Gideon's every muscle tensed. His first instinct was to flatly refuse. Guard her? Follow her everywhere? Stay here? Bloody hell, he'd go mad. Even more disturbing, however, was the thought that he'd fail to resist her, as he had so spectacularly tonight. The way she stripped him of his control appalled him. Angered him. Indeed, it actually frightened him.

He could tell himself that now that he'd touched her, knew the feel and taste of her, knew that she smelled like vanilla-everywhere-his curiosity and appetite for her was appeased. But he'd be lying to himself. Because the knowledge of her scent and feel and touch had appeased nothing. No, instead it had served only to inflame him further, to make him want her more. This desire for her… it went beyond mere hunger. It was a ravenous craving. He didn't want to merely hold her, touch her, kiss her. He wanted to devour her. Brand himself on her. Touch her so deeply, make her his so profoundly and thoroughly, he'd haunt her every thought. The way she haunted his.

And he couldn't understand why. Obviously he desired her. Bloody hell, what breathing man wouldn't? He'd experienced desire. Lust. Had experienced pleasure with his share of women. Yet as steamy as those encounters had been, they now seemed tepid in comparison to the heat Julianne inspired. Julianne brought out something in him he didn't understand. Something, for the first time in his life, he hadn't been able to control. And wasn't certain he'd have the strength to control in the future. That was very bad-for both of them. It meant he needed to stay far, far away from her and her irresistible allure.

But how could he refuse to protect her? If he did, and something happened to her, he'd never forgive himself. Yet neither could he trust himself. For both their sakes he had to refuse.

"There are other Runners who could-" he began, but the earl cut him off with an impatient flick of his hand.

"From what I hear, you're the best, and I'll have nothing less."

"I appreciate that, but I cannot-"

"I'll make it worth your while financially." The earl named an amount that nearly matched Gideon's yearly Bow Street salary. And therefore raised his suspicions.

"That's a great deal of money," Gideon said.

"It is worth a great deal that my daughter remain safe for the next fortnight."

Gideon's brows rose. "Just the next fortnight? What about after that?"

"Even if the culprit hasn't been apprehended by then, your services will no longer be required beyond that point, as Julianne will no longer be living in London or be my responsibility."

"And why is that?"

"Because she will be married to the Duke of Eastling. And living in Cornwall. And therefore Eastling's responsibility."

Chapter 12

With Caesar keeping pace beside him, Gideon walked along the dark street, his thoughts as gloomy as the shadows that surrounded him. Tendrils of fog rose from the ground, and puddles filled the uneven pavement, soaking his boots. The rain had stopped, but a damp chill infiltrated the still air. His strides ate up the ground, each one taking him farther from the Grosvenor Square mansion he'd departed five minutes ago and closer to Covent Garden. To his own modest home. Where he belonged.

She will be married to the Duke of Eastling.

The words clanged through Gideon's mind as they'd ceaselessly done since the earl had uttered them, like rusty chains hobbling criminals on their way to the gallows. The news had stunned him, and he'd gone perfectly still. On the outside. On the inside, it felt as if everything shifted and tumbled. Crashed and shattered. Then the reverberating words were replaced by an agonized Noooooo!that had screamed through his head.

It had taken him several seconds to recover, and when he had, anger and betrayal stabbed him like daggers in the back. She'd known. Known she was betrothed to another man, yet she'd deliberately set out to entice him. Then a keen sense of self-disgust filled him. He'd done a great many things he wasn't proud of, but by damn, he'd never cuckolded a man. Even if he'd desired the woman and she'd been willing. Even if he'd disliked her husband.

For years he'd been forced to witness the damage and pain that sort betrayal could cause. And he wanted no part of it. How many vicious rows had he listened to while watching the light fade from his mother's eyes after his father came home stinking of some trollop's cheap perfume? More than he wanted to recall. There were bloody few lines he hadn't crossed, but that was one of them. Until she'd deceived him. Not to mention the point of pride and honor that he didn't take things that didn't belong to him. And unbeknownst to him-because she'd deceived him-she belonged to someone else.

Now, on the cold walk home, he passed under a gaslight, the fog shifting eerily in the pale yellow glow, and he heaved out a long sigh. In spite of both the betrayal and self-disgust, an aching, profound sense of loss all but strangled him. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? Why had the earl's announcement hit him with the force of a blow to the head? He'd seen the parade of suitors tramping through the house. The men who flocked to her at parties. It certainly wasn't as if he ever could have thrown his name on the silver platter bearing those of her countless admirers.

Still, the news of her imminent marriage had caught him off guard. And he didn't like being caught off guard.

