What A Scoundrel Wants (18 page)

“I find hiding a challenge when I cannot see our confines.”

“We are behind the balustrade of a balcony overlooking the largest assembly hall.” He pushed her hands along broad curves of carved sandstone, illustrating his words. “Stay tucked between this railing and the column at your back. The entrance to the dungeon is at the bottom of the stairs at the other end of the hall. I believe.”

“You believe?”

His silent breath touched her face. The masculine scent of him, animal and sweet, reminded her of their kiss, their bodies sharing and fighting. “If you enjoyed our hiding place, I should have left you there.”

“I no longer believe your threats.”

“And I no longer pay mind to your insults,” he said.

“But only yesterday, you claimed to know this castle as well as your own father.”

Will chuckled. “If you live among the trees too long, you lose a knack for sarcasm. I was raised by my uncle for a reason.”

Sour understanding bathed her tongue. “When I’ve called you a bastard, I was correct?”

“Yes,” he said, cupping the side of her face. She stifled the urge to curl deeper into the calloused warmth of his palm. “But you cut deeper when you call me a pig. Save that for the likes of Hugo.”

“Done.”

He shifted, rearranging his limbs within the tight confines. “I was last here five years ago during King Richard’s siege. At great length, Robin made a point of reminding me of my inexperience. I followed his lead and tried to appear competent, nothing more.”

Her faith dwindled with his embarrassment. “You are truly lost?”

“For the most part.”

“
Most
of you is lost,” she said. “What do you know for certain?”

“We are yet within the castle walls.”

“Edifying. Truly.”

“And you would fare better alone?”

“Well done, Will. You have a better sense of direction than a blind woman.”

“I do enjoy being of use.” She could picture the bright, sarcastic grin coloring his words, and her fingers itched to trace its curving lines. “All that keeps us from the dungeon is a pair of staircases separated by a great hall,” he said. “The hall is crowded with revelers in a chain dance.”

She gasped. “Dancers?”

“Yes. I say we join the ring and dance round to the other side. We don’t want to appear conspicuous.” He pressed lips to the back of her hand. Grin, kiss, words—his mouth and its provoking talents pulled an anxious shiver from her belly. “A dance milady?”

“I refused you previously and with good reason.”

“And I was a fool to accept your refusal, as is fitting with my stolen garb.”

“No. I don’t dance.”

“Come, Meg. This is dancing, not escaping soldiers. What’s the harm?”

She blinked uselessly. Will tempted her to make choices based on pleasure, not an avoidance of pain. But down that path waited only humiliation. “I’ve trouble enough walking across flat ground, let alone accounting for rhythm and grace.”

“You walk by yourself, but you dance with a partner.” His enticing words prickled the fine hairs along the back of her hand. “Do you remember, Meg? How we moved together? I am a good partner to you.”

A crowd of fierce, insistent sensations demanded her attention: the peppery taste of his skin, the flex of his lean hips, the rough, rhythmic gasps near her ear. She licked her lips, tasting shared kisses and memories she labored to erase. Denying the intensity of their encounter had become a chore matched only by her efforts to disbelieve his valor.

But fear sat heavy on her shoulder, a fiend pushing talons into her muscles and ripping holes in her bravery. “I don’t want to fall.”

“I won’t let you.”

His promise. Never had he failed to keep a promise. Wretched soul, she could not deny the need for his assurances, his steady armor.

“For my sister, then.”

“Of course.”

He swathed her in the powerful mantle of his body, permitting no resistance. A covetous yearning for protection, one more powerful than physical desire, urged her closer. She found his neck with her lips, not kissing. Simply feeling. Connecting. Every moment spent in his presence thrilled her, like running through the darkness without guides or guarantees. The risk had naught to do with guards, plots, and villains, but with the potential for disappointment.

His whisper found her in the tight blackness. “Come now. Let’s discover what mischief we can elude.”

