Viscount of Vice (7 page)

Flynn had no illusions that this Satin actually intended to let the two of them go. Satin was going to kill them—well, he'd kill Flynn, and he might have worse plans for Emma.

Finally, the two of them were pushed into a dark room. Flynn turned quickly, but the door slammed in his face, leaving them in darkness. Flynn waited until the footsteps outside died away, and then tried the latch. It moved, but when he attempted to push the door open, nothing happened. “Cross bar,” he muttered. They were not going anywhere.

“Flynn?” Emma said, her voice small.

“Just testing the door. We're alone.”

She made a noise that sounded like a laugh. “Well, I have always wanted to be alone with you. Of course, this was not exactly what I imagined.”

“Are you flirting with me, Lady Emma?”

“I was attempting levity. Did it not work?”

“You aren't frightened?” he asked.

“Of course I'm frightened, but if I dissolve into hysterics that will hardly benefit either one of us. I have promised myself a good cry when I am finally home again.”

He was actually quite relieved to hear it. He did not relish dealing with an emotional woman. The night was going badly enough as it was. He moved toward the sound of her voice, reached out, and found her hand. “No one would blame you if you indulged in a small crying jag.”

She squeezed his hand. “Cry in front of
you
? I think not. Now, what might I do that would be useful?”

Who the devil was this woman? And why the devil had she elevated him? His life was a catastrophe—as their current circumstances more than indicated. He should think women might cry at the very sight of him from this day on.

“Flynn?”

“Uh…I have a tinderbox with me, but I need more than the small pieces of tinder inside if I am to manage a light in this darkness. See if you can find something we might light—perhaps an old paper or a piece of cloth.”

“I knew you would have a good idea.” She released his hand and began to move about slowly. He could hear her skirts swish, and items in the room move as she touched them.

He began to feel about as well. His hands moved over what appeared to be a chair, and then there was nothing. He stepped back toward the chair and felt for a table. “I hate to disabuse you of your girlish fantasies, Lady Emma, but I am not the man you think I am.”

“Oh, really? And how do you know what sort of man I think you are?”

“I'm not the sort who has good ideas, or the sort you shouldn't cry in front of.”

“Do you want me to cry?”

“Good God, no.”

“Then what are you saying?”

The devil if he knew. “I'm saying I am not the sort of man you should…look up to.” There was the table. He spread his fingers out and felt for something useful. He touched something metal—perhaps a cup, and something soft and mushy.

“Oh, I don't look up to you,” she said with a muffled laugh.

Flynn cocked his head toward her voice, annoyed. “I beg your pardon then.”

“I have no illusions about the sort of man you are, and while you do have your vices—”

“Very clever,” he drawled.

“I thought so. You are not without your virtues.”

“Virtues? Such as?”

“You have always been a good friend to my brother. And…oh, here is a piece of cloth! Where are you?”

“Listen to my voice and move toward it. Slowly. There is a chair nearby.” He heard her moving and continued to speak. “I'm holding my hand out. Reach for my fingers.” He felt the cloth brush his hand first, and then took hold of her cold fingers. “Your hands are like ice,” he said, taking the fabric and setting it on the table before him. He reached for the tinderbox, and by feel, withdrew the steel, the flint, and the matches.

“This ball gown was not the best choice for an outing such as this.”

“You should let your lady's maid go at once.” He struck the steel and flint together and showered enough sparks on the cloth so when he blew on them, they ignited into a small flame. He let it catch before lighting one of his sulfur matches and holding it up. In the light from the match, he quickly glanced at Emma. Even in the shadows, she looked beautiful, her pale face and her wide brown eyes seeming to hover near him. He reached for another match before the one he held burnt out, and surveyed the room.

It might have been Satin's private room in the thieves' lair. There was a mattress on the floor and the remnants of a meal on the table. And there, in the center, a candlestick with a cheap tallow candle perched on top. He lit the candle, lifted it, and moved about the room. There was no hearth or place to light a fire. In a corner something scurried, and he did not shine the candle in its direction. If it was a rat, Lady Emma did not need to see it. There were no windows in the room or personal artifacts of any sort. The mattress was bare but looked reasonably new, and other than that, there was only one chair to sit upon. He returned to the table and removed his greatcoat, dropping it over Emma's shoulders. “Sit here and try to stay warm.”

