Lois Greiman (10 page)

He should correct her speech, but he only smiled. “You’ve done well, lass. No one could learn faster.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said so.” Her gaze was steady on his for a moment, then fluttered downward. The brandy steamed, sending up a curl of misty warmth to blur her gamine features, and in that moment he wondered if he ever saw her clearly, or if his perception of her was forever hazy. Who was she really?

“Is it?”

“Aye.”

He nodded. “Drink your brandy, lass.”

“I don’t…” She searched her phenomenal memory for the proper word. “Imbibe.”

Surprise smote him, but not for the first time where she was concerned. “Ever?”

“Spirits,” she said, raising the mug slightly, “are quite expensive.”

“But you must make a fair amount of money, lass. What with working at the inn and taking in mending. What do you do with your coin?”

“I may not be highborn,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean I am content to be nothing.”

He contemplated that for a moment. “You save it,” he guessed, and she shrugged. It was tempting to pry, but he reminded himself there was no point. It didn’t matter what she did with her funds, only that she perform the task set before her.

“Drink,” he said. “The brandy is free today.” She made no move to comply. “And soothing. Please,” he added.

She tilted her head slightly, watching him, but finally she bent to taste the hot liquid. “That is also a first,” she said, not raising her eyes immediately.

“Your first brandy?”

She sampled it again and didn’t seem to find it distasteful
since she swallowed a goodly amount. “The first time you’ve said please.”

He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “I’ve an admission to make,” he said, and, settling more comfortably upon the bed, watched her carefully. “I come from a long line of bastards.”

She laughed. He should tell her that laughter was prohibited. That Anna rarely even smiled, but her face was alight with pleasure, and the sight of her thus made it strangely difficult for him to breathe, much less reprimand.

“Is that so?” she asked, and drank again.

“It’s a documented fact.”

“Thus, you have no choice but to be a bastard yourself?”

“Just so,” he admitted, and watched her drink again. “Are you ready for your bath?”

She looked immediately nervous. “That might be difficult.”

“I’m willing to help,” he said, and immediately regretted his words, not only for their own foolishness, but for the uncertainty that shone in her eyes. “You needn’t worry,” he assured her. “I hardly ever molest young women whom my horses have attacked.”

“How chivalrous of you. But perhaps I’d best forgo my bath this evening.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“If I remember correctly, you nearly drowned me last time.”

“But as you said, I’m feeling chivalrous tonight.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her tone exactly as he’d trained it to be, her expression imperious, “but you must have heard about leopards…and their spots?”

Her tone and expression eased his own discomfort, and he laughed. He had been right at the start. She had a sharp wit and a clever tongue, both of which intrigued him no end. “Yes, I believe I have.”

“The same goes for viscounts.”

“You’ve learned skepticism quickly,’ he said.

“Almost as if I became a skeptic even before I became a lady.”

“Almost,” he agreed. “Sit up a bit. I’ll help you remove your gown,” he said, though he knew without a doubt that he shouldn’t.

M
egan remained exactly as she was, watching him. She had felt safer when he was a bastard. Safer, steadier. But he was different tonight.

He settled back a little, as if he knew she needed more room. “I’m not going to harm you, lass.”

“It’s not harm I’m worried about…exactly.”

He had the devil’s own smile. She had never been attracted to noblemen. Had never trusted them enough to get that close, but there was something disturbingly honest about him just now.

“I’m not going to do that either,” he said, apparently reading her thoughts.

She neither moved nor answered. Perhaps she looked distrustful.

He sighed. “I’ve told you, lass, I have made a vow to a friend. A vow I will hold to, and that promise does not allow me to dally with you. Even if we were suited.”

But they were not, of course. He was a viscount. She was
the woman who was going to rob him blind. “What vow exactly?” she asked.

He watched her for a moment, saying nothing.

“I’ve no evil plots in mind. Think of me as an uncle,” he suggested.

She raised her brows at him. “I have no uncle,” she said. “And if I did, I doubt he would be assisting with me bath.”

“
My
bath,” he corrected. “Think of me as a kindly aunt then?”

“Perhaps Widow Barnes might better fill that role.”

“You’re injured,” he reminded her. “The widow won’t be able to lift you into the tub.”

The idea of him carrying her naked to the tub nearly undid her, but she kept her head and her silence.

“I’ll not have you putting weight on that leg. Not until you’re healed.” His gaze felt ridiculously warm on her face. She ducked her head, taking a sip of brandy.

“That’s right.” She finished her drink and sternly reminded herself of his motives, of his position, of his past actions. “You need me to survive until after the test.”

Something shone in his dark eyes, some emotion too unfathomable for her to analyze, but in a moment it was gone. “Did I mention my forefathers?” he asked, retrieving his own cup and trading it for hers.

“They’re bastards?” she guessed, and wrapped her hands about this new mug.

“As I’ve said…” He saluted her with the empty mug. “You’ve a fine memory when you apply yourself.”

“Perhaps you could break the trend.”

He was watching her closely, but didn’t seem to understand her meaning. Things were becoming a little fuzzy to her, too.

“And not be a bastard,” she suggested.

