Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle: Pickpocket Countess / Grayson Prentiss's Seduction / Notorious Rake, Innocent Lady / Libertine Lord, Pickpocket Miss / The Viscount Claims His Bride

Eyes blazing at the man’s insistent mutiny, Nora kicked over his crystal goblet of red wine and let the burgundy stain seep into the pristine cloth. ‘Better wine than blood, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Flack? At the next interruption, I shoot. Don’t take any notions about servants coming to your rescue. They have been effectively subdued thanks to a wee potion in their afternoon tea.’ She hoped that sufficiently cowed Mr Flack. She would rather not shoot anyone although, if it came to it, a flesh wound to the shoulder might do some of them good.

The women put up no resistance as she trained the pistols on each guest in turn, causing them to make their donations quickly so that the pistols might be turned on their neighbour instead. The bag came to Brandon last. Her eyes locked on his, compelling him to keep her secret. Don’t make me have to try to shoot you.

His gaze was riveting and demanded her attention, which almost cost her. In order to keep the bag and Brandon in sight, she turned her attention slightly away from the other half of the table. Brandon’s face saved her at the last moment. His sharp eyes slid to the left and she whirled with his gaze, hearing the noise as she did so.

Stinging from the loss of his diamond cravat pin, Mr Witherspoon tried to play the hero. A gentleman’s derringer flashed in his hand. Only his penchant for the dramatic bought her the needed extra seconds. If he had shot first and talked later, the outcome might have been vastly different.

‘Drop your weapons!’ Witherspoon bellowed.

Nora laughed fearlessly. ‘Drop your weapons, sir!’

‘I am not afraid. I don’t think you’ll shoot,’ Witherspoon retorted.

‘How willing are you to risk your companions on that bet? For instance, would you be willing to risk the Earl?’ She turned one of her pistols on Brandon. Damn the seating arrangement. She had no choice. The shattered door lay to his right—her escape and he was in the way. She wished it was anyone but him. This was the very scenario she wanted to avoid. If she couldn’t shoot him, she would have to take him with her.

She started barking instructions while the table erupted into muffled shrieks of horror at the possibility of a murdered Earl. ‘My lord, take the bag and start backing towards the door. Do not try to run. I will use my second pistol to shoot you down in your tracks. To the rest of you, I command you to stay seated in your chairs for ten minutes. Do not follow me. My lord is my hostage. It will go poorly for him if you attempt any more heroics.’

To her relief, Brandon moved towards the door. She backed up, using a careful sidestepping motion to keep both him and the table in her line of vision. It wouldn’t do for Brandon to play the traitor now. For good measure, Nora fired a shot at the chain holding the chandelier, sending the Venetian crystal confection crashing on to the table, scattering china.

‘What do we do now?’ Brandon asked once they cleared the house and were out in the street.

‘I’ve a horse hidden down the street. I don’t expect those idiots in there to actually wait ten minutes before they come hunting.’ She stuffed the guns into her belt. ‘Now we run.’ Nora sprinted down the street, leaving Brandon to follow, although it never occurred to her that he might not.

Her assumption that he would blindly follow orders and play the hostage-cum-accomplice galled Brandon beyond the point of good sense. The tumult of emotions that had roiled within him all night rose to the fore while he ran after her; all the anxiety of waiting for her to show or not—did she trust him or not?—and the awkward mixture of fear and pride at watching her perform her antics on St John’s white-clothed table. It angered him that she would risk her own life to test him.

Deuce take it, he’d worried himself sick on her behalf and she was using him as a hostage. Jack would get a hearty laugh out of that along with his twenty quid. Clearly their night together hadn’t meant the same to her as it did to him. Well, she wouldn’t get away with it. The game stopped here and it stopped tonight.

They gained the dark corner where the horse waited. Brandon didn’t wait a moment longer. He grabbed for her arm, bringing her to a jarring halt. He spun her around amid a torrent of protests and backed her into a wall, both of his hands now fiercely gripping her shoulders beneath her dark cloak. ‘Listen to me, you little minx. Whatever game you and I are playing is finished. I could have exposed you back there at dinner and I didn’t. You owe me and you’re going to pay,’ he growled in menacing tones.

