Charming the Devil (7 page)

“Judging by your accent, I would guess you were not born here in London.”

“You would be wrong.” His voice sounded gruff
and unrefined, making him immediately regret his foolish truthfulness. He had no wish for her to learn the truth about him. Far better that she think of him as an interesting oddity. It had gained him entrance to the ton’s most prestigious venues after all. “My mother did indeed birth me in London, but I did not stay long,” he admitted.

“She traveled?”

“She died,” he said, then all but rolled his eyes at the bluntness of his own words. Why not tell her how it had felt to hold his uncle’s dying body in his bloodied arms while he was at it?

“I am sorry,” she said.

“Nay.” He tried to negate his words, but implying his mother’s death did not matter hardly made him sound any more the prince. “I remember naught of her.”

“Nothing?”

“Only that I was the one what—” he began, and stopped himself. She had died moments after his birth, and though his father had never blamed Rogan for her death, that did not mean he could not blame himself. He was, after all, a troll. At least by some estimations. “Only that she had summer eyes.”

“What?” She was watching him closely, and he realized suddenly that he had said the words with too much feeling, when in truth he did not recall her eyes a’tall, but only had others’ words to remember her by.

She blinked at him. “Summer—”

“Blue,” he said gruffly and wished to hell he hadn’t started down that path. “They were naught but blue.”

“I don’t understand how summer—” she began, but he interrupted again.

“Like the sky. In the warmth of the summer when the wildflowers….” He stopped himself abruptly. Good God, he sounded like a raving lunatic. “What of you? Your mother is alive and well?”

“She died shortly after my father. Of a broken heart,” she said, then touched the tips of her fingers to her brow as though it pained her.

And it was that pain, that scrunching of her fair forehead that troubled him.

“Tell me they were with you,” he said.

She watched him in silence.

“When you lost your husband,” he said. “You were not alone.”

She stared at him for an elongated, breathless moment, then lifted her attention quickly away. “I believe I heard the field-master’s horn,” she said, and, touching her crop to her dark gelding’s flank, eased into a canter.

They did naught but ride then, Bain behind, her ahead. And though he knew far better, he could not help but admire her. Her balance, her grace, the gentle way she guided her mount.

She glanced back once as if to speak, then the hounds went to full cry, and the run began in earnest.

Colt lengthened his strides, eating up the turf,
taking the stone fences as a matter of course, and always ahead of them, Faye rode like a wood sprite, as light as a leaf on the wind, soaring over downed logs, racing through the woods.

Ahead, the hounds were milling. Perhaps the fox had gone to ground, but in an instant a bay split the air again, and the pack was off, with the horsemen racing behind, crashing through the underbrush like demons, galloping into the open.

Cresting a hill, Bain saw the rolling countryside spread out before them. An open field lay ahead, and there, just past the tricolored pack, he saw the fox. It was racing flat out, twenty couples of hounds behind. More woods lay just beyond.

Horses lathered and blew. The whippers-in urged the dogs on. They shortened the distance on the flagging vixen, and then the first cur leaped. The fox rolled beneath its fangs, and in a moment the others were on it.

There was a cry from the fox, a cheer from the riders. Faye pulled up her mount even as Colt galloped past. Slowing him gradually, Bain pulled him around in a circle only to find the faerielike Mrs. Nettles sitting perfectly still upon her restive gelding.

“Is something amiss?” he asked, heading back. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, but it took her a moment to speak.

“No,” she said finally. A pair of ladies rode past, laughing as they went. She didn’t glance their way. “All is well.”

He scowled. “Are you certain?”

“Of course.” She brushed back a wayward strand of golden hair. “What could be amiss?”

He nodded, glanced behind them. The hounds-men were already beginning to restrain the dogs. Several riders had dismounted to perform their bloody rituals. “I believe they intend to lunch here. Would you care to join them?” he asked, but when he turned back he saw her jerk her knuckles from her cheek.

“Mrs.—”

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and, turning her mount away, urged him back toward the woods behind them. “I need a few minutes of privacy.”

Bain watched her ride away. Indeed, he was determined to leave her be, for he had no desire to embarrass her, but it was easy to get turned about in the woods. Thus he followed at a distance.

