Charming the Devil (13 page)

He gritted his teeth against the sensations caused by her nearness and forced out a denial. It was like pushing a brick through his pupil. “These English think it good sport to chase them,” he said. “In time the young ones will be of some value.”

She narrowed her eyes. Somehow, he felt the movement in his throat. “Are you saying you plan to sell them to the hunters?”

“What else?” he asked, but even that was almost too much to manage.

“So you did not intend to save them?”

He forced a laugh, but in that instant, she reached out and pressed her hand to his wounds.

He clenched his jaw, trying to hold back the truth, but the words came nevertheless. “’Twas a foolish notion. The wee beasties fight like cornered Frenchmen. But when I set my mind to a thing, ’tis all but certain I will do…” He paused, feeling doltish.

“You went into the woods, through the rain just because you believed me to be distressed by their plight?”

He tried to lie, but nodded nevertheless.

“Well, you were wrong,” she said, and pulled her hand away. “As I told you before, they are naught but vermin.”

He stared at her, drinking her in, doing his best to read her. “I am not certain if you are so poor at acting that you cannot hide the truth, or such a fine
thespian you only seem to wish to,” he admitted.

“Whatever are you talking about?”

There was depth to her, depth and light and strength. He was sure of it. But he had been sure before. Had been sure and forfeited his soul. “You try to hide the sadness,” he said.

Surprise shone on her ethereal face like light on magic. “What would I have to be sad about?”

He waited, watching her, knowing he should turn away before it was too late. “There was trouble at Inver Heights,” he said.

“Trouble?” She seemed to pale. Was that something a woman could contrive? “No.” She shook her head. “No trouble. Silly me. I but had a fright and thought—”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Who?” Her voice was breathy.

“The man you believed to be me. Who was it? Rennet? Was it he?” The thought roiled like poison through his system. But she shook her head. “A servant then? Lindale?”

“No.” She denied all, gaze held fast on his. “I am well, Rogan.”

It was the first time his name had brushed her lips, and the feel of it wafted through him, lighting his thoughts like wayward moonbeams.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, and slowly, ever so slowly, she reached up to caress his cheek.

Feeling flowed through him. Hope and fear and forgiveness, as sharp as shards. And though he
knew he should pull away, he could not. Indeed, he seemed to be drawing closer, pulled under her spell, nearing her lips.

“So how are our wee bloodthirsty—”

Bain jerked away from her touch. Sanity rolled in almost immediately, followed by a forsaken sense of abstract loneliness.

But Connelly, never in tune with subtle nuances, spoke again, and when Bain glanced his way, the Irishman was grinning like a monkey in a sugar cabinet.

“And to think I had all but given up on you, McBain.”

S
he had tried to think, had tried to sleep. But was successful at neither. Thus she had enlisted Joseph to drive the landau early through the streets of London. She could have had Sultan saddled instead, of course, but the idea of riding alone in the darkened confines of a closed carriage, unseen and unjudged, was too appealing. There was something about the rhythmic movement of a pair of beautiful steppers that helped to sort her thoughts. And think she must, for her mind was all a-muddle.

She had gone to wrest the truth from McBain. To ferret out the facts, not only about the terror in the library but about Brendier’s death. Indeed, she had used the most potent weapons in her arsenal, had held her amulet against his skin. But when that failed to produce the desired effects, she had gone so far as to touch him. It was then that all coherent thought had flown from her mind. That she had been flooded with nothing but incoherent feelings: a need to believe him, to hear her name on his lips,
to caress the aging scar she’d seen slashed across his hard-packed abdomen.

How could this happen to her? She didn’t trust men. Didn’t like them. Certainly did not
desire
them.

Yet she had believed his every rumbled word though God knew she had learned far better. Worse still, she had given him a glimpse of herself. Her
true
self.

She closed her eyes against such idiocy.

Following that point, she had not even
attempted
to draw out the truth. She had been far too absorbed with the blizzard of emotions that had stormed through her to try to sift honesty from lies.

And who could say? Perhaps he had been truthful the whole while. Perhaps he had not been in Lindale’s library. God knew his eyes spoke of integrity and sadness. Of beauty and pain and a thousand…

Bringing her thoughts back to the here and now, she focused for a moment on the staccato clip of the team’s rhythmic trot before reminding herself of her vow. A vow more sacred than blood. A vow that she would reach past her fears, would learn the truth, would be strong.

She was not the fragile urchin Tenning had proclaimed her to be. True, he had weakened her with his toxic lies, frightened her with his threats, wounded her with his cruelty, but he had not broken her.

