Lady Lissa's Liaison (5 page)

"I—I can teach you about the insects that flit in the air above the Dove... and you, sir, can use that knowledge to hook the very trout that ate my locket and has thus far eluded your line."

Before she knew what he was about, Lord Wylde closed the distance between them, dropped his wicker basket and fine net to the ground near her feet, then kicked open the lid of the basket with one booted toe.

"Tell me," he demanded, "what fly of mine you think I should use to catch that wily trout."

Lissa blinked, her nerves frayed by his brusque tone and slamming about. "Well, I—"

"Tell me."

Lissa took in a steadying breath, licked her suddenly dry lips, and then glanced down at the basket. She frowned. It was just as she thought; every fly pinned to the snowy sheepskin was as flawed and pathetic as the nymph at the end of his pole.

She quirked one brow up at him. "The truth, sir?"

"Let's have it," he all but growled.

"Very well, but do remember that you insisted. The fact of the matter is, sir, none of them are a good choice. The tails are all too long, the bodies poorly made, and the hooks—"

"Faith,
"he muttered, slamming the lid shut once again. "That's enough."

Lissa cringed, fearing he was about to give her a scathing set-down. Clearly, he hadn't earned the title of heartless for no reason.

"Sir?" she managed, her voice sounding far too uncertain even to her own ears.

But Lord Wylde wasn't listening, nor was he even looking at her. He was looking at the river, and suddenly he was pacing, back and forth, his pole gripped in one hand, as with the other hand he raked his fingers through the black, shagged lengths of his hair. He appeared to be wrestling with some inner demon; looked frightfully agitated, in fact.

Lissa caught her bottom lip between her teeth, suddenly amazed at the fact that she was standing alone in the woods with a man so many deemed to be a dangerous cannon, a veritable devil come to walk the earth. That she'd insulted him with her assessment of his fly-tying skills was obvious. That she hadn't yet been cut down by his legendary fury was nothing short of remarkable.

She was debating whether to run for safety when he stopped pacing and abruptly turned toward her.

"Name it," he demanded suddenly.

Lissa, her nerves in a jumble, jerked to attention. "My lord?"

"The fly, my lady. Tell me what fly I should use at this time of year."

Lissa wondered if she heard him aright. "Does this mean that you will help—"

"Aye," he growled. "I will help, but mind you I cannot promise to do the impossible. The trout you wish to hook is an old and very cautious one. He hasn't grown huge for no reason. Only the smartest and most cautious trout know when to bite and when not to bite."

"Of—of course," said Lissa, feeling a bit of hope spring forth in her.

"As for your end of our bargain," Wylde continued, just as gruffly, "you will share with me your knowledge of insects."

"Oh, I will. I shall! In fact, I've my sketchbook with me. I've sketched all manner of insects, sir. In great detail."

Lissa dove one hand into her satchel, producing her sketchbook and nature journal as well. "Come," she said, placing both atop the ground, "and see for yourself." She flipped a few pages into the journal, finding an entry she'd written about the green-drake fly. She opened her sketchbook to the exact spot where she'd created a watercolor of the insect. "Notice the tail, my lord. It is long, but not overly so. You want the trout to reach for the tail but to actually swallow the body with the hook. If the tail is too long, the trout will get a short strike, and you will have enticed him but not hooked him. And the body... can you see how it is nicely rounded? You must do the same with your handmade fly, but you must make certain that it won't unravel when the trout's strong jaw wraps about it."

She glanced up at him, seeing that he was very carefully studying her watercolor creation. "I—I can teach you how to tie such a fly, Lord Wylde." She frowned as she thought of the trout in the water, its belly filled with Lord Langford's locket—a locket that was disintegrating as they spoke. "We haven't much time, though, I am afraid."

Lord Wylde's black eyes met her blue ones. "You are thinking of your locket."

Lissa nodded.

He frowned, studied her, frowned some more.

"It must mean a great deal to you," he said at last.

Lissa thought of Lord Langford. She nodded. "Oh, yes," she breathed.
That blasted locket meant her freedom from at least one of her suitors.
"It is imperative that I get it back, sir."

Wylde debated some more. He clearly did not like the idea of striking a bargain with her, but at the same time he obviously desired to know all Lissa knew of insects.

Finally, he groused, "Then it appears, Lady Lovington, the two of us have a great deal of work to do."

Lissa wanted to smile with gratitude, but decided against it. Instead, she simply said, "Yes, that does seem to be the size of it, sir."

Chapter 3

Tilly broke free of the coppice and raced for the lawns of Clivedon Manor, nearly out of breath as she came upon Mrs. Rachett, who was busy hanging laundered linens on the line. The older woman barely glanced in Tilly's direction.

"Are you not wondering what I be about?" Tilly asked between huge, dramatic gulps of air.

"No," said Mrs. Rachett, spreading a fine, white table cloth onto the line. She proceeded to beat the wrinkles out of the linen with her plump, raw-boned hands.

Tilly decided she might just as well rush into the words she'd been rehearsing during her mad dash back to Clivedon Manor. "Oh, la," she said to the disinterested housekeeper, "I be thinking surely
you
of all those in m'lady's keep would be wondering 'bout her doings."

The stern-faced Mrs. Rachett pursed her wrinkled lips, not replying.

