In the Devil's Bed (Sins of the Duke Book 1) (10 page)

Jack pulled her across the narrow space. Her breasts pressed against his chest. He lowered his lips to her mouth. She should stop, but she wanted this.

One of his hands appeared at her throat, caressing it. His fingers brushed her chin, angling her head. His lips moved over hers, touching in long, soft strokes.

Regan gasped against his mouth, shocked by his tenderness. It melted her against him. How could a man who’d lived such a violent life hold her with such gentle need and desire?

Her fingers tightened on the hard muscles of his arms, uncertain if she should pull back from his kiss or lean further into him. But his fingers at her neck circled into her hair. Regan gave in to the soft sensation of his mouth over hers. Gently, he slipped his tongue between her lips.

A moan of need escaped her mouth. He growled in response, a deep, possessive sound as his arm tightened around her waist. The hot taste of him hit Regan like a tidal wave. She dragged her hands up his arms and clung to his neck. The softness of his hair trailed over her fingers.

Right or wrong, Regan caressed his tongue with the tip of hers. His hand ran along her back, supporting her weight as he tilted her into his arm, deepening their kiss.

His hand stole to the edge of the hem of her gown. Every nerve in her body urged him to stroke her thigh.
Oh God, what was she doing?

Regan’s hands froze on his body. Fear tunneled through her. She was kissing a man in her bed and she couldn’t behave thusly. If she did, she would set her feet on a path that she couldn’t return from.

His lips moved over hers, hot and warm. Perfect. Oh, how she wanted him. Wanted this. But she could not. Could not. Too much was at stake.

Regan pulled back. What had she done? Shaking her head, she pushed at his shoulders. Regan welcomed the cold air engulfing the front length of her body.

She’d kissed him. She’d bloody kissed him! This was her fault.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, her breath tight and short. Like traitors, her fingers ached for the soft strands of his hair and the strength of his muscles.

He dropped his hands from her, his eyes flashing with desire. The muscles in his throat stood taut as chords. Stepping away from the bed, his chest lifted up and down. A large, hard bulge pressed against the front of his trousers. Regan stared for a moment, unable to look away from it. She’d done that to him. He wanted her. Regan looked up into his eyes.

A wild need flickered in them as the sound of their breathing filled the small room. It still felt as if his hands were on her. His taste lingered in her mouth. Regan fought the urge to lift her fingers to her lips.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, his face tense.

Opening his eyes, his body relaxed. The earlier passion had entirely disappeared from them, reined in under tight control. “It is I who should apologize,” he said softly.

Regan grabbed at the blankets, wrapping them against her hot body. “I hope that—“

He gestured to a chair in the corner of the room. “Would you like me to sit until you fall asleep?”

“Jack, please, I—“

His eyes returned to hers and he said softly, “I should never have sat on your bed. I overstepped my bounds.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, Regan looked away. Pain stole up inside her chest. “We both did.”

Shaking his head, he strode to the chair and pulled it up towards the bed. “I’ll watch over you. Until you sleep.”

Regan nodded, her body still warm from his touch. Forbidden warmth. Forbidden by society and her own principles. Lowering herself back down to the goose down tick, Regan turned away from him as he settled into the chair. She could not yield to the temptation of having a man to love in her life. She had her work to do. And nothing could interfere with that.

Even if the sight of him sitting beside her bed was the most perfect sight she had seen in her life.

Chapter 13

The crowd in the pub parted like the bloody Red Sea as he and O’Malley stepped through the arched doorway. They stared for a moment, the roughened faces peering up from their tankards. Jack tossed a coin at the fiddle player and he caught it in his wizened hand.

Screeching music flared to life as the musician dragged the bow over the strings and everyone returned to their own affairs. Jack let out a sigh. Whenever he walked amongst his own kind, they sensed there wasn’t something right about him. And they were dead on. He wasn’t one of them anymore. But he wasn’t anything else either. “Where is he?”

O’Malley cast his gaze over the worn faces, his hand tucked in his coat. No doubt wrapped around a wicked cudgel. “Not here yet.”

Jack shook his head and headed for a table at the back of the dark room. Smoke hovered overhead threading through the swinging wooden chandeliers. A woman in a stained dress, the bodice unlaced revealing a dirty corset, walked by. She eyed him up and her eyes flared with desire and the pleasure of spotting a customer who wasn’t missing a leg.

