He gave her a curt nod. “Good night, then.” Mr. McBride slid his hand out of hers and turned away.
Bertie’s heart squeezed into a tight mass of pain as he took a step away from her, and another. In a moment, he’d be swallowed by the night and the fog, gone forever.
Bertie ran a few steps after him, grabbed his hand, and pulled him back to her. As he swung around in surprise, Bertie seized the lapels of his cashmere coat, jerked herself up on tiptoe, and kissed him.
Mr. McBride stood still against her assault for one short moment, then he slid both arms hard around her and scooped her up to him.
He slanted his mouth across hers, parting her lips, his tongue sweeping inside to give her a heady taste of him. Bertie moved her tongue clumsily against his, a pleasing shock searing through her cold body. His mouth was hot, lips strong, his arms around her never letting her fall.
The kiss went on, Mr. McBride drawing her with him into the shadows. He was so strong, but his strength protected and shielded, it didn’t demand and frighten.
Bertie kept hold of his lapels, hanging on as though she’d float away if she let go. His body was hard against hers, his tallness bending her back. Bertie fancied she spun around with him, the two of them in their own private dance, the hum and rush of the city circling them in one glorious, colorful stream.
Mr. McBride broke the kiss, his breath fogging in the cold. He still had hold of her, his arms around her keeping all bad things from her.
The look in his gray eyes was one of anguish and at the same time, need. Hunger. Bertie’s heart beat rapidly, and her legs were shaking. She felt him shaking too, even though he was solid and unfaltering.
Then his jaw tightened, and Bertie saw him deliberately suppress the light in his eyes. He steadied Bertie on her feet and unhooked her fingers from his coat, leaving her cold and bereft.
With a final look, without a good-night this time, Mr. McBride turned and strode away. Out toward Fenchurch Street he went, meeting with the mass of London, who swept him up with them into darkness and heavy mist. Then he was gone.
Sinclair lay back with his hands behind his head and contemplated the ceiling. Hours he’d lain here after he’d persuaded himself to go to bed, wide awake. His thoughts, which usually wandered during his bouts of insomnia, had fixed on one thing—kissing the pickpocket.
A lady with an upturned nose and eyes the color of a summer sky. The warmth of her lips lingered on his, even after hours had gone by. No matter how much Sinclair told himself to stop his spinning thoughts and sleep, he couldn’t push past the soaring joy of those stolen kisses.
Not stolen—she’d leapt on him, twined her body around his, and kissed him senseless. Twice. Every pressure, every movement of her mouth, every stroke of her fingers was imprinted on Sinclair forever.
An anonymous pickpocket with a sunny smile and very blue eyes, whom he’d likely never see again.
No . . . The efficient man inside Sinclair who was able to gather, store, and understand facts in lightning succession began to sort things through. His rapid thinking and spot-on conclusions were what made him feared in the courtroom, won the grudging respect of judges, and terrified suspects in the dock.
The young woman had said she was a friend of Ruth Baxter, for whom Sinclair, or at least his junior clerk, Henry, had all the particulars. Miss Baxter would know who the young woman was, where she lived, and what her circumstances were. Sinclair could track her down within the day and . . .
What?
Thank her for the kiss? Give her more money? Advise her how to get away from her brute of a father?
Did the woman have a job, or was picking pockets her main source of income? Had she lied to grab Sinclair’s sympathy when she’d said her father sent her out to steal? Or was it the truth—because, of course, pickpockets were the most honest people on the streets.
At the very least, Sinclair could make certain her father left her alone. The young woman was of age—the plump firmness of her body, the tiny lines that feathered the corners of her eyes, and the worldly look in those eyes told him that. She was innocent of carnality, but that didn’t mean she was a child. She should have real employment, or someone looking after her. Something.
The heady wash of the kiss erased Sinclair’s common sense for a moment, and when his lust cleared again, he laughed at himself.
He’d never be able to track down the girl. Ruth would not give her friend over to a barrister of all people, no matter how grateful she was to Sinclair for setting her free. The girl with the violet-blue eyes would disappear into the endless drive of London. Sinclair would go back to his chambers to look over briefs, prepare for his next session in court, and try to push aside the pain that accompanied his life every day.
That, and . . .
“Papa!” A cannonball landed on his bed, one with small arms and legs, tow-colored hair, big gray eyes, and a wide smile.
Sinclair succumbed to his son’s enthusiastic hug then pushed him back. “It’s the middle of the bloody night, Andrew,” he rumbled.
Andrew shook his head in enthusiasm. “No it isn’t. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and our new governess smells funny.”
Chapter 4
“No, she—” Sinclair stopped. He couldn’t deny that he got a whiff of cod-liver oil every time Miss Evans walked by him. “It doesn’t matter. Miss Evans is your governess. No tormenting her, no toads in her bed.”
“No toads,” Andrew said in perfect agreement. Andrew had the sunniest disposition of anyone Sinclair knew, and also could cause more trouble than the most hardened criminals Sinclair had ever faced. “It’s too cold for toads,” Andrew went on. “But I found some beetles in the cellar.”
Sinclair gave him a stern look. “No beetles, no roaches, no spiders. No insects or arachnids of any kind. Understand?”
Andrew didn’t look contrite. “Yes, sir.”
Sinclair remained wary. He knew if he didn’t catalog specifically what Andrew shouldn’t do, the boy would come back to him later. But you didn’t say no goldfish!
Sinclair found matches on the bedside table and lit the lamp. His son, eight years old, already had the leggy, raw-boned look of the tall Scotsman he’d become. He had fair hair and gray eyes, a pure McBride.
The lamplight also fell on the photograph of Maggie McBride—Daisy—with her dark hair and laughing eyes, the blue of them obscured by the sepia photograph. Sinclair’s daughter, Caitriona, had the same eyes.
Andrew climbed over his father, picked up the photograph, and gave it a kiss. “’Morning, Mum,” he said, and put it back down.
He flopped onto the mattress, ready to snuggle in and continue his sleep. Sinclair knew bloody well Andrew had sneaked out of the nursery, so there would be uproar when he was found missing, but Sinclair didn’t have the heart to send him back. Andrew closed his eyes and made a good impression of a loud snore.