Once Upon a Moonlit Night: A Maiden Lane novella (8 page)

“You really didn’t have to hit Mr. Hartshorn so many times,” Hippolyta said late that night as she was brushing her hair at her dressing table. She knew his hand was hurting him, though he hadn’t said anything on the carriage ride home.

“Yes, I did,” he murmured now as he drew off his shirt behind her.

She peeked out of the corner of her eye, for though they’d been married for a fortnight now, she still wasn’t
quite
used to his bare chest. She found it to be an almost overwhelmingly erotic sight.

“But he wasn’t going to get our money. He’d already lost,” she argued absently as he unbuttoned his falls.

“He tried to hurt you, Princess,” he said in a flat, uncompromising voice.

She rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror. Though nominally they still had separate bedrooms, he’d been coming into hers to undress and often spent the night there as well.

Behind her he dropped his breeches, distracting her. “Besides,” he continued. “He said some foul things. I couldn’t let that go.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. She inhaled. “Thank you for tonight. For all you did.”

He looked up and met her eyes in the mirror. He was nude now, but as always, he didn’t seem to care. His eyebrows drew together. “You’re my
wife
. I did what I did because of that.”

She winced. “Yes, but…” She waved a hand awkwardly. “I’m sorry you had no choice in the matter.”

“What do you mean?”

She blew out a breath. “You could’ve married someone else had we not been discovered in Leeds.” She tried a smile, but it wobbled and died. “Someone less…notorious and troublesome.”

“No.” He stalked toward her, growing closer in the mirror until he stood right behind her. Until he lifted her up and turned her to face him. “I never had any choice.”

She bit her lip, feeling tears bite at her eyes. “I know that—”

“
No
, Princess, you don’t.” He placed his palm against her cheek. “Had your father not seen us at Leeds we would’ve continued on to London. We would’ve arrived in another week. I would’ve discovered you really were an heiress—and you would’ve discovered I was an impoverished earl. I would’ve asked your father to call upon you—and I would’ve done so with or without his permission.” He bent his head and brushed his lips against hers. “There never was any choice once we were at Leeds, Princess. By that time I knew you were mine.”

“Yours?” she breathed, not daring to hope.

“
Mine
,” he growled, arrogantly certain. “Beggar or heiress. Princess or pauper. I didn’t give a goddamn who or what you were, Hippolyta, I just wanted you.”

“Then,” she whispered, standing on tiptoe to bring his dear face down to hers, “that must mean you are mine as well.”

His lips curved into a pirate’s grin. “Oh, yes.”

He swept her up in his arms, bearing her to the bed. He turned and fell back across the bed with her, giggling, on his chest, her chemise a tumble of linen and lace around them.

He fingered a ribbon as her laughter died. “Take this off.”

She sat up astride him and caught the hem of her chemise, slowly drawing it off over her head. She wore nothing else and she looked down at him, her breath coming faster as his gaze slowly perused her body.

When he spoke again, his voice had lowered to gravel depths. “You have the most beautiful nipples.” His eyelids were half lowered, his gaze concentrated right there, but his hands were on her hips, his fingers tight. “When I first saw them in that damned bath I wanted to lick your breasts. Wanted to taste your nipples. Wanted to suck them. My mouth
watered
. I had to leave the room so I wouldn’t assault you.”

She gasped, arching her back in invitation, and his eyes flicked to hers.

“Offer them to me, Princess.”

She cupped her breasts in her palms and bent forward on her knees, hovering over him as he braced her with his hands.

“Lower,” he growled. “Ask me to taste them.
Beg
me.”

She moaned at his words, propping one hand on the bed, and bent closer. Her nipple brushed his lips and the shock made her belly tremble.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please suck me.”

He opened his mouth and drew her in as she clenched her free hand in the pillow and rocked against him. How could this one thing—this small thing—feel so good?

He pulled his mouth away. “The other.”

Obedient, she pivoted and offered him her other breast. “Please, please taste my nipple.”

His teeth raked over her areola, drawing the nipple into his mouth.

She threw her head back, grinding her pussy into his leg. She was wet, she could feel it. Sopping all at once and his thigh was hard and strong and
just right
, but then he shifted, taking it away from her, and she wanted to weep.

Or hit him.

She opened her eyes and glared down at him.

But he grinned around her breast and placed his thumb against her clitoris and pressed.

She bucked against him as he shifted under her, placing his cock against her folds.

He slid through her wetness, lush and hot, so wonderful, and she undulated against him. She knew she could come just like this. With his mouth on her breast and moving against his hardness.

Of course
he
wanted more.

She glanced down and almost smiled at his frown.

Then he angled his hips and slid into her.

Oh.

She groaned at the feeling. The stretch. The wonder of the invasion. The knowledge that
he
was in
her
.

When she opened her eyes again he was watching her. “Ride me, Princess.”

She rose up, trembling with want and hope, and crashed down again, impaling herself on his cock, on his flesh, on his stubbornness. He’d stood by her, had believed in her when she’d been hopeless. Had rescued her and argued with her and made love with her and she…

She loved him, her pirate, her husband, her Matthew.

