Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

Win. How could she tell him how much she missed this? How much she’d yearned for him. Even now, when he tupped her like a dockside whore. Win. Feel me. His gaze bore into her, so cold, detached. Poppy melted against his assault. Her breath turned to rough pants. She was soaking now. Her sex pulsing. The sound of their combined breathing, the wet slap of flesh against flesh, and the rocking bed filled the silence between them.

A small sigh escaped her. Poppy cursed her weakness, but he’d heard it. Win’s lips parted. The pump of his h*ps did not stop but the rhythm changed, his strokes shifting from purposeful to lingering. And she felt it with the whole of her body, the way he slowly started to… explore her. The ice in his expression thawed, melting as his eyes stayed on hers. His body leaned into hers, closer, closer, almost touching. A shiver of heat caught hold of her, and she arched her back. Her ni**les ached to be sucked, and the lack of the sensation only made them more sensitive. Fisting the sheets, she held on, letting him take her.

When that familiar crinkle between his brows formed and he bit his lower lip, she exploded, a keening cry breaking from her lips. Winston came with a hiss between his clenched teeth, his fingers biting into her hips. He stayed tense, grinding his length into her for one long, glorious moment. His chest brushed against hers as he panted, the soft bursts of breath warming her neck. Poppy licked her lips and stared up at the ceiling, too weak to do anything more and too afraid to wrap her arms about him as she wanted to do. Then he was up, pulling out in a move that made her cringe from the loss. Cool air filled the space between her legs that had once been scalding hot. She had barely lifted her head when she heard the door to the suite slam shut, leaving her alone once more.

Chapter Ten

London, 1869—A Proposal

Do you suppose,” Poppy said, glancing down at him with her steady brown eyes, “that man walking along the path realizes the lady he’s escorting is no older than fifteen?”

Winston stirred slightly, for he too had been watching the couple as he and Poppy reclined under their willow tree. For a week now, they’d taken a daily walk together, and always they ended up sitting beneath the willow where he’d kissed her for the first time. Today, however, she’d eased his head down onto her lap. The shocking intimacy of it, and that Poppy—his reserved and proper Poppy—had been the one to initiate liberties had almost unmanned him. But he was not so foolish as to protest. Besides, the comfort of her lap was utter heaven.

Poppy had felt him start at her question, for her cheeks pinked. “I like to people gaze. I can’t seem to help myself.”

He let his fingers touch hers where they rested lightly on his arm. “Neither can I.” When she glanced down in surprise, he smiled. “Now then, you were saying about the strolling couple? Tell me your theory. You cannot see her face, as they are walking away from us. So then why do you assume she is a youth?”

Poppy’s fingers pulled free from his and drifted up to his hair. He almost purred at the way she toyed with the ends as her gaze went back to the couple. “Her walk. She is not used to gowns of that length. Her skirts are tangling about her ankles because she hasn’t yet learned to properly step.”

“Mmm.” He willed himself not to close his eyes but kept them upon the couple. He hadn’t noticed that. “I do believe you are correct.”

Poppy’s brown eyes gleamed as she leaned in, the action bringing her rather pert bosom wonderfully close to his nose. “The question is, however, does he know?”

Winston cleared his throat, taking in a subtle breath of her intoxicating scent. Soon. Soon he would see those br**sts. Anticipation simmered as he gave her a conspiratorial smile and paid attention to the subject at hand. “No, the question is, does she know he is cash poor?”

“Cash poor?” She nibbled on her bottom lip, but stopped quickly, as if correcting herself, and Winston wondered if she constantly self-governed her actions.

“I see nothing in his clothing to indicate poverty,” Poppy said.

Because the sad truth was that clothing made the man, or woman. With a lift of his chin, Winston gestured toward the man. “Observe the soles of his shoes. There is a hole wearing on the left one. No man with proper means would allow that to happen. Unless,” he nodded back at the man, “he saves his funds to address the more obvious items in his wardrobe.”

He was rewarded with Poppy’s grin, a full cheeky one that made her nose wrinkle.

