Wicked Intentions (Maiden Lane #1)(81)

“But who?”

He shook his head. “In any case, I can no longer take you into St. Giles. Not while this murderer is at large.”

She nodded silently, her brows knit at his pronouncement. Was she that docile to his command, or would she disobey him later? The thought made him restless—that he had no real power over this woman. She could do as she pleased no matter what he thought or how he worried.

The kettle came to a boil after a bit and she filled her teapot. He followed her into her little sitting room, squatting to make up the fire there as she sat on her stool. Then he lounged in the chair and watched, ridiculously content, as she poured herself a cup of tea and added sugar. It occurred to him that he wouldn’t mind spending every evening for the rest of his life thus, watching her take her first sip of hot tea, considering the way she half closed her eyes in relaxation.

“How is your sister?” he asked after a bit.

She looked up quickly, perhaps surprised, and that irritated him.

He raised his eyebrows. “Silence, I think? Has she recovered from her confrontation with O’Connor?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I haven’t heard from her at all. Winter won’t talk to me; he simply goes about his work without discussing anything. Concord is quite angry—or perhaps disapproving is a better word.”

“And the children?” he asked. “How fare they?”

She cradled her cup between her hands. “Mostly they seem the same as usual. Mary Whitsun follows me about the house like a shadow, though, as if she fears I’ll disappear if she loses sight of me.”

He nodded, unsure of what to say to all this. His experience with families—indeed, with feelings—was woefully inadequate.

She inhaled. “And you? How is your shoulder?”

“Almost as good as new.”

She was silent for several seconds, and then she asked quietly, “Why do you think Marie never told you about her brother?”

“Perhaps because I never asked her about her family.” He shrugged. “The fact of the matter is that we hardly talked at all. There wasn’t a need to in our relationship.”

“So, when you saw her, you’d simply…”

“Fuck. Yes.” He watched her, waiting for her revulsion. “I didn’t want or need anything else from her.”

“And me?” she whispered.

He inhaled. “From you I want much, much more.”

Chapter Fifteen

Now Meg sat all alone in her tiny dungeon cell that day, for no one came to visit her. She busied herself tidying the cell and then washed herself in the bucket of water and combed out her long golden hair. She’d almost resigned herself to going to bed when there was a tap at the door to her cell. In came three lady’s maids and one very elegant hairdresser, and before she knew it, Meg was arrayed in a sparkling blue gown, her hair dressed with pearls, and fine heeled slippers on her feet.

“Why, what is the meaning of this?” she cried in astonishment.

The hairdresser bowed and replied, “Tonight you are to dine with the king himself.”…

—from King Lockedheart

Temperance watched him, this exotic creature, this man from a foreign world, saying that he wanted more from her. How much more? She wanted to ask but feared the answer.

So instead she set down her teacup. “Very well.”

He nodded, staring into the flames of the fire. He seemed content with their pact, whatever it was, but she felt heat unfurling in her belly. She wanted more as well.

“You haven’t told me about your family.”

He shook his head irritably. “That’s not true. I’ve told you about my sister, about my mother.”

“But not about your father,” she said in a low voice. She didn’t know where it came from, this sudden need to know all his secrets. Perhaps it was the knowledge that a murderer stalked the streets of St. Giles; perhaps it was the subtle brush with death. All she knew was that she wanted to know him, this man she’d taken into her body.

He stiffened. “My father was an aristocrat. There’s nothing more to tell of him.”

She cocked her head, watching him. His eyes were back on the fire, and there was quite obviously much more to tell.

“What did he look like?”

He glanced at her, startled. “He was… a big man.”

“Taller than you?” she asked.

“Yes.” He frowned. “No, that’s not true. I was taller by the time I returned from Oxford. He just seemed… large.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he said abruptly.

“But you want more from me,” she said. “Shouldn’t I, in turn, want more from you?”

He smiled crookedly. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Dews. What do you want to know of me?”

“Maybe I want to know everything,” she said boldly.

“Ah, can anyone ever know everything about another person?”

“Probably not,” she said, rising.

He stilled, watching as she took two steps to stand in front of him.

“Probably we remain separate, lonely individuals for all of our lives,” she murmured, perching on his spread knee. She touched the folds of his neckcloth and then began unwrapping it. “We can never know another truly. Isn’t that what you want me to say?”