Lois Greiman (22 page)

“You accuse me of flirting?” She sounded honestly surprised. But who could tell with her?

He smiled as he watched her in the flickering darkness.

“’Tis strange how your varying circumstances have allowed you to be so similar.”

“I once met a juggler in Cannaun,” she said. “To look at him he could have been your twin.”

“Extremely attractive and devastatingly charming?”

“Mildly appealing, and appallingly overbearing,” she said, and seated herself in a chair some distance from the fire. The light gilded her, glowing on her face and hair. “And yet I doubt you can juggle a’tall, and he is probably no good at abduction.”

He gave her a nod for her acidic words, but felt no need to debate them, not with the firelight caressing her curves through the sheer fabric of the gown. She looked as soft as a kitten, which, perhaps, proved her point very well. “Tell me, lass, do you look like your mother?”

“The juggler,” she said, “wasn’t so prone to changing the topic without notice.”

“He probably wasn’t an intellectual phenomenon either.”

The hint of a smile touched her breathtaking lips. “But, then, who is?”

He returned the expression. “Was she small like you?”

“Mum?” A shadow of nostalgia flicked across her face, but she shrugged. “She seemed tall to me, but perhaps age skewed my perception. I remember her hair though. I thought it the most amazing color—as red as wine when she brushed it in the firelight.”

Images crowded his imagination. Gentleness, warmth, a mother’s quiet voice. It almost made him wish he had known those qualities for more than a few short years. “Where did you live, lass?”

“We had a cottage in Glenhollow for a time,” she said, and tucked her feet against her bottom. The position did strange things to his equilibrium. She looked like a tiny bundle of desire sitting there wrapped in nothing but one sheer film of white cotton.

“What of your father?” he asked. “He must have been a small man, then, if your mother was tall.”

She shrugged. “As I said before, I never met him.”

“Then perhaps you resemble him.”

“No!” There was a sudden flintiness to her tone now, but she drew an even breath and relaxed a mite. “No,” she repeated. “Not in any way that matters.”

“Your mother must have told you something about him.”

“No. She did not.”

“And you never found out who he was? Surely you were curious.”

She laughed, but the sound was, perhaps, a bit off. Rising to her feet, she paced to the window. “Perhaps you nobles have time to indulge in idle curiosity,” she said, “but we underlings are too often busy surviving.”

“But maybe knowing him would have made survival that much easier.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him.

“Perhaps he was wealthy,” Nicol added.

“Ahh.” She nodded. “Yes, and certainly he would have wanted to share that wealth with the misbegotten daughter of a humble washerwoman. ’Tis the nature of the nobleman after all.”

“I forget how little admiration you have for the peerage at times.”

“Do I have a reason to respect them?”

“Generally not,” he admitted, his voice low. Something stabbed his gut again. “I am only saying that it was your father’s duty to support you. Perhaps it is not too late to learn his identity.”

“And surely he would take me in with open arms. Would be thrilled to see me upon his doorstep.”

He watched her in the flickering darkness. She was everything a woman should be: intelligence, beauty, kindness,
though sometimes she managed to hide all three behind a steely mask. “Yes,” he said. “It may well be that he would be thrilled to call you his daughter.”

She remained silent for a moment, and suddenly the room seemed strangely devoid of air. For an instant he thought she would approach him. Would touch his arm again, would give him a smile. Strange. He was known to be something of a rake, and yet the memory of her hand on his skin sent a spur of emotion crackling through him. The idea did nothing to salve his pride. But she turned to pace again. Beneath the pristine hem of her nightrail, her narrow feet silently trod the floor.

“And what of you, my lord?” she asked. “Have you claimed your own offspring?”

Her feet were so very small. They intrigued him somehow, but he drew his gaze from them. “I have been careful,” he assured her.

“Perhaps my father could say the same.”

“You think he didn’t know of your existence?”

“On the contrary.” She paced again. Her toes peeked out and disappeared. “I’m certain he did.”

“Then who told him?’

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I am merely too jaded simply to assume he was innocent by way of ignorance.”

