A Rogue's Proposal (15 page)

Flick shut her mouth and nodded. “Yes, all right.”

Shaking her reins she set out; muttering his by now customary oath, Demon wheeled Ivan and set out to catch up. He did in short order; side by side, they rode across the next field—the last bastion of his domain. Beyond its hedge, directly ahead of them, lay the furthest reaches of the former park of Hillgate End.

There was a spot they both knew where the hedge thinned; they pushed through onto an old bridle path. Flick led the way into the dark shadows beneath the trees.

Although some of the park’s paths were kept in good condition for riders, notably Flick, to enjoy, this was not one of them. Bushes pressed close on either side, branches flapped before their faces. They had to walk their mounts—it was too dangerous to even trot. The path was deep in leaf mold; it occasionally dipped, creating the added danger of their horses slipping. They both instinctively guarded their precious mounts, alert to every shift in weight, in muscle, in balance, of the beasts beneath them.

The General had no love of shooting, so the park had become a refuge for wildlife. A badger snuffled and growled as they passed him; later, they heard rustling, then the yips of a fox.

“I didn’t realize it would be this bad.” Flick ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.

Demon grunted. “I thought this was the route you used to go back and forth to the cottage. Obviously not.”

“I normally take the path to the east, but that crosses the stream twice, and after last night’s rain, I didn’t want to risk Jessamy’s knees going up and down slippery banks.”

Demon didn’t point out that she was risking Jessamy’s knees right now—they were deep in the park, with the centuries-old trees forming an impenetrable canopy overhead; he could barely see Flick, let alone any irregularities in the path. Luckily, both Jessamy and Ivan could see better than him. They stepped out confidently; both he and Flick fell back on trust and let their horses find their own way.

After some time had elapsed, he asked, “Doesn’t this path cross the stream, too?”

“Yes, but there’s a bridge.” After a moment, Flick amended, “Well, there
was
a bridge last time I came this way.”

Lips thinning, Demon didn’t bother asking how long ago that had been; they’d deal with the rotted and possibly ex-bridge when they came to it.

Before they did, it started to rain.

At first, the light pattering on the leaves high above was of little consequence. But the tattoo steadily grew more forceful, then the forest about them started to drip.

Flick shuddered as a series of heavy drops splattered her. Instinctively, she urged Jessamy on.

“No!” Demon scowled through the night. “Hold her steady. It’s too dangerous to go faster—you know that.”

Her silent acquiescence told him she did. They plodded on, increasingly damp, increasingly cold.

Above them, above the trees, the wind started to rise, to whistle and moan and shake the leaves. Jaw set, Demon searched his memories, trying to gauge how much farther they had to go, but he’d never been on this path before. He didn’t know how it meandered, and he couldn’t place where it came out. But given the fact that this path crossed the stream only once, and they’d been making very slow progress . . .

He didn’t like the answers his estimations suggested. They were still a long way from the manor.

Just how far was revealed when they came to a break in the trees, and he saw before them the stream with a narrow log and plank bridge spanning it. And the charcoal maker’s hut in the clearing beyond.
That
, he recognized.

Beneath his breath, he swore.

As if in answer, the heavens cracked; the rain positively teemed. Faced with the sudden torrent—a curtain falling between them and the bridge—Jessamy and Flick balked.

Muttering all manner of dire imprecations, Demon swung down. He tied Ivan’s reins to a tree; the stallion, made of stern stuff, seemed unfazed by the downpour. Head up, he sniffed the air and looked toward the bridge.

The bridge that, if not in good condition, would assuredly collapse under his weight.

“Stay back!” Demon yelled at Flick. Pushing past Jessamy, he strode the three paces to the bridge. Ignoring the rain, he checked the structure thoroughly, in the end standing atop its middle and jumping up and down. The timbers didn’t creak; the bridge seemed sound enough.

Ducking back through the rain, he nodded at Flick, then freed his reins and was back in the saddle. Despite the downpour, he wasn’t soaked; the bridge itself was protected by a huge oak on the stream’s opposite bank.

Flick was looking back at him, her brows high. He nodded again. “You cross first.”