By the time he entered the copse, her gelding stood alone, buckled reins looped over a nearby branch.

He gazed around, but the lass was nowhere to be seen. And then he heard it. Muffled crying. Sobbing, actually. Inconsolable and incessant, coming from behind a fallen log and tearing at the fabric of his heart.

F
aye’s stomach convulsed, her throat felt raw. What had she been thinking? A foxhunt! It had sounded so cultured. So posh. The perfect venue for proving she belonged among London’s refined society.

Wrapping her arms about her legs, Faye tucked her feet under the sturdy fabric of her skirt and rocked mindlessly to and fro, wanting to curl up inside herself. Wanting to forget the flaring panic she had seen in the fox’s eyes. Wanting with all her might to be unable so completely to empathize with the hunted animal’s fear. Communing with beasts was not her gift, yet she could feel the creature’s terror throb beneath her own skin. Could hear the footfalls of the hunters in the beat of her own frantic heart and knew she would be caught. Would be—

“Where have you gone?”

Faye’s breath rasped in her throat. She jerked her gaze toward the trail. They were coming for her. Tracking her just as they’d tracked the fox.
Hunting. Without mercy. And they’d find her. They always did.

“Mrs. Nettles.”

She crouched lower behind the sheltering log, barely breathing.

“Are you in here?”

No. She squeezed her eyes closed, pretending she
wasn’t
there. Pretending if they couldn’t see her, she’d be gone. Disappeared. Like a wisp of smoke blown aloft by the fitful breeze. But her gifts didn’t work that way. Her gifts dealt with pain. With betrayal.

“Are ye well, lass?” The voice rumbled through the woods from some unknown location. But the tone was low and quiet and seemed to have no edge of evil teasing. No threat of retribution. She drew a breath and exhaled shakily, remembering. She was no longer a child. No longer a pawn. She was Mrs. Nettles, polished, educated, powerful.

Lifting an unsteady hand, she swiped her gloved fingers across her cheek, but she could yet see the fox’s wide eyes, could taste its acrid terror. And with that painful memory her stomach roiled again. She gritted her teeth, fighting for control.

“Lass?” came the voice again. She jerked her gaze to the right, and he was there. Rogan McBain. Not thirty feet separated them.

“You should not ride out alone, lass,” he said.

She straightened her back carefully. “Why ever not?” she asked, and hoped to God he wouldn’t
notice that her cheeks were wet, her hands atremble.

“’Tis not safe,” he said, and studied her face, as if she might disappear at any moment.

“Well…” Her nose was runny, and she wished that for once she had remembered a handkerchief. Wished she could act her age, or her supposed station, or at least her
species.
A fox had died. An animal! “As you can see, I am perfectly fine,” she said.

He shuffled his feet in the underbrush. They were clad in black leather boots that rose nearly to his powerful, tightly clad thighs. “All is well then?”

Touching the back of her knuckles to her nose, she hoped to God he would not realize her shuddering sorrow. “Of course. Why would it not be?”

Silence again, deep and pulsing, and when he finally spoke, he canted his head the slightest degree as if to judge her reaction. “You were correct, ’twas naught but vermin,” he said.

And yet there seemed almost to be a strange regret in his solemn tone, as if he, too, had felt the animal’s fear as his own. Could that be the case? But the sight of him towering above her dashed such foolish notions, for he was strength itself. Dressed in a charcoal, knee-length coat, his shoulders looked as wide as the horizon, as strong as the oaks that towered above him. A man such as he would have no concept of fear. Therefore, this strange tone of his must be some kind of ploy. A
game she had not yet deciphered. They oft liked to play games. She stifled a shiver.

“Surely you do not think me upset by the plight of the fox,” she said, and steeling herself, raised her eyes to his.

Their gazes met, and for one sterling moment she almost won the battle, almost played the part, but try as she might, she had never been good at this sport. One tear, hot and fat, swelled in the corner of her eye and slipped traitorously down her cheek.

He watched her in silence, his face like granite, his expression etched in solemnity. But there was something indefinable in his stormy eyes. “If not for the fox, then what?” he asked. His voice was level, but strangely soft.