Meg crawled at his heels. The satchel she wore rested in the divot of her lower back. Somehow, she managed to keep her kirtle and skirt from hindering soundless progress. No matter the situation, she was ready to do the impossible. Had Will suggested they fly across the hall, she would have produced a pair of wings.

They reached the staircase and descended to the hall. The pulse of Meg’s apprehension shoved against his back and kept time with his own heartbeat. At the last step, he turned her in his arms.

“Keep your satchel tucked close,” he said, pulling the mask over his features. “Circle only to your left to follow me. Do not let go of my hand.”

“Be calm, Will.” She wrenched her veil into place. “This is dancing, not escaping soldiers.”

“Well said.” He tucked her fingers into his palm, judging the sway of the dancers until he spotted an opening in the ring. “Now!”

They hastened into the hall, linking hands with a circle of revelers. Feet skipped patterns of double beats in a galloping rhythm. The shrill call of the lutes and pipes urged movement, fast and primal. Laughter colored the air and layered the music of human voices atop the instruments. Heady motion blurred the great room into a smear of shades and smiles.

He squeezed Meg’s hand and cast her a quick look. The veil had flown back, streaming behind her and waving with a spill of unbound hair. Eyes closed, lips turned up, she flowed and pranced as if she had never experienced a moment of fear. She appeared peaceful and happy, like when she twirled, like when he kissed her and she discarded her fearful pride. That cheer erased anger and distrust from her face, revealing the woman beneath. A stunning woman.

He finally found a worthy reason to keep her close.

The music carried them in a wide route around the hall. Nearing the stairs, Will recognized two of Carlisle’s men-at-arms. They loitered in unadorned tunics, seemingly unarmed, but their eyes peeled over the crowd.

He cast his face back to Meg. “Dizzy yet?”

“No.”

“Good. Another circuit, then.”

She smiled broadly, perhaps like a woman enjoying herself.

Breathless minutes passed in happy revelry. Unaccustomed to Jacob’s stiff, tight boots, his feet began to ache. Meg, however, showed no intention of slowing. She may have continued spinning around the hall in thoughtless abandon, holding Will’s fingers as if to the top rung of a ladder, had the rhythm maintained its giddy pace.

But the musicians slowed. The pipes drew forth a melody of delicate longing. Two lutes quieted into a song of bittersweet sorrow, their harmonies coming together like lovers. Across the hall, men and women mimicked that harmony in lazy, swaying pairs. Groups of fond acquaintances raised mugs of ale and narrated long ago tales of love and adventure.

Will dropped the hand of the woman in front of him and untangled Meg from the crumbling circle of dancers. She filled his arms with warm curves. Sweat misted her forehead, and a blush of exertion tinted pale skin a lively shade of pink. She gripped his bare forearms, testing the resilience of his flesh with distracting fingernails. He imagined those nails scoring his chest and stifled a groan.

“Are you lost again?”

“An insignificant detour,” he said. “Nothing more.”

“As you say.”

He stared fondly and openly at her ingénue smile. The bittersweet tang of their recent kiss lingered on his lips, stirring his blood and creating a greed for more. As with good wine and food of quality, he wanted more—more than stolen kisses and her grudging reliance. But against nature, his need for her grew only more insistent with every taste. An unshakable hunger.

“What do you feel right now, in my arms?”

“Frightened,” she said.

Her happy smile wavered and fell. He almost regretted the question, but he enjoyed her honesty. A single word. A word spoken with candor, stripped of pretense and guile.

Yes, he wanted more.

Will kissed her nose. “We’ll get there.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I hold you someday, I want you to feel safe like nowhere else.”

“That will never be,” she whispered. “With you, I am lost.”

“No, you’re not.” He cupped her face, tracing her eyebrows with soft caresses. “Never with me.”

She grinned. “With regard to direction, we have since established your limitations.”

Greed overtook him. He wanted to steal her away from those dangerous halls—justice, honor, and her dubious sister be damned. Chivalry had never been a more tedious burden.

A familiar face in the crowd intruded on his daydreams. He tightened his hold on Meg’s hips, edging her deeper into the mingling dancers. “Trouble follows you better than I do.”

