The Rogue (26 page)

Servants were lingering in the foyer and peeking from behind doors.

“Mr. Aitken, a hot bath for Mr. Sterling, immediately,” she said.

“Thank you,” Saint said like the rasp of broom bristles upon a floor. “I was aware that I smell like a prison cell, but not quite so poorly to merit such haste.”

“Everyone,” she said, looking around at the hovering servants, “do follow us upstairs to ensure that you hear every detail.” She went up as they finally dispersed.

“Don't be hard on them,” Saint said. “It is a wonderful thing to have a bona fide villain in one's own house. I hope you have assured them all that I will be manacled from dusk till dawn. No need for any to fear they will be set upon while they sleep.”

“You are vastly amusing. You must have put all of your cellmates in contortions of hilarity.”

At his bedchamber door, he reached for the handle.

“Saint—”

“I wish to be alone,” he said. “Not because this was a particularly unusual experience for me, by the way. I have spent plenty of nights in jail cells. Weeks, on occasion.”

She could not hide her surprise. “Have you?”

“Yes. Which your father knew when he hired me. He and I have just spoken again of that history. It is likely to be held against me when this matter comes to court. Unfortunate, but so it goes. In any case, it is best if no one becomes accustomed to me being home—or alive. It shan't last for long.” He went into the room and the door closed quietly.

Constance put her fingertips to the panel and heard his voice saying
home
as though it were the first time she had ever heard the word.

“
T
he accusation will likely be dismissed,” her father said as they rode up the side of Arthur's Seat the following morning in a mist of rain striated with sunshine. Dr. Shaw and Libby followed on the trail behind. A rainbow made its reluctant way over the little mountain, allied with both rain and sun, yet without any enthusiasm.

“I spoke with the Lord Advocate at length,” he continued. “He interviewed Sterling, both in my presence and privately. No witnesses saw him with Miss Favor on the day of her disappearance, the afternoon before the party at Loch Irvine's house.”

“He was out all afternoon and evening that day,” the day she had worn breeches to her fencing lesson and then left him to meet the man she was supposed to marry. She stared at the rocky heights rising to one side, Elfhame's steps sure upon the narrow track. “Alone.”

“He said he rode into the countryside. The only call he paid seems to be at a bladesmith's shop. Unfortunately.”

The shop he took her to two days later. “Unfortunate, indeed.”

“Do you believe him guilty, Constance?”

“No. Do you?”

“If I did, I would not be making this effort to clear him of suspicion.”

The hill rose gradually on one side, offering a view of the royal palace and the medieval city rising toward the castle. But at its center were steep hills and occasional depressions. In one, a church from centuries past lay in ruins. The far side of the mount descended abruptly to the village of Duddingston, where Annie Favor had lived.

“Thank you for coming, Father. I would not fault you for throwing this in my face now.”

“Whatever ill you believe of me, Constance, I have only ever wanted the best for you.”

Upon the crest, they looked down at the city.

“Father, did you create the Falcon Club before or after you found my mother?”

Slowly, he turned to her.

“I have known for years that Mama ran away,” she said. “I know she was not at the house here, as you said at the time, but that you spent months looking for her. I always thought it had to do with Libby's father who, I think, cannot actually be Dr. Shaw. But now I am not certain of anything you have ever told me. When Mama disappeared, why didn't you tell me the truth?”

“It was not a truth for a young girl to know. I wanted to make you strong. Fear would have only weakened you.”

“Libby shows signs of Mother's illness, but I don't fear for her. She has a strong mind and I believe she has already learned how to fight it, as Mother never did. I might have too, had I taken after her in that. You needn't have lied.”

“I will not apologize to you, Constance. You became the woman you are because of the choices I made.”

When they returned to the house, Saint and Lord Michaels had already gone out. Constance accepted callers. All were overjoyed to know that her husband had been released from his unjust imprisonment.

“Half of them think he is guilty,” Eliza said. “The other half hope he finds the real villain and sticks him through with his sword.”

Constance hadn't any patience with waiting for anyone else to find the villain. The following morning she paid calls, first to Lady Hughes, then Mrs. Westin, Lady Easterberry, Lady Melville, and every other gossip in town. While strolling through the park with Eliza later, she met Sir Lorian and Lord Hart. She smiled and laughed lightly and said how eager she was for the fencing rematch. That evening, the Lord Advocate sent a message to her father that he was needed in Glasgow and would return shortly to settle the matter of Saint's accusation. Lack of evidence pointed to a dismissal of the charges, but the police wished to be thorough.

