Wicked, My Love (27 page)

“Get him,” a man ordered. “I'll check the alley.”

Footsteps crunched on the cobblestones, coming nearer and nearer. Randall clutched her tighter. She didn't breathe; her head rushed with black heat. The footfalls stopped just inches from where they lay. Randall's heart pounded against her breasts. For several seconds, no one moved. She heard the scraping sound of the man turning on his heel. He walked to the left and then the right. “Well, bloody hell,” he muttered, and then broke into a jog, the steps becoming fainter and fainter as he sprinted down the street.

Randall's lips moved against hers. His tongue delved deep in her mouth. She knotted his hair in her fingers and returned his frantic kisses, tears streaming down the sides of her face. The worst was coming to bear. The bank would fail and a political career would be destroyed, but that didn't matter at the moment. The man she loved was alive and in her arms. She kissed his jaw, his eyelids, his nose, whispering over and over, “I love you,” until his lips silenced her.

She kissed him until it was safe enough to leave, and then a few minutes more.

“Come,” he whispered, and lifted her up.

She sniffed. “I've turned into a watering pot.”

In the darkness, he gently wiped her eyes. “You have years of tears built up.”

As she stepped closer to him, her foot hit the leathery hard thing she had been lying on. She bent and felt Powers's satchel. “My love, I think we have a parting gift.”

Under the torchlight of Richard and Son's Pawn, they opened the bag and peered inside—three slim, brown books. Isabella withdrew one and opened it to the front page. “Good Lord!” she cried. “That rat stole Harding's ledgers.”

Randall kept Isabella locked by his side and Powers's satchel in his grip as he limped along the sidewalk. Aside from the missing shoe issue, his knee throbbed from Harding's spinning stick of pain. They were easy prey if any pickpocket dared ply his trade, but the wild, distraught, ready-to-kill expressions on their faces sent passing pedestrians in a wide arc to avoid them. Randall gazed up, finding St. Paul's dome rising above the chimney tops. He headed toward it. He had to be careful and keep to the dark, scary neighborhoods around the Thames. They couldn't amble along the well-patrolled, lit streets around Mayfair, since they were wanted by the police.

In a matter of hours, their lives had changed. Growing up, he had envisioned himself the powerful politician and, yes, even the prime minister. His life was to be a long, straight road leading to a golden end of greatness. Now, he didn't know what he would do in the next minute, let alone the next day or week or year. It was all new. His old life had fallen away. He needed time to think, see what Powers had given them, and in truth, he desired to hold Isabella again, skin to skin, finding strength in her kisses before the rising sun and the storm of newspaper headlines, angry customers, accusations, swarming solicitors, police interrogation, and bailiffs descended upon them.

Near the Temple Bar, they found an inn with a light in the window. A lanky man stretched on the torn sofa in the squat front parlor, his thin chest rising like a mountain and falling like a valley with his rattling snores. In the back corner, a serious young musician was hunched over a piano, drunkenly singing about a lover who had left him, oblivious to the starry-eyed servant sitting beside him.

“Ey, pardon me,” Randall said in his Mr. Randy voice. “Do you 'ave a room for me and the missus this fine evening?”

The sleeping man jolted up with a grunt, and stared about, confused. As his world came back into focus, grim lines set in around his mouth. He ruffled his wild, greasy hair. Holding his knee, he came to his feet and stretched his back with a groan. “Are you or have you ever been hired by the police or the legal profession in any capacity?” he asked them. Sewers smelled more pleasant than his breath. “Or are you related to or know a policeman, a former Bow Street Runner, or member of the judicial system?”

“You means outside of that time I was sent to prison?” Mr. Randy asked for clarification.

“Well, then, I've only got the garret room tonight,” the innkeeper said. “It's a shilling even if you ain't planning to stay the entire night. Two shillings if ye're wantin' clean water, four if ye're wantin' clean sheets, and six if ye're wantin' three lumps of coal.”

“We'll take everything.” Randall flipped a half sovereign in the air. The innkeeper caught it in his palm and jerked his head at the lovelorn servant, who scurried from the room.

“Come this way.” The innkeeper beckoned them toward a dark, narrow, steep staircase.

They climbed to a small landing with closed doors on either side. From the left door Randall heard a mattress furiously creaking and a woman repeatedly beseeching her “God in heaven.” Behind the other, a strident female voice asked, “Who ate mumsy-wumsy's last bit of plum pudding?” A whip cracked and a man yelped. “You've been a very, very bad boy and must be punished.”