“Very clever, Mr. Lane.” She looked at him, and he grew a little dizzy basking under her admiration.

“I would like to be a detective.” Winston blinked. Now that he hadn’t meant to say. He hadn’t even fully wanted to admit it to himself.

Poppy, however, did not see the strangeness of his desire. “Why not, then? I think you would be brilliant.”

Had they been in private, he would have turned and nuzzled her belly before pulling her down atop of him. As it was, he ran a finger along the folds of her simple worsted gown. “My family would not condone it.”

Her own blunt-tipped finger traced his ear, sending little shivers down his spine. “No, I suppose they wouldn’t.”

There it was again, that wall he could literally feel shooting up between them. The wall she erected whenever she remembered how disparate their families were. Annoyed, he plucked at her skirt, taking it out on her clothing, but she surprised him and rested her cool palm on the crown of his head.

“Why do you want to do it, Winston? When you could live a life of luxury and comfort?”

He rolled fully onto his back so that he could look at her without craning his neck. Behind the fiery nimbus of her hair, the lacy green branches swayed in the gentle breeze. “That is the first time you called me by my name.”

She pursed her lips. “Shall I stop?”

He lifted a hand and cupped the back of her slim neck. “I want to hear it fall from your lips for all of my days.”

Gorgeous, awkward pink flooded her cheeks. “Romantic drivel.”

“Mmm.” His thumb slid under the tight confines of her high collar and found her pulse. “I like a challenge.” It was an answer to both her question and her statement.

Her laugh was short and a bit breathless. “Yes.”

His fingers pushed through her silky hair. “I find the world a puzzle to be solved.”

“You would.” She leaned in just a touch closer.

Gods but he wanted to nibble at the perky tips of her br**sts. He eased her even closer, wanting her to feel the heat of his breath. As if answering his prayers, hard little ni**les appeared against her bodice. He smiled. “And I want to do some good in the world, not simply take from it.”

“You would make a fine detective, Win.”

Win. That did it.

It was an easy thing to pull her down and roll her alongside of him. She squeaked as she went. He barred her protest by resting his chest lightly upon hers while his legs tangled in her skirts.

“Winston Lane!” She laughed as he kissed her neck. “Unhand me. You are going to get us arrested for public indecency.”

The light in her eyes and the way her br**sts lifted and fell beneath her dress told a different story. One that had him grinning over the possibilities. He nuzzled the spot under her ear before kissing his way up her jaw. “All the better to fully acquaint myself with the law, my dear.”

She laughed but stayed him with her hand, her eyes suddenly serious. “Why do you want to be with me?”

The soft confusion in her voice gave him pause, and he studied her before a tender smile tugged at his lips. “Because you are honest and direct,” he touched the curve of her cheek, “and, for whatever reason, I feel wholly myself when I am with you.”

A shadow of something flickered in her eyes, and she frowned. “You believe me to be something better than I am, sir.”

The sadness that dwelled in her eyes bothered him. His fingers trailed to the downy red hair at her temple. “And you give yourself too little credit.” He cupped her face when she moved to protest, and he spoke first. “Why do you want to be with me?” No sooner were the words out than he wanted to take them back. Perhaps she did not have an answer. No one in his life ever really wanted to be around him. His studiousness made his brother edgy, and his father had always detested the sight of him. Winston swallowed hard. But Poppy merely smiled, and it was the dawn breaking over a winter sky. Her brown eyes traveled over his face.

“Strangely enough,” she said, “for the very reasons you served to me.”

He grinned wide. “As I thought. We were made for each other.”

Her lips moved as he kissed them. Trying to talk. Dear girl. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue home. And she melted against him, her capable hands clutching at his biceps in a way that made him want to protect her, take on the world for her. “Marry me, Poppy.” He kissed her again. Again. “Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.” Soft kisses to underscore the seriousness of his need, and how he’d just laid his heart’s desire bare beneath that tree.

“Win.” Her fingers curled into his hair. She held him still and kissed him with a passion that had his heart racing. But she did not say yes.

