Page 32 of Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane 4)

“Winter,” she chided.

He gently tugged her lock of hair. “That’s what it would’ve been.”

She looked mutinous.

He found another pin and pulled it free. “If it makes you feel any better, I enjoy my work and always have.”

“And if you didn’t?”

“I’d do it anyway,” he said gently. “Someone has to.”

She sank to lie on his chest again. “But that’s just it. Why must it always be you?”

“Why not?” A second lock of hair fell to her shoulders, and he pulled it forward to run it over his lips. Her hair smelled of violets. “Do you want to continue to argue the point or hear about how I became the Ghost of St. Giles?”

She wrinkled her nose adorably, and a single spark of pure, sweet happiness shot through his breast. “Ghost.”

He nodded. “When I’d been working at the home for three or four months, an… incident occurred.”

He concentrated a moment on untangling a pin from the hair at her nape, aware that he was stalling. She waited quietly, not moving or saying anything, and at last he met her eyes.

Winter swallowed. “I’d been sent to pick up a child who we were told had been orphaned by his father’s death. When I arrived at the wretched rooms where he and his father had lived, he was being auctioned off by a whoremonger.”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “Dear God.”

Dear God indeed. He remembered the cramped room, the dozen or so adults crowded into it, and the terrified little boy. He’d been a redhead, his hair shining like a beacon in the midst of the wretchedness.

“What happened?” she asked, her low, throaty voice luring him back from awful memories.

“I attempted to stop the auction,” he said carefully, concentrating on the feel of her silky hair in his fingers. Ham-handed fists. The searing pain of broken ribs. The boy’s tear-stained face as he’d been led away. “I was unable to rescue the child.”

“Oh, Winter,” she whispered. Suddenly she was kissing him, her soft hands cradling his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Each word was a kiss against his face, neck, and lips.

He reached up and held her head still so he could kiss her properly: deep and frankly. The old pain mixed and merged with the present sweetness until at last it faded. A little.

He drew back reluctantly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Thank you.”

She looked angry. “You never should’ve had to face such a thing when you were so young.”

“What of the little boy?” he asked gently.

She looked even angrier. “He shouldn’t have faced it either.”

His smile was sad. Did she not know that such things happened every day in St. Giles? “In any case, Sir Stanley learned of the matter when next he came to call upon my father. He took me aside and asked if I would like to learn of a way to honorably defend myself. I said yes.”

Sir Stanley had been about sixty at the time, and Winter remembered that his broad, red face, usually merry and smiling, had been quite grave.

He withdrew the last pin from her hair and ran his fingers through the thick locks, combing and spreading them. “Sir Stanley invited me to his house and for the next year taught me how to use the swords as well as various acrobatic maneuvers. He’d learned it all in the theater and he was a rigorous master.”

“But didn’t your father object?”

“He didn’t know what I did there.” Winter shrugged. “Father was busy with his brewery and the home. I think he was glad that Sir Stanley had taken an interest in me. Sir Stanley may’ve also slightly altered the truth about what I did at his home.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Altered the truth? Winter Makepeace, did you lie to your saintly father?”

He felt his face heat. “It was wicked of me, I know.”

She grinned and quickly kissed his nose. “I think I like you more when you’re wicked.”

“Do you?” He searched her eyes. “And yet I strive to control the wicked part of myself every day.”

“Why?”

“Would you have me run the streets as a mad beast?”

“No.” Her forehead wrinkled as she cocked her head, studying him. “But I think there is no danger of that happening. Doesn’t everyone have a small bit of wickedness in them?”

He frowned. “Perhaps. But my wickedness is dark.”

Her hair was gloriously free about her shoulders. “The dark pit you spoke of before?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “Maybe. You once asked why my sisters were not as affected as I by St. Giles. I think there is something within me that absorbs the evil in St. Giles. There are times when I see someone being hurt or when a child has been abused that I have the urge to… kill.”

“But you don’t.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. I battle that urge and I fight it down and I’m very careful to hurt only those who deserve it.”

“Have you…” Her brows knit as she reached out and stroked a finger down his breastbone. “Have you ever had to kill anyone?”

“No.” He inhaled beneath her touch. “I’ve come close, but I’ve always been able to refrain.”

She wrapped her arm across his chest. “And I think you always will. You may fear the darkness in you, but I don’t. You’re a good man, Winter Makepeace. I think you absorb the evil in St. Giles, as you put it, because you feel so deeply.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “There are many who have accused me of not feeling at all.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Because you’ve made sure to hide your feelings—your emotions. Not all of it is dark, you know. Some of it might be quite… nice.”

Was she right? He stared at the ceiling of her library, thinking. She might be. Isabel was a very perceptive woman, he’d found. But if she was wrong, if he let go only to lose control altogether… no, the risk was too great.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said. “Tell me about the harlequin’s costume. Whatever made you don it?”

