“So this is what a brothel looks like. It is
not at all what I expected.”
“Good Lord
in Heaven,” muttered Captain Harley Stiles as he blotted the sheen of sweat
from his brow. “I would hope that you haven’t given the matter
a great deal of thought.”
“Not
a great deal,” replied Lady Alexa Hendrie. She turned for a closer look
at the colored etching hung above the curio cabinet. “But one can’t
help being mildly curious, seeing as you gentlemen take such delight in discussing
such places among yourselves.”
Her
brother’s friend quickly edged himself between her and the offending print. “How
the devil do you know that?” he demanded.
Despite the
gravity of their mission, Alexa felt her mouth twitch in momentary amusement. “I
take it you don’t have any sisters, Captain Stiles.
Otherwise you would not be asking such a naive question.”
“No, by the
grace of God, I do not.” Though a decorated veteran of the Peninsular Wars,
he was still looking a little shell-shocked over the fact that she had outmaneuvered
his objections to her accompanying him into the stews of Southwark. “Otherwise,
I might have known better than to offer my help to Sebastian, no matter how the
dire the threat to his family.”
Alexa bit her lip . . .
“I, too, am
curious.” A deep growl, dark and smoky as the dimly lit corridor, broke
the awkward silence. “Just what did you expect?
She spun around.
Within an instant of entering The Wolf’s Lair, she and Stiles had been
sequestered in a small side parlor to await an answer to the captain’s
whispered message. The door had now reopened, and though shadows obscured the
figure who was leaning against its molding, the flickering wall sconce illuminated
the highlights in his carelessly curling hair.
Steel on steel.
Alexa froze as a prickling, sharp as daggerpoints, danced down her spine. “Oh,
something a bit less . . . subtle,” she replied, somehow mustering
a show of outward composure. She would not—could not—allow herself
to be intimidated. After taking a moment to study the muted colors and rather
tasteful furnishings of the room, she returned her gaze to the lewd etching on
the wall. “By the by, is this a Frangelli?”
“Yes.” Straightening
from his slouch, the man slowly sauntered into the room. “Do you find his
style to your liking?”
She leaned in closer. “His
technique is flawless.” After regarding the graphic twining of naked bodies
and oversized erections for another few heartbeats, she lifted her chin. “But
as for the subject matter, it’s a trifle repetitive, don’t you think?”
A low bark of laughter
sounded, and then tightened to a gruff snarl as the man turned to her companion. “Are
your brains in your bum, Stiles? What the devil do you mean by bringing a respectable
young lady here? Your message mentioned Becton, not—”
“It’s
not the captain’s fault. I gave him no choice,” she interrupted. “I
am Alexa Hendrie, Lord Becton’s sister. And you are?”
“This isn’t
a damn dowager’s drawing room, Lady Alexa Hendrie. We don’t observe
the formalities of polite introductions here.” The sardonic sneer grew
more pronounced. “Most of our patrons would rather remain anonymous. But
if you wish a name, I am called the Irish Wolfhound.”
“Ah.” Alexa
refused to be cowed by his deliberate rudeness. “And this is your Lair?”
“You could say that.”
“Excellent.
Then I imagine you can tell me straight off whether Sebastian is here. It is
very important that I find him.”
“I can.” His
lip curled up to bare a flash of teeth. “But whether I will is quite another
matter. The place would not remain in business very long were I to freely dispense
such information to every outraged wife or sister who happens to barge through
the door.”
“Is it profitable?” she
asked after a fraction of a pause.
“The business?” The
question seemed to take him aback, but only for an instant. “I manage to
. . . make ends meet. So to speak.”
“Now see,
here, Wolf—” sputtered Stiles.
“How very
clever of you,” went on Alexa, ignoring her companion’s effort to
cut off any more risqué innuendoes. Smiling sweetly, she shot a long,
lingering glance at the Wolfhound’s grey-flecked hair. “I do hope
the effort isn’t too taxing on your stamina.”
“I assure
you,” he replied softly. “I am quite up to the task.”
“Bloody hell.” Stiles
added another oath through his gritted teeth. “Need I remind you that the
lady is a gently bred female?”
The quicksilver
eyes swung around and fixed him with an unblinking stare. “Need I remind
you that I am not the arse who brought her here?”
“”Would
that I could forget this whole cursed nightmare of an evening.” The captain
grimaced. “Trust me, neither of us would be trespassing on your hospitality
if it were not a matter of the utmost urgency to find Becton—”
“Our younger brother is
in grave danger,” interrupted Alexa. “I must find Sebastian.”
