My Lady Notorious (4 page)

She carried herself with the fluent pride of a male— shoulders
straight, stride purposeful. He found it surprisingly erotic, and
regretted that the male attire had presumably only been put on for the
robbery. He wondered how she would appear in a gown.

He wasn’t to find out. She still wore breeches when she came down the stairs.

As the two sisters passed through the room to go to the kitchen, he said, “Are you convinced I will do you no harm, Charles?”

She turned and looked at him. “As long as you’re tied to the bed, my lord, I’m entirely convinced.”

“Afraid to deal with me at liberty, are you?”

She set her hands on her hips. “Not at all. But why should I bother to try?”

She was wonderful. “Fair play,” he said amiably. “I have done nothing dishonorable.”

She smiled. “Helping highwaymen is not precisely honorable, my lord.”

He smiled with equal insincerity. “My apologies. I didn’t realize
you wanted your neck stretched. I’ll see to it at the first
opportunity.”

“I know. That’s why you’re spread-eagled.”

He bit back a laugh. Fencing with her was the best fun he’d had in
months. What a woman. Which gave him a new weapon. “Strange way to tie
a man, this,” he said. “You the sort who likes to ogle other men’s
bodies, young Charles?”

Prodded by his words, she looked him over and her color flared,
ripping through her disguise. She looked totally female, and an
innocent, flustered female at that. The situation was giving him an
erection.

“Stop it, both of you,” said Verity, coming at him with a carving
knife. She took in the bulge in his breeches with a mere quirk of her
eyebrows. “I think the man’s quite right,” she said to her sister.
“He’s done nothing to warrant such treatment. He can come and eat with
us.”

“Verity, stop that!” snapped Charles. But Verity had already cut the
strips of cloth tying Cyn to the bed, and he gratefully swung up into
the vertical, working the numbness out of his wrists.

“My dear sir,” he said, delighted to be able to fence from a
position of equality, “I appreciate your sister’s kindness, but if you
are the master of this house, shouldn’t you be able to control your
womenfolk a little better?”

Her eyes flashed. “With a whip, perhaps?”

Cyn winked at Verity. “Is your sister so unruly?”

“Oh, do stop it, my lord,” said Verity, though she was struggling
not to laugh. “You’re taunting just to strike sparks. If you carry on
this way, I’ll tie you up again.”

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, and followed the
sisters into the aromatic kitchen. He wondered how long it would be
before someone made an irremediable mistake and revealed Charles to be…
what? Charlotte? He eyed the frosty-faced girl. ‘Charles’ suited her
much better than ’Charlotte.‘

Nana beamed to see him free, and tried to settle him at the head of
the table. “No, no,” said Cyn, gesturing toward Charles. “This must
surely be your seat, sir, as head of the family.” He smiled at them
all, blatantly using his considerable charm. “Am I to be favored by the
family name?”

“No,” said Charles bluntly, taking the place. “Be grateful you’re getting your food.”

Nana placed a large pan of rabbit stew on the table.

“Wonderful food too,” Cyn said with a blissful smile.

Nana beamed. “It’s so satisfying to feed a man.”

Cyn turned a quizzical look at Charles. “But you stripling lads in the peak of your growth are usually voracious eaters.”

Charles turned red. “I am not a stripling lad.”

“My dear sir, my apologies. I know some men are slow to grow a beard…”

“Let me serve you, my lord,” said Verity hastily, and heaped a large portion of stew on his plate. “Potatoes?”

Cyn nobly forbore to tease for the rest of the meal.

“Now,” he said as they sat with cups of tea, “why don’t you tell me what you’re up to so I can help?”

“Why should you want to?” asked Charles stonily.

“I told you, I crave adventure. I cannot exist without it. I’ve always wanted to be a knight-errant.”

It was Verity who responded. “But why do you think I am a damsel in distress, my lord?”

He looked at her. “Are you not?”

She smiled sadly. “Damsels are usually maidens, and I am certainly not that, but I
am
in a certain amount of distress…”

“Don’t, Verity!” said Charles sharply. “Don’t trust him.
Why
must you always be so trusting? If you tell him, he’ll side with the rest of them.”