She did as he asked. “Where will you sit?”

“The bed, I suppose.” He sat and leaned his head back against the wall.

“What shall we do when the candle burns out?” she asked.

“Find something else to burn.” He did not want her imagining the worst, did not want her thoughts turning to when Satin returned. He would worry about it enough for the both of them. “I believe you were listing my virtues,” he reminded her.

She smiled at him, shaking her head a little. “I was, wasn't I?”

“You mentioned what a good friend I was to your brother and how devilishly handsome I am. I believe you were about to comment on my superb physique.”

She laughed. It amazed him she could laugh at a time like this. “Was I? You will think me incredibly shallow.”

“Not at all. If you want to elaborate on my enigmatic eyes or my strong, masculine jaw, please do not hesitate on my account.”

“I would rather discuss your character.”

He sighed. “That, I fear, has few virtues.”

“I beg to differ. You pretend you have no scruples, but it is not true.”

“There you are mistaken, Lady Emma. I assure you, I have searched the depths of my soul, and my exploration uncovered nothing resembling scruples.”

“Then why did you not accept the offer I made in Doctor Emerson's morning room?”

“I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“You see!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “There you go, acting the gentleman again. If you have no scruples, why not accept? I know you want me.”

“Confident, aren't you?”

“In this. And since you avoid my question, I will answer for you. You refused me because you didn't want to ruin me.”

“You are quite ruined now.”

“Exactly.” She rose and crossed to him. Flynn wished he had not spoken. Another instance of his tongue causing him trouble. She held out her hand, and he had little choice but to take it and assist her. She sat beside him, the warmth of her body emanating toward him. “I wonder, my lord,” she said, turning to look at him, “what other scruples you possess.”

“I don't kick small puppies.”

“Be still my heart.” She put a hand to her chest. “Do you know why I fell in love with you?”

“I wish you would not say that.”

“Why? I
am
in love with you.”

“Then you are a fool.”

She shook her head. “I don't think so. In fact, I fell in love with you when I realized the real reason you hate yourself so much.”

He laughed, but he felt no mirth. “Why I hate myself? You should become a novelist, Lady Emma. You have a gift for creating fiction.”

“It is not fiction that you blame yourself for your brother's disappearance.”

He gave her a sidelong glance, dismayed to note how close she had moved toward him. “No. I wish it were fiction, but the truth is, it was my fault entirely.”

She took his hand. Her small hand had warmed in his. “That is not the way I heard the story.”

“And who told you? Someone who heard it from someone who heard it from another?”

“No. I heard it from your mother.”

He made to pull his hand away, but she held tightly to him. “She told me you were playing a game and lost sight of Robbie.”

He closed his eyes to block out the memory, and when he spoke, his voice was cold and level. “You see. It was my fault, and now…look at what he has become. My sins multiply by the moment. My mother will hate me more than she already does, and your brother—”

“Your mother does not hate you.”

He shook his head.

“Flynn. No,
Henry
.”

He cut his gaze to her.

“Your mother does not blame you. She blames herself. If you would ever speak to her, ever see her, she would tell you the same. She would tell you she had no idea you thought you were to blame. Neither she nor your father ever blamed you.”

“Yes, the loving way they raised me was evidence enough of that.” To even say that he had been reared by his parents was laughable. At best, they had ignored him.

“I do believe she would apologize for that as well, Flynn. Grief can make people act in strange ways. Have you considered that your mother despises herself too?”

He had not thought of that, and he did not want to. There was nothing he could do at the moment anyway. He was locked in a room, the captive of a crime lord. A crime lord in
Bath
. Ridiculous. He rose and paced the room, leaving Emma to burrow into his greatcoat and sink down on the mattress.

As the hour passed and the candle began to sputter and fail, he continued to pace.

What if she spoke the truth? Flynn did not think he could so easily forgive himself, but what if he could somehow make reparations? What if he could restore his brother to the place he should have occupied as the son of a viscount? What if he attempted something truly virtuous?

Flynn shook his head. He did not think he had it in him. But he knew who did. He looked at Emma. At some point, she'd fallen asleep. She lay on one side, her hand under her cheek, and a long piece of chestnut hair lying across her pale jaw. She looked so young in sleep—far too young for the wisdom she seemed to possess.