She was a white witch, and witches stood alone against the atrocities of the world. Therefore, she would do what she must. She would confront McBain again. Would tear the truth from him, even if it meant forfeiting his very soul.

And yet, at that very moment, she was traveling in the opposite direction, willing even to return to Inver Heights rather than challenge his charms yet again.

He had saved the foxes. The wee beasties, as he called them.

The memory of his voice as he’d gazed down at the faux lair sent gooseflesh skittering across her arms while the thought of his chest…

She jerked her mind back to reality.

It was all foolishness. He had implied that he had taken the kits for coin. But regardless of her amulet and her own waxing powers of truth persuasion, she had not believed him. What was true and what was false? What she wished to believe or the portion she
must
believe?

It was time to learn the truth. That much she knew, and yet she did not have the strength to return to him. What if he was yet abed? What if his chest was bare, one bulging arm bent alluringly above his head? What if the unyielding muscles of his chest roiled beneath the tempting sheet of his skin like a tide that could not be stemmed? Like a magical…

Good heavens, it would be all but a relief to reach Inver Heights, regardless of the terror she
had experienced there. But who had caused it? And was it mere coincidence that she should be attacked while searching for clues to Brendier’s death? Perhaps the Devil had intended more than rape.

Perhaps he planned to kill her. To prevent her from learning the truth. But how could he know she searched for clues unless he knew of her powers. Unless he knew of her coven. The thought set her hands atremble, but she controlled them with an effort.

By the time Joseph opened the landau’s narrow door, she was once again in control of her emotions. He bowed, regal and solemn. She nodded, ducking her head and refusing to glance up at the manse’s looming height.

A black cabriolet with a folding top stood beside the curb, its chestnut cob content to rest a hip and doze in the morning sun. Faye only wished she could appear so relaxed. But her hands were trembling as she approached the looming door. Her neck was perspiring, making her realize she had, once again, forgotten a handkerchief to…

The door swung open. Her breath hitched as an elderly man stepped through, gray mustache drooping. Nodding solemnly to the portly woman in the foyer, he turned away, then started when he saw her.

“Can I help you?” His voice was raspy with age. He carried a small black bag in his right hand.

Faye gathered her courage. Who knew there
were so many men in the world? “I’ve come to pay a visit to Lady Lindale,” she said.

His brows drew together. “I fear you must return at a later date.”

Confusion melded with fear inside her, but she fought them both, struggling for poise. “Is the lady not home? I only wished to thank her for her lovely—”

“There has been a death.”

“A—” Her heart recoiled in her chest.

“Perhaps you could return in a few days’ time,” he said, and descended, stiff-legged, onto her level.

Premonition weighed like a stone boat on her chest. “Whose death?”

He scrutinized her. “Might I ask your name?”

“Whose death?” she asked again, voice barely audible over the hard beat of her heart.

His scowl deepened. “I fear Lord Lindale has been taken from us.”

A half a dozen emotions smoked through her. “Are you certain?”

He drew himself up, narrow and lean. “I am a physician, miss. I assure you, I am quite certain. He has passed.”

She stumbled a little, but Joseph came up from behind, steadying her so gently that she forgot to move away.

“How?” she asked.

“Are you unwell?” asked the doctor.

“I saw him just last night.”

His deep, bushy brows had been low over his eyes, but they rose now as if perception had just dawned on him. “Lady Lindale is a good woman. Another shock would all but kill her now.”

Faye shook her head in bemusement. But he ignored her.

“I have administered laudanum to help her sleep.” He glared at her. “I might suggest that you get some rest yourself,” he said, and, brushing stiffly past her, headed toward his dark carriage.

But she caught his sleeve. “How did he die?”

He glanced down at his jacket, bunched in her frozen grip. “His heart simply gave—” he began, but in that desperate moment she curled her free hand around his scrawny biceps. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel the truth seep regretfully from him.

His brows lowered dramatically, but he did not try to lie. “Debauchery has killed younger men with stronger hearts. This was not the first time he drank himself to unconsciousness,” he said. “It was merely the first time he died of it.”

Her hand dropped away. “Intemperance killed him?”

He drew a breath as if relieved to do so. “When they first wed, it was thought that he chose unwisely, her being a woman of the stage. But as it turns out, he did not deserve the lady he took to wife.” He eyed her up and down. “Perhaps he did not even deserve you,” he said, and brushed past.

The journey back to the landau seemed misty
and surreal. She didn’t even flinch as Joseph helped her inside.

“You are well?” he asked.

“He’s dead.” And what did that mean?

“Was it he who attacked you?”

She glanced up abruptly, finding his dark, cleanly etched features. “How do you know—” She stopped herself, looked away and shook her head. “’Twas but a dream.”

