Chapter Twelve

Oscar didn't realize he was uncomfortable with praise until the moment he deposited the wayward ragamuffin and his brother

in their mother's arms, and she called him a... a hero, of all things.

Him? The same ruthless man who'd cheated, lied and stolen for his entire life?

No, he wasn't a hero by any means. Far from it. He was the type of man who mothers stared at crossly and warned their children

to never follow in his footsteps.

He was a callous, self-serving, arrogant devil who had no qualms about taking over another man's life and title to suit his

own purpose.

So after shrugging off all the backslaps and the good-natured accusations of being humble, he slipped away to find the one

person who knew him. The real him.

Beyond the village square, he caught a glimpse of Honoria's blue frock as she skirted around a corner. Not wanting to be obvious

about his pursuit, he pretended an interest in window-shopping. Then, when the summer sun had forced the villagers either

into the shops or on their way home, he stole around the corner, too.

Oscar found her standing alone behind the haberdashery. Facing away from him, her head was bent toward the collapsed parasol

in her grasp.

"It appears I've discovered your meeting place for assignations. Shall I leave you alone to slay one of your besotted followers with those come-hither gazes you like to unleash on the unsuspecting?"

He meant the words to sound like one of their usual barbs, but they came out in a growl instead. And he didn't know where

this inner beast had come from or why he couldn't seem to shove it back into its cave.

"You know me so well." She offered a light laugh, the sound of it tinny to his ears.

Had he been right? Was she meeting someone?

He strode forward, his gaze scanning the surrounding shrubbery beyond the verge. It was quiet here, secluded. The ideal location

for a clandestine meeting. "Who is he?"

She scoffed in response. However, when he reached her and turned her around, he noticed that something was wrong. Though her

countenance was perfectly composed, there was a slight reddening at the tip of her nose and her damp lashes clustered together

in spikes.

"What happened, Honoria?"

She shook her head and flitted her fingers. "I don't know what you mean."

"You were crying, and I want to know why." All the gruffness had gone out of his tone as he reached out to smooth away the

last trace of dampness at the corner of her eye.

Her chin trembled ever so slightly. Yet even then, even when he was staring directly at her cards and they both knew she was

bluffing, she still tried to sound flippant. "I thought I'd finally gotten rid of you, and in such a convenient manner."

"Ah, I think I understand," he said gently. "You are thoroughly vexed by the knowledge that you'll still have to kill me yourself."

"Precisely."

"Let me guess. Death by parasol?" Taking the frilly accessory from her, he leaned it against an empty crate. "There. I have

disarmed you. Now you'll have to find a new method."

She followed his actions, staring vacantly at the parasol. When she spoke, her voice was almost too quiet to hear above the distant clamor of horse hooves on the lane and the soft susurration of the wind through the leaves.

"It all happened so fast. One minute he was beside his brother, laughing and teasing. The next he was stumbling into the street."

She gestured with her hand as if the tableau were playing out again before her eyes. "Then you just... appeared. If you

hadn't, I shudder to think about the outcome."

He didn't want to think about it either. So he simply shrugged. "Sometimes all we have is a moment."

She looked over at him quizzically. And, without a word, she moved toward him.

He watched her warily. After all, he never knew what to expect with this one.

Reaching up, she put her soft gloved hands along his jaw. Then, holding his gaze all the while as though she feared he would

vanish from sight, she lifted up on her toes and pressed her lips to his.

He went still, his mind utterly blank. His heart stopped midbeat. Then a startled breath stalled in his lungs. One moment

she'd seemed on the verge of tears and then she was... kissing him.

Again.

But this was not like the first kiss, that bold-as-you-please claiming she'd done in Paris. No, this was a hesitant tasting

as if they were passing something fragile between them, back and forth in a silent communication. Don't let it fall. Gentle now. We must be careful or this thing will shatter.

He felt a tremor in his hands as they settled on the slender curve of her waist, the enticing flair of her hips. Then her

soft sigh fanned over his lips, her eyes drifting closed, and Oscar wondered if he might be the thing that she feared would

shatter. Because he was certain something cracked inside him, a fissure opening that sent a quake through him.

He staggered back a step, grateful that he met with the haberdashery wall. Those bricks and her lips were the only things keeping him upright.

What was it about her? What power did she yield to make him weak at the knees?

