The Damsel and the Daggerman: A BLUD Novella (5 page)

“I’ll be right here. Not distracting you. Try not to hurt yourself out there.”

Carefully transferring both smoke bombs to the same hand, he turned his back to her and made adjustments to his costume with a long, shaky sigh. She smirked to herself. If the key to finding out Marco’s past was to keep him slightly confused by constant sexual tension, then she was going to enjoy this story quite a bit.

“What a way to go,” he said under his breath as he stepped around the backdrop.

Jacinda sat on the edge of a crate, the clockwork dog a still and solid presence at her side. She absentmindedly ran a hand over its boxy head and down its metal spine. She was a woman who appreciated a dangerous creature that could be harnessed but never tamed.

And when Marco was done with his show, she decided, she would have a little surprise for him, too.

.8.

As soon as the show was over, Jacinda slipped out with the crowd, darting among the shadows with the dog in her wake. She’d said, “I’ll be right here,” but she’d failed to mention how long she would stay there. Although she wasn’t sure exactly how Marco appeared and disappeared with his smoke bombs, she wanted to keep him guessing, out of power. Thus far, he had admitted to never having drawn blood, and the offhand delivery suggested that he had been telling the truth. What, then, had happened to his assistant? Why had there been so much gore?

Walking the caravan against the flow of the crowd, Jacinda had never felt more alone. She’d traveled with Liam for so long and had grown so accustomed to his nearness that even a year later, she would find herself turning with a smile to whisper something or reaching for a hand that was no longer there. At least she’d traded in their larger conveyance for her small one, a private space unhaunted by her late husband’s presence.

She knew that returning to Marco’s act would be a mistake, would make her seem desperate. And she had promised Criminy she wouldn’t interfere with his caravan during showtime. But the charms of the circus seemed tawdry to her at night, when she had a goal to accomplish. The people behind the glitter and paint were far more interesting to her than their magic-spiced acts. If she would move among them, she wanted to know them by light of day and not, as everyone else did, after dark had fallen and the lights had gone up. She wanted the stories of the people behind the show. The truth was more interesting than the artifice.

Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Marco’s lips, the rasp of his cheek, the cut of his shoulders, the chasm of his eyes. He reminded her of a vein of ore she’d seen in a mine in Africa. Just a few glimmers aboveground hinted at the glittering depths and crystal caverns below. She didn’t usually favor the strong and silent type, much less the darkly dangerous type. But she suspected that he hid the best parts of himself and let the world see only the surface. If he was as razor-fine inside as he was on the outside, it would be worth her while to dig. At the very least, she would enjoy trading kisses and winning his story from him bit by bit, if that was what it took. The book was still her goal, but a scoop that would rock London and the chance to exonerate an innocent man—well, she wouldn’t have turned that down, even if she hadn’t been personally drawn to the subject.

Walking around the perimeter of the caravan, she felt rather the
flâneuse
, the only person outside of the joy and wonder. She wasn’t surprised when her feet brought her right back to Marco’s trailer. The crowd had thinned as the night grew colder, and the only people left were a trio of troublesome boys conferring about whether or not to nick one of Marco’s knives from the backdrop.

“Shoo, you little creeps.”

They straightened and turned on her, wearing snarls. “Bugger off, lady.”

Jacinda smirked. “Brutus, exsanguinate.”

As soon as the metal dog turned in their direction, the boys scrambled away, and with a roll of her eyes at the foolishness of lads, Jacinda began the work of collecting Marco’s knives. It was always better to have work than to sit around, empty-handed and empty-headed, so far as she knew. She wasn’t tall enough to reach the very highest blades, but she had two handfuls of bristling steel as she rounded the corner of the backdrop.

Strong hands found her waist, swinging her around until her back was against the wood. Brutus lunged forward with a metallic growl.

“Brutus, disengage.”

The dog froze in place, but Marco hadn’t shifted his grip for even a moment. She was on full alert, the wood cold against her back, his hands warm on the narrow waist of her corset. With fingers carefully curled around the blades, she felt helpless. But there was something strangely lovely about it.

“Doing my dirty work for me, sweetness?”

“I like to be useful.”

“I know a good way to use you.”

She lifted her face, her mouth slightly open and waiting. But he held her there, looking down with a teasing sort of smile. “Now’s the part where you kiss me,” she whispered, and he chuckled and bent, ever so slowly, to taste her lips.

Jacinda savored his patience, the warmth of his mouth moving against hers with complete mastery and control. One of his hands left her waist to cup her jaw, just so, and she was surprised to find bare skin where suede should have been. His palm was warm and broad, his thumb stroking her cheekbone possessively as the other hand pressed the corset’s stays into her hip. He opened her mouth with his lips, his tongue darting in, gentle and hot, making shivers run up and down her spine to pool in her belly.

She’d kissed plenty of men since she’d lost Liam, in part to help her forget. Because each man tasted and moved so differently, she’d never had any trouble letting lust overtake her behind closed eyes. She’d never felt anything for any of them, mostly younger men who could appreciate a woman’s body without delving deeper into her heart and mind. But their first kisses had always been fast and sloppy, passionate and rushed, as if she might suddenly change her mind and leave them wanting. Not that she minded—she liked the frantic hunger, liked the distraction of the intoxicating frenzy. Marco, on the other hand, refused to let her set the pace, defied her haste with hands that wouldn’t budge from their places and a tongue determined to enjoy a deep taste before moving on.

With a little whimper, she arched away from the wall, aching for the pressure of his body against hers. His hand tightened on her waist, holding her back, and she murmured, “Come on, Marco,” into his mouth.

