Charming the Devil (19 page)

“You must remove your shirt.” Faye’s voice was quiet but firm, bringing him vaguely back to the moment at hand.

He glanced to the side, noting the basin of steaming water. Then, turning his gaze upward, he saw her. Fragile yet strangely tough. Young yet seasoned. So bonny and fair he longed to feel her heartbeat beneath his fingertips, to know she was well. But he held himself carefully from her, for she looked pale and troubled.

“Are you feeling unwell, lass?” he asked, wondering about the water. Steam curled upward in the darkening room.

She shook her head, scowling a little. “It’s you who has been injured.”

Ah yes, the dog. He glanced at the wound, but it mattered little.

She, on the other hand, he could consider all day. Could spend the rest of his life watching emotions chase through her eyes and wonder if any artist could catch the mercurial moods that enlivened her elfish face.

“You look pale. You’d best sit,” he said, and began to rise to his feet, but she pushed him back down.

“’Tis you that needs tending.”

He didn’t bother to glance at the offending appendage this time. “That?” he asked, nodding to it.

“Yes, that. It’s…” she began, then started as a kit popped into the doorway, dark eyes shining beneath peaked ears before scampering from sight. “Was that a fox?”

“Mayhap.”

“They run…Never mind,” she said, and shook her head. He clasped her arm, stood, then lowered her carefully to his just-vacated chair. “You’re bleeding,” she said, but her voice was weak.

“Breathe,” he ordered.

“I
am
breathing,” she said, but didn’t manage to glance up.

“Do not rise. I’ll fetch you something to drink.” It took him only a moment to discover that the pitcher of water usually kept in the kitchen was dry. True to Connelly’s debauching ways, however, there was a bottle of red wine in the pantry. Pouring a liberal dose into a marmalade jar, Rogan hurried back to her. “Drink this.”

“I’m fine,” she said, voice infused with indignation, face still pale as winter.

“Drink it,” he insisted. She did so finally, and though her sips were ridiculously small, her cheeks seemed to take on some color.

“I can see to your injury,” she said, but though her tone was defiant, he noticed with some amusement that she failed to look directly at the silly wound.

“’Tis not necessary, lass,” he assured her.

“Of course it’s…” she began, then paused as she accidentally skimmed his arm. “I’m a…”
She stopped herself, exhaled carefully. “I’ve some small capability with healing wounds,” she said.

“I can attest to that,” he said.

She skittered her eyes to his as if searching his face for mockery. Perhaps his tone had implied some cynicism, but if that was the case, it was completely inadvertent. ’Twas obvious she could heal. One glance into her ethereal, wounded eyes made that clear, but he moved the collar of his shirt aside, revealing the bloodstone that caressed his skin.

“I’m not one to believe old wives’ tales,” he said. “But sometimes the ancients knew best. I’ve been healing well since the day you gifted it to me.”

Her gaze seemed to be captured on his chest.

“Another scar,” she said. Her voice sounded small, sweet, so concerned it made his heart feel weak.

“That?” he said, and rubbed the old wound that ran diagonally across his pectorals to his left arm. “’Tis naught to worry on.”

She stared at him. “You lie,” she said, and he smiled.

“’Tis naught to worry on any longer,” he corrected.

“But it once was.” She swallowed, worry so deep on her lovely features that he felt her concern like a balm to his soul.

“It once was,” he admitted.

“How did it happen?”

This did not seem like the time to discuss old battle scars, but some of the golden color had returned to her bonny face, and surely allowing her to sit and listen was better than letting her rush to her feet and pass out at his. “I forgot lessons taught me as a lad.”

“What lessons were those?”

He sat finally on a chair not far from her, watching her, for truth to tell, he still felt a little shaky. “The usual.”

“Eat your greens?” she asked. “Don’t venture out without your cloak?”

He chuckled. “Not those precisely.”

“I believe that’s the usual.”

“You believe?” He met her gaze, catching a whisper of pain. “You’re uncertain?”

“I’ll see to your arm,” she said, and rose to her feet, but he caught her hand.

“You don’t know?” he asked, longing to believe the best, to trust in beauty.

“My apologies,” she said, and winced as if wounded. “I wish I could say…I wish I could tell you what you wish to know.”

He felt his stomach clench. “That you had a happy childhood.”