Chapter Eleven

Bugger all.” Winston pinched the bridge of his nose. God, tunneling into Poppy had been like coming home. She was the only woman he’d ever been with, had ever wanted. And he had swived her as if she were nothing more than a whore. He was a bastard to do it. He should not have touched her. Nothing was settled between them, and sex only complicated matters. He should have left the room the moment she’d entered it. Hell, there were so many things he should have done differently, he was losing track of them now. He had become, as Sheridan liked to say, a monumental cock-up.

Winston sank farther back into the corner of his booth in the Grand Salon and tapped a quick rhythm out on the marble tabletop. “Christ,” he said to the tiny reflection of himself that floated along the surface of his coffee, “you have become quite the maudlin sop, haven’t you?” Laughing softly, he rubbed a hand over his face. Step one on the road back to sanity, stop talking to yourself.

Beyond the lofty silence in the salon, he could hear the muffled gaiety of his fellow travelers in the dining hall across the way, the occasional clink of china, and the ever-present hum of the engines. And then, over it all, came the sound of footsteps, steady and deliberate. For no accountable reason, the sound had the hairs along Winston’s arms standing at attention and sent a shiver of warning down his spine. Slowly, like a man forced to face his executioner, Winston raised his head.

A man strolled directly down the center aisle of the salon, his reflection wavering in the polished marble floor. Attired in the precise lines of a black walking suit, his only nod to color was a scarlet ascot and the glint of gold from his watch chain. His features were lost beneath the brim of his top hat but a glimmer lit his eyes as they locked onto Winston. His stride was languid, as if he enjoyed having Winston watch him, and Winston’s jaw locked, equal parts revulsion and irritation heating his blood. But years of instinct told him not to look away.

The man moved under a shaft of gaslight, and Winston’s blood stilled. Perhaps it was a trick of the light but, for one sharp moment, the man appeared to have scars upon his cheek just as Winston did. His hair was the same wheat color and shaggy, a waving, rumpled mess that mirrored Winston’s. Then the man came closer, and the illusion faded, revealing close-cut reddish brown hair and a face devoid of scars. He stopped directly in front of Winston’s table.

“Hello, Winston Lane.” The voice was smooth, soft even, and enough to send another tremor of foreboding down Winston’s spine. Christ, was this the demon Poppy had warned him about? Only one way to find out.

“Do I know you?” Winston asked plainly. No chance in hell was he revealing his disquiet to this man.

The man’s thin lips furled into a smile. “Now there’s a question.” Without waiting to be asked, he pulled out the chair across from Winston and sat. The scent of coal smoke and patchouli tickled Winston’s nostrils. Crossing one leg over the other, the man sat back and regarded Winston with shadowed eyes. “Do you know me?”

The man was either mad, or he was the demon. Win didn’t like his odds at the moment.

When Win didn’t answer him, the man made a sound of amusement. “Since you have no memory of our earlier meeting, which,” he pulled a thin, gold case from his coat pocket, “is in truth my fault entirely, you may call me Mr. Jones.”

“Mr. Jones,” Winston repeated dubiously. My aunt Fanny. Out of reflex, Win’s hand moved to the place where he kept his gun, only to realize, rather belatedly, that he’d left his coat behind.

“I’ve gone by many names, Loki, Dolus. You might even call me the devil. Which would be missing the point. Who I am is not as important as what I do. I grant bargains in exchange for souls.” With precise movements, the man took out an Egyptian cigarette and lit it, filling the space between them with an aromatic perfume. His thumb drew across his lower lip to catch an errant flake of tobacco before he spoke again. “Ask me next why I am here.”

“How about this,” Win snapped back, “what the bloody hell do you want?”

Abruptly, Jones sat forward, and his eyes were entirely colorless, like chips of ice in a glass. “I’ve come to collect my due.” With that, he reached into his suit coat pocket once more and produced a rolled length of old foolscap. The roll of paper called to Winston in a way he did not understand, nor like. But he felt the familiarity of it with a soul deep shudder.

“Your due?” This was new. Poppy hadn’t said a word about debts. His mouth went dry.