Her Protector's Pleasure (10 page)

Her features smoothed. A
selkie
with her magical, impenetrable skin in place.

"I hope you haven't the wrong idea, Mr. Kent. You're not even the first man I've shot, let alone made advances upon," she drawled. "So let us be clear: I was considering one night with you—two if your performance exceeded my expectations." She gave her skirts a flick. "Trust me when I say no man has held my attention for more than a night or two."

"I could be the first." Why the devil did he say that?

"I doubt it. Come to think of it," she said, tapping a finger to her chin, "I should shop around first. Sample a few wares before I make my decision."

Scarlet flashed across his vision. He was not jealous by nature, and yet the thought of any other man sharing her bed made him want to growl with rage. His fists clenched.

"One of these days, my lady, you'll push me too far," he bit out.

"Is that a threat?" she said with a scornful curve to her lips.

"Not a threat. A promise."

They stared at each other, the air taut with challenge. As if they tugged an invisible rope between them, neither gave any ground. His muscles bunched with the instinct to haul her back into his arms and settle this matter in a more primitive fashion. His mouth on hers, his cock buried in her silken heat ...

Her gaze narrowed. Without breaking eye contact, she reached out and rapped sharply on the carriage door. He'd been so far gone that he hadn't realized that the vehicle had come to a stop. The door opened, revealing Lugo's unreadable features and a looming gaming club behind him.

Taking her manservant's arm, Lady Draven descended with haughty grace.

"Try to keep up, will you Mr. Kent?" she tossed over her shoulder.

Ambrose waited a moment to collect himself. To reestablish his self-discipline and good sense ... and to let his bloody cockstand subside. Only then did he blow out a breath and follow her into the hell.

TEN

Despite the urgency of the night's mission, Marianne found that it required a surprising amount of willpower to stay focused. She and the three men were seated around a coffee table in Gavin Hunt's office. The ransom note had arrived, and now they were debating the strategy for rescuing Percy from the villains. Marianne kept her gaze firmly away from Kent, who was sitting beside her on the divan. Under no circumstances would she give him the satisfaction of seeing her ruffled.

Awareness of his proximity tingled over her skin. Surely she imagined the heat that seemed to emanate from him, the corresponding melting sensation low in her belly. To think that he'd had the temerity to touch her so boldly ... beneath her bodice, her nipples pebbled, her intimate muscles fluttering.

Cease this foolishness immediately. You're no longer a foolish girl subject to her impulses. Master yourself—for Rosie's sake, if not your own.

She took a steadying breath. Then fate intervened, demanding her full attention.

Hunt tossed a bundle of letters upon the coffee table, describing them as ammunition. Apparently the missives held proof that Hunt's enemy—who had captured Percy—had also wronged someone else. And that someone was none other than
Bartholomew Black
.

"If Black learns of the betrayal, he may intervene," Hunt said. "But to contact him will be to stir up a hornet's nest. Black is dangerous, unpredictable—and he's as like as not to shoot the messenger."

"I'll deliver the letters."

Marianne's gaze swung to Kent at his calm assertion. The proud jut of his chin conveyed his determination as did the tight line of his lips. Firm and sensual, those lips had suckled her so sweetly ...

"Black smells a Charley, and you'll be dead before you reach twenty paces of his place." Hunt's blunt words jerked her back; she could not agree with his assessment more. "It has to be me."

"Risky. If you get detained, then Percy ..." Harteford's grey eyes turned hard as flint.

The ransom note had demanded that Hunt be the one to meet the captors. The exchange was to take place at midnight, at an old blacking factory on the outskirts of the city. Like the others in the room, Marianne knew it was a suicide mission, with little hope of Hunt or Percy getting out alive.

Marianne's throat tightened. Sometimes, destiny had a way of making one's decisions. She'd already prepared herself to walk into the lion's den; what difference would it make to go to Black a day earlier?

"I'll do it," she said. Rising, she picked up the letters.

"The
hell
you will." Kent was on his feet the next instant. His gaze pinned her, the darkness of his pupils edging out the amber; above the crumpled mess of his cravat, his neck muscles corded, and she saw a vein pulse beneath his jaw. The possessiveness in his tone was unmistakable.

