A firm grip caught at her as she tumbled onto the carriage floor between Lynch’s legs. There was a moment of hard muscle beneath her hands, then she realized exactly where her hands were and wrenched them back.
Lynch’s fingers dug into her arms, his large body stiff as they both realized the suggestiveness of her position. The color leeched out of his irises, his black pupils swallowing them whole.
The demon inside him.
Rosalind froze. The gun strapped to her thigh suddenly chafed, as if reminding her how difficult it would be to get at it. She’d cut through the pockets in her skirts, leaving a clear path to the weapon, but her skirts were hopelessly tangled around her legs.
With a jerk he tore his hands away, his fingers clenching in the seat.
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Lynch’s voice was hard, almost metallic, completely lacking inflection. He took a deep breath and looked away, closing his eyes. “Just move slowly.” A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I would help you, but I don’t believe I should touch you just now.”
There was nowhere to put her hands. Rosalind eyed his knee grimly and forced herself to lay her right hand on his thigh. The steam carriage jerked into motion and her fingers dug into the clenched steel of his muscle.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He hadn’t opened his eyes, his breathing slow and steady. Controlled. Forcing himself to reign in his hungers, his desires. “As am I.” A tight smile. As if he could only permit himself this.
Rosalind pushed herself to her knees, her eyes level with his chest. The hard carapace of his breastplate molded to fit his body, the musculature defined in an almost vulgar way. Beneath it he wore a black shirt with a long, leather coat over the top.
The only thing she could smell was leather. A blue blood had no personal scent, but some liked to disguise that fact with perfumes or aftershave. Indeed, Garrett reeked of it, though from her impression of the man, she wasn’t surprised. Lynch however…No scents, no perfumes. Only a faint lingering hint of coffee and something else, something almost coppery.
Blood.
His eyes opened, as if wondering what was taking her so long. Rosalind’s breath caught and she surged to her feet, practically throwing herself back into the seat. The black had faded, his demons well and truly leashed. The sight was impressive. She’d rarely ever seen a blue blood control himself like this.
“It doesn’t happen often. But I’ve not been to sleep for several days and I didn’t have time to…partake of nourishment before we left.”
His entire body was rigid, his words so quiet she might not have heard them. A hint of embarrassment? Of shame? Rosalind stared at him, the breath slowly leaving her lungs. She felt almost unnerved, her body primed to fight or flee. But the danger had passed. Why then did the feeling persist?
“Perhaps you should carry a flask,” she suggested, her voice rough and low.
“An excellent suggestion.”
The murmur of his voice shivered over her skin, and she tore her gaze away, forced it to the window. The world beyond was a foggy haze, gas lamps flickering past in rapid succession. The brickwork on the houses was fancier, and iron-scrolled fences appeared, often with small gardens.
They were nearly there. Suddenly Rosalind couldn’t wait. She wanted to get out of this damned carriage, away from him. And it wasn’t fear that motivated her desire, but rather the uncomfortable turmoil he left her thoughts in.
The carriage slowed, the rumble of the steam engine softening to a hiss as the furnace exhaled. Rosalind pressed her hand to the window, peering through the glass. He watched her, she knew. She could feel it on her skin, shivering down her spine. The thought almost tore a laugh from her lips, sharp-edged with panic.
“I would never hurt you,” Lynch said.
No doubt he could smell her nervousness, read it in the still lines of her body. But he misconstrued the reason behind it.
Opening her eyes, she noticed her breath fogging the glass. “I know.” She wouldn’t allow him to hurt her. Taking a slow breath, her corset digging into her ribs, Rosalind pasted a smile on her lips. “It’s the carriage. I’m not fond of small spaces. Not for too long anyway.”
His penetrating gaze bore into her. “Don’t touch your hands. Don’t lock you up.” A slow nod. “I shall remember.”
Finally the carriage eased to a halt. The door jerked open and Rosalind could barely contain herself. She wanted to get out with a desperation that bordered on anxiety. The walls were pressing in on her.
Garrett appeared, surprised to find her in the doorway so suddenly. He offered his arm in reflex, that insincere smile edging over his lips. A dangerously handsome man but far too pretty for her tastes. No her tastes ran darker, or so it seemed.
Rosalind ignored his arm and stepped down, pleased to be free of the carriage. The lack of its constraint lightened her soul. Her skirts spilled around her and she straightened them.
Garrett looked down beneath his lashes, as if considering his arm. He’d made it clear he considered this a hunt and she the prey. Every affront only seemed to heighten his intensity, though it merely frustrated her.
“She doesn’t like being touched.” Lynch alighted with dangerous grace. “On the hands anyway.”
Their eyes met. Was it her imagination, or was there actually a play of amusement around the hard line of his lips? A softening perhaps or hint of smoldering warmth in those glacial eyes?
“Of course.” Garrett stepped aside with a smile that almost gleamed.
One punch with her metal hand and all those pretty white teeth would be scattered across the cobbles. Rosalind smiled at the thought and he smiled back, no doubt thinking he was winning her over.
The warmth faded out of Lynch as if it had never been there.
“Come.” Lynch snapped his fingers and strode toward the house. “Stop trying to seduce my secretary, Garrett, and get your mind on the job. Mrs. Marberry, if you would kindly do what I’m paying you to do. Feminine wiles are almost as teeth-grating as the vapors.”
No softening there.
Rosalind stared after him with narrowed eyes, then grabbed her skirts in her fist and scurried after him. “You haven’t paid me anything yet. And believe me, I have no interest in plying my ‘feminine wiles.’”
He stopped abruptly at the front door of a large mansion, well lit from within. Rosalind nearly ran into him. Turning, he said, “Garrett likes women, Mrs. Marberry. Don’t think you’ll be the only one.”
“Why thank you, Sir Jasper.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him, goaded into sarcasm. “I hadn’t figured that out at all.”
Lynch’s eyes narrowed. “You’re mocking me.”
“You’re mistaking me for a fool.”
Another hot glare that unnerved her. “I dislike women who think they’re smarter than I am.”
“I don’t think I’m smarter.” To her own credit she didn’t emphasize the word “think.” “And it seems you dislike women in general.”
“That’s not true. I simply find little use for them.”
This time she
His gaze traced her mouth. “Mrs. Marberry. This is precisely what I wished to avoid with my men.”
“I thought it was Rosa? Now I am Mrs. Marberry?”
A long, steady look. “You are always Mrs. Marberry. To me. For convenience sake, you are Rosa.”
She looked around. “And we’re alone, Sir Jasper.” On the stoop of a Georgian town house, the wind whipping his great cloak around her in a cocoon of intimacy. Rosalind took a shallow breath. But this was what she wanted, she decided—to discover the man’s weakness. And it seemed, from the way he was looking at her, that he did find some use for women. Or perhaps for redheads in particular.
It was easy to smile, to play at being Rosa Marberry, now she was out of that carriage. She slipped into the role as if it were a second skin. All of the disquieting thoughts she simply shoved aside. “I don’t believe my supposed wicked tendencies are bothering
