Excerpt from Star Crossed Seduction

[Captain Miles Trevelyan, who had been out slumming with a friend in a poor section of London, has intervened to prevent a beautiful pickpocket from being arrested after she was caught picking his pocket as he stood in a crowd listening to a ballad singer. He's tied her wrists and led her away from the angry crowd. Now they're alone in a deserted alley.]


 
       The bastard. The bloody stinking bastard of a dragoon. She’d been mad to try to rob him, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. Not when she’d seen him standing there, every inch the proud officer, slumming, sneering at her and the crowd, not bothering to hide his contempt. The look of disgust she’d seen in his eyes as he’d listened to old Barrow’s ballad had pushed her over the edge. How dare he exhibit such scorn for her and her people!
     When she’d seen that expression of loathing fill his eyes, she’d wanted to do more than steal his coins. She’d wanted to wipe that disgusted look off his face. She’d wanted to slash his dashing blue uniform and smear his close-cropped curls with filth ’til he was as ragged and soiled as the men he so disdained.
     What did he have to be so proud about? He was a dragoon, a tool of the greedy rich, a heartless killer, just like the dragoons who’d ridden down the protesters at Peterloo—trampling down women and children while wearing, no doubt, that same insolent sneer.
     A dragoon like the one who had murdered Randall.
     The familiar pain lanced through her heart as it always did when she remembered her lost love. But she shouldn’t have let her anger make her careless. Randall had warned her there was no room for passion in a pickpocket’s heart—not when they plied their trade. He’d been so right, he who’d taught her all she knew of the knuckling lay.
     But she’d ignored his advice and given in to the impulse of the moment. She was lucky she wasn’t on her way to the hulks. This cursed officer might have saved her from rotting in one of those floating prisons, but she owed him no thanks. It had been a dragoon just like him who’d killed Randall—murdered him and dumped his body in the Thames.
     But this one would not harm her, not if she could keep her wits about her. Everything about him might radiate insolence, even the way his cloak snapped in the wind, but she wouldn’t let that bother her. Let him think he’d found himself a bit of fun. He’d soon learn his lesson, the proud bastard. If he thought he had her where he wanted her, he’d soon find out his mistake.
     This wasn’t the first time she’d found herself at the mercy of some man who expected his superior strength to give him the advantage over her, but they never reckoned on the strength of her wits. She’d get herself out of this scrape, too. She must just forget about Randall, set aside her rage, and clear her mind. She must study this man, whose iron grip confined her wrists, charm him, and find his weakness. All men had one—usually greed or lust. For all his proud demeanor, this one would be no different. And when she’d found what made him tick, she’d use it to win back her freedom.
     She let her shoulders slump. Let him think her defeated; it would keep him from being on his guard. He’d revel in his power, and, with luck, it would make him sloppy. But she must be careful, so very careful. She hadn’t liked what he’d said to the shoemaker about punishing her.
     As the man led her toward a darkened alley, striding ahead of her on those long legs of his, he fixed her now and then with a probing gaze. His eyes were set deep beneath the straight brows that slashed across his forehead and far too observant. He wasn’t stupid, despite being an officer, which was a shame. Stupid men were easier to deal with, and as she struggled to keep up with him, it became clear this man was no uniformed popinjay, either.
     The long muscles in his legs rippled beneath the tightly-stretched buckskin breeches. They were strong muscles, which told her he spent his days doing more than just prancing around a ballroom. And that scar that slashed up from his lip and kept his face from having the beauty it might have otherwise possessed. How had he got that?
     It might have been from dueling in the park over some imagined slight. The dragoons in London were an idle bunch given to gambling and fighting amongst themselves. But somehow she thought not. It might just as easily have been earned in battle. There was something about this man that was different from those she’d seen before.
     When he finally came to a halt, she asked him, “Where’d you do your fighting, soldier?” Men loved to talk about themselves and brag about their courage. Time to get to work on him if she were to get herself out of this situation safely.
     His brows lifted, as if he were surprised to learn she could talk. “Poona,” he said.
     “That same Poona, in India, where they had that battle Barrow was shouting about?”
     He nodded.
     “How long you been back?”
     “A week.”
     A gust of relief swept through her. At least he had not been at Peterloo. Or with the troop that had hunted down Randall after the Cato Street Conspiracy had failed.
     “Seen a lot of action?”
