The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (22 page)

“No, sweetheart.” She smiled at the child. How old was she? Seven or eight, perhaps? “I’m not hungry. I—I just wish to have some quiet for a little while.”

The little girl was watching her in the oddest way, one small hand tugging at one of her braids. “You’re certain,
Señorita
?”

“Yes. Quite.”

The child hesitated. Her bottom lip stuck out slightly, and then she bit it between her teeth. There seemed to be some pressing question on her mind. “Do—do you want a gown pressed, Miss?” Somehow it seemed this was not the question the child had wished to ask.

“A gown? Has Lord—has Sebastian said we’re going somewhere?”

“No,
Señorita
. But you’ve been traveling. I thought you’d wish to—I mean, you’re dressed like a
caballero
. Those clothes are awful.”

It seemed wise to simply go along with whatever she suggested. “Of course, Eva. A gown would be lovely. And—a bath.”

That seemed to relieve the girl a bit.

And then an odd thought popped into Rachel’s head. The child seemed quite familiar with this room. And accustomed to speaking English. Along with the sweetness in those shining dark eyes, there was intelligence too. And perhaps an air of expectation. “Eva,” Rachel said, taking a risk. “Perhaps after my bath we can read together for a while?”

The child rewarded her with a beaming smile. “Oh, yes, Miss. I should like that above all things!”

Such an English turn of phrase. Sarah’s influence no doubt. Of course—how could Sarah have resisted, with a little girl in the house? Sarah would have shared these books if she could. Perhaps they’d even started Latin. Rachel took another gamble. “Primum quam primum,” she promised.
As soon as possible
. One of Sarah’s favorite phrases.

Eva beamed again. “Primum quam primum!” she said. “I shall tell Eduardo and Emilio to bring up the water to the bathing-room.”

“Thank you, dear.”

The child left, still smiling, but Rachel had an awful feeling she’d given herself away somehow, that Evangelina knew she was not who she claimed to be. Which should not be possible—no one in this household knew that Sal had a twin.

She would have to talk to Sebastian about it, when she could get a minute alone with him.

By the time her bath arrived, however, she utterly forgot any ambitions beyond the glory of soaking in warm water, and washing away all the filth and grit of their travels. She’d enjoyed the first warm baths of her life in Sebastian’s townhouse in London, with Jenny washing her with a sponge, and slowly drawing an oiled comb through her hair.

But this tub was even larger, and, somehow, being alone in the room while she bathed was a thousand times more relaxing. The warmth of the water worked its magic on all her stretched out, pummeled, exhausted muscles, loosening and easing them.

Unbidden, a memory of Sebastian came into her mind. That afternoon when they’d fled Corunna, and he’d helped her down off that wretched horse to rest by the little waterfall, he’d stripped off his shirt, and she’d seen him bared to the waist for the first time. Suddenly, all that gold-tinged skin was displayed before her. Along with the remarkable shape of his chiseled arms and shoulders, the swift tapering from broad chest to lean hips, and the dark hair that flared across the top of his chest and ran in one remarkable line down his hard belly.

And then he’d turned, and showed her he’d been injured. For
her
sake. Her stomach had plummeted, then. And she’d tended to him, trying not to hurt him more. Noticing all the scars he bore already—a remarkable collection for an aristocrat who had the means to live in complete safety. A jagged line crossing the back of one shoulder. Three long, pale scores as thick as her thumb at the base of his ribs on the right. Small pink puckers in his left bicep and just over one hip, each the diameter of a musket ball. And when she should have felt only sympathy for him, she was distracted by his subtle, musky scent, which mingled with the lingering smells of leather and gun smoke and the deep perfume of the surrounding pines.

Oh, Lord. Not something it was wise to think about.

She closed her eyes, focused on the water, focused on the warmth, focused on the lavender scent of the milled soap that she’d found in a little basket by the tub.

That soap was Sarah’s choice, no doubt. She had always loved the scent of lavender. A neighbor back in Rookshead had grown it in her summer garden, and Rachel and Sarah would hurry ahead after church just to run their fingers through the purple tufts and come home faintly scented with wonder. Their great aunts, thank goodness, had neither one of them a particularly keen sense of smell, and so they’d always got away with bringing that little bit of perfumed beauty into the gray desolation of Stone Cottage.

Rachel lathered up her hands now, and put them up to her face and inhaled the scent deeply. Slowly, she soaped every inch of her body, using the wonderful silky cloths Eduardo had brought up along with the hot water, and scrubbed between her toes, and behind her knees.

And after a while, all distressing thoughts left her, and everything in her was warm and pink and relaxed.

The tub was so big she could slide her bottom down far enough to plunge her head beneath the fragrant water, and use her fingers to flick out every bit of dirt that had embedded itself in her scalp. She let herself float, let the soft rocking of the water caress her and the tendrils of her hair sweep gently against her face. She imagined this was what creatures of the sea felt like, afloat in their shifting, impermanent homes.

At long last, though, she came up for air, whisking soapy water out of her eyes.

“Glad to see you breathing,” said a deep voice.

She squealed and covered herself with both hands, though she was fairly sure the soap lather kept most of her from view. “Sebastian!”

“I was beginning to think you’d decided to drown yourself.”

If she was going to keep thoughts of him out of her mind, having him alone with her while she was so warm and naked could not possibly be a good idea. “Get out of here,” she told him. “I was enjoying my privacy.” She scooped up a handful of foamy water, and hurled it at him. It splashed futilely on the wall a foot away.

He grinned. “If that’s your best aim, I suggest you climb out and repel me by brute force. We might both enjoy it.” Ah, so he was back in his teasing mode.

