Charming the Devil (8 page)

“Did you twist your ankle?” she asked.

“No,” he said, and shifted to his knees as if to approach. “You’d best remove that if—”

She yanked her feet back under her skirt.

Silence marched in, lonely and thoughtful. He was staring at her, as if he knew things. As if he sensed things.

“I’ll not touch you,” he said, words slow, voice quiet. “If that be your wish.”

She said nothing. Could think of nothing.

“You’ve no need to fear.”

“Fear?” The word came out rushed. She tried to cover it with laughter, but the sound was coarse and ugly. “I’m not fearful,” she said, and felt her head pound.

“Fear is not a shameful thing,” he said.

His dark-fringed eyes were thoughtful, filled with his soul. But why? Who was he? What did he know?

“Surely you don’t,” she said.

He watched her. Somewhere far above a jay scolded the world at large.

“Fear,” she explained, and he breathed a sound that might have been a chuckle.

Amusement lit his sea-storm eyes, casting rays of laughter at their corners. “You jest,” he said.

“But you’re so…” She lifted a hand, indicating his size, his strength, his sheer raw power.

“Troll-like?”

“Strong,” she breathed.

If he was flattered, he didn’t show it. “There is always someone stronger, lass.”

She remained silent, taking in the massive breadth of his chest, the amazing width of his leather-clad calves.

“Or quicker. Or smarter. Or better armed.”

Their gazes melded silently.

“In truth, I have spent most of my days in the darkness of fear.”

She was watching him, reading him, nearly believing, but suddenly she realized the jest was at her expense and almost laughed at her naïveté. “You lie,” she said.

He drew a deep breath, then glanced to the right, thoughtful, quiet. “Lies have rarely been my friend.”

Or hers. And yet she told them. Told them until her head throbbed. But…it did not, she realized suddenly. The pain was gone. She touched her fingers to her brow.

“Does your head yet ache?”

“No,” she said, and marveled at the truth. But she would not belabor the point. Stranger things had happened, and there was something to learn here. To understand. “What happened?” she asked.

He shrugged, an economical lift of power. “Did you fall when you twisted your ankle? Mayhap you hit your head. Sometimes it but takes a bit of time for the pain to—”

“I meant your foot,” she said. “What happened to your foot? Before they belatedly removed your boot.”

“’Tis not a tale for the likes of you,” he said.

“The likes of me?”

“The fairer folk,” he said.

She raised her brows. “You think me a…pixie?”

Did his face redden the slightest degree? “The fair
sex,
” he corrected, and she nearly laughed.

“Perhaps you could tell me nevertheless.”

He paused for a moment, thinking, and finally spoke. “I was in Boxtel,” he said. “In the Netherlands.”

“Why?”

“Because that is what I do.” His expression was exceptionally somber again. “What I
did.
” He caught her gaze, as if it was difficult to do so and therefore must be done. “I was a Tommy.”

She scowled.

“A soldier for the Thirty-third Regiment of Foot. I was young…and foolish. My company had been routed.” His face was blank as he turned to look through the woods to the open fields beyond. “Outnumbered.”

“You were running,” she said, and winced. “Like the fox.”

Surprise showed on his face, but he nodded. “Like the fox,” he said. “Scared out of my wits. But
we
had no place to run. The French were ahead and behind.”

The woods were silent.

“What happened?”

“My horse…” He paused, almost winced, then shored up his emotions as if they never were. “My mount was shot. He was not so big as Colt, but when he fell, I was broken. And he was dead.”

There was no expression on his face, and yet there was something in his voice, something that almost suggested the death of his mount was worse than the pain he’d endured.

“How did you escape?”

“I am not above crawling,” he said, voice rough.

She waited, heart beating slowly in the close constraints of her chest.

“I was able to drag myself into the woods. To hide like a cur in a hole.”

Her throat felt tight. Her skin itchy. “There’s nothing wrong with hiding.”

His eyes struck her, flint on steel. She felt breathless, mourning.

“Is there?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. Their gazes melded.

“Please tell me there is not,” she murmured, though she knew she gave too much away, knew she exposed too much of herself.

“There is nothing wrong with hiding,” he rumbled finally. “If there is a purpose to seeing another day.”

She scowled, not knowing what that meant. “Would that the fox had hidden.”

He watched her for a moment. “Nay,” he said, and drew a deep breath, making his chest rise, making his eyes go sad and dark. “For she had a purpose.”

“To save herself,” she said, but he shook his head.

Raindrops were just beginning to fall, soft as mist from the darkening sky.

“’Twas a choice she made,” he said. “Herself or her young.”

“I—” she began, then stopped abruptly, feeling sick in the pit of her stomach.

“She had kits.” Her voice was wooden. It was the best she could do.

He opened his mouth to speak, but perhaps there was something in her expression that stopped him.

“Perhaps I am wrong,” he said.

“Where?”

He looked uncomfortable now. “Lass, I may be entirely—”

“Where do you think they are? In the woods ahead?”

He scowled. “Why do you wish to know?”

Her heart felt tight. She could barely breathe past the pain in her throat, but she forced herself to speak, to remember her persona, too long forgotten. “I am but curious. Perhaps you could find them.”

