Dangerous Seduction: A Nemesis Unlimited Novel (11 page)

Simon looked disappointed. “Shame.”

“We host trials at Easter.” Henry knocked a fist into Simon’s shoulder. “You should give it a go.”

With a smile, Simon said, “I just might.”

Alyce glanced back and forth between her brother and Simon. Neither of them seemed to pay her any mind, and the dislike Henry had carried for Simon had been brushed off like so much dirt from a jersey.

“You’ve got some stories to tell, I’d wager,” Henry said.

“And you,” Simon answered.

Henry waved Simon forward. “Come on, then. It’s a long walk back to the village.”

Stunned, Alyce followed as Henry and Simon chatted like the oldest of chums on the trek homeward, recounting tales of different rugby matches they’d played over the years. She knew all of Henry’s stories—she’d watched every match from the sidelines and heard them told again and again until she could recite each maneuver and play from memory. She’d heard there were men who made it their life’s work and passion to study one particular time in history—ancient kings of England, say, or Egypt and its monument-building rulers.

Either accidentally or on purpose, Simon had found Henry’s beloved history: the rugby matches of Wheal Prosperity from the past fifteen years. And Simon actually listened as if these stories of rivalries between copper-mine rugby clubs were the most fascinating subject in the world. Alyce liked a good match herself, and they certainly livened up a summer Sunday, but for the love of all that was sacred, did she have to hear
again
how Henry scored the winning try against East Wheal Bolton in the last seconds of the game?

She was much more interested in hearing about the matches Simon had played in. But Simon kept asking Henry question after question about local matches, and her brother was eager as a puppy to talk about them—and his own heroic role in each game.

And not once did Simon glance back at her with a smile, a wink, or even a look acknowledging that she was there. She’d half a mind to stomp off on her own, but she just couldn’t seem to make herself move on ahead.

It didn’t hurt that walking behind her brother and Simon gave her a nice view of Simon’s arse. Good and tight, it was, with a high round shape. Was it as firm as it looked?

She pressed her lips tight to keep from laughing, imagining herself pinching Simon Sharpe’s bum as if she were some randy old codger groping serving girls in a pub. But it was an interesting idea …

Finally, they reached the village, and the long column of workers broke apart as they each headed off toward their homes. As she, Henry, and Simon reached the entrance to the lane that led to their house, she fully expected Henry to wish Simon a good night and part ways.

Instead, Henry said, “Listen, Simon, I want to hear everything you’ve got to say about creating gaps in the other club’s defense. Sounds like you have some good strategies.”

“A few, yes,” Simon answered.

Henry tilted his head toward the lane wending toward their house. “Come to my home for supper tonight.”

Alyce’s mouth dropped open.
This
from the same brother who warned her to keep her distance from Simon? Now Henry invited him into the privacy of their house for a meal?

Treachery, thy name is rugby.

“You sure you can spare enough for another head at the table?” Simon asked.

Henry smiled affably. “My Sarah can stretch a meal so far, you’d think it was made of India rubber. But her cooking tastes better.”

“If that’s the case,” Simon said, taking off his cap, “I’d be most honored.”

“Half past six, and no later.” With that, Henry ambled down the lane. “Don’t dawdle, Alyce.”

“In a minute,” she called after him. She stared at Simon, who finally turned and looked directly at her. He gave her an irresistible grin, mischievous as one of the fairy folk they spoke of in old stories.

Protectively, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You never mentioned that you were a winger.”

“It didn’t come up. And blokes generally don’t start most conversations with ladies by reciting the number of tries they’ve scored in a match. Not interesting chaps, anyway,” he added. “But Henry cares, and it got me what I was after.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So you had a hidden motive.”

“Of course I did,” he said easily. “I wanted to see you again, and now I’m going to have supper with you. Sounds like I got even more than I’d hoped for.”

His blunt confession—and what it meant—left her briefly speechless. She could only gape at him. No man had ever pursued her so directly or with such determination. Moths fluttered through her belly.

He put his cap back on and gave it a tug. “See you at half six.” Whistling, he strode up the high street, toward the bachelor lodgings. She stood staring at the place where he’d been, as if he’d left behind his words. Words that hovered in the air like glowing lanterns.

CHAPTER 5.

