For the next half hour, curiosity piqued, she watched him and the boys, watched how he interacted with them and wondered how, where, and when London’s gambling king had not just learned to play cricket but had also gained the ease he demonstrably possessed in dealing with children. From the youngest, about seven, to the oldest on the field, possibly twelve, they were all his; it wasn’t hard to see why the games master, hanging back on the fringes of the field, had invited him to spend time with his charges.
Recalling all she’d seen of him in London, combining that with what she was seeing here, it was obvious he was a leader—one born to the role, who instinctively knew how to draw others to him, knew how, regardless of age, to inspire and command them while lightly holding their loyalty in his hands.
Despite being much older, all his men viewed him in much the same way as the boys.
E
xactly when Roscoe realized Miranda was there, watching, he couldn’t have said; the knowledge of her presence simply appeared in his brain, the touch of her gaze recognizable even at a distance. It took several carefully disguised scans of the area to spot her, but once he had . . . something within him calmed.
Regardless, he wasn’t all that comfortable with how much he was revealing—all she was seeing—of him, yet he couldn’t find it in him to curtail his time with the boys. But then a young lad came pelting out of the building to summon him and Miranda to Nightingale’s study.
After handing over the bat and complimenting his opponents, he retrieved his coat and, shrugging back into it, strode across to where she stood. Settling his sleeves, he met her gaze. “The lads we sent searching have returned, and apparently they have news.”
T
hey regathered in the common room. Some of the lads had targeted the Kempseys, others the Doles. All they’d gleaned from the relatively tight-lipped Kempseys was that “their Jack, him as now lived in Lunnon” had been back but had left Birmingham again.
However, from a cousin who lived on the same cramped street as the Doles, one pair of boys had learned that Herbert Dole had stopped by to see his mother several days ago. He’d been driving a coach with mismatched nags and had offered the cousin a copper to look out for the coach and horses while Dole visited with his mother. Several hours later, Kempsey had arrived, and Dole had paid off the cousin—who had loitered near enough to hear Kempsey and Dole argue about the best route to take to Lichfield, to a cottage there.
“M’cousin said they said they were going to take some gentleman there.” Perched on a bench, bright-eyed, the ten-year-old orphan swung his legs, pleased as punch to be the bearer of the best tidings. “Kempsey told Dole the cottage belonged to Kempsey’s cousin, but was empty on account of the cousin being in jail. Kempsey said it was the perfect place for them. After that, they climbed up and drove off.”
A few questions established the time of the encounter as four days before.
Roscoe praised all twelve lads; with Nightingale’s permission he rewarded each with a shilling, and gave the boy whose cousin had been so useful another shilling to convey to said cousin.
With the boys dismissed, Roscoe glanced at Miranda and saw the banked anxiety in her eyes. He thanked Nightingale, and they left St. Egbert’s.
But as they passed through the church, she halted. When he glanced her way, she met his gaze. “If you don’t mind, I would like to spend just a moment”—she waved at the pews—“here.”
He nodded, followed her into a pew, and sat a foot away.
She bowed her head in prayer.
He looked down the nave at the altar—and said a silent prayer of his own. The cousin who had held the horses for several hours hadn’t mentioned either movement, or any sound, from inside the coach.
From Roderick.
That didn’t bode well for his young friend’s state.
W
hen they reached the hotel, Miranda fell to pacing.
Roscoe watched her. The reserve she’d maintained throughout the day, the screen behind which she’d largely successfully hidden her emotions, was fracturing. Agitation fell from her in waves.
After several moments, he moved to one of the armchairs and sat. Wondered what he could say, what he could do to distract her.
She flung him a glance. “There’s nothing we can do tonight, is there?”
He shook his head. “Lichfield is too far away—by the time we reach there, night will be falling. Not a good time even to reconnoiter, so regardless we would have to wait until tomorrow. And finding somewhere to stay out there, somewhere we could be sure our presence wouldn’t be communicated to Kempsey and Dole, might well be impossible. We might end up driving back into Birmingham to spend the night.”