She nodded.

“But you cannot?”

“I find it…difficult to lie to you.”

“I don’t believe ’tis your place to apologize for that, lass,” he said, and gently, ever so carefully,
swept his thumb across the back of her hand. It felt as soft as a sunset beneath his callused digit.

“But you want to hear it,” she breathed.

“Everyone longs for favorable news, lass.”

“You are wrong. Only the kind do,” she said, and, dropping slowly to her knees, touched her fingers to his chest.

And it was then that the magic struck him.

“L
ass…” His voice was a deep rumble in his chest. She lifted her eyes to his, all but breathless from the potent flow of feelings that rushed through her.

The magic of his skin beneath hers made her heart race and her head light. It was nothing short of a miracle that she had found him; though she had sought him out for a reason, had questioned Connelly regarding his whereabouts not a full hour before.

“’Tis not necessary,” he said.

“You shook,” she said, then slipped her fingers lower, concentrating on his top button. Her own hands were unsteady, but she would do this thing, would tend this man, would give him what comfort she could. “When the girl was attacked. You shook.”

He glanced away, and although she only skittered her attention to his face for an instant, she saw a muscle work in his jaw. “I believe I warned you before that I know fear,” he said.

“For others.”

“’Tis not what I said.”

She found his eyes, pinned them with her own. “Perhaps you forget our time at the inn.”

“Nay, I shall never forget,” he said, and something in his voice made her remember the warmth of his hand on her thigh. The music of his sincerity as he confessed his desire for her.

“Then you recall that you did not shake after the altercation with the trio at the inn.”

He shrugged, scowling, dismissive. “They were…”

“Pups,” she said, remembering his words.

“Aye.”

“While today there was a wolf involved.”

“’Twas naught more than a hound.”

She had managed to loose the first three buttons. His skin looked smooth and dark against the stark white of his damaged shirt. She swallowed and continued.

“So if they had been
men
, fully grown and well armed, you would not have interfered. Is that what you are saying, Mr. McBain?” she asked, and glanced at him through her lashes. But even as she did so, she sensed the struggle in him, knew he wished to lie. And knew, just as surely, that he would not.

Drawing a careful breath, she glanced at the amulet lying against his mounded pectoral. There was power in the earthy stone. Power that grew daily. Still, she could not tell if it was the cause
of his forced honesty. And found, in fact, that she hoped his inability was caused by naught more magical than his feelings for her. Which was foolish. He was a warrior, courageous, bold, honest. While she was…What was she exactly?

“I doubt a man would have made a lunge for the lassie’s sausages,” he said, hedging, and there was something in his voice, a sulkiness almost. Juxtaposed against the alluring sight of his massive hero’s body, it seemed almost comical.

But she kept her expression somber as she tugged his shirt from his breeches. “I think the hound was dangerous enough,” she admitted. His tunic was long and sturdy. It pooled in loose folds against the muscled expanse of his abdomen, the sight of which made her breath catch in her throat. Dear God, he was beautiful beyond words. “And yet you do not fear them,” she said, and wrestled her gaze from his bare skin.

“I—”

“Unless another is at risk.”

The muscle in his jaw tensed in concert to the rolling strength of his torso. And despite everything, she found the courage to place her hand against the straining muscles of his chest.

At the warm contact, his eyes dropped closed for a fraction of a second.

“Is that not the truth of it, McBain?” she whispered.

He gritted his teeth as if struggling to make her believe the worst. As if wishing to maintain his
poor image in her eyes. His voice was broken when next he spoke. “She was just a wee small thing.”

She nodded, for she, too, had seen the terror in the child’s eyes, had felt the horror permeate the air like an ugly toxin.

“Unprotected.” His tone was rough with emotion. A muscle jerked spasmodically in his jaw.

“But for you,” she whispered.

His eyes found hers. “Bairns are meant to be nurtured, lass,” he said, and there was such caring in his voice, such hopeless pain, that her heart all but broke for him.

“I am sorry,” she said, and, reaching out, covered his hand with her own. Warmth seeped from his skin with the gladness of winter sunlight.

He looked down at it, swallowed, then gritted his teeth against the painful pleasure of skin against skin and raised his eyes. “Sorry?”

“That you were not.”

