puck ran, his mind whirled, and he cursed himself for his stupidity. All but hurling himself down the stairs. Twenty steps. Forty. Two landings already behind them. Halfway there.

All the planned subterfuge was for nothing; Hackett had known they were coming. He’d heard about the lost key and guessed right, that he was under suspicion. He’d quickly moved the women. He’d only put two easily subdued men on guard. He’d hidden another of his men inside the warehouse, watching, waiting and
then giving some sort of signal once the quarry was neatly trapped in the suspended room. If Dickie and Henry weren’t outside to alert them, they would have been captured without a chance to defend themselves.

That had to be it. Why hadn’t Jack thought of this possibility? He was the professional whatever-he-was. Puck could only do the next thing, and then the next, hoping each time that he’d chosen correctly and wasn’t about to get them all killed.

And Hackett couldn’t know his own daughter made up one of the small party of intruders. Her hair tucked up inside a knitted toque, her height, her long legs encased in Gaston’s buckskins, the lack of a moon. He wouldn’t know. Unless he caught them. They could not be caught!

Seventy. Eighty. Had he come far enough? Could he chance a jump from this landing? Yes, he’d chance it. He really didn’t have a choice. His teeth rattled, and his knees nearly buckled as his boots hit the floor. Regina gave a small
oomph
as all the air in her lungs was jolted out of her.

“Sorry, puss.”

Puck started running toward the concealment of the towering crates. Jack waved him to the left, and Puck followed. Now the darkness was their friend.

Dickie and Henry could be counted on to delay things, to take care of as many as three or four of Hackett’s men, but then they could either run or stand and die. They’d been instructed to run.

And after that, Puck knew they were on their own.
Jack, damn him, seemed eager for a fight, heavily armed as if planning for one, even hoping for one. And yet he’d also been the one to tell Puck to bring Regina. Why? Because Jack was an arrogant son of a bitch, and never considered losing at anything? Probably. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

But Jack also had been the one to inspect the warehouse while he and Regina had searched Lamott’s office. What had he seen? Had he found another way out? Had he known to look for one? How? He’d better have another plan up his sleeve, or Puck might kill him himself.

“Over here,” Jack said, running on the balls of his feet now so that his soft-soled boots made no noise. Puck did the same, following Jack between two towering piles of wooden crates and heading, if Puck could trust his sense of direction in the dark, straight for the brick wall.

“It’s here somewhere. Every rat has a bolt-hole,” Jack whispered, swiftly but quietly lifting aside crates as Puck lowered Regina to the floor, holding her close against his chest. “Dickie found Hackett’s earlier while he was reconnoitering outside. Clever boy, our Dickie. All I had to do once we got here was to count off steps from the front wall to the correct distance. It’s somewhere right in this area. He and Henry should have made their way here by now, on the outside, but we can’t count on that. Prepare to be met. Hackett’s no fool.”