The Millionaire Rogue (26 page)

The stench of the Docklands reached out to them in the humid silence. Now that summer had at last arrived the River Thames was as fragrant as ever; Sophia pressed her nose into her elbow and tried not to breathe too deeply.

So this is where it's all going to end, she thought. This is where we shall find our salvation, mine and Violet's, England's and Mr. Hope's. This is where he shall take back what is his, and restore his good name.

His body felt warm against hers as they made their way to the hackney parked in front of their own. The king and Artois were leaning against the vehicle, panting in unison like two enormous, slobbering bulldogs. Mr. Lake, menacing as ever, was pointing a pistol at the royals.

She felt Hope hesitate; he reluctantly released her from his grasp, and with his free hand he adjusted the front of his breeches, much as he'd done that night in his study at Hope & Co.

With a wince, Lord Harclay drew to his full height before King Louis and the
comte
. “You know where this man Daniel Eliason keeps his ship?”

Artois sniffed, turning up his nose. Though he was hopelessly shorter than his lordship the earl, he would not, it appeared, be looked down upon.

When neither Artois nor his brother responded, Harclay waved the thirty-thousand-pound note before them, the paper flapping in a sour breeze.

“I've already got your money. Don't make me take your manhood, too. Do you
know
where this man
Eliason
keeps his ship?”

Artois huffed. “
Oui
.”

“And you will get us to him?”

King Louis lurched forward in a huff that rivaled his brother's, and waved his curiously tiny arm at the circle of shadows gathered around him: Lake and Caroline, Sophia and Hope, Harclay, Violet. “Yes. But we cannot take all of you. Eliason is not a fool. If he sees so many coming, he will turn up his tail and run.”

“Yes, he will run,” Artois added. “We will only take two.”

Hope stepped forward, pressing Sophia behind him. “It's a trap, Harclay. If these two won't lead us to Eliason, to the diamond, then we'll find him ourselves.”

Cousin Violet, who until that moment had been unusually quiet, stepped forward and placed a hand on Hope's shoulder.

“No. Lord Harclay and I will go with the king.”

Hope made a choking noise; Sophia saw his face flush pink. “The French Blue belongs to
me
, Lady Violet. I'll be damned if I make the same mistake I did that night in the ballroom. We cannot trust Harclay; not with the diamond, and especially not with your life.”

He was not the only member of their party to object: Lake said something about the earl being liable to faint, to which his lordship replied he was fine, just fine, before turning to vomit quietly at Artois' feet.

“You have my word, Hope,” Violet said. “I will return the French Blue to you.”

His eyes flicked to the earl. “You understand why I question your motives, Violet.”

“I do.” Sophia watched above the ball of Hope's shoulder as her cousin looked up at him, her blue eyes wide, serious. “But you've got to trust me. Trust us. Harclay's the one who started all this—let us, together, finish it. Lake is—well, it's obvious what he is, too big, too mean—and liable to scare Eliason witless. And you, Hope.”

Violet met Sophia's eyes. “You have other matters to attend to.”

Hope opened his mouth to protest. Impulsively Sophia reached out, gathering his sleeve in her fingers. She looked at him with all the calm and steadiness she could muster. Though he remained flush, she sensed his surrender to her touch, his anger, his worry fading.

With a long, rather dramatic sigh, Hope stepped back. “Very well. But make no mistake, Lady Violet. If you're not back here in half an hour with diamond in hand, I'll search for you myself and have the two of you thrown in gaol. Do I make myself clear?”

Harclay nodded, and spoke some nonsense about being the one who fooled them all, the one who stole the French Blue from under their noses at the ball.

Hope was silent as they watched the stooped outline of the earl's figure disappear into the night beside Lady Violet's. Ahead of them, the king and Artois panted rather colorful obscenities at one another.

And then they were gone, lost to the night.

Sophia and Hope, Lake and Lady Caroline had only to wait.

E
verything,
everything
Hope had ever wanted, everything he'd worked for, all that he'd done for the family he loved and missed—it all hung in the balance. What happened tonight, in the minutes and hours ahead, would determine the course of the rest of his life. His failure or success—whether he would win back the diamond or not—now rested on the outcome of his enemy's foray into the great darkness spread before them. By dawn he would either have the diamond . . . or he wouldn't.

Hope should be terrified. He should be going with them. He should be ill with anticipation, or at the very least, drowning his sorrows with the flask of whiskey he'd stuffed into his breastplate.

Instead he was staring at the lithe figure beside him, electrifying his skin with the gentle probing of her fingers.

Sophia shivered in the breeze. Without thinking, he gathered her shawl in his hands and drew it tighter about her shoulders, her hand grazing his thigh as it fell from his arm.

In his belly desire curled, heady, fully formed in the space of half a heartbeat.

Not now
. He must focus, concentrate what little energy he had left on the French Blue, his plans to save Hope & Co. from the brink of failure.

And the marquess's diamond ring. Sophia wore it about her neck, and soon she'd wear it on her fourth finger, where it would leave its narrow mark on the pale, tender skin of her hand.