She nodded and sent Jessamy forward; they clattered across in ordered style. Demon shook Ivan’s reins—he bounded forward, keen not to be separated from the mare. His heavy hooves clattered on the planking; in a few swift strides, he was safely across.

Flick was waiting under the spreading branches of the oak; Demon reined in beside her and fixed her with a look calculated to impress on her the unwisdom of arguing with him in his present mood. “There is no possibility that we can ride on to the manor in this.”

Eyes wide, she looked at him consideringly, then cast a swift glance at the clearing before them, the surface of which was already playing host to myriad tiny rivulets. “It’ll stop soon—these squalls always do.”

“Precisely. Which is why we’re going to wait in the hut until it does.”

Flick eyed the hut and immediately thought of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Maybe even mice. Or rats. Then she looked at the steady rain coming down and grimaced. “I suppose it’ll only be for an hour or so.”

Demon tightened his reins. “There’s a small stable tacked on the other side—ride straight there.”

Flick shrugged, shook her reins, and did.

A second later, Demon followed.

The small stable was only just big enough to house both horses; with the two of them in there as well, laboring in the darkness to unsaddle, space was in short supply. It was impossible not to bump into each other. Arms brushed breasts, elbows stuck into chests. Searching for a loose strap, Flick inadvertently ran her hand up Demon’s thigh—she snatched it back with a mortified “Sorry.”

Which was received in fraught silence.

A minute later, reaching out to locate her so he wouldn’t hit her when he lifted his saddle from Ivan’s back, Demon found his fingers curving about her breast. An incoherent word of apology was all he could manage, too exercised by the battle to drag his hand away.

Flick’s only reply was a muted squawk.

Finally, they were done, and the horses, contented enough, were settled side by side, Ivan with a minimum of rein. Flick joined Demon in the doorway, ducking behind him, into the protection afforded by his broad shoulders.

He glanced around at her, then looked back out, peering along the front of the stone cottage. “God only knows what state the inside is in.”

“The charcoal makers come every year.”

“In autumn,” he replied incontrovertibly.

She grimaced.

He sighed. “I’ll go and take a look.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Do you want to wait here? It’s perfectly possible I won’t be able to get past the door.”

She nodded. “I’ll stay here while you check—call if it’s all right.”

He looked back out, then strode swiftly for the cottage door. An instant later, Flick heard wood grating on stone. She waited, looking out at the steady rain, listening to the dripping silence. Beside her, the horses shifted, heaved horsy sighs, and settled. All she could hear was their steady breathing and the soft patter of the rain.

And a hesistant, furtive rustling in what sounded like straw, coming from the rear of the stable.

Flick stiffened. Wild-eyed, she swung around. Visions of munching rats with evil red eyes filled her brain.

She whirled and fled for the cottage.

The door was ajar; without a thought, she slipped through.

“Stop.” It was Demon’s voice. “I’ve found the lantern.”

Flick stood just inside the door and calmed her leaping heart. He was large—he had large feet. He’d been clomping around in the cottage for at least three minutes—surely, by now, any resident rodents would have departed.

A scrape of a match on tinder broke the stillness; light flared, then softened, throwing a warm glow about the hut as Demon reset the glass.

Letting out the breath she’d held, Flick looked about. “Well!”

“Indeed.” Demon likewise was taking inventory. “Remind me to compliment the charcoal makers when next they’re by.”

The cottage was neat as a pin, and, bar the inevitable cobwebs, clean. The door had been tight in its frame, and the windows securely shuttered; no unwanted visitors had disturbed the charcoal makers’ temporary home.

By extension, however, there was no food left in the cottage to attract vermin. The pots and pans and, most importantly, the kettle, travelled with their owners. There was, however, wood stacked and dry in the woodbox.

Demon glanced at Flick, then moved to the fireplace. “I may as well get a fire going.” They were both damp, just this side of wet through.

“Hmm.” Flick shut the door, then, rubbing her upper arms, came farther into the cottage. While Demon crouched before the stone hearth, selecting logs and sticks with which to start his blaze, she studied the furniture. There was only one chair—an old armchair from the manor. Beyond it stood three narrow pallets, each sporting a lumpy, tick mattress. Bending down, Flick grasped the wooden strut at the end of the nearest pallet and tugged until the end of the pallet was positioned before the hearth to one side. Satisfied, she sank down upon it. And sighed as she let her shoulders ease.