With Emma at his side, could he accomplish his brother's redemption? Could he accomplish his own? She was ruined now, he thought as he knelt beside her and pushed the lock of hair off her cheek. He would have to marry her.

He would be the one to benefit from that eventuality. She would soon see how foolish her infatuation with him had been. But as Flynn stared down at her, he knew his own infatuation with her had not been misplaced. He'd lusted after her for years, but there was more to the attraction now. She was smart, brave, strong. Most
men
he knew would have panicked under the conditions in which the two of them currently found themselves. She had enough grace and poise to make light of it. And, at a time when she might have cursed him for dragging her into this muddle—and rightly so—she spent her efforts telling him how none of it was his fault. Telling him that he had virtues, that he was worth something, that she saw the good in him and loved him.

And this was the woman who would be forced to marry him. The woman he would make his wife. Flynn shook his head. He had never even considered that one day he might have a wife. The idea did not strike the fear in his heart he expected. It was new and strange and not entirely distasteful. If he had to marry, why not marry her? After all, she was correct—he did want her.

But what she did not know, what he had not admitted to himself until this very moment, was that he was in love with her.

Emma woke feeling warm, relaxed, and oddly disoriented. In the guttering candlelight, the room looked unfamiliar. Why was she still wearing her shoes and her stays? All at once the events of the night rushed back at her, and she attempted to sit, but paused when she felt something heavy on her abdomen.

She looked down and saw a hand. With a gasp, she turned her head and stared at Flynn. He was lying beside her.

He was holding her!

Well, she was in no hurry to sit now. Instead, she relished the chance to study him unobserved. He typically wore his hair swept back from his forehead, but now it fell over his brow, just brushing the top of one eyebrow. He had thick brows and long dark lashes. His nose was straight and not too long or too short. His cheeks were relaxed, the chiseled aristocratic cut of them obvious even in the dim light of the candle.

His jaw was covered with black stubble, and his lips looked even redder beside the dark hair. He had such lovely lips, especially in that moment right before he kissed her. They seemed to soften then, which was how they looked now.

And then without warning, his eyes opened, more green than brown at the moment, and she gasped in surprise. “Spying on me?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

“Admiring you,” she said, and then summoning all her courage, she lifted a hand and brushed the hair from his forehead. When she would have lowered her hand, he caught her wrist, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. Her pulse kicked, and heat radiated from her wrist to her arm and through her body. She knew this was her chance to seduce him, if such a man could be seduced. She should feel nervous, but she could not help but think lying next to Flynn felt right. His lips felt as though they belonged on her skin. “Do not stop,” she said, her voice breathy. “Kiss me again.”

He shook his head at her. “You play with fire, Emma.”

“Then burn me.”

He rose on one elbow and peered down at her, his lips so close, the heat of his body making her almost too warm. His eyes had darkened. “And what if I were to tell you I do not want you?”

“I would say you are lying and acting the gentleman once again.”

She lifted a hand and traced a finger over his lips. He parted them, taking her finger inside and sucking gently. She gasped.

“I do grow tired of the gentleman,” she whispered. “Can you not play the rogue for just a little while?”

He released her finger, and her hand moved over the coarse stubble of his cheek and delved into his thick hair. She tugged his head down, and his mouth met hers. She expected him to resist, to protest, but apparently the gentleman had fled for the moment. His mouth slanted over hers, taking her completely and not at all chastely. He kissed her deeply, parting her lips with his tongue and dipping inside to taste and tease her. He stroked and sucked and demanded her surrender. She was all but panting when they finally broke apart.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, his brow cocked in an arrogant expression she found both seductive and annoying.

“No.”

“No?” The brow went higher, and the arrogance faded.

“I want more.” She arched up to meet him, her lips taking his this time. The greatcoat fell off her shoulders, and she pressed her body to his, wanting desperately to feel him against her.

“Little temptress,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to trace her jaw and then the sensitive spot right below her ear. She shivered. No one had ever called her a temptress before. She rather liked it. She liked the feel of his mouth on her skin, and the way he kissed a path from her ear to her bare shoulder. He darted his tongue out, teasing her skin and making her want to writhe beneath him. She could not seem to touch him enough. They were not close enough. She needed more.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

“Where?” he said as his mouth traced a path to her collarbone. Her nipples puckered with anticipation and need.