The innkeeper banged his fist on the right door. “Wot did I say about whips? You stop that business this instant.” Then he yelled at the occupants of the left room, “Keep it down.”

Isabella leaned into Randall, giving him a questioning, nervous look. “I'll show you later,” he said, and wrapped a protective arm around her.

“We got rules 'ere, we do,” the innkeeper said as they ascended another flight. “No smoking in bed, no speaking above a whisper, no exchanging stolen goods or government secrets, no women putting on men's clothes and vice versa—there's a place down the street for that—no eating Mrs. Garfield's mushroom pies, climbing onto the roof naked and singing ‘Winds Today Are Large and Free' until the watch comes.” He shrugged at their confused faces. “It 'appens more often than you think.”

At the top of the stairs, the landlord stopped. The servant was leaving a room, and the corridor was so narrow that everyone had to turn to let her pass. Randall let Isabella enter before him, into a low, tiny chamber. He had to duck to keep his head from hitting the exposed rafters. Shoved in the corner was a small, slumping bed—only big enough for one person—with a slanting canopy protecting it from the open ceiling where the attic rafters were exposed. Beside the bed sat a plain oak table holding a yellowed wash basin, two folded cloths, and a burning lamp. There weren't any windows in the room, save the one in the roof, where the gorgeous, lush moon glowed down. At least the sheets appeared to be clean and the wat
er cle
ar.

“Always keep it down,” the innkeeper reminded, and left, closing the door behind him.

Isabella folded into Randall and raised her lips to his. She still couldn't believe the words that he'd said, that he loved her and wanted to give her a loving, warm home. It wasn't possible. In the morning, he would awake clearheaded and regret them. But for now, it was enough that he had said them. And tomorrow, she would face the scary knowledge that she wouldn't have Randall…or a home.

But that was hours away.

The pressure of his mouth increased, his tongue caressing hers. His fingers untied the ribbons of her bonnet, letting it fall away. She reached for his cravat, releasing the knot, and then pushed back his coat, undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, desperate to get to his bare skin.

“You have too many pieces.” She laughed, nervous with anticipation.

“Bathe me, darling.”

Her hands were shaking as she squeezed the linen, letting the water drip on his bare chest, streaming down the planes of his muscles. He was a beautiful dream that she intended to love as best she could before the nightmare descended. He released his trousers, and she sucked in her breath as he sprang up. She cleansed him, gently stroking him with the towel and then her hand, before kneeling down and taking him into her mouth. His breath was hoarse, his eyes closed, head bowed, lost in her touch.

“Oh God,” he groaned. He gently pushed her away. “Your turn.” He lifted her to her feet and spun her around, his fingers flying down the column of buttons, ripping at the laces, pulling her from their confines. All the while, she fantasized ways she would pleasure him in these last hours. She had to create memories she could hold forever. He reached around her, cupping her breasts in his hand, kissing her ear. His fingers plucked, teased, flicked her nipples, and his erection pressed against the small of her back.

She moaned. Then she was being lifted from the ground. She clasped her arms around his neck and pressed her ear to his chest, listening to his heart pounding away.

He released her onto the mattress. She sank down and down and down. “Help! It's swallowing me!”

“I'm coming in after you.” He chuckled as he dived on top of her. The mattress engulfed them. Face to face, she could see the tender light in his eyes. She smiled to herself. She could finally read him. Her fingers roved over the sandy stubble on his cheeks and the small wrinkles under his eyes.

“I love touching you,” she said.

“You can touch me whenever you like.”

Until
we
are
put
in
Newgate
, a vile little voice in her head said. She didn't want to think those scary thoughts. She closed her eyes and let him sink between her thighs.

Deep in their kiss, he entered her. Not the frantic, wild motion that characterized last evening, but a slow, gentle tempo. He released her mouth to whisper, “Say you love me again, Isabella. Please.”

“I love you.” She looked directly in his vivid eyes. “How could I not? But, Randall, you don't need to give up your life for me.”

“Hush.” His lips brushed hers.

The moon shined through the dormer window, casting shadows on his face. She knew she couldn't marry him. How could she demand that he give up his beautiful life for her? It was selfish. But she had him for tonight. She pulled him closer and raised her hips to heighten his pleasure. She released her mind, letting his touch, energy, and scent wrap her in a safe cocoon, away from the world. She softly whimpered with his rhythm until her back arched, her body rigid against his quick thrusts. Tiny, dazzling fireworks burst in her body. She writhed and, digging her nails into his forearms, she pushed harder and harder against him. He cried out, a mangled, desperate sound, then shuddered, releasing deep inside her pristine vessel where the babies were made.