Her father departed for the castle, taking the doctor and Libby with him. He needn't linger in Edinburgh, he said. The Lord Advocate would send him word when he returned.

The next morning as she breakfasted alone, Mr. Viking appeared.

“My lady, Mr. Sterling requests your presence in the ballroom at your earliest convenience.”

Her earliest convenience? He hadn't spoken to her in days, yet now he thought he could summon her?

In the ballroom, he awaited her with sword in hand.

She halted at the door. “What are you doing?”

“Preparing you to fight.” He gestured to her sword on the rack.

“You needn't do this.”

“I am here expressly to do this.”

“Not any longer,” she said, weak inside—
damn him
. This was how it was to be, then, this distance again. “You have taught me the skills. I know them.”

“You have never actually fought another person. You will practice doing so now.”

“With you?”

“Of course not. With Viking.”

The valet entered. “My lady, is this acceptable to you?”

“It is,” Saint answered. He gestured to a mask and padded jacket. “You will wear those. Today you will practice two-handed.”

She donned the protective garments as much because she wished to be with him, even in this manner, as because she wanted to learn. Standing at the side of the room, he instructed her by commands as she and Viking sparred. It was difficult and frustrating and thrilling to finally put her lessons to the test. She was clumsy with the dagger in her left hand, but her blood was jittery and she managed several hits to Viking's chest and arm with her épée.

When her attention darted to her husband, he said in a voice of steel that she must never remove her attention from her opponent, for any reason. In that moment's distraction, he said, she made herself vulnerable.

After some time, he told them to rack their swords and take their daggers into their right hands. When he called an end to it, she thought he would talk with her about it, review her performance. But he thanked his valet and departed. He did not return for dinner. The following morning she learned from Lord Michaels that his cousin had spent the previous afternoon with Lady Hughes and Mrs. Westin and the evening with him, out.

Each morning Saint supervised her sparring sessions with Viking, and after that left the house, not to return until late. On the occasions that he dined at home, he said little to her, and nothing that could not be said before others. Mostly he was silent. When she looked at him, she always found his eyes upon her but saw no pleasure there. The warmth was gone.

When she noted that her hands were blistering from the work, he bade her set down her weapons and demonstrated how to strike an opponent with the hand, the elbow, and the foot. He made her practice, at first on the wooden mannequin and then on his valet. Mr. Viking donned thick pads and accepted the blows with stalwart tolerance.

He taught her to fight now as though he must complete the task in a finite time. He could not leave Edinburgh until after the case against him either came to court or was dismissed. He was imprisoned now as effectively as he had been before, on all those occasions in his past that he had never thought to mention to her.

C
ONSTANCE SAT BEFORE
her dressing table, fastening an earring of pearls and diamonds in her ear and looking out at the night sky suffused with the brilliant light of the full moon when her husband knocked on the door. Dressed for an evening out in a dark blue coat, black breeches, and shining boots, he was handsome and unsmiling and entirely remote.

“May I enter?” He had not come into her room since the day he had discovered her scars.

“Yes.”

He extended a folded sheet of paper. “This just arrived, via a street urchin who ran off before Aitken inquired as to the sender.”

Taking care not to touch him, she took the paper.

Sir & Madam,

The Master requests the honor of your presence at midnight this night at the Sanctuary for an intimate gathering of friends. Unaccompanied by servants, drive your carriage to the Peppermill, and don the enclosed. Your carriage and horses will be cared for.

The Reeve

“I
T SEEMS THAT
our efforts have finally borne fruit,” he said, hands folded behind his back.

“Code names, even.” She hardly knew how to feel. Triumphant? Excited? And yet a peculiar anger coated all else.

“Suitably medieval,” he said.

“The enclosed?”

He held forth two pieces of carefully stitched black satin cloth.

“Masks?” she said.

“Blindfolds. Presumably so that we will not know where we are taken.”

She could not stop staring at the strips of satin. The night they had first spoken, first touched, he had unmasked her in the dark. Yet the next day he had known her in the light.

