Her Protector's Pleasure (24 page)

"What happened?" he rasped.

"He wouldn't take no for an answer. So I shot him." Her chin lifted. "I didn't kill him, but scared him into revealing all that he had discovered. Those facts led me to Kitty Barnes."

A faint memory resonated.
You're not even the first man I've shot ...
Despite the dire situation, Ambrose's chest warmed with pride. Though she struggled, he wrapped his arms around his brave girl and held on. How had one woman survived so much?

"You did exactly the right thing, sweetheart," he murmured against her ear. "He deserved to be shot. I wish I could have done it myself."

He could hear her uneven breaths. After a few moments, she stopped trying to get away. Her voice emerged muffled against his chest.

"You won't let me down, will you, Ambrose?" She tipped her head to look at him, and the sheen in her eyes devastated him. Ratcheted up his guilt. "I swore I'd never depend on anyone again. But I think with you ... I could make an exception."

The muscles of his chest stretched as if he were upon the rack. Only his instrument of torture was made not of steel and wood, but of conscience and desire. As much as he wanted to confess the truth to her, he knew the result if he did: she'd shut him out for good. Hadn't she nearly done so because he'd investigated Leach's clerk without informing her first? Her trust was a fragile thing. After all she'd suffered at the hands of men, he couldn't blame her.

But he also couldn't allow her to continue this perilous quest on her own. She
needed
his help, his protection—she was facing a powerful enemy. Conflict tore at him.

"Will you help me get my daughter back, Ambrose?" Her gaze searched his face.

And his decision was made.

"I vow to you, I won't rest until Primrose is safe in your arms once more," he said.

He'd do whatever it took to help her—his guilt and honor be damned.

She smiled through her tears, looking so angelic that his breath dammed in his throat. She tugged his head down for a kiss, and the hot, open sweetness of her mouth made his blood pound, drowning out his thoughts. She fitted her body to his, her eyes heavy-lidded with want, and her surrender made him hunger to give her everything he could. His kiss, his cock … mayhap even a piece of his soul.

As he tumbled her back onto the bed, he made a silent vow.

I'll find a way to make this work. I'll prove worthy of her trust. I won't let her down.

TWENTY-FIVE

The smoke rising from the stacks cast a purplish haze over the night sky. As Ambrose strode along Cheapside, his way lit by the candlelight spilling from windows, he drank in the familiar sights and sounds of his neighborhood. The smells of hops and roasting meat filled the air. The bells of St. Mary-Le-Bow church clanged with timeless insistence, signaling the nine o'clock curfew which saw the release of the apprentices from the toils of the day. Young men garbed in ubiquitous brown thronged toward the taverns, more than ready to make use of the night's freedom.

Despite the day's labors—which had included the search of several vessels and the eventual apprehension of a trio of smugglers—Ambrose moved with energy. He turned off Throgmorton Street toward his apartment, his steps quick and impatient. Before bed tonight, he planned to review the profiles he'd put together on Pendleton and Boyer. He and Marianne would be meeting tomorrow to discuss the progress of the investigation. Whilst she was finding out all she could about the peers through discreet queries in the
ton
's drawing rooms, Ambrose was doing the same in less rarefied realms.

As the first order of business, he'd tapped a man named Willy Trout to look into the suspects' financials. He'd met Trout a while back when he and his crew had put a stop to an extortion racket that had targeted boatmen on the Thames, including Trout's brother. Since then, Trout had proved a staunch ally. A discreet and free-thinking individual, the man could get information on most anything—for the right price.

For once, Ambrose was not limited by the Thames River Police's budgetary constraints; Marianne had made it clear that he had
carte blanche
when it came to conducting the search for Rosie. Ambrose had drawn the line, however, at her offer to pay
him
.

He'd compromised many things, but he'd be damned if he took money from the woman he was sleeping with. The woman for whom he had feelings. Feelings that bewildered him, shook the very tenets of his beliefs about himself and the world. And that made him feel more alive than he'd ever felt before. He blew out a breath. Told himself it was just a combination of powerful physical attraction and a primal need to protect her, to give her the justice she deserved.

