Charming the Devil (17 page)

He said nothing until she could bear the silence no more, then she shifted her gaze fretfully back to his.

“Was she not?” she asked.

He was slow to answer. “Aye, she seemed to be.”

That barb again, deep in her gut. She pursed her lips. “She would probably like to repay you for your help.”

“She seems a generous enough maid,” he said finally.

“Good-hearted.” She nodded weakly and remembered the most generous part of the maid seemed to be propped atop her bodice. “Yes. She did that.”

He was still watching her. “Are you feeling quite well, lass? I would escort you home if you’ve a mind to—”

“Did she offer to bed you?” The words spurted from her lips like spilled venom, stunning her with their arrival. It was impossible to guess which of them was more surprised, and yet she continued. “Did she?” she whispered.

There was a hammering lifetime of silence, then, “I believe she felt somewhat indebted.”

“Or perhaps she longed to feel you against her.” Oh God. She’d spoken again. She glanced away, hoping to faint. No such luck. “Were you considering her offer?” Her voice was very small, barely audible, and yet she knew he heard her. Could feel it in the frozen stillness of the air.

“This is no place for a lass like yourself to be found so late at—” he began, but she stopped him by grasping his hand.

“Were you?” she whispered.

“’Tis not for a man like meself to take a wife.”

She stared.

“And yet I am, at times…” The muscle jumped in his jaw again. “Ofttimes…” He closed his eyes for a second as if fighting honestly. “Usually…”

She waited.

“Lonely,” he said finally, and, wincing at his own feeble choice of words, rose abruptly to his feet. “My apologies,” he rumbled. “I fear I must return to me home lest—”

“I can help you.” She said the words without thinking, without breathing.

He, too, had ceased to breathe. “What say you?”

She felt as if her heart might explode. “I could help assuage your loneliness,” she said. “If you like.”

R
ogan stood absolutely still. What had she just said? That she could assuage his loneliness?

Were they talking about what he thought they were talking about? Did she realize that he spent night after night as hard as yonder hitching post, aching with frustration and hope and longing?

“Lass…” he said, but she refused to look up.

“Sit down,” she said.

But he couldn’t. He was too shocked. Too confused. Too deuced
hard.

“Please,” she said, and indicated his chair.

He forced himself to sit, though it felt all but impossible to bend. He stared at her, because he could not help himself, because his body was galvanized, and his mind was buzzing.

She cleared her throat.

“I—”

They spoke in unison again. She closed her eyes, opened them.

“You—” Again they spoke together.

He ground his teeth.

“You’ve no need to feel embarrassed,” she said. She was fiddling distractedly with a fold in her gown. “Everyone feels lonely now and then.”

Well he was damned near lonely enough to erupt right where he sat. “Do
you
?” he asked.

“Get lonely?” Had she ceased to breathe?

He managed a slow nod.

“Of course.”

He picked his way carefully through the emotional battlefield. “And you would be willing to assist me with…” He ran out of words, but she finally spoke, maybe to keep the world from tumbling down on their heads like falling stars.

“I am, after all a…” Did she wince the slightest degree? “Widow.”

“And widows get lonely?”

“Of course.”

He nodded, having no idea what they spoke of. “I would not have you believe that I oft seek…friendship…from maids I’ve only just met.”

Her gaze flitted to the stairs.

“I’m certain she’s…” She drew a heavy breath. “Marjorie was it?” she asked.

He nodded though for the life of him, he could not even begin to guess what the woman’s name had been. He only knew that even though he was eager enough to explode like a primed cannon, he had turned the maid aside.

“I’m certain Marjorie is a wonderful girl.” She said it with some sincerity, which, if he could breathe, might have been amusing, because, in his
own estimation the stunning Faerie Faye was considerably younger than the maid, whose name he couldn’t recall and would never recall if he lived to be a hundred. “Kindly and surely…” Her gaze flittered up and away. “Comely.”

The word fell like rain from her kitten-soft lips. Touching those lips with his own had been naught but a breath of heaven. What would it be like to allow himself to do more? To smooth his hands across her shoulders, to kiss her satiny neck?

“You do find her comely, I assume.”

He scowled. The maid had been troubled by the boys. He had stepped in. It was as simple as that. There would have been no possible way he could have noticed her appearance. Not with the enchanting, pixielike Faye plaguing his every thought. But she was still sitting there, waiting in silence, and, most probably, thinking he was as daft as a gargoyle.

“She is bonny enough I suppose.”

“Bonny enough to…befriend?”

