The Rogue (6 page)

“I have no idea of what you are accusing me.”

“Never believe those jealous old biddies in London, about
that arrangement she had with Doreé. It's all nonsense. She's far too fine a woman for those sorts of games. I don't care what you've heard—”

“I have heard no gossip about her, no more than you yourself have told me.”

“Then why the dark brow? What's to prevent me from taking advantage of a beautiful heiress's generous invitation to put up at her house for a bit?”

Nothing except his wish to protect Dylan from the unhappy fate she was entirely capable of offering to a man heedless enough to court it.

“When I depart tomorrow,” he said, “take a room at a hotel in Edinburgh.”

“I've made it clear to everybody here that I'm bound to your side. It's my dratted excuse for coming along. If you don't stay, I cannot.”

“What of the Duke of Loch Irvine? You said earlier that you called on him in Edinburgh at Christmastime.”

“He's up north at present,” Dylan grumbled, “at his principal estate.” He jolted from the chair, tossed the sword into its case, and went to the door. Pausing there, with an unusually grave face he said, “I am in love with an exceptional girl, Saint, and I want to make her mine. I don't guess you know what that feels like, or what it's like to be thwarted in it. But I'm asking you to take pity on a fellow and help me.”

He went out, leaving Saint with a sword worth hundreds of pounds and an ache in his gut.

The Viscount Gray

Grosvenor Square

London, England

Dearest Colin,

Join me in my joy as I share wonderful news: I am to be wed. He is a duke and very rich, although possibly a Very Bad Man. But I am certain we will be deliriously happy together. I do hope you will attend the wedding.

Fondly,

Constance

Lady Justice

Brittle & Sons, Printers

London

Dearest Lady (without whose attention I languish, and without whose sweet condemnations—offered so generously—I would barely know myself a Cretin and instead be called, mistakenly, Man),

I write to you in dismay, for I have received news of a Most Distressing Nature: The last remaining member of my Club is to marry. When marry, how, and to whom, I will leave to your journalistic perspicacity. Know only this, that in anticipation of the event I am bereft. For upon that day when bells chime in the church tower to announce the vows are said, I will be left alone. The Falcon Club that was once five will be only one in number: me.

And so I write to you with this plea: Do not abandon me as my companions have. Remain with me (in such a manner as you have allowed this concourse betwixt us), give me your counsel (as you are ever eager to do) to relieve my dejection, your wisdom (immense, quick, and astonishing) to calm my lonesome fidgets, and your bosom (metaphorically, of course) as a cushion for my cheek when I need the most simple comfort—the comfort of knowing that I am yet in the mind and heart of one inestimable Friend.

I claim this succor of you knowing that your generosity in giving it will only confirm in my breast that Profound Admiration that I have had for you these five years of our correspondence.

Ever Yours,

Peregrine

Secretary, The Falcon Club

To Peregrine, at large:

My cheeks are free of tears for you. No man who deserves friends has cause to fear their loss. Moping is the privilege of the pampered classes. Boredom that you inflict upon yourself is your true enemy. I recommend that you find some useful employment worthy of a Man rather than a Mob Cap.

—Lady Justice

I
n a blacksmith's shop not a mile from the castle, the smith examined the rapier and then produced a small stone the color of sunset. The stone was warm and fine, perfect for the sword.

“I'll take no payment for it, sir. Leddy Constance sent word that I was to aid ye with whatever ye wished. I'm happy to do a good turn for her.”

Saint tucked the whetstone into his pocket and returned to the castle along a road bordering the vast wood flanking the pastures and hills of the estate. A wall ran the length of the forest, breaking to dip into the estate grounds beyond where one-time formal gardens now grew wild.

Walking Paid along a path at the tree line, he saw her.

Facing at an angle away from the wood, with the breeze pressing her skirts around her legs, which were braced slightly apart, she lifted a long bow with an arm as straight as her spine, nocked the arrow, and shot. With a thwack that sounded across the lawn, it pierced the target dead center.

Without pause, she reached for another arrow, settled it against the nocking point, drew her arm back smoothly, and let it fly. It embedded flush with the first.

A third time she fit an arrow to the bow and pulled the taut string back with the ease with which most women unfurled a fan.

“Ten pounds says you cannot split them,” he called across the grass.

She swung around toward him, released the string, and a breeze brushed his cheek before the arrow sank into a tree trunk behind him.

“Goodness me,” she said, lowering the bow. “I missed the target. And I so wanted a new bonnet. Ah well, I will continue practicing and then I might win that ten pounds. But will you offer the wager again?”

He pressed his mount forward. “Your aim was off just then by at least two inches.”

“I thought you might like a matching set.” She wore a leather hand protector and her gown was plain and fitted snugly to her upper body and arms. Tall and lithe, with ample breasts and straight shoulders, she had a beautiful form. He wondered how many men had seen her dressed like this—revealing her shape so bluntly, so decadently—and if she intended Dylan to see her now.

