Chapter Five

J oss lay on his side, curled around her as she pressed her face against his chest. He traced lazy circles on the curve of her hip, marveling at the velvet-soft texture of her skin. There had been a shortage of beautiful things in his life, of perfect moments. From the rookery where he'd started out to the workhouse where he'd eventually wound up, he'd spent his whole life fighting and struggling.

Fate had intervened in the form of a fateful, failed attempt to pick the pocket of Vincent Carrow. When he'd failed, he'd run like a pack of hellhounds were chasing him. But Vincent had caught him easily enough—found him in an alley, beaten and bloodied from the trouncing he'd gotten earlier that day. It was that moment that changed everything for him.

The Hound had cleaned him up, fed him, dressed him, and plunked him in a school to learn and make something of himself. When he'd been encouraged to go into Bow Street, he'd done so readily enough. It seemed a small enough price to pay for everything that had been given to him. And he'd liked his work. He'd liked the notion that he was making the streets somewhat safer for others. If there were things he had to turn a blind eye to, so be it.

Losing Bow Street, losing his purpose, had left him vulnerable in a way nothing else had. He'd sunk into the oblivion that laudanum, and then opium, could provide. Somehow, he'd pulled himself back from the brink of ruin, but there were still times he woke up in a cold sweat, craving the sweet relief the drug could provide. But he imagined that opium had been replaced. If he woke up in the middle of the night with a craving, it would not be the haze of the drug for which he longed. It would be for the woman in his arms. The woman he was about to lose forever.

The sun was up. It had been for some time. And the real world, the one waiting for them outside the Mint, was calling. It could not be put off any longer. So he uttered words that he knew would break the perfect spell between them.

"This was a mistake," he said.

She pulled away instantly. It stung. No. In fact, it cut to the very bone. As she sat up, there was no hint of the passionate woman from only moments earlier. There was a coolness about her now, a thin layer of ice covering any warmth that she might normally exude.

"Very likely," she agreed. And then with a bitter smile, she added, "Most of my interactions with men have been."

Joss said nothing further, but rose from their pallet on the floor and began inspecting their muddy, dried-stiff clothing. It hurt to look at her. It hurt to see that he'd dimmed the fire in her eyes, even if it was the best thing for them both. Quickly, he donned his breeches before turning to her and tossing her the hideous dress she'd been forced to wear. "It's a shame, but it'll have to do for now."

*

The rough fabric of the dress had not been improved by the river mud deposited on it. Still, it could have been a sack, and she'd have donned it gladly. Being naked in his presence after everything that had transpired between them—and everything that had not—was too much for her. "Turn around."

One dark brow lifted in what appeared to be bemusement. Then he gave a shrug and turned his back to her, indulging her request for modesty. Humoring her. Patronizing her. If she'd had a weapon she'd have thrown it at him. Preferably it would be heavy and very pointy. She wasn't normally a bloodthirsty person, but she'd like to draw a bit of his.

She'd been frightened of men in her life, for a variety of reasons. From her father's thundering verbal assaults where he called them all manner of ungrateful wretches to her husband's petulant, spiteful rages—men had shown her the worst of themselves. They'd left her bruised and exhausted. But none had ever truly hurt her, not that inner part of her which she showed to no one save Honoria, not the soft and tender underbelly of her very person. She'd never shared that with anyone else. Not until Joss Ettinger had looked at her with those soulful dark eyes. And now, not only was she hurt, but also embarrassed. She felt like a fool.

If all that had transpired wasn't humiliating enough, she now had to stand before him wearing a garment not even fit for the rag pile. With the hideous gray-brown dress once more hanging off her body, she squared her shoulders and prepared to face him. "Alright. I'm dressed now."

He turned back to her, his expression schooled into one that was completely impassive. They might have been strangers passing on a sidewalk for all that she felt in his gaze as he casually swept it over her. In retaliation, she did the same, letting her eyes roam over his broad, tall frame. While she'd been dressing, he'd donned his shirt and jacket. Only his boots remained, in his hands. They were probably not dry and would likely not be salvageable at all. With a pettiness that shocked her, she hoped they were his favorite pair.

"Take one of the blankets, wrap it about yourself like a cloak and cover your head with it. Walk like an old woman, hunched over and appearing as feeble as possible. That will make your skirts drag the ground and camouflage the fact that you have no shoes."

"Why should that matter?" Henrietta demanded.

"Because your abductors know precisely what you were and were not wearing when you left that ship. They know you were shoeless, cloakless, and wearing that ugly smock which doesn't deserve to be called a dress," he replied. "And when we are outside, you do what I say. No questions. No hesitation. I don't care how bloody mad at me you are."

"I am not angry with you." She was furious with him, but madder still at herself. Her pride was wounded. And despite everything, she still had that in abundance. Giving herself to him, no matter how right it had seemed at the moment, had been a terrible mistake. As Honoria would say, she should have known better. "And I will do what you say when you say because, contrary to popular opinion, I am not foolish. I am out of my element here and dependent upon you for survival. Whatever my feelings about you are at this time, I can trust that your objective—to return me to my sister—has not changed."

It sounded so cold, so detached. As if they hadn't been locked in a passionate embrace only moments earlier, as if she didn't know the intimate details of his body and he did not know hers. But the answer apparently satisfied him. After a tense moment, he gave a curt nod and made for the door. She was left to either stay behind or fall in step following dutifully after him.