“I simply…” Sobs shivered at her throat, but she held them back, held them in. “I twisted my ankle,” she said.

“Your ankle?” He sounded dubious, but she hardly noticed, for her head had already begun to tick with that insistent ache she knew so well.

She put her hand to her brow.

“Did ye injure your head as well?”

“Perhaps when I…” she began, but she could not challenge another fabrication. “No. ’Tis but a headache. I am certain it will be relieved once I reach home.” Home. She wanted nothing more than to be in the safe confines of Lavender House. To hide forever in its darkened recesses.

“I shall help you to your steed then,” he said, and stepped toward her, but she jerked involuntarily, ready to scramble away, and he froze. She almost closed her eyes to her own lunacy. How the hell had she ever thought she would fool anyone into believing she was refined? On the best of days she could barely manage sane.

And he was scowling at her. “You’re right,” he said finally. “You should not rise,” There was something odd in his voice. Probably something that suggested she was madder than a caged monkey. “Not until we’ve assessed the damage.”

“I’m fine,” she said, but he was close now. Too close to rise to her feet without touching him. So she remained where she was, staring up at him, fear crowding the misery.

“Very well,” he said, and, bending at the waist, handed her a handkerchief. She took it with some misgivings. It was white and unadorned but for an embroidered image of the brooch he wore even now on his coat. She scrunched it in her gloved fist, and he stepped away, allowing her to breathe again as he lowered himself to sit with his back against a broad horse chestnut. “But ’twill do no harm to wait a few minutes. The horses should have a few minutes rest, regardless.”

Kindness? Compassion? Or was this yet another game? One to keep her here alone? To wait until the others took their bloody trophies and left their prey’s tattered corpse behind.

Tears burned her eyes again. She lowered them and wished to God she had been born male. That she was strong and confident and heartless.

“All things die,” he said softly.

“But not in terror. Not in—” She stopped herself. He was playing with her mind, trying to draw out the real her. The
weak
her. But she pushed the raw images from her head, remembering her assumed persona. “Might you think I am unaware of that fact?”

The woods went silent. “My apologies,” he said. “I had forgotten your loss.”

Her loss? she wondered.

“Were you wed long?”

Of course. Her supposed marriage. She closed her eyes and tried to think of a way not to lie. “No.”

“I am sorry.”

She nodded.

“And there were no children to soften the blow?”

“No.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Did he want young ones? Your husband?”

Was he intentionally digging into her past? Did he suspect she was not what she was said to be? Lifting her gaze, she caught him with her eyes, but his face was still impassive.

“Most do,” she said.

He watched her a moment, then nodded, but said nothing.

She knew better than to be intrigued, but the
question came just the same. “And what of you? Do you hope for children?”

“I fear I am not the fatherly type,” he said, and though his tone was level, there was something in his eyes, some hint of emotion that went unvoiced.

“Why do you say so?” she asked.

His gaze was flat and steady. “Look at me,” he said.

And she did. He sat before her, heavy legs spread with his arms resting atop his knees. His hands were wide and open, his shoulders endless, his jaw hard and dark with stubble. But it was his eyes that always snagged her. His eyes, low-browed and silver gilded with a thousand memories hidden behind them.

“Do I look to be the image of the tender sire?” he asked.

No. He looked like an ancient warrior come to life. Powerful and ruthless. Except for that something in his quicksilver eyes, he looked to be the perfect killer. Or the perfect lover. The thought struck her suddenly, shocking her with its unwarranted arrival.

“Not everyone is what he appears to be,” she said, and tore her gaze away.

“Not all,” he agreed solemnly. “Though I am.”

The perfect lover? She wondered and chided herself, for her face was already hot, flushed with the odd twist of emotions that warred inside her. Dread and hope. The stab of fear, the spark of
desire. “Are you certain?” she asked, and flitted her gaze up through her lashes at him.

“Do you see me as a troll?”

“No!” She started at his words, for although he had seemed to be the Devil incarnate just days before, new images were beginning to creep into her subconscious. Shadowy, uncertain images of him abed, sheets tangled, eyes at half-mast.

“What then?” he asked.

