Claimed by the Rogue (22 page)

But the present life-and-death scenario precluded indulging such salacious thoughts, let alone acting upon them. He snapped his gaze safely back to hers. “The bonnet, if you please.”

Reaching up, she pulled out the long hatpin, removed the headgear and handed it over. As if realizing the pin’s potential as a weapon, she held onto it, and then slowly and carefully slid it inside her bodice—clever girl!

He dropped the hat to the dirt and crushed the crown beneath his heel.

Phoebe winced. “I just purchased that…at Harding, Howell & Company, no less.”

He picked up the wreckage and dropped it in the nearest bin. “Once this is over, I’ll buy you the shop if you like. For now, muss your hair a bit more.”
 

She let out a huff and bent headfirst, ruffling her hair between both hands, shedding pins onto the cobbles. Fortunately, haring away from their pursuers had helped in that regard. Even though she’d managed to hold onto her hat until now, much of her hair had worked free of its moorings. Straightening, she said, “Well, say something. Shall I do?”

Robert nodded. “Barely but yes.” Short of knocking out a few of her pearlescent teeth or blackening an eye, there was nothing he could do to blunt her beauty. “Once we step out onto the street, mind you hunch your shoulders.”

Phoebe stared at him aghast. “Why? Will you being hunching yours as well?”

Drawing a deep breath, Robert called for patience. “The way you carry yourself marks you as a lady far more than any finery.” He extended his hand toward her. “Shall we?”

She hesitated, and then slapped her slender hand into his. “Lead on.”

Picking a path through rubbish and broken glass, Robert brought them to the opposite end of the alley. He released Phoebe and stepped out, casting his gaze up and down the street.
 

“Coast’s clear,” he whispered, beckoning Phoebe to join him.

She did, falling into step beside him. Though the natural urge was to forge ahead to safety as swiftly as possible, doing so would draw undue attention. Tamping down his impatience, Robert forced them to hold to an amble.
 

Well Street was the next over from Rosemary Lane. Though their pace seemed maddeningly slow, still it didn’t take them more than a few minutes to reach it. Quiet and tucked away, the lodging house was ideally situated for their fugitive purposes. Swinging above the door, a hinged sign read:
Lodgings for Travelers
.

Phoebe hesitated. “Are you certain this is the place your friend recommends?”

Robert wasn’t certain of much these days, but he flattered himself that his powers of reason hadn’t yet deserted him entirely. “It looks to be the only lodging house here.” His boatswain might not have the most refined tastes in women or rooms, but at the moment their pressing need was for four walls and a roof, preferably with a door that might be bolted from within.

Robert opened the door for her to enter. “Follow my lead and let me do the talking.” Her plum-in-the-mouth speech would give her away as surely as her ladylike deportment.

He dealt her a light shove and followed her inside. The door falling closed behind him cut off most of the light, barring the scant rays admitted through the smeared panes of one narrow window and the tallow candles set in wall brackets throughout. The air was close, thick and reeking. Several patrons slumped on bare wooden benches, puffing upon pipes and swigging glasses of what must be rum or gin. One old salt sprawled full-body across the seat, snoring loudly. A dirty-faced child played in the filthy straw while a woman, presumably her mother, looked on with bleary eyes.
 

The blousy brunette pulling pints from behind the bar must be Sandy’s Bess. Roping an arm around Phoebe’s shoulders, Robert steered them over. “Good day, mistress.”

She looked them up and down. “I’d say that’s a matter o’ opinion. Name your pleasure—gin, porter or ale?”

Bespeaking all of the above was not without appeal but getting foxed wasn’t a luxury that Robert could presently afford. He lowered his voice. “I’m a mate of Sandy’s—his captain, in point.”

Bess’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s even half true, then why hasn’t he been around to visit me?”

Robert thought quickly. “The Swan is in dry dock at the moment. I’m afraid I’ve kept him and the rest of the crew busy with breaming her. I’m sure he’ll come calling as soon as he can.”
 

