The Historical Collection 2018. Candace Camp

thought it sounded exciting.” She cleared her throat and read aloud. “‘For the second time in as many weeks, a chilling specter has wrought mayhem and terror in the most unlikely of neighborhoods: Mayfair. The ghoul is described as a tall, narrow figure clad all in black, with fine boots and a beaver hat pulled down to meet the upturned collar of his cloak. This reporter interviewed a well-shaken fellow who attested to seeing the caped monster in St. James Park this Thursday past. Only yesternight, witnesses residing near Shepherd Market tell of a demon with hideous face and a twisted snarl roaming the alleyways. The apparition threatened no fewer than a dozen souls—among them, three innocent boys—before disappearing into the night. Mothers are advised to clutch their children close, lest the Monster of Mayfair strike again.’” She lowered the paper. “Well?”

      “Sensationalist rubbish.”

      “I thought the writing was evocative.” Emma folded the clipping leisurely and tucked it away. “Any ideas who this ‘monster’ might be?”

      He was silent.

      “It’s quite a coincidence. Because we were in St. James Park last week. And you do happen to have a tall hat and black cloak. But of course you wouldn’t go around terrorizing innocent boys.”

      He gave in with a huff. “Innocent boys, my eye. The brats knocked over a flower seller for her pennies. They deserved whatever they got.”

      She smiled. “Do you know, I suspected you were a good man, deep down. Even if very, very, very deep down. In a fathomless cavern. Underneath a volcano.”

      There was more to him than she’d suspected. More than anyone suspected, perhaps. Humor, patience, passion. She found it all distressingly attractive.

       Come along then, Breeches.

      At last, there was a stirring in the dark corner behind the grate.

      “Hush now.” He pinched the corner from a salmon sandwich and leaned forward, holding it out until it was close enough to provide an irresistible feline temptation. “Come on then, you odious, mewling bugbear,” he crooned. “I have your dinner.”

      With a steady stream of low, deceptively tender insults, he drew the cat out from the fireplace. Emma remained absolutely still, so as not to startle the creature.

      “That’s it,” he whispered, drawing his hand closer to his lap. Reeling the cat in like a fish on the line. At last, he allowed Breeches to catch the bait. The starving cat attacked the sandwich in ravenous bites. “There you are, then.”

      He had the little beast eating out of his hand.

      Monster of Mayfair, indeed.

      While Breeches ate from one hand, he reached out with the other—grabbing the cat by the scruff. He scooped the creature up, placed both cat and sandwich in the trunk, and latched it tight. Breeches didn’t even make a complaint.

      Then he stood and dusted his hands before offering Emma assistance in rising to her feet.

      “Now,” he said. “I am going to ring for a footman to clear this tray and place the cat under lock, key, bolt, and guard. Then I’m going to go upstairs, find a fresh shirt, and rinse the soot from my hands. In all, I estimate that will occupy three minutes.” His intense eyes caught hers. “That’s how much time you have.”

      “How much time to what?”

      “To make ready. Before I come to your room and pin you flat against the bed.”

      “Oh.”

      He leisurely strolled over to ring the bell. “Make haste, Emma. You’re down to two and a half minutes now.”

      Emma swallowed hard.

      Then she turned and ran.

Chapter Eleven

      Emma didn’t bother to retrieve her slippers. She dashed on stocking feet for the staircase, gathering her skirts in both hands to lift them out of the way.

      When she reached her suite, she chased away the maid and went directly to the bedchamber. As she rushed, she tugged at the buttons of her frock with one hand and went about snuffing candles with the licked fingertips of her other, leaving only the dim firelight. She still didn’t see any reason for darkness, but she didn’t wish to waste time arguing.

      Not tonight.

      She’d barely succeeded in loosening her bodice when he opened the door.

      No knock. No greeting. He was true to his word.

      He strode to her, put his hands on her waist, lifted her off her feet, and tossed her onto the bed.

      Her breath left her. When the capability returned to her hands, she fumbled to find her buttons and continue disrobing.

      “Don’t bother,” he said, in a gruff, commanding voice.

      Very well, then.

      She never would have guessed she’d find this curt, brutish treatment arousing . . . but she did. Oh, she did. He was capable of patience and tenderness. He’d demonstrated as much downstairs with the cat. The knowledge made her feel safe, even if he overwhelmed her now. Besides, she knew from experience, he’d stop the moment she expressed the slightest discomfort.

      She didn’t want him to stop.

      He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette, wrestling with the closures of his falls, then shucking his trousers.

      She was panting with arousal by the time he joined her on the bed.

      He straddled her hips and pulled at her bodice, tugging it down. She heard a seam rip. No matter; she could mend it tomorrow. Before she’d finished deciding if she had the right color of thread, he had her breasts bared and his hands fitted over them, kneading and stroking. Desire shivered over her skin. Her nipples tightened, and he found them with his thumbs. As he rolled and pressed the sensitive peaks, she writhed under his expert teasing.

      “You like this.” Half smug statement, half question.

      She nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the gesture. “Yes.”

      “And this?”

      He pinched her nipple, and she had to chase after her thoughts before she was able to reply. “Yes.”

      “Just making certain. Before I do this.”

      “Do what?”

      He cupped one of her breasts and lifted it. She felt a cool swipe across her nipple.

      He’d licked her.

      She jolted with the keenness of the sensation. “I thought you had a rule,” she gasped. “No kissing.”

      “This isn’t kissing. It’s licking.” Another gliding caress—warm this time—swirling in terrible, wonderful circles. “And sucking.” He pulled her nipple into his mouth, drawing on her with no mercy.

      She cried out and bucked. She reached instinctively to grip his shoulders, remembering too late he didn’t wish to be touched.

      He sat up, caught her hands, and pushed them back against the mattress on either side of her head. “We discussed this.”

      “I know. I’m sorry, I forgot. I can’t think when you touch me that way. Or when you touch me this way, for that matter.”

      The commanding way in which he gripped her arms only pitched her excitement higher. The pulses of her wrists thumped wildly beneath his palms, and her heartbeat was a clamor in her ears.

      “Don’t forget it again,” he said in a low, thrilling voice. “Or I’ll be forced to tie you to the bed.”

      At the suggestion, her intimate muscles fluttered. “Is that meant to be a threat? Because I . . . I