“We have reason
to think he might be coming to see you,” continued Stiles. “Is he
here?”
The Wolfhound merely
shrugged.
Alexa refused to accept
the beastly man’s silence. Not with her younger brother’s life hanging
in the balance. “You heard what the Wolfhound said, Captain Stiles. He
is running a business and doesn’t give away his precious information for
free.”
Sensing that neither tears nor appeals to his better nature—if he had one—would
have any effect, she took pains to match his sarcasm. “So, how much
will the information cost me?” she went on. “And be forewarned that
I don’t have much blunt, so don’t bother trying to claw an exorbitant
sum out of me.”
“I am willing
to negotiate the price.” Despite the drawl, a tiny tic of his jaw marred
his mask of jaded cynicism. “Kindly step outside, Stiles, so that the lady
and I may have some privacy in which to strike a deal.”
“I’m
not sure, er, that is . . .”
“What do you
think? That I intend to toss up her skirts and feast on her virginity?” The
Wolfhound looked back at her with a sardonic smile. “You are, I presume,
a virgin?”
“Presume whatever
you wish,” she replied evenly. “I don’t give a damn what some
flea-bitten cur chooses to think, as long as I get the information I need.”
“Ye gods, Lady Alexa,
bite your tongue,” warned Stiles in a low whisper. “You are not dealing
with some lapdog. It’s dangerous to goad the Irish Wolfhound into baring
his fangs.”
Dangerous. Another touch of ice-cold steel tickled against her flesh.
Or was it fire? Something about the lean, lithe Wolfhound had her feeling both
hot and cold.
Stiles tried to
take her arm, but she slipped out of reach.
“I really must insist—” began the captain.
“Out, Stiles,” ordered the Wolfhound as he moved a step closer to
her.
Alexa stood firm in the face of his approach. Oh, yes, beneath the finely
tailored evening clothes was a dangerous predator, all sleek muscle and coiled
power. And ready to pounce. But she was not afraid.
“You may do as he says, Captain. I am quite capable of fending for myself.”
Stiles hesitated,
and then reluctantly turned for the hallway. “Very well. But I will be
right outside, in case you need me,” he muttered. “You have five
minutes. Then, come hell or high water, we are leaving.”
“Do you always
ignore sensible advice, Lady Alexa?” asked the Wolfhound, once the latch
had clicked shut.
“I often ignore
what men consider to be sensible advice.” The grey-flecked hair
was deceiving, she decided. Up close, it was plain that the Wolfhound was a man
not much above thirty. “There is a difference between the two, though someone
as arrogant as you would undoubtedly fail to recognize it.”
“I may be
arrogant but I’m not a naïve little fool,” he retorted with
a menacing snarl. “At the risk of further offending your maidenly sensibilities,
allow me to point out that when trying to strike a bargain with someone, it is
not overly wise to begin by hurling insults at his head.”
Alexa felt a flush
of heat creep across her cheekbones. “Actually, I am well aware of that.
Just as I am well aware that any attempt at negotiations with you is probably
a waste of breath. It is quite clear you have a low opinion of females and aren’t
going to consider my request seriously.”
Beneath his obvious
irritation, Alexa detected a glimmer of curiosity. “Then why did
you agree to see me alone?” he asked.
“To show you
not everyone turns tail and runs whenever you flash your fangs.” She squared
her shoulders. “By the by, why is everyone so afraid of your bark?
“Because I
am accorded to be a vicious, unpredictable beast,” he replied. “You
see, I tend to bite when I get annoyed. And my teeth are sharper than most.”
Lamplight played
over the erotic etching, its flickering gleam mirroring the devilish spark in
his quicksilver eyes. It seemed to tease her. Taunt her.
Alexa wasn’t about to back away from the challenge. “Do you chew
up the unfortunate young women who work here, then spit them out when they are
no longer of any use to you?”
For an instant,
it appeared she had gone a step too far in baiting him. His jaw tightened and
as the Wolfhound leaned forward, anger bristled from every pore of his long,
lean face.
But just as quickly, he seemed to get a leash on his emotions and replied with
a cynical sneer. “You know nothing of real life, so do not presume to think
you understand what goes on under my roof,” he snapped.
“Perhaps you
would care to explain it to me.”
The Wolfhound gave
a harsh laugh. “Nosy little kitten, aren’t you? Seb ought to lock
you in your room, before you stray into real trouble.”