“I promise not to pull your hair this time,” he said with the first hint of warmth since the jail.

She looked up at him. “I don't want to fight Viking any longer. I want to fight you.”

“You're not good enough to fight me.”

“I will show you I am.”

His eyes sharpened. “All right. If you insist. Tomorrow—”

“No.” She stood up. “Now.”

“I have an engagement just now.” His gaze slid down her gown of sapphire silk embroidered with silver thread whose bodice cut low over her breasts. “It seems that you do as well.”

“Then we will both be late.” She went around him and out of the room.

He followed her to the ballroom. She went directly to the sword rack, pulled the padded coat over her shoulders and fastened it swiftly, then took up her sword. Without a glove, the hard grip against her palm felt good. Honest. The daylight had gone entirely, and only cool silver moonlight illumined the room.

“I know you will choose not to hit me,” she said, “so I shan't bother with a mask. But I will hit you anywhere I can. You should wear protective gear.”

He reached for his weapon. “You won't hit me.”

“We'll see about that.” She lifted her blade. “
En garde.
”

U
pon her first thrust, her tip caught on his guard. In an instant he beat her blade aside, then he paused as though he meant to halt. But she dove at him again, lunging when he retreated, driving forward. He parried easily.

She advanced again, and his parry deflected her blade, but he did not counterattack. Again she thrust her arm forward, and again, redoubling and thrusting anew until he parried steadily, not pausing and not allowing her through, the swords clicking and sliding.

“What are you doing?” he said.

Lips pinched between her teeth, she extended, advanced, pressed him until he dropped back a step, then another, and yet another, deflecting her blows with an easy defense. Moonlight glittered on steel, and the sounds of metal clashing and her own labored breaths were in her ears.

“Advance,” she said. “Attack, damn you.”

“No.”

“You want to,” she grunted and her wrist jerked as his
blade beat hers away. Without the glove, her hand ached already. “I know you are angry.”

“Methinks the lady should examine the plank in her own eye,” he murmured and parried another advance with a quick click of steel against steel.

“Admit it,” she said, her lungs tight.

“When will you learn to trust me?” His voice was low.

Springing from bent knees, with all her power she lunged. He parried, disengaged, turned his shoulder, and she stumbled past him, her legs tangling in her skirts. Catching herself up, she rounded on him.

The impassivity had gone from his face. His eyes burned.

“I don't know how to—” He dragged his free hand through his hair. “I
need
you to trust me, Constance.”

Tip extended, she went at him.

He knocked her blade away with a parry that jolted her shoulder hard and jerked the handle from her fingers. Before she could readjust, he advanced.

It was no effort for him, she knew. The first hit to her shoulder came quickly, barely a tap. The next to her arm was the same, light yet smarting even through the padded sleeve. He did not halt with each hit, but blocked her counterattacks and advanced again. The tip of his épée struck her only on the coat, only where her skin was protected. But with each hit she felt his aggression contained by skill. This was not sport. It was a duel.

“Is this what you want?” he said, pressing her backward, his voice gravelly. “Is this the game you want to play?”

“It isn't a game.” She thrust, parried, her mind spinning, lungs screaming.

“Are you certain?” He forced her into retreat, his blade sparkling coldly beneath the full moon. “Because I cannot do this. I will not any longer.”

“Why are you still teaching me?” She tried to push through his advance, to recall every trick he had taught her. But he anticipated her feints, deflected her counterattacks. “Why have you been insisting that I spar with Viking?” she
demanded, throwing all her remaining strength into her arm and legs, into each thrust and lunge. “Can you not bear to touch me even with a blade since I told you the truth? Is that it? Is that the reason?”

For an instant his face went slack and he paused, and she burst past his guard. She hit him. Her blade arced as his shoulder jerked back.

His eyes flared. His sword slashed and with a brutal jolt the handle sprang from her grasp. She shouted in pain and grabbed her wrist.

His sword clattered to the floor as he came at her. Wrapping his hands around her shoulders, he dragged her close.

“I have insisted because I don't want you to be harmed.” His eyes were afire. “I could not bear it if you were harmed again. I could not
bear
it.”

A sound of disbelief escaped her.

He brought his mouth down on hers. Her fists loosened, spread, her fingers sinking into his hair, pulling him to her, and she opened her lips to him.