Demon glanced back, saw what she’d done, and nodded. The next instant, he had a flame laid in the kindling; busily, he coaxed it into a blaze.

Flick sat and watched the flames grow, watched the bright tendrils writhe, then lick along the dark wood. Patiently, Demon fed the flames, laying branch upon twig until the blaze roared.

Heat billowed out, enveloping her, washing through her, driving away the chill locked in her damp clothes. Contentment rolled through her; she sighed and rotated her shoulders, one, then the other, then settled again to watch Demon’s hands, steady and sure, pile logs on the fire.

His hands were like the rest of him—large and lean. His long fingers never fumbled. His grip was strong and sure. His movements, she noted, were economical; he rarely used extraneous flourishes, a fact that enhanced the sense of control, of harnessed power, that invested his every act.

He was, now she considered it, a very controlled man. Only when the flames were voraciously devouring two huge logs did he stand. He stretched, then turned; large and intensely male, he stood looking down at her.

Her gaze fixed on the flames, Flick knew he was studying her; she felt his gaze on her face, hotter than the heat from the flames. She looked away from the fire, to the nook beside the hearth, gathering strength to look up and meet his eyes.

In the dark corner she saw a flicker of movement, a twitch of a whisker.

A pointy nose and two pink-red eyes.

“
Eeeeeehhh!
”

Her shrill scream split the stillness.

With another shriek, she leapt up, straight into Demon’s arms.

They locked about her. “What is it?”

“
A rat
!” Eyes glued to the dark cranny, she clung, her fingers sinking into his muscles. She gestured with her chin. “There—by the fireplace.” Then she buried her face in his chest. “Make it go away!”

Her plea was a panicked mumble. Demon stared at the small field mouse cowering back against the stones. He stifled a sigh. “Flick—”

“Is it gone?”

This time, he did sigh. “It’s only a field mouse attracted to the warmth. It’ll leave in a moment.”

“Tell me when it does.”

He squinted down at her. All he could see was the crown of her curls. Putting his head to the side, he tried to see her face; she had it buried in his chest. She’d somehow insinuated her hands under his coat, and was gripping him, one hand on either side of his back, clinging for dear life.

She was plastered against him, from her forehead to her knees.

And she was trembling.

A faint vibration, the tremor travelled her spine. Instinctively, he tightened his arms about her, then eased his hold to run his hands slowly down and up her back, soothingly stroking.

Bending his head, he murmured into her curls. “It’s all right. It’ll go in a minute.”

He could feel her panicked breathing, her breath hitching in her throat; she didn’t answer, but bobbed her head to show she’d heard.

So they stood, locked together before the fire, waiting for the still-petrified mouse to make a move.

Demon had imagined waiting patiently, stoically, but within a minute, stoic was beyond him. The fire, a roaring blaze, had dried him; while Flick had been still chilled when she’d rushed into his arms, his body heat was warming her. Warming her breasts, pressed tight against his chest, warming her hips, plastered to his thighs. She, in turn, was heating him—it wouldn’t be long before the largest blaze in the room was not the one in the hearth.

Gritting his teeth, he told himself he could endure it. He doubted she was even aware of his susceptibility; he could manage her easily enough.

The heat between them reached a new high, and her perfume rose to waft about him, to wreathe, then snare, his senses. Making him even more aware of the supple softness in his arms, of the warm breasts crushed to his chest, of the subtle pliancy in her frame that beckoned his hardened senses, of the feminine strength in the arms reaching around him. He snatched a breath—and drew her deep, into his soul. Closing his eyes, locking his jaw, he tried to keep his body from responding.

Entirely unsuccessfully. Hard became harder, tighter, tauter. Inexorably, yet in all innocence, she wound his sensual spring notch after notch.

In desperation, he tried to ease her away—she shook her head frantically and burrowed even deeper into his embrace. Teeth gritted, he used just a little of his strength to shift her, so she was more to his side and no longer in danger of learning, graphically, just how much she was affecting him.