Page 35 of Their Master

The wordloverhung in the air between them, the images it created causing a predictable pulsing between her thighs and a not so predictable ache in her womb.

“How do you know I’m even capable of having a child? I’ve never been pregnant. Maybe I am barren.”

He shrugged. “At best, you will become pregnant, at worst we will enjoy a year of each other’s company.” He smiled. “Not exactly a hardship for me.”

Or her, either.

Moira didn’t like the way her body heated and softened in response to his words and smile. It irked her how badly she wanted to accept, and not only—or even mostly—because it would further her family’s goal.

She wanted more time—another chance—with him because ofhim.

For a moment Moira wished that Marie was there to slap some sense into her.

Before she could come up with a response, he extracted an envelope from inside his coat.

“Here are the details of my offer. There is also the name and address of the employment agency I use.” He tossed the heavy envelope down beside the banknote and then closed the distance between them, not stopping until they were toe-to-toe and Moira had to crane her neck uncomfortably to meet his gaze.

His eyes roamed her face. “Take a week to carefully consider my offer—read the contract and then read it again. And again.” One side of his mouth pulled up. “If you decide to sign it, I will hold you to the terms—all of them—don’t doubt that for a second. If you don’t decide to sign it, I wish you all the best in life. I’ve instructed my employment agency to assist you in finding whatever work you seek.” He traced one of her eyebrows with his gloved finger, caressing down her cheek, and then lightly over her lower lip.

Moira filled her lungs with the intoxicating scent of expensive leather and opened her lips, flicking his finger with the tip of her tongue.

He hissed softly and his pupils swelled until his eyes looked black.

They stood motionless for a long, tense moment; their gazes locked.

And then he dropped his hand, turned, and walked out of her hovel without another word.

∞∞∞

Children swirled around Smith like a school of ragged little fish as he crossed the rubbish-strewn courtyard toward his carriage. More than a few of the light-fingered urchins took nibbles at his watch chain as if it were a brightly colored lure.

Smith gently fended away the questing fingers and handed out coins, as well as several introduction cards to the older boys. The school he and Edward operated accepted anyone over the age of twelve who showed a willingness to learn a trade. They never turned anyone away empty-handed, often placing younger boys in domestic positions or other types of work if carpentry wasn’t a good fit.

He couldn’t help smiling at his coachman and two guards, all of whom were looking rather harried at having spent a quarter of an hour fending off so many raucous children.

Pigeon Court was not the sort of place that most Londoners would want to go if they didn’t have to. It was filthy, cramped, disease-ridden, and infested with criminals. Smith was perfectly at home there, but then he’d spent his first years in London in an area that wasn’t any better.

Smith stared out the window as the carriage rolled away from the claustrophobic alleyway. But instead of cramped streets filled with huddled buildings he saw Moira—the brutal welts on her pale freckled skin and the haunted look in her sea green eyes.

He’d been angry hearing about the beating she’d endured; actually seeing it had filled him with a rage that had briefly blinded him.

It hadn’t been difficult to identifyMr. Brownusing Julia’s description of the man—but Moira’s description had confirmed it. Her assailant was really a man named Owen Onions—no wonder he’d adopted a less clownish alias—and he was a bully boy for whomever had enough money to pay him.

Onions seemed to have dropped off the map shortly after he’d assaulted Moira, so Smith did not yet know who the man had been working for that night.

Whether Moira’s French creditors had sent him or she was in trouble for something else, he didn’t know and Moira had not seemed inclined to tell him. But he’d find out. He’d find out everything.

Smith had hired somebody whose specialty was investigating criminals—another man with an amusing name, Joe Bacon.

If anyone could find Onions, it was Joe.

And when Joe finally found and apprehended him?

Smith smiled and flexed his gloved hands.

Well, then he and Mr. Onions would spend some time together and the other man would learn what it felt like being on the receiving end of a whip.

Chapter 9

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