“Everywhere,” she moaned as his hands, which had been fastened on her waist, moved upward and brushed the sides of her breasts. “Yes. There.”

His mouth took her lips again, while his hands cupped her breasts, palming them, his thumbs brushing over her hard, sensitive nipples. She was wanton now, thrusting herself into his hands. And when she felt her bodice open and his nimble fingers loosen her stays, when she felt his flesh on hers, she could only moan.

“You make it very difficult for me to behave as a saint,” he said against her mouth.

“Why…would you behave…as a saint?” she panted as his fingers plucked and aroused her further.

“Because you deserve a saint. You deserve more than a tumble in a filthy room on an old mattress.”

She was shaking her head, her thoughts jumbled as she felt one of his hands on her calf, inching up her leg, taking her thin silk skirts with it.

“But I can give you something.”

“Oh?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high as his hand reached her thigh and he bent his head to press his mouth to her breast. He kissed her flesh, skirting her aching nipple until finally he took it in his mouth and sucked. Everything seemed to open in her then. Heat flooded through her, and with it, a longing like she had never known. His hand touched her inner thigh, and her legs opened for him, allowing his fingers to brush over her core. “What can you give me?” she asked as his tongue flicked over her hard flesh and his hand teased her.

“Pleasure.” He moved over her, his mouth taking her other breast even as his hand stroked her more insistently under her skirts. One finger slipped inside her, and the shock of the sweet invasion made her stiffen. He paused, stilling his hand, even while his mouth continued to nip and tease the hard bud of her breast until she was aching. Slowly, very slowly, the hand he cupped against her pressed upward, exerting a slight pressure right in the place she most wanted it. Her entire being seemed to focus on that one spot, and she raised her hips to press harder against him.

At her movement, his finger slid deeper inside her and then out again. She could feel her own slickness between her legs and the wetness on his finger as he swirled it over her. Her feet seemed to go numb, and a white-hot heat curled low in her belly. His finger, or perhaps it was two now, entered her again, stroking her until she could not help but move with him.

“You are so tight. So wet. Do you have any idea how much I want to be inside you?” he asked. He was watching her now. His eyes were dark as they searched her face. She felt as though she should be embarrassed that he watched her, but she could not manage to feel anything but the pressure of his fingers and now his thumb as it circled that sensitive nub at her very center.

“Then take me,” she said, her voice rising as his thumb moved faster. “Flynn, please.”

But he only kissed her again, dragged another slick finger over her, and said, “Let go, Emma.”

How could she refuse him?

She let go. Pleasure spiraled through her and seemed to tighten every muscle in her body. She reached for him, held him close as the whirlwind swirled around her and through her. And when she could finally breathe again, think again, she opened her eyes and he was smiling down at her. She loved his smile. She wanted to take this moment—this moment when she held him and he touched her—and hold it forever. Even if she was lying in some sort of hovel and would probably be murdered when the sun rose, she would not have traded this for anything.

“I love you,” she murmured.

He stiffened. “That's the pleasure talking.”

“That is me talking.” She didn't allow him to pull away. It occurred to her that perhaps no one else had ever told him he was loved. His mother loved him, in her own way, but Emma knew the viscountess, and she was a formal, severe woman. Had she ever told her son she loved him? “Flynn,” Emma said, looking into his eyes. “I love you, and nothing you can say or do will change my mind.”

He looked at her as though she had just escaped Bedlam. “I don't know what to say.”

She wanted to laugh. She wanted to say,
I
love
you
too
would
be
nice
. Instead, she said, “Perhaps one day you will.” She knew he felt something for her. Lust? Assuredly. Affection? She hoped so. Love? She dared not even hope.

He began to pull away, and she murmured, “Stay.”

He shook his head. “If I stay, I fear you will prove too great a temptation for even my meager scruples.” He held up a finger. “And yes, I realize I have just admitted I have scruples.
Meager
scruples.”

Emma sat and watched as he backed away from her. The candle flame wavered and flickered, and she realized it would soon go out. They would be trapped in the dark. “I don't want your scruples,” she said. “I want more of you. All of you.”

