Rules for a Proper Governess

“So, you decided to show your gratitude by pinching my watch and leading me into the arms of your ruffian friends?” He made a noise of disbelief. “If that’s your method of thanking a man, I’d hate so see ye when you’re annoyed with him.”

She didn’t smile. “I told ya, you were supposed to run. They’d have gutted you. What were you thinking? You should have just let it go.”

His temper splintered. “Why the hell should I? It’s my watch. My wife gave it to me.”

The young woman took a step back as Sinclair’s voice rose. “Yeah? You’re a rich bloke. Have her buy you another one.”

“I cannae, can I?”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s dead!”

The words rang against the low ceiling and the uncaring stones, and suddenly, Sinclair couldn’t breathe at all.

He’d never, not even the day she’d slipped away, declared flatly that Daisy was dead. Sinclair shied from the word. He’d said passed, left him, was gone. Dead meant too much finality, it meant dust and no return.

Sinclair struggled for air. “She’s . . .”

He felt wetness on his face. Bloody hell. He hadn’t wept either. Not really. To weep for her meant she was never coming back.

“She’s . . .”

The world rushed around him, spiraling down into a single point, stifling. Blackness filled his vision, a pressure in his ears grinding out his strength. His knees were bending, and a void opened to pull him inside . . .

He blinked and found himself half lying, half sitting across the cushions piled on the floor. The young woman sat beside him, her hat gone to reveal rich dark hair, worry on her face.

“You all right, mister?”

This was the second time she’d asked him that tonight, as though sweetly concerned. She was a thief, had murdering friends, had brought him to this hole only God knew where to do God only knew what, and yet she asked with anxiety whether he was well. She’d dragged him to this sofa, he realized. Sinclair must have fallen nose-first on the floor, and she’d pulled him to the cushions and made sure he woke up.

“Damn it, woman.” Sinclair put his arm behind his head and glared at her. “What am I to do with you?”

She stared at him in wide-eyed contemplation for another second or two, then she leaned swiftly to him and kissed him on the mouth.

Chapter 3

Sinclair’s breath went out of him again. He was surrounded by her lush warmth, her wool skirt falling over his legs and thighs, her bosom pressing his chest through his coat. The tip of her nose brushed his cheek, her lips soft on his mouth.

The kiss was unpracticed, even clumsy, telling him far more certainly than anything else that she was an innocent. She had no idea how to kiss a man, no idea how to part her lips to let him take his pleasure. And yet her kiss was welcoming, erotic, a taste of desire Sinclair couldn’t ignore.

He found his hand stealing to the back of her neck, moving under her heavy braid, pressing her closer. Sinclair felt her start of surprise as he pulled her to him, then her body responded. She closed her eyes, shutting out the lovely blue, as she flowed into him and kissed him back.

Sinclair’s arousal roared to life, the part of his body he tried to neglect becoming achingly stiff.

Why not? This young woman was lovely, willing, had brought him here. If she wanted to rob him of everything when they were done, so be it.

Sinclair could lay her on this couch, rid himself and her of bothersome clothes, and drive into her. It wouldn’t take long, and for one glorious moment, Sinclair could lose himself in the mind-blanking palliative of coupling.

The young woman made a faint noise in her throat. Sinclair realized he’d started shifting to take her down to the couch.

The noise snapped him back to awareness. What was he doing? She was innocent—at least of bodily passions. Other men might not care, deciding that the kind of woman she was and where she lived gave them the right to take her body, but Sinclair could never be that callous.

He let her go abruptly and sat up. She blinked at him from where she’d slid down on the cushions, delightfully mussed and not calming his hardness one bit. She watched him a moment longer then gave him a shy smile.

Shy. Not coercive or coy—she wasn’t selling herself for the watch. Sinclair had no idea why she’d kissed him, but it hadn’t been because she’d sought favors.

Under his scrutiny, the young woman’s face flamed. “Now you’ll be thinking me a tart,” she said, sitting up and brushing back a lock of hair. “But I just wanted to kiss you, all right?”

Sinclair had wanted to kiss her. He still did. “I told you, I’m not a judge.” His arousal continued pounding, wanting release, very unhappy he’d let her go. “The only thing I know about you is that you’re a talented pickpocket, and you’ll be giving me back my watch.”

He held out his hand, amazed it was rock steady, his tight leather gloves whole even after the fight in the abandoned lot. The young woman eyed his palm in trepidation while she chewed on a corner of her lip.

She shouldn’t do that. The nibbling made her lip red, made Sinclair remember her lips against his, spiking his need to taste them again.

“The thing is, Mr. McBride,” she said, oblivious to his torment. “If I go back home without something from you, my dad will beat me rotten. I’d rather he didn’t, if you don’t mind.”

Sinclair’s focus returned, her words making his anger rise. “Why should he beat you?”