Earls Just Want to Have Fun (5 page)

He tried looking away from her chest and wished he had not forced her to bathe. One look at her face made it obvious she was not a boy. The dirt and grime had hid pale, delicate skin, milky white and translucent. She'd stuffed her hair under a cap, but he'd already seen how long it was. Did it fall enticingly about her breasts when she was unclothed?

He'd shaken his head and forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. Dane was good at concentrating. He'd been trained to put his own needs and wants second. He was able to ignore her enticing body for several minutes—that was, until she put her hands on her hips, and the material of her shirt rose. Her hips curved the trousers in ways he found incredibly erotic. He could imagine the sweet shape of her bottom, and had the urge to turn her so he could see that part of her as well. Worst of all, one of the buttons on the shirt popped off at her actions, exposing the creamy flesh of her collarbone.

Now she stood before him, looking at him as though he were a wolf and she the sheep. As much as he might reassure her, she was right to distrust him. The entire time he'd carried her in from the kitchen, those soft, full breasts pressing into his shoulder, he had thought of nothing but stripping her naked.

“I'm not going to touch you,” he repeated, more for his sake than hers. “We are just going to sleep.”

She watched him, warily.

“You can sleep in that chair.” He pointed to a comfortable armchair beside his bed.

“Some nob,” she said, “giving a lady a chair.”

“I don't know you're a lady yet,
Marlowe
,” he said. “If it turns out you are Lady Elizabeth, I will apologize profusely.” She could say what she wanted. He was not giving up his bed to some street urchin Brook had abducted in Cheapside.

And he was not going to feel guilty about it.

Not very guilty, anyway.

Damn it! The chair was comfortable! He'd fallen asleep in it a time or two when reading. She'd be fine.

But would he? Or would she wait until he fell asleep, steal the key, and escape? Or worse, would she slit his throat?

He didn't have any weapons in his room, but an enterprising girl like her might find something she could use. The letter opener, for example. He swallowed.

With new determination, he went to the drapes and loosed the cords used to hold them back during the day. Thank God he'd given his valet two days off to visit his mother. In the morning, he did not want to have to explain why he had a girl dressed as a boy tied to his chair.

“What are you doing with those?” she asked, backing up. She backed all the way to the door of his dressing room.

“Give me your hands.”

She shook her head. “No. I don't want to be tied.”

“I can't trust you. I'm only going to tie you to the chair so you cannot escape. I'll give you plenty of slack.”

“No!”

He shrugged. “Marlowe, the easy way or the hard way? I believe we've established I have more brute strength than you. One way or another, I will bind you.”

He could have sworn a tear glistened in her eyes, but she swiped at her cheek, and then nothing was there. Had he imagined it?

She held out her hands, the expression on her face ugly and stubborn, and he bound them together tightly. Then he pulled her gently to the chair and tied her to the heavy table beside it. She wasn't going anywhere. When he put his hands on her shoulders to sit her in the chair, he felt her trembling.

“Cold?” he asked. “I'll get you a blanket.”

“I'm not cold,” she spat. But why else would she be shivering? He found a blanket in his clothespress and covered her with it. She kicked it off, and he shrugged and yanked off his coat. Customarily, he would have asked Crawford to serve as valet, but when the butler had inquired as to whether his services would be required, Dane had told him no. Dane reached for his cravat to loosen it, and realized he had an audience. Perhaps he should not undress in front of her. Typically, he slept in the nude, but how was he going to do so with her sitting there?

He decided to sleep in a loose shirt and trousers, and he emerged from his dressing room wearing that. He had no night clothes to speak of. He'd always felt they were more like dresses than something a man would wear.

He extinguished the lamp and climbed into bed, frowning at how cold it was. No bed warmer. He would be glad when this night was over, the girl was gone, and he had his normal life back. He plumped the pillow and settled down.

But he could hear her breathing. He swore he could hear her shivering, too. “Do you want the blanket back?” he asked, aware she could probably reach it.

“No.”

“If you're cold—”

“Stubble it!” she retorted.

He ought to tan her hide for speaking to him thus, but with her tied to the chair, he had the advantage.

He settled down again and pulled the pillow over his head. He felt as though he needed some barrier to keep her at bay. He was beginning to doze when he heard her moving about. He tried to ignore her. She was probably just getting comfortable.

She moved again, and he heard a distinct thud. Dane sat. “What the deuce is going on?”

“Nothing.”

