Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(52)

But she dug her nails into his hair and pulled suddenly, surprising an exclamation of pain from him.

It was all she needed. She darted, a fleeing hare before a hawk, wildly dashing down the dark corridor.

HE’D BEWITCHED HER.

Temperance panted as she rounded the corner of the dark passage. Panic was a live thing in her throat, fluttering and threatening to choke off her air. To drive reason itself from her mind.

How had he known? Was her shame a blaze upon her face for all men to see? Or was he a wizard who could discern the sensual weaknesses of women? For she’d been weakened. Her legs had quivered under him; her center had turned liquid with shameful want. She’d gazed through that awful peephole and described the scene within, and dear God, she’d liked it. The terrible words he’d whispered in her ear as he thrust against her bottom had left her hot and lusting. She’d wanted him to mount her like a rutting stallion in the sordid little passage of a brothel.

Perhaps she’d already lost her mind.

The door to the outer hallway was unlocked. It sprang open at her touch, and then she was flying down the stairs, the heavy tread of Lord Caire’s boots right behind her. She made the square little hall and heard him curse and stumble. Thank goodness! Whatever his delay, it gave her a few extra seconds. She flung open the door to the brothel and fled into the night.

The wind took her breath, and something small and mean and four-legged scuttled from her path. She ducked into a tiny covered alley, her footsteps echoing against the ancient stone walls. She ran without direction or thought, panic beating at her breast. If he caught her, he’d kiss her again. He’d press his length to her, and she’d taste his mouth, feel his touch, and she wouldn’t be able to break away a second time. She’d succumb, wallowing in her own sinful nature.

She couldn’t let that happen.

So when she heard him call her name behind her, she made herself slow down, made herself move more stealthily. The covered alley opened into a tiny courtyard. She glanced behind her and darted across it. Her breast was burning, and she wanted to gasp, but she made herself breathe slowly, softly, and look behind her. The courtyard was empty. His voice had been distant. Perhaps she’d lost him.

Temperance crept through an alley, ducked into a side street, and then turned down another passage. The moon was out, giving her some feeble light. She’d run so fast and in such a rush that she had no idea where she was now. The buildings to either side were dark. She crossed a street, running fast again, a thrill of fear bolting up her back. She paused for a moment in the shadows of a house, peering behind her. She couldn’t see Lord Caire. Perhaps he’d given up the chase? Except that didn’t seem very like—

“You fool!” he hissed into her ear.

She yelped, an ignoble sound, but he’d scared the wits out of her.

He took her upper arms and shook her, his voice rasping with rage. “Have you no sense? I promised your brother I’d take care of you, and then you go running willy-nilly into the worst part of St. Giles.”

She gaped up at him, stunned, her only thought that he was enraged because of fear for her. She’d thought he’d chased her out of sexual frenzy when all the time he’d been concerned for her safety. Temperance couldn’t help it. She threw back her head and laughed, the wind taking the sound from her lips and spinning it high.

Lord Caire frowned down at her. “Stop that. It’s not funny.”

Which, of course, only made her laugh harder.

He sighed in male frustration and shook her again, but it was halfhearted. He began to pull her toward himself, and her fears of his attraction flooded back, sobering her. She placed her palms against his chest in weak protest.

And then he shoved her roughly behind him.

She stumbled at the sudden movement, then caught herself and looked up. A group of men had walked into the street, all of them armed with cudgels. Caire twisted and broke apart his walking stick. The short sword was in his right hand, the remainder of the stick in his left, and he didn’t hesitate but flew at the attackers.

“Run!” he bellowed to her as he charged the men.

They hadn’t expected such an abrupt offensive. Two of the men fell back, one hesitated, but the remaining two closed on Caire. Temperance felt for her pistol. She’d tied the sack she usually carried it in to her waist under her skirts, and she began hauling up the material.

There was a short scream, horribly cut off. She looked up in time to see one of Caire’s attackers fall back, his face awash in blood. Caire was whirling gracefully, his cape flying out about him, as he thrust at another man.

“Temperance! Obey me now. Run!”

Abruptly, a thick arm wrapped around her neck, choking off her scream.

“Throw down yer sword,” a rough voice said near her ear, “or I’ll break ’er neck.”

Caire turned, his eyes narrowing as he saw her plight, and then the man holding Temperance grunted and went limp. She scrambled away as he fell to the ground. She gasped and looked up and saw…

An apparition, moving silently and swiftly past her. The attackers never even knew he—it?—was there until one was run through. Was she dreaming? Had she been killed and not even known it? For the thing that fought silently and deadly beside Caire now was like nothing she’d ever seen.

He was tall and lean and wearing a black and red motley tunic. His breeches, jackboots, and wide-brimmed hat were all black. A black half-mask covered the upper part of his face, the nose grotesquely long, and eerie lines carved around the eyes and protruding cheeks. He held a glittering sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other, and he used both at once with deadly agility, skipping nimbly over the cobblestones as he fought.