“Hello, luv,” she whispered as she sauntered past.

Jack nodded, focused on the task at hand. He settled down onto the rough seat and angled his body so he had the best view of the room.

O’Malley sat down across from him, his blue eyes sharp and wary. “Now, why did the bloody bastard have to go and choose The Hangman’s Rope?”

Jack didn’t answer. O’Malley knew full well. Lieutenant Garret understood the advantages of a place like this. At any moment, all hell could break loose and if the right man wanted to, he could choose the when and the why.

“Any luck on the duke’s lad?” Jack asked.

Annoyance creased O’Malley’s already expressive brow. “Not so much as a whisper. They keep themselves to themselves when they’re together.”

Jack glared at O’Malley. There was no way in hell that Chiles wasn’t hiding some secret. “Keep digging.”

The pub grew silent again and Jack swung his attention back to the doors. “Shite,” he hissed.

The bugger was just as wild as Jack remembered. Only worse now.

Standing in at well over six feet in his mud-stained and used black great coat, Blake Garret towered over the other men standing at the bar. His thick, blond hair hung about his face like a lion’s shaggy mane and icy green eyes, the color of limes, stared out through the hazy smoke. As he slowly stalked through the room, the scar that ran down from his forehead, over his eye and across his cheek became more pronounced. The angry slit marred his angelic face, finally giving his outward appearance the darkness that had always been inside.

He stopped just before the table and stared down. His cold eyes trained in on Jack. “I see you brought the bog trotter.”

O’Malley tensed. “This bog trotter could have yer balls for breakfast.”

Garret narrowed his eyes and slowly turned his gaze on O’Malley. “Is that what you’re into, Paddy? Eating balls?”

O’Malley started up, his hand going for his weapon.

“Sit,” Jack barked, remaining seated. “Both of you.”

Like two bristling roosters facing off in a fight, the two men lowered themselves into seated positions. Garret grabbed a chair, put it between his legs and draped an arm over its back. He smiled coldly. “Certainly, Captain.”

Jack leaned a little, the barest of invasions into Garret’s space. “Now that we’ve arranged this merry meeting, it would be in your best interest to cooperate with us.”

Garret stared back unflinchingly, his eyes one step from dead. “Spare me the theatrics.”

A cold smile tilted O’Malley’s lips. “Sure and there isn’t much more theatrical than a firing squad.”

“Especially if you’re at the wrong end,” Jack added.

Garret’s shoulders tensed but his face was blank as a slate. The slow sound of metal on metal clicked near Garret.

“And how do you feel just now?” Garret tilted his head to the side. “Theatrical?”

Jack’s gut coiled as he realized that Garret’s hand was under the table and no doubt pointing a pistol. “I’m always up for a good show.”

O’Malley smiled and the sound of another weapon being cocked came up through the table. “And don’t ye know an Irishman hates to be upstaged?” His face hardened. “Put the pistol on the table.”

Garret held still for a moment then a slow, rumbling laugh rasped from his throat like he hadn’t laughed in years. “Fine. We’re at a standoff. And you obviously mean business.”

Garret lifted the pistol, put it on the table and snapped his fingers. Within moments, a tavern wench sauntered her way up to their table, her hips working like the pendulum on a clock. “A pitcher of ale and some glasses, sweetheart.”

She smiled, her brown eyes wide and welcoming. “Anything you like, luv.”

As she worked her hips in that tick-tock walk and moved away, Jack shook his head. Apparently the scar had not detracted from the man’s appeal to women. They sat in silence for several seconds, until at last Jack said, “I never thought to see you again.”

Garret arched a brow. “Deserters usually try to stay out of sight.”

“So do men who shoot superior officers,” O’Malley pointed out.

Garret shrugged. “I’ll not deny it.”

“Is that why you’re working for Chiles?” Jack demanded. Garret had always been a rough bastard, but at one time, he’d had a scrap of honor. But maybe that had disappeared the day he’d shot a man in cold blood. In the back.

“Chiles gives me protection while I do his dirty work.”

Jack nodded slowly, hating that he understood a scum sucker’s need for protection, but. . . “He can’t protect you from us.”