     “More than enough.” He said it in a way that shut down further conversation. She wouldn’t be able to get him to relax bragging about himself, so she changed the subject. “India! You have seen the world. How I should like to see it, with its caves full of jewels, and rich spices—and the beautiful women locked in harems—just like in The Arabian Nights.”
     “You’ve read The Arabian Nights?” His voice betrayed surprise. Did he think that just because she was poor she was stupid?
     “I’ve read it and a lot more.” Let him chew on that.
     “You’re not a Cockney, are you?” he asked, “Your accent is that of the Midlands. How long have you been in London?”
     “Long enough.” It was three years since she’d left home with Randall, just after her fifteenth birthday. Not that it was any of his business.
     “Come here,” he said, gesturing toward a narrow alleyway. “There may still be men in the crowd who’d like to do you harm. We’ll be safer here.”
     She didn’t believe for a minute he was leading her there to protect her, but the rope around her wrists gave her no choice but to follow him. When they had gone deeper into the shadows, he stopped and turned toward her. “Why did you steal, just now?” he demanded. “I know you did, so don’t bother lying. Just tell me the truth.” The set of his deeply cleft chin told her only the truth would do.
     She struggled to think of how to phrase it. At last she said, “People depend on me. I couldn’t let them down.”
     “They need you to find them money?”
     “Yes. Two pounds by the morrow. They’re going to tear down the place we been dossing in, to put up some new mansion for the rich.”
     “And if you don’t find those two pounds? What then.”
     “Clary goes back to whoring. She’s only fourteen.”
     “And you too?” His interest was unmistakable.
     “I’m eighteen.”
     “That’s not what I was asking.”
     “I’ve never sold myself.”
     He said nothing, evaluating the truth of her statement. His deep-set eyes dropped to her bosom and drifted lower. The tight crotch of his breeches bulged. So that was the key to handling this man. Lust. Not greed or glory.
     He repeated, “You’ve never sold yourself?”
     She took a deep breath. “Never.” She paused. Then hazarding all on a lucky throw she added, “’Til now.”
     He grinned. It made the scar at the corner of his lip deepen, but strangely, though it should have made him fearsome, it had the opposite effect. The look it gave his stern face intrigued her. Despite herself, she enjoyed making this man smile.
     “Would you be my Scheherazade, then?”
     “Scheherazade told stories. Is that what you want from me?” Her tone let him know she doubted it.
     “That’s what she does in the expurgated edition. But I’ve read the original Arabic. It tells a spicier tale.”
     “The East is famous for its spices,” she parried. “But I know naught of ’em. I’m only a humble English girl.”
     “English, yes. But hardly humble. You’re as proud as a queen. I doubt you’d disappoint me.” His eyes held a look of anticipation. Yes, lust would be the key to getting away from him.
     “Surely you’ve had real houris in India, a handsome man like yourself.” a little flattery never hurt.
     “Some. But I have had my fill of curry and yearn to taste good English cooking.”
     “What’s curry?
     “Food as hot as this cold November night is cold. Food that inflames the passions and fills the heart with courage.”
     “You may yearn for English cooking,” she said arranging her features in an arch expression. “But by the sound of it, I think I should like to taste this curry.” She batted her lashes to give him no doubt she was issuing an invitation.
     His eyes lit up, softening the harsh planes of his cheeks. “It would be my pleasure to introduce you to it,” he said. “You are strong enough to endure it. Perhaps you might come to enjoy it. Some Englishwomen do. A few. Though most complain it’s too hot and pains them. I wonder—”
     A look she could not entirely interpret swept over his features, as if he were considering something dangerous and weighing the cost. She shivered, hoping it was just a response to the icy breeze that blew rubbish down the deserted alleyway.
     Then he reached for his sword and pulled it out of its scabbard. Even in the gloom of the alley, its sharp edge glinted. “Hold out your hands,” he commanded. “Keep still.”
     Her gut clenched. They were alone, unobserved. His last speech had made her uneasy with its talk of pain and endurance. He was a dragoon, a man who took pleasure in killing. Perhaps he took pleasure in causing pain, too.
     But she had no choice but to comply. Her wrists were tightly bound, she couldn’t break free. She must submit to whatever he had in mind and wait for her opportunity. Cautiously, she extended her arms toward him. She held her breath, hoping she had not made a terrible mistake.