Page 4 of How to Tempt An Earl
Lucifer’s balls, he wished he could see her face. He wanted to rip that damned veil off and see her reaction. Had his words shocked her? Had they frightened her as they would anyone who didn’t realise how perilous it was to discharge one’s assigned duty and serve no more purpose for their overlord?
‘He’ll have no use for you if you’ve done your job. He certainly won’t want you running about in possession of his plans, free to tell anyone you meet.’ Kieran gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘Either way, you’re dead. It’s just a matter of how soon.’ He let her have a few long seconds to take that in before offering her a lifeline. ‘Unless you want to come with me.’
‘My protection at what price?’ she countered shrewdly, showing off again that intriguing mix he couldn’t quite sort out—the naïve peppered with the sharp. Which was real? Which was ruse? His very life could depend upon it.
‘Information is the currency the Horsemen deal in. You know that much because you’re here.Iwant to know who you are and what has brought you to this point. In exchange, I pledge you my protection and I will see to it that you are free from Roan.’ If she was Roan’s messenger, she would have to turn traitor. He hoped he’d given her reason enough to consider it if that was the case.
She did not answer immediately, her gaze shrouded behind her veil as she thought. At last, her words came. ‘All right. I’ll go with you.’
Kieran slowly released a breath. He’d not wanted it to come down to throwing her over his shoulder and manhandling her home. It would be far better this way, where she thought she had a choice in the matter.
‘When we step outside, I am going to put my arm around you and pull you close, as if I am supporting you. Perhaps it is the anniversary of your husband’s death and you are overcome with grief. The closer I can keep you to me, the more difficult it will be for any potential snipers to get an accurate shot off. My horse is at the watering trough outside; we will take him to my townhouse.’
And, in the meantime, all Kieran could do was hope no one took a shot at him. Some might argue it would be better to put her in a closed carriage, but carriages had no manoeuvrability in traffic or flexibility in a chase. Racing a bulky hired cab on London streets was not nearly as reliable as Tambor in a tight spot. Between his horse or a carriage, he’d always choose his horse.
Outside, they met with no resistance other than the late-afternoon heat. He helped her mount, paid Samuel a few more coins and encouraged him to keep his eyes open for anyone out of the ordinary. The boy had proven himself observant. Such skill wouldn’t go amiss over the next few days. He checked Tambor and swung up behind his nominal widow. He settled in the saddle, his arms about her in order to hold the reins.
‘Comfortable?’ Tambor was an intimidating horse. One could see the world from atop his height. One didn’t want to fall off, though; it was a long way down.
‘I’m fine, thank you.’ But her body told a different story. She remained tense, alert, although Tambor might not be the source of that tension. She was not gripping the saddle with white knuckles. It wasn’t the horse that unnerved her, it was the circumstance.
‘Do you ride?’ She seemed at home aboard his horse. If they ran into trouble, it would help to know if she could.
‘Yes, some.’ Her response was curt. He could forgive her for her shortness. She had a lot to think about at the moment and she’d just consented to ride off with a man she didn’t know to a place she’d never been. ‘Might we stop at my boarding house to collect my things? It won’t take more than a few minutes.’
Ah, so her lodgingswereclose by. ‘No, I’m afraid we cannot. Did it occur to you that you might not have been followed to the church because they knew where you’d be afterwards? They could be waiting in your rooms now.’ They could be waiting for her or for him. If she was working for Roan, perhaps she’d been meant to lure him back there after their meeting.
‘You’re trying to scare me,’ she argued.
‘I’m trying to help you think about your situation more broadly.’ He swept the street with a practised eye and turned Tambor into the meagre traffic.
‘All I have in the world is in that room,’ came the protest. Someone less seasoned than himself, someone who’d not nearly been stabbed in the liver, might have seen this plea as further proof she was Roan’s messenger, sent to lure him. Kieran did not. He knew better. Her words confirmed it: messengers would not bring their worldly goods with them on a trip. A messenger expected to return to wherever they’d come from. They packed light. That she was travelling with everything she owned suggested she was on the run. Still, he had no intention of going there at the moment.
‘Either way, the boarding house is too dangerous now. If you’re his messenger, perhaps you are to lead me to them so they can take me unawares.’ He clucked to Tambor. ‘I will not be shot down like a dog in the street. If that’s the plan, Roan will have to try harder. And, if you’re running from them, you certainly don’t want to find out the hard way they’ve caught up to you.’
‘I resent the implication that I am an accessory to premeditated murder.’ She seethed. He could practically feel the anger roll off her, mixed with the scent of a light summer floral toilet water—hyacinth tempered with orris root to turn it powdery. A fresh scent, too delicate, too youthful, for a widow who made church Latin sound like an invitation to sin. He filed the contradiction along with the others.
‘I’ll send someone to collect your bags later tonight.’ The compromise would serve him. Sending Luce to retrieve her things would be a chance for reconnaissance. He’d pay the landlord to keep up the pretence that she was still in residence. If Roan’s men hadn’t arrived yet, the façade would alert him to their arrival when they tracked her to the room.
She wanted to be innocent; so be it. He’d give her a chance to prove it. Kieran withdrew his pistol. ‘Can you shoot?’
‘If I don’t have to shoot too far.’
‘We’ll work on that.’ He handed her the pistol. ‘Truly, can you manage it if needed?’ he asked in all seriousness.
‘Yes,’ she replied solemnly, settling the pistol across her lap. He felt her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. There was a stalwartness to her, a bravery, that he appreciated even if it also came with some naïvety. They’d work on that, too. The naïve didn’t live long in his world and he’d like her to live long enough for him to know who she was.
* * *
So,thiswas where the Horsemen lived. Celeste shielded her eyes and looked up at a bright-white, pillared townhouse with black shuttered windows and three storeys soaring into the summer sky in the middle of Mayfair, as if the Horsemen were ordinary gentlemen of the ton. Why was she surprised? Of course they lived here, she scolded herself. They were grandsons of an earl. Where else would they live—in a dark cave where they only sallied forth when England was in need? Although, at present, it was difficult to imagine the man seated behind her on the horse as a society gentleman with his stubble, unruly dark waves and potent need of a bath. He wasn’t alone in that last attribute. At this point, she needed a bath too.
The ride from Old Church Street in Chelsea had been hot, dusty and full of noxious street smells. There was no glamour to summer in a city. Those smells had helped take her mind off other things, such as the press of his granite-hard thighs and the rocking of his hips as he moved with the horse—all very natural movements but they offered intimate awareness, nonetheless.
He steered the horse around to the mews and swung off first, taking the pistol from her before he helped her down. ‘We’ll use the back entrance,’ he directed after turning his horse over to a groom with strict instructions. ‘There’s always a full staff at Parkhurst House. You’ll be well looked after.’
There was that duality again—the rugged gentleman, rough around the edges with his stubble and gruffness juxtaposed with the mannered gentleman within who offered comfortanddiscretion to a woman he wasn’t convinced he could trust and gave too many coins to a street boy.
Inside, he led her through the kitchen, introducing her to his cook before leading her upstairs to the public rooms. Celeste peered inside a drawing room that seemed more St James gambling hall than Mayfair mansion. It was filled with card tables, a piano set against one wall. The room was empty except for two men idly playing a hand of something at one of the tables. She pictured the room full of people and laughter, different high-stakes games going on at each table. She slid a covert glance at her host, a realisation becoming clear: the Horsemen were hellions in public, heroes in private.