“It was Sir Stanley’s invention,” he replied, relieved by the change of subject. “He was the original Ghost of St. Giles, you see, in his youth.”

“What?” She sat up again. “You mean there’s been more than one?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at her incredulity “In fact… Well, suffice it to say that the legend of the Ghost of St. Giles has been around for quite some time. Decades, at least. Perhaps even longer than that. Sir Stanley simply took the legend and made it real. His theatrical background gave him the idea for the costume. People see what they want to see, he always told me. If you present them with what looks like a spectral figure, supernatural and possessing powers beyond the earthly, they will believe that is what they see. It’s a great advantage in a fight. Sometimes one’s opponent is so frightened by the mask and costume that they simply run away.”

“Mmm,” she murmured as she traced a circle about his left nipple. He was aware that he was growing hard again and wondered if his randiness would dismay her. “And so by day you run the home and by night you run about St. Giles as the Ghost. Is that right?”

He frowned. Her tone was carefully neutral. “Not every night, naturally—”

“Oh, naturally,” she said, her voice almost a growl. “I suppose you must sleep some nights. At least one or two nights a week.”

He watched her, wondering what had aggrieved her.

She sighed and straddled his hips. He was immediately distracted, aware that her moist, feminine parts were very near his cock. “And will you always do this?”

“What?” He brought his attention back to her face. She was scowling down at him. “Run about St. Giles?”

“What happens if you’re wounded?” She leaned down, nearly nose to nose with him. Her breasts swung temptingly and he caught one in his palm, feeling the soft weight. “Winter! What happened after I brought you home wounded from St. Giles?”

He shrugged, stroking his thumb over her nipple. “I came back to the home and rested, like the other times.”

“The other times?” Belatedly, he realized he’d made a mistake. His admission only seemed to drive her ire higher. “How many times have you been wounded?”

“Not often,” he soothed. Oddly her anger did not dampen his ardor. Quite the reverse, in fact. But even as new to lovemaking as he was, he knew that he would have a greater chance of repeating their previous encounter if she were in a softer mood.

“How many?” she demanded, a nude fury.

“Three, perhaps four times,” he replied, hedging the answer a bit. In reality, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d been wounded as the Ghost.

“Winter!” She looked truly distressed. “You must find a way to quit this activity.”

He arched his brows mildly. “Why?”

She slapped her hand down on his chest rather painfully. “Can’t you see? Eventually you’ll be maimed or even killed!”

“Hush.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, caressing her palm. “I’m well trained and I’ve done this for years before I met you, Isabel.”

“Don’t brush my concern away like so much dust,” she said, her other hand coming down equally painfully.

“Isabel.” He caught that hand as well and thrust her hands out wide.

“Oof!” Overbalanced, she fell against him, her breasts pleasantly crushed to his chest. “Winter, you must—”

He was weary of this useless argument, so he pulled her closer and kissed her. For a split second she resisted. Then, with a sigh, she submitted to him, her mouth opening beneath his, giving him what he craved. He made a sound at the back of his throat, a deep groan that was almost a growl. She stripped him of civility—of reason and will. All he could do was feel and act. His beast came roaring to the forefront. His hips were already moving beneath hers, urging her closer. He was so hard he could feel the beat of his pulse in his cock, the ache of want, of sexual need.

He needed her.

As if she knew his extremity, she made a soothing sound. At some point he’d let go of her wrists. She petted him, like a child soothing a savage beast, and one part of him wanted to laugh at the thought.

Another only wanted to take what she offered.

Thankfully she lifted and grasped him then. He gritted his teeth at her touch and opened his eyes.

She was watching his face as she lowered herself to him. “Shhh. I have what you need.”

Did she mock him? It hardly mattered. He’d accept her if she did or not—he was too far gone to deny either her or his own need.

She engulfed the head of his cock and it was such bliss he nearly came at once. He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the ignominy. To prevent this ending too soon.

He watched her through slitted lids. She seemed lost in her own pleasure, her head thrown back, her lovely hair cascading down her back. Something savage and unthinking awoke at the sight. This was his cock she took within herself. His body that brought her such ecstasy. She might think this was merely a physical joining, but he knew far better.

He was claiming her as his. He’d warned her once before what this physical act meant to him. This was a union. This was forever. But he had enough wits about him to know she didn’t yet see it as such. He must go slowly. Bide his time.

And in the meantime, if she wanted him only for the sex, then he would use it to bind her to him.

So he reached up with both hands and fondled her breasts in the way he now knew she liked, and when she gasped in answer, he knew a fierce joy. This woman. This woman was his.

o;Winter,” she chided.