She ground against him, hands on his chest, panting, hair in her mouth, breasts bobbing, joy filling her belly like a wellspring.

His eyes were green and fierce and locked on her as if she were the most important thing in the world. Maybe she was to him.

He rotated his thumb against her as she rose and fell, and growled at her, “Come for me, Princess. Goddamn it, come for me right now. You’re so beautiful. My wife. My lover. My love.”

And she cried out, hoarse and unafraid, shaking above him as sparks glittered through her limbs.

He seized her hips and turned her, tossing her into the covers and thrusting into her over and over again like a madman until he stilled, every muscle tightening in shock.

She opened her eyes and looked up to see his eyes green slits and his lips a snarl as he groaned his release into her.

Her hands shook as she framed his face. “I love you.”

“Not in the house, you mange-ridden creature!” Hippolyta turned at her husband’s shout.

Tommy Teapot shimmied through the doorway, loped across the room, and darted under a bookcase.

Hippolyta looked back at the doorway.

Matthew stood there, hands on hips, a scowl on his face.

She cleared her throat delicately. “Was that a mouse in his mouth?”

“Yes.” Her husband scowled harder.

“Well, at least he catches them?” she offered without much hope.

He snorted and walked in the room. “What are you doing up here?”

“Planning the nursery.” She smiled at him and his face immediately brightened. She gestured to the tall windows overlooking the back garden. “We’ll need new bars on the windows, I think. These are loose.”

“Hm.” He tested one and frowned. “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Will there be time?”

“Of course,” she chided gently. “Another two months at least. Oh!”

He tensed. “What?”

“Just a kick.” She took his hand and placed it low on her belly so he could feel the rolling movement across her abdomen.

He took the opportunity to nuzzle her ear. “I love you.”

Out of the corner of her eye Hippolyta saw Tommy emerge from under the bookcase and begin to groom his tiny face.

She took her husband’s hand. “And I love you.”

She drew him from the room—and the marauder within—and gently shut the door behind them.

Elizabeth Hoyt is the
New York Times
bestselling author of over twenty lush historical romances, including the Maiden Lane series.
Publishers Weekly
has called her writing “mesmerizing.” She also pens deliciously fun contemporary romances under the name Julia Harper. Elizabeth lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with three untrained dogs, a garden in constant need of weeding, and the long-suffering Mr. Hoyt.

The winters in Minnesota have been known to be long and cold and Elizabeth is always thrilled to receive reader mail. You can write to her at PO Box 19495, Minneapolis, MN 55419, or e-mail her at: [email protected].

You can learn more at:

ElizabethHoyt.com

Twitter @elizabethhoyt

Facebook.com/ElizabethHoytBooks

THE SIZZLING MAIDEN LANE
SERIES CONTINUES…
PLEASE SEE THE NEXT PAGE FOR A PREVIEW OF

Hugh Fitzroy, the Duke of Kyle, did not want to die tonight, for three very good reasons.

It was half past midnight as he eyed the toughs slinking out of the shadows up ahead in the cold alley near Covent Garden. He switched the bottle of fine Viennese wine from his right arm to his left and drew his sword. He’d dined with the Austrian ambassador earlier and the wine was a gift.

One
, Kit, his elder son—and, formally, the Earl of Staffin—was only seven. Far too young to inherit the dukedom.

Next to him was a linkboy with a lantern. The boy was frozen, his lantern a small pool of light in the alley. The youth’s eyes were wide and frightened. He couldn’t be more than fifteen. Hugh glanced behind them. Several men were at the entrance to the alley. He and the linkboy were trapped.

Two
, Peter, his younger son, was still suffering nightmares from the death of his mother only six months before. What would his father’s death so soon after do to the boy?

They might be footpads. Unlikely, though. Footpads usually worked in smaller numbers, were not this organized, and were after money, not death.

Assassins, then.

And
three
, Hugh had recently been assigned an important job by His Majesty’s government: bring down the Lords of Chaos. On the whole, Hugh liked to finish his jobs. Brought a nice sense of completion at the end of the day, if nothing else.

Right, then.

“If you can, run,” Hugh said to the linkboy. “They’re after me, not you.”

He pivoted and attacked the men behind them. There were two men in front, another to their rear. The first raised a club.

Hugh slashed him across the throat. That one went down in a spray of scarlet. But the second was already bringing his club down in a bone-jarring blow against Hugh’s left shoulder.

He juggled the bottle of wine, just catching it again before kicking the man in the balls. The second man stumbled against the man at his back.

There were running footsteps from behind Hugh.

He spun.

Caught the descending knife with his blade and slid his sword into the hand holding the knife.

A howling scream, and the knife clattered to the wet icy cobblestones in a splatter of blood.

The knife-man lowered his head and charged like an enraged bull.

Hugh flattened all six foot four inches of himself against the filthy alley wall, stuck out his foot, and tripped Charging Bull into the three men he’d already dealt with.