On his own coin—he'd managed to add to his meager supply by securing a few extra hours at Wapping and had sent most of the money to his family—he'd also asked Trout to be on the lookout for Burke Skinner, the Runner who had betrayed Marianne. Despite Marianne's expedient handling of the bastard, Ambrose didn't trust that she'd heard the last from Skinner. He wanted to make certain that the blighter would never step foot near her again.

Tomorrow night, Ambrose thought that he and Marianne might make love again. Mayhap even fall asleep in each other's arms. Such was his optimism that he'd made a discreet stop at a Covent Garden shop to purchase more means of contraception; 'twas as much his responsibility as hers, after all. As he turned the corner toward his tenement, his loins tightened in anticipation—at the same time that his conscience picked up its berating refrain.

You can't go on deceiving her. A lie is a lie, even if it only lasted five days. You have to find a way to tell her about your stint with Bow Street.

But how? Once he'd made the decision to omit the truth, it became more and more difficult to bring it into the open. He knew she'd never trust him again, and the thought of her continuing her mission on her own … He quelled his scruples with iron resolve. He had to stay close, to watch over her and help her reunite with her girl. Until he could figure out a better solution, Marianne's welfare took precedence over his honor.

Reaching the landing, he froze. A figure sat huddled in front of his apartment. Her head rested against the doorframe, disheveled raven locks obscuring her visage, but he would know her anywhere.

"Emma?" he said incredulously.

She came awake with a start, pushing the hair from her face. His gut lurched at the sight of her swollen, reddened eyes, the dirt smudging her delicate cheekbones. She swayed to her feet.

"Ambrose?" she whispered.

Concern flooded him as he opened his arms. "What has happened, Em? Why are you here?"

His sister hurtled toward him, a sob breaking from her lips.

*****

Marianne peered out the carriage door at the tenements. Despite the late hour, raggedy bits hung neglected on the clothing lines that crisscrossed the dreary buildings. A few scruffy ruffians loitered at the entryways, swigging from bottles and clearly headed for oblivion. The din of squalling babes and arguing adults was nearly as loud as the clanging church bells had been. Life in Cheapside was not quiet.

"You are sure this is the correct address?" she said.

Standing by the carriage door, Lugo pointed to a door on the second floor. "Mr. Kent lives at number eight. Do you want me to fetch him, my lady?"

"No, thank you," she said. "I'll go myself."

She felt Lugo's watchful gaze as she made her way toward Ambrose's apartment. The drunks she passed were too far gone to do more than leer. The odor of cooking onions turned her stomach as she ascended the creaking steps. Her pulse quickened, not from the physical exertion, but from the uncertainty that had plagued her ever since she'd shared her secret with Ambrose.

Stop worrying and being so dashed suspicious. You can trust him.

Old habits died hard. She knew she'd overreacted when Ambrose had told her about questioning Leach's clerk. It had been a knee-jerk response: suspicion and paranoia left over from her past. All that
was
in the past, she told herself. Ambrose had done nothing to rouse her anxiety. He'd protected her, believed her. And he'd vowed to help her get Rosie back.

Ambrose was like no man she'd ever met. He made her feel
herself
in ways that sparked opposing
frissons
of delight and alarm. For so long, she had mastered her emotions; she hadn't recognized the price of that self-control until he had come along and showed her the thrill of letting go. Of just being. With his persistence and tenderness, he was teaching her to trust bit by bit.

She could see herself changing in ways that both excited and frightened her. The impulsive nature she'd kept buried had come charging to the fore, brought her here to Ambrose's residence because she didn't want to wait until tomorrow night to see him. She wanted to see him
now
. She approached his door, her heart thudding with the giddiness of a debutante waiting for her first dance.

Has he missed me these past two days? Has he longed to make love again as I have?

She raised her gloved fist, rapped on the door.

No response came. She fought the disappointment. Perhaps he had not yet returned from work. Or perhaps he'd gone out with friends, to unwind as men were wont to do over drink … and wenches? She frowned—no, Ambrose wasn't the whoring type. Mayhap he was simply inside asleep in his own bed … The notion of Ambrose's bed made her heart pump faster. Not expecting success, she reached for the door handle. It turned in her grasp.