“If no one told him of your birth, you can hardly blame him for his shortcomings.”

The silence was hard for a moment, then, “I think you protest too loudly for a man who has produced no bastards. Is it guilt that makes you defend him, or do you simply side with your own?”

“My own?” he asked, surprise tightening his gut. “Was he highborn?”

She was silent for the slightest moment, then she laughed. “My father, a noble? I greatly doubt it. But I suspect he was a man.”

“Forgive me, lass,” Nicol said and paced toward her. She drew him, whether he wished to admit it or not. “But I do not consider men ‘my own.’”

Her smile lit the night. “You keep avoiding the issue.”

“Really, and I thought I was addressing it admirably.”

“What of your own bastards?” she asked bluntly, and suddenly he imagined a small girl with emerald eyes and a fire-quick mind. What would it be like to hold such a child in his arms? To hear her giggle with glee. To watch her face light up when she smiled. Strange, he had never been a sentimental man, had never hoped to become a father, not after knowing his own.

“I’ve sired no children,” he said.

“None that you are aware of.”

He was close enough now to see the dark specks in her eyes. “I’ve sired no children,” he repeated.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Believe me, the ladies I’ve known would have informed me.”

“And what of your less affluent lovers?”

He raised a brow.

“The chambermaids. The goose girls, the milk—”

“There have been no goose girls.”

“Shall I assume there have been milkmaids aplenty then?”

“None of those either.”

“Too common for you?”

“Too honest.”

“What?” There was surprise in her face, and maybe a spark of something like hope. He could hardly afford that. Indeed, he should dissuade her from believing he had any redeeming reasons for his abstinence. But he found he could not manage to intentionally lower her opinion of him. He had, after all, abducted her. Surely he had done his part to make her hate his kind.

“Rich baronesses, lonely countesses.” He shrugged. “They understand the rules of the game.”

“So you prefer nobility.”

“As it turns out…” He reached out, knowing he shouldn’t, knowing he should draw back, knowing he should not—whatever else he did—touch her. “I have a weakness for thieves,” he said. Her skin felt like a summer cloud against his fingertips. He smoothed his knuckles down her cheek, brushed his thumb along the plump curve of her lips.

“I guess I am safe then,” she whispered, but her eyes dropped closed, shadowing her prefect cheeks with her dark lashes. “Since I am neither.”

He stroked his hand down her shoulder. “Then what are you, lass?”

She shivered slightly. The tremor quivered to his very soul, jaded though it was. “Naught but a simple maid, my lord,” she whispered. “One who—”

But he shushed her with his fingers to her lips. “’Tis not true.”

“Then what am I?”

“You,” he said, and tried to stop himself, tried to control his words, tried to think. But he was already leaning in. “Are irresistible.”

The first touch of their lips was magic, soft, warm, luring, and there was nothing he could do but wrap his arm about her waist and pull her closer. The hot weight of her breasts crushed against his chest, and suddenly it seemed as if there was nothing between them, no clothing, no mistrust, no barriers.

He touched his tongue to her lips, and they opened to him. Their tongues met and sparred. He swept his hand down from her waist, feeling the firm round curve of her buttocks. Her fingers tangled in his shirt, holding him tight. Against her belly, his arousal was hard and ready, pulsing with need.
But her hands were against his chest now. They felt hot there, and it took him several hard seconds to realize she was trying to press away.

It was horrifically difficult to let her go. But he did, grappling for control, for some sort of unlikely sanity.

“My apologies, lass, I did not mean to force you.”

“Force me!” She laughed as if it was the most ludicrous thought in the world, but the sound quivered, and she shook her head as if she, too, was struggling. “Didn’t you?”

“No.” He tried to relax, but his muscles were cramped up hard. He exhaled and reminded himself to loosen his fists. “Regardless what you think of me, I am not the type to force a woman.”

“But you have forced me,” she said, breathing hard. “To come here. To pretend to be the princess, to—”

“I will not force you to lie with me.”

“Wouldn’t you know it,” she said, and laughed shakily. “The one thing I—” Her words stopped abruptly, and her eyes went wide.

