Pearce groaned at the bittersweet taste of her kiss. Sweet Lucifer, he’d forgotten how soft and warm her lips were, how yielding and supple beneath his. The memories came rushing back of the hours spent kissing her when he’d still been nothing more than a green lad, when she’d been eager to learn how to kiss and actually asked him if he minded if she practiced on him.
If he minded… Laughable! What he’d minded was having to stop. Even back then, a dark part of his soul suspected that she would never be completely his. That teaching her that last and most important lesson of intimacy would belong to another man. But he’d selfishly taken whatever else she’d been willing to give, including kisses and caresses that had left her trembling. Just as she was trembling now.
Yet those kisses had been nothing like this.
True, she still tasted of vanilla and sugar, like a decadent dessert just waiting to be devoured. Still tilted back her head to mold her lips perfectly to his. Still ran her hands over his chest as if she couldn’t touch him enough to satisfy herself. But now a hesitation tempered the longing inside her, one that held her back when it never would have before.
God help him, but he wanted her to surrender to the moment and let him give her the kind of passionate kiss he’d been longing for since he laid eyes on her at the masquerade. No—since long before that. Since that night twelve years ago when he was forced to leave her behind.
With a growing need to deepen the kiss, his lips teased at hers to coax her to open her mouth and invite him inside.
“Pearce,” she whispered, half an entreaty to be given more, half a plea for mercy. But then she did as they both wanted and welcomed his kiss by parting her trembling lips.
Joy surged through him. He cupped her face between his hands and slipped his tongue between her lips in a silken glide. With sweeping plunges and little licks, he slowly explored her mouth in an attempt to rediscover her.
When a soft sigh escaped her, he couldn’t resist the urge to take her bottom lip and worry it gently between his teeth.
This time, it wasn’t a sigh that came from her but a whimper, one that stirred aching heat in his loins. When she slipped her arms up to encircle his neck and pull him down to her, giving herself over to the old affection and rising yearnings stirring between them, he couldn’t stop his own sound of pleasure.
Kissing her felt like coming home.
He moved his mouth away from hers to bury his face in her hair. He breathed in deep the delicious scent of her and drank in the softness and warmth of her body pressed against his. He could barely believe she was real. He slid his hands over her shoulders and down her back, needing to feel her to prove that she wasn’t a dream.
But she turned her head away when he leaned in to kiss her again. “You…have to stop.” Yet she belied her words by fisting his lapels in her hands as if she were afraid he’d do as she said and vanish like smoke.
He nuzzled his cheek against hers with a smile. “I have to stop?” The tip of his tongue darted out to delve into the corner of her mouth and capture the sweetness waiting there, and she bit back a soft mewling of longing. “I think you’re a willing party to it.”
“Pearce…”
At that plaintive whisper, he relented and shifted back, but he didn’t release her. He couldn’t. Her hands were still tangled in his jacket front, still keeping him with her. Besides, letting go of her at that moment would have killed him.
“Why stop?” He caressed his thumb entreatingly over her bottom lip. “We used to be quite fond of kissing each other.”
“A lifetime ago.” Yet she leaned into his touch, like a rose bending toward the sun. “That was all before…”
“Before what?”
“Everything,” she whispered, with so much desolation that he ached for her.
Wanting to comfort her, he leaned in to brush his lips in featherlight caresses against hers. For a moment, she capitulated, surrendering to the solace she found in him. She returned his kiss with the same need and longing, slipping her hand up his front, as if to encircle his neck and bring him down even closer—
Suddenly, she tore her mouth away, and the hand at his shoulder pushed hard to move him away. Then her other hand did the same. This time to keep him away.
“Amelia?” he murmured, confused. “What’s wrong?”
She turned away from his touch, her eyes squeezing shut. As if she couldn’t bear to look at him.
“You need to go,” she whispered, her eyelashes glistening wet with unshed tears.
The sight of her grief tore into him like a razor. “What’s the matter?” He cupped her face between his hands. But she refused to open her eyes and look at him, her nose and lips both turning dark pink as tears threatened. “Tell me.”
“Please—go. I can’t…” She shook her head between his hands, her shoulders sinking with distress. “It’s too much. I can’t…bear it.”
Slowly, he dropped his hands away, instinctively knowing not to touch her. “What can I do to help?”
