Charming the Devil (6 page)

“It has healing powers,” she said.

He scowled. He was, without a doubt, more accomplished at scowling than anyone she’d ever known.

“According…” she added hastily, “according to the ancients.”

Their gazes welded, then, “Very well,” he said, and, bending his brawny neck, slipped the leather over his head. It caught on the dark length of his hair, and he lifted it, baring the masculine strength of his throat for just a moment.

He’d folded the billowy sleeves of his simple tunic back from his wrists, and the muscles in his enormous forearms bunched as he pushed his hair aside. The neckline of his shirt shifted, revealing a few hard-honed inches of his chest. She watched the movement, feeling strangely breathless as the umber stone brushed past the soft fabric of his shirt and bumped gently onto his
skin. The string was longer than she’d intended. Perhaps she’d thought, as she’d spent the sleepless night preparing the stone in the light of the gibbous moon, that he was even larger than he was. But that hardly seemed possible, for in the broadening light of day he looked as if he’d been hewn from stone, every muscle chiseled just so. His shoulders were bunched, his chest summer-tanned and mounded, his—

He cleared his throat, and she dashed her gaze away. Good heavens! It was clear now. She had entirely lost her mind.

“Thank you,” she said, then jerked her gaze to his, for even she wasn’t entirely sure what had prompted her appreciation. Surely it couldn’t be the fact that he had bared a few inches of his chiseled person. He was, after all, the enemy. “For…” She motioned stiffly toward his chest. A man like he would have nothing to fear. Nothing at all. And how wonderful that would be. “…agreeing to wear it. It looks…” She stopped, unsure where her thoughts were headed. “It will help mend your wounds.”

“A pity it wasn’t gifted to me years ago, then. ’Twould have come in handy on the battlefield. But…” His silver-frost eyes almost seemed to sparkle for a moment, and she found, once again, that she was holding her breath. “I did not expect London to be so fraught with dangers.”

“My apolog—” she began, but he interrupted.

“There is a hunt.” He blurted out the words.

She stopped, breath held, lips still parted. “What?”

He looked peeved, at himself or her, she wasn’t sure which. “There is to be a foxhunt tomorrow.” He paused. A muscle ground in his powerful jaw. “They ride at dawn from the Black Swan.”

She should breathe soon, she thought, but she didn’t.

He scowled over her head and into the distance. “…me.”

She allowed one careful breath. “I beg your pardon.”

He lowered his gaze, and suddenly she wondered if he, too, was holding his breath. “Perhaps you would deign to join me.” He said the words clearly now, succinctly, as if he was being ultimately careful to force out each syllable. And at the meaning of his invitation, the world seemed to give way beneath her feet. She couldn’t join him. She didn’t like men. Didn’t understand men. Didn’t trust men. But he looked almost…almost as if he were blushing. And…well…she had vowed to see this mission through to the end.

“I…” she began, but he was already shaking his head.

“My apologies,” he rumbled. “I did not mean to…A lady such as yourself…Horses. Odiferous beasts that…” He drew a breath. It made his chest swell, made the brooch lift and fall. He nodded his head curtly. “My thanks for the stone,” he said, and turned toward the house.

“I enjoy the smell of horses,” she said.

He stopped. Turned back, scowling again. “A frail lass such as yourself can certainly find more appropriate pursuits than—”

“I am not frail,” she said though in truth she was. Had always been. Tenning had told her as much, but for reasons she could not explain, she had no desire to lie to this man. “I’ve no
wish
to be frail.”

He stared at her, expression so solemn it all but broke her heart. “I’ll not have an injury on me conscience,” he said, and reached for the knob behind him.

“I shall be there,” she said, shocking herself with her own ridiculous words.

The tendons tightened in his throat as he turned toward her, casting the leather thong out in sharp relief. They stared at each other for a hundred lifetimes. “Do you have a mount, then, lass?”

“Well…no.”

“Then it seems—”

“She’ll ride Antoinette,” said a voice.

They turned in unison toward the door, but it remained firmly closed.

Faye turned her questioning gaze to McBain, but he said nothing.

“Antoinette?” she asked.

“The Irishman’s mount,” he rumbled.

“Why is she named—”

“I’ve thought it unwise to ask,” he said.

She searched his eyes for humor; but if he
thought himself funny, he gave no indication. “I’ve no desire to put him out,” she said.