“Becca would not have searched the grounds for a dream.”

She turned back toward him. “Becca?”

The glimmer of a smile lit his dark eyes but did nothing to his quiet features. “Not all are what they seem.”

“Shaleena,” she said. “How do you know her?”

“Were we not speaking of you, madam?”

“I hope not,” she breathed, and stifled a shiver.

“Was it he?” he asked.

She considered denying all knowledge of the subject, but she was too tired, too confused. When had she last enjoyed a full night’s sleep? “I don’t know. I thought…It seemed so real, but when the light came on…” It was so reminiscent of old days, like a ghost from her past. But the ghosts had been planted. The past manipulated. “He was gone.”

“Do not some old houses have
rejtett…”
He paused, searching for the proper words. “…secret ways?”

She looked at him anew, for he was right of
course. Ancient estates had often been built with hidden passages, Lavender House being no exception.

“Someone in the household, then. Perhaps a member of the staff,” she said, but he shook his head.

“The
mester
of such an estate would not inform his servants of these things.” His expression was wry. “On this you can trust me.”

“Lindale himself, then? But how did he die?”

“You do not believe in fate?”

She shook her head.

“What of vengeance?”

Her throat knotted. “No one knew of the attack.”

“No one?” he asked, and in her mind, she saw Rogan McBain. His eyes were flat and hard, filled with an emotion she could not quite read.

“Did he touch you?”
The low rumble of his voice echoed through her mind.

Lindale had never been mentioned, but if Joseph had come to such a conclusion, there was no reason to believe Rogan would not do the same. There had been something in the Highlander’s dark demeanor that insisted on revenge.

And perhaps, if she were honest with herself, she wanted the same.

“M
r. Connelly,” Faye said, injecting her voice with surprise and straightening abruptly from her perusal of a mind-dizzying array of whips. It was, for her, an acting feat worthy of a Parisian stage; she felt immediately light-headed with the effects of the lie. She had traveled to Bond Street with the express purpose of finding the Irishman there. Indeed, she had spent near an hour trying to look intrigued by the day’s caricatures posted in the window of the Repository of the Arts, all the while hoping Connelly would eventually arrive at the shop, which purportedly fascinated him.

The questions that nagged her could no longer be ignored. No longer could she wait to learn the truth about Rogan McBain; neither could she trust herself to keep her head in his presence for he had some kind of power she could not explain. She distrusted men, feared them, had for the entirety of her life. But now she wondered if, perhaps, in the deepest recesses of her being, she had also felt
a need to be aligned with them, to be protected by them. Perhaps that was why she found McBain appealing, for certainly if ever there was a man who could protect if he so chose, it was he. But was he protective or was he deadly? Or was one the price you paid for the other? Questions raced through her brain like red squirrels until she was exhausted with the chaotic turnings of her mind and found herself on Bond Street.

Connelly turned toward her now, delight showing on his elegant features. “Mrs. Nettles, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that you have finally decided to stalk me,” he said, and reached for her hand.

For a moment she was tempted to turn and run. For longer still she teetered on the verge of disagreeing, of blathering denials and lies and long-winded explanations, for his accusation was, in fact, entirely correct. But something in her, a feminine instinct that could not be entirely extinguished, perhaps, told her that he was doing nothing more harmful than flirting.

“Well, certainly no mere woman could be expected to resist you a moment longer, could she?” she asked, and feeling her throat close up, pulled her hand cautiously from his.

“I certainly hope not,” he said, and smiled.

“Are you here alone?” she asked, and he lifted one eyebrow as she glanced about, and it was not until that moment that she herself realized that even though she had come to speak privately
with Connelly, some small part of her hoped that McBain would be there too. Just so she could catch a momentary glimpse of his solemn, silver eyes, his rough-hewn features.

And all the while the entire episode made her long, rather desperately, to hide behind the display counter that housed yet another dozen whips.

“Are you looking for someone in particular?”

She jerked her attention back to the Irishman, even as she felt herself flush. Felt heat rush to her extremities.

“Please tell me, beautiful lady, that you are
not
searching for someone large and socially inept when I am at your disposal.”

She forced herself to meet his eyes, to raise her own brows in challenge. “If you are suggesting I am looking for Mr. McBain, I assure you that an effort would hardly be necessary.”

“Oh?”

“He is, after all, not an easy man to miss.”

He laughed. “You’d think not,” he said. “Though several have managed. I always recommend a flintlock at close range. Unreliable at times, but deadly as an adder.”

She furrowed her brow. “I beg your pardon?”