She pulled a face. “No point.” Looking down, she paced on.
The restless, reckless energy in her stride, her overflowing frustration, communicated itself very effectively to him. Eventually, he could stand it no longer. He rose. When she glanced his way, he said, “I suggest we dine early, then we can retire early and set off at first light.”
She nodded. “Yes, that would be best.”
“I’ll make the arrangements.” Walking to the door, he opened it, and with a last glance back at her, left her pacing.
A
n irritating, irrational sense of failure over not being able to ease her agitation, her frustration—her fear—continued to eat at him through the four-course meal, then followed him up the stairs and into the suite’s sitting room.
He’d hoped she would retire, retreat to her room and her bed, so he could retreat to his, but no. She marched to the track she was well on her way to wearing in the carpet and fell to pacing once more, back and forth before the twin windows and the table between.
Back and forth; forth and back.
Halting inside the suite’s door, he stood silently watching her.
A small sound escaped her; when next she swung around, she’d raised her fist, pressed her knuckle to her lips.
Enough
.
He stalked forward and, facing her, blocked her path. For an instant he thought she might try to mow him down, but at the last second she came to a quivering halt with no more than six inches between her bodice and his coat.
Raising her head, she frowned at him. “What?”
He looked into hazel eyes awash with anxiety, provoked by nebulous, imagined fears. She was held captive by those lurking terrors. He had to break their hold. “What can I do to distract you?”
She blinked, then her eyes, her whole expression, cleared. “This.” Like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline, she lifted one hand, cupped his nape, stretched up, set her lips to his, and kissed him.
He froze.
The pressure of her lips wavered, suddenly unsure.
His restraint collapsed; instinct took over. One hand cupped her face, tipped her lips to his, and he kissed her back.
Holding her steady, he returned the caress, extended it.
She was right; this would distract her.
This
was possibly the only thing that could, the only interaction sufficiently powerful to cut through her worry and fear, and for however many minutes focus her mind on something else.
On something pleasurable.
So he gave her what she wanted and kissed her again; as before, he found it easy, so easy to dive into the exchange, to feed her demand and satisfy his own, that prowling hunger that rose through him, evoked, provoked by her need.
Her lips were a delight, lush and luscious, pliant and captivating; savoring them, exploring the delectable curves, was a bounty he gladly claimed.
Wits whirling, Miranda clung to the fascinating exchange, to the promise, the allure—to him. She dropped all pretense;
this
was what she needed, what she craved. What she longed to explore.
This side of life. This side of her.
Only with him had she ever even sensed it—ever seen or felt it enough to be sure of its existence, let alone explore it. Just this, with him, was enough to grow intrigued enough to yearn to discover what it was to be with a man.
He, with this, opened the door to a novel landscape, one to which, for her, only he held the key. With no other man had she ever experienced that telltale frisson, the tug on her senses, that ineluctable focus of awareness.
His lips moved on hers with persuasive command. On a suppressed shudder—of excitement, of sharp anticipation—she parted her lips, shivered to her soul when his tongue cruised the curves, then dipped within. And stroked.
He supped. There was no other word for it; a gentle but inexorable drinking in, an exploration laced with a subtle claiming.
Then he angled his head over hers, snared her senses, and drew them deeper.
Into an exchange that evoked heat, and desire, and a burgeoning more primitive wanting.
To her senses he was all dark heat, masculine strength, and male hardness; she kissed him back, gave him back caress for caress, driven by a swelling compulsion.
And he returned the pleasure.
For uncounted moments the kiss spun on, driven first by him, then by her. Eventually by them both, by the heated mating of their mouths, the hot mingling of their breaths, the evocative, provocative tangling of their tongues.
She was dimly aware of his arm sliding about her waist, of him drawing her closer . . . a flash of sensation, a flush of warmth cascading through her as her curves met his muscled heat. The blatant strength of him surrounded her, reassured and comforted in some strange way, but also held a wordless promise. A primal one some equally instinctive part of her understood.
