If You Give a Rake a Ruby (18 page)

“I knew she'd bring you to me one way or another.”

A deadly calm settled over Warrick. “You have me now. You can let her go.” He dropped his pistol and kicked it out of reach. In the back of his mind, he could hear the screams of those dying men on the battlefield, and he willed them away. They faded but would not cease.

“I don't think so,” Bayley said. “She and I have matters to settle, but I will make you a bargain. I won't kill her until after I've killed you.”

“Get out of h—!” Fallon hissed before her father jerked her and cut off her words. Warrick's gaze met hers, and he saw the anger and fire in her eyes. He saw the pain too. Bayley was hurting her. He glanced at her neck and saw the rivulet of blood making a slow, crimson path to her collarbone.

Her mouth moved.
I'm not worth it
.

Warrick shook his head. There, she was wrong. “This and more,” he said quietly.

“What?” Bayley barked.

“Let her go.” Warrick held out his hands. “I'm unarmed. You can have me, collect your prize, live out the rest of your life in”—he glanced about in disgust—“comfort.”

“Do you think me that much a fool, boy? Pull the knife out of your boot. Do it slowly now, and toss it this way.”

Warrick gritted his teeth and unsheathed the knife. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it flying into the gloom behind Bayley.

“Now, we're going to make a trade, nice and easy like,” Bayley said. “You take her place.”

“No!” Fallon cried before Bayley shook her, silencing her.

Warrick didn't like it, but it would give Fallon a chance at escape. That was, if she would run. Lily was probably still out there, hiding, watching the shop. She would catch Fallon, take her home, get her to safety. Fallon would be safe.

And he would be dead.

“All right,” Warrick agreed. He looked at Fallon, eyes hard. “When I take your place, you run. Get out of this shop.”

“No!”

“Do it, Fallon! Don't make me die for nothing.”

“Oh, isn't that romantic,” Bayley cooed. “I feel all warm inside.”

“Stubble it, Bayley, and let's get this done.” Warrick's gaze never left Fallon's eyes. He gave her a hard glare, and she glared right back. He wasn't certain if that meant she'd follow his orders or countermand them. In any case, he was out of time.

Bayley shifted Fallon so that the knife was still at her neck but she was off to one side. Warrick indicated the empty space before him with a flick of his eyes. “As soon as I have you, I let her go.”

“Very well.” Warrick swallowed and took a step forward. He'd always thought, at the end, that everything in the world around him would slow. He'd remember sweet moments from his childhood—a lullaby his mother sang him or a horse ride on his father's back. The memory of the first girl he'd kissed would flash before him or the first time he and his friends at Oxford had gotten drunk. He was certain he'd always remember the splendor of the palace when he'd been first called before the King and Queen or the anguish he'd felt when he'd had to take a life for the first time, even though it was the life of an enemy.

But he thought of none of these things. His mind was filled with images of Fallon—her smile, her frown, the feel of her hand in his, the sound of her voice. For a moment he longed for what might have been. They could have had a life together. He could have been happy with her. He could have made her happy.

But he was a fool for ever thinking it so. He'd always known marriage and family weren't within his reach. His gaze was still locked on Fallon's face as he took his last step into Bayley's reach. The screams that haunted Warrick for years rose in pitch and crescendoed as he took his last breath and stepped forward.

***

Frankie was screaming. The sound startled Fallon, and she had to control the impulse to jump lest she cut her own neck on her father's knife. She felt the tremor run through her father and knew this was it. This was her only chance. Frankie came to his knees, and Fallon squirmed away from her father.

“Now!” she yelled at Warrick.

Her father reached for her, but it was too late. The moment's distraction had cost him, and Warrick was right there to take advantage. She paused a second to admire Warrick's quick reflexes. His hand shot out, grabbed her father's wrist, and shoved him back until he was pinned to the wall. She heard some sort of scuffle from that corner, but her attention was still on Frankie. His hand had been on his cheek and now it came away, covered in sticky blood.

“What the devil have you done to me, you bitch?” he screamed, rising unsteadily to his feet.

“You're not so pretty anymore, Frankie,” she said. “In fact, I should think the ladies will be more eager to run from you than to you in the future.”

“I'm going to kill you.” He lunged for her, but she ducked and sidestepped behind him. He rounded on her, quickly, and she was forced back. In her peripheral vision, she saw Warrick and her father struggling. She couldn't see who was winning, but she prayed it was Warrick. She took another step back as Frankie advanced, and her foot kicked something solid. She glanced down, saw it was Warrick's pistol, and dove for it.

