The Devil's Own

by Liana Lefey

  Her stomach tightened. Was he planning on putting an end to their treks together? “I’ll tell her. But I pray the weather holds fair for her sake. Did you notice how improved her mood is today?”

  He nodded and took another sip, saying nothing.

  “I hate to think of her all alone out here,” she went on, trying not to notice the way his throat worked as he swallowed. “It’s too far removed from everyone else. Why did she not move into the village proper after her husband died?”

  “Perhaps she enjoys her solitude,” he said, a biting edge to his tone. “Not everyone likes being disturbed by their neighbors.”

  He’s angry. Confusion turned into a cold knot of trepidation. “Oh, I don’t think such is the case for Mrs. Small. As much as she anticipated our visit today, I can only imagine how lonely she must have been all week.”

  “This is her home, Miss Tomblin,” he replied, again in a hard voice. “She’s lived here for nigh on forty years, raised a family here. All of her happiest memories were made in this place. But I don’t suppose you’d understand how attached a person can become to their home.”

  Her eyes smarted, and she told herself it was the frigid air. “I-I suppose you’re right,” she stammered. “I’ll relay your message,” she said, unwilling to look at him as he drained the cup and held it out. Without another word, she took it and turned back toward the house.

  “Miss Tomblin, wait,” he called, stopping her in her tracks only a few steps away. “Allow me to again apologize for my foul mood.”

  She refused to face him. “It was a stupid question.”

  “It was not. You spoke from a place of caring concern, and I snapped at you. Please look at me.”

  Quickly, she dashed away her tears as best she could with the heel of her other hand before turning to regard him. Damned if her eyes weren’t still watering as she met his regret-filled blue gaze. “I really must be getting back inside…” The rest of whatever she’d been about to say died on the tip of her tongue as he hobbled close and his hands came up to cup her face.

  Gently, he thumbed the tears from her cheeks. “I’ve been an inexcusable ass, Miss Tomblin. You’ve done naught to deserve such harsh treatment, and I beg you to forgive me.”

  She stood, paralyzed, as the tender touch of his fingertips against her face, though icy cold, caused heat to unfurl deep down in her belly. The desire he’d awakened earlier at the gate again arose. Her mouth couldn’t find speech, so she settled for a jerky nod. His arms fell to his sides, and she closed her eyes to keep from grabbing at his hands to drag them back up again.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. Clearing his throat, he pressed on with forced buoyancy. “We must leave for Mr. Messingham’s soon.”

  Her tongue finally unfroze. “I’ll tell her it can be only a quick visit today.” She waited for him to turn away, but he didn’t. She looked up, wondering what else he needed to tell her, and what she saw in his face stole her breath.

  Hunger. She recognized it at once as the same hunger eating away at her even now. The eyes staring back at her were dark as sin and filled with want.

  For me. He wants me. The absolute certainty that he desired her sent a thrill through her. It traveled the length of her body, from the top of her head to the tips of her curling toes, snug in their boots.

  And then his eyes became shuttered and unreadable once more. “Thank you. Please give her my thanks for the tea. I’ll just check on the horse before I rejoin you.”

  Though everything in her wanted to remain, Mary forced herself to turn away and go back to the house. When she entered, her hostess was just sitting down by the fire.

  “Is all well, then?” said Mrs. Small, her eyes bright with interest as Mary set the reverend’s empty cup in the wash basin and joined her.

  “Yes,” she answered, taking up her own now-lukewarm tea. “Reverend Wayward wanted me to tell you he’s made sure you’re to have enough wood laid by to keep you for a fortnight—he worries the weather might turn nasty.”

  “So ye’ve taken a liking to our vicar, have ye?” said the old dame, cutting straight to the point.

  Mary’s cheeks burned. “He’s a good, kind man.”

  “Mmm.” Mrs. Small’s gaze was penetrating. “He appears to think highly of ye, as well. I could not help but mark the way he looks at ye.”

  “Oh?” she replied, trying to sound nonchalant in spite of how her heart was racing. “I had not noticed.”

  “When a man looks at a lass the way he looked at ye just now, out there, she either notices or she’s stone blind,” the old woman said tartly. “I don’t think ye blind, Miss Tomblin.” Her raspy voice softened. “If ye love him, don’t let anything stand in the way of that love—’tis more precious than all the gold in the world.”

