Pickpocket Countess. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.
are already out of work. Families cannot afford food or fuel to see them through the winter while you sit in your fine house cosy with other rich men, plotting how to make life more miserable for those less fortunate.’
‘And all the while, you’re robbing us. Funny, that.’ Brandon managed a chuckle, enjoying her temerity even if it was misaimed and at his expense. The impertinent baggage went too far in making judgements about him.
Three steps.
‘I take little enough and you can easily afford it.’ For effect, she held up a gold ring, a woman’s ring, which glinted, showing off the amethyst set in the band.
Brandon sucked in his breath. Of all the things in the room to seize, it was the one item he was most loathe to lose. ‘That ring has special meaning to me. Give it back now.’ It was not a plea, but a command.
Two steps.
Brandon held out his hand to receive it, automatically assuming his demands would be obeyed. It had been ages since any woman had dared to refuse the Earl of Stockport.
‘No, I don’t think I shall give it back. This will feed two families.’
‘At least two,’ Brandon growled. ‘I said give it back, you little thief. I have no wish to harm you.’ He took the last step. He was close enough now to make out the half-mask she wore that hid the upper portion of her face.
Glittering green eyes, too like the cat whose moniker she bore, defied him. A dark kerchief tied pirate-style swathed her head. Undaunted by his nearness, she reached up and tugged at the kerchief’s knot. It gave easily and she pulled it off in a fluid motion. With a calculated toss of her head, she let a bounty of midnight waves fall to her waist. She postured provocatively, tempting him with curves and curls. A slender hand rested on her hip. ‘Very well, I expect compensation for the ring. I will turn it over to you in exchange for something of equal value.’
Her gaze swept the length of him, giving Brandon the uncomfortable feeling of being a Tattersall stud. Usually it was the other way around. Those women who dared to ogle him—and he knew there were several, that was the price of being a highly eligible and titled bachelor who’d reached the age of five and thirty without springing the parson’s mousetrap—did so from behind painted fans and coyly downcast eyelashes. Never had he been so boldly assessed, not even by the mistresses he took to his bed.
‘Not too bad. Not bad at all,’ she said, satisfied with her bold perusal of his body.
Not too bad? Brandon jerked an eyebrow in disbelief. He’d never been found merely ‘not too bad’ in his whole adult life. He knew himself to be in top physical condition thanks to rigorous training at Jackson’s on a daily basis when in town.
‘Would you care to check my teeth while you’re at it?’ he offered coolly. It wouldn’t do to let her think she’d scored a cheap hit by attacking his masculinity.
She smiled wide and wetted her lips in a provocative gesture. ‘An excellent suggestion, my lord, I think I shall.’
With that, she closed the remaining gap between them, claiming his mouth with hers and silencing whatever protests waited there.
Brandon gave her compliance. Despite his intentions not to be lured by the minx, his mouth opened of its own accord, tasting the saltiness of her probing tongue as surely as she tasted the brandy-flavoured warmth of his own. The temptress pushed her advantage, crushing her luscious form against him, shirt-draped breasts erotically pressed against his chest. Brandon’s groin leapt to life independent of his mind’s urge to the contrary.
He moaned. His entire body betrayed him. The seductive hum of her low laugh indicated his arousal was not his secret alone. He felt her hands in his hair, capturing his head on the odds he’d pull away before she was done. Small chance of that occurring, he was in her thrall. Not because the kiss was the most skilful he’d ever received, but because the kiss conveyed more than cold proficiency. It contained heat. It didn’t take long for him to realise this woman was kissing him not solely as a ploy, but because she wanted to. In his cynical world, that was a rare pleasure indeed.
Brandon shut his eyes and gave himself up to the momentary bliss found at the pretty thief’s lips. He let her tongue taste and torture by turn. He let her hands roam where they would, finding their way beneath his linen shirt where they stroked the planes of his chest, thumbs teasing his nipples until he was in true ecstasy.
‘Touch me again and I’ll be lost,’ he thought numbly, unable to decide in his bemused state if that was a plea for her to stop or a prayer that she continue.
She continued.
She moved a hand lower…That did it. He wanted to be lost, and he wanted her to be lost with him. She’d been in control so far, having used her brash kiss to seize the advantage. That was about to change. With his desire mounting fast, Brandon angled his mouth to deepen the kiss, his hands firmly splayed at her hips, thumbs beginning a languid caress of the bones just above her pelvis.
The Cat sucked hard on his lower lip and released him, pushing out of range of his arms. Brandon could not remember a kiss having so thoroughly aroused him. He tried to speak in an attempt to bring the situation under his control, but the cool reserve and quick tongue that had served him so well in the House of Lords for so long failed him. He found he could utter not a single word in the wake of her spontaneous seduction.
‘What’s the matter?’ she taunted in a husky-voiced purr. ‘Cat got your tongue?’ She managed a wink from behind the demi-mask.
Without warning, she turned and vaulted easily to the sill and assumed a crouching position. Before Brandon could react, she leapt to the sturdy oak branch seven feet away and several dangerous feet above the ground.
Brandon darted to the window, fear for her safety overriding the more logical action of raising the hue and cry over the intruder. He peered out to where he’d last seen her. There was no sign of her in the branches of the big tree or of a black form moving stealthily across the grounds. She was gone. He had let her escape.
Cold reality doused him. What had he done? His reaction was inexplicable. A known thief had violated his home and made off with a prized possession and he had allowed it to happen. He turned back from the window. Something glinted on the carpet. Brandon bent and picked it up. She’d left the ring. So there was a scrap of decency in the thief after all. His hand clenched around the ring before placing it back in the velvet casket he kept on a table.
Impulsively, he realigned the little casket which had been knocked off-centre. He’d send his valet to set the room to rights. Who knew what else might be missing? Brandon glimpsed himself in the mirror above the washstand. His immaculate shirt was wrinkled and his cravat ruined. He looked thoroughly well used, and he had been. He would have to change shirts before returning downstairs.
Thankfully, he had a dozen pristine shirts like the one he wore waiting for use in his dressing room. Changing would buy enough time for the fully kissed puffiness of his lips to go down. It would not do to appear dishevelled in front of the men waiting in the library, especially when he had decided to tell them nothing in regards to what he’d discovered upstairs.
Nora bent over to catch her breath, easing the stitch in her side. She’d run hard after she’d shimmied down the oak tree and hit the ground. She hadn’t stopped until she was well away from the arrogant bounder’s estate and deep into the sheltering boughs of the forest.
Only now, ensconced in the safety of the trees, could she give her thoughts full rein over what had transpired. She’d kissed the Earl of Stockport, known in the less-judicious circles of the demi-monde where The Cat had done her research as the Cock of the North.
Nora concurred that the nickname was justly earned on all fronts. He had demonstrated all the well-dressed arrogance of a rooster preening his fine feathers before the hens. He was a fine male specimen and he knew it. No man spent time cultivating an immaculate appearance without being sure of the results, and no one was surer of himself than the Earl of Stockport.
Nora laughed out loud in the