Guarding a Notorious Lady (10 page)

I
nside the Devines’ octagonal summerhouse, which was tucked inside a half-circle of Italian cypresses in the rear yard of Devine Mansion, Nicholas shifted his weight yet again on the stone bench. Och, his arse was sore.

The time was nearing ten o’clock in the evening, and he had been sitting here since just after sunset, watching the house, waiting for some sign that the redheaded man he had seen the night before had returned.

He’d wait another hour or so, then take a trip to the front of the house and watch from over there for awhile. He couldn’t risk walking back and forth.

Rosalind might spot him.

However, blanketed in shadow with a sliver of a moon as his only light, there wasn’t any way for her to spy him in the garden.

But what would she do if she knew
he
was guarding her?

Speaking with Tristan today, Nicholas had learned that Rosalind and Gabriel had debated at length about her need for an appointed guard.

Nicholas wasn’t surprised. She was a strong-willed and stubborn woman, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that he’d been entrusted with her safety, if it hadn’t been for the fact that she was his friend’s little sister, he just might have pulled her to him again and kissed her until she was senseless.

Damn, but he rather thought that
he
had been the senseless one this afternoon. He’d thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it, but hell, he had nearly ravished his best friend’s sister in the very room where her brother probably drank his tea. What the devil had come over him?

He ran a hand through his hair. It mustn’t ever happen again. It was, no,
she
was unbelievable.

Having her in his arms, the taste of her—it was better than he ever dared to imagine. It mustn’t ever happen again. And for a myriad of reasons.

The most pressing at the moment was that he knew he mustn’t allow himself to be distracted by her. He had a duty to protect her. He’d given Gabriel his word.

In addition, according to Tristan, the amounts in the betting books at White’s were nearing record-breaking sums. The eager bachelors’ wager to win her was turning into a frenzy fueled by foolish pride.

Men were capable of taking dangerous risks in the name of competition.

He needed to stay focused. Sighing, Nicholas pushed all thoughts of Rosalind aside. Should be easy enough. He’d managed it for years, hadn’t he?

He just kept telling himself that she was nothing but a spoiled society lass with a penchant for snooping, meddling, and occasionally glaring at him like she’d love to see his head on a platter one day. Or his heart.

But he would never give her the opportunity. He had vowed to never let a woman get under his skin. It had been an easy vow to keep. Until now.

He smiled to himself as a sudden image of Rosalind, chocolate teeth and all, sprung to mind.

How curious it was that she was able to laugh at herself after being caught stuffing the biggest slice of chocolate cake he’d ever seen into her mouth.

Oh and Christ, what a sweet mouth she had.

It was getting harder and harder to dismiss her physical effect on him. And had that been a hint of jealousy he’d spied when they’d spoken in the foyer this afternoon?

At first he’d thought it was only her pride that made her angry that he had danced with others but not her.

Would it be such a stretch to imagine she was jealous?

Or was he merely hoping? And why
was
he hoping?

He let forth a long, frustrated sigh. It would be so much easier to forget about her if she resented him for some reason. Hell, perhaps he should march up to her front door right now and confess to being her guardian. She’d surely hate him then.

And just as certainly, she’d make the act of protecting her a living hell. And he could never back down. No, Nicholas thought, it was better that she didn’t know he was her guardian.

He yawned and stretched out his legs. Damn, but it was a chilly night.

Having rid himself of his jacket a long time ago, he snagged it from next to him on the bench and proceeded to cover himself with it.

There was no sign of her. Except for a glow through a window set in a door that led to the kitchen entrance, no other candlelight beckoned from the windows. Perhaps she had already fall en asleep or was reading in the study.

He yawned again, thinking he’d best get up and go to the front of the house now, before he fell asleep himself.

A flicker of light glowed from an upstairs window. A short but shapely silhouette came into view, fumbling with the latch.

A second later the pair of windows creaked open, revealing Rosalind, her sleek, black hair unbound, racing down bare, slender shoulders to curl seductively around her breasts, which looked to be seductively around her breasts, which looked to be covered with a noticeably thin white shift.