Ignoring the ridiculous shiver that chased over her nape, she said calmly, "I don't require your permission, Mr. Kent." She tucked the packet into her reticule, and Kent's jaw grew even tighter. Really, if the man was not careful he might crack a tooth.

"This is far too dangerous—" Harteford began.

Oh, for heaven's sake. Why do men persist in believing that we're the weaker sex?

Resisting the upward impulse of her eyes, she said, "Black may be dangerous, but he is just a man. We all have our expertise, and mine happens to be the opposite sex. Do you doubt that I am well equipped to deal with Black—or any male for that matter?"

She didn't have to say more. It wasn't an issue of vanity, but of fact. She knew her own attractions, and for once they might prove of use.

"Lady Draven has a point." This came from Hunt—apparently the only one of the fellows with an iota of common sense. "She has a better chance of getting an audience with Black than any of us. If nothing else, he'll see her out of curiosity."

"
Out of the question.
" Kent spoke through his teeth.

He looked ready to throttle someone—perhaps her, though for some reason her instincts told her he wouldn't harm her. Unlike Draven, Kent hadn't the guile to disguise his true desires, and she could read his wish to protect her in the rigid lines of muscle, the grooves flickering around his mouth. Wryly, she acknowledged her own perverse nature: though she needed and wanted no man's protection, the idea that she could rattle this proud policeman's self-control almost ... charmed her.

Though, of course, she would not allow him to sway her decision or actions in any way.

"I ask you to reconsider, my lady. Helena would have my head if anything happened to you," Harteford said.

Marianne squelched a bubble of amusement. The large, imperious marquess looked genuinely concerned about the reaction that might greet him at home. Perhaps he had more brains than she credited him for.

"You do your part, I'll do mine," she told him. "See you at midnight."

Kent planted himself in her path, blocking her from the door. Flames lit his eyes, and his large hand clamped around her arm. "This has gone far enough," he snapped.

Her eyes thinned, her amusement fleeing. 'Twas one thing for Kent to try to dissuade her—quite another for him to manhandle her. Heat rose in her cheeks.

"No man touches me without my permission. Release me this instant," she said coldly.

"Not until you give up this asinine plan."

Asinine?
She was many things: stupid was not one of them. Though it was no business of this interfering policeman, she had a plan to deal with Bartholomew Black.

"I said release me," she repeated in a voice of unmistakable warning.

Kent did not budge. As if he had every right to dictate her actions, he glowered at her, his hold unyielding. Her temper escalated when she found herself unable to escape from his strong grasp. He left her no choice, really.

Slipping her free hand into her skirt's hidden pocket—her modiste was a genius in so many ways—Marianne pulled out her pistol. She trained it upon Kent. Just left of his heart.

Still, the stubborn man refused to let her go. She cocked the pistol to show him she meant business. Their gazes locked; her fingers trembled against the smooth metal.

"Stand down, Kent. You cannot stop her, and obviously she can take care of herself."

Harteford's warning seemed to finally pierce Kent's thick skull. The latter's dark lashes veiled his bright gaze, his grip tightening for an instant. Then whatever internal battle he was fighting ended. With obvious reluctance, he let go of her arm—good thing, really, because she didn't wish to shoot him again.

Not unless he made her do it.

"Perhaps Lady Draven would agree to take a few men as escorts?" Harteford said with a worried frown.

"Men are the last thing I need." She said the words whilst looking at Kent. His expression grew even starker. "I can take care of myself."

With that excellent parting line, she exited.

*****

Though situated in the heart of the rookery, Bartholomew Black's fortress was every bit as imposing as any grand Mayfair residence. The foggy night and the tall, spiked iron gate hid the building from the street; Marianne's carriage was let through only after her identity was verified by the guards. A shiver passed through Marianne when she descended the carriage and saw the looming brick edifice. Like Draven, Black had a propensity for the gothic style.