“What else are we to do?” Verity asked. “We need someone to help with the coach, and I’d feel better with…”

Cyn could hear the words
with a man to help us
hover in the
room, and saw the glare in Charles’ eyes. Was it simply a case of one
of those tedious hoydens who wanted to be a man? He hoped not.

“You’d feel better with someone older,” he supplied smoothly. “My
dear Charles, don’t poker up. It’s clear you are doing your best to
support your sister in whatever trouble has befallen her, but it is
never wise to refuse a genuine offer of help. I must be close to ten
years your senior, and have experience you lack. If you tell me where
you wish to go, I will do my best to get you there safely.”

“Maidenhead,” said Verity firmly. “My promised husband, Major Nathaniel Frazer, is stationed there.”

Was he the father of her child? Cyn wondered. She wore a wedding
band, but that could be false. “That should present no problem. I must
admit,” he hazarded, “it doesn’t appear to present any problem at all.”

“Except money,” drawled Charles.

“Ah. Hence the highway robbery.”

“Quite.”

No one seemed ready to offer him more information, so Cyn probed
again. “I understand the appeal of traveling in my very comfortable
coach, but acquiring it presented certain risks. Wouldn’t it have been
wiser to settle for the stage, or even those two thoroughbreds you were
riding?”

“The horses weren’t ours,” explained Verity, “and if we kept them
the fat would be in the fire. I do agree, however, that the stage would
have been more prudent.”

“Yes,” said Charles abruptly. “You’re right. Tomorrow we’ll use his
lordship’s coach to take us into Shaftesbury, and we’ll purchase seats
on the stage.” She turned cold eyes on Cyn. “If, that is, we can trust
you thus far, my lord.”

“You can trust me to hell and beyond,” he said simply, “but only if
you allow me a place in your adventures. I will not be denied.”

“This isn’t a damned game!”

“Is there real danger then?”

“Yes.”

“From where?”

But she shut her firm lips on that information.

“I do think we should tell him, dearest,” said Verity.

“We’ll talk about it later.” Charles put an end to the discussion by
rising to her feet. “For the moment the question is, where does he
sleep?”

Cyn couldn’t resist. “Why not with you, sir?”

Charles froze, and Verity choked on her tea.

“It presents a problem?” Cyn asked Charles. “I assure you I don’t snore.”

“But I do,” she said hastily.

“Ah. Tell me, sir, where
do
you sleep?”

“Upstairs,” she said unwarily. Her color betrayed her agitation, and she added, “We have divided the space with a curtain.”

“Your sister and the baby being fortunately very sound sleepers.” At
her blank look, he added, “The snoring.” Cyn held back a grin with
considerable difficulty. Heavens above, if eyes really could spit fire
he’d be a cinder. Those flaming eyes, those pure, firm lips, and the
flush of anger in her cheeks all conspired to create astounding beauty.

A wave of pure lust surprised him, a desire to strip her here and
now, and find the feminine secrets beneath her masculine appearance; to
see those eyes flame with passion instead of rage, those cheeks heat
with desire. It was a good thing he was not still spread-eagled or his
body would give her fits. He hastily shielded his eyes with his lashes
but determined again to see this adventure through.

It was quickly decided that he would sleep in the kitchen, but only
one spare blanket was available to cushion the stone floor. Since it
was clear they had to trust him, they allowed him to go to the coach to
collect his trunk. With some of his clothes and his greatcoat he made a
tolerable bed, far better than he’d had many a time with his regiment.
The kitchen was, after all, warm and dry.

Nana and Verity were clearing away the supper dishes. Charles went
out and brought water from a well, then sat to read a book. Cyn made
himself comfortable too.

He pulled off his boots and cleaned them with a rag. Who knew how
long they’d have to go without Jerome’s loving attention? He hung his
jacket and waistcoat on the back of a chair. He untied the ribbons in
his hair and combed it. After a slight hesitation—being in the presence
of ladies—he removed his cravat and unfastened the buttons of his shirt.

Nana and Verity paid him no attention, but it was Charles he
watched. He saw one flickering glance up from her book, but no
particular reaction. He’d have to try harder.

Nana retired. Verity fussed over Cyn for a minute or two, then went
upstairs. Cyn yawned and slipped into his makeshift bed. He waited to
see what the wench would do.

