Authors: Gaelen Foley
At once, Rackford kicked the weapon out of range.
“God damn you, Blade!” Tyburn Tim exploded, but Strayhorn and his followers held him back.
Rackford slowly circled the man before he deigned to move in for the kill.
Sitting on the ground, O’Dell stared up at him, his chest heaving. “One of you, do something!” he ordered his men, but Strayhorn stayed them.
“It was a fair fight, O’Dell. You lost. Truth is, we’re bloody sick of you around here.”
“I’ll kill you,” he wrenched out at the young man.
“You’re not killin‘ anybody, mate,” Rackford murmured.
O’Dell shrieked as Blade grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head back, bringing his knife up to his throat.
“Wait!” he gasped. “Jesus, don’t do it, Blade. I— I never did you any harm.”
He jerked O’Dell’s head back farther, and O’Dell let out another small scream, wild-eyed with fear. In the street around them, the Jackals exchanged uneasy looks as their bullying leader was indeed revealed as a coward.
“You invaded my turf. You had my men arrested. You were my friend and you betrayed me. You and your mongrel dogs committed atrocities against the people under my protection. What of the Murphy girl?”
“She wanted it!”
He pricked O’Dell’s neck for that. The wound wasn’t deep, but it bled enough to scare the man into blathering shamelessly for his life. “You can’t kill me, Blade. You and Nate would have never survived on your own all those years ago. I took you in, taught you everything I knew. That night—it’s all because of that night—it’s not my fault. It was Yellow Cane,” he whispered, beginning to sob.
Rackford wavered, struggling with the memory of the terrified boy O’Dell had been on that awful night and the pity it roused in his breast. He was not quite sure why, ever since then, he had felt vaguely responsible for O’Dell’s actions.
He held O’Dell’s chin up for the coup de grace, but his hands were shaking, and he could feel his resolve crumbling. “Damn you, why didn’t you just stay with us? Nate, the others. We would have looked out for you!”
“Don’t kill me, Blade. For the love of God. You saved my life once.”
Slowly, he released his grip on O’Dell’s hair, his shoulders rising and falling as he panted with tumultuous emotion, wrath and pity and grief all rolled into a jumble of pain. He could not simply cut the poor bastard’s throat in cold blood as he sat there. He was not capable of it. Not anymore. O’Dell was beaten, broken, disgraced before his men, and unarmed—and they had once been friends. At bottom, he had never really hated O’Dell, but had been more angry at himself for not being able to turn him around.
“Strayhorn!” Rackford called in a dark tone.
The tall young man walked over and looked at him in question.
“There is a large bounty on O’Dell’s head. Tyburn Tim’s, as well. Turn them over to Bow Street and the gold is yours.”
Strayhorn answered Rackford’s hard stare with a shrewd nod. “I will. You have my word on it.”
“Then it seems my business here is done,” he said softly. He passed one last, farewell glance over his former home, then sheathed his knife and turned around, weary behind his bravado as he began walking away.
His back turned, he was unaware of O’Dell reaching for the pistol hidden beneath his coat. Before Strayhorn could stop him, O’Dell, still sitting on the ground, stretched out his arm, taking aim at Rackford’s back.
A shot rang out.
Rackford whirled around as O’Dell slumped to the ground, shot in the head.
Some of the men were shouting; all looked around in confusion. Rackford saw the pistol in O’Dell’s hand and thought for a second the man had shot himself.
“Up there!” someone yelled.
Rackford lifted his gaze and saw the slim figure on the rooftop of the opposite building, where he had often posted his sentries in the past. Dark against the starry sky, the sniper was wrapped in a large cloak that billowed slightly on the night breeze. As he watched, the figure pushed back the cloak’s hood. His eyes widened as moonlight kissed the outline of her long, billowing curls.
Jacinda.
“What the hell?” said a voice in unchecked fury nearby. In the blink of an eye, Tyburn Tim grabbed the musket back that one of Strayhorn’s followers had taken away from him and aimed the muzzle straight at her.
Rackford did not think. He swept his knife out of its sheath and hurled it at the man. The shot flew wide as the blade plunged in between Tyburn Tim’s ribs. The man screamed at the same moment the bullet slammed into the brick facade just below her position.