‘Do you think I’ll kiss you for it or perhaps you hope for something more? Would another night between the sheets be enough to cover my supposed debt?’ She was all sauce and boldness, making the most of their bodies’ close proximity. ‘Any debt I owe you has already been paid. I could have shot you for good measure and ensured no one would follow us since they’d be too busy looking after your wounded self.’

Her brassy behavior, coupled with her cocky assumptions, fired Brandon’s ire further. ‘Stupid fool! You wouldn’t have shot me. You were betting on me behaving more like your accomplice than your hostage the whole while.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

Brandon growled, ‘Because you’d never take an unbound hostage who has a height advantage of five inches and several pounds of brawn. You’d be setting yourself up to be overpowered. Like this.’

In a fast motion, Brandon pulled her to him, trapping her against his chest. He lowered his lips to claim a primitive kiss while she bucked against him in outrage. He used her in rough fashion, finding an outlet for his earlier frustrations over the danger she’d put herself in by storming the party. He tasted salt where her teeth bit the tender flesh of his lips. He revelled in the fight she posed.

Their mouths duelled. She bit. He nipped. Their tongues tangled. Brandon felt the tempo change as their duel became infused with a heat of a different sort. It wasn’t so much the heat of battle that raged between them now, but the heat of passion, of an attraction that, once acknowledged, was not easily quenched. He drew back for a moment to gather breath.

‘How dare you!’ she cried, remembering to be angry at his advances.

‘Tonight, I want something more than kissing from you. I want the truth and I’ll have it as soon as we get to safety.’ He had more to say, but a glimmer in the next lane demanded his attention.

He was loathe to let Nora out of his sight; however, the appearance of lanterns could only belong to a hastily launched search party. His plans were thwarted.

Brandon jerked his head to the west, calling her attention to the cluster of bobbing lights. ‘In the meanwhile, you might want to cultivate some common sense and develop some anxiety over your precarious position.’ He was gratified to note a flicker of concern pass through her as she took in the burgeoning scene.

‘Unhand me at once. You can stay here. Finding you in one piece will take the necessity out of their cold evening search,’ she ordered, taking charge again.

Brandon shook his head and held his ground. ‘No. We’ll do this my way. I’ve had enough of your plans for one evening.’

He knelt on one knee and began rubbing handfuls of dirt into his evening clothes. He smudged his cheek and then proceeded to gather his shirt between his hands and rent the cloth until he looked thoroughly abused. ‘I will go to them and tell them I’ve eluded you. I’ll show them my wound and ask to be taken back to St John’s for bandaging. That way no one will be looking for a trail you might have left behind. You will go on to my estate and await me there. You and I are not finished tonight.’

‘What if I don’t follow your dictates? You cannot force me to show up at your house and turn myself over to your dubious care. How do I know it’s not a trap of your own making?’ she argued coolly, her mind as sane as ever, but Brandon saw the nervousness in her eyes as she assessed the nearing lanterns and raised voices.

‘You don’t have a choice. If you do not comply, I’ll call out the hounds myself. I doubt Eleanor Habersham will appreciate her servants being subjected to the indignities of a house search, to say nothing of having to explain the oddity of her own nocturnal absence.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ Nora raged in impotent fury.

‘Follow my wishes and I’ll protect you if needed.’

‘There’s another consideration you’ve overlooked. You don’t have a wound,’ Nora pointed out.

‘Not yet. Give me your dagger.’

Reluctantly, Nora threw back the cuff of her shirt, revealing the hidden sheath and pulled out the dagger, handing it to him handle first.

He gripped it and quickly flashed the sharp blade across the palm of his hand.

Nora stifled an undignified yelp at the sight of dark blood welling in his hand. He’d cut deep, giving himself a realistic gash. Instinctively, she wadded the hem of her cloak to press against the cut. ‘You go too far!’

