The Rogue (10 page)

“As my father's hostess, it is my business to see to the comfort of his guests.”

“I am not a guest. I am a servant in this house, paid according to my service to your father's wishes. Beyond this sword we have nothing more to say to each other now than we did six years ago, had I known it then.”

“Your words say one thing and everything else about you says another. One moment you are the teacher and the next you are . . .
this
, standing closer to me than you should, looking at my mouth as though you intend to kiss me.”

“In the competition for inconsistency, I have here a worthy challenger. One moment you are the woman in that stable yesterday, and the next moment the girl who had not yet been kissed,” he said roughly. “I hardly know what to make of you.”

“Perhaps you needn't make anything of me. Perhaps that is an impossible task.”

“What do you want, Constance?”

She wanted to reach up and stroke the scar that grazed his cheek, to feel it beneath her fingertips and to learn how he had received it. She wanted to feel him.

“I want a husband,” she said.

T
he rain on the windowpanes, Eliza's snores, and Constance's tight breaths filled the silence.

“I must marry within the month,” she said. “It is imperative.”

He studied her eyes, then her cheeks and again her lips, the perusal at once intimate and questioning.

“And you tell me this now,” he said slowly, “so that I will teach you how to force an offer from your chosen suitor at dagger point?”

A smile pulled at her lips. “You imagine that I could not secure a fiancé otherwise?”

“I would think that depends entirely on the man you have in mind.”

“Ah. Here you are.” Her father's voice carried from the doorway. “You have accepted my offer after all, Mr. Sterling. My daughter is persuasive, is she not?”

Saint stepped away from her. “She is.”

“Mrs. Josephs?” her father said.

Eliza's eyes popped open like a bird's, abruptly alert. “Your Grace?”

“The Duke of Loch Irvine has sent word that he is in residence in Edinburgh. We will advance our departure by a sennight.”

“Good heavens.” Eliza went to him in nippy strides. “You expect miracles of me!”

“I cannot fathom, madam, how preparing my daughter for her wedding should cause you distress when that has been your sole task the past five years.”

Constance's gaze shot to Saint. He was looking at her father, his face impassive.

“There are gowns to be fitted and arrangements to be made,” Eliza said, “and—”

“Make it so. We will depart in a sennight. Mr. Sterling, you will accompany us to town, and Lord Michaels as well, I trust.” Without awaiting a reply, he disappeared through the doorway.

“Your Grace.” Eliza hurried after him. “You must understand that there simply is not sufficient—” Her words were lost upon the stairs.

Saint moved to the sword rack. His stance was easy now, the tension gone, only the waiting, vigilant grace now in his limbs and shoulders that made her breaths seem to come from somewhere in the soles of her feet.

“What sort of sportsman is the Duke of Loch Irvine?” he said.

“I don't know. Why do you ask?”

“A duke must be well enough occupied with the concerns of his estates that he has little time to spare for amusements,” he said as he came toward her again. “Or perhaps such a man has so many minions doing his bidding that his days are in fact filled with amusements.”

“What are you saying?”

He touched her chin with his fingertips and all the air collected in her throat.

“You have the husband you want, it seems.” He spoke quietly and not quite steadily.

“Not yet,” she whispered.

“Perhaps after you are wed he could see to your education in swords and daggers. Then I might be free to depart.”

“You don't want to depart. If you did, you would already have gone. What holds you here?”

He looked into her eyes as though her thoughts were penned upon the irises and woven through her lashes. “Not this game you play.”

“I play no game. I have told you the truth. I wish to learn how to wield a dagger.”

A dart appeared between his brows. “To use against Loch Irvine?”

“If necessary.”

His thumb stroked her jaw and the warmth of full summer went through her.

“You could refuse his offer,” he said. “It would be simpler than stabbing him in his sleep at night.”

“I daresay.”

He released her, ran his hand over the back of his neck, and looked about the ballroom. “Where is that damn chaperone?”

“We are alone. And you touched me. You have broken your own rule.”

“I did notice that.”

“Are you so easily swayed from your convictions, then?”

“I am, it seems, when in the presence of your lips.”

She couldn't help smiling. “Just my lips?”