He gently tugged her lock of hair. “That’s what it would’ve been.”

She looked mutinous.

He found another pin and pulled it free. “If it makes you feel any better, I enjoy my work and always have.”

“And if you didn’t?”

“I’d do it anyway,” he said gently. “Someone has to.”

She sank to lie on his chest again. “But that’s just it. Why must it always be you?”

“Why not?” A second lock of hair fell to her shoulders, and he pulled it forward to run it over his lips. Her hair smelled of violets. “Do you want to continue to argue the point or hear about how I became the Ghost of St. Giles?”

She wrinkled her nose adorably, and a single spark of pure, sweet happiness shot through his breast. “Ghost.”

He nodded. “When I’d been working at the home for three or four months, an… incident occurred.”

He concentrated a moment on untangling a pin from the hair at her nape, aware that he was stalling. She waited quietly, not moving or saying anything, and at last he met her eyes.

Winter swallowed. “I’d been sent to pick up a child who we were told had been orphaned by his father’s death. When I arrived at the wretched rooms where he and his father had lived, he was being auctioned off by a whoremonger.”

He heard the sharp intake of her breath. “Dear God.”

Dear God indeed. He remembered the cramped room, the dozen or so adults crowded into it, and the terrified little boy. He’d been a redhead, his hair shining like a beacon in the midst of the wretchedness.

“What happened?” she asked, her low, throaty voice luring him back from awful memories.

“I attempted to stop the auction,” he said carefully, concentrating on the feel of her silky hair in his fingers. Ham-handed fists. The searing pain of broken ribs. The boy’s tear-stained face as he’d been led away. “I was unable to rescue the child.”

“Oh, Winter,” she whispered. Suddenly she was kissing him, her soft hands cradling his face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Each word was a kiss against his face, neck, and lips.

He reached up and held her head still so he could kiss her properly: deep and frankly. The old pain mixed and merged with the present sweetness until at last it faded. A little.

He drew back reluctantly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Thank you.”

She looked angry. “You never should’ve had to face such a thing when you were so young.”

“What of the little boy?” he asked gently.

She looked even angrier. “He shouldn’t have faced it either.”

His smile was sad. Did she not know that such things happened every day in St. Giles? “In any case, Sir Stanley learned of the matter when next he came to call upon my father. He took me aside and asked if I would like to learn of a way to honorably defend myself. I said yes.”

Sir Stanley had been about sixty at the time, and Winter remembered that his broad, red face, usually merry and smiling, had been quite grave.

He withdrew the last pin from her hair and ran his fingers through the thick locks, combing and spreading them. “Sir Stanley invited me to his house and for the next year taught me how to use the swords as well as various acrobatic maneuvers. He’d learned it all in the theater and he was a rigorous master.”

“But didn’t your father object?”

“He didn’t know what I did there.” Winter shrugged. “Father was busy with his brewery and the home. I think he was glad that Sir Stanley had taken an interest in me. Sir Stanley may’ve also slightly altered the truth about what I did at his home.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Altered the truth? Winter Makepeace, did you lie to your saintly father?”

He felt his face heat. “It was wicked of me, I know.”

She grinned and quickly kissed his nose. “I think I like you more when you’re wicked.”

“Do you?” He searched her eyes. “And yet I strive to control the wicked part of myself every day.”

“Why?”

“Would you have me run the streets as a mad beast?”

“No.” Her forehead wrinkled as she cocked her head, studying him. “But I think there is no danger of that happening. Doesn’t everyone have a small bit of wickedness in them?”

He frowned. “Perhaps. But my wickedness is dark.”

Her hair was gloriously free about her shoulders. “The dark pit you spoke of before?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “Maybe. You once asked why my sisters were not as affected as I by St. Giles. I think there is something within me that absorbs the evil in St. Giles. There are times when I see someone being hurt or when a child has been abused that I have the urge to… kill.”

“But you don’t.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. I battle that urge and I fight it down and I’m very careful to hurt only those who deserve it.”

“Have you…” Her brows knit as she reached out and stroked a finger down his breastbone. “Have you ever had to kill anyone?”

“No.” He inhaled beneath her touch. “I’ve come close, but I’ve always been able to refrain.”

She wrapped her arm across his chest. “And I think you always will. You may fear the darkness in you, but I don’t. You’re a good man, Winter Makepeace. I think you absorb the evil in St. Giles, as you put it, because you feel so deeply.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. “There are many who have accused me of not feeling at all.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Because you’ve made sure to hide your feelings—your emotions. Not all of it is dark, you know. Some of it might be quite… nice.”

Was she right? He stared at the ceiling of her library, thinking. She might be. Isabel was a very perceptive woman, he’d found. But if she was wrong, if he let go only to lose control altogether… no, the risk was too great.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said. “Tell me about the harlequin’s costume. Whatever made you don it?”