It was useless, this desire. That night they swore they'd leave these inconvenient longings in his room, and in his bed. Leave behind each other.

And yet he found leaving her behind more difficult than he could have ever imagined. The desire inside him was, despite his efforts, impossible to ignore.

Sophia gasped as he pulled her closer, fisting the fine fabric of her shawl in his hands. Gasped, but did not protest.

Beside him, Lake cleared his throat, rocking back on his heels. “Well, then. Jolly good of Harclay to do the heavy lifting for us, eh? Come, let's have a nip in the hack while we wait.”

Grasping Sophia's shawl in one hand, Hope reached for the flask inside his breastplate with the other, and wordlessly passed it to Mr. Lake.

Lake cleared this throat. “Well, then,” he repeated. “We'll just, er, meet you . . . there. Do take your time, we have all night. Half an hour, at least.”

Placing his hand on the small of Lady Caroline's back, Lake led her into the darkness. Hope heard Caroline giggle, and Lake snort with laughter, before they disappeared altogether.

Lake, in love! Hope thought he'd never see the day.

Forbidden fruit indeed.

He turned back to Sophia. He should send her after them to wait in the safety of the hack. He should not move from this spot until the Earl of Harclay returned, French Blue in hand.

He should.

But he wouldn't.

Sophia looked at him, her hazel eyes gold in the half-light of the moon. He slid his hand into the inviting curve of her jaw, his fingers brushing the baby-fine hairs of her neck. She shivered again.

He ducked his head, lips brushing her ear. “Let's go.”

*   *   *

H
ope led Sophia down the quayside, bowing in and out of shadow as they passed bawdy houses, bawdier taverns, and the dark, nameless facades of weathered warehouses. The gaping blackness of the Docklands yawned over Hope's right shoulder. He held her closer.

“D'you think they're all right?” Sophia whispered. “I trust Harclay to keep Violet safe, but seeing as I poisoned him an hour ago . . .”

“He's recovered. They'll come back to us in no time at all. Besides. With Artois' thirty thousand in their pockets, I hardly think this Eliason fellow will refuse them.”

Even as he said the words, Hope winced. Though the Docklands were mostly deserted, the devil knew what characters trolled about this time of night: pickpockets, cutthroats, lightskirts. King Louis' beringed fingers and Artois' gilt costume certainly did their party no favors.

If Sophia saw Hope wince, she said nothing.

“Ah, here we are.”

He drew up before a whitewashed warehouse, its facade covered in bold, black letters:
HOPE & CO
.

“Here? Really?” Sophia wrinkled her nose.

“No,” Hope said, pointing toward the river. “There.”

Her gaze followed his outstretched arm to the bulkhead at their right; a sturdy ramp led from the quayside down to the water, where a dozen gleaming, full-rigged ships bobbed silently in their berths.

He felt her stiffen. “Those are yours?”

Thomas scoffed. “Depends on the outcome of tonight's events. They may be heading for the auction block first thing in the morning, so I figure we may as well enjoy them while we have the chance.”

He looked down and met her eyes. They were open, storm-tossed, moving from his gaze to his lips and back again.

“Please,” he said. “Please, Sophia, come with me.”

His heart drummed an erratic rhythm in his chest as he waited for her reply.

“Thomas, we shouldn't. I cannot—” She swallowed, hard, and looked down at their clasped hands. “I promised myself I wouldn't. I've made every attempt to keep my distance, I have, but I—”

“But you can't.” The words came out in a rush of relief. “Neither can I, Sophia. I cannot keep away from you.”

She looked at him, pleading. “We shouldn't.”

“If you tell me to stop,” he said, sliding his hand up her arm to rest on her neck, “I'll stop.”

“Please.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Please don't ask that of me, Thomas.”

“Tell me,” he pressed a kiss to the place where ear met jaw, “to stop.”

He trailed his lips along the slope of her neck, breathing in her scent: water, soap, air. Each kiss was soft, lingering, sweet. It was madness, this embrace; it went against every rational thought, everything he could and should be doing.

But once his lips touched her skin he couldn't help himself.

Sophia arched against him, head lilting back in offering. “Thomas,” she breathed. “Oh, Thomas.”

“Do you want me”—another kiss—“to stop?”

She met his gaze with heavy-lidded eyes. “No. No, don't stop.”

“Good,” he said, pulling back. “Come with me. We shall have to be quick; half an hour, remember.”

One side of her mouth curled into a grin. “Let's not waste a moment, then.”

He tugged her down the ramp to the water; she let out a breathless laugh. Their bodies collided at the sway of the dock beneath their feet; Hope caught Sophia and held her against him. She looked up, lips half-open; her shawl fell, revealing the ball of her bare shoulder.

Hope took a deep breath, let it out. The river sighed with him, the dock rolling beneath them: raising them up as a wave crested, sending them down as it ebbed.

Planting his feet on either side of Sophia's, Hope bent his neck and gently pressed his lips to her shoulder. She tasted clean.

Sophia sucked in a breath, her body rising to meet his caress. He wasted no time; he moved his mouth along the ridge of her collarbone, nipping the tender flesh at the base of her throat. Beneath his lips her pulse took flight, an insistent fluttering like the wings of a bird.