He’d give his left stone to know what the devil they were talking about. Well, maybe a kidney. “I suspect so.”

“And what of me?” she asked, voice as soft as a dream, as sweet as a song.

His throat felt tight. “You?”

“Am I—”

“You are sunlight and laughter.” The words came unbidden, falling from his lips.

She stared at him in silence for a short eternity, eyes bright as polished amber before she shifted them away. “You know very little of me, Mr. McBain.”

“Perhaps if we become friends I could learn more.”

“Perhaps you would not like what you learn,” she said, and glanced toward the stairs where the maid had disappeared, and suddenly a sharp, wayward thought struck him like a blow.

“Have you often…assuaged men’s loneliness?”

Her brows dipped slightly. “What?”

“I do not mean to imply that I would think less of you. ’Tis simply—”

“No!” she said, then smoothed her features just as she did her skirt. “No,” she repeated, quieter now.

He allowed himself to nod, but truth to tell he wasn’t certain if he was relieved or disappointed. True, the thought of her touching another made his skin feel too tight for his pulsing body. But perhaps if she had strayed a time or two, if she did not seem so perfect, he could convince himself he had some sort of right to touch her.

“That is to say, there was my husband.” A tiny muscle jumped in her cheek. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but it seemed almost that she would not have had to react at all. That he felt the tic himself.

“Of course,” he said.

From the kitchen, the proprietor hustled out, carrying two plates boasting boiled fowl. Steam rose from pale parsnips nestled against small, pearly onions. Setting down the plates, he bowed solemnly.

“For this, sir,” he said, “there will be no charge.”

“I am able to pay my way,” Rogan said, but the other was already shaking his head.

“The maid is a bit flirtatious,” he said. “But she’s mild as Mullen.”

Rogan refrained from gritting his teeth. If he could swipe but one phrase from the English language, that would be it.

“And I answer to her father,” added the old man.

Rogan managed a nod. The other bobbed in return, then turned and bustled away, leaving them with their meals. Despite the maid’s description, it smelled quite delectable, but truth to tell, he’d lost a bit of his appetite. And, too, he was not at all comfortable with the idea of eating in the company of the fairer sex. It had been suggested on more than one occasion that his table manners left a bit to be desired. Irish had stated a preference for dining with starved wolves.

But then, Irish was an ass.

Faerie Faye cleared her throat. “It doesn’t seem proper to be eating Mr. Connelly’s meal.”

Rogan waved dismissively, and suddenly his hand seemed too large for the table. Too large for the room. Certainly too large for the fork that lay
beside his plate. “I am certain he has forgotten all about it by now.”

“Forgotten his meal?”

“Yes.”

She looked perplexed for a moment, but finally a spark of humor shone in her eyes.

“Because of the maid,” she said.

Perhaps he was expected to respond, but once again, he was mesmerized, frozen. She was beauty beyond description. Light beyond hope.

“Am I wrong?” she asked finally, and the melodious sound of her voice brought him back to the present.

“You are not,” he said, and forced himself to pick up the fork. It wasn’t as if he was an ogre, he thought, but he’d cleaned his teeth with bigger utensils.

He could feel her watching him and refrained from squirming. “By now he has probably convinced her of a walk in the moonlight.”

“Ahh,” she said, and her apple-blossom mouth quirked up in a way that made his own go dry.

Concentrating on his meal, he skewered a parsnip and cut it into a half dozen miniature-sized pieces.

As for the girl, she seemed intent on eating, and since it was all but impossible to watch her without pulling her onto his lap, he cut up the tiny onions before masticating carefully.

By the time he’d consumed his third onion, she had pushed her plate aside.

“Oh,” she said glancing up and realizing, apparently for the first time, that he had not yet made it halfway through his meal. “It appears that I was hungrier than I realized. Or you…” She paused. “Is the fowl not to your taste?”

He had no idea. So far, all he could taste was lust…maybe a little bit of fear. Uncertainty. Frustration. Confusion. Oh hell. He was going to starve to death if he remained in her presence much longer, and, sadly, he was willing to do so.

“There is something amiss with the fowl?” asked the proprietor, rushing out.

Rogan all but ground his teeth. “The fowl is fine,” he said. “Very good.”

“Then why…” began the proprietor, then smacked his brow with the palm of his hand. “You need bread.”

“Nay, I—”

“A hero such as you must have bread,” he said, and hurried away. In a matter of seconds, he was back with two round loaves the width of his skull.