He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, then, “Might I buy you an ice, Mrs. Nettles? It’s rather warm today.”

Every screaming instinct in her demanded that she run, but her instincts had been honed by a man who was the personification of deceit. She
knew that now. Had learned it through years of pain. Thus she forced herself to face her demons, to move her lips, to tug a handkerchief from her reticule. “Perhaps you could do me a favor, Mr. Connelly.”

He bowed, bending gracefully from the waist. “It would be my greatest honor.”

“I have been carrying this about for some days. I believe it is Mr. McBain’s. Might you return it to him?”

He looked down at it. “Bain carried a handkerchief.”

Her legs felt wooden. “Yes.”

“One not made from wool?”

“I believe he did. Indeed, he loaned it to me during the hunt.”

“When you were distressed about the fox,” he said, and took the proffered linen.

“Will you return it to him for me?”

“Certainly,” he said, and bowed again, handkerchief flopping from one long-fingered hand. “If you will agree to join me for an ice.”

Again she wanted to flee, but there was little purpose in getting him to agree to take the carefully imbued handkerchief if she did not question him while he held it. It was not like the amulet she had given Bain, after all. Fabric did not have nearly the stored power of minerals, but it would do for a while.

In a moment they were seated at a small round
table in an establishment called Timber and Danes, which sold confections of every conceivable sort.

Connelly had tucked the handkerchief inside the sleeve of his cutaway coat, letting the embroidered end dangle out. Leaning back in his chair, he watched her, eyes alight with an emotion that might have been pleasure, but might just as well have been some feeling she did not understand.

“So, besides my charming personality and exceptional good looks, what brings you to Bond Street on this fine day?” he asked, hooking a lanky arm across the back of his chair.

She watched him for an instant. Perhaps he
was
good-looking. Indeed, perhaps he was charming, and maybe that was why she felt twitchy in his presence. Charm, in her opinion, was often false and enormously overrated. Unlike sobriety, earnestness, and a chest as broad as a stallion’s.

“Mrs. Nettles?”

She cleared her throat and her mind. “I was searching, rather fruitlessly, I fear, for a gift for a friend,” she lied, and braced herself for the consequences, a twinge of pain in the center of her temple.

“Not a friend of the male persuasion, I hope,” he said. And though she had studiously prepared herself for this meeting, she found that she could not prepare herself for someone of Thayer Connelly’s odd humor.

It made her want to question every word, dissect
each innuendo. Instead, she raised one haughty brow and prayed. “I
am
allowed to have male acquaintances, am I not?” she asked.

“I imagine you are,” he said, and, tasting his ice, shook his head sadly. “It seems rather silly, however, knowing your infatuation with me.”

“Ahh well, there is that,” she said, and calmed her heart as she sampled her own refreshment.

“And too,” he added. “I might well be quite jealous. The sort who flies into a vengeful rage at the slightest provocation.”

“You’re not,” she said, and, sweeping a twirl into her ice, cautiously caught his gaze with hers. She could read his expression. It was one of surprise. “Men with such astounding egos as yours rarely make time for jealousy.”

He furrowed his brow. “I’m quite certain you’re wrong,” he said.

“About the fact that you’ve an ego the size of Gibraltar or that you’re not the jealous sort?”

“About the jealously issue.”

“So I’m correct about your ego.”

“Of course,” he said, flipping a palm upward. “I’m as vain as a cockerel, but who wouldn’t be…if he were I?”

“Tell me…” She forced herself to take another bite, though her stomach felt traitorous. “Are all Irishmen so narcissistic as you?”

He cocked his head at her.

“Vain,” she explained, and found it hopelessly intriguing that this man with the elegant manners
and witty ways lacked the vocabulary of a man some called “Beast.” But perhaps each of them had his means of coping.

“Oh,” said Connelly. “Only those who have reason to be.”

“And what of the Scots?” she mused. “Are they known for their vanity or their jealousy?”

“Mercy,” he said, and spread his long fingers dramatically across his chest as if her interest in another had wounded him sorely.

Drawing herself from her reverie, she gave him a look for the affectations while mentally chiding herself for rushing things. She was not meant for these games, but neither could she wait forever for her magic to take effect. “Are you ill, Mr. Connelly?”

“I may well be if you intend to tell me you are honestly interested in that hulking Scot.”

“Might you be speaking of Rogan McBain?”

“Do you know another hulking Scot?”

She tried a smile, but for the life of her, she could think of no pithy rejoinders. “Is
he
the vengeful sort?” she asked, her tone far more serious than she had intended. Breathless, in fact.