He stayed her with his good hand. ‘Meet me at the estate in an hour and you can doctor me all you wish.’ With an impish smile that suggested adventure sat well with him, Brandon took off in the direction of the lanterns. His hand hurt like hell. She was probably right—he’d cut it far more deeply than necessary. But he could not deny he’d enjoyed himself immensely tonight. It surprised him to realise that there wasn’t a night in recent memory that he could recall having so much fun despite all that was at risk.

The magnitude of the risk she was taking struck Nora all at once and all too late. She was already ensconced in Brandon’s private rooms, wrapped in a paisley robe she’d liberated from his dressing room and sitting before the fire his valet had kept stoked against my lord’s return later in the evening, when she realised what she had done. She had trusted Stockport unconditionally not once, but twice that evening.

First, he was right. She had indeed bet that he wouldn’t revolt against playing the role of ‘hostage’ when Witherspoon pulled out his derringer. Second, she actually believed that she would have his protection when he returned to the estate. She believed it so thoroughly she had made free with his chambers, shedding her damp clothing and curling up before his fire in anticipation of the forthcoming conversation.

What was she thinking? At what point had her wits become so addled that she’d started thinking the Earl of Stockport was her ally? In reality, there was nothing to stop Stockport from returning to St John’s and leading the company straight to her. After all, he’d told her where to be. It made sense that he was setting her up so he could capture her. Arresting The Cat in front of the people to whom her arrest mattered most would be a feather in his cap. Such an act would go far to restore his damaged credibility over the factory.

As if her doubts had suddenly sprung to life and assumed human form, voices rose from the vestibule downstairs. Stockport had returned, bringing with him unlooked-for companions. Her fears were realised and about to be played out. Being here in Stockport’s home was the real trap. The dinner party had merely been foreplay to the true betrayal. Nora’s heart plummeted at the sting of it all. She could imagine Stockport telling everyone how he had lulled The Cat into complacency, weaving his own web of deceit around The Cat and fooling her into believing she had the upper hand.

The voices grew strident and Nora detected the seeds of an argument rising between the new arrivals. Stockport’s voice rose in protest. He didn’t need any further assistance and the men were free to return to their evening. The others with him countered that it might be unsafe to leave him alone while The Cat ran free in the countryside. One of them, probably Witherspoon, suggested a search of the house. Stockport protested again. Nora grinned to herself. Maybe Stockport hadn’t told them everything after all. She would wager the contents of the jewel bag she’d collected that night he hadn’t told them The Cat was a woman.

The knowledge that he had most likely withheld some information didn’t exonerate him from the betrayal he’d wrought by bringing the men here, but it did serve to harden her heart. Brandon had promised her protection this night and he was damn well going to give it to her even if she had to drag it from him in the most compromising of manners.

Nora looked down at the fine paisley silk of Brandon’s robe and suppressed a laugh. He thought to show them The Cat, dressed in dark trousers and shirt. He could let Witherspoon and the others search the house. They wouldn’t find The Cat of Manchester in residence. Neither would they find anyone hiding away timidly awaiting discovery.

Nora tossed her hair once, giving it a sleep-rumpled look. Feigning wide-eyed innocence, she marched to the top of the stairs, ready to do battle with Witherspoon, Brandon and whatever else fate decreed to throw in her path.

Chapter Thirteen

‘Darling, what happened to you?’ The siren on the stairs gushed with concern, causing Brandon and the five men with him to stop their conversation in mid-sentence and gaze slack jawed at the vision draped in a man’s dressing gown at the top of the landing.

‘Your clothes are ruined and your hand—why, you’re wounded!’ The dark-haired angel managed a feminine gasp of horror and began descending the steps, leaving no ambiguity as to the status of her undress beneath the robe.

Brandon watched her performance in a state of consciousness that hovered somewhere between thoroughly amused and utterly horrified. She was magnificent, so boldly taking them all by surprise. He’d been racking his mind, trying to think of a way to be rid of the men who had insisted on following him home. He’d been unsuccessful. Dismissing them and their offers to search the house for the sake of his safety had proved too difficult to thwart without looking like a graceless cad. From the look of things, he need not have worried. Nora had it all well in hand with her tousled hair and wide eyes.