Thief of Shadows (Maiden Lane #4)(58)

Until his fingers grasped her hair almost painfully and she knew he was at his point. She looked up then, desirous of seeing him in his throes, watching as his head rolled restlessly on his bunched shoulders, as his mouth opened, his bared teeth glinting in the moonlight.

The first spurt was strong and almost tasteless on her tongue, but the second brought salt and man and a groan from his lips as if he suffered untold agonies, and she flexed within in sympathy.

She sucked and sucked, gripping his hips to keep him within her mouth, for she’d worked for this prize and thus she’d earned every drop. When at last he began to soften, she relented and instead licked him softly. She was wet between her thighs, her body primed and ready to receive him, but he wouldn’t be able to—

His sharp movement caught her by surprise. One moment she was on her knees before him; in the next he’d hauled her upright. The grip on her arms was painful and she gave a little yelp, her eyes widening as she saw—

Then his mouth was on hers, his tongue taking possession of her, his strength all around her. She sagged against him, ready for anything he would do…

And then he was gone.

Isabel blinked, touching her bruised lips with her fingertips. Dear God, what had she done? The rest of the world came rushing back—who she was and, more importantly, who he was. For the moonlight had shone upon his face before he’d kissed her and she’d clearly seen them sparkling on his hard cheeks:

Tears.

WINTER MAKEPEACE STUMBLED to a halt in a dark corner and leaned against the wall, rubbing his hands over his face. It was wet with his tears. He’d cried like a babe. Dear Lord, what Isabel had done was earth-shattering. To be so close to another human being, for her to actually kneel before him and… It was as if another new sense had suddenly opened up. He’d felt her, felt the world around him, and at the same time knew that they were the very center, just the two of them. In that moment, the animal he’d tried to bind and cage for years had broken entirely loose and roared.

He gasped, straightening. Did she know who he was beneath the mask? Had she been doing that to Winter Makepeace or to the Ghost? If it was the Ghost, he’d feel like dying, but if it was Winter Makepeace, then she’d just changed everything. Beautiful, stubborn, terrible woman! What was she playing at?

He shook his head angrily. He could’ve stopped her. He was bigger than she, stronger than she. But he simply hadn’t wanted to stop her. At that moment with her hands upon his fall, his cock straining for release, he might’ve died had she walked away and not touched him. It’d been all he could do to keep his hands off her as long as he had. And when she’d finally held him—her sweet, beautiful mouth on the rude head of his cock…

Merely thinking about it made him hard again.

Winter cursed and cautiously stepped away from the shadows. He should rejoin the ball, should put in an appearance, but he had other matters to consider now. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Swiftly, he ducked inside a room. It was small and dark—a dressing room, perhaps—but there was a window, dimly lit by the moon. He picked up the bag containing his clothes, which he’d hidden here after changing into his Ghost costume. It’d been safer to search d’Arque’s house as the Ghost, in case he’d been discovered. His plan had been to don his suit again and go back to the ball, but no more.

Winter crossed to the window and threw up the sash, looking out. He was over the back garden, the moonlight casting shadows on geometrically trimmed hedges, and he was still three stories up. Fortunately, though, there was a decorative ledge under each windowsill. Only three inches wide—if that—but it should be sufficient.

Five minutes later, Winter dropped to the ground. He bent to take out the scrap of paper he’d hidden in his boot and tilted it so the moonlight illuminated the scrawled words: 10 Calfshead Lane.

A St. Giles address. He’d found the paper tucked under the blotting paper on d’Arque’s desk. His lip curled. Was d’Arque so sure of himself that he’d written down the address where the children were held? It seemed unlikely, but Winter wasn’t going to ignore the lead.

A woman’s laughter drifted on the night wind. Winter stilled, looking toward the house. Light spilled out into the garden as a door opened and a couple came out. The lady was leaning toward her suitor, obviously quite enthusiastic about whatever might happen in a dark garden.

Winter picked up his bag and turned away, running lightly on the mown grass, heading for the gate that would let out into the mews.

Had their tryst been merely a game for Isabel? A frivolous distraction during a frivolous ball?

Or had she known who he really was?

ISABEL HURRIED BACK to the ballroom, hoping that her absence had not been missed, but she need not have worried.

Something else had the room buzzing.

People were crowding around a man by the entrance of the ballroom, shocked murmurs and cries coming from that area. Isabel was too far away to hear what the commotion was about. She started forward only to find Lord d’Arque in front of her.

She grasped his sleeve. “What is it? What’s happened?”

He glanced distractedly down at her. “I don’t know. I couldn’t hear what he said. Come, let us find out.”

The viscount led the way through the crowd and Isabel fell in behind him. As they neared the doorway, Isabel saw that the man was in dark green livery—d’Arque’s colors were white and blue—and he was agitated. She was shocked to see tears streaming down his face.