The Mysterious Miss M. Diane Gaston

      ‘Come,’ she purred, reaching her arms above her head, arching her back. ‘Come, my lord.’

      Devlin spoke quietly. ‘You must call me Devlin. Did you forget that, Maddy?’

      She rolled to her side and stared at him.

      ‘This is not Farley’s establishment.’ He stared back.

      She twisted the sheet in her hand.

      ‘Go to your room, Maddy. Your daughter might need you this night.’

      She sat up. ‘No.’

      ‘I do not want your favours.’ Something else from her, perhaps, but not what Farley required of her.

      ‘But you must.’ A desperate look came over her.

      ‘No.’

      She scampered off the bed and gathered her dress, holding it in front of her, covering herself with it. ‘Please, Devlin, you must let me make love to you. You must.’ Her words came out between laboured gasps.

      ‘No, Maddy.’

      He walked to the door and opened it.

      ‘Devlin, I am used to this. It is not difficult. I will pleasure you. It will be pleasant, I promise you.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.

      With every sensation in his male body, Devlin wanted to accept her offer, but he could not bear the emptiness in her seductive words. He well remembered what had passed between them that first time and this was not it.

      She rubbed her eyes, now red and swollen. Her nose had turned bright pink. ‘I…I wish to show you my gratitude.’

      ‘Gratitude? Do you think I desire your lovemaking out of gratitude?’

      Confusion wrinkled her brow. Devlin suspected that was not part of her practised repertoire. She clutched her dress in her hands. ‘You want me, I know you do. Men like to…to…You liked it, too.’

      He had indeed, but not when her eyes stared vacantly and her words were rehearsed.

      ‘Go to bed, Maddy. Your own bed, not mine.’

      She dropped her dress to the floor and wound her arms around his neck, kissing wherever her lips could reach. At least her rehearsed seduction had fled, but her desperation was no better. None the less, his body flared to life. He picked her up and she sighed in relief, nuzzling his neck. He carried her through the doorway and dropped her on to the large bed in the other room.

      ‘No, Devlin.’ She grabbed the front of his shirt, trying to pull him back. ‘You do not understand. I must do this.’

      He moved her hands away, trying to be gentle, but not succeeding. The demands of his body were making him harsh. ‘You do not need to bed me. It is not something I demand of you.’

      ‘But it is the only thing I can do.’

      Madeleine watched him turn away from her and walk toward the door. ‘You do not understand,’ she whispered. ‘It is the only thing I can do.’

      He did not look back, but closed the door behind him, leaving her alone.

      Devlin fled down the staircase and out into the damp night air. He strode through lamp-lit streets until reaching the nearest gaming house. Instead of sounding the knocker, he stood staring at the entrance. What would he find inside? Cigar smoke? Bad brandy? The luck of the draw? It was not ennui he sought to dispel this night, but the turbulence left in Madeleine’s wake.

      Why not accept her gratitude and bed her? He’d rescued her from Farley’s, hadn’t he? Taken in her child and her mouse of a maid. Provided them proper lodgings.

      Devlin turned from the door of the gaming establishment and walked back to the street. When he had first met her, she had come to him, not with gratitude, but desire. Almost like loving him. He had never forgotten.

      He wandered slowly through the streets, until he found himself back at the door of his expensive new rooms. The place was quiet as he entered, a single candle providing light. He glanced toward the back of the place where the two other bedchambers were located and wondered what might be occurring behind those closed doors. Was Bart holding the frail Sophie protectively, lest the ‘lord’ attack her in the night? Had Sophie offered her body to Bart, as well? Had he accepted?

      Devlin would bet a month’s blunt Bart had not made a mull of things as he had, and that, on the morrow, the little maid would gaze upon Bart’s craggy features with adoration.

      Devlin entered Madeleine’s room quietly. The dim illumination of the street lamp shone on Linette’s sleeping figure, her thumb in her mouth. Devlin smiled and gently pulled out her thumb. The little girl stirred, her long dark eyelashes fluttering. She popped the thumb back in.

      Madeleine’s bed was empty, and he felt a moment’s anxiety, until he spied her curled up on the windowseat, sound asleep, as innocent and vulnerable as her daughter.

      They were both beautiful, these charges of his, and totally dependent upon him. It frightened him, worse than leading men into battle. Soldiers knew the stakes were death, but they had the tools to fight. If he failed Madeleine and Linette, they would be at the mercy of creatures like Farley and would have no weapons with which to protect themselves.

      He would not fail them, he vowed. He would see to their needs no matter what the cost.

      Devlin gathered Madeleine in his arms, her weight surprisingly like a feather. He carried her to the bed.

      ‘Only thing I can do,’ she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder, much like her little girl had done earlier.

      ‘Hush, Maddy,’ he whispered. ‘You’ll wake Linette.’

      ‘Linette,’ she murmured. ‘All I have.’

      ‘Not any more, Miss England.’ Devlin laid her carefully on the bed and tucked the covers around her. ‘Now you have me, as well.’