Unfortunately, Frankie saw it too. He reached for it at the same time she did, and their hands locked on the weapon together. “Let go!” she ordered, but she knew it was futile. His strength would win this one. They both tugged at the weapon, and when he yanked, she let go. Frankie stumbled back, and she turned to Warrick. She could see his back and the slumped form of her father in front of him.

Good. He'd won that battle. She'd bought him that time, and she could only pray it was enough. At least now he had a chance. She looked at Frankie, and took a deep breath as he raised the pistol.

“No!” Warrick rammed into Frankie, sending the ball wide and clear of her. He knocked Frankie down and the two men melded into a tangle of arms and legs. Fallon ran first to her father, ensuring he wouldn't interfere in the fight. But his eyes were wide and unseeing. Her gaze traveled from his waxy face to the knife protruding from his belly.

She could feel no joy in his death, only relief. “Good-bye, Da,” she whispered and closed his eyes.

She rose slowly and turned back to the men who were now rolling about on the floor. She moved closer, trying to see how she might aid Warrick. Frankie rolled over, and Warrick looked up at her. Blood and dirt were smeared across his face. “Get out of here!” he ordered.

“Not without you.”

The men rolled again, and Warrick was on top. He punched Frankie hard enough to cause real damage, but Frankie didn't flag. Instead, he reached for Warrick's neck, took hold, and shook Warrick. Fallon swallowed in sympathy and glanced around for some sort of aid. She spotted the pistol lying in a corner and rushed to pick it up. “Frankie, let him go,” she said, pointing the pistol at the men.

Good thing she had no intention of firing it. She'd never get a clear shot.

“I'll kill him and then you,” Frankie hissed.

“Shoot him!” Warrick told her. Fallon didn't have the heart to tell him she didn't know how to prime the thing much less fire it. The men rolled again, and Warrick was on the bottom with Frankie's hands about his throat. Even in the murky light, Fallon could see Warrick's face was turning an unhealthy shade of purple.

Frankie lifted Warrick's head and slammed it into the floor. Fallon winced.

“Shoot him!” Warrick croaked.

She couldn't shoot him, but she could do something. While Frankie choked the life from Warrick, she rushed up behind him, raised the pistol, and brought it down hard on the back of his head. He turned to her, angrily, and she hit him across the face. Her hand exploded with dull pain, and she stepped back to cradle it. She was glad she had. Warrick threw Frankie off and struck the other man hard in the nose.

Fallon heard the crack and blinked. And then Warrick's arms were around her, and she was hauled against his chest. He smelled of dirt and sweat and blood, and she had never been so glad to bury her head into a man's chest before.

“Why didn't you run?” he asked her, holding her so tightly she didn't think she could have answered even if she'd wanted to. He pulled back. “We have to get out of here. Can you run?”

She nodded. She was bone-weary, but seeing him gave her renewed strength. She felt at that moment she could do anything with him beside her. Hand-in-hand, they started up the stairs and, breathless, pushed the cellar door open together.

A giant stood before them, arms crossed, frown permanently etched into his features. Warrick sighed, and Fallon almost turned back. The man reminded her of Titus, her butler. But Titus would never hurt her. This man was obviously of a different mind-set.

“Now wait a moment, chap,” Warrick said, holding his arms up as the man stepped forward. “There's nothing to fight for any longer. Your employer is dead.”

The giant was still coming, so Fallon added, “It's true. He has a knife sticking out of his belly. Go see for yourself.”

The giant reached for Warrick, grabbed him by the shirt, and shook him. Fallon screamed and stepped aside to avoid being slammed by one of Warrick's doll-like limbs. She grabbed one of the giant's arms and tried to pry it down so he would release Warrick, but she was lifted off her feet. The giant shook her off and slammed Warrick to the ground. Warrick landed in a heap in the corner. Fallon blinked and stepped out of the giant's reach, but he wasn't looking at her.

He lumbered forward, intent upon Warrick. When he bent to grab him again, Fallon did the only thing she could think of. She jumped on the giant's back. It was like riding a small, untamed horse. The giant whirled around, reaching for her, trying to grab her. She held on, wrapping her arms around his neck and squeezing. Her efforts left her breathless but seemed to have no effect on her father's man. “Warrick!” she screamed when the giant swiped her with one great paw.

