Lois Greiman (7 page)

He almost smiled, but instead, he handed her the spoon.
“Begin,” he said, but before the word was fully loosed, she had wrapped her fist around the spoon like an angry ditchdigger.

“God’s balls!” he cursed, and stepped rapidly forward. It was not a simple task to pry her fingers from the metal and realign her grip.

“Hold your utensils thus,” he said.

She scowled at their hands. “This ain’t no way to ’old—”

“Lass…” he warned.

She fell silent, squirmed a little in the chair, eyed the soup, and looked up at him again. He waited.

“God almighty,” she said finally. “What now?”

“Now you may begin,” he said. She moved to shovel again, but he spoke before her spoon touched the soup. “But if you fail this test, this will be your last course until morning.”

She looked past him toward the food that waited on the armoire. Then, nodding once, she dipped her spoon gently into the chowder and took a minuscule sip.

Forty-five minutes later, she patted her mouth with a linen napkin and leaned back in her chair.

Nicol watched her with some amusement. “Sated already?” he asked. She had eaten all her portions and most of his, but she had done it slowly.

Perhaps a shadow of guilt crossed her gamine features. “Widow Barnes be—
is
a fine cook.”

“Yes.” He rose to his feet. Sometime during the tutelage he had managed to finish off what was left of his own meal. “Will assured me she ran a tight ship.”

“Will?”

Striding to the fireplace, he squatted and added a pair of faggots to the flame.

“William Enton,” he explained. “Baron of Landow. Perhaps you saw me with him when first we met.”

“You were alone the whole while at the inn.”

He straightened. “I am referring to the time we spent together in Teleere.”

Pushing the table aside, she rose briskly to her feet. “I fear you’ve mistaken me for someone else…again.”

“Tell me, lass, did you have the whole thing planned, or was I simply a lucky happenstance?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

He watched her carefully. She was small of stature, but her back was as straight as a pin and her expression serene, if one could disregard the blackened eye. “If you said the very same thing without bastardizing the language one might actually believe you,” he said.

“Would one?” she asked, and he wondered momentarily if she was mocking him.

“As it is,” he said, “I simply wonder why you chose me. I had done you no harm, meant you no ill will.”

She paced toward the trunk, glancing over her shoulder as she did so. And in profile, with her bruised eye hidden, she looked shockingly regal. “So you had never met this thief before?” she asked.

For a moment he had thought she might fall into his trap, might feel a need to defend herself. After all, his motives had hardly been above reproach. But she strictly maintained her innocence. A niggle of doubt irked him. He pushed it aside.

“No, I’d never met you before,” he said. “I’m certain I would have remembered.”

She fluttered a hand to her chest. “Should I be flattered, my lord?”

“Aye, you should,” he said. “I’ve rarely seen a better actress. Not for a moment did I suspect you planned to rob me.”

She shrugged and bent over the trunk. “’Tis good to know. If one is to be taken for a thief, at least she should be good at the task.”

“Accomplished,” he said.

She glanced up at him, a question on her face, her hands on the nightgown she’d worn on the ship.

“Anna has an extensive vocabulary,” he explained.

“Anna. The great lady,” she guessed.

“Yes.”

“And why would I wish to be like ’er.”

“Surely you’re not averse to bettering yourself.”

“You think some noble title makes ’er better than me?”

He began to correct her, but her back was up now.

“Wealth don’t make her superior,” she said.

“What of the fact that she doesn’t steal from innocent bystanders?”

Her chin was still high. “Is that what you were?” she asked. “An innocent bystander?” She had turned toward him and kept the gown clasped to her chest. “Cuz from where I’m standing you don’t seem so innocent, Govner.”

He watched her for a moment, then grinned. “No. Innocent I am not,” he said, and took a step toward her. “And what of you, lass? Are you innocent?”

He thought she might step back, put distance between them, but she held her ground. “I am innocent of theft, if that’s what you mean.”

“But not innocent overall?”

“Do we not all fall short of the glory of God?”

He shook his head, baffled. “When did you have access to scripture?”

She shrugged. “’Tis common sense to believe we are all flawed, is it not?” she asked.

“Some more than others.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “But who is more imperfect, the one who has much but fails to share, or the one who takes what is needed to survive?”

“Is that what you do, lass? Take only enough to survive?”

“Is that what you have, viscount? Too little to share?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but no worthwhile argument came to mind. “I believe I was asking about your innocence,” he said.

She shrugged, her gaze steady. “I don’t remember you telling me of your own morality, Govner.”

Nor would he, and it was hardly her place to ask. Still, the question rubbed him wrong. “Don’t shrug,” he said, knowing his tone was irritable. “A lady keeps her movements to a bare minimum.”