But he could see she had toppled the chair and was now lying under it. He should have left her there. Instead, he rose and righted it, then lifted her back into it. He held her in his arms for just a little longer than was necessary. She did feel cold, and he had the impulse to warm her. But more than that, her skin was soft against his fingertips, and her flesh was enticingly round where their bodies brushed together. He had the urge to pass a hand over that roundness, but stifled the urge by saying the first thought that came to mind. “Were you trying to retrieve the blanket?”

No answer.

He wrapped the blanket about her as much to hide her lush figure as to keep her warm. This time she didn't fling it off. He could see her face in the light from the hearth, and the flickering made it look almost tear-stained. He paused to look at her.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“That's up to my brother.” He rose because, even though her body was hidden, her scent teased his senses. She smelled clean and slightly floral, and underneath all of it was a scent that was
woman
. That scent drew him, made him long to bury his face in her hair and put his hands on her body.

“I want to go home,” she said.

He opened his mouth to make some retort, and at the last minute changed his mind. “Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“I mean, what is waiting for you at home? I imagine it is some sort of hovel you share with a flock of pickpockets and thieves. If you are Lady Elizabeth, why go back?”

She sniffed and looked away from him. The gesture reminded him exactly of something a miffed duchess would do. It made him wonder. But if she didn't want to talk, that was fine with him. He was exhausted. She might be light, but it had been taxing to fight her and then carry her.

Silence descended, and he heard the ticking of the clock. He tried to sleep, even closed his eyes.

“You wouldn't understand,” she said finally, breaking the silence.

“Try me.”

“My cronies are my family.”

“And there's loyalty even among thieves, correct?”

“Loyalty, yes,” she said, but he could hear in her voice there was more.

He rose on one elbow, interested now despite his intention of ignoring her and going to sleep.

“Have you considered that if you don't let me go, they might come looking for me?”

“Have you considered they might not care?”

“Oh, they care,” she said, her voice strange and flat. “And if you care about your family and your pretty house, you'll let me go before Satin comes for me.” He heard the hitch in her voice. “Before it's too late for both of us.”

She woke suddenly and reached for her knife. Something pinned her arm, and it took her a moment to realize she was tied. It took her another moment to remember where she was. Not in the flash ken. Seven Dials was never silent. There was always a baby crying or a bawd arguing with a cove or some ballad-seller screeching about the last confessions of Newgate's condemned. No, this was far too quiet for the flash ken. She was in the bastard's castle. In his bedchamber. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and her body felt heavy and warm. She must have slept for several hours, despite her intention to stay awake and defend herself against the bastard.

She glanced at his bed, staring at it until she could make out his form. He snored softly, and she realized he was also asleep. Maybe he really didn't mean to hurt her. Ha! And once she trusted him, he'd carry out his evil plan. She couldn't afford to trust him. And she couldn't stay in his castle.

It took a bit of doing, because the bastard was better at tying knots than she anticipated, but she managed to free herself from the bindings. She might have pulled her dagger from her boot, but if she cut the cords, he'd know she had it. She might need her secrets. Besides, drapery cords were too silky and thick to be effective. Still, once she was free, something in her chest lifted. The tightness and panic ebbed away.

Silently, she rose from the chair and tiptoed to the bed. In the darkness, it was difficult to discern his features. Finally, she found the spill of his dark hair on his white pillow. His arm was thrown up beside his head, and he did not stir as she stared down at him. His chest rose in a steady rhythm. She couldn't see his face, but she imagined it was slack with sleep. What must it be like to sleep so soundly, so deeply? She always slept with her hand curled about a dagger, her ears listening for any treacherous sound, her eyes ready to pop open. Once again she wondered if the soup had been drugged. She never fell asleep so easily or so completely.

But then her belly was never full, either. Strange to wake and not feel the gnawing hunger in her midsection.

If she were to escape, she needed the key to the bedroom. She tried to remember what he'd done with it after he'd locked the door. He'd been wearing a coat. Maybe he'd stowed it in the coat. He'd taken off the coat before going to bed. She remembered him wearing only shirtsleeves when he'd righted her chair and covered her with the blanket.

She didn't know why he'd done her a kindness. Maybe he felt guilty when he considered what he'd do to her when he'd gained her trust. Would he sell her to a bawdy house? Have her transported? Whatever his plan, she would not wait for it to take shape. Kindness was manipulation, and those who trusted it were the worst sorts of fools.

She looked behind her, at the door he'd gone through after he'd tied her. She had no glim-stick, so she carefully made her way to it and opened the door. It was dark, but she could smell the scent of wool and linen. This was where he stored his clothing. An entire room to store clothes! How would she ever find his coat in here? It was dark, and there were probably dozens of coats.

