The Rogue (4 page)

“I see,” she said. “I am sorry for your trouble, Mr. Sterling, My nephew was visiting us here, but he departed a sennight ago. Your pupil has already returned to his parents' home.”

“I did not engage Mr. Sterling to teach young James,” her father said. “He will teach you, Constance.”

S
aint turned from the beauty whom he had not thought, hoped, or wished to ever see again to the Duke of Read. “I beg your pardon?”

But the duke's attention was still on his daughter.

“Me, Father?” she said. “But, whatever for?”

“Your interest in swords has not gone unnoticed by me, Constance.”

“My
interest
?”

The duke peered down his patrician nose. “Did you imagine that each time you sent another package here from London, I simply handed them over to Mr. Davis without taking note?” With a gesture he indicated the walls of the hall in which they now stood. From floor to ceiling, weapons adorned the wood paneling, most of them sabers and smallswords, and a number of very old and fine rapiers, but also daggers, knives, bayonets, and bows, as well as other tools of war. Upon entering the castle an hour earlier and seeing this collection, Saint had finally made sense of the duke's wish to hire an expert to teach a mere boy. Clearly the duke was an enthusiast.

Apparently not only the duke.

“But, 'tis merely a collector's curiosity, Father,” she said, the soft music of Scots slipping over her tongue. Years ago, that lilt had only appeared in her voice when—

When he touched her.

Now her cheeks were not pink as then, but ivory.

“I never thought of learning to use them,” she said.

“Now you may,” the duke said.

“I knew nothing of this,” Saint said. As he had known nothing of her presence here. For five years she had lived in London exclusively, which had been sufficient reason for him to make his residence anywhere else—Bristol, Plymouth, Dover—wherever he would not encounter her by accident. He had been wise to do so. She was astonishingly beautiful now, more so than he had imagined she would someday become, with golden hair, ripe lips, and those same vibrant eyes. The softness of youth had fled from her, revealing beauty sculpted by a master.

Years ago she had fidgeted, as though she had not known how to rest in her own skin. And her eyes had been everywhere on him at once. She had looked at him then as though she stood before a banquet, famished, yet did not know how to eat. That gaze, both hungry and confused, had turned him inside out.

Now her gaze was aloof as it came to him.

“You did not?” she said.

“No.” He turned to his cousin. “Did you?”

“Not I! Lord Blackwood's letter said you were to teach his grace's ward.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Sterling,” the duke said with a cool absence of sincerity. “My nephew must have misunderstood my instructions.”

“Well, now that we all have the true story,” Dylan said cheerily, “it sounds like a capital plan. What say you, my lady?”

“I won't do it,” Saint said.

“You won't?” Her eyes snapped wide. “Do you doubt that I am able to learn the sword?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she demanded as she took a step toward him, her chin tipping upward. A stray wisp of gold falling over her brow marred the perfection, and she was breathtaking. “Do you think women incapable of skill and strength?”

“I think women capable of most anything they wish.”

“But then—”

“I think
ladies
capable of skill with flirtation and strength in demanding that their wishes be met.”

Her lips hardened. Even so they were beautiful and he still remembered how soft they had grown beneath his.

“Do you intend to insult me?” she said.

“If you find insult in my words, I advise you to consult your guilty conscience.”

Her mouth shut abruptly. And, by God,
it pained him
—irrational, idiotic—it pained him to see her chastened, even by his own words. But this was no innocent before him now, with seeking eyes and unpracticed touch. This was a stunning woman who by all accounts made men the length of Britain slaver after her while she gave none of them satisfaction.

“If you truly wish instruction,” he said, “I will write to an acquaintance of mine in London who will, I am certain, be happy to teach the martial arts to the daughter of a duke. He would consider it a coup. I would not. Shall I contact him on your behalf?”

“I already know the other martial arts. I shoot like a man with both bow and pistol. Can you believe that?”

Swiftly he inspected the set of her shoulders, her arms that were more toned than rounded, her solid stance.