“It was Sir Stanley’s invention,” he replied, relieved by the change of subject. “He was the original Ghost of St. Giles, you see, in his youth.”

“What?” She sat up again. “You mean there’s been more than one?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled at her incredulity “In fact… Well, suffice it to say that the legend of the Ghost of St. Giles has been around for quite some time. Decades, at least. Perhaps even longer than that. Sir Stanley simply took the legend and made it real. His theatrical background gave him the idea for the costume. People see what they want to see, he always told me. If you present them with what looks like a spectral figure, supernatural and possessing powers beyond the earthly, they will believe that is what they see. It’s a great advantage in a fight. Sometimes one’s opponent is so frightened by the mask and costume that they simply run away.”

“Mmm,” she murmured as she traced a circle about his left nipple. He was aware that he was growing hard again and wondered if his randiness would dismay her. “And so by day you run the home and by night you run about St. Giles as the Ghost. Is that right?”

He frowned. Her tone was carefully neutral. “Not every night, naturally—”

“Oh, naturally,” she said, her voice almost a growl. “I suppose you must sleep some nights. At least one or two nights a week.”

He watched her, wondering what had aggrieved her.

She sighed and straddled his hips. He was immediately distracted, aware that her moist, feminine parts were very near his cock. “And will you always do this?”

“What?” He brought his attention back to her face. She was scowling down at him. “Run about St. Giles?”

“What happens if you’re wounded?” She leaned down, nearly nose to nose with him. Her breasts swung temptingly and he caught one in his palm, feeling the soft weight. “Winter! What happened after I brought you home wounded from St. Giles?”

He shrugged, stroking his thumb over her nipple. “I came back to the home and rested, like the other times.”

“The other times?” Belatedly, he realized he’d made a mistake. His admission only seemed to drive her ire higher. “How many times have you been wounded?”

“Not often,” he soothed. Oddly her anger did not dampen his ardor. Quite the reverse, in fact. But even as new to lovemaking as he was, he knew that he would have a greater chance of repeating their previous encounter if she were in a softer mood.

“How many?” she demanded, a nude fury.

“Three, perhaps four times,” he replied, hedging the answer a bit. In reality, he couldn’t count the number of times he’d been wounded as the Ghost.

“Winter!” She looked truly distressed. “You must find a way to quit this activity.”

He arched his brows mildly. “Why?”

She slapped her hand down on his chest rather painfully. “Can’t you see? Eventually you’ll be maimed or even killed!”

“Hush.” He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, caressing her palm. “I’m well trained and I’ve done this for years before I met you, Isabel.”

“Don’t brush my concern away like so much dust,” she said, her other hand coming down equally painfully.

“Isabel.” He caught that hand as well and thrust her hands out wide.

“Oof!” Overbalanced, she fell against him, her breasts pleasantly crushed to his chest. “Winter, you must—”

He was weary of this useless argument, so he pulled her closer and kissed her. For a split second she resisted. Then, with a sigh, she submitted to him, her mouth opening beneath his, giving him what he craved. He made a sound at the back of his throat, a deep groan that was almost a growl. She stripped him of civility—of reason and will. All he could do was feel and act. His beast came roaring to the forefront. His hips were already moving beneath hers, urging her closer. He was so hard he could feel the beat of his pulse in his cock, the ache of want, of sexual need.

He needed her.

As if she knew his extremity, she made a soothing sound. At some point he’d let go of her wrists. She petted him, like a child soothing a savage beast, and one part of him wanted to laugh at the thought.

Another only wanted to take what she offered.

Thankfully she lifted and grasped him then. He gritted his teeth at her touch and opened his eyes.

She was watching his face as she lowered herself to him. “Shhh. I have what you need.”

Did she mock him? It hardly mattered. He’d accept her if she did or not—he was too far gone to deny either her or his own need.

She engulfed the head of his cock and it was such bliss he nearly came at once. He bit the inside of his cheek to prevent the ignominy. To prevent this ending too soon.

He watched her through slitted lids. She seemed lost in her own pleasure, her head thrown back, her lovely hair cascading down her back. Something savage and unthinking awoke at the sight. This was his cock she took within herself. His body that brought her such ecstasy. She might think this was merely a physical joining, but he knew far better.

He was claiming her as his. He’d warned her once before what this physical act meant to him. This was a union. This was forever. But he had enough wits about him to know she didn’t yet see it as such. He must go slowly. Bide his time.

And in the meantime, if she wanted him only for the sex, then he would use it to bind her to him.

So he reached up with both hands and fondled her breasts in the way he now knew she liked, and when she gasped in answer, he knew a fierce joy. This woman. This woman was his.

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