Chapter Fifteen

 

 

Grant felt his sanity return when Juliet stiffened and tried to draw away. Part of him was grateful for it, as he knew he never should have kissed her to begin with. And certainly never like this. All raw, restless need and dark desire. Like a bloody wolf howling at the moon. But then he felt her soften…just a small, nearly imperceptible surrender.

And he was lost.

To hell with sanity, he thought as he plunged his tongue between her lips and dined on the sweetness of her mouth. Who the devil needs it?

He pressed himself against her and she pressed back, leaning against the hard planes of his body as her hands slid beneath his coat and her nails sank into his chest, summoning a deep growl of pleasure from the depths of his throat.

The kiss deepened into something neither one of them could control. Something neither one of them wanted to control as the boundaries separating them blurred and melted away.

At the foot of the bridge with the fog heavy at their feet and the smell of salt water in the air, they were not a runner and a thief, but a man and a woman. Controlled by instinct, driven by passion, they each took what they wanted and left nothing behind.

Her eyes glazed, Juliet’s head fell back as he nipped her earlobe before soothing the bite with a teasing lick. He tried to cup her breasts through the bulky fabric of her shirt, only to find them bound flat. With a snarl of frustration he returned to her mouth, sinking into her soft lips with all the reckless abandon of a ship plunging into a stormy sea. He bit her bottom lip just hard enough to make her quiver, and was rewarded with a mewling whimper of desire that set his blood aflame.

She arched against his throbbing arousal, meeting fire with fire. The flames that burned between them was enough to set London ablaze and Grant would have happily burned to ash if it meant one more second with Juliet in his arms.

His hands dipped to her arse, squeezing her shapely buttocks as his mouth began a blazing descent down the slender column of her throat. She rubbed herself wantonly against him, stretching up on her toes so their pulsing centers met in a combustion of heat that elicited a growl from deep inside of his chest.

Driven half mad with lust, he was tempted to pin her against the mooring post and take her then and there. To rip down her boyish trousers and thrust into her hot, wet little sheath as she cried out his name. Until he felt cold, hard steel prick the side of his neck…and he opened his eyes to find her staring up at him with amusement, a smug little smirk curving her swollen lips.

“What the bollocks are you–”

“Arms behind your head. Slowly,” she warned and he hissed out a breath when the knife she held pressed against his throat drew blood. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to.”

A myriad of feelings filled Grant as he lifted his arms high in the air and locked his hands together behind his head.

Confusion.

Fury.

Disbelief.

Lust.

Even now, with a dagger at his neck and Juliet’s slender fingers wrapped around the handle, he still wanted her. And if that wasn’t the very definition of lunacy, he didn’t know what was.

Fool me once, shame on you.

Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me thrice…

A muscle high in his right cheek began to pulse as his teeth clenched together with so much force he felt something in his jaw give an audible pop. He never should have kissed Juliet the first time, let alone the second. What the hell had he been thinking?

That was the problem, he realized. He hadn’t been thinking. Where Juliet was concerned all of his logic and common sense flew out the bloody window. She was a siren to his sailor, and for the second time in a row he’d gleefully wrecked his ship upon the rocks just for a taste of her lips. 

“Now take your pistol and any other weapons you have and toss them into the river. Keep one hand behind your head and your eyes on me.” A flash of silver moonlight reflected off the blade of her knife as she took a step back. Grant was tempted to lunge forward and overpower her, but he knew it was often better to bide one’s time until an opportunity presented itself.

A lesson he’d learned the hard way from a certain red-haired vixen with a penchant for sharp objects.

Wondering how the devil he was going to explain losing another gun to the other runners, he slowly withdrew his pistol from its holster and his knife from his boot and threw them both into the Thames, his burning gaze never leaving Juliet’s.

“What now?” he asked, the two words more of a taunt than a question. “I told you before. I’ll chase you to the ends of the earth. If you want me to stop, you’re going to have to kill me. Do you have that in you, little tigress? The ability to kill a man? It’s harder than it seems.”

“I know how hard it is,” she snapped.

“Then what are you waiting for? Oh, that’s right. You don’t want to hurt me unless you have to.” And because his pride was wounded, and because he wanted to hurt Juliet as she had hurt him, he said the cruelest thing he could think of. “Tell me, have you whored yourself out to other runners or should I consider myself special?”

The slur was beneath him, and he regretted it even before her cheeks turned white and the knife trembled in her hand.

“Juliet, I apologize. I didn’t mean–”

“I am not a whore, I’m a thief.” Her eyes flashed a dark, dangerous shade of green as her hand steadied. “And you can pretend otherwise all you want, runner. But you kissed me.”  

“You’re right. I did.” His hands latched onto his hair in frustration, pulling the ebony curls taut as he continued to stand with his arms bent behind his head. “But I shouldn’t have, and I am sorry for taking advantage of you.”

She lifted her chin. “No one takes advantage of me.”

“Are you saying you enjoyed the kiss?” He managed to keep his tone indifferent, as if he didn’t give a donkey’s arse one way or the other, but there was no denying the quickening in his loins as he recalled the way she’d quivered when he had run his tongue along the delicate curved shell of her ear.