“Ahh.” He seemed to draw himself from his reverie. “I
doubt it would work. Thick blood and all that. How’s the leg?”

“Better.”

“Keep drinking,” he suggested. “It’ll help you sleep through the night.”

Would it also help him seduce her? The idea sent a curl of hot emotion steaming into her gut.

“I’ll tell you what…” He set the empty mug on the trunk and rose to his feet. “I’ll go into the hall. You stay here, undress as far as you wish. When you are ready I’ll carry you to the tub and let you soak.”

He must be out of his mind, or at least he must think she was. But perhaps he read her thoughts, for his mouth quirked. “If I do anything untoward, you can always scream for the widow.”

He was hardly a giant of a man, being only eight inches or so taller than her. And he looked neither beefy nor particularly toughened. Indeed, if she saw him on the street, she might have thought him too elegant to be worrisome. But in more than a decade of thievery and subterfuge few had caught her and none had held her. Why him? Why now? “Are you suggesting the widow can save me from your advances?” she asked.

“Did you get a look at her arms, lass? I think she may be able to take me in a tussle.”

The mental image of them wrestling made her giggle. God’s truth, she giggled, then widened her eyes at the absurdity of it.

He smiled. Perhaps at his own joke or perhaps at her expression. “I’ll be in the hall,” he repeated. “Don’t forget about me.”

She wished she could, but he was too unpredictable, too witty, and way too damned close, so she gave a perfunctory nod, and he stepped outside the room.

Her gaze snapped to the windows in the bathing area. The door stood open now, but he would surely hear if she tried to escape that way immediately. Her best bet was to make him trust her, make him think she trusted him.

Her hands shook as she removed her gown. The battered muscles in her thigh complained as she pressed the length of fine fabric past her feet, but she managed it. The white cotton undergarment, however, would remain. He had given the drawers to her. They were the first pair she had ever worn. As soft as a sigh and surprisingly warm, they were suspended from her shoulders by narrow straps, hugging her from breasts to thighs. She hated to get them wet, but she was not about to strip naked, not even to convince him of her trust.

Finding her pins on the nearby night table, she piled her hair atop her head and attempted to secure it there. But, freshly washed and as slippery as wet eels, it kept trying to sneak down past her ears. Finally, however, the majority of it had complied. Flipping the top blanket over the midsection of her body, she closed her eyes for one haunted second, then called his name.

He stepped languidly back into the room. If he had worried that she might try to escape, she couldn’t guess as much by his demeanor, and if he desired her even the least amount, she could not read it in his eyes.

“I feared you might have passed out again.”

“No.” She turned her gaze away. Why did he make her nervous? She had once stolen a brooch from the Laird of Teleere himself and felt not a single butterfly. But that was when she was Magical Megs. Who was she now? “I am well.”

“It wasn’t unduly painful?” he asked, and nonchalantly tugged the blanket away from her body.

She kept her eyes averted, though the long cotton drawers managed to hide most of her from his view.

He slipped his arms beneath her, and she winced as he lifted her against his chest.

“No, not at all,” she assured him.

Their faces were very close. He caught her gaze with his own. “I thought you were a better liar than that, lass.”

“You’re mistaken,” she said. “You are the one with the lying skills.”

“True,” he agreed, and paced through the doorway.

She felt ridiculously light-headed, and the cotton drawers seemed scandalously tight across her bosom, as if her lungs lacked proper breathing space. A few recalcitrant tendrils escaped her sloppy coiffure and caressed the sharp line of his jaw. Against her breast, his chest felt hard and unyielding.

He stopped beside the tub. “Do you wish to remove your drawers?”

Her gaze flew to his, but if he was jesting, she couldn’t tell.

“No.”

He grinned a little. “Just asking, lass,” he said, and, bending carefully, rested her bottom on the edge of the tub.

“Test the water,” he ordered, and after one flustered moment, she did so, reaching out to dip her fingers tentatively just beneath the surface.

“Is it satisfactory?”

“It’s…” She cleared her throat and drew her arm carefully back against her torso. Her left breast had almost escaped the confines of her undergarments, and she felt all but naked against the heat of his chest. “It’s fine.”

Shifting his gaze slowly from her bosom to her face, he eased her off the ledge and into the water. It slid over her bare feet, greedily devouring her legs and casting tiny bubbles upon her cotton undergarment until she was settled on the bottom.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you, my lord,” she said.

He gave her a perfunctory nod and drew his arms slowly away as she leaned against the back of the tub. “My pleasure.” His tone was smoky and dark. She snapped her gaze to
his, but if there was some deeper meaning in his words, it didn’t show on his face. Indeed, he looked as elegant and controlled as ever…except for that one disturbing smudge of dirt.

She, on the other hand, felt fidgety and breathless. Past history lent her no idea how to react under his scrutiny, so she tried to match his dignified calm. “Your sleeves are wet,” she said, surprised that even water would dare to disturb his perfect grooming.

It took a moment before he pulled his gaze from hers, but finally he glanced at his sodden shirt. “I should change, I suspect, before I get the widow’s floor wet. Will you be safe alone for a moment?”