A chair and spare plate had to be borrowed from the Penroses, their neighbors, and Sarah added extra barley to the stew in order to make it feed four rather than three. Much as Alyce disliked cleaning, and little as the snug house needed it, she still swept the place out and spent ten minutes making and remaking her bed, even though it was hidden behind the screen.

Glancing at herself in Sarah’s hand mirror, Alyce decided against trying to dress her hair in some attempt at elegance. And neither she nor her sister-in-law owned any cosmetics. Alyce set the mirror aside with a shrug. She’d make the house appear as tidy as she could, but there was no changing her appearance, and she was fine with how she looked. Her face was her face. She was a bal-maiden, with the rosy cheeks to show for it, and a fancy hairstyle would be silly—and desperate. “Silly” and “desperate” were two words she made sure didn’t describe her.

Still, with just a few minutes until half past six, she fussed around the house and hovered over the stove, causing Sarah a bit of annoyance.

“I think you let a butterfly in with you, Henry,” Sarah said to her husband as she cooked.

“Just swat her with a rolled-up newspaper,” he answered.

“You don’t
swat
butterflies, lummox,” Alyce snapped. “And I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“Be helpful and
sit still.
”

At her sister-in-law’s gentle but firm command, Alyce sat down and folded her hands in her lap. Her toes tapped briskly against the floor, until Sarah’s warning look forced her to be calm. As calm as she could be, given the circumstances.

You’re being thickheaded. It’s only one supper.

But he wants to see
me,
even after I’d been so cold to him.

At least he’d stuck with it, with her, when most other men had just crumbled away. That counted for a lot.

A knock sounded at the door. Alyce nearly leaped out of her skin. Checking the clock, she saw it was exactly half past six. She forced herself to stay seated as Henry opened the door and welcomed their guest. Only when Simon stepped inside did she finally get up and give him a nod. Her heart seized when she saw the posy Simon carried—oxeye daisies, meadow buttercups, wood cranesbill. The season for wildflowers was in its wane, and the blossoms themselves looked a little tired, but they still brought welcome bright color into the drab house.

Henry frowned at the bouquet of flowers, and Alyce could guess that he thought it too forward of Simon to bring them to her. But Simon held the posy out to Sarah.

“Mrs. Carr,” he murmured. “My thanks for making room for me at your table.”

Sarah’s cheeks flamed as she stammered her thanks and took the bouquet. She glanced around in confusion until Alyce stepped forward with an earthenware jug. In went the flowers, with some water, which Sarah set in the middle of the kitchen table. She kept lightly touching the petals as if unsure they wouldn’t fly away.

“No wooing my wife,” Henry warned sternly, but his smile undercut his threat.

When Henry turned away to help dish up supper, Simon gave Alyce a quick wink. Her own cheeks probably turned as red as Sarah’s. And she had to admit, it was a smart strategy on his part. No one could find fault with a man who brought charming gifts to a hugely pregnant married woman, especially right in front of her husband. Sly, he was, and that made him dangerous.

Once the meal had been set out on the table, everyone sat, though with each week that Sarah’s pregnancy progressed, it took some careful negotiations to get her down into her chair. Henry helped ease her down and made sure that the pillow placed at her back was in the right spot. Henry sat next to Sarah, with Alyce facing her brother, and Simon seated to her left. The table wasn’t large. If she leaned just a little, she’d brush shoulders with him.

Once Sarah had been situated, Henry asked Simon, “Care to lead us in saying grace?”

Confusion and panic crossed Simon’s face for the barest second, then he said, “It’d be my honor.”

They all bent their heads and folded their hands, and waited.

Simon cleared his throat. “Lord, we’re grateful for the riches beneath the earth, for the means to bring your hidden treasure above into the sunlight, but most of all for the ability to provide for those we care about most—our friends and families. Amen.”

“Amen,” she, Henry, and Sarah echoed.

It had been a brief and simple speech, but Alyce had felt it echo deep within her. She wondered if Simon knew how his voice had deepened when he spoke about providing for those he cared about—or was aware of the faintest note of longing in his words. Did he miss his own family? And he never mentioned any friends, but perhaps he had old army chums. It seemed like a lonely existence: wandering around England, looking for work.

Then again, she’d never left Trewyn. Getting out of here sometimes sounded like paradise.

Almost as soon as they began to eat, Henry launched an avalanche of questions about rugby at Simon.

“For pity’s sake, Hen,” Alyce said, “let the poor man get a mouthful of stew before you bury him alive.”