Dear God, if the ravishing faerie lass continued to watch him, it would take him all night to consume those.

“Better now?” asked the proprietor.

“All is well,” Rogan assured him.

“But you are out of beer,” said the other, and, retrieving the mug, bustled away again.

Rogan glanced at Faye.

Her smile was almost visible as she pushed back
her chair. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said, and, turning elegantly away, left the room.

Rogan felt his shoulders slump, but as the proprietor hurried back in, he realized this was his opportunity to eat in peace.

By the time she returned two minutes later, every dish on the table was empty.

He refrained from shuffling his feet like a recalcitrant lad and hoped she wouldn’t mention the speed with which he’d inhaled the meal.

“If you’ve no objection, I would escort you home, lass,” he said, and rose to his feet.

“Are you certain you would not rather take a bed here?” she asked.

And suddenly his heart stopped. The world ceased to turn. Logic failed to exist, for it almost seemed as if she was offering to share a room.

As if magic yet remained among mortal man.

T
he reality of what she had just said hit Faye like a spell gone awry.

Good heavens, it was bad enough that she had offered to
befriend
him without sounding as if she was ready to rip off his clothes and have her way with him here and now. Even though…

She let her gaze fall to his chest, then yanked her thoughts back to more acceptable regions.

He was staring at her with an expression she dared not try to interpret.

“That is to say…I’m certain they would be honored to have you…” She almost let her eyes fall closed at her own idiocy. “A great warrior like…” She was staring at his chest again. God help her. Snatching her gloves from the table, she straightened her back. “I know my way home,” she said, and marched out of the establishment.

In some mortified portion of her blushing mind she quite desperately hoped he would let her go. Would not follow her. But another part of her felt
entirely different. Titillated and shivery and unmistakably hopeful.

She loosed Sultan’s reins with unsteady fingers, then glanced up at the pommel, wondering how the deuce she was going to get aboard without floundering about like a disoriented duckling. She’d just offered to bed the man here at the inn. How would it seem if she now begged for assistance in mounting. Mounting what? Mounting
whom
? And when had her mind become such a wanton wasteland, she wondered frantically, but in that moment she realized he was behind her.

“Might you need assistance?” he asked.

She didn’t really. She could simply wedge her left foot in the lone stirrup and swing her right leg over the cantle…if she didn’t care that all of London would thereafter be agog by her bold and improper actions.

“Please,” she said instead, and, still facing the gelding, raised her left foot, ready to step into his hands.

But suddenly she was lifted from the ground and set into the saddle like a porcelain vase atop a mantel. She stared down in amazement. His hands remained on her waist for a moment, strong but gentle, before his left dropped to her thigh. Instincts roared to life inside her, confusing in their ferocity. She could flee, could easily escape atop Madeline’s kindly mount. But other instincts were present, too. Instincts that sang like wild larks beneath the weight of his dark-
fingered hand. Instincts that suggested that perhaps he only dared to touch her now when she was afforded height and speed. When she had. But would any woman truly ever have him at a disadvantage? He was power personified, strength well leashed. And perhaps it was that thought, the knowledge that he kept himself in such careful control, that almost made her long to slide into his arms and get on with that ripping and having stuff.

Their gazes met like lightning. Tension steamed between them, seeming to sizzle from his thoughts to hers, to twitter from his fingertips to every tingling part of her.

“Mayhap…” he began, and stopped.

“What?”

His tone was deep and low. Hers was breathless.

“Are you lonely now, lass?” he asked, and the world stood still, for she
was
. Despite her well-founded fear of men, despite the fact that she had a mission…a mission that would not keep, she was undeniably lonely.

And she couldn’t quite breathe, but he was standing there, gazing up at her, eyes as solemn as sin, waiting.

“Yes,” she whispered.

His hand seemed to burn against her thigh. “Lass…”

“Yes?”

“I would know your definition of lone—”

“Sir. Good sir.”

They turned in tandem as the proprietor came hobbling out, face florid in the waning light. “I’ve put together a bite to see you on your way.”

“’Tis not necessary,” Rogan said.

“It’s nothing really. Just a loaf of barley bread and a leg of mutton. A thank you for your bravery.”

Rogan nodded once, seeming to want nothing more than to put the entire episode behind him, but the other was not yet done.

“There are not many who would risk himself for those less fortunate these days.”

“I assure you, it was no great—”

“It was different when I was a young man. There was honor then. Dignity. Men knew to treat maids with respect.”

Rogan lowered his hand slowly from Faye’s thigh, and in its wake, she felt strangely bereft.