She flickered her gaze to his. His lashes were as lush as sable, shadowing his emotions, but even so there was something about him tonight that spoke of pleasures too dark to consider. She swallowed and pulled her attention away. “Of course.”

She felt his gaze linger on her for a second longer, then he half turned toward the bedchamber, but in an instant he stopped and glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t do anything foolish,” he said. She looked up. His back was broad, and the tendons in his neck were pulled tight, marking a path downward toward the smooth skin of his chest. How would it feel to slip her hand beneath his shirt, to feel his heart beat against her fingertips?

“Foolish?” she whispered, and he grinned a little, stealing her breath.

“Don’t sound so surprised. ’Tis not as if you’ve not been foolish in the past.”

She pulled her gaze from him with a hard effort and concentrated on the ripples in the water. “Do you fear I might spring from the tub and escape?”

Humor shone in his darkened eyes. “I feared you might drown,” he said. “Are you feeling light-headed?”

“No, my lord,” she assured him, but she lied. Her head did indeed feel strange, and she feared he might be the cause. Dear Lord, she’d rather have a concussion.

He delayed a moment, then strode from the room. A thousand rampant thoughts steamed through Megan’s mind. None of them were the least bit helpful. From the bedchamber, she heard him add fuel to the fire. Leaning her head against the smooth brass, she closed her eyes against the image of him slipping out of his shirt as the flames flickered light across his chest.

“All’s well?” He returned in a moment, startling her from her reverie. His perfectly pressed shirt hung open, leaving several inches of skin exposed down the midline of his body. Dark hair accented the hard planes of his belly, but he seemed unaware of his state of undress, for he was toweling his used shirt dry. Then, reaching up, he hung it on a nearby peg. His shirt gaped open, revealing one flat, dusky nipple.

“Megan?” he said, turning toward her.

She yanked her gaze from his chest to his face, wondering desperately what he had said.

“Are you well?” he repeated.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

Drawing a stool close to the tub, he sat down. “You look a bit flushed,” he said, and leaned forward to press his palm to her brow.

She hoped quite desperately that she would drown.

He gave her a slanted glance as if to read her mind, then settled back slightly. “Would you like me to read to you?”

Her gaze darted back to him. Was he serious? Did he intend to sit there half-dressed and watch her while her scanty undergarments adhered to her bare skin like the peel of a grape? God help her! “I ’ardly…hardly, think that would be proper for a lady of quality,” she said.

“But what of a tough little barmaid?”

That was what her mother had called her. Tough. Her tough ’un. Did he know? Was he mocking her? she wondered, but his expression was kind, his eyes soft. “Not for her neither,” she said.

He smiled without the expression ever lifting his lips. “If you pass out again, I want to be here.”

“I’m not planning to pass out anytime soon.”

“So you planned it the first time?”

She shrugged. The movement felt oddly stiff. “I thought highborn ladies was supposed to swoon on a regular basis. It showed their fine breeding.”

Leaning forward, he brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. “There’s a difference between swooning and getting kicked in the head by a horse.”

“Oh.” She swallowed and refused to allow herself to look at him, but he was just as clear in her mind’s eye. Handsome and lean and hopelessly elegant. “I’ll try to remember.”

“You do that. Though sometimes it’s difficult when one is intoxicated,” he said.

“I’m not—” she began, then stopped abruptly to stare at him. “Am I?”

He didn’t answer, but rose languidly to his feet. “I’ll fetch a book.”

The volume he chose should have been quite boring, for it was the lineage of the royal house of Sedonia. There were a hundred odd names and just as many odd facts, mostly about a princess named Tatiana. The princess was young. Small, like her uncle, the deceased king. She was cool and elegant with a love for horses and an odd, adverse reaction to edible nuts. Nicol’s voice flowed on as soothing as the water, even when he spoke of treachery and deceit.

“So the old man was murdered,” she said softly.

He glanced up, his gaze sharp. “The king? What makes you say so?”

She scowled. “That Lord Paqual fellow. He was the one what put the girl on the throne after the king’s death.”

“That is hardly proof of treason.”

“No. But ’twas he what said the princess would have to take a husband before she was crowned queen, and ’twas he what hopes to choose that husband.” She shrugged, feeling relaxed now, despite her state of undress, despite everything. “Seems to me old Paqual hopes to rule Sedonia through Princess…” She paused. There was no reason for him to know she remembered the girl’s name. No reason for him to realize she had known about the old man’s death for some months.

“Tatiana,” he said.

“Yeah. Tatiana Octavia…”

“Linnet Rocheneau,” he supplied.

“Yeah. Her.”

“She was the only one left of the royal family after her uncle’s death.”

“Was she?”

“Yes.” He looked at her strangely and she shrugged, dropping her gaze to the water.

“I suppose she was easier to manipulate than the old man.”

“Lord Paqual was his majesty’s most trusted advisor.”

“Trust,” she said, and let her head fall back against the smooth brass of the tub to watch him. His shirt was still open, she noticed, but she felt strangely languid. Warm and fluid and relaxed. “That’ll get you every time.”