The Devil's Own

by Liana Lefey

  It had been intriguing.

  She hadn’t shied away from seeing him as he’d expected after his unintended exhibition. A lady of good reputation she might be, but shyness didn’t seem to be part of her constitution. Even now, she was sitting patiently inside the church, waiting for him to finish saying farewell to the members of the congregation before joining him on another grueling round of calls on the elderly and infirm of Harper’s Grove.

  He could hardly be blamed for being extra patient with Mr. and Mrs. Beckley as they relayed the tale of their youngest son’s having become engaged to a young lady while away in Edinburgh. Nor could he be faulted for taking extra care in changing his garments. The longer he spent in the vestibule, the less time he’d have to endure alone with Miss Tomblin.

  Coward, ridiculed his conscience.

  Damned right, answered prudence.

  He had good reason for being reluctant to embark on a circuit of the village with her today. She probably expected some sort of apology for Monday’s incident. It was what Daniel would do. Steeling himself, Devlin exited the vestibule. “Are you ready, Miss Tomblin?” he called, unwilling to go and fetch her from her pew.

  Without a word, she rose and joined him. Both eschewed further speech as they stopped at the vicarage to fetch the horse cart, which he’d already had Tom load with the supplies for today’s calls. In silence, she added a small satchel she’d brought along.

  It was dead quiet as they began the long ride to Mrs. Small’s.

  Finally, after what had to be ten solid minutes of awkward silence, he could stand it no more. “You’ll be happy to know there was enough in the poor box to cover the repairs to Mrs. Stone’s house. I’ve asked Mr. Farley to see to her roof, and Mr. Kilch will see to replacing the door and sealing any cracks. The repairs will be completed this week.”

  Her mouth fell open in a broad, delighted smile. “Thank you, Reverend Wayward!” she at last replied, voice laden with, to his great unease, fervent warmth.

  “I’m not the one to thank.” He eyed her sidelong. “Someone made a generous donation—enough to cover the repairs as well as assist with several other pressing needs. There was a little more than twenty pounds after I counted it all.” Half of that had been from his own purse.

  Whipping around, she looked at him, her wide gray eyes full of bewilderment. “Twenty? But I put in only f—” Her face bloomed with color, and she looked down. “I mean, that’s wonderful. I’m glad to know the good people of Harper’s Grove have not forgotten those less fortunate than themselves.”

  Birdsong twittered from a nearby tree as she stared at the floorboards. At last he forced himself to speak. “Miss Tomblin?” He waited until she dragged her gaze back up to meet his. “About the—”

  “You need not apologize,” she interrupted, the already scarlet flags in her cheeks growing brighter. “I—we should not have imposed upon you without an appointment. The fault was mine. And if you’re concerned that I might have—that I saw…anything—” She paused and swallowed, then lifted her head to stare him squarely in the face and say in a breezy manner that was belied by her flushed face, “I can assure you that I saw nothing untoward.”

  Devlin had to bite his wicked tongue to keep from grinning proudly and agreeing with the statement. He’d been told by several women that his unclothed form was anything but “untoward.” But he wasn’t Devlin today. Today, he was a prudish, mortified vicar. He affected a stammer. “I-I was going to say that the gifts you sent to Mrs. Stone and the children were received with great enthusiasm.”

  Her ears slowly joined the rest of her face in turning crimson.

  He couldn’t stop himself. “And what of your friend, Miss Benfield?” he asked in the same light conversational tone she’d used on him a moment ago. “I believe she was also witness to my unfortunate lack of apparel.”

  Miss Tomblin’s face now shone like a flaming beacon. “Sh-she also saw nothing to warrant an apology.”

  Damned right. He could feel a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “My ankles and shins did not offend, then?”

  Her chin lifted, and her eyes defied him. “Why should they? Do not the Scots wear kilts that bare their legs? Yours are not the first male knees I’ve ever seen.”

  So unexpected was her acidic reply that it caught him off guard. He burst out laughing. To his shock, she began laughing, too. It was a release, and the uncomfortable tension that had been building between them ebbed away.

