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She looked flustered, uncertain, but she pulled off the pitiful jet ring Bothwell had given her and threw it at his unconscious form. No blood coming from his head, Jacob noticed with no particular concern. He’d been in enough fights to know when someone was badly injured, and being wanted for the murder of an upstanding gentleman wouldn’t have suited him. But Bothwell would live to bully another young woman, more’s the pity.
“That’s the girl. Now where do you fancy you’d like to go?”
She wiped the tears from her face with the back of her ringless hand. “I need to go to Miranda. ”
It wasn’t the answer he could have h
oped for, but it was better than some he might have feared. “I can do that. ” He held out his hand for her.
She didn’t move. “First, tell me who you are. What your name is. ”
Ah, here it goes, he thought. It was one thing when he was a mystery, a kiss in the dark. The truth was less palatable. “You know who I am. Or at least what I am. I’m Jacob Donnelly—called King Donnelly in some parts of London, due to my leadership of a group of individuals who are, for want of a better word, thieves. ”
She didn’t flinch. “And who is Mrs. Grudge?”
Sparing her would get them nowhere; he had a mind for the truth now. “She runs a brothel over in Brunton Street, but she likes a bit of adventure every now and then, does Long Molly, and she was willing to help out. She has a special fondness for Scorpion. ”
She took it well, did Miss Jane Pagett. “And you’ll take me to Miranda?”
“Aye. You’ll have to give me leave to check on my people first, but then we can be off. If you don’t mind the traveling. ”
“I like to travel,” she said firmly. “What are we waiting for?”
22
Miranda slid into the warm bath, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of roses that surrounded her. There were dried rose petals floating in the water, and she could almost imagine it was summer. She would continue her explorations tomorrow, this time through the gardens behind the house. It was spring, daffodils were blooming everywhere and the fresh canes of rosebushes would be spiking through the damp earth. She couldn’t wait.
She closed her eyes, sliding down. If she tried really hard perhaps she could forget that he was back. He hadn’t made any move to touch her, to kiss her. He’d had her—perhaps that was all he intended.
It was easy enough to be sensible about it when she was dressed and walking around. But lying naked in a hot tub of rose-scented water aroused too many of her senses, and a host of memories returned. His mouth on her breast, sucking. His thick, hard invasion that had been uncomfortable at first, and then quickly became quite … wonderful.
Author: Anne Stuart
She shouldn’t want it again. Most of the time she didn’t. She simply pushed it out of her mind. But he’d returned, and it was no longer so easy. Suddenly she was wanting it, wanting him, again.
She heard his bellow from a distance, and she smiled to herself. He must have discovered his rooms. She’d been waiting for this moment all day, been loath to leave the house for fear she’d miss it. Every spare inch of his bedroom, dressing room and adjoining sitting room had been painted the loveliest shade of powder pink. She hadn’t had enough time to find a matching shade of fabric for the curtains, but the white cotton lace had a nice, cheery touch, as did the coverlet and pillows. She’d even managed to paint several old chairs to go with the overall effect.
If he were a seventeen-year-old girl he would love it.
She chuckled. She ought to see about painting her own rooms. They were currently a faded green, and her dressing room, without windows, was very dark unless the adjoining door was open.
She knew exactly what he would do. He would storm around, have his valet find him another set of rooms in this huge old place and not say a word to her. It was part of the battle plan, her stealth attack, and he would never let her know she’d scored a hit.
She was wrong. Her door was slammed open, and he stood there, a furious expression on his face. Bridget, who’d been laying out her clothes for the evening, looked up, frankly terrified.
“Get out,” he said.
Bridget fled.
He advanced on Miranda. The water was cloudy from the soap, and she slid down farther, watching him warily, half expecting him to spring on her. And then she gave him a wide smile. “Do you like your rooms? I wanted to redecorate them first—a good wife always sees to her husband before she attends to her own needs, and I fancy I did quite an excellent job. There were a few things I wasn’t able to get done, but I think it very peaceful, don’t you? I’ve always found pink to be such a calming color. ”
Apparently not. “Get out of the tub. ”
“I’m not finished my bath yet, my dearest. Come back in half an hour if you want to talk. I can tell you’re ever so slightly cross with me, and I vow I can’t imagine why, unless you tell me that by some strange circumstance you don’t like pink. ”
“I don’t like pink. ”
“Well, how was I to know that?” she demanded, all fluttery exasperation. “Perhaps you would prefer a pale lavender?”
