Page 13 of How to Tempt An Earl
Grigori nodded solemnly. ‘Horseman business tonight?’
‘Possibly. But not beforepiroshky.’ Kieran smiled and the big man bustled off, shouting orders.
‘I like this place.’ Celeste looked about her at the others seated on wooden benches at long wooden tables. ‘Imagine the stories that must be dining with us. Everyone looks ordinary, but they’re not. On the surface, the proprietor has a very simple goal: to feed his countrymen the food of the motherland while they’re away from home. Yet, he is first-name friendly with a Kubanian prince, an ambassador’s daughter and an English espionage agent. Who knows who else is on the list? Those are just the ones I know.’
‘No one is what they seem. I learned that early.’ Kieran gave a shrug.
‘Not even you?’ she challenged playfully.
‘Not even me. Not even you.’
‘You still think I’m working for Roan? That I am trying to infiltrate your home, your circle?’ She grimaced, surprised, confused and even dismayed. ‘I thought we’d made more progress than that today. If Roan wanted infiltration, he’d have sent an assassin.’ How interesting to note that she cared about his opinion.
‘Areyou an assassin?’ he asked, and she thought she detected some teasing. He was playing with her now, which meant he did indeed believe she was ally and not enemy. It was an adequate sop to her pride and she made her own tentative attempt at teasing in return.
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. If I was, you’d already be dead. I wouldn’t be spending the day telling you stories about boarding school!’ She huffed. ‘I would have quietly slipped a knife between your ribs at the church and been done with it. This is far too much work and I’m not that good of an actress.’
Thepiroshkyarrived, hot and fresh. Kieran held her gaze until the waiter left. ‘To clarify, I meant my remark earlier more personally. None of us are what we seem on the outside. Everyone hides something: scars, doubts, the past…’ He smiled. ‘Now, eat.’
He bit into hispiroshkyand she would not forget the expression on his face. Gone was the Horseman, gone were the strategies and games he so carefully employed. In their place was the look of someone who was fully enjoying the moment. She yearned for that, craved what was in his face and in his being at that very point in time. ‘Oh, this is heaven—absolute heaven,’ he murmured. ‘Try yours.’
She bit into it, the savoury spiced meat and the sweet crust flooding her mouth while memories flooded her mind. It was as good as he’d said, and all thoughts of testing one another’s trust fled. There was only this moment, this meal, this man. Grigori came to the table and regaled them with stories that had them laughing. She’d not enjoyed an evening as much as this one, perhaps ever. The sun went down, gaslights were lit and this part of Soho came alive. Musicians tuned up and Grigori clapped Kieran on the shoulder as he prepared to leave the table. ‘I expect to see you dancing.’
Couples moved into the dancing space and Celeste was filled with the urge to join them. It was irrational: she didn’t know the steps; she didn’t belong with these people; she was a stranger to them. She certainly didn’t have any business encouraging further intimacies with Kieran.
Watching him oar the boat in his shirtsleeves, arm muscles flexing, had been temptation in the extreme. She’d not wanted to get out of the boat. She could have watched him row all day. It didn’t help that he flirted naturally with his words, with his dark eyes that lingered just long enough on her mouth to make her wonder what it would feel like to kiss him or to be kissed by him. Such thoughts were proof she needed to exercise some restraint. But those reasons fled when Kieran held out his hand. ‘Shall we? We can’t disappoint Grigori.’
‘You’re not serious?’ Celeste protested with a half-laugh. ‘I don’t know these dances.’ Her protest was valiant but not-surprisingly short-lived. She wanted to dance with him; wanted to look up into that wide, laughing smile he flashed so easily; to fall into those dark eyes; to lose herself in the dance; to lose herself in him, if only for a moment. Surely she could afford that small luxury for a few minutes?
He laughed her protest away or perhaps he read her thoughts and knew the resistance was pro forma. He tugged her after him before she could launch another protest she didn’t mean. ‘You can do it; it’s just a polka-style dance and no one cares if you know all the steps. Just keep moving and follow my lead.’ Oh, hewasgood fun. Under different circumstances he would be quite intoxicating. He’d overwhelm a girl until she forgot why she was wasting time resisting.