“You are a lucky woman,” said the little proprietor and, with one birdlike nod, scurried back into the inn.

Rogan cleared his throat. Turning away, he mounted in silence, smoothly swinging his broad thigh over Colt’s cantle before settling firmly into the deep seat of worn leather.

Connelly’s mare whickered flirtatiously as they reined their horses away, unspeaking as they headed toward home. Beside Sultan’s snappy cadence, Rogan’s stallion sounded steady and slow. But he would need great strength to carry such a master. Great strength to carry great strength.

Faye glanced sideways just as Rogan did the same. Their gazes met for one crackling instant before they turned abruptly back.

Sultan’s mane seemed suddenly as mesmerizing as a serpent as Faye studied each strand. Silence stretched between them, taut with anticipation, heavy with embarrassment. Which was mind-boggling, for surely he was not a man who should be embarrassed. He had everything. Strength, intellect, courage. And yet he seemed strangely uncertain where she was concerned. And somehow that spoke to a part of her as no strutting peacock ever would. It pulled at the base of her being, touched a spark to bone-dry tinder.

“You were very brave,” she said. The sounds of London seemed muffled and soft around them as the city settled in for the night. “At the inn.”

He turned toward her, eyes solemn, then, “You are wrong, lass,” he said and no more.

She chanced a glance in his direction, sure he could not mean what he said, but his expression suggested no humor.

“There were three of them,” she reminded him, which was probably silly, for it seemed unlikely that he would forget their number.

A trio of scrawny hounds trotted past, slinky and furtive. Somehow they reminded her of Cur. “Young cubs,” he said, voice thoughtful and distant. “Untrained and undisciplined.”

“Yet dangerous,” she said.

He paused an instant, as if thinking. “Neither training nor strength is required to be dangerous,” he said, and looked into the distance, seeming to see something not readily discernible to the rest of the world. “Just the desire to hurt.”

“And you have been hurt.” She said the words softly.

“Not today,” he said, and glanced her way.

“And neither was the maid because you are brave.”

“Nay,” he said. His lips twitched the slightest degree, and that glimmer of humor lifted her mood more than another’s bellowing laughter had ever done. “’Tis because I am large.”

“You are that,” she said, then blushed at her own foolish words and hoped he couldn’t see her high color in the descending darkness.

He was watching her closely now. She shifted her eyes away but could not ignore him for long.

“Is that troublesome for you, lass?”

“Troublesome?” she said, and raised one brow, hoping to appear haughty rather than discomfited, self-confident rather than self-conscious. “Certainly not. Indeed, I’m certain Marjorie was very grateful for your size.”

He was scowling at her. “Marjorie…” he said, then seemed to remember. “The maid at the inn.”

Had there been so many women he could not remember the one who’d last offered herself to him? Or was he even worse at social interaction than she?

That possibility made her feel strangely warm inside.

“She seemed a good enough maid,” he said

With bosoms as big as autumn gourds,
she thought. “Yes, she was rather…Yes,” Faye said, not particularly wishing to discuss another woman’s cleavage.

“But she was not perfection come to earth.” His tone was low with sincerity, heavy with emotion, and suddenly Faye’s lungs felt deprived of air while her head seemed filled with the stuff. Though she struggled to find a witty comeback, she was at a loss, bewildered by the raw sensations created by his words.

“No one is perfect,” she said, and found she could no longer look at him, no longer view his boldness, his goodness, when her own failings loomed so large.

“And what are your flaws, lass?”

Guilt, harbored for an eternity, rushed in on a wave of fear. “I am a coward, for one.”

“As am I.”

She glanced at him, stunned by the ridiculousness of his statement. “There is no need to lie,” she said, but she felt no evidence of untruth in her head.

“Courage is not the lack of fear, wee lass. Courage is fear overcome.”

“Well I’ve not overcome.”

“Do you fear me?” he asked, and suddenly she wished she could tell him the truth, that she was
afraid every day of her life, that she had, at first, thought him the Devil, that she still feared him even as she was drawn to him. To his strength, to his gentleness, to his honesty.

“Should I be fearful?” she asked.

“Many are,” he said.

“Perhaps my fear is overshadowed by other things.”

“Such as?”

“I cannot forever hide in the comfort of Lavender House.”

“You do not seem to be hiding.”

“What does it seem I am doing?”

He was quiet for a moment, considering. “Mourning,” he said.