Tilly decided to cut to the heart of it all. "M'lady is in the woods with the Heartless Lord Wylde, she is, and glad about that fact! Wants t' spend her day wi' him, she does, and wants not a word of her lee-a..." Tilly stumbled over the word her lady had used. "...her lee-a-zon, to go 'round, for she says it's to be a
secret."

Mrs. Rachett stopped beating the linen. She peered at Tilly, stared at her hard, then looked back at her laundry. "Hmmph," was all she said before she resumed beating the linen again.

Tilly wasn't fooled by Mrs. Rachett's supposed lack of interest; she knew the familiar "harrumph" meant the old woman had heard every word quite clearly and was no doubt deciding whose ear she would bend first with her bit of newfound gossip.

"O' course, I not be wanting to tell m'lady's secrets, but I be thinking someone other than me should know... ," Tilly said, allowing her words to trail off.

Mrs. Rachett hefted another huge linen over the line. "Scat," she muttered to Tilly, scowling with earnest.

Tilly did just that. She ran for the house, quickly slipping inside the side door. Mrs. Rachett was a nasty old woman, to be sure, but she was also a gossip of the highest order. Tilly had no doubt but by sundown word would be spread through Derbyshire about Lady Lissa's liaison with the Heartless Lord Wylde.

Feeling as though she'd done a great deed for the day, Tilly popped into the kitchens, intending to pilfer a sweetcake from Cook's store. She was blasted hungry from all her running about and the excitement at the riverbank. Surely she had a few minutes to prop up her toes and quiet her rumbling stomach.

Her lady would be pleased when she learned that everyone from miles around knew of the desired liaison with the heartless one... and no doubt Tilly would be given a special something for her part in the spread of the rumor.

What a bonny day it was proving to be, Tilly decided.

* * *

Lissa sat beside Lord Wylde on the riverbank and watched as he flipped, for perhaps the third time, through her sketchbook. It seemed that he could not get enough of her watercolor creations.

"You are pleased?" she dared to venture.

"Your paintings appear very precise," he said, not looking at her.

"And my sketchings and journal entries?"

"Just as precise, it would seem."

Obviously he wasn't the sort to compliment overly much. No matter. Lissa had a more important matter on her mind. "So you think you might, with the help of my journals, be able to hook that trout, my lord?"

This time he did glance up, one dark brow lifting ever so slightly. "Recreating nature in a sketchbook, my lady, is not the same as doing so at the end of a fishing line."

"How true," she murmured, casting a glance at the pathetic fly at the end of his pole.

"Faith,
" he muttered, rising to his feet, his irritation evident. "You seem to think you could do a world better than me when it comes to tying flies. To that, I say, prove yourself."

"I would if I could, my lord, but I haven't any of the necessary supplies, not at hand, and—"

"I do. Come. Follow me."

It was a challenge, pure and simple.

"Now?" Lissa asked.
Alone?
was what she was actually thinking.

"Surely you have not lost your bravado, Lady Lissa. A moment ago you made me believe you know all there is to know about catching trout."

"I know about insects," Lissa corrected. "Trout are another thing."

"A trout eats insects. You know about insects, thus you know more about trout than you think you do. Come," he said again, clearly impatient. "The day grows longer as we speak. If it is a bargain we've made, then let us honor it. I'll try and hook the trout that ate your locket, but first you must share with me what you know about insects. And you'll not be sharing that knowledge here."

"Then where?"

"My river hut."

With that, Lord Wylde gathered up his belongings and headed for the fallen tree, jumped atop the rotting log, then looked back at her, his eyes giving away nothing.

Lissa debated the idea of following him to some secluded river retreat—but a bargain was a bargain, and she was desperate to catch the trout that had eaten Langford's locket. Stuffing her journals into her satchel, she hurried to follow.

Lord Wylde extended one hand to her as she reached the log. Lissa took one look at that tanned, strong hand and instantly felt her insides whirl; she remembered only too well the feel of his hands on her, his arms about her, and of how well her body had fit against his.

"I—I can manage on my own, my lord," she said.

"I believe you tried that once."

Rude of him to remind her, Lissa thought.

"If you were to tumble into the water," he continued, "you would scare the trout that lives beneath this log; the very one you hope to hook. Frighten him, and he could swim upriver in search of a new home, and might never be found again."

If it was a ploy he was using, he'd found the perfect one. Lissa grudgingly took hold of his hand. Gabriel Gordon's long fingers curled around her hand as he helped guide her atop the log, and just as Lissa had feared, his touch made her insides twirl and her cheeks flush.

He said nothing, though, merely tightened his hold and expertly navigated their way over the downed wood. Lissa had to quell the urge to close her eyes as they reached the midway point. She was beginning to feel the vertigo again, but his lordship did not give her a chance to get nauseated. He pulled her along with a sure grip, and before she knew it, she was standing on solid ground once again. He did not give her a chance to catch her breath or even to mentally congratulate herself for what she'd just endured.

Without so much as a pause, he released her and set a fast pace downriver, pushing brambles out of his way as he did so. Over one shoulder, he said, "You can call forth that maid of yours. You'll be wanting a chaperone."

Lissa gaped at the back of him. "You—you know about Tilly?"

"Aye. I heard her shrill voice long before I reached the river."

Lissa's eyes narrowed. "And did you hear
my
voice, my lord?"

He shook his head, just once. "No."