Regency Gamble. Bronwyn Scott
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It was past time to get out.
Greer shoved a bench or two in the way to slow down pursuers and pushed Mercedes ahead of him with one word of advice. ‘Run!’
But the patrons were unfortunately bored or game or both. And they were happy to give chase. At the door he needed his fists to secure an exit and still they followed them into the streets. He had Mercedes by the hand as they ran through dark streets, winding through alleys until the mob gave up the pursuit.
‘Alone at last!’ Mercedes gasped, half panting, half laughing as she bent over to catch her breath. Her hair had come down and her face was flushed. Greer thought he’d never seen anything lovelier. Until he remembered. He was supposed to be angry with her.
‘You almost got us killed back there!’ he panted.
‘Beaten up, maybe.’ Mercedes laughed, dismissing his concern.
‘Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one they were going to punch.’ Greer felt his anger slipping away. It was deuced hard to stay mad at her. But he could stay mad at Reed.
Mercedes leaned against the brick wall of a building, her breathing slowing. ‘You’re looking at me strangely.’ She raised a hand to her face. ‘Do I have dirt on my cheek? What is it?’
‘This.’ Greer braced his arm over her and bent his mouth to hers, adrenaline surging through them both, the kiss hard and bruising, its unspoken message was clear. ‘You are mine.’
This was a dangerous kiss. All of his kisses were. But that didn’t help her resist. Mercedes fell into the kiss, the thrill of the chase finding a new outlet in this physical release. They had kissed before, just as hard and just as furiously. Tonight, it wasn’t enough. In the moments of escape, she wanted more and so did Greer. Desire and adrenaline fairly rolled off his body. His hips pressed into her and she could feel the extent of his want, pulsing and hard as his mouth devoured her. Why shouldn’t they have more? Why shouldn’t they celebrate this moment? Why did it have to mean anything beyond now?
Mercedes reached for him, finding his hard length through the fabric of his trousers. She stroked it, firm and insistent, moulding the cloth about its rigid form until she felt the tiniest bit of dampness seep through. Greer groaned, sinking his teeth into her throat, his bite an intense mix of pain and pleasure against her skin. His hand too, was not idle. He cupped her breast, thumbing her nipple into erectness beneath the satin of her gown, creating an exquisite friction against her skin. A moan escaped her, swallowed up by his mouth. He was branding her with his kisses, with his touch. She ought not to let him. She belonged to no man. And there could be no future in belonging to this one, only disappointment. But, her body chimed in, not until after great pleasure. Greer would be a matchless lover, their passion unequalled.
Her skirts were up, the evening air cool on the heated skin of her body, her leg hitched around the lean curve of his hip, the decadence of their position fuelling their ardour. They were in a public place. Technically, anyone could come along at any time. It was a naughtily delicious thought to imagine being caught with this man. Even she had not dared so much in such a place before. Greer’s hand slipped inside her undergarments and found her cleft, stroking, teasing her into unquenchable flames, his own breathing coming ragged and fast.
Mercedes fumbled in haste with the fastenings of his trousers. ‘Come on, get that out here to play.’ Her own voice was hoarse with want as her fingers groped for access to that most male part of him. Almost! She almost had it. That was when she heard it: the sound of horse harness and carriage wheels. They were about to be discovered by, ‘My father!’
Mercedes tugged at her skirts, giving Greer a shove into action and pushing him away from her just as the Lockhart coach stopped in front of the alley entrance, travelling lanterns lit. A dark figure jumped nimbly down from the coach box. ‘I heard there was a little commotion at the inn and thought you might be looking for a ride.’ Her father strode forwards looking at ease.
They did need a ride, but damn the man, he was showing up at the worst times. First at the fair, now this. How in the world was she ever going to get Greer into bed at this rate? After tonight, that was precisely where she wanted him and the consequences be hanged.
She could feel Greer at her side, his hand warm at her back, his body emanating unsatisfied heat. ‘This is not over,’ he growled for her ears alone.
‘It certainly isn’t,’ Mercedes replied sotto voce. No one passed up a lover of this calibre no matter what the circumstances.
‘Am I interrupting anything?’ Her father grinned. ‘Celebrations, perhaps? I heard someone cleaned out a particular Mr Reed tonight and a Mr Bride. I am assuming it was you two?’ He elbowed Mercedes good-naturedly. ‘Everyone is talking about the woman in the blue dress. Good job, my dear.’
Normally, she would have basked in his praise, but tonight her mind was too full of Greer to spend more than a passing moment on the acknowledgement. At the carriage, Greer handed her up and followed her in, her father choosing to ride up on the box with the coachman and take in the mild evening. But the damage had been done. There would be no resuming of the alleyway. The recklessness of the moment had passed, but it would come again.
She and Greer were headed towards consummation. It was only a matter of time. Still, a foregone conclusion was not without its own delicious torture. A waiting game had been invoked tonight. When would it come? Where and how? Would it be fast and hard and decadent like the alleyway? Would it be a dilettante’s pleasure—a slow fire building towards a raging inferno by degrees? He would be capable of both.
Mercedes studied Greer in the lantern light, the blue eyes and the strong set of his jaw. He’d fought for her tonight, kissed the living daylights out of her in an alley. Of course they were headed to bed.
But what then? How long could she keep such a hero? Well, she wouldn’t think about that tonight. There were other more pleasant things to ponder, such as how Greer might take her. And less pleasant things, too, such as how she was going to convince her father to let her play. They were nearing Bath where her father wanted to make a considerable stand and she was no closer to earning his public approval than she had been before they left Brighton.
Greer reached below the seat and pulled out the blankets kept there. He handed her one with a smile. ‘Go to sleep, Lady in Blue.’
She took the blanket. ‘You were jealous tonight.’
Greer nodded, not shying away from the truth. ‘I was. I didn’t like seeing Reed’s hands all over you.’
Mercedes smiled softly as she spread out her blanket. ‘Well, try not to punch anyone else. I’d hate for you to ruin your hands before the tournament. It is just a game, Greer.’ She settled her head against the cushioned walls of the carriage.
‘My shoulder might be more comfortable,’ came Greer’s low tones. He didn’t wait for a response. Perhaps he sensed forcing a direct answer from her would be too much of a commitment.
Greer slid over to her seat and wrapped an arm about her, drawing her close. She could smell the sandalwood of his soap mingled with the sweat of the evening and clean linen, a comforting, masculine smell of a man who knew how to take care of himself and of others. She was used to hard kisses and fast-spent passions in her associations with men. She was not used to this: the sense of being protected and cherished. She’d not been prepared for the Captain to turn out to be a man who was strong and passionate with a capacity for tenderness. Before she drifted off to sleep she thought she heard the whispered words, ‘You’re not a game, Mercedes, not to me.’ Her heart cried out one last futile warning. Here was a man who could ruin her.
Here was a woman who could ruin him. Greer stayed awake long after Mercedes had fallen asleep against him. In the moonlight and lanterns she looked harmless enough, a peaceful sleeping beauty to the unsuspecting connoisseur. But he knew better, far better than she knew. He was living on borrowed time and every mile they drew closer to Bath, more sand drained from the hour glass.
Bath would be full of people, his kind of people—barons and viscounts who