“Coming,” he mumbled. She could see him attempting to rise, using the wall to pull himself slowly to his feet. And then something tapped her shoulder and when she looked that way, something hard and heavy was thrust before her.

“Here, try this,” someone said.

Fallon didn't question it. She raised the crowbar and slammed it over the giant's head. He stumbled but didn't fall. Fallon shook her head. Was the thing even human? He was still grabbing for her, careening wildly to and fro, and she was losing her one-armed grip. She took a last try at him, her aim ineffective, and slid off his back and onto the hard floor.

Lily—
Lily?
—took the crowbar, stepped neatly forward, and lowered it with a loud
thunk
on the giant's head.

The man went down like a large tree, narrowly avoiding flattening Warrick, who managed to lurch to the side.

Fallon blinked and stared open-mouthed at Lily. “What are you doing here?”

Lily offered her bare hand and Fallon almost hesitated to take it. Her own hands were filthy, and Lily's skin was still pristine white. Lily grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Pretend you don't see me.”

“Pretend I… what is going on?”

Warrick wrapped his coat around her, and Fallon nodded her appreciation. Her dress was in tatters.

“If that is all then?” Lily said, looking at Warrick.

“Thank you,” he said. “You should go.”

Lily squeezed Fallon's arm, then turned in a whirl of black cape and was gone.

Fallon shook her head. “I don't understand. What is going on?”

Warrick took her arm and led her from the shop. “You and I are going home. This is over.”

Fallon began to nod, to agree, and then she stopped.

“What is it?”

“It's not over yet. I know who hired my father to kill you and the other spies.”

Warrick knew he should interrogate Fallon immediately. After all, this was the information he'd been seeking for weeks. If she knew who the traitor was, then he owed it to King—or at least Queen—and country to find said traitor and bring him to justice before another of the Diamonds in the Rough turned up with his throat slit.

But Warrick couldn't seem to care about all of that at the moment. Fallon was standing before him, and she was alive. Right there, in the middle of Seven Dials, he pulled her into his arms and held her. She was dwarfed by his voluminous greatcoat, but he rested his cheek on the top of her hair, which still miraculously smelled of jasmine. “I thought I'd lost you,” he whispered into her chestnut tresses.

She pushed him back with both hands, and he stumbled with incredulity.

“You
should
have lost me,” she said. “You were a fool in there.” Fallon nodded her head toward the dark shop in the distance.

Warrick stiffened. “Pardon me?”

“No, I won't. How could you risk yourself and the lives of the other spies by coming in after me? That was exactly what my father wanted, and he almost succeeded in killing you.”

Warrick raised a brow. “I beg to differ—”

“You may beg all you want, but your actions were foolish and idiotic. I'm no one and nothing. You have a duty to your country to save the other spies and ferret out the traitor.”

“And you say I'm the fool.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Think whatever you like, but you know if another man in your position had acted as you did, you would chastise him severely.” She shook her head. “And all because you fancy yourself in love with me.”

“Fancy?” He clenched his fists. “
Fancy?
” he roared, unable to contain his fury any longer. A window above a nearby shop opened, spilling light onto the damp, muddy street, and somewhere a baby started crying. “I have never
fancied
a thing in my life. I'm no squealing woman or smooth-faced schoolboy.” He grabbed her by the arms and hauled her forward until their noses were all but touching. “If I say I am in love with you, you can damn sure believe I am.”

“Then take 'er to bed already!” a voice called out from a nearby doorway. “So the rest of us can get a wink or two.”

Warrick glanced about and saw half a dozen faces peering out at them from doors and windows. He took Fallon's arm and led her away from their audience. It had started raining again, and he felt the sting of the drops as they hit his face. He pushed her into the doorway of a shop and out of the rain. “If anyone is a fool,” he hissed, “it's you, Fallon. You don't realize your own worth.”

She shook her head. “No, Warrick.
You
don't realize it. I'm worth nothing. I'm not even Fallon. I'm Maggie, and I'm nothing but the daughter of a thief and a whore. And that man you were fighting in there? That horrible man? I gave him my maidenhead when I was only fifteen.”

Warrick's hands tightened on her arms.

“That's right. You have no idea where I've been or what I've done. You don't love me. You don't even
know
me.”

He stared at her for a long time. “Yes, I do,” he said quietly. “I do know you, Fallon.”

“I told you, I'm—”

“No, you're not. You're not Maggie anymore and you haven't been for a long time. I don't care about your past, and I don't condemn you for it either. It made you the woman you are today.”