“If only you could.”

She scowled, but he shook his head, unwilling to explain. “The mare is large and—”

“I’ve no trouble with large…” she began, then caught herself. The blush started from her toes. “Horses!” she said quickly. “I have no trouble with large horses.”

She almost thought she heard someone chuckle from the far side of the door. She lifted her chin.

“I’m an excellent equestrienne.”

McBain was gritting his teeth. “I do not think this a good idea.”

Why? What did he have to hide? “Then I shall find my own mount.”

“I did not mean—”

“I will be there,” she said again, and managed to turn away without passing out.

W
hy would a woman of Faye Nettles’s faerielike quality, a woman of beauty and refinement, agree to ride with the likes of Rogan McBain? True, initially, he had thought her nervous around men. But she had come to his house unescorted at dawn. Surely that spoke volumes. But what did it say exactly? No one in this bloody city was what she seemed to be. That much he had learned long ago.

Bain sat ruminating. Beneath him, Colt stood quietly, paying no heed to the bevy of elegant mounts that pranced and strutted about him. Seventeen hands at the withers, he was built more like a draft animal than a riding hack, but he had served Bain well for more than a decade. Too well to trade him for some posh Thoroughbred with more pedigree than practicality.

But perhaps these other steeds had not seen the world as Colt had seen it. Perhaps they had not tasted death. Reaching down, Bain absently placed
a hand over the roughened scar that bisected his stallion’s crest.

Beside them, a flashy chestnut reared, nearly dislodging his rider.

Straightening, Bain swore under his breath and wished for the hundredth time he had never considered such a ludicrous idea. Perhaps Mrs. Nettles
was
an accomplished rider, but perhaps she was not, and he had no wish to be the cause of some disaster. Hardly that, for his intent was to draw as little attention to himself as possible, to find a way to perform his task and leave with no one the wiser, or at least no lives lost. No
additional
lives lost.

He shifted his weight and watched the mob around him. Half the riders already seemed besotted, which was just a damned foolish way to ride. Then again, what did he care? He had come, after all, only to learn what he could. The inebriation of others might help that cause.

Indeed, Connelly had suggested that it might be wise to get wee Faye inebriated. Of course, Connelly was an unmitigated ass. Then again, intoxication could only make a brute like Bain look better in her eyes. It was not his place, after all, to make certain she was safe at the end of the day. He was not her caretaker.

Through the warbled glass of the inn, a small lass looked out at the world. A mobcap sat crooked on her head. A tray of crockery teetered in her hands. Wee Cat would be about that
size if she yet lived. But she had succumbed to a fever a few short days after her father’s death. Charlotte had told him that much though she had said little else. Bain winced at the memory of his own pleas, his own profession of undying love. He had fought the duel to save her from Winden’s cruelty. But Charlotte had turned away, had shut the door, had taught him a lesson of betrayal he would not soon forget. To this day he was unsure whether her stories of abuse at her husband’s hands were fabricated or real. Just as he was uncertain of the cause of wee Cat’s death. Had the child been taken by a fever as her stepmother had professed or was there something more sinister afoot? The glittering
ton
might yet think Charlotte the epitome of gentility, but he had learned far better. Few people were what they seemed to be. Even Mrs. Nettles could not be as perfect as—

His thoughts crashed to a halt as a flash of blue caught his attention.

Faerie Faye sat very straight on a handsome bay. She wore a black top hat, head held high over squared shoulders, hands just so on the reins.

Her sculpted body was encased in the riding habit of the
bon ton
. Cobalt blue skirt and jacket. Snowy cravat. Austere, he supposed, or some might think it so, but to his simplistic mind it somehow only made her look more delicate, more feminine, and strangely pure. As fragile as a butterfly caught in a windstorm.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such daft thoughts. He’d been a fool before and had no intention of riding that path again.

So perhaps he should leave now. Turn tail and run. It wasn’t his way to abandon a fight, but there were battles that could not be won, and his gut told him this was one of those skirmishes. Connelly, after all, thought this rendezvous a marvelous idea, which, of course, meant it should be avoided at all costs. Indeed, Bain thought, lucidity returning suddenly, he should never have come. Should never have even considered—

But in that instant he noticed a dapper, redheaded fellow turn toward her. Saw the man straighten with interest, saw his eyebrows rise as he reined his mount toward her. She spotted him as well, and in that instant, in that one fractured prism of a second, Bain thought he saw uncertainty spark her earth-stone eyes.