No maidenly robe. No prudish heavy night rail, but a threadbare shift?

Bloody hell.

Incredibly warm and completely wide awake now, he slowly sat forward, his coat falling to the floor, his mouth watering for another taste of her.

He gulped like a schoolboy. And though the spark of desire was unmistakably instant, he couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “It’s a damnable chilly evening, what the devil are you thinking, woman?”

“I
can’t believe I shoved an entire piece of cake in my mouth in front of Nicholas.” Rosalind leaned on the windowsil of her bedchamber, hoping the chil air would somehow clear her mind.

When he
wasn’t
near, her manners, speech, and poise were utter perfection. She rather thought she could balance a stack of books on her head, twirl across a crowded room, and tip nary a one. But around Nicholas . . . the books would undoubtedly tumble down.

Just like the rest of her. Truly, had he tried to take other liberties with her person yesterday afternoon, she didn’t think she would have had the forbearance to stop him.

She was weak when it came to Nicholas, and she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that it frightened her a little.

She did not want to end up like her mother, who’d spent the majority of her life in misery, pining for a man who would never, ever love her.

And wasn’t Nicholas carousing this evening? She tried not to think of it or else she’d feel ill.

She sighed, her eyes scanning the velvety expanse of the sky. Her guardian was out there, too, somewhere. And here she thought it would be so easy to find out who he was. With the distraction of Nicholas that afternoon, she had even forgotten about her goal to ferret the mysterious man out.

“Come away from the window, my lady,” her maid implored. “You’ll catch an ague!”

“It would serve me right,” Rosalind said pensively, gazing out into the garden.

What a waste of a day. All those gentlemen callers

—she ought to have been watching for some sign of a man lurking about, or she should have paid stricter attention to her callers, looking for odd behavior.

Instead she’d hung on every word that had spilled from Nicholas’s lips. But she really couldn’t blame herself.

Yawning, she raised her arms above her head, stretching long and sleepily.

An odd sound came from below.

She froze in the pose, listening. When no other sound came, she planted her hands on the sill and leaned far over to gaze into the dark garden, inhaling sharply when her bosom met with the cool stone.

She heard it again.

Her brow furrowed. It sounded like a man cursing softly. Or groaning, she wasn’t sure.

She stood by the window for a couple of minutes more, but when she didn’t hear it again after several moments, she shrugged, deciding to dismiss it.

This particular set of windows faced the back garden. The landscaping was designed specifically to afford privacy, so none of her neighbors could have seen her standing at her window in her favorite night rail.

Alice hated that Rosalind wore the well-worn garment, but Rosalind refused to relinquish it. She certainly had a plethora of newer, finer sleeping garments, but this shift was incredibly soft and smooth. Besides, it had been her mother’s, and wild boars couldn’t rip it from her.

Closing the window, she latched it, then shuffled over to her bed.

Alice finished stoking the fire and wiped her hands on her apron. “If you won’t be needing me, my lady, I’ll be leaving, if you please. I’m to go spend the night at my Nell ie’s, if you remember. And I’m also to remind you that Briggs is here, but sick in bed.” Rosalind crawled onto her bed and slipped under the bright, white counterpane. She yawned. “I remember. I’ll be jush fine,” she mumbled sleepily.

“Go and enjoy that new grandchild of yours. I’ll see you late tomorrow.”

She heard the click of the door, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

She dreamed of moonlit gardens, floating plates of chocolate cake, and Nicholas sitting in her morning room wearing nothing but his kilt.

R
osalind gasped and jolted to a sitting position in bed.

As her heartbeat slammed inside her breast, it took her half a minute to realize that a loud crash had startled her from her sleep.

Her eyes flew to the mantel clock. The fire in the grate had burned low, the glowing embers giving her room a haunting glow. The faint tril of a single bird told her dawn was near.

There was a chance it was only Tristan coming home, but he was never disruptive.

A loud thump and a startled shout sounded from below stairs.