“And what is that but a high-priced whore?”

“We both know that's not true. I don't see a courtesan when I look at you.” He reached out and smoothed a wet tendril of hair from her cheek. “When I look at you, I see a woman who is beautiful, brave, and resourceful. I see a woman who's not afraid to fight. I see a woman who has more strength and resilience than ten of her so-called betters.”

She shook her head, disbelieving. “You're daft.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But I don't care. I'm going to marry you, Fallon.”

“What?” She took a step back. Was he back to marriage again? “No, you're not. Your mother will never consent to that.”

“Good thing I don't need my mother's consent to marry.”

“But your father…” She gestured with her hand as though that simple expression could illustrate the utter ridiculousness of his proposal.

Warrick nodded. “Honestly, I will be sorry to widen the distance between my father and me. But if he doesn't choose to accept you, that's his loss.”

“No.” She shook her head and moved back another step. “I'm not going to marry you. I don't want to marry you or anyone, and I don't love you.”

Warrick's heart twisted, but he forced a smile on his face. Reaching for her, he pulled her against him. Her hands were ice, and he could feel her shivering. “I don't think you quite understand,” he said, rubbing her arms to warm her. “I'm not asking you.”

She stiffened. “Oh, well, if you think you're going to
order
me to—”

“Fallon.” He put a finger over her lips. “Stubble it.” He lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her cold lips with his own warm ones. She was stiff and unyielding, but gently he coaxed and persuaded her to soften to him. When her hot little tongue met his, he had to remind himself where they were, lest he push her up against the doorway and take her right there. A crack of thunder boomed above them, and the rain began in earnest. Warrick broke the kiss, smoothed his hair back, and squinted. “I'd better get you home and into something warm and dry.” Like his bed. “Let's start back for The Merry Widow and pray my coach and driver haven't been carried away by Daisy's… neighbors.”

He pulled her along behind him, and before they'd reached the brothel, his coach steered toward them. “I've been driving around looking for you, sir!” his coachman said, jumping down and opening the door for them. “Get in, and I'll have you home warm and dry in no time.”

“Thank you, James,” Warrick said, helping Fallon in and then climbing in after her. The rain beat on the roof of the carriage, making conversation all but impossible. Warrick didn't mind. At this point he had nothing more to say. And Fallon looked as though she were half in a daze. He supposed he should have done things properly, taken her hand, told her how ardently he admired her, asked her to be his esteemed wife. But neither of them had ever been much concerned with propriety, and he was tired of waiting for her to realize that she loved him as much as he loved her. Perhaps after a few years of marriage she would come to see they were perfect for each other.

His gut clenched, but he refused to acknowledge that nagging voice that warned him that she didn't love him and never would.

When they reached his town house, a bevy of servants greeted them with every comfort imaginable. They were both bundled off to warm baths, given hot tea and hearty soup, and tucked into beds cozy from bed warmers. And when all the hubbub died down, and the house was silent but for the rain pinging against the windows, he rose, pulled on a pair of trousers, and padded to Fallon's room.

He opened the door, and she turned her head to look at him. “Go away. I'm tired.”

Warrick closed the door and locked it. “How are you feeling?” he asked as he approached the bed. Her dark hair gleamed in the firelight; several droplets of water from her bath still clung to it, shimmering like stars in a river of night.

“Tired.” She rolled over, presenting him her back. The covers slipped, and he saw she was wearing a white linen shift. Pretty and proper—and he couldn't wait to strip it off her.

“I was lying in bed, thinking about you.”

“You'd be better served by going to sleep.”

He reached out and touched her hair, and she shivered. “I was imagining what I'd like to do to you.”

“I was imagining sleeping.” But her voice faltered, sounded unconvincing.

“Were you? What if I gave you something else to imagine?” His fingers pushed the hair off her neck, and he bent and kissed the delicate skin. She took a quick, sharp breath.

“I don't want—”

“You don't want me to kiss you here.” He slid the sleeve of her nightshift off her shoulder and kissed the golden skin there. He reached around and pulled the ties on the bodice, then pushed the garment down, baring her back. “Or here.” He kissed the smooth skin in the center of her back, and she whimpered. His hand slid around to cup her full breast. “Or here.” Her nipple hardened against his palm, and she rolled on her back. He knelt beside her and drew the linen down over her round breasts. “But perhaps your imaginings tend in a different direction all together. Perhaps you'd like to imagine me between your legs, my tongue teasing you, opening you…”

She closed her eyes and arched into his fingers as they stroked her nipples.