“The rest of you too. But the lips are the greatest challenge at this time.”

“Shall I wear a veil over the lower half of my face like women of the East do?”

“That would probably help.” His eyes were mystically bright. “I will remain here. I will go to Edinburgh with my cousin in your party. I will teach you. But my terms have changed.”

“Changed? How?”

His big hand surrounded the back of her neck, his fingers spreading into her hair and forcing her face to turn upward. Their lips were a breath apart.

“If you tease, if you flirt, if you come too close or touch me,” he said, the heat of his words upon her skin, “I will take what I want.”

“What do you want?” she said with little breath.

“I want your lips. I want the rest of you as well, beneath me, welcoming me.” His fingertips stroked the nape of her neck, releasing hot remembrance deep inside her. “And this time I will not be hesitant about seizing it.”

“Won't you?”

“Not a moment's hesitation. But know this: Whatever happens before you are wed, the moment you say your vows, I will be gone. You will never see me again.”

Never.

“Are we clear on these terms?” he said.

“Yes.”

His hand fell but he did not move away.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “come here prepared to work. I will make you ready to stab your husband through the heart on your wedding night, if you wish.” With exaggerated formality, he bowed. “Good day.”

She watched him leave, her heart and stomach a twisted mess of pleasure and pain.

E
ACH MORNING HE
met her in the ballroom, always accompanied by Lord Michaels, sometimes Libby and Dr. Shaw, and often Eliza, and he taught her the use of the sword.

From his post at the side of the room, the baron called out encouragement and cheerful praise. But the fencing master's only words to her were instructions: the hand must move in this direction, the feet in that, the tip of the blade there, the hips tilted thus, the elbow there, the eyes not fixed on her target but everywhere at once. Sometimes he remained at a distance as she performed the endless repetitions he demanded, correcting her frequently, and watching carefully with his gaze that could see beneath her skin. When he did touch her, to correct her hand or blade, it was swift and mechanical.

He donned a padded coat and mask and taught her how
to maneuver around his blade to hit him. He stood still for these demonstrations, like the wooden training mannequin, except for his sword, which she attempted to knock aside again and again without any satisfaction. And still it was a challenge to actually connect the tip of her sword with his body.

“Concentrate,” he said again. “You have lost your focus.”

Her focus was on him too closely, on the hard line of his jaw and the firm set of his mouth.

“Fencing is a conversation with swords,” he said. “Your attention does not drift away in the midst of tea table chatter. It should not here.”

She parried and did not respond. She wanted to tease him. To flirt with him. Especially she wanted to laugh with him. Laughing with him had always been as natural as breathing. But his threat sealed her lips.

After their lessons each day he disappeared from the castle. With obvious affection, Lord Michaels said that since the war his cousin preferred solitude.

“Too many horrid cramped quarters in muddy tents, I daresay,” the baron commented with a chuckle that made Libby frown, Dr. Shaw nod, and Constance lose her appetite. When she had first met Saint, he told her how the simple scents of civilization—beeswax candles, fresh water, and her perfume—were like heaven.

At night, exhausted in every muscle, she fell onto her bed upon her back, ran her hands over her sore body, and tried not to think of him. Thinking of him made her ache in places she should not ache. Six years had changed nothing. He was still forbidden to her. Only now it was by his own choice.

T
he Duke of Read's house in Edinburgh smelled of fresh paint, wood varnish, and the bouquets of spring flowers that adorned tables throughout. Elegant and classically austere on the exterior, it commanded an enviable position at the center of a row of homes perched upon the long ridge across the valley from the cramped medieval city. Gorgeously appointed within and newly refurbished in haste, the house bespoke wealth and luxury and a hint of London style.

Her father loathed it. Upon entering, he gave the renovations a swift perusal, then immediately went off to his club. Miserable in every bone and muscle from a week of demanding lessons followed by hours in the carriage, Constance took dinner in her bedchamber and fell into sleep.

As she entered the dining room the following morning, Dr. Shaw greeted her.

“What a remarkable improvement you have had made to this house since your return to Scotland, Constance,” he said as she took a cup of tea.