He lowered his chest onto hers, kissing her neck.

She let her fingers drift like feathers down his back, over the top of his buttocks, and up again. The moon gazed down on their spent bodies.

“I love you,” he murmured.

A small root of anger took hold in her heart as she stared at the moon, feeling Randall's heartbeat against her breast. He shouldn't have to give up his Parliament seat for trying to be a good man. His honor shouldn't be torn apart for trying to be honorable. Her anger rose higher as she considered everyone Harding would hurt because he didn't get what he wanted. Mrs. Merckler shouldn't be financially destroyed for taking care of people, and the Wollstonecraft women shouldn't lose their savings for trying to have some control over their lives.

“Excuse me.” She shifted from under Randall.

“What?” he whispered, drowsy from lovemaking.

“I need to get out for a moment.”

“No, stay here.” He hugged her tight. “Mmm, it's warm and you're so soft and I have plans.”

“I'll come back. Please let me out.”

“You can try.” He rolled against the wall. She tugged her limbs free and crawled over the mattress edge. Leaning down, she patted about for her glasses until she found them and slid them in place, only to see Randall staring at her with a strange smile. “Very nice. Can you do that again?”

She jerked her head back. “Put on my glasses?”

“No, bend over to pick them up.”

“Like this, love?”

His smile turned upside down when he realized she was retrieving Harding's ledgers. “Oh no, no, no, you don't. You are not making love to me and then reading boring numbers. Was it that terrible for you?”

“It was wonderful.” She kissed his forehead and raked her fingers through his hair. “You're wonderful.” Then she offered him a ledger. “Look for something unusual.”

He yanked it from her hands and quipped, “I hope when we are poor and huddled in my estate with the roof leaking and everything that isn't entailed sold off that you don't plan to spend the nights reading ledgers in our marital bed.”

She gave him a flustered smile and crawled over him, turned her back against the wall, and raised her legs over the edge of the mattress.

“There isn't enough room in this bed for two ledgers,” he announced and looked on with her, letting his finger draw little circles around one of her rosy tips.

The numbers and names were written in a shorthand code. Some she could decipher, others she couldn't. If there was any damning evidence here, it would take days to track down. Randall had given up before her, mumbling something about going to the police tomorrow and enjoying each other's bodies while there was still time. Now his tongue flicked across her nipple. She whimpered, about to give in to the pleasure, when she saw the name Merckler.

“Fudge!” she cried, reading the lines. “He has options in Merckler.” She sat up, accidentally slamming Randall's nose.

“Ouch! Why did you do that?”

“Harding has hundreds of pounds in low options on Merckler. I have to think.” She beat her forehead with the heel of her palm. “Think! Think! Think!”

“Don't hurt yourself thinking.”

She was about to shoot Randall a smirk when the meaning fell over her. “Oh God! Oh God! The man is evil.” She pounded the wall with her fist. “I want to make him suffer. I want him to feel our pain!”

“Keep it down,” the muffled inn innkeeper's yelled up. “And you better not have a whip in there.”

She struggled over the mattress and reached for her clothes. “I have to go back to Mrs. Merckler's.”

“Now? In the middle of the night?”

“I might be able to turn this problem around. I'll take a carriage out of London until I find a train heading to Tupping-on-the-Water. I just have to…have to be back to speak to the Wollstonecraft meeting. I have to tell them the truth but reassure them, build confidence in the market. Oh God!” She squeezed her eyes closed and clenched her hands. “This won't work. I can't make that speech.”

“Yes, you can.” Randall crawled out of the bed and kissed her forehead, her nose, her chin. He stroked his fingers over her balled fists until they unfurled. “I'm not quite sure what you're talking about, but I have all the faith in the world in you. I'll help. I'll be there with you.”

She shook her head. “You can't.”

“Even though I won't be standing next to you,” he assured her, leaning down until they were eye to eye. “I'll be in the audience—”

“No, I mean you must go to my stockbroker and explain to him that you're not the footman
d'amour
, and ask him to buy one hundred shares in Merckler Metalworks as soon as possible.”

“What?”

“We're backed into a corner. We are going to go down if we do nothing. Now is the time to gamble boldly.” She smiled to herself.
That's right, Mr. Harding.
“I see a way out. We have to try it.”

“I'm not leaving you again. I almost had a heart attack when I saw you being tossed into Har
ding's carriage.”