Dark Angel (Gentlemen of the Order 4)

“Let’s return to the topic of life in the tavern.” He took a swig of the rotten brandy, for it was too much effort to stand and pour a decent drink.

She dried her eyes, seemed to understand what he needed, seemed to understand him like no other woman could. The realisation left him wanting her more than he cared to admit. More than he’d wanted anyone.

“Are there any other rogues I need to beat for disrespecting you?” The stirring in his loins said he’d have to throttle himself if he didn’t rein in his desire.

She managed a weak laugh. “You’d have to fight fifty men. In the rookeries, women make money any way they can. You cannot blame the men for making the usual assumptions.”

When a man was at war with the world, he blamed everyone.

“You’re three-and-twenty. Have you ever kissed a man?”

Her eyes widened, and he knew she had never kissed anyone freely, only the thieving reprobate who’d stolen a taste of her lips.

“Is it not time for me to ask you a question?” Her light tone belied the tension radiating from every muscle in her body.

“You may ask me a question when you’ve answered mine.”

The resistance to confess was evident in her taut features. After exhaling deeply, she said, “I have felt but one man’s lips on mine, but I would call it an assault, an assault on my person and my morals.”

Oh, when he ventured to Rochester, Dante would knock her uncle’s teeth down his throat and watch while the devil gnawed his own intestines.

“Have you ever met a man you wanted to kiss?”

She glanced at the open neck of his shirt. “Is this your idea of stripping me bare? Exposing my secrets? Revealing my scars?”

“Not all scars are visible.” Dante wasn’t sure why he stood, why he dragged his shirt over his head to reveal his bruised torso, but if this was to be a discussion about monsters, an exorcism of sorts, then it was only fitting he mentioned the deceased Earl of Deighton.

She sucked in a breath and shot to her feet. Her wide eyes settled on the purple bruises to his ribs. “Good Lord. Did you get those at the White Boar?” She moved to touch his marred skin but pulled her hand back as if she might scorch her fingers.

“The devil had fists like mallets.” He captured her fingers, pressed them to the red scar crossing his pectoral muscle. “This, I received when I was ten, punishment for slouching. Bruises heal, but this scar carries the truth of my grandfather’s disdain.”

He released his grip on her hand, expected her to step away, but she continued to trace the mark as if she had a magical ability to heal.

“You fight hard,” she whispered, her fingers slipping lightly down his chest to his ribs—an examination and a caress. “Too hard. Save your energy for when we find the real culprit.”

Her tender touch hardened his cock. “You didn’t answer my question. Have you ever met a man you wanted to kiss?”

She gulped. “Only one.”

“Then I shall have to beat him half to death, too.”

She raised her head and met his gaze. “If these bruises are anything to go by, you’ve hurt yourself more than enough already.”

The heat in her eyes encouraged him to be bold. “Is this where we barter? After your veiled confession, know that I’ve thought about kissing you for days. But I value your friendship, and Daventry is firm about such matters.”

“As colleagues, there is a line we cannot cross,” she agreed.

Then why did she continue stroking his chest?

Would it hurt to kiss her once? Did Daventry not suggest they support each other when remembering the traumas of the past? Perhaps it would prove a disappointment, and they could sidestep this attraction and concentrate on the case.

“And I imagine you’re frightened, frightened any contact with a man might rouse memories you wish to forget.”

She nodded. “I pray my fear amounts to nothing more than a problem with enclosed spaces.”

“There’s only one way to know. You’ve helped me tonight. Let me help you forget your troubles. One kiss. One kiss to banish the ghosts. One kiss from a man you desire.”

He wasn’t conceited. From her shallow breathing, the softness of her tone, the gentle sway of her body, he knew she craved his attention. He welcomed the distraction, too.