That was how she'd gotten away from him in Paris. She'd turned his legs to jelly, leaving him without the strength to run

after her. And now she was taking more from him by continuing these shy, tender kisses that he would never expect from a femme

fatale.

She was positively diabolical, taking no prisoners as she slanted her mouth beneath his and her fingers coasted up the nape

of his neck.

He would dream about this for the next year. And quite possibly, for every year after that. In fact, he was beginning to understand

why the Trojans opened the gates and let in that suspicious horse.

Of all the times he'd kissed women—and there had been a great many in every port and city—he had never in his life been kissed

like this.

This was more than covert warfare. She was wearing him down with her tender assault. The untried fervor in each press of her

lips undid him. It seemed to reach inside him to an unexplored crevasse, taking hold of some hidden... thing that was long forgotten and buried.

His fingers flexed, drawing her into the frame of his body. The contact jolted through him in a swift, cataclysmic bolt of

lightning. A raw and ragged sound rumbled in his throat as their hips aligned and her supple breasts met the unyielding hardness

of his chest.

He curved a hand around her nape. Felt the sublime surrender of her lips beneath his, the shy parting as the tip of his tongue

tested the plump seam.

Then he tasted her, the sweet essence that had lingered long after she'd escaped him in Paris. He'd thought of this moment for a year. This supple feel and flavor had haunted his nights no matter how many other women had tried to obliterate it with their skilled seduction. But there was only one woman who tasted like her.

He delved into the inner softness, and she gasped when his tongue touched hers. The innocent response made him pause. Then

he felt a tug at the corner of his mouth as realization took hold, and a surge of possessiveness for his bold little thief

flooded him.

Gathering her closer, he coaxed her with slow, languid kisses. She offered only an instant of shy stillness before her own

tentative touch found him. Then a pleased mewl purred in her throat. The vibration tunneled low inside him, reaching a primitive

place that wanted to claim, to slake, to devour.

He pulled her flush against him, his pulse thickening, his blood hot. Their lips locked, tongues twining with searching strokes.

She gave back every ounce of passion he gave her.

Then she upped the stakes by raking her teeth over his bottom lip. Damn. This woman would be the death of him. But oh, what

a way to go!

Her fingertips curled against his scalp to pull him closer. Her throat emitted a greedy sound as she gently sucked on his

tongue. He sagged back, certain his knees had again turned to jelly, and she began to pepper him with fervent kisses...

Until a throat cleared.

The kiss ended with an audible smooch as they broke apart. Or rather, as Honoria shoved away from him at once. His own reaction,

on the other hand, was a bit slower, his head—and other parts of him—still lost in a haze.

He was only too thankful that it was Thea Hartley standing there instead of Ladrón.

Even so, her scowl was rather formidable, her arms crossed, one mahogany brow arched at her sister. "No interest in him whatsoever,

hmm?"

"This was just—"

Her sister raised a hand, effectively cutting off Honoria's explanation. "I will be directly around the corner, prepared to

declare that I saw nothing and never speak of it again. However, if you make me wait in this insufferable heat any longer

than ten—I repeat, ten —seconds, at dinner this evening I'm going to mention what I stumbled upon. Then Mother will drive the two of you to Gretna

Green by morning."

Then she turned on her heel and marched away.

"Devil's doorknocker. What have I done?" Honoria muttered to herself through her teeth as she snatched up her parasol and

tried to open it. But the thing wasn't cooperating, and she growled at it.

It wasn't the most flattering of reactions.

Slipping the contraption from her hand, he opened it and gave it back. "What have you done? Well, I'd say you've shown your

cards."

"Nothing of the sort. That was simply a reward for saving the boy's life."

"If that is true, my dear, then please look away while I toss a dozen other children in the street in order to save them all."

The corner of her mouth twitched as she attempted to school her features. "Hmm... I'm afraid, Mr. Flint, that my moment

of gratitude is over. Moreover, I have absolutely no desire to reward you again. Ever."

"Liar," he said with smug triumph as her gaze darted to his mouth. Since her cheeks were already pink, it was difficult to

tell if she blushed. Though, he was fairly certain she did.

But as she walked away and disappeared around the corner, he felt as though he'd been cheated out of something. He wasn't

sure what. All he knew was that he wished she hadn't started this new game of theirs.