The kiss was salt and heat and sweat, a seeking, desperate connection that wanted depth instantly. His hands covered her back, pinning her to him.

“You
hit
me,” he said, pleasure in his voice.

“I did!”

“It
hurt
.” He sought her lips again and then her tongue, pulling her up to him with his hands, holding her against his chest. “It still hurts, damn it.”

Laughter spilled from her throat. Breathing was a memory. He was crushing her to him and she wanted only this, his arms entrapping her, his mouth for her lips alone.

He kissed a line of delirium beneath her ear to her throat. She pressed against his body and a moan burst from her. His hands swept down her back to her behind and he held her to him.

“Do you want me, Constance?” he said against her skin. His kisses upon her neck were delectable and she felt them everywhere.

“I do. I
do
.”

He looked into her eyes. “Then take me.”

“Take you?” she whispered.

“Take me. I am here. Willing. Entirely ready. Take what you want.”

He stunned her. She never anticipated him. She did not know how to anticipate him.

“But—”

“Don't deny this.” His hands held her so tightly.

“What if I . . .
cannot
?”

“No fear. No expectations. Just us. You and me.” There was such vulnerability in his eyes, such fierce longing.

She took him. Tearing off her padded jacket was time wasted, but removing his coat and waistcoat was unwrapping a gift. Spreading her hands across his chest, she felt his strength that he had never used against her. As she had at the Assembly Rooms, she pulled the shirt from his breeches and put her hands under it, on him, running them over the beauty of his flesh.

He shuddered. “
Constance.
”

She allowed her hands to learn the shape of his chest, the heat and dampness of his skin. The shirt hampered her exploration.

“Remove this,” she ordered, and he obeyed, discarding neck cloth and shirt on the floor.

So many scars. She kissed them all, trailing her palms over his skin, one and the next and the next, on his shoulder, his arm, his collarbone, and then the long slash across his waist.

She covered his arousal with her hand.

“Now.” She lifted her face to his. “
Now.
”

His hands encompassed her hips as if to pull her closer but then his arms locked and he made a sound in his throat. With the same discipline he had showed in their fight, he was letting her control this.

With trembling fingers she reached for the fasteners on the fall of his breeches. When she surrounded his naked
flesh with her hand he went entirely still. His eyes were closed, the muscles in his jaw bunched.

“Saint,” she whispered, uncertain now.

“My—” he uttered, his chest rising hard. “Tell me I'm not dreaming.”

“Now. Quickly, please.”

He opened eyes full of desire. “Come,” he said, and went to his knees, gathering her skirts up as he drew her down to straddle him.

The first intimate contact of their flesh drove the air from her lungs. With slow, golden kisses upon her lips now, he settled his hands around her hips beneath her gown, strong and gentle at once. Then he moved her against him. He was hot and hard and she had not known to expect this pleasure in mere contact. Wrapping her arms about his shoulders and feeling his skin and muscles beneath her palms, she leaned into him.

“I don't want to stop doing this,” she whispered into his ear as she moved on him.

“Then don't.” He kissed her neck, her shoulder, his hands aiding her thrusts. “Do as you wish. Only as you wish.”

“I want to feel you inside me,” she said around a mountain of mingled pleasure and apprehension. “If it's possible.”

“Give it a try, why don't you?” he murmured without urgency. But his heartbeat beneath her palm was thunderous.

She smoothed her hands over his back and lifted her hips a bit. “Help me.”

He did so.

It hurt as she bore down on him. She buried her face against his neck. “
Saint.
”

Then he touched her with his fingers. Softly. Intentionally. The pleasure returned. Seeking his caress, slowly she eased down on him, taking more of him, stretching and feeling tension but no pain—only hot, hard fullness. Finally filled with him, flush to him, she saw the moisture on his shoulder where her tears had fallen.

“Everything all right?” he said, one hand flat over her
lower back, holding her to him. His voice was decidedly shaky.

She laced her fingers through his hair and kissed him. Again. Again and again. Sighs tickling her throat, she rocked her hips to his. His clever fingers on the center of her need and the hard length of him drove her to thrust harder, to rise and then take him in again as far as she could, and faster each time.