“Ahh lass,” he sighed, and, lifting his free hand, shook his head as he cupped her cheek. Hope seemed to stream across her face, lighting her soul, warming her skin. “What foolishness did Connelly tell you?”

“That there was good reason your uncle was called Stone.”

“Aye, that there was,” he said, and, smiling, shook his head. “But I did not know that. Not until me own beloved parents were gone.”

“And when was that?”

He shrugged one heavy shoulder as if his own
broken childhood were of no consequence whatsoever. “I was never so small as the lass hawking the sausages.”

“That seems unlikely,” she said. “But regardless, a larger size does not make you less vulnerable.”

He smiled a little, a wistful expression of kindness and caring as he turned his hand. Enveloping hers with his own, he stared at their joined fingers with aching intensity. “In truth, I believe it does, lass.”

“How old were you?” she asked again. “At the loss of your parents?”

“Old enough to carry me uncle’s battle gear when me father died,” he said, and ran the pad of his thumb across her knuckles.

Feelings skittered across her hand even as he broke her heart with the image he placed in her mind.

“Too young to be without a mother’s caring,” she said.

For a moment she thought he would disagree, but finally he lifted her hand solemnly to his lips. Excitement chased hope over her knuckles, scattering terror in every direction. “It has occurred to me recently that one can never have enough hours with a kindly woman.”

“She was kindly, then?” Reaching out, she undid another button.

“As are you, lass,” he said.

She glanced up from her self-appointed task, face hot with desire.

“Kindly,” he said, but she shook her head and swallowed. The last button fell open, revealing a swath of chest as smooth and muscled as a stallion’s.

“I am not what you think.”

“I think you are a woman.”

“Well…” it was difficult to deny that, for his presence made her hopelessly aware of every aching piece of female anatomy she possessed.

“With a woman’s softness,” he said.

They were inches apart. His hardness called to her, and though history warned her to be cautious, his presence insisted that she forget the past, that she reach beyond the aching memories and take a chance, just this once.

Thus she remained motionless, but he, too, seemed to be waiting, eyes as intense as a spring storm as he watched her, and she knew beyond a sliver of a doubt that he would never push her. The world was hers for the taking.
Take it now,
she thought, and, reaching up, brushed his shirt aside.

The masculine beauty of him was almost more than she could bear, but she forced herself to run her fingers across the undulating strength of his abdomen.

“A woman’s heart,” he said, and held her gaze with his, but truth pushed its way in, insisting on being heard.

“I realize we are thought by some to be the fairer sex,” she began, “to be the purveyors of…”
She could not go on, for the disparity between the admiration in his eyes and the pain of her failings was too much, too harsh, too real and abrasive. “I have not always been that which I should be.”

“And what have you neglected, lass?” he rumbled.

“I…” she began, but again courage failed her. She rose to her feet. “I will see to your wound. If you’ll remove your…” She glanced at his chest and away. “Your shirt, I will…” What? Tend him? Bind him? Beg for his touch. “Suture it if—”

But he was already shaking his head, already rising to his feet. “’Tis naught. Truly.” But she caught his arm, trying to ignore the flare of feelings that sparked between them.

“You would not wish to deprive me of my duty, would you?”

He shook his head, and she nodded.

“Very well, then,” she said, and, glancing down, reached for the button on his cuff. He lifted his arm slightly, making her job easier, and finally the little wooden orb slipped through the fabric, baring one broad-boned wrist. It was dark-skinned, sprinkled with coarse hair, powered with strength and capability. Turning, she reached for the other arm, and he gave it freely. In a moment, that wrist too was visible.

Her breathing was ragged now, her stomach a little unsteady. But she reached up to smooth the garment from his shoulders with both hands. They were as broad as a bullock’s. As alluring as
sunlight, bulging with taut, rolling muscle that rose like ramparts from his torso. She smoothed her hands up the taut width of his deltoids, barely breathing, barely staying upright.

His eyes seared her, but she could not meet them. Indeed, she could not tear her gaze from the banquet of strength before her, from the liquid feel of hot muscle that skimmed beneath her fingertips as she pushed the sleeves over his tight biceps, past the massive strength of his forearms. It was amazing, surreal, so unlike her own pale, weakling body that she was all but mesmerized, all but entranced by the—

Her hand touched something wet. She jerked her gaze to his wound as his shirt dropped to the floor and suddenly she remembered her mission. “I cannot bear the idea of you hurting.” Her voice sounded odd, husky, almost unrecognizable. She cleared her throat.

