Touch of Rogue (31 page)

Authors: Mia Marlowe

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Historical Romance

She covered him with kisses and they held each other in the growing dark. Her exposed skin was blue with cold, but her kisses were hot. He peeled off his jacket and wrapped it around her, unwilling to break the joining of their mouths for longer than a few seconds. He’d expected to lose the staff, his life, Julie’s life, everything to Sir Malcolm.

Instead, the whole world was in his arms. He’d never known such completeness, such utter grateful relief. He buried his face in the sweet jointure of her neck and shoulder, content simply to breathe her in. Finally, he raised Julianne to her feet.

“We’d better go. George and Fenwick will be along with the coach soon,” he said.

Julianne cast a questioning look at the obelisk where the rod had entombed itself. “You won the Staff of Merlin, fair and square. There’s probably a way to pry it free.”

“Not one that doesn’t involve splitting that sarcen into rubble.” The only trace of the rod was a small entrance hole and the stone was liberally marked with small pocks from centuries of wind and rain. No one who hadn’t seen the metal shoot into the stone would ever know it was there.

“Don’t you want power and wealth and long life?”

He flexed his fingers and felt a residual tingle of the staff’s force in them. “I have more power than I need. If you love me, I count myself the wealthiest man in England. Marry me, Julie.”

She stretched up to kiss him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I love you with my whole heart. Yes, I’ll marry you, Jacob.”

“Then leave the staff where it hides.” He picked her up and cradled her in his arms as light snow began to fall around them, crisp and cold and clean. “The only long life I’m interested in is the one I’ll spend with you.”

Did you miss the first book in the series,
Touch of a Thief
?

O
nly once more,
Viola vowed silently. Though, like the Shakespearean heroine for whom she was named, she’d miss wearing men’s trousers from time to time. They were ever so much more comfortable than a corset and hoops.

From somewhere deep in the elegant town house came a low creak. Viola held her breath. The longcase clock in the main hall ticked. When she heard nothing else, she realized it was only the sigh of an older home squatting down on its foundation for the night.

The room she’d broken into held the stale scents of cigar smoke and brandy from the dinner party of the previous evening. But there were no fresh smells. Perhaps Lieutenant Quinn had taken Lord Montjoy up on his offer to introduce Quinn at Montjoy’s club that evening.

Probably visiting a brothel instead.
No matter. The house was empty. Why made no difference at all.

She cat footed up the main stairs, on the watch for the help. The lieutenant hadn’t fully staffed his home yet, but had brought a native servant back with him from India. During the dinner party, Viola had noticed the turbaned fellow in the shadows, directing the borrowed footmen and giving quiet commands to the temporary serving girls.

The Indian servant would most likely be in residence.

So long as I steer clear of the kitchen or the garret, I’ll be fine,
Viola told herself. She knew the stones would be in Lieutenant Quinn’s chamber.

Her fence had a friend in the brick mason’s guild who, for a pretty price, happily revealed the location of the ton’s secret stashes. Town houses on that fashionable London street were all equipped with identical wall safes in the master’s chamber. The newfangled tumbler lock would open without protest under Viola’s deft touch.

She had a gift. Two, actually, but she didn’t enjoy the other one half so much.

Slowly, she opened the bedchamber door.
Good.
It had been oiled recently. She heard only the faint scrape of hinges.

The heavy damask curtains were drawn, so Viola stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the deeper darkness. There! A landscape in a gilt frame on the south wall marked the location of the safe.

Viola padded across the room and inched the painting’s hanging wires along the picture rail, careful not to let the hooks near the ceiling slide off. She’d have the devil’s own time reattaching them if they did. With any luck at all, she’d slide the painting right back and it might be days before Lieutenant Quinn discovered the stones were missing. After moving the frame over about a foot, she found the safe right where Willie’s friend had said it would be.

Viola put her ear to the lock and closed her eyes, the better to concentrate. When she heard a click or felt a slight hitch beneath her touch she knew she’d discovered part of the combination. After only a few tries and errors, the final tumbler fell into place and Viola opened the safe.

The dark void was empty. She reached in to trace the edges of the iron box with her fingertips.

“Looking for something?” A masculine voice rumbled from a shadowy corner.

Blast!
Viola bolted for the door, but it slammed shut. The Indian servant stepped from his place of concealment behind it.

“Please do not make to flee or I am sorry to say I shall have to shoot you.” The Hindu’s melodious accent belied his serious threat.

Viola ran toward the window, hoping it was open behind the curtain. And that there was a friendly bush below to break her fall.

Lieutenant Quinn grabbed her before she reached it, crushing her spine to his chest. His large hand splayed over one of her unbound breasts.

“Bloody hell! It’s a woman. Turn up the gas lamp, Sanjay.”

The yellow light of the wall sconce flooded the room. Viola blinked against the sudden brightness, then stomped down on her captor’s instep as hard as she could.

Quinn grunted, but didn’t release his hold. He whipped her around to face him, his brows shooting up in surprise when he recognized her. “Lady Viola, you can’t be the Mayfair Jewel Thief.”

“Of course, I can.” She might be a thief, but she was no liar. “I’d appreciate it, sir, if you’d remove your hands from my person.”

“I bet you would.” The lieutenant’s mouth turned down in a grim frown and he kept his grip on her upper arms.

His Indian servant didn’t lower the revolver’s muzzle one jot. “Did I not tell you, sahib? When she looked at the countess’s emeralds, her eyes glowed green.” The servant no longer wore his turban, his coal-black hair falling in ropy strands past his shoulders. “She is a devil, this one.”

“Perhaps.” Quinn lifted one of his dark brows. “But if that’s the case, my old vicar was right. The devil does know how to assume pleasing shapes.”

That was a backhanded compliment if Viola ever heard one. She hadn’t considered Lieutenant Quinn closely during the dinner party. She had little time for men and the trouble they brought a woman. Once burned and all that. She’d been intent on Lady Henson’s emeralds. Now she studied him with the same assessing gaze he shot at her.

Quinn’s even features were classically handsome. His unlined mouth and white teeth made Viola realize suddenly that he was younger than she’d first estimated. She doubted he’d seen thirty-five winters. His fair English skin had been bronzed by fierce Indian summers and lashed by its weeping monsoons. His stint in India had rewarded him with riches, but the subcontinent had demanded its price.

His storm-gray eyes were all the more striking because of his deeply tanned skin. They seemed to look right through her and see her for the fraud she was—a thief with pretensions of being a lady.

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