Pleasuring the Prince by Patricia Grasso Page B

house and prayed no one gave chase. The night’s sky was clear and the springtime air chilly, neither of which she noticed.
    Once past Covent Garden, the crowds grew thinner and thinner. She reached deserted Queen Street but paused at the corner.
    The street was eerily silent. The rose-petal murderer popped into her mind, her senses alert to any unusual noise. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, and her heartbeat quickened. She almost cried out in frightened surprise when a coach materialized beside her and halted.
    “Here, girl,” a man called. “Do you want to make good money?”
    Fancy ignored him and started walking. Unexpectedly, a hand grabbed her wrist and whirled her around.
    Dressed like a gentleman, he was tall and well built and passably handsome. He reeked of gin.
    “What’s your hurry, girl?”
    “Release me, villain.”
    He laughed. “Say, aren’t you that—”
    Fancy tried to yank her hand away, but his superior strength held her immobile. She kicked out, aiming for his groin, but fell when he sidestepped to elude her.
    “You’d better come with me.” The man started to pull her toward his coach, ignoring her shouted protests.
    “Release the lass.”
    Fancy heard another voice and saw two newcomers standing there.
    “Eddie, ye dinna need to drag lassies off the street,” the second man said.
    Her captor released her as suddenly as he’d grabbed her. He climbed into his coach and fled the scene, leaving her alone with her rescuers.
    “Are ye all right, lass?” the first one asked.
    His friend helped her off the ground. “Ye shouldna be walkin’ aboot at night.”
    “I’m Douglas Gordon, the Marquess of Huntly,” the first man introduced himself.
    “And I’m his cousin, Ross MacArthur, the Marquess of Awe,” the second man added.
    “We canna allow ye to walk home alone,” Douglas Gordon said.
    Ross MacArthur agreed. “Ye’ll need to come with us, lass.” He held his hand out to her.
    “No, thank you, my lords.” Fancy shook her head. “I will be fine now.”
    Douglas Gordon spoke up. “Our consciences will bother us if we let ye walk aboot alone.”
    “Aye, ’tis dangerous,” his cousin said. “Ye dinna need to fear us, lass.”
    “Miss Flambeau belongs to me.”
    Fancy whirled around at the sound of the prince’s voice and, breaking free, flew into his arms. Relief surged through her body, weakening her, and she clung to him as if she would never let him go.
    Thank God, he had come looking for her. There were worse things in life than stepping into society.
    Stepan folded his arms around her. “Are you injured?”
    Fancy shook her head.
    “Ross and I rescued her from Crazy Eddie,” Douglas Gordon said. “Ye shouldna be so careless with yer possessions, Kazanov.”
    MacArthur nodded. “Aye, Crazy Eddie was draggin’ her into his coach when we happened by.”
    Stepan inclined his head. “I thank you for your assistance.”
    “Yer a verra bonny lass,” Douglas said, looking at Fancy. “Do ye have any sisters?”
    “Six.”
    The Scotsmen looked at each other and laughed.
    “Yer da shoulda done the deed with his boots on,” Ross said.
    Douglas Gordon nodded in agreement. “Aye, that’ll turn the trick every time.”
    With that, the Scotsmen climbed into their coach and continued on their way.
    His expression grim, Stepan looked down at her lovely, pale face. “What am I going to do with you, mademoiselle?”
    Fancy gazed at him through her enormous violet eyes. “Kiss me…”
    Stepan obliged her.
    Fancy closed her eyes, savoring his sandalwood scent. She felt his heartbeat, his heat, his unyielding strength.
    “I have waited forever for this,” Stepan whispered, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers.
    And then their lips touched, meeting in a gentle first kiss. His lips were warm and firm, undemanding but masterful, stealing all rational thought.
    Stepan caressed her back and the nape of her neck, eliciting her sigh. And then he changed the tempo of the kiss,