She bit the pad of her thumb, thinking. It was an old habit and one she felt slightly guilty about, even though neither Satin nor any of the cubs ever said anything. Their bad habits were far worse than hers, at any rate—picking their teeth, farting, blowing snot from their nose. The swell was right that if she'd had a choice, she wouldn't have minded staying here for a few days.

But she didn't have a choice.

She bit her thumb again and then looked back at the bed. If he'd locked the door, he'd want the key close to him. He'd probably stuffed it in the pocket of his…he'd been wearing breeches and a flowing lawn shirt. He wouldn't have pockets. So then he'd put it down on the table beside the bed. She crossed to the table and felt the surface carefully. A book, a glass that had once held what smelled like spirits, and a cold lamp sat there.

Perhaps he held it in his hand or had looped it about his neck. She didn't remember seeing it dangling from his neck, but she hadn't been thinking very clearly when he'd knelt before her.

She'd been thinking about kissing him. Now she bit her thumb hard in punishment. What was wrong with her? She was becoming the sort of silly tib all the cubs made fun of. Of course, she'd noticed bang-up coves before, just as the cubs noticed a rum-duchess. She'd even thought about kissing one or two of the handsome coves. Some of those thoughts had led to her kissing Gideon. But that had been nothing more than idle fantasy, something to pass the time while she waited for a dive or a racket. She hadn't really been near to any of the men she imagined kissing. But this man was different. She'd been very close to him, kissing distance close. And he'd smelled so clean. She'd thought nothing could smell as wonderful as meat and ale, but he came close.

If she kissed him, would they have the spark Gideon had talked about? She feared they would, but she would not ever find out. She would pilfer that key and hide so Sir Brook never found her again. Satin could send her to Bath for a few months. They'd never look for her there.

But if she were to open his hand or remove something from about his neck, she'd better be prepared to defend herself should he wake up. She could pick a pocket, but this was something else entirely. She bent and reached into her boot, extracting her dagger. The familiar weight of it seemed to right the world, and she felt calm again and ready for anything. She'd try his hand first. Clamping the dagger between her teeth, she leaned over the bed. It was a tall bed, and the mattresses had been piled high. She could not manage to achieve a good vantage point for opening his fingers. And those were the fingers beside his head. What if he'd hidden it in the hand beneath the bedclothes?

Clenching her teeth on the blade of the dagger, she gingerly placed her hands on the bedclothes. Instantly, she lifted her hand again. The gold-and-red material was soft and plush. She touched it again, running her hand over it in amazement. She didn't have time to gawk at the finery, so she pushed down, then eased one knee onto the mattress, and carefully hoisted herself up. She brought her other knee up as well, and knelt beside him on the bed. It had to be the softest bed she had ever touched. Of course, she'd never slept in a dab, but she'd been in Barbara's chamber in the back room of the Rouge Unicorn Cellar a few times. She had a wide dab, but it was puny compared to this one. Marlowe slept on a coarse blanket on the floor, and she'd always envied Barbara's bed. But Barbara's mattress was a rock compared to what she knelt on now. Did people really sleep on such softness? She had not even imagined such luxuries might exist.

She leaned toward the pillow and his hand, but she felt herself sinking into the bowl created by his body. He was incredibly warm, the sort of warmth she only felt in a kitchen or during a particularly mild summer. Marlowe wondered what sort of bedclothes covered him, but she could not risk investigating them. She tried to lean close to his hand again and almost fell on top of him. She needed some way to balance herself.

She saw the solution immediately, even if she did not like it. But she was no coward. Carefully, she swung a leg over his body, keeping herself poised precariously over his abdomen.
This
is
why
I
don't wear skirts
, she thought as she tested her balance. She'd never be able to do this in a skirt.

Finally, she leaned over him and held her hand above the one resting on his pillow. His fingers curled lightly in sleep. With a sweeping movement, she teased his fingers open. She almost swore when she saw his palm was empty, but she held the curse back. She'd just have to try his other hand. Before she did so, she dipped her head to the side, hoping to shed some light from the hearth on his throat. It was too dark for her to be certain, but she did not think the key was around his neck.

One last hiding place. She knelt on the bedclothes. His hand was underneath, but it jutted at an angle from his body. Her knee rested right below his wrist. Tentatively, she reached under the covers, surprised again at how warm it was beneath them. She touched the sleeve of his shirt and traced the material to his wrist. She touched the warm flesh by accident, then flicked her gaze to his face. His eyes were still closed, and he did not move.