She closed her book and came to stand over him. Being unbound, Cyn
had no problem with her looming over him if it made her comfortable. He
put his hands behind his head and smiled up at her with all the
seductive power he possessed. “Do you want to share my sleeping
quarters after all?”

She caught her breath and stepped back, but collected herself
immediately. “I just want to make it clear, my lord, that I’ll kill you
if you play us false. The other two are softhearted, but I’m not.”

Not a wanton then, alas, alas. “Have you ever killed anyone, Charles?”

Her lips trembled with betraying weakness. “No.”

“I have.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Do you? I’m a captain with the 48th.”

She gaped slightly.

“I’m invalided out at the moment, but I’ve seen my share of death.
It’s not as easy to kill as you think unless you have overwhelming
cause.”

Any trace of weakness disappeared. “Then I should have no trouble at
all.” She blew out the candles and left him with only the banked glow
of the fire for light.

Cyn was sobered. He stared up at the shadowed beams of the dark
ceiling. Who, he wondered, had hurt the girl so deeply that she wanted
to kill? Who was responsible for her being here penniless, dressed as a
man, and afraid? Without knowing the answers, he embraced her cause.

He had found his damsel in distress, but it wasn’t sweet Verity. It was the difficult, angry, beautiful Charles.

Nana woke him the next morning as
she tiptoed about the kitchen, putting water on to boil and bringing in
eggs from the henhouse. “Don’t feel you have to rise yet, my lord,” she
said quickly, but he was already up from his makeshift bed and bundling
it out of the way.

He discovered he’d grown soft in his months away from the army. Once
he’d thought nothing of sleeping on the floor wrapped in his cloak,
then rising to do battle. Now he was stiff and poorly rested, and he
longed for a warm bath and clothes he hadn’t slept in. The sooner he
returned to his profession the better.

“Can I beg a little hot water so I can shave?” he asked, and the old lady happily provided it.

He worked before a small, cracked mirror on the kitchen wall, giving
thanks that his beard was not particularly heavy or coarse, for he was
unused to this task. Jerome always did it, even when Cyn was with the
army.

Jerome was the only indulgence Cyn had allowed Rothgar to provide
when he joined his regiment. In six years of soldiering Cyn had made
his own way. He’d won his promotions rather than buying them. Rothgar
had seriously proposed buying him a regiment, but Cyn had refused, and
proved to himself and his brother that he could stand alone.

Until now.

He grimaced at himself in the mirror, still disgusted that the lung-fever had won.

He remembered the struggle to keep going, feeling sicker and sicker
by the day, but denying it. After that, the memories grew hazy: the
rough care of his men; the rough-and-ready military hospital in
Halifax; a hellhole on the ship where he’d decided he’d rather be dead…

And then suddenly, dream-like, he’d been at Rothgar Abbey in the
care of his family—Rothgar, Brand, Bryght, and, most concerned of all,
his twin sister, Elfled. Weak, and wondering if he were going to die,
he’d taken comfort in his home and family, in tastes, sounds, and faces
from his childhood.

As he’d recovered, however, he’d chafed at his siblings’ cossetting.
Lord, he didn’t know what they considered good health, but it seemed to
be a state too perfect for a mere mortal to achieve. There’d been talk
of him selling out and taking up another profession.

Not bloody likely.

His hand tightened and he nicked his chin. He bit back a curse and
grabbed a handkerchief to dab at the blood. He finished the job without
further mishap, however, and hoped that augured well for the whole
adventure. When he turned, pressing the cloth to the bloody spot, he
found Charles had come into the kitchen. He caught her looking at him.
She colored, looked down, then boldly looked up again.

“Hand shaky this morning?” she mocked.

“My valet always shaves me. I don’t suppose you have this problem
yet. Be grateful. It’s the deuce of a bore. I sometimes long for the
days of beards.”

With wicked intent, he tossed the blood-spotted cloth aside and went
to his trunk to take out a clean shirt. With his back to the girl, he
casually stripped off his old one.

He stretched, turning slightly to watch her out of the corner of his
eye. Her color was betraying her again, and she knew it. She
concentrated on cutting slices from a cottage loaf. Either she wasn’t
very good at it, or her mind wasn’t entirely on the task, for the
slices were coming out as scraps and wedges.