Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05] (11 page)

A
bigail trudged through the streets, her mood blacker than the mourning skirts she wore. The shadows seemed to reach out for her from the nearby alleyways, and the capricious moon had withdrawn behind a veil of clouds. Her every attempt at finding Reggie was hitting a brick wall. But she wasn’t fool enough not to realize that her foul mood had more to do with Lord Steele than anything else. She’d been aggravated ever since Mr. Linder-Myer had informed her that Lord Steele was soon to marry.

It was about her position in the household, of course. No matter what assurances Steele gave her about keeping her job, once a new mistress of the house asserted her position, everyone was up for replacement. It was the nature of things for ladies to want to surround themselves with familiar faces. It wasn’t a bad occurrence, unless one relied on wages and was subject to termination.

Abigail grimaced beneath her veil. She felt angry, reckless even. She knew that she needed to head back to the house, it was well past midnight, but she’d
made little headway in her efforts to find Reggie, and she’d be damned if she didn’t try her utmost.

It was astonishing how different she felt when she was in her widow’s costume. More assured, less awkward; even the pitch of her voice changed once she donned the black veil. Lost was that breathy, nervous intonation, replaced instead by the confident voice of the worldly woman she was pretending to be.

When she was dressed in her mourning garb, she walked a little straighter, her step a little firmer. That might have had something to do with the three-inch heels on her black boots, a height endowed by the shoemaker, not naturally by God. She even smelled different, since she kept her costume hidden in a special cedar box in a secret compartment of her trunk. As soon as Abigail smelled the cedar, she fell under the spell of her widow’s persona. In that guise, she spoke to people she’d never dare address in the light of day and confronted scoundrels who would have otherwise had her running for her life.

One of those scoundrels had been particularly helpful this evening, a cutpurse named Slippery Milo who was so undersized, he could slip through crowds with the ease of a cat. The man was often mistaken for a young lad, and he used that “gift,” as he called it, to his favor. Abigail had to admire a man who played the cards he was given, even if she didn’t agree with the moral choices he made.

Abigail turned a corner just as Slippery Milo had described. It was so blasted dark, she could hardly see. But the cutpurse had been right on target thus far with his instructions, and they seemed to take into account the lack of light. Slippery Milo’s keen
intelligence had struck her, and she’d had to wonder how different his life would have turned out if he’d been provided a sound education.

Unbidden, Headmaster Dunn flashed in her mind. She was so lucky to have found a friend and mentor in him, someone who took the time to nurture her hunger for learning. He’d recognized her acumen and had nourished her intelligence as a wet nurse fed a babe.

No doubt Headmaster Dunn wouldn’t deem her too intelligent for prowling the streets in one of the worst parts of London. He would chide her foolishness at being so heedless of her safety. He would consider her imprudent to chase her wayward brother in this manner. But the most deeply mortifying fact was that if Headmaster Dunn knew of it, he’d be horrified that she’d crafted a ridiculous, baseless fantasy about her employer.

A guilty, stupid feeling sank like a stone in her belly, fueling her ill temper. She wanted to expunge it, destroy it so there were no vestiges remaining as proof to the world what an idiotic, nonsensical chit she was. She shrugged her cloak more securely on her shoulders, welcoming the guise of the worldly widow, becoming the woman that she preferred to be. Strong, defiant, wild even.
The widow moved undaunted
,
fought for what she needed
,
took what she wanted.
Reckless energy spurred Abigail’s steps, and she clenched her hands, ready as the sophisticated widow for whatever would greet her.

Soon she would come upon the man the cutpurse had called Jumper. Jumper supposedly ran messages back and forth between thieves in this part of town,
and he was said to know who was where and when. It was a small thread of possibility that he would know Reggie, but it was all Abigail had to work with, and she would spin it for all it was worth.

One more left turn and she would be at the small square Jumper used as a rendezvous point. Abigail clutched the walking stick that hid her blade. The hard metal bolstered her confidence and firmed her resolve to do whatever necessary to find her little brother. She also carried a pistol in a specially woven pocket of her cloak, just in case. Her instincts warned her that tonight she might need extra protection. She was loath to use the firearm, finding it unreliable and unwieldy, but she believed in being prepared.