  Clearly, Mrs. Small had been spying through her window and had seen everything. Mortification set in. “Thank you, Mrs. Small. But I—”

  She was saved from having to discuss it further by the front door opening.

  Reverend Wayward trudged in and cast the women a rueful look. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Small, but I’m afraid we cannot stay any longer.”

  “’Tis quite all right, lad,” said their hostess as Mary jumped up to quickly wash their teacups. “The days are so short in winter, and I know ye’ve many others to attend today. Thank ye for coming to see this old woman. Ye brightened me day more than ye know.”

  Mary caught the sly gleam in her eye as she said it and felt herself flushing all over again. They said their goodbyes and departed. As she walked behind the vicar and they boarded the horse cart, a strange calm washed over her. She’d thought to ask him about what had nearly happened between them—twice now—but decided against it.

  Let him be the first to speak of it. Let him be the one to give some excuse, if he dares. If he chose to address the matter, she would answer honestly. If not…

  What would be, would be.

  Chapter Nine

  Devlin had never been so confused in all his life. Everything was all wrong. He was supposed to be driving this woman away, but everything he said and did seemed to result in the opposite.

  His problems concerning Miss Tomblin were threefold, the first being that she was damned attractive and he couldn’t seem to keep a clear head around her. It grew worse with every interaction. He’d bloody well nearly kissed her back there. The stiffness in his trousers—hidden, thankfully, by his brother’s priestly garb—still hadn’t abated.

  The second problem was that he actually liked the woman. She was intelligent, funny, kind, and he appreciated the way she spoke her mind.

  The third problem was that he couldn’t bear to cause her pain. Every time he even thought he’d bruised her feelings, he found himself apologizing—a highly aberrant behavior for a man unaccustomed to apologizing for anything. But one look into her wounded eyes was all it took to turn his resolve to jelly. He had to figure out a way to get around that unfortunate new compulsion.

  Or write to Daniel and tell him to come home and pretend his leg is broken.

  He wondered how his twin was managing. He was to write Daniel tonight, in fact. What would he tell him? That he’d nearly kissed the woman he was meant to be rejecting in his stead? That he’d only made things worse?

  No. There is still plenty of time to mend the situation. I’ll simply have to exert more self-control. He knew better than anyone how to resist feminine wiles. Of late, it had become a tricky business, but he wasn’t so far gone as to think it hopeless.

  His companion, he noted, was uncharacteristically quiet. Their close encounter had clearly unsettled her as much as it had him, though thanks to his foolish lack of discipline, she doubtless now thought she had the upper hand.

  Time to prove her wrong. “I hope you don’t mind keeping Mr. Messingham company on your own, but I must see to repairing the fencing ar
ound his henhouse. I noticed last week it looked as if foxes have been trying to get in near the back, and I’ve brought a hammer and some nails to help reinforce it.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” she said, her face unreadable.

  “I won’t be long.” He eyed her for a moment, then added, “Please don’t trouble either him or yourself with bringing me any tea, should he offer. Not to slight anyone’s hospitality, but we had a late start, and I need to make my entire circuit before sundown.”

  “Of course. I, too, shall decline for the same reason.” Her gaze remained fixed on the path ahead, and she sounded perfectly calm and reasonable, as if she hadn’t nearly been kissed at all.

  If he was honest with himself, this offended him mightily. It was customary for a woman nearly kissed by him to be at least somewhat ruffled, if not completely addled by the experience. Still, if she wanted to pretend nothing had happened, he would do the same.

  In fact, it was better that way. The last thing he needed was for anyone to hear of the incident. Good Lord, if her parents were to ever learn of it… He prayed she knew well enough to keep her mouth shut.

  It struck him then that her parents had given him—or Daniel, rather—their complete trust. And why not? As vicar, he was an example of the very highest standard of morality, a template all other men were to follow. In their minds, he was completely trustworthy when it came to women.

  Only, Devlin wasn’t their vicar. His morality could be measured somewhere near the bottom of the scale, and he wasn’t at all trustworthy when it came to women. For the moment, however, he had no choice but to act as if he were. Putting on a cheerful face, he whistled a merry tune in tempo to the horse’s gait.

