The Devil's Thief (20 page)

“I’m
sorry, Miss,” Mr.
Wiley
said sincerely. He stepped
close to her and took over rubbing her arm very gently. “Are you all right?”

Julianna
nodded, watching his hands on her arm. She was lucky. She could have been hurt
far worse, and might have been if Mr. Wiley hadn’t been there to help her. On
impulse she threw her arms around him and hugged him tightly. He awkwardly
patted her back.

“There
now,” he said. “Wiley didn’t let anything happen to you, now did he?” He
stepped back and took hold of both her arms, being very gentle with the sore
one. “No more coming back here, do you understand? That little pearl is gone,
and you’d best forget about it.”

“Oh,
Mr. Wiley,” she cried, miserable. “What have I done? I have to get the pearl
back for Mr. Sharp. It’s been in his family for generations. It’s his most
valued treasure, and he will never forgive me for stealing it. Never.” She
wiped a tear from her cheek only to have another one take its place, and then
another. She sniffed pathetically.

With
a sigh he lifted her reticule from her arm and searched inside until he found
her handkerchief. He handed it to her with a pat on the shoulder. “Like that,
is it? Tell old Wiley all about it, then.”

Julianna
dabbed her eyes and delicately wiped her runny nose. She glanced at Mr. Wiley
from the corner of her eye. He seemed genuinely sympathetic, and that made her
want to cry more.

“I
know that the home is important.” She sniffed, the thought of having to close it
down breaking her heart all over again. “But I just can’t justify what I’ve
done to Mr. Sharp, not even for the home.” She bit her lip. “He’s a good man
and he didn’t deserve it. And the money from the pearl will only be a temporary
reprieve for the foundling home. I simply can’t do it all myself, and I have
nowhere else to turn for funds.” He started to speak and she held up a hand to
silence him. “And I cannot in good conscience continue to run the house on
ill-gotten money.” She laughed sadly. “It’s quite ironic, really, since that is
how I was raised.”

Mr.
Wiley’s eyes got big. “Was it now? Your mam was a pincher, was she?”

Julianna
stared at him uncomprehending for a moment. “My mother? Oh, no! My father was a
. . . a thief, not my mother. My mother died when I was very young.” She
grabbed his hand. “But he only took small things and many of them were gifts
from lovers. He wanted me to have fine things, after my mother died, and he
didn’t know how else to get them.” She sighed. “I wish he’d learned to live in
straitened circumstances rather than resorting to an immoral life of crime and
. . . and . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Selling
himself?” Mr. Wiley offered helpfully.

Julianna
closed her eyes, pained by his words. “Yes. Exactly.”

Mr.
Wiley squeezed her hand, and when she opened her eyes, he was looking at her
with an expression that was wise beyond his years. “Seems to me that was his
choice. He thought you were important enough. Lord knows, I do what I
does
for my chicks, no mistake. And I’d do more if I had to,
if you see what I mean. Fathers have to make the hard choices, don’t they, so
their little ones don’t have to.”

All
these years of secretly condemning her father, and it took a simple speech by a
street ruffian to make Julianna understand the choices he had made when she was
growing up. Her laugh was a little watery. “But I made a hard choice, and it
was the wrong one.”

“If
your Mr. Sharp is such a grand fellow,” Mr. Wiley told her as he led her out of
the alley and toward the waiting carriage, “then he’ll get over losing his
pearl if it means he can have you.”

This
time her laugh was bitter. “I am no substitute for a priceless jewel, Mr.
Wiley.”

He
handed her up into the carriage and regarded her seriously. “I know value when
I see it, miss,” he told her. “And yours is beyond price.”

In
that moment Julianna understood completely why Mr. Wiley had so many children.

Chapter Twelve

Julianna
paced the pavement in front of her father’s townhouse. She’d been wearing a
hole in the sidewalk for the past hour, hoping that Alasdair would appear
outside his house. It was already two o’clock in the afternoon. Yesterday he’d
been up with the cock’s crow to catch her. Today he was apparently catching up
on his lost sleep. Every two or three steps she glanced across the street only
to be met with a firmly closed door. She could see nothing through the curtains
and his balcony, of course, which faced the mews behind and not the street.