  “Forgive me,” he said at last, when he’d caught his breath. “I did not mean to goad you.”

  “Yes, you did,” she answered without rancor. “You knew perfectly well how uncomfortable I was, and you were enjoying it. I saw you trying not to smile.”

  Bollocks. “Guilty as charged,” he said sheepishly. “In truth, I worried about it all week. As vicar, it is incumbent upon me to set the example for the other men in the village. I’m afraid I’ve set a very poor one.”

  “As you told me last Sunday, you are no less human than anyone else.” Her gray eyes held no guile. “Are you not entitled to make the same mistakes as the rest of us poor mortals?”

  By George, she’s lovely. Too much so. “You judge me less harshly than I expected.”

  “Judgment is reserved for the Almighty. Is that not what the gospel tells us?”

  “Which of us is the vicar, here?” he asked, laughing again. “You speak truth. And yet so many are eager to sit in judgment of others.” How well he knew it. His own father and his eldest brother had both judged him—and had found him lacking. Enough to cut him off entirely.

  That part of my life is over. I have a family again, and those who deemed me unworthy are gone. But the scars left by their judgment remained.

  “All too true,” she answered, bringing him back to the present. “I try my best not to judge people, lest I also be judged. Sometimes, however, I find it quite difficult to refrain—judgment seems to be in our nature. I often worry what others think of me.”

  He frowned. “Why? You seem quite”—Careful—“an agreeable sort of person,” he finished lamely.

  “In the absence of information, people make assumptions based on the most insignificant things,” she continued, slanting him a wry smile. “I’ve encountered it more times than I can count.” Her expression grew wistful. “My father’s work causes us to move fairly often. He prefers to have us live near his building sites rather than be separated from us. I don’t blame him, but it has made it all but impossible for me to build lasting friendships. Every time we settle in a new place, I must overcome a whole new set of prejudices and assumptions. Augie is the first friend I’ve had for longer than a few months.”

  Curiosity was a merciless goad. “Exactly how many places have you lived in?”

  “Harper’s Grove is our twenty-fifth town—since I began counting, that is.” She turned her face toward the clear winter sky. “It’s by far my favorite. You’re very fortunate to have grown up in such a place. The people are kind here.”

  Warning bells clanged in his head. She was leading this conversation somewhere. He could almost taste the breadcrumbs. Such trails often ended in a trap for the poor fools stupid enough to follow them. “They are just people,” he said carefully. “No better or worse than in any other village. They all have their faults, believe me. I know better than anyone.”

  “Of course they do.” She turned to again regard him, her gaze altogether too soft, too warm. Too intimate. “But nowhere else have I felt as welcome as I do here. Especially now.”

  The bells tolled louder as he tried to come up with some appropriate response that would make her feel a little less warmth toward him—and couldn’t. He settled for clearing his throat and saying briskly, “Well, I’m glad to hear the people here are conducting themselves so admirably. It makes my job easier.”

  Turning, he headed onward toward the house, determi
ned not to look at her again until he’d mastered himself.

  When they arrived at Mrs. Small’s, her rickety old gate was dangling haphazardly off one rusty hinge—which gave out when he nudged it with the tip of his crutch to move it out of the way. The whole thing twisted loose and crashed into his bad leg on its way down. “Bollocks!” he yelled as white-hot pain shot up the limb—and then he remembered.

  The look on Miss Tomblin’s face was one of complete shock.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, mortified, and yet inwardly cheering himself for having unwittingly accomplished his goal of forever altering her view of him—or of Daniel, rather. “I must beg your forgiveness, Miss Tomblin. I’m afraid it’s been a somewhat…trying week.”

  Her gaze swept down and fixed on the ground. “I wanted only to help, but though it was not my intention, I fear my presence has only made things more uncomfortable for you.”

  “What? No, no, of course not!” The lie rolled right off his tongue with practiced ease, as if he’d meant to say it. Why in the seven hells did I say no? Had he answered “Yes,” she’d have run off, likely had a cry, and Daniel’s problem would’ve been neatly resolved. Too late now. “My untoward behavior has nothing to do with you,” he fibbed again. “In fact, you’ve been a boon, Miss Tomblin. Truly.”