“You can’t,” she rasped out, her voice bleak. When she opened her eyes, a single tear slipped free, sliding slowly down her cheek. “It’s too late.”
“It’s not. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”
She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth like a shield, as if she were afraid he’d attempt to kiss her again. “It’s too late for that, too,” she murmured through her fingers.
He stared down at her, helpless to understand and give her the comfort she needed. Did she think he would purposefully hurt her? That he’d changed so much since they last knew each other? No. It was more than that, he could read it on her face—
It was betrayal.
“I told you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t receive your letters. You can’t blame me for that.”
“I don’t. That’s not—I don’t blame you,” she whispered, as if she knew her voice would crack with emotion if she dared speak any louder. “All those years, I thought about you…wondering how you were, where you were, if you missed me, if you were happy. I never forgot you.” Twelve years of anger and anguish overwhelmed her, and a wounded sound tore from the back of her throat. “You were my best friend. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.”
Her words cut him to the quick, and he could barely breathe out, “So did I.”
“But things are different now,” she admitted, the words tearing from her. “We can’t go back into the past. Do you understand? I can’t.”
“I’m not asking for that.”
She whispered, her shoulders slumping, “Now who’s lying?”
Slowly, she slipped down from the table, stepped out of his arms, and walked away.
Knowing better than to stop her, he raked his empty hand through his hair, but the gesture did nothing to alleviate his mounting frustration…at her, at himself, at the entire situation—Christ!
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t try to see me again. If you would just…leave me alone.” She swiped her hand at her eyes but refused to look at him, her watery gaze glued to the doorway where she wanted him to go. “There’s nothing left between us now.”
That was a damned lie. Based on the way she’d kissed him, there was a bonfire left between them.
And he certainly had no plans to leave her alone. Whether she liked it or not, he planned on dogging her every step, if for no other reason than to keep her safe. If Scepter knew she was attempting to stop the turnpike, they’d kill her to stop her interference.
“Please go now.” Turning her back to him, she busied her hands with the other silk panel, as if their conversation about murder and blackmail hadn’t just happened. As if they hadn’t just kissed. But she couldn’t hide her shaking. “I think we’ve said all that needs to be said.”
Not by a long shot. But pressing her right now wouldn’t garner any more answers. Or forgiveness. She was too upset. Knowing Amelia, she would only dig in deeper.
“All right,” he agreed quietly. “I’ll go. But we’re not finished.”
“Actually, we—”
“Not with this conversation.” Heated promise laced through his voice. “And certainly not with that kiss.”
She wheeled around, surprise lighting her face. And more—a raw yearning he recognized in the depths of her eyes. Because he was certain he wore the same longing for her in his.
He stepped forward and dared a slap by taking one last touch of her cheek. She trembled beneath his fingertips.
“Before we’re done, Amelia,” he warned, bringing his lips to her temple in a lingering caress, “you’ll share all your secrets with me.”
Not giving her the chance to say something that both of them might regret—and before he could no longer resist the urge to grab her into his arms and hold her there until all her pain vanished—he turned on his heel and strode from the shop. Every step he took away from her twisted a knife into his gut, but he couldn’t stay. Years of warfare had taught him that sometimes the best method of advance was simply waiting for the enemy to retreat on its own.
When she did, he would be waiting for her.
He jogged across the street to his carriage. “Home,” he ordered his coachman, then yanked open the door—
Only for a curse to explode from him.
Marcus Braddock, former general with the Coldstream Guards and now Duke of Hampton, waited inside, along with Clayton Elliott. A perfect ambush at the completely wrong time.
“You’re fired,” he called up to the driver, only for that empty threat to be answered by a grin from the former sergeant. Pearce settled onto the seat across from his two friends and scowled. “What do you want?”
“Told you he wouldn’t be happy to see us.” Clayton slid a sideways glance at the general and drawled sardonically, “A man doesn’t like to be interrupted in his shopping.”
Pearce rolled his eyes. He was in no mood for this.
“Something tells me that it wasn’t mercantile goods he was interested in.” The general leaned across the compartment, plucked the paper poppy out of Pearce’s buttonhole, and held it out to him.
Pearce snatched it out of his hand. “Merritt was too busy for you two to bother, so you decided to annoy me?”
“Merritt isn’t tracking Miss Howard,” Clayton reminded him.