“For what purpose?”

“They’re vermin.” She felt sick again and hoped
to God she wouldn’t vomit. “Surely it would be best if we informed the landowner.”

“So he can kill them?”

She swallowed painfully. “Yes.”

“There’s no need,” he said, and though his tone was hard, his eyes were something else. Something inexplicable. “They’ll perish in a few days’ time. We’ve done our part to ensure that.”

She felt the pain in her gut like an open wound, and though she knew she was foolish, she spoke again. “Find them.”

He rose to his feet. “’Tis time to be home,” he said.

She shook her head, feeling desperate, feeling lost, and his scowl deepened.

“I cannot leave you alone, wounded in the woods while I rid the world of a few harmless fox pups,” he said, and looked down at her as though seeing her with new eyes. “Even
I
am not so barbaric.”

“G
od help me!” Rogan growled, and hunched his shoulders against the rain. It was darker than Hades and just as damned cold. Although, biblically, the underworld was thought to be hot. Indeed, the ancient Greeks and Christians seemed to be in agreement on that point. But what the hell did they know about hell, he wondered, and almost laughed at his own irony.

But laughing aloud in the rain and the dark would make him seem even madder than he apparently was.

Beneath him, Colt trotted on, impervious to the conditions. Colt should have been the goddamn soldier.
He
should have been the one with medals and commendations and pensions.

Unlike his owner, Bain thought, and just that easily, old memories jostled in, searing his mind. But he shoved them aside. Fatigue always made him melancholy. And he was fatigued. God only knew why he wasn’t in bed. It was well past time
to sleep, but he was back in the woods where he had ridden with Mrs. Nettles just hours before. The woods where they had spoken. The woods where she had wept.

And there lay the crux of the problem.

Her tears.

He ground his teeth against the memory, for he knew far better than to be moved by a woman’s emotions. They could cry on command. Charlotte Winden had cried when she’d told him of her husband’s hideous abuses. She had also cried when he’d died by Rogan’s bullet. In retrospect, Rogan realized she’d been a veritable virtuoso. Indeed, by all indications, she was a master still, able to dupe any number of people into believing she was something she was not with a few careful tears. Unlike himself, who was nothing but what he appeared to be. Indeed, for as long as he could recall, he had not shed a single tear. Was that something he should celebrate or something he should mourn? These English seemed ungodly comfortable with their emotions, crying over anything from lost buttons to lost lives.

But what of the ethereal wee Faye? She didn’t seem the sort to wail over every small disappointment. And yet she
had
cried. Why? Because she was overcome with pain? With sadness? Or was it to gain her own ends? And if that was the case, what might those ends have been? To find the kits so they could be destroyed?

Hunching a little deeper into his coat, he glared
into the darkness and saw her face. Small, oval in shape, golden skin haloed by golden hair, eyes so big they swallowed her face. But it was the emotion in those eyes that had stopped his heart dead in his chest. Because there was misery in those eyes. Empathy. Fear, forgiveness, laughter, tragedy. Hope and…

Dammit! He was being an idiot. Because chances were good that he was entirely wrong. What did he know of women? Nothing. Less than nothing. History had proven that. Perhaps she was simply playing him for a fool. Perhaps she merely wanted to
seem
empathetic and fearful and tragic and…

But if that was the case, why would she suggest she intended to see the kits destroyed?

That question had been preying on his mind for the past four hours. Longer, since she had been absolutely silent on their return to London, letting his mind rove, making him wonder what she was thinking. She’d looked sad. So much more than sad, in fact.

But why? For the fox? She’d said herself that they were vermin, and even if her words were not to be believed, the fact that she was willing to ride to the hounds certainly must mean—

Colt halted. Bain glanced about. There was nothing to see. It was as dark as a tomb. But he knew a few things about hunting. And if the truth be told, he knew more still about being hunted.

Cursing himself, he tugged the collar up on his coat. Feeling icy rainwater runnel down his back,
he left Colt in a protected copse and tramped into the woods afoot.

It was just past dawn when Bain creaked the door shut behind him. He was wet. His chest ached where furrows had been plowed through his skin, and he was, very probably, as daft as a peahen. But at least no one had yet discovered his lunacy. For that he could be thankful, he thought, and kicking off his boots in the small hardwood entry, padded stocking foot into the kitchen. A pot of steaming tea would go a long way to warming him, but first—

“Bain!”

He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name, only to find Connelly standing in the kitchen doorway, face perplexed as they stared at each other.

“Where the devil have you—” he began, then opened his sky blue eyes wide and let his jaw drop. Mischievous joy shone on his face. “Are you only now returning home?”

Damn,
Bain thought and wished to God he’d never met an Irishman. Remaining mute, he removed the cover from the teapot with his left hand. Why did they insist on making these kettles so ridiculously small.

“You are!” Connelly crowed, and took two celebratory strides into the kitchen. “You’ve not been home for hours. And you know what that suggests.”

Bain couldn’t think of a reason to respond.

“It means you owe me a great debt of gratitude, my hulking Highland friend. It means that because of me, you were finally able to—”

Bain turned toward him with malevolent slowness, stopping Connelly’s words in his throat and raising his eyebrows well toward his hairline.