“In that case, I will save you from yourself.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “How romantic.” Just then the weak light in the room dimmed further. Flynn turned as the candle went out, and they both watched as the red wick went black. In the darkness, Emma straightened her gown and wished she had done so when she could see what she was doing.

“Perhaps I can find something else to light,” Flynn said. She heard his feet shuffle on the floor as he searched for something that might do. Emma wrapped her hands about her knees. In her wildest dreams, she had never thought she would spend her last hours in a dark room in the slums of Bath with the Viscount of Vice. And, most distressingly, the Viscount of Vice was too much a man of virtue to take her maidenhead. She was going to die a virgin. How terribly unfair.

Somewhere in the distance a board creaked, and she heard the sound of boots. “Flynn?” she whispered.

“Here.” He was beside her in an instant, though she did not know how he had maneuvered through the dark room so easily. She reached out, touched his leg and then his outstretched hand. He pulled her to her feet and then against his warm body. “Stay close to me,” he said.

She wanted to ask exactly what he thought he could do to protect her, but she did not want to think of what was coming. She wrapped her arms about him and buried her face in his shirt, where she could still detect the faint scents of sandalwood and leather.

Footsteps neared the room, stopping outside the door, and then something heavy moved against the door. Light crept in from the crack under the door, and Emma looked at Flynn. It was still too dark to make out his face, but she thought she could at least detect the outline of his features.

“I have you,” he whispered. Emma realized she was shaking and clamped her teeth together to try and steady her nerves. If she was going to die, she did not want to die a coward.

With a creak, the door opened. She squinted against the sudden light from the lantern and then heard Flynn say, “What do you want?”

Emma blinked as the man stepped in the door. “Robert?” she whispered.

“We don't have much time,” he said. “I've come to rescue you.”

Emma started forward, relief surging through her, but Flynn held her in check. He gave a low laugh. “
You
came to rescue
us
? You're the one responsible for our current imprisonment.”

“And I'm the one who is going to free you.”

“Or you're the one I'm going to knock to the floor and step over on my way out. I don't need you to rescue me.”

“Flynn,” Emma said in a warning tone. She was of the opinion they actually did need someone to rescue them—or at least open the door.

“Fine. If that's what you want to do, go ahead. Be quick about it. If we stand about talking all night, Satin will return, and we'll all be dead.”

“Flynn,” Emma whispered, “let's go.”

Flynn didn't look at her. His gaze remained locked on his sibling. Finally, he nodded. “Lead the way, Brother.”

Emma did not know how much time passed or even how they escaped. She was sandwiched between Robbie Flynn in front and the viscount behind. They moved through dark streets and ducked into dirty alleyways as men rushed past them. She trusted Robbie, but she could feel Flynn tense every time they came close to a group of men. He expected his brother to betray them. She was not so naïve as to think Satin had allowed Robbie to go, which meant he was in as much danger as they were. At any other time, she might have pointed out that fact to Flynn, but she thought it more prudent to keep her mouth closed and concentrate on escaping.

At every turn, she was certain Satin or one of his thugs would jump out and kill them all, but finally, she recognized small landmarks—Kingsmead Square, Monmouth Street, Old King Street. When they neared the area close to the Royal Crescent, where her sister and Lady Chesham resided, Emma began to believe she might actually survive.

As if by some unspoken command, the three of them paused outside Queen Square, which was dark and abandoned at this late—or rather, early—hour. “What now?” Flynn asked his brother. He was holding Emma's hand, keeping her at his side. “I suppose you want some form of payment.”

Robbie shook his head. “I don't want anything. If you offered, I wouldn't take it.”

“Then why did you help us?”

Robbie shrugged and shook his dirty hair. “I never had a brother before.”

Emma bit her lip to keep from hugging the man. Couldn't Flynn see how much his brother wanted a family, wanted a place to belong? He hadn't chosen this path, but only Flynn could open the door to a new one. “What will you do now?” Flynn asked.

“I'll go back,” Robbie said.

“No!” Emma cried, unable to stop herself. “He'll kill you.”

Robert shrugged. “I don't have anything to live for anyway.”

“If you have nothing to live for,” Flynn said slowly, “then you have nothing to lose.” He seemed to study his brother, and Emma held her breath. Would he now turn his back on his own flesh and blood, the man he'd mourned practically all of his life? “Do you want to come home?”