She stared at him, shocked, for suddenly it seemed that he might well be right. Perhaps she
was
in mourning. Perhaps she was lamenting the life she had never had. The betrayals. The losses. And perhaps it was time to forget those disappointments. To put away the sackcloth. To move on. Perhaps then she might even be worthy of this man who rode beside her. This man with the artist’s soul and the warrior’s body. This man who terrified her and thrilled her all at once, so that she could barely breathe in his presence. This man who made her wish to do things she had never before considered. To touch, to feel, to—

“You must miss him a great deal,” he said.

“Who?” she asked, startled from her increasingly lurid thoughts.

“Your husband,” he said, and scowled. “You were wed, were you not?”

“Wed! Of course. Yes.” And she was an idiot. “To Albert Leonard Nettles. Only son of Martin and Elisabeth Nettles. Born on…” She was acting even more idiotically than usual, and yet she could not help herself. The lies took hold of her. She refrained from closing her eyes. From passing out. “June 3…1782 on…” Quit. Just quit. “Why ever would you think otherwise?” she asked, breathless.

He shifted again, seeming uncomfortable, and suddenly, the truth burst in on her. When he’d spoken of his size, he hadn’t been speaking about the width of his back or the bulk of his arms. He’d been referring to his…his…He must think her the most naïve widow ever to walk the face of the earth.

“And you are…lonely without him?” he asked.

She was ultimately grateful for the descending darkness that hid her blush, yet she was still tempted to set the quirt to Sultan’s flank. To fly down the streets, away from this heart-trembling embarrassment.

Instead, she tightened her hands on the reins and tried for normality. Sultan ducked his head at the increased tension, and Faye lightened the contact with a mental apology. “Certainly I…miss him.” Her head was beginning to ache.

“He was a good man then?”

“A merchant.” The words escaped against her will. She ground her teeth and refused to turn away. She had been given the fictional details of his existence. Height, weight, hair color, home. But she had never considered his temperament. Never envisioned him in her mind. Neither had she been able to fabricate a personality. Dealing with the lies handed her was difficult enough. Embellishing them might very well have meant her death. “Textiles,” she said, and closed her eyes to her own stupidity for a moment.

“It pains you to speak of him,” he said.

“No,” she lied, and felt an additional ache in her temple. “Perhaps a bit, but not—” She stopped herself. What had she been about to say? Had she nearly spilled the truth? Never once in all the years since her rescue had fabrications been this difficult.

“He must have been a brave man,” he said.

She glanced at him. “My…husband?”

“To ask for your hand,” he said.

“I don’t…” She shook her head, puzzled.

“Knowing you could deny him.” His face was the epitome of sincerity. “I would not have the nerve.”

“You jest,” she said.

Lavender House loomed above them. Sultan turned onto the cobbled drive of his own accord.

The world was silent but for the sound of the hoofbeats beneath them. Sultan’s light and quick. Colt’s solid and final.

“Rogan—” she began, but he spoke before she could continue.

“’Tis late. I shall care for your mount if you like.”

“No.” She tried to deal with this change of pace, but she was horrific at social interactions even with the average acquaintance, and he was so much more. “I will see to him.”

He dismounted with sweeping grace, then stood beside her, looking up, silver-gray eyes stunning in their moon-shadowed glory.

“You’ll ruin your frock,” he said, and raised his arms to catch her.

It took all the nerve she possessed to slide into his arms. All her control not to wrap hers about his neck.

He caught her easily, lowered her slowly, his legs hard against hers, his eyes earnest and devouring.

Time ceased to be. Beneath her hands, his biceps felt as broad and hard as living pillars. His fingers were against her ribs, and at each point of contact, her skin seemed to burn with the touch.

“It’s a riding habit,” she said. Nonsensical. She sounded as daft as a peafowl.

The shadow of a scowl crossed his features, and some long-buried yearning in her wanted nothing more than to smooth it from his face, to caress the scar that notched the edge of his lips.

“Sturdy,” she murmured. “Worsted. The dark fabric doesn’t easily show stains. And—”

“I’ll not hold you to it,” he rumbled.

The breath caught hard in her throat as she struggled for his meaning.

“You do not need to befriend me,” he explained.

Relief flowed through her, but it was drowned in disappointment, in desire, in something she could not explain, had never felt before. Why was he allowing her this opportunity to renege? Perhaps he had decided to return to the maid at the inn. Perhaps he didn’t find her attractive. And perhaps she should consider herself lucky that he’d given her an opportunity to retreat. But she did not. No one could have been more surprised than she to realize that truth.