“I was about to inquire about our charming Mrs. Nettles, but I…” Connelly winced, studying the scarlet scratches that ran downward from Bain’s clavicle.
Damn fox.
“I see now that she’s a feisty one. Feistier even than the maid I met at Haymarket. Remember her? The plump lass with the big…” He motioned toward his chest, then stopped, gaze dropping to the flour bag Bain carried in his right hand. The bag that was moving. The bag that now housed three undersized balls of fury. “What the devil is that?”

Dammit to hell. “Nothing to concern yourself with,” Bain rumbled.

Connelly raised his brows even higher, already happier than Bain ever wished him to be. “Since when has ‘nothing to concern yourself with’ been carried about in a bag? A flour bag. A flour bag that smells like wet hounds or…No. Not hounds. Wet…” He paused, narrowed his eyes, and sniffed in a show of great, deliberate thought. Bain almost scoffed out loud at the idea. “Last I saw you, were you not about to embark on a foxhunt?”

God help him. Bain pressed past Connelly on
the way to the pantry. There was no hope now. “Where’s the damned tea?” he rumbled.

“I’m not certain.”

Bain’s mood, never good when cold, wet, and scratched to ribbons by fox pups, was deteriorating rapidly. “Why the devil not?”

“A fair question,” Connelly said, and tilted his head. Damned bastard. “But an even better one might be…why are you wet if you spent the night in the fair widow’s—”

“Don’t be daft,” Bain said, and, rummaging about in the sparsely furnished cupboard, luckily came up with a tin of tea. Unluckily, he was now reminded that he’d dumped the flour into a wooden keg that overflowed onto the upper shelf.

“Perhaps she had a mind to bathe while fully clothed. An odd concept, true enough. But I must say, she seemed a unique sort, and not one I would have thought likely to be thrilled by the idea of sacrificing a fox for a bit of frivolous…” Connelly began, but his words stopped abruptly, then he laughed, throwing his head back like a damned lunatic as he flopped into the chair behind him, cravat undone, hair messed after a night of certain debauchery. “Don’t tell me.”

Bain was going to have to find a lid for the flour keg. And, of course, he was, very probably, also going to have to beat the stuffing out of Connelly. But just the thought of it made him hungry.

“The stunning Mrs. Nettles…” Connelly
paused, trying to catch his breath. “Was upset because…” More laughter. Perhaps the time had come to start that stuffing beating thing. “The fox…which…” He’d been reduced to chuckles. “By the by…you were hunting…was killed.”

Bain didn’t even like Irishmen. Never had.

“So upset, in fact, that
you
…” Connelly’s shoulders were bumping up and down with the rhythm of his humor.

In general, he also didn’t like men.

“You decided to save the pups.”

“Why would I do something so daft?” Bain asked, but the little hellions took that precise moment to wriggle wildly, setting the bag alive.

“Very well then.”

Bain had never seen Connelly happier. He gritted his teeth against the other’s jocularity.

“Let me guess again. Might you have…” He made an elegant motion toward the bag. For a damned mercenary, he was as polished as a pedigreed prince. Bain had always resented that about him. “Salmon? In the bag?”

“Isn’t there some woman’s husband you could be cuckolding?” Bain rumbled, but his words only set the other to guffawing again before he returned to his ludicrous guessing.

“House cats? Baby dragons?” A kit whimpered, drawing both their attention. “Werewolves?”

“Go to bed, Irish.”

“Honest to God, I wish I could,” Connelly said, cheerful as sunrise. “But I’m just so…” He shook
his head. “So demmed fascinated. I keep asking myself what kind of magic does the tiny Mrs. Nettles have that would cause a big Scottish lug like you to…” He paused. His jaw dropped again and a look of ethereal joy overcame his foolish features. “Don’t tell me,” he said.

God help them all.

“She cried,” Connelly deduced with resounding finality.

“Find me something to eat or get out of the damned kitchen,” Bain ordered.

“I’m right, am I not? I can see it now. The pixie-bright little widow, weeping as if her heart were broken. You’re lucky she didn’t ask you to kill anybody.”

McBain gritted his teeth, but thankfully Connelly was far too dense to realize what he’d said.

“She didn’t, did she?” Connelly asked.

“I am not so fortunate,” Bain rumbled, and gave Connelly a baleful glare, but the other only laughed.

“You can’t kill
me.
I’m the one who made it possible for you to spend the night…chasing fox pups.” He was grinning like an intoxicated dolt. Bain ignored him as best he could as he attempted to pour tea leaves into the strainer.

“Here,” said the Irishman finally. “Let me take your young ones since, by the look of things, they’re likely to be the only offspring you’ll ever sire.”

Bain relinquished the bag, allowing Connelly to undo the top and glance inside.

“Look at that,” he said. “They’re rather adorable. Considering the sire.”

“If you weren’t so damned amusing, I’d kick your arse out the door.”

He laughed. “So, what are you going to do with the deadly little darlings?” he asked, glancing up, and McBain finally smiled.

“I’m going to give them to
you,
” he said.