“Sorry, Simon,” Henry muttered.

“No apology needed,” Simon answered, “but I’ve got to say, Mrs. Carr, that this is the best thing I’ve eaten in months. No, years.”

“Not surprised, given what I’ve heard about the food at the bachelor lodgings,” Sarah said, but she smiled at the compliment. “And he’s a passionate man about rugby, our Henry.” Sarah laid her hand over Henry’s and looked at him with fond forbearance. “He doesn’t get to talk about it at home.”

“Well, if you’d let women play,” Alyce said, “the way I’d suggested, you wouldn’t have to head down to the pub to get an earful about it.”

“No one’s going to let a woman out on the pitch,” he answered. “Either she’d be crushed to bits, or else she’d score a thousand tries because nobody’d want to tackle her.”

“Me and the other bal-maidens swing bucking irons all day. We’re not that fragile. I bet I could tackle Davy Bale without a lick of trouble. Remember how I used to make you cry for Ma when I’d leap out and knock you to the floor?”

“Don’t remember that at all,” her brother said, shooting a look at Simon. “Besides, not every woman’s a mad she-devil like you, Allie.”

“But I made you a better player, didn’t I? Think how fast you got, dodging me.”

He whispered loudly to Simon: “Don’t tell anyone my special training weapon was my savage little sister.”

Simon nodded solemnly. “Your secret goes with me to the quiet of the grave.”

“What do you think, Mr. Sharpe?” asked Sarah. “Do you think women should be allowed to play sport with the men?”

Alyce turned her full attention to him as he answered.

“Cricket maybe,” he said after thinking for a few moments. “But I’d have to agree with Henry. Don’t think most men would feel entirely easy getting into a scrum with women.”

“What if the
women
are comfortable with it?” Alyce challenged. She tore at a loaf of bread. “Shouldn’t that be their decision to make?”

“Absolutely. And I know some women who are damned, I mean, very strong and courageous.” He gave a little secret smile at that, and she wondered who he was referring to. His sister? Some past sweetheart? “They’d be bang-up additions to a rugby club—but even if a woman wasn’t that strong, it’s a truth that most men can’t let themselves hurt a female. No matter how willing she is to get hurt.”

“Rather a good thing, I’d think,” Sarah murmured.

But Alyce wasn’t mollified. “I still think it should be the girls’ choice.”

Simon took a contemplative bite of stew. “What if you formed a women’s rugby club?”

“You mean, women playing against women?” Henry asked.

“It could work just like the clubs for men from the different mines, but with all female teams. You’d have your matches after the men’s on Sundays.”

“And then everyone would go to the pub after,” Alyce said brightly.

“Maybe they’d trade off hosting each other at home,” Simon suggested. “Slip a little whiskey into the tea.”

Henry sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “Blast me, that actually sounds like a good idea.”

“It really does,” Alyce added. How was it that she hadn’t thought of it before? She’d been so busy trying to shoulder her way into the ranks with the men, she hadn’t thought of any other option. And maybe this way, she could convince more women to play, since they wouldn’t be afraid of being pummeled into the ground by hulking forwards.

Simon laughed. “You don’t need to act so surprised. I work with complicated machines all day—other complex issues, too.”

“And you were in Her Majesty’s Army,” Alyce noted. “Organizing groups of people to batter into each other ought to be a walk on the seaside.”

“A very noisy, rough walk on the seaside,” he added. “But if the women are willing, why should anybody stand in their way? As you said, Alyce, the choice is theirs to make.”

A slight lull fell on the conversation as everyone attended to their meals, but in that quiet, Alyce felt something inside her grow warm and supple. It was all she could do not to stare at him and sigh like the silly girl she’d never been.

*   *   *

Family dinners at the Addison-Shawe home had been chilly affairs: long silences punctuated by the click of silverware against Meissen china and the occasional terrifying interrogation from Simon’s father. His mother had barely spoken. His siblings had answered questions with as much brevity as possible. And for his own irreverence—flinging peas at his sister, making his brother snicker at a whispered, filthy limerick—Simon had been sent from the table without being allowed to finish his meal. Many times. He’d never gone hungry, though. After his father had retired to the study for brandy and newspapers, Simon would sneak down to the larder and charm the cook’s assistant into fixing him a plate. He’d take his real dinner down in the kitchen, warmed not only by the huge iron range, but the servants’ gossip and comfortable ways.