He let Penelope choose which stallholders to approach; she seemed to have a knack for knowing who she could strike up a useful conversation with. He left most of the talking to her—her accent was faultless—and confined himself largely to grunts, snorts, or single-syllable replies.
Penelope had to admit that his ploy worked, further encouraging all who saw them to recognize them as something familiar, thus allowing them to insinuate questions about their targets into more general conversations.
Unfortunately, there was a cost. His nearness—the solidity of his body whenever he pulled her close, the wall of male muscle against which she was pressed every time the crowd surged and forced her against him, the rampant possessiveness in his touch, in the large hand that wrapped about her waist, or, in the few instances where he allowed her greater freedom, clamped about her hand—sparked a debilitating surge of emotions, an unsettling mix of excitement and wariness, the skittering thrill of trepidation laced with disconcerting pleasure.
As the minutes ticked by, she felt increasingly distracted. Increasingly seduced into her assumed role.
But courtesy of their combined histrionic talents, they learned the likely whereabouts of two of the men they sought.
Against that, she had to count the damage to her nerves and temper as fair exchange.
They reached the corner of a narrow lane down which Sid Lewis was said to live. By mutual accord, they halted. While Barnaby looked back up the street, trying to locate Stokes and Griselda, Penelope peered down the lane. “Fifth door down on the north side. I can see it.” She grabbed Barnaby’s coat—he had his arm around her waist, anchoring her beside him—and tugged, trying to gain his attention. “The door’s open. There are people inside.”
Barnaby covered her hand with his. “I can’t see Stokes.” He surveyed the lane. “All right. Let’s look. But you stay in your role and play the part—which means you do what I tell you.”
“Are you sure all males in the East End are this dictatorial?”
“Count yourself lucky. As far as I’ve seen, they’re worse.”
She humphed, but kept pace beside him as he strolled down the lane in the shadow of the southern walls.
Drawing level with the fifth hovel from the corner, she could see, through the open door, movement within. But there were few passersby in the tiny lane; loitering would draw attention—and someone was coming out of the house.
Barnaby stepped back into a doorway, hauling her with him—into his embrace. “Play along,” he hissed. His head dipped; his lips cruised her cheek.
It took her a moment to steady her reeling head, to drag enough breath into her lungs—only to find her senses filled with him. His warmth surrounded her, wrapped about her—and somehow softened her bones. Somehow made her want to lean into him, to sink against the pure masculine temptation of his muscled chest.
Her reaction made no sense, but there was no denying it.
More than her wits were reeling; her senses were having a field day. She quivered inside, waiting—senses hovering, yearning—for the next elusive brush of his lips. It was lucky he was holding her, for she felt strangely weak.
Then she realized he was watching the activity across the lane around the edge of her cap.
He was using her as a shield.
She narrowed her eyes, not that he could see. Temper was an emotion she recognized and understood; she grabbed hold of it and used it to ground her.
Barnaby knew the instant she snapped free; he had to fight the urge to shift his lips to the left—so they could meet hers, those lush, ripe lips that haunted him. Instead, with his lips he brushed the rim of her ear—and felt a sensual shiver sweep through her, sensed her momentary pause, that instant when he succeeded in resuborning her wits.
The feel of her in his arms, soft, feminine, yet vibrantly alive, curvaceous yet supple, was distracting, a revelation he hadn’t expected. The way she fitted so snugly against him as if she were made just for him fed that notion hovering at the edge of his consciousness, giving it more substance, more life.
Given their disguises, the relative roles they’d claimed, and that notion, he had to fight the compulsive urge to take what his alter ego would have—her lips, her mouth. Her.
While a part of his brain watched the activity across the lane, most was engaged in battling his instincts, in holding them down, keeping them back. Leashed. Controlled.
Predictably, she didn’t stay distracted for long. “Don’t,” he hissed, sensing she was about to struggle.
She dragged in a breath, then hissed back through clenched teeth, “You’re only doing this to pay me back for insisting on coming today.”
As if he needed the internal turmoil. “Think what you will,” he growled. “All that matters is that they believe our performance.”
He tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her more fully against him; bending his head farther, he pressed his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear—and heard her gasp. Felt the resistance in her hands, pressed against his chest, ease, fade.
He inhaled, and the fragrance that was her wreathed through his brain. Sank to his bones. Her hair, sleek, dark, and silken, smelled of sunshine. He gritted his teeth against the inevitable effect, and whispered, “Someone’s coming out.”
He spread his hands on her back, shifted his head so that it appeared as if he were devouring her. At the very least kissing her witless, into submission—as the more primitive side of him wished he was.
She didn’t struggle. After a moment, he murmured, his tone dry, “It appears we can cross Sid Lewis off our list.”