She did not intend to use either weapon on Jumper, however; they were simply a precaution. Instead she had coin in her purse, ready to pay for the information she needed. It had taken Abigail only a few days in London to realize that no one would help her out of the goodness of his heart, and that currency was her surest means to securing information. Hence her deeper debt to the moneylender.

Inwardly she shivered, thinking of the pair who’d attacked her…that barmaid, if that’s what she was, and Fred. She’d walked into a trap, and only the masked gentleman’s help had prevented terrible results.

Again that exciting curiosity enveloped her when she considered the masked rescuer. Why had he saved her? What business brought him to Charing Cross in an alley in the middle of the night? How did he learn to fight like the devil? Would she ever meet him again? If she did, would he want her the way he’d
wanted her the other night, arousing wickedly delicious sensations? And if he did, would she stop him? Just thinking about how his lips had felt on her skin and how his tongue…She shivered.

After that night, Abigail had surreptitiously scanned the newspapers looking for any hint of the masked vigilante. But it was as if the man didn’t exist, or perhaps he truly was a figment of her imagination.

The way she romanticized the masked stranger and fantasized about meeting him again made her realize how desperately lonely she really was. His touch had been like an elixir, expunging all worry about Reggie and obliterating all thought from her mind. There had been no room in her head for anything…she could only
feel
. It had been one of the most sinfully indulgent moments in her life.

Never before had Abigail dwelled on such base notions of body and flesh…but the man inspired such an exciting rush of…
curiosity
in her. She was insatiably, hungrily
curious
about the man. She couldn’t deny the kinship she’d felt with him. And when they’d spoken so freely, she’d been impressed with his progressive notions. She had no doubt that if she knew him better, they would have even more in common.

In all her many fantasies about the man, that kinship was always present. And often she added the moving notion that he might be disfigured in some way. Hence the mask. Could he have been burned in a fire? Born with a disfiguring mark? Silly romantic that she was, she felt a compassion for the man that she’d rarely felt for any other.

Abigail wondered if she’d meet him again while she looked for Reggie. A small thrill raced up her middle. But she quashed it, knowing that real life could never hold up to the fantasy. Mayhap she was better off never encountering him again, keeping her secret dreams safe from shattering disappointment.

As Abigail neared the turn she was to make, loud voices could be heard. Her steps faltered, but she refused to stop. She couldn’t go back empty-handed, not now when she’d risked so much. She would face this Jumper fellow and learn anything he knew. Then she’d find Reggie and bail him out of the mess he was in and…well, at least they’d be together. Family, once and for all.

Boots scuffling on the cobblestones reached her ears from around the bend. Jumper wasn’t alone. A trickle of fear crawled up her spine. But she told herself that if Jumper didn’t know anything, perhaps his companions would. The cutpurse had assured her that Jumper wasn’t a dangerous fellow, more “a man o’ commerce,” Slippery Milo had said.

Suddenly a large arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her down the side alley. Before she could cry out, a gloved hand covered her mouth. She tasted leather and fear.

She fought and kicked, desperately trying to reach for her blade. But the man was too big and had her wrapped in arms of granite. “Shh! It’s me. From the other night.” His voice was muffled, but she knew immediately that it was her masked rescuer.

Still, she tried to push him off. “What are you doing here?”

His stonelike grip only tightened. “Following someone—”

“Who?”

“Pray, keep quiet!” he hissed, his breath warming her ear. “Danger’s afoot!”

Abigail stilled, trusting the man enough to listen to him. For the moment.

Her rescuer eased the grip of his gloved hand over her mouth to give her more air, but still he clutched her more compactly than the pages of a closed book.

She swallowed as excitement thrilled through her. Her body was flaming, her heart racing, her mind in a whirl. What was the danger? Why was he holding her as if afraid she’d run? Did he want something of her? Why did his embrace feel so blasted good?