He pulled away, leaving her panting. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you?”

“I am. And if I want more?”

He rubbed a thumb over her still-wet lips before releasing her and taking the knives from her clenched hands. As he stepped away, she nearly collapsed, her legs boneless and her hands suddenly empty and aching from making fists around the steel.

“Then you’ll have to beg for it.”

She was off balance for a moment, but she quickly regained her footing, sensing that she needed to keep him interested, that he was the sort of man who got bored easily and would toy with her only as long as he enjoyed the chase. “Do I have to get on my knees?”

That got his attention. He turned back from the crate, where he was slipping his knives one by one into a long leather roll. Their eyes caught, and with her chin held high, she gracefully dropped to her knees and sat back on her haunches as she’d been taught when interviewing geishas in the East. Hands folded just so, she lowered her eyelids to gaze up through her lashes.

“Please?”

He swallowed hard and looked away, turning his head and listening to the sounds beyond the backdrop. She could hear it, too—the caravan was closing for the night. The noise of the crowd had grown faint, wagon doors were slamming closed, and Criminy’s voice shouted unnaturally loudly, thanking everyone and welcoming them back tomorrow if they weren’t eaten by bludbunnies on the way home. She had almost forgotten they weren’t the only people in the dark, that hundreds of people had been lingering and laughing just around the corner. But now they were alone. Almost.

“Fearless and shameless. What a combination,” he finally said, and she laughed.

“I’m a writer. I’ve lived through hell and imagined worse. You don’t scare me.”

“Even though they call me a murderer?”

She stood in one smooth motion. “Thing is, I don’t think you did it. I’d like to prove everyone wrong. I’m one of the only journalists out there hell-bent on the truth.” She shrugged. “Such is my curse.”

It was the wrong thing to say to him, and she felt the same drop in her gut as if moving a chess piece to a square that would lose her the game. His face closed up, his eyes going dark and fathomless, looking straight through her. “I can’t give you what you want.” It came out ragged, his back to her as he finished with his knives.

She was drawn to him, desperate to mend what she’d torn asunder. Her hand found the small of his back, her fingertips spreading to enjoy the play of hard muscles. “Is the truth so impossible?”

He shuddered and shook her off, rolling up his knives and storming to the stairs of his trailer. He slipped inside and slammed the door in her face without a word, and she felt a flare of anger. It was bad enough to kiss her like that and leave her wanting, but to lock her out was a slap in the face. Even if the truth was his possession, his secret, she was unaccustomed to being treated so rudely. And damned if she wasn’t burdened with a temper. But she wasn’t about to knock or yell or beg. The time for that was past.

Forgetting that he had deadly aim and a history of supposed bloodshed and driven only by her cheated body and her angry heart, she reached into her pocket for her lock picks and had his door open in moments. The lights inside were warm, the room glowing with wallpaper in silver and black stripes. Marco sat on a low sofa, his head in his hands and his shirt half unbuttoned. Furious surprise was written clearly on his face.

“Did you just break into my wagon?”

Her mouth quirked up slowly. “Of course not. The door was open.”

She closed the door silently and leaned back against it, suddenly unsure. What was she doing? She’d never thrown herself at a man—at least, not since Liam. The rest had come running like bludrats scenting a bare foot. She’d simply chosen one from the pack and let things run their course. But this was no pack, just a lone wolf, and the only one that would do. She had come to the caravan for an entertaining story, but now she couldn’t think past her own stupid body and swiftly racing heart. She wanted his secrets even more.

It should have been easy. Seduce him. Take what she needed.

But this was more than she had expected, and she had to tread carefully.

Marco didn’t move, sprawled over his couch as he was with one leg up on a steamer trunk. He was surprised, sure, but still dripping with confidence, with a bone-deep certainty that he was the most dangerous thing in the very small, suddenly rather airless room. She realized that she’d left Brutus outside, slammed the door in the metal dog’s face. Even without the knives glinting up his shirt, she still suspected Marco was well-armed.

“I suppose I should be glad you didn’t break in while I was out and rifle my drawers.”

“There’s always tomorrow.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“What’ll you settle for?”

She took a deep breath. “More time to screw it out of you.”

He snorted, his head rocking back against the couch to show a long, muscled neck already shaded with new beard. “What makes you think I’m interested?”

She raised one eyebrow and cast a damning look at his lap.

He just chuckled. “That’s nothing.”

“Prove it.”

He stood, his footsteps creaking across the wood floors, closer and closer. Even though she had invited the situation—well, forced it—she still felt as if her back was always against a door with him, that there was nowhere left to run as soon as his eyes found her. She pressed her hands against the wood, willing the blood out of her cheeks, the slight hitch out of her breath. He was angry with her, but he was amused, too. She had to hope the amusement would win out.

Marco’s expression was sharp and dark and hungry, and she fought the urge to look away, to look down, to cower in any way.

“Woman, do you know what you’re getting into?”

“I’m a big girl. I always know what I’m getting into.”

One finger, curled under her chin, made her tilt her head back to look up at him. Her lips parted, waiting for him to crash into her, to run his hands down her body with the frenzy she felt inside every time they traded barbs. Instead, he spun her around to face the door and pressed close against her back, hotter than the sun and breathing warmly over her neck. One after the other, he took her hands, pinning them against the door over her head. Her heart sped up, pounding against the door loudly enough that she was sure he could hear it, and with animal grace, she arched her back, feeling the hardness of him even through her bustle and the layers of skirts.