“Would you like to imagine that, Fallon?”

“No, damn you.” Her voice was husky.

“Then tell me what you want.” His hands slid down, over the curve of her hips. He pushed the counterpane aside and grasped the hem of her nightshift. “Do you want to go to sleep?” He pulled the linen over her calves, her thighs, higher.

“You know what I want.” She took his hand, put it between her thighs. She was already wet for him, and he had a moment where he had to reach for control. “Kiss me.”

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

He began with her mouth, that lush, ripe mouth that had been made for kissing. He imagined men dreamed about that mouth, about the pleasures it could bring them, and he took possession of it. He kissed her deeply, cupping her cheeks, trailing his fingers over her soft skin. When she was arching against him, he traced her jaw then dipped to her graceful neck. “I want to kiss you everywhere,” he murmured against her ear.

“You could skip some places.” Her fingers dug into his back. “And spend more time in others.”

He chuckled. “Are you that eager for me?”

“No.” She was like a petulant child who refused to say yes even when the thing she wanted was right in front of her.

“Good. Then I shall take my time.” His lips brushed over her collarbone, his tongue teased her shoulder blade, and she sighed with mounting desire and impatience. Her legs were wrapped around him, the heat of her cupping his erection, making resisting her increasingly difficult. But he was going to take time to minister to her breasts. He stroked them until the nipples peaked and then took first one and then the other in his mouth. He rolled them over his tongue, nipped at them, sucked until she was panting and crying out.

“Warrick, please.”

Without warning, he dipped between her legs, spread them, and touched his tongue to the pink folds. She jumped and her hands dug into the sheets around him. Her thighs were quivering and stiff, and he caressed them with his fingers. “Open for me.” He kissed the inside of each thigh, rubbing his lips against their silkiness. “Give yourself to me.”

He could all but feel the war within her—desire fighting independence, willfulness fighting need. And finally her muscles relaxed, and she opened for him. He kissed her, teased her, tasted her. Her skin was warm and smelled of scented soap, but underneath it was her own exotic scent, and it all but drove him mad. She gripped his hair and arched her hips against him, and he plunged one finger into her, feeling her tighten against him as she cried out. He didn't take his tongue from her, instead he wrung every last ounce of pleasure from her, and when she melted, he paused then stroked her with his finger.

“No.” She tried to push him away. “Enough. Let me give you pleasure.”

“In time,” he said, parting her folds and stroking her. She jumped.

“Warrick, I can't.” But her breath was already coming in short gasps, her body straining eagerly.

“You can. Give yourself to me. Surrender.”

“I can't,” she all but wept, but her hips were moving in tandem with him as she clawed at the sheets in frustration. He rolled his thumb over that most sensitive spot then dipped his tongue and flicked it against her. She screamed, and he tapped his tongue to her mercilessly. “Please,” she begged him. Her hands were on her breasts, her neck arched back. “Please.”

He stroked her hard and this time when she came, she was crying. Her climax was long and hard, and he could feel her body devouring every last morsel of pleasure. When it was over, she collapsed and closed her eyes. “No more.”

He sat and opened his trousers, pushed them over his hips. Her heavy-lidded eyes watched him as she lay limply on the bed.

“We're not through yet,” he said, and to his surprise, she wrapped her legs about his waist and guided him into her.

***

He was hard and heavy and exactly what her body was craving. She didn't think she could climax again, but she needed him inside her, needed him to fill her. She buried her face in his shoulder, closed her eyes, and allowed herself to savor his smell, the feel of his skin, and the knowledge that she was safe in his arms. She'd been more afraid than she wanted to admit, even to herself, that she would never see him again.

She was falling in love with him. What woman wouldn't when he could do things to her with his mouth and his hands and his body most women only dreamed about? Even now as he thrust and rocked inside her, she could feel the pleasure building and spiraling upward. But this wasn't only physical. There was more to him—the way he put her first, the way he insisted he loved her, the way he promised to flaunt all custom to marry her.

Ridiculous.

But then so was the way she was feeling at the moment. She could not possibly climax again, and yet her body arched and strained.

He groaned. “Come with me, Fallon.”

She shook her head. It was too much.

“Let go.”

She couldn't have said why the challenge terrified her so. Perhaps because letting her guard down also meant letting him in. What would she do if she fell in love with him?