So
attuned was she to every sound on the quiet street that when his door finally did
open, it sounded like a shot in a tunnel. She spun to face his house, suddenly
unsure of her plan. She frantically looked for a place to hide and found
nothing save a very skinny tree that wouldn’t even shield one of her limbs,
much less her entire person. She froze on the spot, exposed, uncertain, and
ridiculously frightened.

He
appeared in the doorway,
then
he turned to speak with
his man, who was handing him his hat and gloves. He stepped outside and put the
hat on, tilted just so at a rakish angle. He pulled on one glove and then
started down the steps slowly while he put on the other.

He
was beautiful. How many times had she sat inside at the parlor window,
ostensibly to take advantage of the light for sewing or reading, when she was
really waiting for a glimpse of him? Tall, broad shouldered, sure in his step,
commanding yet approachable, greeting the world with a smile.
Too many to count, surely.
Until she’d grown tired of
waiting and watching and had snuck into his house and stolen his pearl to get
his attention. It was quite, quite lowering to have to admit that to herself.

Today
he looked different to her than he had all those other times she’d watched him.
Today he was the lover who had tenderly introduced her to the pleasures shared
by a man and a woman, and then roughly shown her another side of that pleasure
and of him. He’d held her close, whispered desperately in her ear, kissed her
breasts and filled her with his heat and his release. He had taught her to fly
on wings that she had long thought clipped. And yet, he was a stranger. What
were his deepest secrets? What kept him awake at night? What fears haunted his
waking hours? What dreams kept him going when he believed all was lost?

Julianna
leaned against the tree weakly, her shoulder and her hand pressed against the
bark. Weighty issues aside, she didn’t even know the simplest things about him.
What was his favorite food?
His favorite color?
He
knew Shakespeare, but did he like him? Perhaps he preferred the modern poetry
of Lord Byron. Did he prefer fish or fowl?
Sweet or savory?
She knew he liked strawberries, was jaded but caring, and that he had a dubious
history of carnal relations.

Just
then he looked up and saw her. He stopped halfway down the steps and stood
there. Just stood there, staring at her, still in the process of pulling on his
glove. He was too far away for her to tell what his expression was. She hoped
he was glad to see her. But wouldn’t he wave then, or in some way indicate his
pleasure at seeing her again? Julianna pushed away from the tree. She took a
hesitant step toward the street and he slowly lowered his hand to his side. She
took another step and he didn’t move. Was he waiting for her?
If she stopped now she’d feel a fool, and look like one, too, no
doubt.
Her mind made up, Julianna began to cross the street.

Her
approach spurred him into action. He continued down the steps and then spoke to
his groom, who had just brought his horse around. The groom turned back toward
the mews and Alasdair continued toward her. They met in the middle of the quiet
street, only a few passersby around to notice them.

“Good
morning,” she said, after they stood there staring at each other like idiots
for a solid minute.

He
blinked and looked around, and then took her arm and led her back over to her
side of the street. Once they were on the sidewalk, he stopped and faced her.

“What
are you doing?” he asked.

Well,
she hadn’t expected that gruff tone. She tried to hide her surprise. “Waiting
for you.” She figured honesty, as far as it went, was her best policy at this
point.

He
looked cynical for a moment and she couldn’t blame him. “Why?”

She
bit her lip and worried it for a moment, not sure where to begin.

His
eyes grew hot and narrow as he stared at her. “For that, hmm?” he asked
quietly. “Still not sure how to ask for it? That seems odd, and a bit
inconvenient, considering how often you appear to be receiving it.”

Julianna’s
mouth dropped open into an unbecoming O when she deciphered his meaning. He
must have taken it for agreement because he gripped her upper arm and steered
her around the side of the townhouse and through the gate of the tall fence
that separated the gardens from the street.