“What?” he asked, but she had already turned and was pacing away. “What were you about to say?”

She didn’t answer, and when he could bear the silence no longer, he took her arm.

She spun toward him, already growling. “I’ve no wish to share my mother’s fate.”

“You are right.” Nodding, he forced himself to release her, to step back one prudent pace. “Again, my apologies.”

Her lips twitched. The motion was reciprocated by a countermovement in his nether parts, but he ignored it.

“Let us plan for tomorrow, and I will leave you be. You’ll not have to endure my company again.”

She was utterly silent for a moment, then found her tongue and paced away, scowling. “I am to meet her at the theater?”

“Yes.”

“After which time I am free to go where I will?”

Free to go. The thought cranked up the knot in his gut. “Tell me, lass, do you think I will stop you?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her full mouth was pursed, her bright eyes narrowed. “No,” she said. “I do not.”

“Do you think I will withhold your money?”

“No. I believe you will abide by the rules. After all, they are your rules. ’Tis why you only sleep with noblewomen, is it not?”

“There are other reasons.”

She waited a long while before speaking. “You think your countesses less likely to be hurt when you leave.”

“You make me sound very noble.”

“Believe me, my lord, that was not my intent.”

He almost smiled, though every muscle was still drawn tight with hopeless anticipation. “So you realize I only abstain because I have no wish to compensate the milkmaid or the chambermaid you mentioned.”

“Compensate?”

He shrugged. “It’s not unheard of for a woman to conceive a purpose, in an attempt—”

Her expression changed only the slightest degree, and yet it seemed that he could feel her break, could feel emotion slice her like a blade.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

“You think Mum meant to trick my father into marrying her?”

He was across the floor in an instant and gripped her arms in his hands. “I swear, lass, the thought never entered my mind. It would make no sense unless he was wealthy, and since she did not even introduce you to him…” He shook his head. She stood very still, and so close now he could feel the warmth of her body. “Nobility…” He said the word softly. “’Tis a poor word for me and my peers for you have
been far more noble…” He paused again. It was difficult to think when he touched her. He tried to draw his hands away, but found the best he could do was to slide his fingers down to hers and lift them idly between their bodies. “You have been more than noble in our dealings, lass.”

“So you no longer believe I was the woman you met in Portshaven?”

“The one who knocked me unconscious and stole my watch?” he asked, and brushed her knuckles with his thumb.

She nodded. Her hair gleamed in the fickle light, and her hand felt as fragile as a sparrow’s wing in his. “You seem far too frail to do such a thing,” he said.

“So you believe I am innocent?”

“On the contrary, I am certain it was you,” he admitted. “It simply occurs to me that I may have deserved the trouncing. In fact…” Bowing slightly, he kissed the back of her hand. Sultry longing shivered through him. “It might well be that I owe you an apology for that day.”

He straightened. Their eyes met. Her lips, bright in the dancing firelight, were slightly parted. Desire rumbled like a thunderstorm in his gut. But it was a poignant pain now. She would be gone soon, replaced by a myriad of haunting memories.

“An apology?” she asked.

He cleared his throat and ran his thumb across her knuckles. “For my intentions.”

“Which were?”

“Less than honorable I’m afraid.”

“Don’t tell me you meant to break your own rules.”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

“But I’m not even a lady. Lonely or otherwise.”

“As I have said before, I find you…You have a strange allure, lass. I’m sure you know that,” he said, and because he couldn’t help himself, because she was so damned touchable, so indescribably intoxicating, he kissed her again. Her
lips were soft and warm beneath his, her breath as sweet as red wine. But he drew carefully away, willing himself to retain some semblance of control.

Her eyes were wide enough to drown in, then, “I understand,” she whispered.

Reaching up, he brushed a tendril of downy hair behind her ear. “What do you understand, lass?” he asked and kissed her throat.

She shivered, and in that moment he realized her hands were clenched to fists. “The rules.”

He drew back slowly, careful not to crush her, careful not to frighten her. “What are you saying?”

She swept her tongue over her lips. He watched the movement and felt his mouth go dry.