“I assure you I do not,” he said.

She shifted her gaze to his, searching for truth. He cleared his throat. “I do not ache
there.
”

She felt her heart hiccup in her chest. “You were injured elsewhere? You should have told me,” she said, and skimmed his shoulders, his chest, his undulating belly, his massive legs, but all seemed well. Better than well. Bursting with strength and vitality. Bulging with…

Her gaze stopped abruptly at his crotch. Her cheeks warmed. She jerked her attention upward, skittered it across his face. But wait, his cheeks
almost looked ruddy, as if he, too, were blushing. As if he, too, were embarrassed.

They stared at each other for an eternity, and although Faye was relatively aware of her whereabouts, it felt as if a strong wind was at her back, pushing her forward. Indeed, his bloodstone seemed almost to be reaching toward her, pulling him in its wake.

But she forced her mind back to the matter at hand, her fingers to do their duty.

He didn’t complain when she set the cloth to his wound. Indeed, she wasn’t entirely certain he felt her ministrations as she washed the blood that stained his wrist. If she had Ella’s astounding powers, she would mix the proper herbs beneath a waxing moon and brew a potion tailored for him alone. But that was not her talent.

“I am sorry I do not have a poultice to draw out the poison,” she said.

“’Tis not necessary.”

“I could return to Lavender House. I’ve a friend there—”

“No.” The word came quickly. She glanced at him, and he scowled. “There is no need for you to leave. Unless…” His brows were lowered over his quicksilver eyes. “Unless that be your wish.”

Her wishes were not the sort to be spoken aloud. “I’ll simply bandage it, then.”

“Don’t bother yourself, lass. I’ll but don a fresh tunic if you are disturbed by—”

“No. Please,” she said, and stopped her own
words before she embarrassed herself beyond redemption. But the thought of him covering all that glorious muscle was hopelessly abhorrent. “Allow me to do this for you. Because of…your kindness to little Posie.”

He scowled.

“The sausage girl,” she said, and turned away before he realized her true motives. Nudity had never been so appealing. “I have no bandages,” she realized suddenly.

“I shall fetch—” he began, and tried to rise.

“No,” she said, and placed a hand on his shoulder. Muscles roiled beneath her fingers. Feelings tingled up her backside. “Please…” Please what?

“What?” he asked, reading the question in her mind.

She opened her lips though speaking seemed a terrible waste. But he was waiting. And she was a coward. Time pulsed around them like a wanton heartbeat. “Don’t bother yourself. Where might I find bandages?”

“In the wardrobe. My chambers,” he said finally, and she turned stiffly, happy to get away, dreading the loss of touch.

His bedroom was in perfect order but for the forest green plaid tossed at an angle across the bed. The woolen looked surprisingly soft, but she did not touch. Instead, she pulled her gaze from the expansive mattress with an effort, only to find
a new sketch on the bedstead nearby. With one backward glance, she tilted it toward her.

Again, the image was of a dove. It roosted on a narrow branch. One wing drooped as if damaged, but its sleek, narrow head was high and in its almost-human eyes, there was something notable. Hope maybe or…

A noise sounded from the kitchen. Faye jerked toward the wardrobe and tugged open a door, only to find row upon row of bandages. Skimming them for a moment, she chose one and turned, chiding herself for her odd desire to riffle through his things even as she struggled for some witticism to lighten her mood.

“Are you preparing for battle or—” she began, but the sight of him stopped her clever quip. He was strength personified. A warrior of old. It seemed almost strange that he was seated, for a man of his magnitude should always be seen in action.

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

She shifted her gaze from his torso, trying to avoid each alluring part of him. But there was little hope. Even his fine, artist’s hands were enthralling. “There were a good many bandages,” she said. The words sounded gimpy and pale.

“Aye?” He waited. She felt like an idiot.

“I was but wondering if you were preparing for a battle.”

“Ahh.” He relaxed a bit, muscles just a shade
less rigid. “With Connelly in residence, ’tis best to be prepared.”

“Does he oft become injured?”

“Not as oft as he injures.”