The linkboy, who had been cowering at the opposite wall, took the opportunity to squirm through the remaining three standing men and run away.

Which left them all in darkness, save for the light of the moon.

Hugh grinned.

He
didn’t have to worry about hitting his compatriots in the dark.

He spun and rushed the man next in line after the Bull. They’d picked a nice alley, his attackers. No way out—save the ends—but it did have one small advantage for Hugh: no matter how many men were against him, only two could fit abreast in the alley at a time. Any left over were simply bottled up behind the others, twiddling their thumbs.

Hugh slashed the man and shouldered past him. Got a blow upside the head for his trouble and saw stars. Hugh shook his head and elbowed the next—
hard
—in the face, and kicked the third in the belly. Suddenly he could see the light at the end of the alley.

Hugh knew men who felt that gentlemen should never run from a fight. Of course many of these same men had never
been
in a real fight.

Besides, he had those three
very
good reasons.

Actually, now that he thought of it, there was a
fourth
reason he did not want to die tonight.

Hugh ran to the end of the alley, his bottle of fine Viennese wine cradled in the crook of his left arm, his sword in the other fist. The cobblestones were iced over and his momentum was such that he slid into the lit street.

Where he found another half-dozen men bearing down on him from his left.

Bloody
hell
.

Four
, he hadn’t had a woman in his bed in over nine months and to die in such a drought seemed as if it would be a particularly unkind blow from fate, god
damn
it.

Hugh nearly dropped the bloody wine as he scrambled to turn to the right. He could hear the men he’d left in the alley rallying even as he sprinted straight into the worst part of London: the stews of St Giles. They were right on his heels, a veritable army of assassins. The streets here were narrow, ill lit, and cobbled badly, if at all. If he fell because of ice or a missing cobblestone, he’d never get up again.

He turned down a smaller alley and then immediately down another.

Behind him he heard a shout. Christ, if they split up, they would corner him again.

He hadn’t enough of a lead, even if a man of his size could easily hide in a place like St Giles. Hugh glanced up as he entered a small courtyard. Overhead the moon was veiled in clouds, and it almost looked as if a boy were silhouetted, jumping from one rooftop to another…

Which…

Was insane.

Think.
If he could circle and come back the way he’d entered St Giles, he could slip their noose.

A narrow passage.

Another courtyard.

Ah,
Christ
.

They were already here, blocking the two other exits of the courtyard.

Hugh spun, but the passage he’d just run out from was crowded with more men, perhaps a dozen in all.

Well.

He put his back to the only wall left to him and straightened.

He rather wished he’d tasted the wine. He was fond of Viennese wine.

A tall man in a ragged brown coat and a filthy red neckcloth stepped forward. Hugh half expected him to make some sort of speech. Instead he drew a knife the size of a man’s forearm, grinned, and licked the blade.

Hugh didn’t wait for whatever other disgusting preliminaries Knife Licker might feel were appropriate to the occasion. He stepped forward and smashed the bottle of very fine Viennese wine over the man’s head.

Then they were on him.

He slashed and felt the jolt to his arm as he hit flesh.

Swung and raked the sword across another’s face.

Staggered as he was slammed into by two men.

Another hit him hard in the jaw.

And then someone clubbed him behind the knees.

He fell to his knees on the icy ground, growling like a bleeding, baited bear.

Raised an arm to defend his head…

And…

Someone dropped from the sky right in front of him.

Facing his attackers.

Darting, wheeling, spinning.

Defending him so gracefully.

With a sword.

Hugh staggered upright again, blinking blood out of his eyes—when had he been cut?

And saw a boy? No, a slight
man
in a half mask, and floppy hat, and boots, fighting with two swords. Hugh just had time to think,
Insane
, before the man was thrown back against him.

Hugh caught the man and had another thought, which was:
Tits?

And then he set the woman—most definitely a
woman
, although in a man’s clothing—on her feet and put his back to hers and fought as if their lives depended on it.

Which they did.

There were still eight or so of the attackers left and although they weren’t trained, they were determined. Hugh slashed and punched and kicked, while his feminine savior danced an elegant dance of death with her sword. When he smashed the butt of his sword into the skull of one of the last men, the remaining two looked at each other, picked up a third, and took to their heels.

Panting, Hugh glanced around the courtyard. It was strewn with groaning men, most still very much alive, though not dangerous at the moment.

He peered at the masked woman. She was tiny, barely reaching his shoulder. How was it she’d saved him from certain, ignoble death? But she had. She surely had.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff. “I—”

She grinned, a quicksilver flash, and put her left hand on the back of his neck to pull his head down to her face to kiss him.

She might be a deadly sword fighter, but her lips were soft and trembling. Almost innocent. He groaned and pushed closer.
Nine months.

But she laughed—a low, husky sound that went straight to his cock—and skipped away. She disappeared down one of the tiny alleys leading off the courtyard.

And as Hugh stared after her, he had but one thought: when had the Ghost of St Giles become a woman?