Garret laughed dryly. “Sod off, Hazard. You’re powerful in London. I’ll give you that. But you can’t scare me with delusions of grandeur. You know how powerful Chiles is. What he can do.”

O’Malley leaned back, his blue eyes hard and searching as he stared at his former officer. “Which is?“

For the first time since he’d walked in like a big dog claiming his turf, Garret shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “Which is why I’m sitting here and you’re not at the bottom of the Thames.”

The tavern wench came back with a tray and she easily unloaded it, bending with a skill meant to show off the ample curves of her body.

O’Malley’s eyes darted to the deep “v” of her bodice but he shook his head. Soldiers learned fast the ease of a present that gifted itself from a tavern wench long after a tryst was done.

“Anything else?” she purred.

Garret placed a hand on her waist, caressing it lightly, and he stared up at her with hot, lazy eyes. “Not now, sweet.”

She sighed as he trailed his fingers away. With a backward glance, she headed back to the other tables.

Garret threw back half his ale then wiped his black-gloved hand over his mouth. “You’re going after Chiles?”

Jack took his tankard but didn’t drink. “How did you guess?” he drawled.

“The man’s an ass.” Garret’s jaw hardened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “He deserves to be disemboweled. The documents I’ve seen. The workhouses. The profiteering. The abject abuse of workers.”

“That’s not enough,” Jack said evenly.

Garret paused, his breath seemingly trapped inside as he contemplated Jack’s statement. Then he shook his head, sighing. “Others have tried to bring the duke down before. You’re correct. You’ll need something bigger than corruption.”

“What about the boy he sees?” Jack asked easily as if it wasn’t his only point of attack now.

Garret’s brows lifted. “A boy?”

O’Malley leaned back, casually eyeing his tankard. “We know he sees a lad at least once a week.”

A wry smile twisted Garret’s lips. “You think he sees a lad?”

Nodding, O’Malley said, “I’ve seen him with my own eyes.”

“Oh, you’ve seen
someone
,” Garret said meaningfully.

“But not a lad,” Jack tested.

“Ask me no questions. . . I’ll give you this much. The he’s a she. And she’s not a girl, nor is she a prostitute.” Garret swiped a hand over his face as if suddenly tired. “Look in to the woman. I don’t know who she is, only that she must be married to someone damned important to warrant such secrecy. She might be the duke’s weakness.” He paused and tapped the table with his fingertips. “In your
research
, have you noticed other meetings with certain men?”

“So, he does fancy men?” O’Malley asked.

“Not unless five of the most powerful lords in the country enjoy having orgies together,” Garret said dryly.

An instinctual interest sharpened Jack’s focus. “They meet regularly?”

“Mmm. And they all have the same political leanings. I’ve no proof mind you, but I think they are all interested in consolidating the power of the monarchy and the House of Lords. They hate the House of Commons as far as I can tell. It’s treason of course, to go against the Commons. They won’t see it that way.”

“What else?”

Garret glared pointedly. “I think I’ve told you more than enough.”

“I think ye haven’t even begun to sing as yet.” Placing his tankard down, O’Malley braced his arm on the table. “In fact, I’d love to hear a whole chorus of information.”

Garret smiled tightly, his eyes on O’Malley “And Ireland will be free.”

“Ireland’s like me mammy.” O’Malley’s fist twitched as if he was fighting off the urge to belt Garret. “Now, do ye have to go and hit below the belt, going after a man’s mammy?”

“If you’re going to hit someone, that’s the only way to do it. Below the belt, I mean.”

Jack laughed, the sound hard even to his own ears. “True. Or you can just try shooting them. In the back.”

Garret’s face twisted back into unreadable stone. “Sod off.”

Jack pushed his tankard away and took Garret’s pistol, shoving it into his belt. “We’ll be seeing you.”

“No.” Garret stared down at the table, the cocky anger lulling from him. “If you found me, others will. Besides, I’m sick of the foul taste in my mouth.”

“I want more information,” Jack said evenly as he came up behind the former officer. “Or do O’Malley and I need to
convince
you.”

“Go on now.” O’Malley stood, his big bull-like body looming above Garret. “For I love a good bit of
convincing
.”

Garret kept his eyes on the table. He sat relaxed with his arms slung over the chair back. The man had managed to turn himself off like a switch. “I’ll give you what I can get. But I’m going into hiding again. And soon.”