She was about to return to her task when her heart thudded painfully in her chest. She caught her breath and held perfectly still, not certain what had alarmed her. The house was quiet; the bastard beneath her did not move; it was still hours until morning…

She gasped and flicked her gaze to his face. He didn't move! His chest was no longer rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. She no longer heard the soft snores in his throat.

“While I do not usually object to a woman in this position,” he said quietly, “I must confess something about the dagger between your lips is less than romantic.”

She reached for the dagger, but he was faster, grasping her hands and pinning them at her side. She lost her balance and settled on top of him, and he pushed her down so that she would fall forward if she tried to swing her legs out from under her.

“What, exactly, are you doing?”

She couldn't answer, not with the dagger in her mouth, and she shook her head, shaking her arms to indicate she wanted to be freed from his hold.

“What's the matter? Can't speak with a knife between your lips? Hazard of your profession, I assume.” He began to rise, sliding her along his body as he did so. Even beneath the layers of bedclothes, she could feel the strength and power of him. His hands, remarkably strong, held hers at her sides. Nothing she did would free them. He was far too strong. It was times like this she hated being a woman. Gideon would have freed himself easily. He was also tall enough that he wouldn't have needed to climb onto the bed.

When the swell was sitting, with Marlowe conveniently in his lap, he leaned forward so his face was inches from hers. “Drop the knife.”

She wanted to tell him it was a dagger, a subtle but important distinction, but she couldn't speak and hold on to her weapon. And she couldn't think very well with her body pressed against his. Something about their positions made her skin tingle and her belly flutter. She should want to pull away. Instead, she fought the urge to push closer, to rock against him. What the bloody hell was
wrong
with her?

“Drop the knife or I'll take it.”

She laughed. Just let him try.

“Very well.”

To her surprise, he leaned closer, his lips moving so near to hers she could smell his breath. Like the rest of him, it smelled clean. She was so intent upon smelling his breath, so intent upon the heat of his body pulsing against hers, she forgot to move her head back, and she jolted in shock when his lips touched hers. What was he doing? Kissing her?

But then his teeth flashed and closed on the dagger's blade, and she reacted too slowly. He yanked it from her mouth, and she had no choice but to let it go or risk the blade cutting the corners of her sensitive flesh.

“Bastard!” she yelled. He released her hands then, allowing the dagger to drop into one of his. She swung at him, and her fist collided with a satisfying thunk against his cheek. But her satisfaction was short-lived as he recovered easily and flipped her over. Suddenly, she was beneath him on the bed, and all the warmth from the bedclothes and his body were covering her. She bucked immediately, trying to throw him off, but he was solid and heavy, and when his hands grasped her wrists and pinned them to the pillow, she knew she was trapped.

“I'll scream,” she threatened.

“Go ahead. The door is locked, and no one will knock it down to save the likes of you.”

Save her? Was he going to kill her? A quick peek at his hand told her he still held her dagger. The metal, warmed by her mouth, was pressed against the flesh of her wrist. “What are you going to do to me?”

“It depends. What were you trying to do to me?” He sounded so calm, so utterly unconcerned, that she glanced at his face, even though it was too dark to see his features. She regretted the action immediately. She hadn't realized how close his mouth was to hers. And that led her to notice how his body pressed against hers…in quite a few delicate places. She should hate that his hands imprisoned hers and his body trapped hers. But there was something so deliciously sinful about this position and having him looming over her.

“I was only trying to filch the key. Now get off.” If she acted as though she did not enjoy his touch, perhaps he'd move off her. She wouldn't have to feel the heat of his body or the strength in his arms. She wouldn't have to wish he'd lower his mouth to hers and kiss her breathless.

“Key?” He cocked his head. “The key to the room? Are you still trying to escape?”

“Yes! You can't keep me here against my will.”

“You weren't trying to slit my throat?” he asked, clearly ignoring her protest about being his prisoner and making no effort at all to let go of her. Which was her goal at the moment. Not kissing him, damn it!

“I'm a thief, not a murderer.”

“That's comforting to know.” He released his hold on her wrists slightly. “Unfortunately, I cannot release you. You are my guest until Brook returns in the morning.”

“You mean prisoner!” She shook her hands to show him how he'd shackled her.

“Quite right,” he said, sounding thoughtful. Marlowe held her breath. Did that mean he would release her? Would that he hurried before she made a fool of herself and asked him to kiss her, or something equally mortifying.

“It occurs to me I should probably introduce myself.”

Marlowe wanted to cry. She blew out a frustrated breath. These ridiculous swells and all their bloody manners! “I don't care who you are. Just let me—”

“—go. Yes, you keep saying that, and then I have to say, again, that I gave my brother my word I would keep you here. The conversation grows tiresome.”