She was staring at him as though he had undressed her—here, before her father and his cousin.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I am gratified by your assessment,” she said like the softest cream sliding over his skin. And then she curtsied.

For the first time in months he actually wanted to smile. “Do you wrestle too? And box?”

“I have struck a man's face with my fist. Does that count?” Laughter glimmered in her eyes.

“I should think so. What did he do?”

“Before or after I struck him?”

The pleasure in Saint's chest died.

“Why not, cousin?” Dylan said. “If his lordship is for it, and Lady Constance likes the idea, I think it fitting enough, especially now that we're already here.”

Dylan only thought of the bald opportunity, and he would happily prostitute anyone else to serve his desires.

Saint could not oblige him. He backed away from the woman who had, six years ago, taught him a lesson he had not wanted to learn.

“I will write to my friend in London,” he said to the duke. “I apologize for the misunderstanding. I will depart immediately.”

“Mr. Sterling,” the duke said, “I should like your company for dinner tonight. As the sun is setting and frost is expected, travel is not advisable. You must remain the night at least.”

“Yes, Mr. Sterling.” Her bewitching mouth twitched. “Do remain the night.”

A
FTER SEEING THAT
his horse had been watered and fed, and combing the tangles from Paid's mane while a barn cat peered at him from atop a stall door, Saint returned to the castle. A servant in the hall gave him a swift perusal, frowned, and snatched a brush from a brass bucket.

“Place your foot upon this, sir.” He gestured impatiently toward a chair. He had small black eyes and a thin disapproval about his face.

Saint glanced at his muddy boots. “I can clean my own shoes.”

“Foot on the chair, sir. Now.”

He did as bidden and watched the fellow buff the leather to a shine. “I am obliged, friend. What is your name?”

“Mr. Viking.” The servant straightened. “And I am not
your friend. I am only ashamed that you would enter his grace's private chambers looking like an oaf.”

“His private chambers?”

“You are expected immediately. Come.”

Saint followed, wondering if Scottish dukes had the power to hurl a man into a dungeon for verbally abusing their daughters. Not his finest moment. But he was no one's servant, most especially not hers.

Stairs rose up a tight, round tower, and he ducked his head to pass through the doorway to the second story and into an antechamber decorated with mammoth paintings of a hunt. Towering over his dogs and mounted upon his steed like a general, the hunter wore a crimson coat with epaulettes. The eyes of the mighty stag he pursued showed white with terror.

Viking led him into a chamber of dark brocaded burgundy, polished wood, and the scent of foreign spices—cardamom, frankincense. A half dozen dogs reclined about the floor. Comfortably lit and warm, the room boasted two chairs by a hearth and a table laid with a chessboard.

A dog rose and came to Saint, sniffing the stable on his boots and breeches. The duke did not rise. Seated before the chessboard, he studied Saint with eyes like his daughter's, brilliant blue and intelligent. A man of six decades, with a hard mouth, he had exchanged his coat for a dressing gown threaded with gold.

“Do you play, Mr. Sterling?”

“I do.”

With the tips of two fingers inclined toward the opposite chair, the Duke of Read invited him to a game. Saint sat. Whether Read wished to shame him by beating him or to cajole him by letting him win mattered little. To the nobility, a game was a game.

The duke led with a knight. “I understand that you returned to the stable to see to your horse. How did you find it?”

Aha.
This was the moment Read would inform him that his bed for the night had been transferred to a stall there. “Exceptional.” He moved a pawn into play.

The duke took up a rook. “I have recently had the building renovated. It was high time. The block was erected in fifteen twenty-eight, more than a century after the construction of the castle itself.”

Now he was meant to be awed by the family's ancient lineage. He shifted a knight across the board. “Your coachman told me that you breed horses.”

“Hunters. Do you hunt?”

He allowed himself a smile. “No.”

“Your horse is an extraordinarily fine animal, and still young enough to be trained to it. From whom did you purchase it?”

“It was a gift.”

The duke lifted a bishop. “From a patron?”

“From a friend who believed he owed a debt of gratitude to me.”