“What now?”

“Hugo.”

She dropped her veil into place. “He’s here?”

“Yes. With Carlisle.”

“I suppose they’ll have a better notion of my appearance now.”

“For certain.” Armed men circled the hall to flank Hugo and Carlisle. Their pairing struck him as unnatural. “Why would he follow you here? What aren’t you telling me?”

She stumbled, her first misstep.

“Meg?”

“You trouble me. You cannot read my eyes or even see my face.”

“But you’re hiding something.”

“Yes. Troubling.”

“Tell me.”

“When he came to the cabin, he said the sheriff had placed a bounty on my head. I wager he’d be first in line to seek such a reward. That and he demanded compensation for having offered us shelter.”

Behind the mask, Will drew his lips into a sneer. “
Offered.
And what compensation did he demand?”

“Emeralds, of course. I gave him asem instead.”

“Jacob’s dog? That would be fitting.”

“No, asem. A false alloy of silver and gold.” Her explanation assumed that learned cadence, the one tinged with condescension. But he also recognized notes of excitement and wonder. “It’s an amalgam of soft tin and white copper—melted, cast, and cleaned multiple times. Produced correctly, even artisans cannot discern asem from authentic gold.”

“Nice swindle.”

“But the quality of my materials was poor, which is why we hadn’t traded it. At elevated temperatures, the consistency changes with any friction. Only a fool would believe those ingots had value beyond propping open a door.”

“Perhaps that explains his face. I didn’t give him those bruises.” Even from Will’s vantage, the deep blue contusions mottled Hugo’s complexion like evening shadows.

She laughed quietly. “You’re making a habit of these sweet words.”

“You couldn’t appease him with anything less infuriating?”

“He wanted my body, but forgive me if I refused him that boon.”

He gagged. “I forgive you.”

“Sweet and gracious, both.”

“Stop your teasing.”

Hugo pointed in their direction. Carlisle nodded and drew his sword. The guards fanned across the hall, disrupting the dancers and stalling the musicians. A woman screamed. Men stepped between their partners and the soldiers, even as they eyed exits and slunk toward surreptitious escapes. Will did the same, positioning his body to better protect Meg, but he did not plan to flee—silly, stupid fool he had become.

“Hugo may be of use after all,” he said.

“How so?”

“By providing us an alternate means into the dungeon.”

“Stay where you are, Scarlet.” Carlisle’s rough command echoed across the hall’s high rafters.

“This is our alternate means?” Meg whispered. “Has your outlook always been this hopeful?”

He flung away his useless mask. “Only when compared to yours.”

“Drop your weapons,” Carlisle said. “You are to be hanged for the murder of the Earl of Whitstowe. Is that the girl?”

At Carlisle’s side, Hugo bobbed his bruised face. “That’s her.”

Meg threw back her veil like a warrior issuing a challenge. “Consider assessing the valuables on your person and around the castle. They’ve a habit of disappearing in that man’s presence.”

“Mad bitch.” Hugo spat at her feet and crossed himself. “She carries the Devil’s trappings in that satchel.”

Will pulled his back straight. Having released the rich curves of Meg’s hips, their dance long ended, he formed the fists he itched to use. Hugo’s face was not damaged enough by half. “You and I are always at a disagreement, thief.”

Hugo sneered, the distended flesh of one cheek bunched into a hideous knot below his eye. “Perhaps because we have the same taste in low women.”

“She’s rebuffed you repeatedly,” he said. “You’ll have to stoop lower.”

“Can you spare advice for such a task? Noblewomen had been your sport, Scarlet.”

“Enough!” Carlisle’s rasping shout cleared the hall of its remaining citizens. He hefted his massive sword to reinforce his order. “Woman, toss me that bag. And Scarlet, I want to see those daggers on the ground.”

Facing a score of armed men, Will felt brave and irresponsible in equal measure. A sensation of fear that bordered on glee saturated his brain. He grinned, a madman awakening.

“I think not.”