“Constance, if you cannot find satisfaction like this—”

“I—” she gasped, and moaned upon a thrust. Deep inside her he was touching her. She pressed her palms to his shoulders. “It shouldn't be—” It began, grabbing and constricting with delicious, coiling pressure. “
Difficult.
” It took her, releasing across her flesh as she strained to him. Both of his hands went to her hips, grasped tightly, and jerked her to him, giving her more, making it last in convulsions that tore the breaths from her. She pushed to him, seeking. His fingers dug into her hips and abruptly he held her still, his muscles hardening. Groaning, he shuddered.

For several moments, only the moonlight spoke. Then he kissed her. Hands around her face, he used her mouth fully, decadently, and she clung to him and began to laugh.

He drew back, kissed her cheek, her brow, her lips as she smiled.

“I presume this means that you are well,” he said.

“Yes.” She wanted to laugh forever.
This
was what it could be. This beautiful thing, this joining. Even holding him inside her now, her body trembling with satisfaction, was such pleasure. “Yes.”

He stroked back a lock of hair stuck to her cheek and tucked it behind her ear as she laid her palms upon his damp chest.

“Except I think I have bruised my knees,” she said. “And perhaps chafed my thighs on your breeches.”

“Battle wounds.” He nuzzled her jaw, then her throat, sending unbearably acute tremors through her.

“I must go change,” she said, drawing away. As she
smoothed out her skirts she watched him fasten his breeches. “I have a dinner engagement at—”

His hand curved around her hip and he scooped her up into his arms.

“What are you doing?”

He started toward the door. “Taking you to bed.”

“But, our previous plans—”

“I don't recall having previous plans. Do you?”

She circled her arms about his neck. “We cannot sleep. The Master's gathering—”

“We aren't going to sleep.”

Bare-chested, he carried her upstairs. In his bedchamber, her eyes alighted on the bed and her pulse jerked into speed.

“No. Not—”

He set her on her feet then drew her into his arms.

“Tell me,” he said close to her brow.

“Not this bed,” she said. “Mine.”

“Your wish, my lady.” He took her hand and walked her through the dressing closet that connected their bedchambers. Releasing her, he went to both doors and locked them. Then he came to where she stood paralyzed and grasped her hand again.

“We just made love on the floor of a ballroom after you nearly skewered me with a sword. And yet in your own bedroom you are terrified. Your hand is cold. What do you wish of me now, wife? I am yours to command.”

She went onto her toes and kissed his mouth, then his neck, then the fierce red mark just beneath his shoulder that was already turning purple.

“How is it that your skin is tanned here?” she said, caressing the bruise and muscle with her lips and feeling an echoing thrill of pleasure within her.

“I have been on the loch.”

She looked into his face. “Without a shirt?”

“When diving was necessary.”

She pulled back. “Diving? Today?”

“Every afternoon for the past ten days.”

“I thought you were paying calls, encouraging invitations to secret cabals.”

“Briefly. Then Dylan and I went to the water and the surrounding fields.”

“You are looking for the knife, aren't you?”

“For anything. Any clue that might help to locate Chloe Edwards.”

“And prove that you had nothing to do with Miss Favor's death.”

“It is a futile task, in truth.”

She ran her fingertips lightly over the bruise she had given him, then across the strong collarbone and down the center of his chest.

“Then why are you pursuing it?” she asked, touching her lips to his shoulder.

“Well.” His chest expanded. “That—that kiss just there—might have something to do with it.”

“Because it will please me?” She spread her hands across his chest and smiled a bit. “I don't entirely believe you.”

He grasped her wrists and plucked her hands from him.

“Constance, I will always tell you the truth. Always.”

“Allow me to further inspire your investigations,” she said, and traced her tongue around and over his nipple. Years ago she had made herself drunk on the sound and sight of him alone. Now she drank liberally of taste and texture. He remained still as her lips and the tip of her tongue explored him, his breathing uneven, but holding her loosely until her fingers came to the waistline of his breeches. Then his grip tightened.

She unfastened the fall of the breeches and pushed them down. He was fully erect and beautifully made in sex and limb. Her face was hot.

He cupped her chin in his palm. “My blushing bride,” he murmured upon a smile.

“No.”

“To which of those three words do you object?”

“This heat in my face is not born of innocence or modesty. I have neither.”