“What had you done for your friend, Mr. Sterling?”

He slid a pawn toward the duke's queen. “I taught him how to defend himself against those who wished him ill.”

“I see.” The duke moved his queen aside. “You were hard on my daughter earlier. You are skeptical of her potential as a student.”

“I am skeptical of her application to the task.”

Read's hand paused over the board. “My daughter does not tease, Mr. Sterling.”

Clearly the duke did not know his daughter well. “I don't take your meaning.”

“If she wishes to learn to fence, she will put her best effort toward it. She is an extraordinarily adept student with a formidable tenacity.” Read now held his gaze.

“With all due respect, sir, you cannot intimidate me into accepting this post.”

A serving man entered with trays of covered silver dishes and arranged them beside the chessboard. The duke dismissed him. Ignoring the food, he took up a crystal carafe.

“Wine?” He poured without waiting for Saint's response. “So you will teach her.”

“I have no intention of doing so.”

“Delay your departure for a day or two. A sennight. Come to know my daughter's character before making a decision.”

He already knew her character as well as he could bear.

“There are other teachers.”

“But none better, I understand. Nevertheless, I found your history perplexing. Why is that, Mr. Sterling?”

“I suspect you already know.”

“For nearly two years you went by another name in England, your own, but not Sterling. I know the reason.” The duke set his elbows on the chair arms and made a steeple of his long fingers. “I offer you my condolences on the loss of your brother.”

“Thank you.” Saint waited for the blow.

“I am aware of certain ventures of his that, were they to be carefully examined, might not bear the full scrutiny of the law.”

“I haven't any knowledge of my brother's business.”

“It seems, however, that Lord Michaels invested in several of your brother's ventures, and benefitted from those investments. It would be unfortunate if they were revealed as not entirely legitimate. That sort of thing can ruin a man. A shame. Such a pleasant young man, your cousin. But alas, the young are prone to make careless mistakes.”

Saint stood up.

The duke unfolded from his chair and went across the room. A sword case rested atop a chest. Inlaid with wood fashioned in the shapes of tiny bees, the box itself was valuable: Italian, of the house of Barberini. The duke set the box on the table and opened the latch. Upon a bed of dark velvet glimmered a long, silver rapier. He withdrew it.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful, Mr. Sterling?”

Gleaming in the candlelight, it was lithe in design, despite the length of the blade preferred by men of centuries past.

Saint nodded. “No. But beauty is only part of a sword's allure.”

The duke offered it to him. Its balance was perfect, the blade ideally weighted to the hilt. He wrapped his palm around the grip. It fit his hand as though fashioned for him.

“What do you think of it?” Read said.

“It is magnificent.”

“My daughter purchased it from an Arab trader in Dover. Why she was in Dover, I haven't the least notion, except perhaps to add this to her collection. And yet I don't believe she even removed it from the case before sending it to me. With each weapon she sends, she includes the same letter:
Father, Here is a gift for you. Do with it what you will.
” Standing beside the chessboard, he reached down and absently moved a piece. “I have never been particularly clever with a blade, Mr. Sterling, but I do like to look at them. So I have put them about the house, as you have seen. But this one . . . this is special.” He settled again in his chair, a king upon his throne. “I would like you to have it.”

Saint returned the rapier to its case. “I am an honest man, sir. I don't care for bribes, nor for those who offer them to me.”

“You refuse to address me as I think you know you ought.” Read's eyes were sharp. “I don't care for that.”

“It must be my French blood. Revolutionaries, all of us, you know.” Saint glanced at the chessboard. “Thank you for the game.” He went to the door.

“This sword is not a bribe,” the duke said behind him. “It is a gift. A man would be a great fool, Mr. Sterling, to hide such a precious treasure away in a remote castle when the ideal candidate for it stands before him. I am well aware of your skill and the use you have put it to. It is impressive, to say the least.”

He laughed. “I am not a girl to have my head turned by flattery, nor a child to be chastised . . .
Your Grace
,” he added with a smile.