Bess slammed a foamy pint down upon the bar. “He’d better.”
 

Treading warily, Robert gestured toward a crooked set of stairs in the back. “He mentioned you had rooms for let above-stairs.” He glanced over to Phoebe. Slack-jawed and slump-shouldered, she made for a reasonably believable slattern barring her eyes, which seemed to bore holes in the side of his face. “My wife is newly breeding, and I was hoping she might rest for an hour or so.”

Wife, breeding
—the lie rolled smoothly off his tongue, no doubt because he dearly wished that circumstances were indeed so. Phoebe, however, seemed less than pleased. He heard her sharp intake of breath and tightened his hold on her shoulders.

Bess cracked a laugh. “Your wife is it? Blimey, that’s rich.” She looked over to Phoebe. “Sorry, I don’t let by the hour and even if I was to, we’re booked.”

Robert looked about before reaching for his money clip. Flashing it discretely, he asked, “Would this be of help in securing a vacancy?”

Chewing on her lip, she appeared to prevaricate. “Well, there is one room that might suit. A dress lodger lets it, but she won’t be back until later.”

Catching a sideways glimpse of Phoebe’s face—her shocked, horrified,
furious
face—Robert remarked, “How fortuitous.”
 

“’Tis a fiver for the hour.”

Phoebe spoke up, “That’s highway rob—”

“Most generous, we’ll take it.” Robert flipped through the wad of notes and took out two. “Only let’s make it a tenner, and perhaps you could see your way to sending up some soup and a bottle of your best port?”

Snatching the bills and tucking them into her bodice, Bess broke into a gap-toothed grin. “I knew you for a gentleman the moment I clapped eyes on you…Captain.”

A sharp elbow slammed into his side, the very spot where the bruised ribs were just beginning to heal. Swallowing an oath, he turned to find Phoebe glaring up at him.

Syrupy smile at odds with her narrowed eyes, she cooed, “Dearest, a word with you, if I may.”

“Can it not wait until we are settled, my beloved?” Until he secured her behind a bolted door, he couldn’t begin to feel safe.

“No, it cannot.”
 

Lest another jab drive home her point, he took hold of her elbow and steered them out of Bess’s earshot.

Dropping any pretense of smiling, she leaned in and whispered, “I can’t go upstairs with you—to a…
prostitute’s
chamber. I’ll be ruined beyond redemption.”

Ruined—was that all? He gestured to encompass their fellow patrons, all in various states of inebriation. “Do you honestly imagine anyone here has plans to report back to the patronesses of Almack’s or your mother, for that matter? Beyond all, if that lot catches up with us—and they could walk in here at any time—you may find yourself spending eternity at the bottom of the Thames and me with you.”

Judging from her widening eyes, that last bit brought her around. Taking her hand, he backtracked them to Bess at the bar. “If you would be so good as to see us up now, I would be most grateful.”

She grabbed a ring of keys and ducked beneath the overpass. Joining them on the other side, she said, “To be sure it ain’t what your
wife
is accustomed to, but the bed is made and the sheets changed every other month.”

She led them up. A narrowed hallway and three closed doors comprised the uppermost floor. After some confusion over which key fit which lock, she got the desired door open. Not sure what they would find within, Robert entered first. It was a simple chamber, sparsely furnished with a rope bed, wardrobe, washstand and a small table set with two straight-back chairs. Though the furniture had seen better days and the air was tinged with stale spirits and sour sweat, all in all it was cleaner than Robert had dared hope. A single window faced onto the front, affording an unobstructed view of the street. He walked over to it and looked out.

“I’ll just leave you love birds to your roost,” their hostess said with a laugh. “I’ll send up refreshments anon.”

Joining him at the window, Phoebe asked, “I am curious. What about the footpad on the box made you so certain he wasn’t Caleb?”

“The oysters.”

She stared at him. “The oysters? How so? You remarked they were his favorite food.”

Hoping that his friend yet lived, he explained, “Caleb is a Shiite. His Halal diet forbids consuming crustaceans other than shrimps and prawns. He wouldn’t defile himself by touching a single oyster, let alone an entire parcel.”
 