Alexa fisted her
hands and set them on her hips. “Ha! Let him try.”
“You have
spirit, I‘ll grant you that.” He paused for a moment. “Still
interested in making a deal?”
“What is your
price?”
“A kiss.”
Her face must have
betrayed her surprise, for he flashed a rakish smile. “Haven’t you
ever been kissed before?”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “O-of course I have.”
“Oh, I think not,” drawled the Wolfhound. “I’d be willing
to wager a fortune that no man has ever slid his tongue deep into your mouth
and made you moan with pleasure.
“Why, you
impudent whelp—”
Her words were cut
off by the ruthless press of his mouth. He tasted of smoke and spirits—and
a raw, randy need that singed her to her very core. She swayed and suddenly the
Wolfhound swept her into his arms. With several swift strides, he crossed the
carpet and pinned her up against the wall, setting off a wicked whisper of crushed
silk and flame-kissed flesh.
Alexa meant to cry
out, but as he urged her lips apart and delved inside her, outrage gave way to
a strange, shivering heat. Her protest melted, turning to naught but a whispered
sigh. As did her body. Against all reason, it yielded to his touch, molding to
every contour of his muscled frame. Broad shoulders, lean waist, corded thighs—Alexa
was acutely aware of his overpowering masculinity. The scent of brandy and bay
rum filled her lungs, and the rasp of his stubbled jaw was like a lick of fire
against her cheek.
She knew that she should push him away. Bite, scratch, scream for help.
And yet. And yet . . .
And yet, as his hands moved boldly over her bodice and cupped her breasts, she
could not resist threading her fingers through his silky grey-threaded hair.
Like the rest of him, the sensation was sinfully sensuous.
A moment later—or
was it far, far longer?—the Wolfhound finally ceased his shameless embrace
and leaned back.
“A man could do far worse on the Marriage Mart than to choose you,” he
said softly. “For at least he will likely not be bored in bed. Indeed,
I might even be tempted to swive you myself, if innocence was at all to my taste.”
The crude comment
finally roused Alexa from the seductive spell that had held her in thrall. Gasping
through kiss-swollen lips, she jerked free of his hold and all of her wordless,
nameless, girlish longings took force in a lashing slap.
It connected
with a resounding crack.
His head snapped
back, the angry red imprint of her palm quickly darkening his cheek.
“That was
for such an unspeakably rude insult.” She raised her hand again. “And this,
you arrogant hellhound, is for—”
He caught her wrist. “Is
for what? The fact that for the first—and likely only—time in your
life, you have tasted a bit of real passion?”
She went very still. “Do
you really take pleasure in causing pain?”
The Wolfhound allowed
her hand to fall away, then turned from the light, his austere profile unreadable
in the flicker of the oil lamps. “Most people think so,” he said
evenly as he moved noiselessly to the sideboard.
“I—I don’t understand,” she began.
“Don’t bother trying,” he snapped. “All that should matter
to you is the fact that I am a man of my word. You paid your forfeit, so in answer
to your other question, your brother is not at present in The Wolf’s Lair.
And if he were, it would not be for the usual reasons that gentlemen come here.” Glass
clinked against glass. “Like you, he is seeking information and I’ve
heard word that he thinks I may be able to help him. Should he come by tonight,
I will inform him of your quest, and how desperate you are to find him.”
Alexa turned
for the door, yet hesitated, awkward, unsure.
Taking up
one of the bottles, the Wolfhound poured himself some brandy and tossed it back
in one gulp. “Now get out of here, before one of my patrons recognizes
you. Trust me, the tabbies of this Town are quick to pounce on any transgression.
And their claws are far sharper than mine.”
“T-thank
you,” she said, hoping to show that her pride, if not her dignity, was
still intact. “For showing a shred of decency in honoring our bargain.”
“Don’t
wager on it happening again.”
Alexa
stiffened her spine. “I am not afraid to take a gamble when the stakes
are high.” She could not resist a parting shot. “And I’ll have
you know I am very good at cards.”
“Here at Wolf’s
Lair, we play a far different game than drawing room whist. You have tempted
the odds once—I would advise you not to do it again.”
“How
very kind of you to offer more counsel.”
The
Wolfhound’s laugh was a brandy-roughened growl. “You mistake my sentiments,
Lady Alexa. I am not being kind. I am simply trying to stack the deck in my favor.
If I am lucky, the cards will fall in a way to ensure that our paths never cross
again.”
