The Mercenary Major by Kate Moore

distinctive pucker in his left cheek.
    “I have my mother’s eyes,” he told her, his voice low and lazy. “What proof of your identity do you carry, Miss Carr?”
    She stiffened, and she saw his eyes note the change. It would not do her argument any good to tell him of her own close resemblance to her mother. “You were a bandit,” she said evenly. After all, his past was in question, not hers.
    “For two years.”
    “An occupation that must demand a ruthlessness and savagery you could not have inherited from Helen Amberly.” It was a telling point, she felt.
    “Being a bandit also requires a keen sense of when to run, which a small boy orphaned in a strange land has daily opportunities to learn.”
    “But as a soldier you could not run.”
    “Bandits learn when to take a stand, Miss Carr, and a great deal about moving unseen through difficult terrain. Hookey found my . . . training valuable.” His eyes didn’t leave hers, and it was a minute before she could think again.
    “Lord Wellington offered you a command based on your experience as a bandit?”
    “Yes, Miss Carr, after I brought him a number of French dispatches. I wanted to be an officer, not a hired guide, and I had no money to buy a commission.”
    “You were an unsuccessful bandit then?”
    He laughed. He was looking at her mouth. Victoria took a step back. There was a silence. His eyes met hers again, and he said quietly, “If you reveal that, you will damage my romantic reputation, Miss Carr.”
    “Of what value can a romantic reputation be if you are in fact Jack Amberly?”
    “Aunt Letty says it will help me to a rich wife, Miss Carr.”
    Victoria clenched her fists. Apparently the man felt no shame for his base motives.
    He tilted his head to one side. “You think less of me now than you did a few moments ago?”
    She did. “Whoever you are, you appear to have no scruples whatsoever. You rely on an ingratiating manner and bold deception to achieve your ends, and those ends are solely self-serving and mercenary.” She paused. She doubted such a speech would have any effect on him, but it did relieve her feelings. “Good evening, sir,” she said, turning toward the stairs.
    But the impostor came up off the table in a smooth flow of muscle, grabbed her right wrist, and swung her around to face him. With his other hand he caught her about the waist and pulled her body tight against his. Victoria gasped and pushed against him with her free hand. No man had ever taken such liberties with her.
    “You couldn’t love me then, could you?” he asked in a fierce whisper.
    “Love you?” The words stunned her. She couldn’t believe he’d suggested it. She couldn’t believe they were touching along a hundred points of sensation. “I couldn’t begin to respect—”
    “Good,” he said. He smiled. He looked wicked, but not in any of the ways she had accused him of being wicked.
    “Good?” she echoed, staring at him. In his eyes was an expression she had not seen before. He was watching her, waiting for her to understand. Unhurriedly he freed her right hand and lifted her chin.
    “Let me go.”
    He shook his head. “There’s no danger in this.” He leaned forward and kissed her.
    It was impertinent, disconcerting, bold. Victoria knew she ought to wrench her mouth from his and slap him. But she held herself perfectly still, and that was her mistake. The sensation, mild enough at the first meeting of their lips, deepened and spread, very much as if the touch of his lips had set a fire licking along her nerves. And it was worse in her heart. Her heart recognized the sweet ache of longing in his kiss, a longing she knew the Bandit would never speak. Her eyes closed, and her hands curled around the soft wool of his coat.
    Jack knew he’d made a mistake from the moment he touched his mouth to hers. Don’t want what you can’t have had been one of his rules from those first weeks alone in the streets of Madrid. Kissing Victoria Carr was