“I just…I…” The obscure images were burning holes in her mind, but she yanked her thoughts back on track. “Perhaps your standards of fatherhood are too lofty.” Or maybe her own were too low. Anyone who didn’t sell his kin to the highest bidder seemed all but saintly.

He watched her in silence, then shook his head. Dark hair waved against his collar. “Fathers should…” He paused. His lips were pursed in a stern line, the antithesis of the droll Regency buck. But there was something about the honesty of his expression that touched her. There was no artifice here that she could discern. No pretenses, and somehow that made his rugged features strangely alluring.

“What?” she asked, and the single word sounded breathless, for if the truth be told, she had no idea what a father should do or be. “Fathers should what?”

He scowled. His dark coat was gathered slightly at the shoulders, making them look broad beyond reason. Yet they appeared to have the
weight of the world upon them, and for one irrational moment, she wanted nothing more than to touch his face, to feel the coarse stubble that darkened his cheeks. To etch the scar that creased his upper lip.

“Yours was a fine da, aye?” he asked, and now his tone seemed almost hopeful, as if he needed to hear there was some good in the world.

She watched his lips move. He sat very still, his haunting eyes solemn. Upon his powerful knees, his wrists looked sun-browned and broad, sprinkled with sable hair, crossed with pulsing veins. But his hands were not meaty or coarse, and there was something about the way his fingers curled that made it seem that they would be the perfect instruments for writing sonnets or coaxing music from a mandolin.

“Lass?”

She started from her reverie. “Yes. Of course. Until…” Her head throbbed again. “He died. In July of 1809.” A pulse throbbed in her left eye. “Mother succumbed shortly after…of a broken heart,” she added, then chided herself, sure she’d said as much before. But if he noticed her freakish need to spill the information she’d so painstakingly memorized, he did not mention it.

“You were cherished then,” he said. “As a wee one ought to be?”

Her throat constricted. Her head pounded. She refrained from spewing more lies like a well-versed crow. “Weren’t
you
?”

“Cherished?” His lips quirked up again. “In a manner of speaking perhaps.”

Memories crowded in. Loneliness, guilt, fear so thick it all but drowned her. “Who bought you?” she whispered, lost for a moment, hopeless.

His brows dropped. “What?” he asked, and she caught her breath, jerking back to reality.

Dear God, she couldn’t afford to be mad. She’d made a promise to be sane. A promise she would keep.

“Who
brought
you…” she breathed. “…to the Highlands? After your mother’s death? Was it your father?”

“Nay,” he said, but there was still a question in his eyes, as if he’d glimpsed a hint of madness and would wait to see it again. “My father, too, died when I was yet young, but I had uncles.”

“Real
uncles?” Her question made him scowl again, and she caught herself. “I mean, blood kin?” she asked, and though she tried to imbue the words with mere curiosity, her tone sounded almost reverent to her own ears, for despite everything she knew of men, despite everything she had experienced, the thought of true kinship still resonated like waves in her shivering soul.

“Three of them,” he said.

“Three.” The word came out raspy, for in her wildest imaginings she could not fathom it. Could not see having three blood relatives to care for her. “How wonderful.”

“That I didn’t have five?”

She scowled.

He dropped his head back against the tree behind him. He wore no hat, and his dark hair was curling with the cool humidity. “Four might well have been the death of me.”

Her heart lurched. She’d misread things completely. “They were cruel,” she whispered, but he was already shaking his head.

“Nay, lass. Nay, not cruel, just…” He was staring at her, thinking. His feet were large, planted well apart, his powerful arms at rest atop them. “Just…men,” he said.

Cruel then,
she thought, but managed not to voice the words as she glanced at the forest bed and felt the memories creep in like evil spirits.

“Perhaps ye should remove your boot,” he said.

She glanced up, scared, but he made no move to approach her.

“To alleviate the pressure on your ankle.”

She shook her head, finally remembering her lie, and he scowled.

“I
once left me boot on too long,” he said.

She should probably speak now, she realized. A witty tale of footwear perhaps. But nothing immediately sprang to mind.

“After an injury,” he explained. “’Twas not a wise decision.”

“No?” It was the best she could do.

“They were forced to cut through the leather. The boot was ruined.”

“I meant…” She searched for normal, but it was elusive. “How were you injured?”

He didn’t answer.