Anticipation quickening her breath, she went in. Her gaze skimmed over the dingy space with its sparse furnishings—and honed in on Ambrose. He was not alone. He occupied a chair next to a young woman, their dark heads bent together. Needles prickled in Marianne's chest as he cupped his guest's cheek, the gesture imbued with infinite tenderness. The two were so engrossed in their intimate conversation that neither looked up at her approach.

Marianne heard herself say in a strangely calm voice, "I
am
sorry to interrupt."

Ambrose jumped to his feet. He blinked, as if trying to register Marianne's presence, the bloody bastard. Marianne got a good look at the other woman for the first time, and a hot, foreign feeling swelled beneath her breastbone. With inky hair and large, doe-brown eyes, the female was younger than she'd first thought—young and quite pretty, with a smooth countenance that exuded freshness and innocence, qualities Marianne herself had lost years ago.

"Who are you?" the cheeky miss said.

"Emma, let me explain …" Kent began.

"Emma, is it?" The acid in Marianne's tone cut Kent off. The line she'd once found charming deepened between his brows. Her heart twisted painfully, but pride came to her rescue. "I am Lady Draven. Kent's lover," she said with absolute hauteur. "Who are you?"

The blasted creature's eyes got even bigger. Her cheeks turned crimson, and Marianne had the cold satisfaction of knowing that she had not been the only one duped. Her gaze shot accusingly to Kent.

He was watching her, the corner of his mouth twitching oddly. He cleared his throat.

"Lady Draven, may I present to you my sister, Miss Emma Kent?" he said.

*****

Despite the grim situation that had necessitated Emma's visit, Ambrose experienced an odd, buoyant feeling in his chest. He chalked it up to the fact that it wasn't every day that gorgeous widows showed up at his rooms and gave a spectacular display of feminine jealousy. Jealousy—
over him
. 'Twas novel and rather delightful. As if tuning into his thoughts, Marianne's eyes flashed at him, brighter than the fireworks at Vauxhall.

Emma brought over what passed for a tea tray and took the chair adjacent to Marianne. Sitting on a wooden crate that served as a third chair, Kent faced the both of them.

"Thank you, Miss Kent," Marianne said.

The jet beads on her crimson frock glimmered as she accepted the chipped cup. An expensive-looking gold pendant rested above the swell of her breasts. Despite the contrast between her finery and the humble setting, she appeared unruffled.

"Please call me Emma, my lady. Most everyone does and since you are …"—his sister reddened, bit her lip—"er … friends with Ambrose, you must too."

A delicate shade of peach tinged the crest of Marianne's cheeks at Emma's tactful words. Though Ambrose would have to clarify the situation with his sister later on—and he did not relish the prospect, given his younger sister's youth and innocence—it heartened him to know that his shameless
selkie
could enjoy a moment or two of human embarrassment.

"Then you must return the favor and call me Marianne." His
selkie
, however, was never one to be discomfited for long. "So tell me, Emma, what brings you to London? Your brother did not mention he was expecting a family visit." Marianne cast him a narrow-eyed look.

Emma sighed, and before Kent could stop her, she launched into the tale she'd tearfully told him earlier. The situation she described did not improve with the second telling. His neck corded as he wondered what the hell he was going to do. Thanks to his father's absent-mindedness—he prayed to God it was only that and not a more insidious problem—the family was to be thrown out of their home. On the morrow, the Kents would have nowhere to go.

His temples began to throb as he contemplated the options. Unless he could find another roof for them in the village—which he doubted, as news travelled quicker than wildfire in Chudleigh Crest—he would have to bring them to London. Perhaps he could get away with having his family here for a few days without his landlady finding out …

"Father didn't mean to set the fire," Emma was telling Marianne earnestly, "it was only that he fell asleep reading. It was dratted bad luck that Tabitha knocked over the candle."

"Tabitha?" Marianne said.

"Our cat. She's a tabby," Emma explained. "Most of the time, she is very well-behaved, but of late she's been quite desperate for attention." She slumped, as if the weight of the world were perched on her slim shoulders. "Between father and my brother and sisters, I just haven't had the time to devote to her."