“So it was a lie to draw them out.”

“It was.”

She sent him a fleeting smile. “It seems Mistress Fry’s gift saved us—as did you.”

That was as near to praise as he had so far come with her. Pressing his momentary advantage, he pointed out, “Those men were no common footpads but professional murderers.”
 

She lifted her eyebrows as though never before considering such a thing. “Your powers of reasoning must run deep indeed. How, may I ask, do you deduce this?”

“Most criminals are simple souls as well as lazy. Once a mark gives them the slip, they merely move on to another. This lot is entirely too intrepid for robbery to be their primary motive. They didn’t choose us by happenstance. Someone hired them to kidnap you and most likely murder me.”

“Who would wish to do either?”

“Perhaps Aristide has hopes of hastening the wedding?”

Her gaze shuttered. “That is perfectly absurd.”

Once again he found himself in the thrall of powerful emotions pulling him in polar directions. He wanted to shake her until her skull rattled, but he also wanted to kiss her until she swooned—a direct violation of her first rule.

“Is it? The fall from my mount was no accident. Someone severed the cinch.”

Surprise supplanted her skepticism. “You should have told me.”

Finally something he’d said seemed to have sunk in. Grateful for it, he answered honestly, “I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

The next few seconds slipped by in silence.

Stepping into it, Robert continued, “The gold-toothed villain from the market today bears a startling resemblance to the Almack’s groom who handed over my horse.”
 

Her mouth firmed. “That does not prove Aristide hired him.”

Phoebe was one of the most loyal souls he’d ever known, and the Frenchman was as yet her fiancé. He couldn’t fault her for taking Bouchart’s part no matter how much hearing her defend him might rankle—or hurt.

“No, it does not,” he admitted, tamping down his frustration. Were Phoebe not with him, he wouldn’t be the one in hiding—prey. The gold-toothed villain would be. But once again, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—risk her. Bringing her into this section of the city had been sufficient foolishness to last him a lifetime.

He reached for her hand. To his surprise she gave it. “I am sorry to have distressed you. My only worry is your well-being. Until we—I—get this sorted, have a care about Bouchart. If he is capable of even a fraction of what I think, he is a dangerous man.”

She hesitated, and then nodded. “Very well, I shall bear in mind all that you have said—provided you have done with hiding secrets. Whatever you discover of him, whether it damns or exonerates him, promise you will tell me the truth?”

He smoothed his thumb over the inside of her wrist. “I promise.” Though the prospect of being touched still tested him and perhaps always would, caressing her in even the slightest of ways brought him inordinate pleasure. Craving more, he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over the spot where his digit had stroked.

Phoebe released a trembling breath. “Mind the first rule is no kissing.”

Smiling against the striking pulse, he said, “I believe that was meant only for mouths, otherwise I should not have agreed to it.”

“Robert, we cannot—”

“Hush, or perhaps I shall impose a fourth rule of my own invention—no talking,” he said, only teasing in part. Since his return, words always seemed to land them in deep dun territory, whereas their bodies communicated in perfect accord.

His gaze fell upon her throat. Long, elegant and cream-colored, it was fashioned for kissing. Angling his head to the side, he trailed his mouth along the slender column and then touched his tongue to the heated hollow above her clavicle. The exertion of eluding their pursuers had salted her skin, deliciously so. Robert closed his eyes and breathed her in. Musk mingled with the other scents she wore—vanilla and lemon and some light floral fragrance he’d never been able to name but which belonged intimately to her.
 

And then there were her breasts. He’d seen them bared but once, six years before on his last night in London when they’d exchanged the lockets. It had been dark, lit only by the moon and the lantern he’d brought. She’d been shy then, of the light, of
him
. Afraid of frightening her off, he’d let her stay to the shadows, worshipping her with his mouth and tongue and hands. He remembered her as small but shapely, with nipples that budded to life in his palms—and tasted of apricots on his tongue.