Something passed across his expression, an odd flicker between amusement and curiosity, perhaps. Or perhaps not. What did she know of men? “Vengeful? No. Not particularly. But deadly…” He canted his head, watching her.

She felt no lie in the statement.
What the devil did that mean?
she wondered, and realized in that in
stant that the moments were slipping into silence. It was a situation tantamount to high treason in the elegant world of the chattering
ton.
“It’s simply that wrath…Well, it is one of the deadly sins, is it not? And I would hate…” She was floundering, searching for footing in murky waters. “It is simply that I’ve no wish to see him bear more hardships than he’s already endured.”

“You think Bain has endured hardships?”

“Well, there’s the scar on his…” she began and caught herself, face burning as she remembered the mark that stretched across his furrowed abdomen to sink beneath the length of plaid he’d snatched around his waist.

“The scar on his what?” Connelly asked, brows raised slightly.

She pursed her lips. “He came to London on business with Lord Brendier, did he not?” she asked, fishing carefully.

He watched her, half-smiling. “Is that what he told you?”

Her every fiber was taut with impatience. Against the silver handle of the spoon, her knuckles ached with tension. “Is it an untruth?”

Did his expression sober slightly or was she merely imagining? “So far as I know, lass, Bain is incapable of lying. Or perhaps he has yet to find a compelling reason.”

She resisted scowling and forged on. “I assume Lord Brendier’s death made his business dealings more difficult.”

He stretched out his legs, watching her, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth still quirked up the faintest degree. “Considering Bain had come to London with the express purpose of meeting the lad, yes, I suspect his death did put a bit of a crimp in the works.”

The scowl was too much to resist. “Why did McBain wish to meet Brendier?”

“I believe it was a favor to his uncle.”

Faye shook her head.

“I know,” Connelly said, grinning. “Difficult to believe the lug has kin, is it not? When first we met, I was not entirely certain he was human.”

“What else would he be?” she asked, and refused to remember she had once thought him the Devil.

“I would guess he failed to tell you of Boxtel.”

“I believe he said he lost his mount there.”

Connelly laughed. “Did he tell you that Wellington’s horse also fell and that the marquess, just a lieutenant colonel at the time, was able to make it to safety because Bain covered his retreat?

“Wellington gifted him with a new steed. Three days later. After they could find him amongst the corpses.”

She felt a little sick. “What?”

“He stayed behind to defend the damaged animal against the French. Hence the scar you saw near his…” He nodded downward.

She refused to blanch. “Why would he—” she began.

“Listen,” he said, leaning forward abruptly. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather speak of me? Perhaps you’ve yet to notice my dimples.” He dimpled. She ignored them.

“Why?” she asked again, and he sighed.

“’Tis impossible to guess Bain’s mind,” he said, and stared into the middle distance as if seeing things that were not there. “One day he is mad in love with a maid, the next he won’t speak her name.”

“What maid?” She hadn’t meant to ask that question, but surely she should learn all she could.

“Charlotte.” He rallied a little, but his grin was wan, her magic strengthening. “Spoken in hushed and reverent tones.”

“What was her surname?”

“He never said. And indeed, he’ll not say now. Since that day he has all but shut himself off from life. Though it’s not as if he was the giddy sort before. Still, he’s all but transparent compared to his uncle.”

“Tell me of him.”

“His mother’s brother. Scotch to the very root of his being. Distinctly different from Gerald.”

“Gerald?”

“His father. An Englishman. And rather refined by all accounts.” His eyes were going somber, his features somewhat slack. “A far cry from Bain’s uncle.” He nodded to himself. “The old man died some months ago. A bayonet to the gut. In truth, I was fair surprised he could be killed.”

“And here I assumed he was human also,” she said, and wondered dismally if she sounded witty or just dense.

“There was some doubt,” he said, and found a smile again. “Most of his friends called him Stone.”

“And his enemies?”

“His enemies will be silent for a very long while.”

She watched him.

He fiddled with his ice, but seemed far away. “I was never actually certain Bain had feelings…until recently. First old Stone’s death, and now…” He paused, finding her with his azure eyes.

She felt strangely breathless, wanting more than anything for him to continue with his line of thought. But she had not come here on some schoolgirlish whim. She straightened her back and remembered her mission.

“And what of Brendier? Did Mr. McBain feel badly about his passing?”

“So far as I know, the baron was virtually unknown to Bain.”

Did that mean the giant Celt would feel no need to avenge Brendier’s death? And what of herself? If Rogan had, in fact, believed Lord Lindale was her aggressor, would he have felt compelled to do him bodily harm?

“And something of an ass,” Connelly added.

“Why then did Stone wish for Rogan to meet him?”