He was also dressed in the trousers and shirt of a fashionable nobleman again. He stood in the doorway as if he belonged there, one hip cocked casually against the doorjamb, sipping from a steaming mug of what smelled like coffee.

A blush flamed over her cheeks, and she tried to pretend it hadn’t. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I have no intention of ever leaving this tub.”

“Why ever not? Modesty should be well beyond us by now.”

“I wasn’t concerned with modesty.” Truth be told, having him stand there in his shirtsleeves sent ripples of sensation through her. She thought of the feel of his shirt under her hands when they lay together in the cabin of the Calliope, and it wasn’t doing anything good for her self-control.

Anyway,
he
was the one who’d insisted they wouldn’t touch one another again.

Now he was flirting with her? And in that cynical way that meant he had no real intention of acting on his words?

She was tired of his shifting, mercurial moods, the way he went from tender to cruel, from seductive to heartless in the blink of an eye. She knew why he did it—it gave him the upper hand, kept her off balance.

Well, she could throw him off balance, too.

Suddenly daring, she raised an eyebrow at him. “Care to join me in here? It’s quite large enough. And this water is wonderfully warm.”

He seemed to consider for a moment, but then he frowned. “Alas, I have bathed already.”

The flush of heat in her cheeks deepened, but she still pretended perfect composure. She could play at indifference just as well as he could. “I don’t see why anyone ever leaves a warm bath,” she sighed. “At Stone Cottage, we bathed with cold water from a basin. And the Greeleys allowed me a tub, but the water they allowed was scarcely lukewarm. Terrible waste of the fires, heating water for mere governesses, especially ones who already had the irritating habit of demanding food to eat and air to breathe.”

“I’ve surprised these Greeleys never met with fatal accidents while you were there. Sal would have arranged something spectacular, in your place.”

“But I don’t engage in violence, I’ve told you that.”

“Hmm. Lucky for the Greeleys then. Well, you look very tired. I suppose it’s off to bed with you?”

“After I read a bit to Eva. If you’d just leave long enough for me to get a towel.”

He picked up the lovely, white, fluffy Turkish thing Evangelina had left on the same small table with the lavender soaps, another delicious bit of luxury Rachel had been looking forward to getting used to.

“You mean this?” he drawled, rather ominously.

“Yes.”

He was holding it, tauntingly, just out of reach.

“Put that back on the table, please.”

“Oh, now, at least let me do the gentlemanly thing and help you from your bath.” He gave her a villain’s leer from a pantomime. “I’d be more than pleased to dry you off, and rub you down until you glow.”

Now he was back to his patently artificial flirting. Why? What on earth was he up to?

“Your towel, madame?” he asked, waggling it two feet in front of her.

She grinned. “Fetch me my pistol first.”

“I thought you did not engage in violence.”

“I’m reconsidering.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, flinging the towel over his shoulder and sauntering out the door.

“Blast you, Sebastian! Bring that back this instant! Where on earth are you going?”

“To bed, of course.”

She had to shout loud enough for her voice to reach his retreating form down the hallway.

“Bring it back!”

But there was no answer from him. She saw the edge of his shoulder as he disappeared into his room.

A suspicious instinct began to niggle at her. She lay quietly as she could in her bath and listened for sounds of him coming out of his room again. It took ten minutes, and the water was becoming disappointing cool, but at last she saw the edge of his shoulder flick by again in the hallway. This time wearing an expensive tailcoat over his shirt.

“Where are you going?” she called out, loud enough that he couldn’t possibly pretend not to have heard her.

He hesitated. She could tell he was on the point of lying to her. “Out. Briefly. To get a drink.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty to drink in the kitchens.”

“And to check up one or two old acquaintances. Colleagues.” His back was still turned towards her. “Nothing of import.”

“Colleagues? Then shouldn’t I come with you?”

“No need.”

“We’re supposed to be working together. I’m supposed to go out and be seen, aren’t I? To let Victoire de Laurent know I’m . . . back in town.”

“You should rest tonight,” he said repressively. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“I don’t require rest. I wish to do something productive.”

“Well—if you must know, I was going to visit a woman.” He did turn around now and poked his head back inside the bathing room, a challenging look on his face. “An old friend.”

“Business, then?”

“Of a sort. The oldest sort. You would not be welcome.” He turned on his heel then, and headed off down the hallway and down the stairs.

She sunk down into the water again.
Damn him
.

Something wasn’t right here. He’d told her on board ship that he didn’t frequent whores. And the revulsion on his face when he spoke of how Murdoch had treated Sarah convinced her he meant it.

So why was he implying he was headed to such a place? And why had he played that idiotic game with her towel? He was hiding something from her. He didn’t want her coming with him—and not because he was visiting some woman of ill repute.

She waited until the downstairs door slammed, and Sebastian’s voice on the step outside, speaking to the carriage driver, and the sound of hoof beats and grinding carriage wheels pulling away from the house.

Then she called for Evangelina to bring her another towel—and the gown she’d offered earlier.

She had to apologize for postponing their reading.

She was Sal, and, given what she knew of Sal’s life, no one would question her if she demanded to dress and leave for the night herself. And surely no one would question her request to be taken wherever it was Sebastian had gone. There was a certain thrill and power in the knowledge.

Chapter Thirteen

Sebastian pressed his Venetian mask to his face as he navigated the halls of the ornate villa belonging to the Conde de Orte-Saldana. The women, faces carefully concealed with velvet or feathers or satin, were already half-unlaced from their gowns. The men, a colorful mix of Spanish grandees, exiled French aristos, and rich Portuguese and Moorish traders, were drunker even than usual, carousing through the gilded rooms and bumping into priceless antiques as if they were hay bales.