“You’re funnin’ me,” she said.

“Don your nightgown,” he ordered. “It will be a long day tomorrow.”

She raised her chin slightly. “I’ll wait until you leave the room.”

He shook his head. “No, lass,” he said. “We’ll be sharing this chamber.”

Her mouth pursed in anger, and he almost laughed. Give him his medallion—he’d won another round.

M
egan refrained from glancing toward her waiting escape route. “’Elp me understand,” she said, careful to retain her cool demeanor as she paced her borrowed bedchamber. She fought the speech lessons in an ongoing effort to make life difficult for him, but she enjoyed the steely expressions and chilly attitudes associated with royalty. They were a shield of sorts. And a girl could never have too many shields. “You want me to act like a lady.”

He said nothing.

“Regal. Well educated. Pure.”

He nodded.

“But you plan to spend the night in my chamber.”

He crossed his arms against his chest and his mouth quirked up slightly at the corner as he leaned his shoulder against the nearby wall. “Circumstances are often not as they seem,” he said. “But I am sure you already realize that.”

She didn’t deign to respond, but paced the room, past the trunk and the commode where he’d set out his personal
items—a small mirror, a hairbrush, and a razor. “There are other bedrooms in this house,” she said. “Any of which you could choose for your own.”

He canted his head as if in concession. “Forgive me if I do not trust you implicitly.”

“We are leagues from the nearest village,” she said. “What do you think I might do?”

That grin again. He was the picture of cocky elegance. It mattered little that he still wore a smithy’s worn work clothes. He was a viscount clear through to the bone. And she hated him for that.

“Will loaned me his country house in good faith,” he said. “To help me get some rest in this peaceful environment. I’ve no wish to see it destroyed.”

“Destroyed?”

He shrugged. “Or burglarized.”

“I am not who you think I am,” she repeated.

“It’s bound to be true,” he agreed, “since I’ve no idea who you are. Go to bed now. I’m tired.”

“And what of my innocence?”

He watched her in silence for several seconds, then, “Whatever innocence you have left is safe with me, lass.”

“That I doubt,” she snapped, then softened her tone and forced herself to relax, to adopt his irritating insouciance. “After all, you’ve threatened and abducted me.”

“And you’ve done nothing against me.”

“No I ’aven’t.”

“Keep your voice down. Or at least shout with proper diction.”

“I didn’t steal nothin’ from you.”

He smiled and came away from the wall, his movements as smooth as glass. “And whom do you think they’re likely to believe, lass? A grubby-faced urchin with a penchant for dropping her aitches or the viscount of Newburn?”

Anger flooded her, heating her system, steeling her spine. For if she knew anything, she knew he was right. Only a fool would believe otherwise, and she was not a fool.

“I gave you me vow not to escape.”

He nodded agreeably. “And that…combined with my constant surveillance should keep you honest. I must warn you also that I’ve locked the bath chamber door from the other side.”

She didn’t throw anything at him, though it was tempting. She didn’t even curse. Instead, she consoled herself with thoughts of vindication. Lovely, comforting thoughts that she kept carefully to herself.

“And you call yourself a nobleman,” she said.

“Aye, I do, lass.”

“With high ideals and lofty aspirations.”

“I believe you may be thinking of the pope.”

She gave him a tight smile. “I shan’t confuse the two of you again. Will you, at least, leave while I don the gown?”

“No.”

“On the other hand.” She paced again, glancing over her shoulder as she strode past the commode. “I might mistake you for Satan.”

He laughed out loud, and in that instant, with his teeth flashing against his dusky skin, he did indeed look like the devil. Cunning and manipulative but with a darkling allure. “Trust me, girl, your virtue is safe with me,” he said, reaching into the nearby trunk and pulling out a trio of books. “I have no interest in you.”

“Truly? Then I would appreciate a ride back to Portshaven.”

His grin dimmed the smallest amount. “Let me amend,” he said. “I have no interest beyond your education.”

“Have you ever considered the fact that you might be mad?”

He laughed again, then settled into one upholstered chair, books in hand. “Sleep,” he said. “The real lessons begin tomorrow.”

There was little she could do but comply. Turning on her heel, she gathered up her nightgown, and although she spared one longing glance toward the bathing chamber, she remained where she was, slipping the robe off her shoulders before yanking the nightgown over her head. Then, stepping out of the ring of fabric, she pattered back across the floor and climbed under the covers. The mattress was soft, the blankets plentiful. She yawned. Vindication would have to wait. Except for the razor she’d taken from the commode of course.

A rude hand shook Megan awake. She moaned and tried to ignore it.