His burly arms held her in an intimate manner more appropriate to the bedchamber than an alleyway. Her breasts were squashed up against his rock-hard chest. Her legs pressed into his thick, muscular thighs. His broad shoulders and his imposing stature made her feel protected and secure in an extraordinarily unfamiliar way.

Strangely, the most overwhelming feeling coursing through her had little to do with fear and more to do with fascination at how this masked man made her feel. It was as if he were a bonfire and she longed to dance in his flames.

“I don’t know, I swear!” A man’s whiny voice could be heard from around the bend.

Abigail stiffened, forcing herself to discard her fantasies and remember that danger truly might be afoot.

A muffled thud was followed by a low groan.

Abigail swallowed. Thank heavens the masked gentleman had stopped her from walking into that melee! Peering up, she tried to get a glimpse of her rescuer’s face, but even in the darkness, she could discern that he still wore his mask.

Boot heels scuffled on the cobblestones nearby. They seemed to be coming closer.

Quietly but firmly, the gentleman savior pulled her deeper into the alley and pressed her into a crevice where two walls joined, covering her body with his own, as if to protect her. His black cloak should conceal them. But if they were discovered, Abigail had no doubt that the man would place himself between her and danger.

Gratitude washed through her for this masked man. He’d proven himself twice now. Distantly she wondered why he’d bother, why he’d care. But she thanked the good Lord for that caring, regardless of its source, and the man in which it had manifested.

As she stood fixed in the darkness, Abigail tried to force herself to think about the danger and about their scandalously pleasurable pose. Her body thrummed with excitement and awareness of every inch of his tall, broad-shouldered form. He was acting like a flesh-and-blood shield, and she’d never felt more deliciously safe.

“You’ll tell me what ya know or I’ll cut yer bloody heart out!”

A terrified cry rang out.

Involuntarily her breath seized and she clutched
his arm. Thank heavens he’d stopped her! Gratitude warmed her heart. At the moment she would willingly give this man anything he wanted of her. She only prayed that he would
want
to stake his claim.

Shock and guilt flashed through her. She was a proper young lady. What she’d just thought was scandalous and beyond the pale. Bedding a stranger? A masked stranger, no less, and she didn’t even know his name. She had to protect her integrity! She needed to maintain her moral fiber! She should be ashamed of her degenerate thoughts!

But her body couldn’t seem to drum up an ounce of shame or care one fig about her moral fiber. It ached for the feel of flesh on flesh, hungered for a taste of forbidden passion, and longed for the feel of a man deep inside her.

Her cheeks burned at the wicked thought, but as she licked her lips, she tasted passion, and deep inside her core, she felt the tug of desire.

Distantly she knew that she shouldn’t be thinking about passion with danger only steps away. But the peril seemed to heighten her desire and fuel her hunger.

Her flesh was flaming so that she had to wonder if he felt it, too. She shifted restlessly against him.

He seemed to stiffen.

Her legs parted slightly, welcoming him closer.

His body grew harder, if that was possible. He moved deeper into the juncture between her thighs.

She shivered, tilting her head and arching her back.

His hot breath seemed to be coming faster, warming her neck.

Abigail closed her eyes, feeling every inch of his body and wallowing in the delicious flames that were licking at her flesh, enticing her to do wicked things that no decent lady would ever consider.

He seemed to want her, too.

She ached to
be
that worldly widow. To take what she wanted,
consequences be damned
.

“I don’t know a thing!” the whiny voice cried.

Muffled cries and many boot steps followed.

Silence fell.

As the long, tense moments passed, doubt slithered through Abigail’s mind, poisoning the delicious desire pulsing through her. He wasn’t making any moves to take her. Was she doing it again? Reading too much into a man’s actions, creating a fantasy, concocting a connection where none existed? Suddenly she knew that she’d been wrong. This man was a stranger, who no doubt had legions of women yearning for the pleasures of his arms. She, on the other hand, was a pitiful spinster whose loneliness made her jump to imaginary conclusions.