The Hunter (Victorian Rebels Book 2)

Millie couldn’t breathe. She’d never prayed so hard in her life. If only her son had stayed in bed. If only …

“Follow my lead, and I’ll leave you both unharmed,” he growled into her ear.

She didn’t know how she was suddenly facing him, or why, until he grabbed a fistful of her braid, wrenched her neck back, and slanted his lips over hers. Oh God. She knew who he was. Would recognize the feel of those lips anywhere.

She’d kissed them only hours ago.

Suddenly his hands were cupping both sides of her jaw, his thumbs pressing her lips apart so his tongue could make its wet sweep into her mouth.

She should bite him. Claw his eyes out. Knee him between the legs, grab Jakub, and run screaming from the house.

But this man was someone you never escaped from. She could tell by the way he kissed, by the unmitigated power in his arms when he’d seized her.

This was no gentle, questing probe she’d received from gentlemen. Or soft, seductive kisses that she’d allowed from exciting men who had no idea what the word “gentleman” meant. It wasn’t the hungry, thrilling kiss they’d shared before.

There was something wild in his lips. Something dark and desperate that, it seemed, astounded even him. Even if she’d allowed this kiss in regular circumstances, Millie didn’t think she’d be ready for the overwhelming intensity of it. It felt like something had shattered inside her attacker. Almost as certainly as if she’d heard it.

He made a sound in his throat. A sound of pleasure. A sound of agony.

“Matka? Mama?” The door moved. “Ew!”

When Millie pulled away, it surprised her that her assailant allowed it.

Jakub stood gripping the door handle, his honey-fair hair sticking up in wild disarray, and an openmouthed expression of childlike disgust frozen on his beautiful little face.

“Kochanie,” she gasped, her heart pounding loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Though whether it was from fear or from the kiss, she couldn’t honestly say.

“I heard a noise,” her son said by way of embarrassed explanation.

Her attacker stood absolutely still as Millie lunged for Jakub, and she sent a silent prayer of gratitude that he’d let her go. “I know. I’m sorry. L-let’s get you back to bed.” Desperate to get him away from the intruder, she scooped little Jakub up and ran for his room. Once inside, she set him down and locked the door, leaning back against it and trying to slow her panicked breaths.

“Who was that?” Jakub’s eyes remained as large and round as an owl’s.

How did she answer that question? He was a dangerous man. One she’d allowed to kiss her earlier that night, one who’d followed her home for Lord-knew-what nefarious purpose. Her behavior had brought this on them, she’d acted like a wanton and put her child in danger.

“Why was he kissing you?” Her son didn’t wait for an answer to his first question before pressing forward.

Millie opened her mouth to answer, distressed that she could still taste the masculine flavor of his lips on her own. Had he broken in to molest her? To finish what they’d started in that nook beneath the stairs? Had he intended to rape her?

“Is that my father?”

Millie’s hand flew to her chest. “What in God’s name would make you think that?” she puffed, reaching for the bell-pull in Jakub’s room and tugging on it twice, with a pause and then once more.

The signal to George Brimtree of danger. He would bring his gun, and this would all be over.

Jakub followed her around as she checked the lock on the door, paced away, checked it again.

“At school Rodney Beaton said that mothers had to kiss fathers whenever they were told.”

“Rodney Beaton is a half-wit,” Millie muttered without thinking, before taking Jakub into her arms and holding him tight. “That man … he’s not your father,” she said more gently. “He’s…”

She heard the attic door burst open and George Brimtree’s heavy footfalls pounded toward the locked door.

“An intruder, George, in my rooms,” she called through the heavy wood.

“I’ll get ’im with old Francesca, ’ere,” George bellowed back. Francesca, of course, being the name of his rifle.

Millie could hear him charging her rooms. “Be careful!” she called belatedly. George was a big man. He’d been a foot soldier for years, and worked his way up into a rifle brigade. But somehow she knew that, even with the weapon, he wasn’t going to stand a chance against the profligate who’d followed her home.

Praying for his survival, Millie didn’t breathe again until she heard her butler limping back down the hallway. “All clear, Miss Millie. Inn’t no one there. I checked every crack and cranny.”

Hesitantly, Millie unlocked the door and peeked into the dimly lit hallway, shaking more now than when she’d actually been in the clutches of the brute. She would have laughed at the sight of portly George in his nightshirt and hat, clutching the ancient rifle to his chest, if she wasn’t so shaken.

“Are you ’urt, Miss Millie?” he asked. “Is wee Jakub all right?”

“We’re fine, George,” she said, hating the tremor in her voice.

“Must’ve lit out the window. Though I can’t see ’ow he’d do it without breaking ’is legs.” The old man looked stymied.

“Best send for Scotland Yard, George,” Millie said, shutting the door and turning back to poor wide-eyed Jakub, gathering him into her arms again.

That’s it, tomorrow she was installing bars on all the windows, or she’d never sleep again.