“Thank you, but I will pass,” he said.

“But men with scars are so mysterious.” She was smiling—barely.

“The more scars, the more mysterious?”

“Naturally.”

“Then I prefer less mystery. And a bit less levity about it too.”

She turned again toward the target, lifted the bow, and took up another arrow.

“If you cannot make light of injury, Mr. Sterling, perhaps you should pursue a different profession.” She let the arrow fly. It impacted the target's outer ring.

“Lost your concentration, have you?” he said.

Swiftly she nocked another arrow and shot. The arrow joined its two mates in the bull's-eye.

“Apparently not,” she said, and hoisted the bow again. “I thought you were leaving.”

“Shortly.”

The bowstring twanged and the arrow soared upon a wobbly trajectory to the target. It dove into the straw a hair's breadth above the other four.

“I see that your boast about shooting was justified,” he said as she took up the empty quiver and walked toward the target. He urged Paid forward. “What is your range with a pistol?”

“Fifteen yards with perfect accuracy. At twenty yards, one in two.”

“Then given my aversion to acquiring more scars, I am glad to have encountered you with the bow.”

He reached the target before her, dismounted, and pulled the arrows from the fabric. When she approached, she accepted them and dropped them into the quiver.

“I did not actually intend to hit you.” She slung the strap of the quiver over her shoulder, and turned in the direction of the stable. “If I had intended to, I would have.”

“I have no doubt.” Drawing his horse by the reins, he followed her, enjoying the vision of the curve of her hips and her gait that remained steady even over knobby grass. From beneath a brimmed straw hat her hair lay in a long, thick plait down her back. She carried the bow at her side like she'd been doing so since it was taller than she.

“How do you come to be such a fine shot?” he asked.

“For nineteen years I had little to do but amuse myself on this estate. Needlework, books, and the pianoforte could not fill all the hours. And I was . . . restless. When I discovered shooting, I liked it. My father's huntsman and my cousin gave me instruction.” Before the stable door she pivoted to him. “Why won't you?” Color stood upon her cheeks and her lips were a lush garden of temptation, but the hat brim cast the top of her face in shadow.

“Remove your hat,” he said.

“Why?”

“I want to see your eyes clearly.”

“My eyes?”

“Eyes are windows onto character. If you intend to fight a man, you must first look him in the eye.”

She set down the bow and untied the ribbon beneath her chin, then drew off the hat. “I am not a man, of course, and I do not intend to fight you.”

“The moment you take up a sword, you invite combat.” He walked toward her. Her hair was damp against her brow, wisps escaping the bindings and caressing her cheeks.

“When you shoot,” he said, “you do so at a distance. There is safety in that distance. Between you and your opponent might be obstacles behind which you can hide. Or your enemy might find himself without ammunition. Arrows and bullets are finite.” He dropped his horse's reins and went the remainder of the distance separating them. “When you fight a man with a blade, you haven't the advantage of remaining aloof.”

Her eyes were steady upon him. “Aloof?”

“From physical contact. You can be an expert marksman with bow or firearm and never come within arm's reach of your target.” He halted before her, close enough to see the dilation of her pupils, the depths of ebony within the brilliant blue. “When you fight with a sword you feel your opponent's strength and you discern his skill in your own body. You experience him not only with your eyes and ears, but also in your flesh.”

She was breathing quickly but trying to hide it.

He snapped the brim of her hat from her fingers and tossed it on the ground. “Show me your hands.”

This time she did so without question, turning them face up between them. No fool to show him the backs, she offered him the palms, the seat of her power. But he had long since known she was not a fool. That award went to him.

“Remove the glove.”

She untied the protective leather from her left hand and let it fall beside her hat.

“What are you looking at?” she said.

“The hands of a woman who hasn't done a day's labor in her life.” He met her gaze. As it widened, he moved around her and into the stable, his horse trailing him inside.

“Of course I haven't,” she said.

“An hour with a sword in your hand,” he said, leading Paid into a stall, “and you would not be able to feel your arm for a week, except the pain.” He slipped a halter over the animal's head and released the bit from its mouth. Hanging the bridle on a peg, he turned to her.

She stood at the threshold of the stall. “I don't suppose the children you teach begin with calluses on their palms.”

He went to the door. “I don't teach children.”

She arched a brow. “We are particular in our students, are we?”

“We are very good at what we do and needn't take on students who do not suit us.”

Bow in hand again, with the full quiver of arrows slung against her back, she blocked the stall door.

“I don't want to learn how to fence. My father's idea is foolishness.” Frustration carved lines in her brow. This close her scent of winter roses was all about him, as warm and intoxicating as he remembered.

He bent his head and said quietly, “Then why are you standing in my way now?”

“I—” Her throat constricted in a jerk, rippling the fabric hugging her neck. “I would like to know how to hand fight. With a dagger.”