“Thank you.” She sipped, unable to sit or eat. Soon she
would recommence her investigation into the disappearances of Cassandra Finn and Maggie Poultney. She would pay calls on Edinburgh's most avid gossips and the police inspector heading the investigation, and await her meeting with the Duke of Loch Irvine.

But the true cause of her twisted stomach now appeared in the doorway to the dining room as comfortably as if he had been born in a duke's house, watching her now with a predatory air. A pink lace parasol was propped against one broad shoulder.

“You mustn't mind that your father does not like the place, child,” Eliza said. “His memories of it are all of your mother. Like you, she was far too beautiful. Men do not like to be thwarted by beautiful women.”

“Too true, Mrs. Josephs,” Saint said, his gaze never leaving Constance. “I see that town hours have made you indolent already, my lady. It is past time to begin your lesson today. Will you thwart me this morning, and eschew instruction in favor of the enticements of the city?”

“And raise my instructor's ire?” she said. “Certainly not.” She went to the door.

He shifted only enough for her to pass by and said quietly, “It is not my ire that you raise every day.”

She ignored the heat that bathed her face. There was nothing to be done about it. No one had ever spoken to her like this, so bluntly, so plainly expressing his desire for her. Men flirted, courted, requested dances, rides in the park, strolls. They escorted her to picnics, balls, supper parties, even to the races. They praised her eyes, her gowns, her horse, her parties, her skill on the pianoforte. They wrote poetry to her, sent posies, flattered Eliza in hopes of gaining an ally, went to their knees with offers of marriage, and promised her undying adoration.

Only this man told her directly and honestly that he desired her. He had told her this from the beginning, giving a name to the intensity of heat and yearning she had felt as she stared at him from her hidden place in the ballroom at
Fellsbourne. He told her, kissed her, welcomed the wanton in her. Then he had showed her how a man driven by desire needn't be controlled by it.

Now he followed her across the foyer and to the back of the house.

“How is it that the ballroom in this house is more spacious than that at the castle?”

“This house was built for entertaining.” She paused at the door to the ballroom. The expanse of oaken floor shone with polish, and tall windows along one side shed spring morning light upon the white walls. “The ballroom at the castle was an afterthought.”

“Medieval lairds preferred chain mail to silk knee breeches?”

She turned to him. “And swords to dance cards. Like you, I suppose.”

“You haven't seen me dance.” In his eyes was simple pleasure she had not seen for a week. It carved out a haven of pleasure inside her too.

“At all of those balls we have both attended,” she murmured.

“Did you miss me at those balls? Each time a paunchy fellow in collars up to his ears requested your hand for the quadrille, did you sigh and think, ‘How I wish that handsome soldier sought me now instead of this uninteresting fop. I wonder where that soldier is? I wonder if I will ever have the opportunity to dance with him after all?'”

“Yes.”
Yes
. “At every ball.”

His smile was slow.

She glanced at the parasol. “Are you intending to take a stroll? I'm not certain that particular shade of lace suits your waistcoat. But I don't suppose anybody here will mind it, especially if you avoid the most fashionable promenades.”

From the handle of the parasol, he drew a thin, gleaming blade.

“This is a sword stick.” Slowly he slid it back into the handle. “It fastens here and requires only the simultaneous
depression of fingertip and thumb to release it. Take care in doing so. Like a smallsword, it is a thrusting weapon, but the blade is not dull.” He demonstrated the release and then the catch that secured it in place inside the handle.

“I think I have never felt quite so lightheaded watching a man wield a parasol before.”

A smile hovered about his perfect lips. “Have you ever seen a man wield a parasol?”

“If I have, this has blotted out all other memories of it.”

“Flatterer.” He offered it to her. “That was flirting, by the way. Do you even know when you're doing it?”

“I have exhibited great discipline for many days.” She took the parasol into her hands and put her fingers to the clasp. “At present, however, I am overcome by awe of this remarkable device. And your abruptly high spirits have distracted me. My vigilance slipped.”

“Bad habits die hard, hm?”

“You are the only man I know who considers mild flirting a bad habit.” She explored the fastening mechanism. It was nearly indiscernible. “This is
my
parasol,” she said in surprise. “Eliza gave it to me for my birthday last year.”

“I requested it of her.”

“Why did neither of you tell me?”