“Oh, dear heaven.” Was there an intruder?

The rumbling of masculine voices reached her and much shuffling about ensued.

Rosalind swung her legs down from her bed. Her hands shook as she reached for her shawl, which was hands shook as she reached for her shawl, which was draped over the end of the bed. Tossing it over her shoulders, she wrapped it tightly around herself.

What should she do? Should she hide? Should she scream for a neighbor? Where was Tristan? Should she alert Aunt Eugenia? No, unless the thief had an aversion to surly spinsters in mob caps, she was useless to help her. Besides, her aunt was hard of hearing on one side (Rosalind always forgot which side it was), but if the woman slept on her good ear side, she’d sleep through a burlesque show going on in her very own bedchamber.

Rosalind had only herself to rely on. Heaven help her.

She clutched at the heavy, white shawl covering her shoulders and launched herself across the room.

Grabbing a fireplace poker, she held it high above her head and crept to the door to wait and listen.

Her frightened pants slowed as seconds stretched into minutes without further disruptions from below.

She knew she hadn’t imagined the sound, but whatever had made it seemed to have gone away. Or

. . .

The corridor outside her bedroom creaked in a lumbering, rhythmic pattern. A walking pattern—as if someone had finally reached the top of the steps and was now creeping down the hall toward her room.

“Let go of me, you bloody oaf!”

“Tristan!” Rosalind yelled. Someone must have accosted her brother as he was coming in the house.

Without thought or consequence, Rosalind opened the door and flung herself into the corridor, brandishing her makeshift weapon high above her head.

Nicholas Kincaid stood before her, half-carrying, half-dragging a boneless-looking Tristan.

“Hull o, sis,” Tristan drawled drunkenly.

Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breathing.

“Nicholas,” she exclaimed breathlessly, her shawl sliding off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

Hard gray eyes instantly softened and hungrily raked her entire body from top to bottom and back again.

She shivered visibly.

Nicholas’s arms went slack, sending Tristan sprawling to the floor.

“Bloody hell!” Tristan exclaimed, holding his head.

“Nicholas. What are you doing in my house?” Her tone was plain astonishment.

His eyes still roving all over her form, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, then opened it, then closed it—and this time, his eyes as well. He gave his head a quick shake.

“What’s wrong with you?” She lowered the fireplace poker, her brow furrowed.

“You’re standing in front of the man in your blasted shift, you addle-pated pea goose,” exclaimed the drunken sod sprawled on the floor.

While Rosalind resisted the urge to step on Tristan’s fingers, her senses seemed to finally converge. Lud, she was practically naked. She dropped down to retrieve her shawl, glancing at her brother in the process.

She inhaled sharply at the sight of his eye and the great big purple splotch surrounding it. “Who did this to you?”

“He did,” Tristan squeaked, raising a wobbly finger in the air. And then, he muttered, “Dropped me on the floor, ’e did.” But Rosalind didn’t hear him.

Chin set, she whipped her shawl around her shoulders and stood up. She met Nicholas’s gaze.

“
You
did this?” she accused. “You gave him a blackened eye.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “The only thing I did,” he said forcefully, “was head. “The only thing I did,” he said forcefully, “was pick your brother up from the front steps and bring him in the house.”

“We broke your lovely, lovely picture,” Tristan muttered from the floor. “You know, that one some bloke had painted and brought here this morning?

Yesh, put my foot right through it, I did. So sorry.”

“It was hideous.” She dropped another glance at her brother. “But what the addle-pated pea goose wants to know, Tristan, is how you acquired your black eye.”

With some great difficulty, he managed to pull himself up to rest on his arms. “Well, there were these four men who came out of the all ey and jumped me from behind. I fought off one and . . .” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me you fought off
four
men in the condition you’re in?” He was quiet for a moment. “All right, there were three.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“All right, there were two.” He smiled up at her.

“One?”

“Tristan,” she warned.

“Oh, all right. I hit myself in the eye with the toe of my boot as I was trying to pull it off.”