He straightened. “A dagger?”

“You know how to use a dagger, don't you? Or a knife?”

“You want to learn how to fight like a street thief?”

“Yes.”

“And you imagine I could teach that to you?”

“Couldn't you?”

“I could. But that hardly answers the question of why you wish to learn it.”

“Does it matter?”

He tilted his head and seemed to study her seriously, as he had assessed her while she was shooting. His clear, dark eyes had never seemed entirely mortal to her, rather from the faery realm. Sometimes during those forbidden hours they had spent together she had imagined that with magic he could see past her words and actions, directly into her soul.

Now the touch of his gaze took her breaths away in little bunches of useless air. The pale sunshine filtering through the window at his back painted a halo around his silhouette, like an image of Saint Michael, with his hard, bellicose beauty restrained only by art.

Abruptly he stepped forward, and she jerked her shoulder back so he passed through the door without touching her.

“You need no dagger. You have sufficient weapons at your disposal already,” he said as he strode away.

“I want to learn how to injure a man at close range,” she said to his back.

He looked around. “And how, I wonder, do you imagine that statement will now inspire me to teach you?”

“You have seen how well I shoot, yet you doubt my application to the task.”

“Your determination seems clear enough. It is the fever in your eyes when you speak of injuring another person that concerns me.”

“I see. Like most men, you fear a woman's strong emotions.”

“That depends on which strong emotions she is expressing.” He almost looked like he would smile. He smiled easily, she remembered, more pleased with her company than anyone had ever been before. After that first night, when they met at dawn by the wood, she had made him promise not to touch her again and to not seek to discover her identity. For fourteen days he had held to his promise. But the way he had smiled at her had driven her mad with desire she barely understood at the time. Many times she
had had to stop herself from closing the distance he kept between them. She had wanted his kisses far too much.

Now he crossed his arms comfortably over his chest, his stance nonchalant yet so coiled with strength that he seemed at once perfectly at ease and entirely dangerous.

“Do you have one man in particular that you wish to injure,” he said, “or is your prey simply men in general?”

Her stomach twisted.

“How vastly amusing you are, sir,” she said lightly. “In refusing to teach children and women, do you hope to defend your sex from injury at the hands of your inferiors?”

His sudden laughter was deep and warm. “If women are men's inferiors, the moon is made of marzipan.”

She smiled. “I suppose you are right about that.”

Unfolding his arms, he again turned away.

“Don't leave today.” She stepped forward. “Lord Michaels and Mrs. Josephs have planned a game of charades for this evening. Dr. Shaw and his daughter as well. I would not want to disappoint them. Will you remain one more night?”

“I'm not much for games,” he said.

“I noticed the chessboard after you and my father played last night.” She took another step toward him. “He invited you to play to intimidate you into acquiescing.”

“He is a formidable opponent. But I am not easily intimidated.”

“Oh. I understand. You have now seen that I can be an apt pupil.” She gestured with her bow. “But pride will not allow you to recant your refusal to him.”

“Pride has nothing to do with it.”

“Give me a chance, an audition, as it were. My father needn't even know. Meet me in the ballroom tomorrow at dawn before all arise. I will show you that I can apply myself to learning how to wield a dagger with cool dispassion worthy of any man.”

“No, I don't think I will,” he said thoughtfully. “I've met you at dawn before, and it ended poorly for me. I have no wish to repeat the experience.”

Her heart tumbled over. “You admit to it?”

“It?”

“The past. Our past.”

“Why not? I haven't suffered amnesia or any other unlikely fate that wipes memory clean or makes a man deny history.”

“I thought you meant to pretend amnesia. Since yesterday you have behaved to me like a stranger.”

“We are strangers.”

This was not true. From the moment they met he had never seemed like a stranger to her. Alien in his unfamiliar masculinity, yes—but never a stranger. Swiftly and naturally he had taken pleasure in her company as no one else ever had. And like no other person alive, he had spoken with her like an equal. A friend. She'd gotten drunk on him, and she had believed that perhaps he had been a little drunk on her too.

“I'd thought you craven,” she said.

“Merely courteous in not wishing to expose you.” Hand on the hilt of his sword, with a gleam in his eyes he bowed. “My lady.”

My lady.
Six years ago he had thought her an upper servant, perhaps a lady's maid. But he had called her his lady and promised to be her champion, her protector, her blade to wield as she wished. The moment he discovered her name, that she was a noblewoman, that she had allowed him to believe otherwise, the ardor in his eyes had died.

Now he made light of it.

“Mockery is not courteous,” she said.

“True,” he admitted. “How deplorably unlike a chevalier I have turned out to be.” He cocked a half smile. “Despite my vow.”

There was such a foolish ache in her chest that she wanted to curl her fist into it and press it away.

“It ended as I warned you it would,” she said.

“Given the encouragement you offered me, I would have been one man in ten thousand to believe that warning.”