Elusive Passion
Elusive Passion
To my grandmother, Mildred Berry, whose constant devotion to the memory of my grandfather taught me what true love really is.
To my family and friends, most notably Nicola, Lisa, Danelle, and the ladies of
The Romance Journal.
Without your support, I never would have been able to do this.
And finally to my husband, Steve, for being a better man than any I could invent, and for giving me the freedom to pursue my dream. To simply say, “I love you” would be an understatement.
Come on, you bastards. Come and get me.
With the bump on his temple skillfully hidden behind a…
Varya did the only thing she could in such a…
“Oh, don’t you look handsome!”
So this was how it felt to be the mistress…
Varya had never experienced the cut direct before. She couldn’t…
Varya sighed and lifted her quill from the paper. So…
So this was where he slept at night.
“How do I look?”
He longed for death.
“Find anything?”
Heat.
A respectable woman indeed!
Varya choked. “No.”
“Drink?”
When Varya finally woke, she became aware of two things.
“What made her change her mind?” Miles demanded, pouring himself…
“Do you think anyone saw us?”
“I cannot wait to discover what you’ve got planned for…
Spending his wedding night alone was not what Miles had…
Groaning at the stiffness in her shoulders, Varya rolled slowly…
“At first I thought I had been wrong, that he…
The screams were driving him crazy.
London, England
June 1814
C
ome on, you bastards. Come and get me
.
Miles Edward Thomas Christian, Marquess of Wynter, staggered down the dimly lit London street not far from Covent Garden. Weaving exaggeratedly and reeking of gin, he gave the appearance of being hopelessly drunk.
Which he wasn’t. Not in the slightest.
His keen eyes watched the shadows, searching out his quarry. He clutched an open bottle of cheap gin in one hand and sang at the top of his lungs in a rusty baritone.
“Oh, it’s the size of her melons that be the cause of
me swellin’ and makin’ me trousers so tight. But the face that I seen, shriveled me beannnnnn…”
As his deep voice cracked on the sour high note, a dog howled in the distance.
“…I wish I had snuffed out the light!”
They were there, watching him. He could feel their canine stares; he could almost feel their breath on his neck. The ennui he had been suffering from these past few months faded before his mounting anticipation.
He had been studying these thieves—he knew their tastes and their habits. At this moment, they were no doubt salivating over the plumpness of his purse, which did not contain the gold they hoped for. Instead it contained thin slices of tin—worthless, but it made a lovely tinkling sound as he walked.
Miles’s prey were also cautious. Taking down a gentleman of his stature would be a daunting task, but not if the thieves believed he was as jug-bitten as he pretended to be.
C’mon, boys. Easy pickings.
Miles searched his memory for another naughty lyric. He knew only a handful, and he hoped his repertoire didn’t deplete itself before he lured the thieves out of their hiding spot.
He tightened his grip on the bottle and began to sway. He knew from experience that fallen quarry was practically irresistible to predators. With any luck, the thieves would pounce and he would turn their own trap against them.
He could see them. Edging out of the shadows like rats, the thieves were moving in for the attack. Adren
aline coursed through Miles’s veins. Soon, he would have them.
Toppling into a forgotten cart that smelled suspiciously of manure, he fell heavily onto the rotting boards, smashing his hip on what felt like a pair of boots.
“Oof!” The contents of the bottle emptied all over his clothing and splattered on his face. He sputtered as gin splashed up his nose. Damnation, but the Home Office had better appreciate what he was doing!
He sneezed.
“Bloody hell!” yelled a voice near his ear.
Miles winced as the boots he had landed on—or rather, the person
wearing
the boots—kicked him in the small of his back. Above his own muffled curse he heard muted voices and the sounds of several pairs of feet running away. The thieves were escaping!
He tried to give chase, but he was hopelessly entangled with the drunk, who smelled as if he had just fallen off a fish wagon.
“Get yer own bloody cart!” the man shoving at him yelled, his breath strong enough to knock out a bull.
“Apologies, my good man.” Miles groaned, wiping his wet face with his sleeve as he hauled himself to his feet. His back and left side hurt like the devil, and it would only be worse in the morning.
He passed the half-empty bottle to the man. “Here. You need this more than I.”
“Thankee, guv’nor.” The drunk accepted the bottle as if it were made of gold.
Grimacing, Miles bowed stiffly. “Think nothing of it.” Slowly, he turned to walk away.