“Neither am I, apparently,” Pearce grumbled. Or at least not successfully. She’d given him answers, but not nearly enough of them, leaving him with even more questions than when he’d arrived. And not all of them about Scepter. “Madame Noir was right. Amelia’s involved with her brother’s blackmail.”
“She confirmed that?” Clayton pressed.
He gave a short nod. “Howard’s being blackmailed into using his influence to place men into government positions. Which means he’s not willingly working with Scepter.” Which meant that the amount of information the men of the Armory would be able to gain through Howard about its leaders would be limited. At best.
“And his sister?”
“She’s never heard of Scepter, and I believe her.” Pearce remembered Amelia’s reaction when he’d mentioned them—she didn’t know who they were. That hadn’t been a lie. He’d always been able to tell when she was lying, even as a child, and the blank look on her face proved that she had nothing to do with them. Yet. But if she kept attempting to thwart her brother, he feared she soon would. “She’s only involved with the trust to protect Howard.”
Marcus Braddock mumbled, “That makes sense. Who else does she have but him?”
Me. But Pearce didn’t dare utter that aloud. “Her shop. That’s how she got caught up in this mess. As long as Howard’s being blackmailed, her charity’s under threat.” He stole a glance out the window at the storefront. They were still in front of it, the carriage not yet moving, most likely on the general’s orders. “She loves this place. She’d protect it like a mother would a child.” He grimaced at Amelia’s lack of trust in him. “But she also knows more than she’s telling.”
“Any ideas what, exactly?”
“None. But I’m going to find out.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” Marcus interjected. “I just came from Westminster. Late yesterday afternoon, Howard introduced a bill to create your turnpike.”
“It isn’t my turnpike,” he grumbled, his jaw tightening. But he wasn’t surprised that Howard had acted already, and without Pearce’s consent. If Amelia was right, her brother was desperate. “The bill’s not going anywhere. Parliament dismisses in less than a fortnight. He doesn’t have time for it to go through all the steps necessary to be enacted.”
“Apparently, he does. The second reading is expected in two days.”
“Two days?” Surprise rang through Pearce, followed immediately by dread. Amelia had no idea what her brother had done, or how quickly he was moving to push it through. “A bill usually waits two weeks between readings.”
“There’s not expected to be any debate, so no reason to hold it up. It’s only a turnpike trust, after all. We’ve passed over two dozen of the things just this last month,” Marcus muttered. “He’s made clear to the other members that he’s eager to have it approved and given royal assent before the session ends.”
Pearce’s chest constricted with a sickening jolt as he remembered the look of betrayal he’d glimpsed on Amelia’s face earlier when she spoke about losing Bradenhill. Hearing this news would devastate her.
“He’s announced the names of the five trustees,” Clayton informed him. “You and himself, of course, along with Sir George Pittens, Mr. James Markham, and Sir Robert Graves.”
Pearce scanned the list. “Are we certain they have ties to Scepter?”
“Not yet,” Clayton answered. “But we can’t take any chances and have to assume they do.”
“Do we know anything about their connection to Scepter’s leadership?” Frustration filled his voice. Not all of it because of Scepter. “I thought the Home Office was supposed to be good at espionage.”
So far, Clayton’s men at the Home Office and the Bow Street investigators who teamed with them had turned up next to nothing specific about Scepter and its plans, and what reports they had discovered contradicted each other. It was as if Scepter knew it was being tracked and was purposefully leading a campaign of misinformation and confusion.
“Damnably hard to track down Scepter when we’re busy cleaning up Prinny’s latest mess,” Clayton grumbled defensively, kicking out his long legs. But the casual pose belied the aggravation seething inside him that the Home Office was increasingly playing nursemaid to the Regent these days. “And none of our usual channels have been able to provide anything concrete about who might be leading the group or their motives.” His expression turned grim. “Right now, your connection to them through Howard is the best chance we’ve got.”
“So you’ll keep after Howard about the turnpike,” Marcus said. An order. Not a request.
“Yes, General,” Pearce answered, as if they were still in the field with Marcus still their commanding officer. To the men who’d served with him, he always would be.
“And Miss Howard?” Clayton interjected. “Do you think there’s any worth in pursuing her?”
Pearce grimaced. Wasn’t that a damnably ironic question?
“I think,” he drawled, “that I won’t let her out of my sight.”