She will be married to the Duke of Eastling…

Unreasonable, white-hot jealousy ripped through him with a viciousness that wouldn't allow him to deny what it was. Bloody hell, the thought of that bastard putting his hands on Julianne, taking her without a care to her pleasure as he had Lady Daltry at last night's soiree, made him want to break things. Most specifically, that bastard's face.

Fancy gowns and parties are not important to me. Not nearly as much as other things. Love. Laughter. Companionship. Desire. Romance. Passion. They are what I long for.

In his mind's eye he saw her saying those words, the despair and vulnerability and yearning reflected in her expressive eyes. He clenched his teeth so hard he was surprised they didn't crumble to dust. She sure as hell wouldn't get all those things from a cold bastard like the duke.

The only time I've ever felt free of that glass coffin is when you kissed me.

Damn it, the taste of her still lingered on his tongue. In spite of the chill, dank air, he could still smell her. Feel her curves against him, and her warmth surrounding him. It was as if she were tattooed on his senses.

How the hell was he ever going to forget her?

Especially now that he'd agreed to protect her?

He dragged his cold hands down his face and released a pent-up breath that fogged the air. God knows he hadn't wanted to agree. Had wanted to tell her arrogant father that Gideon Mayne couldn't be bought. And he hadn't been bought-by the money. That he could have walked away from. But as much as he cursed himself for it, he couldn't walk away from Julianne when she was in danger. He would find the bastard threatening her and stop him. He'd do his job.

And then he'd walk away from her.

She'd marry the duke and move to Cornwall.

And that would be that.

All he needed to do was make sure he kept his damn hands and his damn mouth off her.

But now that he knew she belonged to someone else-that her betrothal wasn't simply something nebulous that would happen someday-his tarnished honor demanded there be no further intimacies between them. All he needed to do was hold on to that sense of anger and betrayal he'd felt upon hearing the news, the realization that she'd deceived him, and he'd succeed. Surely he could do that.

Wouldn't have mattered if you'd known, his inner voice taunted. The evening would have ended the same way. With you lifting her skirts.

His hands tightened into fists, and he shook his head to dislodge the insidious voice. No. He would have found the strength to resist her had he known.

You wanted her more than you wanted your next breath.

True. But the knowledge that she was betrothed would have cooled his ardor.

Wouldn't it?

Yes!his tarnished honor roared. Absolutely yes.

He turned off the main road onto a narrower cobbled street. Almost home. Where he'd climb into bed and get some much-needed rest.

You won't rest, you idiot. You'll lie awake and stare at the ceiling and remember what it felt like to kiss her. To bury your face between her soft thighs.

Heat raced through him, settling in his groin, and he grimaced as he swelled against his breeches. The fact that he hadn't had a woman in two months wasn't helping the situation. Not since he'd first seen Julianne. He hadn't wanted anyone other than her.

His lips compressed into a thin line.

That was going to change. Tonight. And he knew just the place.

He looked ahead, and his gaze fastened on the sign coming up on the next corner. The Drunken Porcupine. He hadn't been to the tavern since he'd met Julianne. In fact, he'd been living like a monk since that night. Well, no more. He quickened his pace, and a moment later, he pushed open the heavy oak door.

Loud guffaws, ribald singing, and the sound of a fiddle spilled out, along with a haze of smoke and the scent of sausage and cooked cabbage. Two months might have passed, but nothing had changed. Booths lined the outer walls, and wooden benches set in front of long, pockmarked tables ran the length of the room.

He made his way through the dimly lit interior, Caesar at his heels, nodding greetings to a few men he knew, returning the glares of several he didn't. When he reached the well-worn bar, he chose an empty stool in the corner that afforded him a good view of the room and put the wall at his back. Caesar settled himself at Gideon's feet.

"Well, look wot the storm blew in."

Gideon turned and found himself the subject of a narrow-eyed stare from Luther, the giant of a barkeep who polished a thick glass mug with the corner of his apron. The dim light reflected off Luther's shiny bald head and glinted on the small gold hoop in his earlobe. The tattoo of a rose decorated a beefy forearm. In spite of standing behind the bar, he still looked very much like the brawny sailor he once was. "Thought mayhap ye'd died and hadn't bothered to tell me."

"Couldn't very well tell you if I had."

Luther considered that, then nodded. "I suppose not. What'll ye have? Yer usual nip o' ale?"

"Whiskey."

Luther made no comment, and seconds later his ham-sized hand set down two glasses in front of Gideon. "I'll join ye," Luther said, pouring a generous shot of amber liquid into each glass. When he finished, he picked up his glass and raised it. "Here's to ye still bein' alive."

Gideon raised his glass. "And you as well."

"Thank ye."

Gideon tossed back the potent liquor in a single gulp then closed his eyes against the scrape of rough fire that burned its way down his throat. When he opened his eyes, Luther was setting down his empty glass and staring at Gideon with a speculative expression.