Wouldn’t Carny have a good laugh at this. Despite their friendship, Carny liked nothing better than to see Miles make a fool of himself. He claimed it made up for the fact that Miles was better-looking, was taller, and possessed a richer title. Miles was more inclined to believe that his friend just liked to have a chuckle at his expense.
One thing Carny wouldn’t find amusing, however, was that the thieves had eluded capture once again. The gang was becoming increasingly brazen with their attacks, even violent. They had to be stopped before someone was seriously injured or, God forbid, killed.
Miles had agreed to be used as a decoy for the thieves after one of his friends had fallen victim to their greed. Fitz was still laid up from the attack, his left leg having been seriously sprained. The regent was terrified the violence would worsen, and Miles felt compelled by his position as a peer of the realm to help put a stop to it. Since returning from the war, Miles had plunged himself into a dangerous variety of new duties.
Wiping at the gin-soaked wool of his coat with a damp glove, Miles wrinkled his nose and started off in the direction of his hired coach. He smelled like a drunken sheep with poor sanitary habits.
He hadn’t even made it three steps when he heard it—the subtle click of a pistol being cocked. Ever so slowly, he turned his head to glance over his right shoulder.
Standing in the pale light from a street lamp was a slender, hooded figure clad entirely in black.
Now what?
“Who the bloody hell are you?” he demanded. Could this night possibly get any worse?
A pistol glinted in the flickering light and Miles caught his breath, cursing himself silently for not having the good sense to reach for his own weapon first.
“I shall assume that you weren’t so stupid as to wander into this part of London without a weapon,” the stranger said silkily. “I would ask that you hand it over to me now, my lord.”
Whoever his attacker was, it wasn’t an Englishman. However, it was definitely a female who held the pistol trained at his throat.
“Listen, love…” He paused, turning to fully face her. Her features were completely concealed by the mask she wore, giving not even a hint of the face beneath. “If it’s blunt you’re after, you’ve come to the wrong man. I haven’t a shilling on me.”
“It’s not your money I’m interested in, Lord Wynter,” she replied, leveling the gun at his broad chest.
Even in the murky glow of the streetlights, Miles could see the barrel tremble. Whoever she was, she obviously didn’t make a habit of accosting men at gunpoint. The knowledge did little to ease the feeling of dread that rendered him frozen at her use of his title.
“I’m impressed.” He willed himself to remain outwardly calm. “You know my name.”
“It was not meant to flatter you.”
Miles listened carefully. Her English was good, almost perfect, but the hint of an accent lent her words a sensual quality. He had never heard anything quite like it. She was also nervous—her voice vibrated with tension.
“So what are you going to do, pet? Shoot me in cold blood and make it look like a robbery?” He smirked. “Or are you going to force yourself upon me and rob me of my virtue?” Perhaps he might distract her enough to wrestle the weapon from her. He would have to be careful—there was nothing more dangerous than a woman holding a pistol.
She held out her hand. “I believe someone has already relieved you of that particular burden, my lord. No doubt close to twenty years ago.”
He raised a brow, reluctantly placing the pistol he had taken from his coat pocket in her open palm. “Twenty years ago would have put me at thirteen. As much as I appreciate your confidence in my prowess, I’m afraid you’ve overestimated my allure.” He tried his most charming smile. “Suffice to say it has been less than twenty years but more than fifteen.”
He took a step closer, his long stride narrowing the distance between them. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”
She stiffened and tightened her grip on the pistol. Miles’s mouth flattened into a grim line. Evidently charm and flirtation was not the tack to take with her.
“I’ll tell you in my own good time, my lord,” she replied coldly, gesturing with the barrel. “Start walking.”
He did as he was told, convinced that he’d not get to the bottom of this bizarre turn of events unless he did. He could probably overpower her if he tried, but one of them might end up injured or dead, and
another
woman’s blood on his hands was a stain his conscience couldn’t take.
One thing was certain—no one was going to rescue him. The only time a crowd gathered in Covent Garden was to watch something that didn’t require their involvement. At the first sign of danger those interested parties would fade back into shadows or peer around dusty curtains, careful not to get too close. Careful not to get involved unless a profit was to be made.
The coachman he had hired had orders to send for Carny should Miles not return at the agreed time, but God only knew if Miles would even still be in the vicinity, let alone alive by the time his friend came looking for him.
“Where are we going?” he asked over his shoulder as she pressed the pistol against his back, nudging him through an alley.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
Miles raised his eyebrows but kept walking. He heard her stumble behind him and smiled. No doubt it was hard for his captor to see through her hood, especially when his immense height deprived her of what light the street lamps provided.