Had the kiss meant something to her, as it had meant something to him? Or had it just been another means to an end, like the first?

“I’m saying…” She hesitated, and he could all but see the gears in her clever mind spinning and turning as she considered her answer. “I’m saying it wasn’t the worst kiss I’ve ever had.”

“So you’ve kissed other men.” And why the hell that should invoke a sharp pang of jealousy he hadn’t the faintest idea.

Not yours, he reminded himself. She’s not yours, Hargrave, and even if she were – since when have you gotten your bollocks in a twist over a woman’s sexual history? The more experienced the better, remember?

Yes, that had always been his personal motto before…and one of the reasons he’d gravitated towards widows and mistresses and actresses with a long line of lovers attached to their names. He’d known he wasn’t their first, just as he’d known he wouldn’t be their last. And he was grateful for it. Grateful that they knew how the game was played, and when they parted ways they would do so amicably, with no hard feelings between them. No feelings at all, to be precise.

It was how he preferred it. How he’d always preferred it. So why was his blood beginning to boil at the mere thought of another man tasting the honeyed sweetness of Juliet’s lips? Maybe she really was a witch. It was the only thing that made any bloody sense, because desiring a woman who kissed him one moment and drew a knife on him the next certainly didn’t.

“Whether I’ve kissed another man is none of your business. We’re not friends, runner.”

“You’re right.” He rocked back on his heels, a roguish grin lifting one corner of his mouth. “We’re not. Because I sure as hell don’t kiss friends like I just kissed you.”

She arched a brow. “I’m willing to bet you don’t try to put them in manacles, either.”       

“You’d be surprised.”

Her reply was a snort. “So what now?” she asked, expertly tossing the knife from one hand to the other. “I run away, you chase me.”

 “We kiss,” he interceded.

“That’s not going to happen again.”

“Is that another bet?” he asked, enjoying himself despite the blade pointing at his heart.

“Maybe it is.”

“Let’s put ten shillings on it, then.”

The slight widening of her eyes was the only indication he’d managed to catch her off guard. “You really want to bet on if we’re going to kiss again?”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

She gave a haughty toss of her head. “Maybe you should just give me the ten shillings now and save yourself the trouble.”

“I fear my pockets are empty.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Yes,” he said, staring deep into her eyes. “It is.”

She held his unwavering gaze without blinking and they stared at each other in silence, neither of them wanting to be the one who looked away first. Neither of them wanting to display anything that could be seen as a weakness. Neither of them wanting to admit what they were both beginning to feel in their hearts.

“What now, runner?” she asked quietly.

It was a simple question, but there was no simple answer.

“Now…now you run, and I catch you, and you stand before the magistrate.” Even as he spoke the words out loud they sat ill in his stomach, like the fish he’d eaten at Lady Harrington’s dinner party. “There’s no other way this can go, Juliet. You know that as well as I.”

“What if I promise to never steal again?”

“Justice would still need to be served.”

“Justice.” Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Justice is not as black and white as you runners like to pretend. No one is perfect. No one is without sin. Not even you.”

“I never claimed to be,” he said stiffly.

“You don’t have to claim something to believe it.”

“What do you want from me, Juliet?” Frustration edged his tone. He knew what she was asking, but he couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. Not unless he was willing to give up what made him who he was.

Some men defined themselves by their titles. Others by the number of estates they owned or how much money they had in their coffers. But Grant had always defined himself by something else. Something that couldn’t be bought or sold. Something that had no monetary value, but was worth more to him than all the gold in the world.

His integrity.

If he gave that up…who would he be? What would he become?

“If you come with me willingly, I’ll put in a good word for you.” Even as he said the words out loud, he knew Juliet would never surrender. Her wild spirit was as much a part of her as his honor was a part of him. “That’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. You’re only doing your job.” She hesitated, and like a veil being dropped to reveal a painting, the guard she kept over her emotions slipped, giving him a rare glimpse of the vulnerability she kept hidden from the rest of the world. “Do you know, I sometimes wonder how different my life would have been if I’d been born in a fancy house instead of a root cellar.” A wry smile flitted across her face. “I always thought it would impossibly boring and dull. All those dresses to wear and balls to attend.”

“Don’t forget the dinner parties,” Grant said dryly.

“Of course.” Her smile faded as she met his gaze. “But now…now I don’t think it would be dull or boring at all.”

“Juliet.” He reached for her without thinking, only to leap back with a startled curse when her knife sliced through his coat. “Bloody hell! Watch what you’re doing with that thing. You could have stabbed me.”

“If I had wanted to stab you, you would be bleeding.” Any traces of vulnerability vanishing behind a sneer, she started to edge towards the bridge. “It’s been lovely chatting with you runner, but I’ve other things to do.”

“I’ll be collecting those ten shillings sooner than you think.” He could have easily gone after her. They both knew it. But instead he let her go, sliding his hands into his pockets as he watched her saunter away into the heavy wall of gray fog.

“Soon,” he repeated quietly. “Very soon.”