Moonlight dappled the stone gargoyles perched on the rooftop; they peered down with gimlet eyes and mischievous smiles. An eerie orange light flickered behind the mullioned windows. Recessed beneath a pointed arch, the front entrance lay in shadow.

"I don't have a good feeling about this," Lugo said.

Rarely did her stalwart manservant express doubt about her plans; the fact that he was now doing so increased her own sense of unease. Her gaze flitted to the dark-coated guard who stood waiting to escort her inside.

"We'll get this over with as quickly as possible," she said in a low voice. "Stay close."

They started forward.

"Only 'er ladyship comes in." The guard jabbed a finger at Lugo. "You wait 'ere."

"He is my footman—" Marianne began.

"Don't care if 'e's the Archbishop o' Canterbury. I got my orders. Mr. Black says you come in alone or not at all."

In for a penny.

Marianne gave Lugo a nod. "Wait here, then."

"But, my lady—"

"I'll be fine." She
had
to be, for Percy's sake and Rosie's. Addressing the guard, she said briskly, "Lead the way."

The man took her into the shadows. He knocked on the door, a complicated sequence of raps that might have been a code of some sort. The door creaked open, and he ushered Marianne inside. Her brows climbed. The light of a hundred candles blazed in the brass chandelier; the marble atrium could have graced a townhouse on Grosvenor Square. She was led down a hallway where priceless landscapes adorned burgundy silk walls.

"Mr. Black will meet with you in 'ere," the guard said, opening a door.

She walked in, and her estimation of Black's taste rose even further. The man might be a villainous cutthroat, but he lived like a king. Richly outfitted in mahogany and leather, the high-ceilinged library put many a lord's to shame. Tall windows fitted with forest green drapery lined one wall, and costly antiques littered the room. At the sight of the collection hanging next to the fireplace, her blood went cold.

Like a sleepwalker, she found herself moving toward the gleaming objects mounted on the wall. There were perhaps a dozen riding crops in all: antiques made of Malacca cane and exotic woods, some fitted with leather thongs, others without. The handles ranged from carved ivory to molded brass. Panic rose in her throat, the memory of degradation crawling over her skin.

Draven had had a similar collection.

"Like my toys, do you, my lady? The set belonged to a French King—one o' 'em Louies."

Marianne spun to face the owner of the deep, booming voice. Her palms clammy beneath her gloves, she forced herself to calm, to tamp down the past. The future was at stake. Draven had tried to break her, but he hadn't. He'd only hardened her, taught her the skills of survival. And she
would
survive this—if only to get Rosie back.

Her eyes narrowed at Black. He stood a few feet away, posed as regally as a Gainsborough portrait. Though short of stature, he held his barrel chest high, and one hand grasped a jewel-knobbed walking stick as if it were a scepter. His grey periwig and knee britches displayed his preference for the fashion of the past century; a man as powerful as Black could dress as he pleased.

Regaining her composure, she said, "Good evening, sir."

As she dipped into a graceful curtsy, she reviewed her three-tier strategy.
The first line of attack: appeal to Black's self-interest. The second—and riskier—line: find his weakness and use it. If necessary, the third: do whatever it takes to get Rosie back and ensure Percy's safety.

He returned her courtesy with a flourished bow. "Please, be seated," he said.

She chose one of the studded wingchairs by the fire, and he took the adjacent seat. His piercing black gaze roved over her. Fair enough, since she was assessing him in return.

"'Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady. Though I wasn't expectin' you this evenin'." A note of censure edged his tone.

"My apologies, Mr. Black. You see, a rather urgent situation has come up." She paused. "One that I believe you would care to know about it."

"Urgent, eh? Let's 'ear it then."

She drew a breath. "The matter concerns your daughter."

"Mavis? What's this got to do with 'er?"

Black's bushy brows lowered in menace. Apparently paternal feelings had naught to do with class; cutthroats could have them whereas country squires might not. Marianne tucked the information away for later. For now, she withdrew the packet of letters and held them out. Snatching them from her, Black broke the string and unfolded the first note. His face turned florid. The paper crumpled in his fist. He repeated the process for the remaining letters until balls of parchment piled over the buckles of his shoes.