The Gentleman Rogue. Margaret McPhee
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She averted her eyes from them, met Ned’s gaze and knew he was thinking about the knife and how it would have fared against six men.
‘It would still have given them pause for thought,’ she said in her defence.
Ned said nothing.
But for all of her assertions and the weight of the kitchen knife within her cloak right at this moment in time she was very glad of Ned Stratham’s company.
The men did not shout the bawdy comments they would have had it been Tom by her side. They said nothing, just quietly watched them pass and stayed on their own side of the road.
Neither of them spoke. Just walking together at the same steady pace up Minories. Until the drunkards were long in the distance. Until they turned right into the dismal narrow street in which she and her father lodged. There were no street lamps, only the low silvery light of the moon to guide their steps over the potholed surface.
Halfway along the street she slowed and came to a halt outside the doorway of a shabby boarding house.
‘This is it. My home.’
He glanced at the building, then returned his eyes to her.
They looked at one another through the darkness.
‘Thank you for walking me home, Ned.’
‘It was the least I could do for my betrothed,’ he said with his usual straight expression, but there was the hint of a smile in his eyes.
She smiled and shook her head, aware he was teasing her, but her cheeks blushing at what she had let the sailors in the alleyway think. ‘I should have set them straight.’
‘And end our betrothal so suddenly?’
‘Would it break your heart?’
‘Most certainly.’
The teasing faded away. And with it something of the safety barrier between them.
His eyes locked hers, so that she could not look away even if she had wanted to. A sensual tension whispered between them. Attraction. Desire. Forbidden liaisons. She could feel the flutter of butterflies in her stomach, feel a heat in her thighs. In the silence of the surrounding night the thud of her heart sounded too loud in her ears. Her skin tingled with nervous anticipation.
She glanced up to the window on the second floor where the light of a single candle showed faintly through the thin curtain. ‘My father waits up for me. I should go.’
‘You should.’
But she made no move to leave. And neither did he.
He looked at her in a way that made every sensible thought flee her head. He looked at her in a way that made her feel almost breathless.
Ned stepped towards her, closed the distance between them until they were standing toe to toe, until she could feel the brush of his thighs against hers.
‘I thought you said you were the perfect gentleman?’
‘You said that, not me.’ His eyes traced her face, lingering over her lips, so that she knew he meant to kiss her. And God knew what living this life in Whitechapel had done to her because in that moment she wanted him to. Very much.
Desire vibrated between them. Where his thighs touched to hers the skin scalded. In the moonlight his eyes looked dark, smouldering, intense. She knew that he wanted her. Had been around Whitechapel long enough to know the games men and women played.
Emma’s breath sounded too loud and ragged.
Their gazes held locked.
The tension stretched until she did not think she could bear it a second longer.
He slid his strong arms around her waist, moving slowly, giving her every chance to step away or tell him nay. But she did neither. Only placed her palms to rest tentatively against the leather breast of his jacket.
He lowered his face towards her.
She tilted her mouth to meet his.
And then his lips took hers and he kissed her.
He kissed her and his kiss was gentle and persuasive. His kiss was tender and passionate. He was the strongest, fiercest man she knew and yet he did not force or plunder. He was not rough or grabbing. It seemed to her he gave rather than took. Courting her lips, teasing them, making her feel things she had never felt before. Making her want him never to stop.
By its own volition one hand moved up over his broad shoulder to hold against the nape of his neck. Anchoring herself to his solidity, to his strength and warmth.
He pulled her closer, their bodies melding together as the kiss intensified. Tasting, touching, sharing. His tongue stroked against hers, inviting hers to a dance she did not know and Emma followed where he led.
He kissed her and she forgot about Whitechapel and poverty and hardship.
He kissed her and she forgot about the darkness of the past and all her worries over the future.
He kissed her and there was nothing else in the world but this man and this moment of magic and madness, and the force of passion that was exploding between them.
And when Ned stopped and drew back to look into her face, her heart was thudding as hard as a blacksmith hitting his anvil and her blood was rushing so fast that she felt dizzy from it.
‘You should go up now, before I change my mind about being the perfect gentleman.’ He brushed the back of his fingers gently against her cheek.
With trembling legs she walked to the front door of the boarding house and let herself in. She did not look round, but she knew Ned Stratham still stood there watching her. Her heart was skipping in a fast, frenzied thud. Her blood was rushing. Every nerve in her body seemed alive. She closed the door quietly so as not to wake the neighbours. Rested her spine against its peeling paint while she drew a deep breath, calming the tremor in her body and the wild rush of her blood, before climbing the stairwell that led to her father and their rented rooms.
‘It is only me, Papa,’ she called softly.
But her father was sound asleep in the old armchair.
She moved to the window and twitched the curtain aside to look down on to the street.
Ned Stratham tipped his hat to her. And only then, when he knew she was home safe, did he walk away.
Emma blew out the candle to save what was left. Stood there and watched him until the tall broad-shouldered figure disappeared into the darkness, before turning to her father.
Even in sleep his face was etched with exhaustion.
‘Papa,’ she whispered and brushed a butterfly kiss against the deep lines of his forehead.
‘Jane?’ Her mother’s name.
‘It is Emma.’
‘Emma. You are home safe, my girl?’
‘I am home safe,’ she confirmed and thought again of the man who had ensured it. ‘Let me help you to bed.’
‘I can manage, my dearest.’ He got to his feet with a great deal of stiffness and shuffled through to the smaller of the two rooms.
The door closed with a quiet click, leaving Emma standing there alone.
She touched her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips and knew she should not have kissed Ned Stratham.
He was a Whitechapel man, a man from a different world than her own, a customer who drank in the Red Lion’s taproom. And he was fierce and dangerous, and darkly mysterious. And she had no future here. And much more besides. She knew all of that. And knew, too, her mother would be turning in her grave.
But as she moved behind the partitioning screen and changed into her nightdress, in her nose was not the usual sweet mildew, but the lingering scent of soap and