Behind him, he heard Deliah’s retreating footsteps. At least she was away; if either of them were going to fall into the clutches of the Black Cobra, he’d much rather it was he.
The bruiser in the middle was the one with the club. He slowed, smiled evilly, then stepped in and swung the club at Del’s head.
Wondering who had taught the man to fight, Del stepped inside the swing, grabbed the man’s arm with one hand, his throat with the other, and used the man’s own momentum to heave him into the man on his right.
They both went down heavily in a tangle of limbs, heads cracking against the stone gutter.
Del swiveled to face the third man-and found himself instinctively leaping back from a knife.
Cursing his own stupidity in coming out unarmed, he shifted, backing, assessing his opponent and the long- handled blade he held. A distraction was what he needed.
He’d reached that conclusion when he saw a shadow shift behind the man.
His blood turned to ice as he saw Deliah creeping up behind the man-he’d told the damn woman to run!
Quickly he looked back at the man-leapt back from another swipe.
Deliah rose behind the lout and clouted him over the head with her reticule.
Caught totally by surprise, the man yelped and instinctively ducked.
Del stepped in, seized the hand with the knife, then smashed his boot into the side of the man’s knee.
There was a vicious crack and the man went down, howling and clutching his leg.
Del glanced at the other two. They were groggily trying to get to their feet. They didn’t appear to be able to focus yet.
He didn’t dare take them on with Deliah there.
Turning, he grabbed her hand and tore up the lane. She struggled to keep up, but did, without complaint.
In the mood he was in, that was just as well.
They weren’t out of the woods yet.
They reached the end of the lane and stepped into a wider street. Looking left, he saw the spires of St. Martin- in-the-Fields rising through the low-hanging fog, and thanked heaven for a military man’s sense of direction.
He glanced back down the lane, then pulled Deliah on toward the church.
Assessing the possibilities.
The two bruisers he’d left mobile were up and heading their way, in a very much grimmer mood. And he and Deliah were still too far away from the church precincts to trust in reaching them safely.
They needed a place to hide, and they needed it now-before the two chasing them reached the street and saw them. The place didn’t need to be perfect, just somewhere the two brutes wouldn’t think to look…
Ahead, a row of hackney carriages materialized through the murk. If they took one…they risked their pursuers catching up with them in the traffic crawling around Trafalgar Square and all the way to Grillon’s.
With renewed urgency, he hurried Deliah along, scanning the buildings they raced past. Praying they would reach the carriages in time.
Reaching the nearest hackney, he halted, tossed the jarvey a sovereign. “Don’t ask why-just drive, as fast as you can, down Piccadilly. Go!”
The jarvey blinked, but was already lifting his reins to set his coach rolling.
At least the voice of command worked on some.
One glance back showed their pursuers had yet to reach the street. Tightening his grip on Deliah’s hand, he swung her toward the buildings, hurried and harried her into a small alcove before a locked door. He pushed her into the shadows, then crowded in, too, just as the two men came out of the lane.
He looked at Deliah-just as she opened her mouth.
Felt her breasts press against his chest with the breath she’d drawn in.
Seizing her other hand, too, he ducked his head and shut her up.
By kissing her.
Hard.
He shifted into her, trapping her against the brick wall of the alcove. His greatcoat was dark, his trousers were, too, and so was his hair, which currently reached his collar. With his head bent, with her trapped before him, completely shielded by his body, they should be all but invisible in the shadows. Not even her pale face could catch a stray gleam from the smoky street flares.
He hoped, he prayed…
He had to fight the distraction of her lips beneath his, ignore the temptation to taste her, try to blot out the sensation of her exceedingly feminine body pressed along the length of his, and concentrate, focus all his senses, on what was happening in the street behind his back.
Through the sensual storm hazing his brain, he heard the bruisers’ pounding footsteps near, heard them halt, swear at the retreating carriage, then he heard them-yes!-hail the next hackney in line and clamber up, calling orders to follow the other carriage.
He didn’t lift his head when the carriage door slammed, not even when the horses’ hooves rang in the street. He didn’t pull back from the kiss and risk a look until the retreating hoofbeats were fading.
The hackney with their pursuers was disappearing into the murk at the end of the street.
They were safe.
Registering Deliah’s silence, he looked back at her. Despite the shadows, he fell into the dark pools of her wide, stunned eyes. He felt the quick rise and fall of her breasts, mashed against his chest. Saw her lips, lush and ripe, full and parted in the poor light. Beckoning.
He saw the tip of her tongue glide over her lower lip, making the lusciousness glisten.
He didn’t need to kiss her again, yet he did.
It wasn’t a simple kiss but one fueled by anger, and relief. And by something he didn’t understand-that something she and only she evoked, and set pounding in his blood.
Her lips had been parted; he filled her mouth, stole her breath, then gave it back. Deliberately lingered, tasted, explored.
He tightened his fingers on hers, kept their hands safely locked, arms down, even though every instinct pushed him to free his hands and seize her, hold her, bring her close-much closer.
He wanted her, and that want was open, undisguised, there in every bold stroke of his tongue, in the demanding pressure of his lips on hers. In the hard ridge that pressed against her belly. Deliah had no difficulty reading his desire, recognizing it-along with the response that raced through her, hot, instinctive, and strong.
She wanted him, and that was dangerous.
Dangerous with a capital
Yet she couldn’t back away, pull back-end this unwise kiss. Because she didn’t want to. Because there was, it seemed, no force within her powerful enough to counter the pull of it, and him.
Once again, Del found himself in the unaccustomed position of having to force himself to end a kiss-a kiss that promised so much more, that left him aching and hungry for much more. A “more” he now was certain he could have, but while this, it seemed, was the right time, it absolutely wasn’t the right place.
Drawing back from the exchange, limited though it had been, was hard enough. Lifting his head, he looked down into her face, at the lashes that fluttered, then lifted, revealing eyes clouded with rising passion. Her lips were lightly swollen, sheening from his kiss.
Stepping back was much harder, losing the elementally feminine cushion of her curves, an evocative softness that had cradled his hard frame. Easing back, subduing his rising clawing need, took more effort than he’d imagined, but he finally moved back, then, releasing one of her hands, he turned and stepped out of the alcove.
After checking they were indeed safe, he drew her out, too, without a word led her to the nearest hackney, opened the door, and helped her in. He looked up at the jarvey. “Grillon’s.”
Climbing in, he shut the carriage door and dropped onto the seat beside her.
He didn’t say a single word on their journey back to Grillon’s-and neither did she.
By the time the hackney pulled up outside the hotel, Deliah had recovered her composure, but her pulse was still pounding.
With suppressed anger, and unslaked passion.
She recognized both, and knew which was the safer to address. While she could understand, even without his explanation, why he’d kissed her the first time, she couldn’t explain, and didn’t want to think about, why he’d kissed