“’Tis time to arise.”

She sat up only to find herself blinking owlishly into the viscount’s glare.

“Did you sleep well?”

She made a face. “Not so good really. I got a ache—”

“Very well. Thank you for asking.”

She scowled.

“It’s the proper response,” he said, rising smoothly. “You sleep like the dead.”

“Innocent,” she grumbled irritably.

“I didn’t accuse you of any crime. Not this morning at any rate.”

“I sleep like the
innocent
,” she explained, and stared groggily in his direction. He was dressed impeccably in tight pantaloons, silver waistcoat, and a midnight blue cutaway coat. His starched cravat was tied just so, but there was, she noticed, trying to push back the wild mass of hair that exploded from her head, a stubble of beard shadowing his perfect jaw.
And she thought there might be a loose thread on one of his waistcoat buttons. “You been awake all night?”

He ignored her question and eyed her carefully. “Have you seen my razor?”

She yawned. “I can’t even see me own hands yet.”

“I could have sworn I set it on the commode.”

“What’s a commode?”

He scowled, but turned away. “Deirdre brought breakfast. Are you hungry?”

She scooted up in bed, the pleasure of the moment almost drowned in the thought of a meal. “I’m starvin’.”

He stared at her for an elongated moment as if aching to correct her, then exhaled softly. “You’re going to learn to read today.”

She blinked at him, certain she hadn’t heard him correctly. “You’re joshin’.”

“And for every successful attempt you will receive”—he paused, then swept his hand sideways to indicate the breakfast—“one bite.”

Breakfast looked lovely, like a dream really, with boiled eggs, toasted white bread, a small crock of marmalade, golden brown sausages cooked to perfection, and chilled cider in crystal glasses. But it was the bowl of sugared almonds in his hand that made her mouth ache in anticipation.

She reached for the nuts, but he drew them slowly away, making her scowl and lean back against the headboard. “Bring on them books.”

“Get dressed first.”

She shook her head.

“A lady sees to her personal appearance before all else,” he said, and, reaching down, snatched the blankets away.

She gasped as she yanked her tangled nightgown over her legs and grudgingly dropped her feet to the floor. “Ladies,”
she said, realizing with amazement that the floor was warm from the crackling fire, “must not ’ave a ’ell of a lot to do.”

“True ladies such as Anna,” he said, and reached into the bowl, “entertain themselves with games of skill and intellect such as chess.” Picking up one almond, he dropped it into his own mouth.

It actually hurt her to see him chew it. “I prefer a rousin’ game of hazard meself. Got me dice right ’ere if you—”

“I shall teach you to play chess,” he interrupted, and dropped another nut into his mouth.

Her fists tightened. “I thought them was for me.”

He ate another, then closed his eyes as if in ecstasy. “If you continue speaking as you are, lass, I’m likely to be sated before breakfast begins.”

Megan opened her mouth to retaliate, but he picked up another almond and held it like a threat. She considered tackling him and wrenching the almond from his hand, but realized in a fog of almond envy that he might think her undignified. So she turned like a militiaman and marched into the bathing room to don the muslin gown she’d worn the day before. Within seconds she was pattering back into the bedchamber and plopping herself into the cushioned chair.

“Shoes,” he said, eating another nut. “Anna would not dine without being properly shod.”

“Well Anna probably ain’t—”

He munched, and she rose with a jerk to tie on her shoes. She was soon back beside the chair.

He was scowling at a book and munching on his toast. “What about your hair?” He didn’t bother to look up.

“What’s wrong with me—
my
hair,” she corrected, and noticed again the silver-plated button with the loose thread. He should be more careful. It might come off at any moment—if there were a thief in the house.

“You will wear your hair up.”

“As you wish,” she said, almost smiling at the button as she strode past in search of her pins.

He scowled and caught her arm as she swept past. The ends of her hair brushed his fingers, and he reached out to touch the feathery tresses with his free hand. “It will be a shame to cut it, but I fear we shall have to.”

She shrugged.

“But it can wait for now,” he said. “You may leave it down. We’ll see if Deirdre has any skill later.”

His fingers tangled in her wild locks, and she raised her gaze to his, feeling a sizzle of emotion. Hatred, she thought. It must be hatred, but when he released her, she felt strangely unsettled.

Their gazes held for a moment before he shifted his away and cleared his throat. “Sit down,” he ordered, and she did so, feeling her nerves tangle at his nearness. “This is the alphabet,” he said, indicating two rows of letters printed large and dark upon the page. “You shall learn it first.”

“Very well.” Her heart still felt odd and her hands unsteady. So she was that much more careful to keep her voice coolly aloof. “What does it say?”