Breaking the Rake's Rules. Bronwyn Scott
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Shadows were falling by the time they put into port at Carlisle Bay and rowed ashore. Bridgetown was quiet for the evening, all the shops closed, people at home with their families. Out at Sugarland, Ren and Emma would be preparing to sit down to an evening meal. Kitt smiled, thinking of his friend and Ren’s newfound happiness as a husband, a landowner, a man in charge of shaping his own destiny. It was what Ren wanted out of life. It was what Kitt had once assumed would have been his, too, by right, a future he’d been raised to expect without question up until the hour it was snatched away, no longer an option. Six years in and he was still grasping just how long for ever was.
Don’t think on it, remembering can’t change anything. The dying man had made him maudlin. Tonight, such ruminations were best set aside in light of the dead man’s warning. He couldn’t afford the distraction no matter what sentiments the man had conjured.
Normally, this was a time of day Kitt enjoyed, for a while anyway. Dusk was a break between the hustle of his days and the activity of his nights. Staying busy was critical in keeping his mind focused on the present. Too much solitude, too much quiet, and he knew from experience his mind would drift to less pleasant considerations best left in the past. This evening, though, the usual peace of dusk was absent. Menace stalked the stillness.
Maybe he was paranoid. Did he believe the dying man’s warning? Or was it one last lie? If so, it was certainly a powerful one. Kitt could hardly afford to ignore it. He dipped his hand into the top of his boot and drew his knife. If there was an attack, there’d be no time to draw it later. He had rooms in a boarding house just off Bay Street past the governor’s mansion for nights when it was too late to go home or when business detained him in town, as it did this evening. He was due at the Crenshaws’ for dinner. The distance wasn’t far, although tonight it seemed like miles.
* * *
At the end of Bay Street, the shadows moved. In one stealthy motion, they were upon him, three against one. One of them leapt on his back, trying to push him down, but Kitt was ready. He smashed the body into the wall of a nearby building, stunning the first attacker. His back to the wall, Kitt whirled, knife in hand, to face the other two. They were big, swarthy men. Kitt assessed the situation instantly. They would want to make the first move, would want to crowd him against the wall so that he had no room to move. They were operating under the assumption that he would fight. Kitt grinned. He would seize the advantage and take them by surprise. Knife at the ready, head lowered like a bull, he rushed them, pushing one aside with enough of a shove to keep the man off balance, and then he kept going.
But the men were fast and willing to give chase. They were closing on him. Kitt spied a house with lights on. That would do. He tore through the little gate separating the house from the street and streaked through the garden. He needed to get up and in. Ah, a trellis! A balcony! Perfect.
Kitt planted his foot on the bottom rung of the trellis and climbed upward, feeling the trellis bend under the pressure of his weight at every step. He grabbed the railing of the balcony and hauled himself up, his foot kicking the trellis to the ground as a precaution just in case the men were fool enough to try. Kitt threw himself over the railing and drew a breath of relief. He lay on his back, looking up at the sky and exhaled. It had been one hell of a day. Maybe he was getting too old for this.
He’d just got to his feet, feeling assured the would-be assassins had given up and ready to think about what to do next, when the balcony door opened. ‘Who’s there?’ A woman in a white-satin dressing gown stepped outside, her mouth falling open at the sight of him.
Only quick thinking and quicker reflexes prevented a scream from erupting. Kitt grabbed the woman and pulled her to him, his mouth covering hers, swallowing her scream. He’d only meant to silence her, but God, those soft, full breasts of hers felt good against him. She was naked beneath the dressing robe, a fact every curve and plane of her pressed against him made evident.
Maybe it was the adrenaline of the day, but all he wanted to do was fall into her. His intrepid lady didn’t seem to mind. She’d not shut her mouth against his invasion, her body had not tried to pull away. It was all the invitation he needed. His lips started to move, his tongue caressing the inside of her mouth, running over her teeth. Ah, his lady had a sweet tooth! She tasted of peppermints and smelled of her bath, all lemon and lavender where he breathed in her skin. She was all womanly heat against him, her tongue answering him with an exploration of its own.
Kitt nipped at her lower lip, eliciting a surprised gasp. His hand moved to cup her breast, kneading it through the slippery satin, the belt of her robe coming loose. He slipped a hand inside, making contact with warm, lemon-and-lavender-scented skin, his arousal starting to peak. He had no doubt she could feel it against her thighs where their bodies met.
An ill-timed knock on her door interrupted the pleasant interlude, followed by worried masculine tones. ‘Is everything all right in there?’ Kitt knew a moment’s panic. There were only so many explanations for a voice like that. A father? A brother? A fiancé? Or worst of all, a husband?
His lady jumped away, her grey eyes wide as she mouthed the words, My father! But she was cool under pressure. Panic was already receding as she stared at him, assessing her choices and their advantages. Would she give him away? Kitt gave her a wicked smile to indicate there were definite benefits to keeping his secret. She smiled back. Apparently the decision was made.
She called into the room, loud enough to be heard through the door. ‘Everything’s fine, I heard a crash. It’s nothing, just the trellis again.’ And then, perhaps realising someone might come in anyway to be sure she was safe, she added hastily, ‘I’m, um, getting dressed. I’ll be down in a moment.’
Satisfied she would be left alone, she turned towards Kitt, hands on hips. ‘Now, for the question of the night, who are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?’
Kitt grinned, letting his eyes appreciably roam the length of her. His rescuer was strikingly attractive. Long chestnut hair hung down her back in a heavy, shiny curtain, the sharp planes of her cheek bones and cool grey eyes creating the impression of intelligence. This was no unseasoned Miss. Maybe things were starting to look up. His cock certainly thought so. He leaned back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, making no attempt to hide his arousal. ‘My name is Kitt and what I’m doing in your bedroom is entirely up to you.’
If there was a more blatant invitation to sin, Bryn Rutherford had yet to hear it. Or see it, for that matter. The blond, tanned, mass of male muscle leaning on the rail of her balcony was temptation personified. Even sweaty and wearing the dirt of the day—and from the looks of it, his day, whatever it had been, had been pretty dirty—she could tell he was delicious. He’d tasted delicious, too, like an adventure—all wind and salt as if he’d spent a day at sea.
She probably should have slapped him for his unorthodox silencing, but that would assume she hadn’t liked it, or that she hadn’t willingly participated in it. She was honest enough to admit that she had. And why not? It wasn’t every day a handsome man climbed into a girl’s bedroom. The question now was what was she going to do about it? She ought to throw him back down the trellis, but her curiosity simply wouldn’t allow it, nor would the fact that he’d apparently knocked the trellis over.
Bryn returned his stare with a frank appraisal of her own, running her gaze down the length of him in return. Two could play this game. ‘There isn’t time for what you propose, sir. I have a dinner to attend. My father is expecting me downstairs momentarily.’ As if not having a dinner engagement would have changed her decision. One look at him had told her he would not appreciate a reticent Miss who shirked from stolen kisses. He wanted the woman she’d been in his arms, all courage and fire.
‘Another time perhaps?’ Bryn dared, enjoying this moment of boldness, of not worrying about the rules. Men who climbed trellises were beyond the rules to start with. She needn’t worry about him telling anyone what they’d done. Such a confession