It was naught but his imagination. He told himself as much, but it was no use, for he had already touched his spurs to Colt’s massive barrel.

There was no hesitation. No delay. Colt flexed his powerful neck, and like a gifted dancer shifted his mass from a standstill to a canter in a second’s time, cleaving a path through the crowd.

Reining to a halt between Red and the lady, Bain nodded a greeting, but for a moment he could think of nothing to say, for she was spellbinding. Yet it was neither her gilded beauty nor her polished veneer that held him speechless. It was
something more vulnerable, something almost hidden but not quite.

The sun had risen only minutes before and shone now with new-world glory in her upturned eyes. They were the hue of river-washed agates, or maybe the color of the very stone he now wore about his neck. Deep russet flecked with shards of black and green and a dozen shades he could neither name nor consider. A palette of wonder no man could paint.

On some, the stiff riding habits of the elite appeared manly, but in the rosy light of dawn, wee Faerie Faye looked as delicate as a spring blossom. Her tawny face was small, her chin peaked above her white stock. Her shoulders were square but narrow, her leather-clad hands small and still, her waist so tiny he could have spanned it with his hands.

“You’ve come,” she said, and there was something about her soft siren’s voice that made his heart sing, for it almost seemed as if she was relieved, nay
ecstatic,
to find him there.

They stared at each other as he searched for some witticisms, some repartee. Nothing.

“So you’ve not changed your mind, then,” he said finally, and couldn’t help but notice that his voice sounded as if it issued from the very center of the earth, as if it came from a being entirely unassociated with this woman’s lofty species.

“Why ever would I?” she asked, and raised a single brow. It was that expression that convinced
him he had entirely imagined the fear of only moments before. But that was good. He was no one’s protector. History had taught him that much.

“It has always seemed a strange sport,” he said. “This foxhunting.”

“Strange?” Beneath her, the bay pranced an intricate step. Her body swayed in perfect rhythm. “How so?”

Because the word “sport” implied there was some fairness involved. Some
sport.
“One fox,” he said, and scanned the rowdy assembly, the elegant horses, the hounds, just beginning to bay. “A host of well-mounted riders.”

She watched him in silence, head high, plum-plump lips pursed as she studied him, then; “Tell me, Mr. McBain, are all men of war so tenderhearted?”

He returned her gaze. She must be joking; his heart had become calloused years before her birth. “I merely spoke of fairness.”

“But the fox are vermin. Stealing chickens and the like from poor tenant farmers,” she said. “Surely we are doing a service.”

Did that opinion make her heartless or simply pragmatic? “You’ve no qualms about this day then?”

“Perhaps you have mistaken me for some wilting flower,” she said. “I assure you, I am not.” Glancing down, she fiddled with the hem of her skirt, plumping the ruffled train across the pommel horn where her right leg was hooked
in the manner that made him cringe. How the hell did anyone ride perched atop a mount like a flighty tree finch? And why? “Indeed,” she continued, but just then a shout went up as two horses rose on their hinds, forelegs pummeling the air as they sparred. One hapless rider tumbled to the cobblestones amid jeers and cheers.

From the right, three more joined the crush, mounts dancing as they turned from the street. The din of the hounds was all but deafening now. The innkeeper raised a pitcher of beer as his boy hustled through the mob, handing out tankards to those who had not yet received one. The fair Faye, he noticed, did not accept one, though she controlled her gelding with one steady hand. So she had ridden some. And there was steel to her spine. That much was obvious, at least to him. Although, if he looked deeply, past her polished veneer, behind her spoken words, he wasn’t even sure
she
was aware of the fact. Still, there was a good deal of difference between sitting quietly in a cobbled courtyard and clearing oxers on half a ton of heaving horseflesh.

But he had no wish to offend her by mentioning such a thing. Then again, neither did he care for the idea of returning with her broken body cradled in his arms.

Although the idea of holding her against his chest made his heart feel diabolically traitorous.