Somehow he knew she hadn’t even flinched.
“Get out of there now, Blade!” she yelled down to him in regal fury, a lioness watching over him. “I’ve got your back.”
Strayhorn turned to him with a twinkle of amused understanding dawning in his eyes. “If I were you, I’d do as she says.”
An astonished smile spread slowly over Rackford’s face as he lifted his gaze once more to his lady’s victorious silhouette. With her pale hair gleaming in the moonlight, she was, he thought, the mightiest, fairest, most dazzling star in the firmament.
She had come after him.
The chit had just saved his life.
Feeling her way through the darkness of the old, abandoned building, Jacinda ran down the several flights of stairs, careened around the cobwebby newel post, and fled outside just as Rackford approached the entrance.
She rushed out the doorway and flung herself at once into his arms, holding him tightly in fierce protectiveness. As his arms wrapped around her, she stood on tiptoe and pulled him down to her, capturing his mouth in a fevered kiss.
His response was full of aggressive ardor, his mouth claiming hers in unbridled need. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears of jumbled emotion rising behind her eyelids, torn between ire at the man for putting himself in such danger and exultation that he was safe.
She parted her lips wider for his possessive kiss, running her hands all over his muscled body as she reassured herself that he was indeed—miraculously— unharmed. Her mind still reeled with the knowledge that she, Jacinda Knight, had just killed the treacherous Cullen O’Dell. Having seen him raise his weapon to shoot Rackford in the back, she felt nary a pang of remorse for his enemy’s death.
Rackford ended the kiss, tearing his lips away from hers, then cupped her face between his hands, searching her eyes in the moonlight. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Come, I’ll explain in the hackney.” Taking his hand, she led him hurriedly around the corner, where the hackney coach she had hired earlier still waited.
She could hear the coachman making conversation with his horses, bravely trying to calm his own nerves in this dangerous quarter of the city. “Easy, Thunder. Now don’t you mind that, it’s just an alley cat—”
“Coachman!” Jacinda called as she and Rackford strode toward him.
The little man looked over, his shoulders sagging in relief. “Lud, m’um, thank heavens you’re back safe!”
She tossed him her small bag of coins as his reward. “Take us back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields!”
“Yes, Ma’am!”
Rackford opened the door for her. She sprang up into the coach’s dark interior. He followed her in, pulling the door closed as the driver urged his team into motion.
“You’re bleeding,” she said anxiously, noting the scratch on his jaw as he slid into the seat beside her.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered, blotting the small nick on his jaw with the edge of his sleeve.
She took his face between her hands and inspected it. “Oh, my poor Billy.” Shaking her head with a prayer of thanks that this was the worst of his injuries, she kissed his cheek.
Without warning, he pulled her onto his lap. “How did you do that? You never told me you were such a fine markswoman, Jacinda! You must have been twenty yards away from the target, and there was scarcely any light. Egads, girl, you got the blackguard right between the eyes!”
She winced, though his praise filled her with modest pleasure. “Oh, it was a lucky shot, that’s all. My brothers always used to challenge me to try out my target practice while wearing a blindfold, but never mind that. You, my dear, you were magnificent! Such daring, such strength,” she said with relish, leaning her face nearer to his. “Such prowess,” she added, running her hand down his chest.
“Prowess?” he echoed.
“Most definitely.” With a naughty smile and a small tug, she unfastened the top button of his shirt.
“Jacinda?”
“Yes, Rackford?” she murmured, opening the second button.
“What the hell is going on?”
With a philosophical sigh, she shifted her position and hiked up her skirts to sit astride his lap. She wound her arms around his neck and stared for a moment into his eyes. “Oh, Billy, what happened tonight at Almack’s brought me to my senses.” She lowered her head. “I left there shortly after you did—”
“I’m sorry I stormed out,” he interrupted in chagrin. “I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have let Acer Loring get to me. I owe you an apology for what I said to you, as well—”
She laid her finger gently over his lips, silencing him. “He deserved it, and so did I. Hang Almack’s, anyway, and hang the Patronesses, too. If they won’t let you in, then I don’t want to be there, either. I prefer the rookery, or the rooftops, or the surface of the moon—as long as it’s where you are. I love you, Billy,” she said softly. “I had to come and tell you. And if, by chance, your offer still stands—” she hesitated, chastened but hopeful as she peered into his eyes, “I would be most honored to become your wife.”