“Do you require some assistance?” he inquired, his voice mockingly polite.
A sharp jabbing pain struck him in the tender flesh behind his left knee, buckling it. He stumbled to the ground with a surprised grunt, hissing in pain as the already smarting joint struck the hard cobblestones.
“Do
you
require some assistance?”
Miles cursed as he hauled himself to his feet. He could hear the laughter in her throaty voice. She had kicked him!
Barely able to contain his fury, he whirled around to face her, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
“You’re on very thin ice, my lady,” he warned before allowing a sneer to curve his lips. “I’ve never struck a woman before, but you’re making the prospect very tempting.”
He was rewarded with a sharp gasp. He couldn’t see her eyes through the narrow slits in the shapeless hood, but he didn’t doubt that they snapped with indignation.
She raised the pistol to his chest. The barrel wasn’t trembling anymore.
“I could kill you right now and no one would ever know who did it.” Hostility deepened her voice, adding a huskiness that Miles found both threatening and sensual.
He leaned down so that his nose was almost touching her hood. “What makes you think I’ve got anything to live for?” he snarled, his question surprising even himself.
He didn’t give her a chance to reply, but spun on his heel and resumed walking. His anger and disgust with himself quickened his pace, and his long legs quickly ate up the length of the alley despite the pain in his knee.
She practically had to run to keep up.
“Stop!”
He continued walking as though he hadn’t heard her.
“I said stop!”
Miles slowed, bracing himself for the shot. It struck him hard between his shoulder blades, knocking the
breath from him. He stumbled, gasping and tripping as something bounced to the ground by his feet. In the dim lamplight he could see it as it skidded to a stop not even a foot away from him. She hadn’t shot him. She had hit him with a large chunk of cobblestone!
Cursing yet again, he straightened and turned on her, only to find himself staring down the barrel of the pistol.
“Very soon,” he promised her from between clenched teeth, “I’m going to take that pistol and your mask and then I’m going to see you jailed. But not before I have a chance to strangle you with my bare hands!” He watched with satisfaction as the muzzle wavered slightly.
She pushed out to her left with her free hand. A door swung open with a belligerent squeak. How she had ever seen it he didn’t know, for it was indistinguishable from the rest of the building in the dark.
“We’re here.” She handed him a lamp and tinderbox that she pulled out of her cloak. “Light this.”
Cursing both her and her forebears under his breath, Miles lit the lamp and held it up.
The gun poked him between the shoulder blades.
He grumbled all the way up the narrow stairs. He could just barely squeeze his shoulders between the confines of the walls that lined either side.
Her shuffling footsteps were hesitant behind him, and he knew that she was next to blind in this darkness. Her hood and the wall of his body eliminated much of the lamplight. Surely she must realize that he sensed her difficulty, but she said nothing.
She was a proud one, he thought. Too proud. Did
she not understand how easy it would be for him to overpower her when she could not see? He could turn on her now, and she wouldn’t be able to defend herself.
But if he turned on her now, he would never know what this was all about. For all he knew, she could be a French spy sent to coerce information from him. Just because they dumped Napoleon on Elba didn’t mean he would stay there. He would discover what this woman was up to, and then he would deal with her.
But he wasn’t about to underestimate her.
He didn’t understand why he did it, but he lifted the lamp higher so that some of its brilliance slipped over his shoulder and lit her path.
The footsteps behind him halted, and he turned.
She was staring at him, her head tilted to one side, the pistol aimed cavalierly at his belly. For one dry-mouthed moment Miles thought she intended to shoot him there on the narrow steps.
“Thank you.”
He nodded curtly, turned his back on her, and resumed climbing.
The stairs led to a small, sparsely furnished room. The floors were dirty and the air smelled of mildew. At least two rats scurried into darkened corners and stared with hostile, beady eyes as the yellow glow of the lamp trespassed into their territory. The amount of dust and cobwebs was proof that no one had been there in quite some time. The thought wasn’t exactly comforting.
“Move over there,” she commanded, gesturing to the rickety table in the far corner.
He did as he was told, wondering if she had deliberately contrived to put as much distance as possible between him and the only route of escape.
He seated himself on one of the dilapidated chairs by the table. One leg was shorter than the other three, and the chair lurched as he shifted his weight. Perspiring under the growing heat of his frustration, Miles leaned back, forcing himself to sit as still as possible.