Through the hand that had fallen to grip his upper arm she could feel the steel in him, feel the increasing tension that even to her untutored senses spoke of rising desire. Of reined passion.
She sank against him, into him, lured by his heat. His arms tightened, gathering her closer still; the hard ridge of his erection pressed against the soft swell of her stomach.
And some never before recognized part of her sang.
He wanted her.
And she wanted him.
She yearned to know more, all, everything her twenty-nine-year-old self had thought forever denied her.
With no other man had she ever felt like this, would she ever feel like this—emboldened and sure, and so wanting.
And if wishing to hold her worries over Roderick at bay added another dimension to her rising desperation . . . did that matter?
Leaning into his embrace, she raised both hands, framed his face, and held him anchored as she kissed him—as she poured every last ounce of her newfound yearning into issuing a demand, a command . . . a blatant invitation.
He read it, understood it. She felt the leap of his pulse, sensed the flash of tension that turned his body to iron. He kissed her back, hard, with his own far more flagrant, more explicit demand. Accepting her invitation, he devoured her mouth and sent her senses soaring—
Abruptly, he reined back.
On a gasp, he broke the kiss and raised his head.
Heart pounding, senses reeling, she stared, stunned, into his shadowed face. He still held her in his arms, locked against him from breast to knees. His back was to the lamplight, his features unreadable, but the sound of his breathing was sharp, harsh, a mirror of her own breathless, giddy state, itself a counterpoint to the rapid cadence of her pulse.
“No.” The word was weak, distant; she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to himself or her. Then his jaw firmed, along with his tone. “We can’t go any further.”
Her wits were disconnected, distracted with need, her thoughts in utter disarray. “Why not?”
His dark eyes fixed on hers. After a moment, he said, “Because I won’t take advantage of you, and that’s what it would be.”
She wanted him and he wanted her. Pressed against him, she couldn’t doubt the latter, and she was perfectly certain about the former. She wanted to go forward and learn more. “I can’t see why—”
He opened his arms and stepped back, briefly steadied her, then released her and turned away. “I’m no cad.”
She frowned. “I didn’t imagine you were.”
“And what sort of man sets out to rescue a friend and seduces his sister along the way?”
“This has nothing to do with Roderick.” She lifted her chin. “This is about
me
.” She was somewhat stunned to realize that was true.
Roscoe glanced at her, took in her challenging stance, her aggravated gaze. Absorbing the sincerity in her tone, he reconsidered for all of a second, but. . . . he inclined his head. “That only makes our position clearer. You are who you are, and I am who I am. There is, therefore, no sense in taking this interaction any further.”
He was as certain of that as he was of his real name.
This couldn’t lead anywhere. Anywhere he wanted to go.
He didn’t want to argue the point. He turned away, toward the door to his room.
“Wait.” Uncertainty and faint disbelief echoed in her voice.
Heaving an inward sigh, he turned back, arched a brow.
Spine poker-straight, she met his eyes. “You’re
rejecting
my invitation, which you quite clearly understood?”
Lips firming, he held her gaze, let a moment tick by, then stated, “I’m not rejecting
you
. I’m refusing to be such a cad as to take advantage of you, no matter your offer.” Refusing to become more deeply ensnared by a woman who didn’t fit into his world any more than he fitted into hers.
He saw a pale reflection of the frustration he felt flare in her eyes. Her jaw tightened, her diction tart as she bit off the words, “That wasn’t any senseless offer. It was a deliberate invitation—I know what I’m doing.”
“Indeed?” He studied her face. “So tell me”—he trapped her eyes, her stormy green-gold gaze—“
why
do you want me in your bed?”
Miranda ached to open her mouth and trump his challenge with a blisteringly irrefutable answer, but her wits refused to provide one.
Why
? Why did he think? Why was he asking? What did he expect her to say?
More to the point, what answer would he accept as appropriate, as right? As sufficient to come together again, rather than part?