He stared at her, thunderstruck. “You—love me?”
She gave a fervent nod, a blush stealing into her cheeks.
“You’ll marry me? Truly, Jacinda?” He gripped her shoulders. “You’re sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything my whole life.”
With a shout of amazed laughter, he tumbled her onto her back on the cushioned squab and eased down atop her with a playful growl. “So, you’ll wed me at last, will you, you little sharpshooter? ”
“I will.”
“To honor?”
“Completely.”
“Cherish?”
“Forever.”
“Obey?” he asked skeptically.
She narrowed her eyes with an arch smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
He laughed softly, but his stare turned wistful. He wound a length of her hair around his finger. “Are you real? Is this happening? Because if it is a dream, I don’t want to wake up.”
“It’s real.” She stroked his cheek, searching his eyes. “I love you, Billy. Nothing will ever change that and wherever you go, I will be there, looking after you, whether you like it or not.”
He took her hand and pressed her palm to his chest, staring soulfully at her. “My lady,” he whispered, “you have my heart.”
“I will take good care of it.” She closed her eyes and kissed his brow, right on his scraggly star-shaped scar. When she moved back, his eyes were dark as pine forests, solemn. She laid her hand tenderly on his cheek. “What is it, my darling? ” she asked gently.
“It’s just—you could have anyone. I can’t think what you see in me.”
“I see my dear friend Rackford; my heathen Blade— the man I adore. The man I desire. Kiss me,” she whispered.
He did, gathering her gently in his arms. She parted his shirt as she savored the warm, masculine taste of him.
“Your father’s gone to Cornwall?” she murmured between kisses.
“Aye.”
“Your mother, too?”
“Mm-hmm,” he purred, languidly kissing her throat. His hands wandered down over her body. “I’ve got the house… all to myself.”
She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. “Let me stay with you tonight.”
He shivered with desire at her whisper, but captured her face gently between his hands and searched her eyes. “Are you sure about this?”
She nodded slowly, her longing for him betrayed by her blushing gaze and racing pulse.
His green eyes smoldered at her silent answer. “Well, then, my lady,” he whispered. “Consider it an invitation.”
By the time they reached his father’s house, they were hot and trembling with impatience. His lips were swollen from her kisses, his hair tousled from her caresses. The moment the hackney rolled to a halt, Rackford jumped out into the moonlit darkness and turned back to lift her off the metal step. He carried her toward the house in his arms, kissing her all the while.
“The gate,” he whispered raggedly between kisses as the coachman drove off down the avenue. His horses’ clip-clopping hoofbeats resounded in the stillness of the street. Jacinda fumbled with the wrought-iron latch. She had only just gotten it undone when the Bow Street runners posted outside his house approached.
“Lord Rackford?”
“Sir? We were not aware you had gone out.”
“I went out the back,” he said readily. “A man’s got to find himself a bit o‘ muslin every now and then, don’t he?”
The officers exchanged an amused glance. Jacinda huffed as she realized he was attempting to pass her off as a prostitute.
“Now, now,” the shorter of the two men chided harmlessly, “Your Lordship’s not to be leavin‘ for any reason without lettin’ us know about it. Those are Sir Anthony’s rules.”
“Come, fellows. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man, not a saint.”
They laughed. “Very well. Fine choice, my lord.”
“How much does she charge?” the other jested.
“Trust me, you can’t afford her,” he replied with a chuckle, laughing harder when Jacinda flicked him indignantly in the side of the head.
He soothed her with a kiss that grew more urgent by the second. Neither she nor Rackford spared a glance for anyone else whom they passed on their way to his bedchamber, neither the butler who opened the front door, nor the scandalized housekeeper who gaped as His Lordship carried her up the wide, sweeping staircase.
In moments, they were in his room. By the dim glow of the light-box shining atop the parquetry table next to the door, her brief glance swept the opulent suite, taking in the lustrous silk-hung panels, the heavy blue velvet draperies, and the rich Persian carpet underfoot. Smart, spare, parcel-gilt furniture in the latest Roman style was grouped in the sitting room, but she forgot all that as he led her into the adjoining bedchamber.