“Is
anyone at home?” he demanded, pulling the gate shut behind
them
.
He took a moment to survey the garden and then dragged her across the open lawn
to the trees at the back of the lot.

“Alasdair,”
she gasped, “what on earth are you doing?”

He
tightened his grip on her arm. “Answer the question. Are your father or
stepmother home?”

Julianna
shook her head. “No, only the servants are about. Alasdair!” she exclaimed as
he shoved her behind the garden shed into the far corner of the yard, deep
within the trees. There was not much space between the shed and the fence, and
she was trapped against the back of the small building when Alasdair squeezed
in front of her.
He
 
pressed
himself against her from chest to groin, and he tried to
shove a leg in between hers, but her skirt was too tight.

“This
won’t work at all,” he muttered. He grabbed a handful of her skirt and pulled
it up to her waist, and then his thick, hard thigh was there, rubbing against
her mound deliciously. Julianna moaned and thrust against him, a surge of
desire coursing through her that was almost alarming in its intensity. Alasdair
laughed, but it wasn’t an amused sound. “Yes, I rather thought you’d like that.
Is that what he does?”

Julianna
couldn’t think clearly with his hands on her, his thigh driving her mad, his
mouth a hot, moist temptation against her ear. “ ‘He?’ ”
she
asked breathlessly.

“Don’t
even speak,” Alasdair growled. “This will be better if you don’t speak.”

“W-What?”
she stammered. He raised his leg and Julianna
squeaked
as she had to go on her tiptoes to maintain contact with the ground. It was
dizzying, and felt so rough and wonderful.

Alasdair
whipped off his hat and threw it to the ground and Julianna got her first good
look at his face. He was furious. Before she could say something, anything, he
slammed his mouth down on hers.

The
kiss was brutal in its intensity, but no less arousing for its leashed
violence. He tried to twist his head, to slant his mouth on hers, but her
bonnet got in the way. With a growl he tore his mouth away and wrenched the bow
open beneath her chin. Her hair was pulled as some pins came loose when he
ripped it off her head to join his hat in the grass. The pain brought with it a
brief moment of sanity.

“Alasdair,”
she begged, pressing her hands to his chest. “Stop. Please! We must talk.”

But
there was no talking. He came back, his mouth hot and open on hers, his tongue
demanding entry, and she couldn’t deny it or him. She stopped fighting him and
instead threw her arms around his neck and buried her hands in his hair,
gripping his head tightly. He grunted his approval and drove his tongue into
her mouth again, tangling it with hers.

His
hands were suddenly gripping her backside, and he thrust his hips against her as
he pulled her hard against his thigh. She could feel his arousal, hard and
wanting, and she moaned and wiggled into the rough caress of his thigh. His
fingers dug into her hips almost painfully as he made the same movement over
and over, never taking his mouth from hers, never letting her come up for air.
She was light-headed and her sex was hot and aching, and she felt a yawning
emptiness inside.

He
was panting into her mouth, as desperate as she. These were not the tender
caresses she longed for, but it was Alasdair, hot and demanding and in her
arms. She knew what was coming, could feel the pleasure spiraling out of
control within her. From his deliberate movements it was what he wanted. He
wanted her to come in this harsh, desperate way. Was it a punishment? It didn’t
feel that way. It felt glorious. She almost told him so, but words were too
difficult, her thoughts too unfocused. She could only feel and want and writhe
on his tight, hard body as it drove her onward.

He
pulled his mouth away at last, his breath ragged in her ear. “Come, damn you,”
he rasped. He wrapped his arms around her, protecting her back from the rough
wood of the shed. Then he canted his hips and pressed against her body perfectly
and Julianna fell apart. But she didn’t want to, not like this. Not alone, not
without Alasdair. Though he held her tight, she felt empty, and she sobbed as
her sex clenched tightly, seeking him, seeking his hard length and finding
nothing except this desperate, aching pleasure and nothing more.