His hand was at her waist, her hand at his shoulder as he grinned down at her, those eyes skimming her mouth for the briefest of moments. ‘Ready?’ He breathed as the music began and he swung them into the fray. Really, there was no other way to describe it—just a glorious fray of turns, trot steps and whirling. It was the most fun she’d ever had on a dance floor. Her dances were usually careful, structured steps full of protocol, nothing like this.
She was breathless with laughter when Kieran pulled her up hard against him, his mouth at her ear, his expression grim. ‘Follow my lead.’
‘I have been…’ Her laughter trailed off mid-sentence. This wasn’t about the dance anymore. Her gaze darted about the crowded room. What had he seen? She looked past his shoulder towards the entrance and froze. Ammon Vincent was here. Dear God: Roan had sent his bulldog after her. Her heart raced. She stumbled, paralysed with fear.
‘Eyes on me,’ he coached, righting her. ‘Keep smiling, keep laughing; give nothing away.’ He danced them through the crowd towards the back of the small restaurant. With a final spin, he twirled them into the kitchen and grabbed her hand with single word, ‘Run.’
In that moment she knewthiswas why he’d danced with abandon, and why he’d eaten thepiroshkyas if it had been his best meal. Because, for a Horseman, it might be—a last meal, a last moment, particularly when he was accompanied by Cabot Roan’s missing ward.
Chapter Seven
They dashed through the kitchen, zigzagging through the maze of tables and workers chopping vegetables. She cursed as her hip caught on a table edge. Kieran tugged her forward, pushing her past a hot stove as they pelted towards Grigori, who held open the back door, shouting‘Idti! Idti!’Go, go. And they went, racing out into the narrow alley with its brick walls and rubbish piles, Kieran’s hand gripping hers. She held on tight. To let go would be to be lost, to be caught by Ammon Vincent, her worst fears come to life.
She risked a glance backwards, knowing she would see Vincent pounding behind them, brandishing his ever-present knife. Instead, the threat came from ahead of them: two hulking men blocked the exit. She stifled a scream and would have stopped running, which was no doubt what the men expected—to stop would allow them to close in—but the men had shown themselves too early.
Kieran had time to adjust. He kept moving, bending low to his boot top, coming up with a blade and throwing it in a single motion that was too quick to anticipate. The first man gave a grunt and went down. Stunned, his partner was slow to react and Kieran took advantage, using his momentum to charge, ramming his head into the man’s stomach. The force pushed him up against a wall and Kieran was on top of him with a fist to his gut… No, not a fist—another blade from somewhere. The man’s eyes went wide and then he sagged. Kieran let him fall, the light in his own eyes feral when he turned to her.
He grabbed both blades and returned them to their hidden sheathes. ‘Come on.’ He grabbed her hand and led her past the bodies with a single command. ‘Don’t look.’
But she’d already looked, already seen the blood. How long had that taken? He’d dispatched those men in seconds. Gone was the laughing man who’d led her onto the dance floor. He was all Horseman now and the Horseman had saved her without a second thought. The transformation was overwhelming, a powerful reminder of what was real and what was not. This pursuit through a dim alley was real. Those beautiful moments at Grigori’s had been an aberration.
They turned a sharp, dark corner and he drew her up against a wall, his eyes full of onyx fire as his body pressed into hers, protecting and shielding even as he offered rough counsel. ‘Get yourself together. There’s no time to fall apart. Forget what you saw. My curricle is across the street, over my shoulder. My tiger can drive like a fiend. I’ll be right behind you, but if something happens, if I’m waylaid…’
She knew what that meant. If there were more men, if they were attacked when they broke cover—or, worse, if he went down and couldn’t follow—she was to go on without him. Celeste started to protest. He gave a silencing shake of his head and she shut her mouth.
‘Just keep going, head for the townhouse. Tell my people to harness the travelling coach. It will take them fifteen minutes; they’re fast. Grab what you need but do not delay. Fifteen minutes, no more—do you understand?’ His eyes were ablaze with the light of battle. She nodded, fighting back shock. To disobey him, to fail him, would make his efforts meaningless. He’d killed for her. She would succeed for him.