His desire flared, filling every fiber, every thought and every space of his being. If he wasn't careful he'd take her here, now, against the bulkhead, hard and fast and rough. Not at all what he wanted for her; not at all what he wanted for this, their last night together. Even if they only had twenty minutes to themselves, he wouldn't take her like that.

He prayed the others—Hope and Violet, most of all—didn't come back, catch him and Sophia. He prayed they took the full half an hour he'd given them.

“Thomas,” Sophia repeated. “Please.
Don't stop
.”

Above them loomed one of Hope's triple-masted merchant ships. From a cursory glance, Hope gathered it was vacant; the windows in the aft cabin were dark.

Or at least he hoped it was. Somehow he very much doubted Sophia would yield to his touch while a dozen toothless sailors looked on.

There was no ramp of which to speak, only a series of slatted indentions carved into the side of the vessel.

Hope pulled away. Sophia's pretty features creased in confusion. Pressing a kiss between her brows, he murmured, “Not here. Follow me.”

Together they made for the ship. Nestling Sophia in the circle of his arms, he climbed up the ladder one rung behind her; he winced as the curve of her backside brushed far too invitingly against the bulge in his breeches. Again his desire flared, burning a hole in whatever logic he had left; whatever worry he had over being caught.

That Sophia was here with him; that she would again be his, after he thought he'd never get a second chance—his chest welled with gratitude.

She heaved herself over the banister onto the ship. She turned, wiping her palms together in satisfaction, and held out a hand; Hope took it, her grip firm as she helped him onboard.

He leaned back against the banister, catching his breath. Sophia placed her elbows on the railing beside him, her arm brushing his. He listened to her quiet panting; they did not meet eyes, but he sensed her every movement, the curling of her hair about her head in the breeze.

The ship undulated slowly beneath his feet, the river plunking against its bow some feet below. As far as Hope could tell, the ship was deserted. The deck had been recently swept, and appeared to be vacant of any cargo, empty save for a coil of rope and a pile of carefully folded canvas tarpaulins.

Relief washed through him. Catching his breath, he turned around and placed his elbows on the banister beside Sophia's. The River Thames stretched out before them, the moon setting alight a wide blue ribbon of radiance on the water's surface; the city glowed dimly at its banks.

How many pairs of eyes, he wondered, had filled hearts to bursting at this very sight. A hundred, a thousand years ago, had the Romans looked upon the Thames in the dead of night and found in its quiet, insistent rush, the glow of the moon upon its surface, solace or sorrow? How many hearts were broken in this place, how many healed? Generations of love lost, love thwarted, love quiet and dangerous; so many stories begun and ended here, at the edge of the River Thames.

Hope turned to find Sophia looking at him, her eyes soft about the edges. He wondered what she was thinking, if she felt her own heart, full and swollen, beginning to crack.

“Are you all right?” His voice was quiet.

Sophia reached out and tucked an errant curl behind his ear. “No. Not in the slightest.”

He rose to his feet, running his palms up the length of her arms as he turned her to him. “Good.” He tucked his hand against her cheek as he leaned in. “Neither am I.”

His lips found hers, full and warm and yielding. She tilted her head to better match his movements, her arms rising to circle his neck as together they fell into the kiss. He slipped his tongue between her lips; she let him in, moaning as he pulled back, taking her bottom lip between his teeth.

He cupped her face in his hands and pressed his mouth to hers, harder this time. He felt her body rising to meet him, running her tongue along the slick seam of his lips. His blood ignited as she dug her fingers into the hair at his neck, his cock pulsing between his legs, painfully enormous.

Hope ducked, deepening the kiss. Her tongue was warm and deliciously wet tangled with his; her eyelashes fluttered against his cheek, featherlight. Her hands were on his face now, pulling him closer, closer, as if she might swallow him whole.

Please
, he prayed silently.
Please
.

The breeze moved around them, tickling the hair on Hope's bare arms. He wrapped them around her, trailing his hands from her face down the slope of her back to rest on the rise of her buttocks. Her pert flesh yielded to the press of his palms; she gasped into his mouth and he nipped at her lip, a low growl in her throat as she bit back. He tasted blood and grinned; she was wicked, more rascal and seducer than painfully proper debutante.

Sophia began to attack the straps of his breastplate with her fingers; his body went up in flames at her impatience. He covered her hand in his and loosened the strap, breaking their kiss to quickly shrug out of the costume. Dropping it with a
thud
at her feet, he darted forward and crushed his mouth against hers. The tips of her hardened nipples pressed against the thin fabric of his tunic as the kiss became messy, urgent.

The pressure between his legs became too great to bear. He needed her here, now, before he was obliterated by the weight of his desire.

Hope pulled away, and as he stood to catch his breath, Sophia tucked her head into the curve of his neck.

His heart swelled against his ribcage as if it might expand through sinew and bone to meet her caress. It killed him, the tenderness of her gesture. How vulnerable she felt in his arms; and he—he was defenseless, holding her to his heart, the both of them knowing all the while that in the end they would betray one another.