“I have never made a sword stick of a parasol. I didn't know if I would do so successfully.”

“It seems you have succeeded splendidly.”

“I had help. A bladesmith in the old town.”

“I wonder what he thought you wanted with such a thing?”

“He did not ask.” He crossed his arms. “But I don't recall him becoming lightheaded when I wielded it.”

She squeezed her thumb and forefinger together on either side, and the blade snapped free silently. “This is truly wonderful.”

He seemed to be watching her, both her face and her hands.

“Grip it as I showed you how to grip the dagger, with
your thumb toward the blade. But perhaps succeeding events wiped that detail of that day from your memory.”

“You wish to make me uncomfortable, don't you?”

“No. I wish to reinspire you.”

Her tongue went abruptly dry. “All week at the castle you were aloof.”

“Rumor below stairs has it that your ducal suitor is soon to make an entrance. The time for opportunity grows short.”

She turned her eyes up to him. “I flirted with you only moments ago. I broke your rule.”

He bent his head and said by her ear. “You did not realize you were doing so. It does not count.”

She laughed and felt full of stars. “So, I must flirt, tease, or touch you intentionally?”

“I count on it.” He gestured her into the ballroom.

She went but her nerves were awhirl. If she touched him, he would kiss her. He would wrap his big hands around her hips again and draw her close, and
kiss her
.

He was looking at her hands. “Have you ever wielded a Scottish dirk?”

“Never.” She loosened her fists. “I purchased several. My father put them on the walls.”

“I saw them. Using a blade of this length requires similar maneuvers to a smallsword, but as with a dagger the hand is unprotected by a guard, so lengthy engagement is unwise, especially for a novice.” He held out his hand and she passed the blade to him. He returned it to the parasol handle and set it down. “For now, we will put this aside—”

“But—”

“And continue with the épée until you have perfected your parries.”

“When might that be?”

“Anytime before you wed, my lady.” His voice was steady but low.

“You taunt me with what I cannot have.” She nodded at the parasol.

“Turnabout is fair play.” He seemed to draw a deep
breath, and peered over her shoulder. “Now where is your chaperone?”

“I am here!” Lord Michaels called as he hurried in, coffee in one hand and muffin in the other. “Miss Shaw will be along shortly. She is determined to regale me with her latest examination of the human brain. It seems we men have smaller brains than you women, Lady Constance. Not much of surprise, is it? My cousin's requirement that I sit here each day is proof of it.”

“He wishes to protect my virtue,” she said so primly that Saint nearly laughed. But there was some trouble in her face that he did not like.

“By setting
me
as watchdog?” Dylan cracked a laugh. “Why, if you'd been with us the night—”

“We will spend another day practicing parries.” Saint moved to the sword rack. “After that I will teach you an attack to the groin.”

“You see, my lord,” she said, turning a smile upon his cousin that had everything of dissembling in it, “he intends to make of me a true menace to the male population of Scotland.”

“England and Wales too.”

Dylan rolled his eyes. “Why a woman can't be satisfied with menacing poor, unsuspecting fellows with her beauty alone, I will never understand.”

“Swords never fade, Lord Michaels. I believe Mr. Sterling interrupted you a moment ago. Do tell me about that night—”

“Good day, everybody.” Libby came into the room with her sketching notebook.

“Good day, Miss Shaw,” the baron exclaimed. “I am all eager curiosity to hear about the inferiority of the masculine brain.” He winked at Constance.

She took up her sword. “
En garde
—
Oh
.” She straightened. “I have torn my hem again.” She tugged at her skirt by the knee and a portion of it draped over her foot. “This is the third already. I will run through gowns before I am perfect at parries.”

He set the tip of his blade to the floor. “Is this an excuse to shirk your lesson?”

“I have no wish to shirk my lessons. They are my favorite part of every day.”

For a moment he could say nothing. “I give you leave to go off and change your gown now.”

“Too much of the morning is already advanced, and I have calls to pay later. Today I will train in torn muslin and tomorrow I will seek a solution to stepping on my hems.” She offered him a smile with her eyes. “I am not so easily defeated, Mr. Sterling.”

Because he had to, he said, “Nor am I, my lady.”