God almighty, he was a dolt. Why had he suggested this at the outset? He had things to
do. Things to
learn.
He scanned the mob. There were already twoscore riders assembled. Most of them inebriated. All of them dressed to the gills. He himself felt like a damned stuffed monkey. Though he had always worn the required uniform into battle, he was most accustomed to his tartan, comfortable with his plaid and sporran. But Connelly had insisted he conform to the ways of the preening
ton.
It was all foolishness though, for his stock felt starchy, his breeches tight. ’Twas ridiculous to think he would ever belong in this parade of dandies and swells. He was a Highlander.

Suddenly, a gust of wind flared, flapping the lacy tail of a nearby rider’s handkerchief. Startled by the motion, Faye’s mount shied, and without intent, Bain reached out to grab the bay’s bridle. The gelding stilled even as Faye’s gaze met Rogan’s.

They sat in silence, frozen in time, a thousand thoughts tumbling between them, but what those thoughts were, even McBain wasn’t quite sure.

“I could escort you home,” he rumbled, still bent from his saddle to restrain the fidgety bay. “’Twould do me no harm to miss this,” he said, and as he loosed the gelding’s cheek piece, didn’t add that he’d rather be engaged in hand-to-hand combat than here in this ridiculous circus.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, and smoothed her expression just as easily as she smoothed her skirts. “I’ll be—”

But just then a bugle sounded. The whipper-in loosed the hounds amid an ear-shattering racket while a piebald hack began pitching nervously before settling. The hunt-master raised his scarlet-sleeved arm, and they were off, galloping down the cobbled street toward the countryside.

From Colt’s sturdy, rolling back, Bain breathlessly watched Faye gallop away, but there was no need for concern; she rode with confidence and panache.

But they were already approaching the twisting River Darent. Here, so near London’s south side, the water was only a few feet wide, but the banks were steep and uncertain. The front three horses took it together, gliding over. But the fourth animal refused for an instant, floundered, then reared, nearly dumping its rider before lunging after its mates.

Tension was building like a storm in Bain’s gut. “Mayhap we’d best walk them through this first obstacle,” he called.

Faye glanced over her shoulder, eyes luminous with excitement, golden hair beginning to blow free from its containment beneath her dark, flat-topped hat. “What’s that?”

“It might be wise to slow for the water,” he said, though he felt silly now, and a little breathless, for with the light in her bright eyes, she looked for all the world like a pixie just come to earth.

“Very well,” she agreed, and managed to slow her mount to a walk, though the animal shook his
head and danced a few steps as others passed.

Colt, having seen the world race by on innumerable occasions and knowing it was bound to slow its pace eventually, dropped to a walk of his own accord, allowing them to approach the creek at a more sedate pace. Side by side, the two horses lowered their heads and descended the bank.

“Is there a problem?” Faye asked, eyeing him as they climbed the opposite slope. “With your mount?”

“Nay,” he said, and though he knew he should elaborate, there seemed to be no more words in the face of such disastrous beauty.

She nodded, scowling slightly and looking like nothing so much as a piqued faerie. “Your eye,” she said. “I am sorry. It must make it difficult to see.”

It took him a moment to realize she was searching for a reason for their leisurely pace. And though he had, on more than one occasion, ridden riddled with bullets and near unconscious in the saddle, he would rather she think him a weakling than know he had remained awake half the night fretting over her safety during these moments together.

“It is healing,” he said, and realized suddenly that, indeed, it was mending with amazing swiftness. Reaching up, he brushed his thumb across her gift, hidden as it was beneath the traditional hunt garb. A white shirt, a canary waistcoat, and a dark coat, split up the back and nearly reaching
his knees. These English huntsmen wore enough clothing to stop a bayonet. “What manner of rock did ye call this?”

“Bloodstone.”

He caught her with his eyes, wondering about her. Who was she? The sophisticated widow she portrayed to the world or the fragile ingénue he imagined peeking from her eyes when no one was looking? “And what made you think it might be helpful?”

She stared at him, speechless for a moment, and he continued.

“A polished lady such as yourself,” he said. “You seem too modern to believe in the old ways.”

“Modern?”

“Aye.”

For a fleeting moment her lips quirked up before her face settled back into serious lines. “I fear you are thinking of someone else. I am quite old-fashioned. But what of you, sir? Tell me of yourself.”

Why would she take an interest? He was hardly the elegant pink of the
ton
so intriguing to the English elite. Indeed, some had called him a Celtic troll. A few of those clever wits still retained their teeth; he wasn’t as sensitive about his size as he had been in his younger days. “There is little to tell.”