  She nodded acceptance of this explanation, but he got the feeling she didn’t believe him. “You know, everyone comes to you with their problems,” she said after a moment. “But to whom do you speak when your mind is troubled?”

  He could see the darker flecks in her luminous gray eyes, see each of the tiny lines that gave her ripe, pink lips their enticing texture. In spite of his throbbing leg, a wave of potent desire threatened to overwhelm all good sense. He tried to think but couldn’t. His mind was preoccupied with the temptation to kiss her. In vain, he tried to gather his wits.

  What the hell would Daniel say? “I talk to the Lord, of course,” he said, sounding rather strangled in his own ears.

  “How patient you must be, to speak your woes only to Him in secret, keeping faith that an answer will come that may be comprehended.”

  Her insightful answer would have been perfect for Daniel, who would’ve agreed wholeheartedly and with good cheer. But it struck Devlin a deep blow. He told no one of his woes. Not even Daniel knew some of the secret pains he’d suffered in silence.

  Devlin had a life many men envied, but he was not content. But to whom could he admit such a thing? His business associates would lose faith in him if they even suspected he regretted some of the acts he’d committed in the name of success. He was known for his ruthlessness, his detachment, his ability to do whatever must be done to achieve his ends.

  And he was lonely. But to whom could he confess such a thing? He had many, many friends—who claimed him as such only because of what he could do for them. The moment it was in their best interest to ally themselves elsewhere, they’d do so without hesitation, and he knew it. He trusted none of them.

  The truth was that there was no one in whom he could confide. He had Daniel, but he was cautious in what he revealed even to his twin, especially in writing. For one, he didn’t want his brother to think any more poorly of him than he already did, which was going to be a problem if Daniel dug too deeply while in London. Another issue was that Daniel didn’t need to be burdened with any more worries than he currently had on his plate with the people of this parish.

  As for female companionship, it was his whenever he wanted it. London was full of women willing to lift their skirts for either coin or, at his level of society, simply a good time, but such women were not the sort one married. London was also full of conniving, mercenary women looking to fool a man into sharing his surname. He wanted a woman he could trust, one whose affection for him was genuine. But who could he confess that to without risking the wrong ears hearing of it and thus inviting deceit?

  Another truth made him quail inside in terror of its discovery by others: he wanted love. Love like the kind David and Dean had found in their wives. To whom could he reveal that? To love without fear and be loved in return was his most secret desire, one he was barely able to admit to himself. But what sort of woman would marry a remorseless rakehell like him? Miss St. Peters, certainly, but she didn’t love him—the real him—because she didn’t know him. And he certainly didn’t love her. The very thought of being shackled to that woman made him faintly nauseous.

  Love? Marriage? Again, warning bells sounded in his mind. Only a fool would even think of such things while pretending to be someone else. His problems were irrelevant. He’d deal with them later—with introspection, doubtless followed by copious amounts of alcohol and the company of a lightskirt or three.

  He shook his head a little to clear it, and on looking up, saw that Miss Tomblin’s eyes had darkened to the hue of wood smoke. Her lips were parted slightly, and her color was high. He could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. When had she come so close? Looking down, he realized she hadn’t moved. He was leaning toward her as though pulled by some irresistible force.

  The truth was he didn’t want just any woman. Or even three. Who he wanted was standing right in front of him. And he couldn’t have her.

  …

  Sweet merciful Lord…

  Should she close her eyes? Tilt her head back? Lean toward him? Thoughts raced through her mind, but her thrumming body refused to obey any command involving movement. Panic held Mary in a vise grip, paralyzed, as he drifted closer.

  And then his midnight-blue eyes, which had been staring deeply into hers, seemed suddenly to focus. Abruptly, he withdrew and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Small is waiting.” Without further comment, he turned and clumsily proceeded up the path.

  The full impact of what had almost happened hit Mary, sucking the air from her lungs. Had she but been a little closer… But she hadn’t been. And it hadn’t.

  But it came close. Very close. Which meant there was hope. Hefting her basket, Mary followed.

  Mrs. Small answered her door with a welcoming smile. “Come in out of the cold! I’ve a fire laid and the kettle ready.”

  On entering the house, Mary noted that it looked much tidier than it had the last time. Things were put away rather than scattered about haphazardly. The curtains had been tied back, letting in the pale winter sunlight, and the air seemed fresher.

  “You look well today, Mrs. Small,” she said to their hostess, since Reverend Wayward seemed unable to speak. The idea that he was just as stunned pleased her immensely.

  “Thank ye, dear girl. For the first time in years, I feel well,” replied the old woman, her eyes twinkling. “Set your things down and come sit with me by the fire.”

  “Oh!” Mary opened the cover on her basket and withdrew a rather bulky bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red ribbon. “This is for you.”

  Mrs. Small’s cheeks pinked as she accepted the soft package. “I’ll wager I know what this is.” Taking it over to her chair, she sat and carefully opened it, preserving both ribbon and paper, to reveal several balls of remnant yarn in varying sizes, colors, and weights. “So many!” She held up a fat wad of dove-gray wool to her cheek and smiled. “’Tis perfect—and just the right amount for a nice cap, too.” Then her eye fell on a spot of bright crimson amid the darker colors. “Oh, Miss Tomblin, ye should not have,” she exclaimed softly, laying aside the gray yarn to unbury the red. “A whole new skein? ’Tis far too—”

  “It’s my pleasure,” Mary interrupted. “I saw that bright, cheerful red, and it made me think of you. You were meant to have it.”

  The old woman’s eyes glimmered. “Ye are too kind, truly. I’ll make something lovely of it.”

  Mary smiled, her heart gladdened. “I look forward to seeing you wear it,” she said deliberately. “Is there anything I can do for you today, Mrs. Small?”

  “Ye can help me make the tea and keep
me company, child. All else is done.” Rising, she shuffled to the hearth and hung the kettle over the fire. “Winter is usually so difficult. Me bones ache so. But I felt so good this morning when I wakened, like everything was new—even old me!”

  Mary went to the kitchen to find cups and tea. While she was busying herself, she heard the front door open and close. Peering through the small kitchen window, she spied Reverend Wayward struggling back down the steps. Had they forgotten something in the cart? She almost made to pursue him, but then he stopped and simply stood there in the middle of the path, staring off into the distance at, seemingly, nothing.

  “I see ye’ve found the tea.”

  Flinching, Mary missed the cup above which her hand had been hovering and spilled tea leaves on the table. Heat bloomed in her cheeks at the knowing look in her hostess’s eyes. “Yes. I remembered where it was from my last visit.”

  “Hmm. I’ll wager yon vicar might like a cup to warm his innards,” said Mrs. Small, nodding toward the window with a sly look. She poured hot water into the cups. “Why don’t ye take him some?”

  Mary nodded, embarrassed. She needed to be more careful, lest the wrong person see through her and talk of it to others. Mrs. Small was too isolated for such, and she didn’t think the lady would stoop to such behavior—but others wouldn’t hesitate to gossip. It was a small village.

  She added a small amount of honey to his cup to sweeten it. Then, donning her cloak, she took it out. For a moment she just stood, watching as his breath came out in little puffs of steam on the frigid air. Then, clearing her throat so as not to startle him and cause an accident, she crossed the yard.

  “I thought you might like some tea,” she said, alarmed at how breathless she sounded. Firming her voice, she extended the cup. “It’s just been poured, so have a care.”

  His fingers slid over hers as he took the cup from her, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, taking a sip at once despite her warning. “Tell Mrs. Small when you go back inside that Tom will be by later to see to her kindling, and that I’ve made certain she’ll have enough to last a fortnight this time. The weather tends to get nasty this time of year, and I wanted to be sure she’s well-stocked in the event I’m unable to return next Sunday.”