  Beside him, Miss Tomblin sat without complaint, eyes forward. By the time they stopped at Mr. Messingham’s, he’d all but lost patience over her blatant indifference and was glad to sling his tool satchel over his shoulder and ease himself down to the ground. His bad leg hurt abominably where Mrs. Small’s gate had smacked it, and he wondered if he ought not to go inside and have a look at it before proceeding.

  Then she sailed past with her head held high and, not bothering to wait for him, continued without slowing, all the way to Mr. Messingham’s front door. Her back was as straight as a ramrod, her knock brisk, and her greeting to Mr. Messingham bright and energetic.

  Devlin stood, dumbfounded, as she explained to their host that “the good vicar” would be unable to join them inside as he was to repair the coop, but that she would be keeping him company today—quietly.

  She then pulled from her pocket a slim book and said, “I’ve brought along some reading material, so you need not feel obligated to converse. I shall take no offense if you desire silence.” Turning to Devlin, she cast him a saccharine smile. “Go to your task, Reverend. I’m quite capable of managing on my own and will disturb neither of you unless my fellowship or service is desired.”

  The barb pierced deep and sank into his flesh to burrow into bone.

  She’d brought him a cup of tea as a courtesy. She hadn’t asked to be nearly kissed—unless her very presence was a request for ravishment, which he was beginning to think might be the case. She hadn’t been the one to lean closer…but she hadn’t been the one to back away, either. Even so, he could hardly blame her for the incident. His growing fascination with her wasn’t her fault. She intrigued him. Just when he thought he had her figured out, she surprised him. Like now.

  Mr. Messingham stared at him expectantly.

  Oh. “Yes,” he said brightly, as though he hadn’t been standing there like a lump. “I’ll just get to it, shall I? Thank you, Miss Tomblin, for being so obliging.” Heat crept up from beneath his collar to flood his face. Idiot!

  The sight of the rundown coop was a welcome one. If he’d been resenting the fact that his brother had him doing manual labor while suffering with a broken leg, that resentment was long gone. He attacked the task with vigor, venting his frustration with each swing of the hammer, finding both satisfaction and release in pure physical exertion. By the time he’d finished, he felt much better, if exhausted. His mind was clearer, at least.

  As he hobbled back to Mr. Messingham’s house, his thoughts crystallized. He knew what he had to do. When he went in, however, those plans evaporated from his immediate mind due to sheer astonishment.

  There before the fire sat Miss Tomblin and Mr. Messingham, playing chess. Without speaking, she moved her bishop to threaten his king. He countered and took her knight. She moved and again put him in check. He countered.

  Two moves later, with not a single word spoken between them, Messingham conceded the game by tipping his king. “Congratulations, Miss Tomblin. And may I say that I’ve rarely enjoyed such a good game. You’re a worthy opponent.”

  Devlin cleared his throat. Both of the room’s occupants flinched and looked to him in surprise. It was quite a blow to his ego to realize neither of them had even noticed him come in—especially Miss Tomblin. “Apologies for having startled you.”

  Messingham’s brows rose. “Your pardon, vicar. I was just telling Miss Tomblin—”

  “Yes, I heard,” he said, coming to stand over the board. “My goodness, Miss Tomblin. I had no idea you were such a skilled strategist.”

  It was hard to tell by the light of the fire whether or not she was blushing, but her expression said it all. She’d been caught.

  Any person capable of beating Messingham at chess was to be regarded with respect. Daniel had warned him of the man’s ability to think several moves ahead, as well as his competitive nature. Messingham would never have let her win—he didn’t believe in doing such things. If she’d won, it was because she was a damned good player.

  He’d underestimated her. He wouldn’t be so foolish again.

  Messingham, rather than being the sore loser Devlin expected, instead seemed delighted by Miss Tomblin’s skill. “Where did you learn to play so well?” the man asked her, beaming.

  “My father is an excellent player, sir,” she answered with a shy smile. “He began teaching me when I was very young. We often play in the evenings after dinner.”

  “Well, well,” said the man, giving her a pleased smile. “Your father, eh? Tell him if he’s ever deprived of your company and finds himself in want of an opponent, he is welcome to knock on my door at any time and be received with welcome. And you, as well, my dear.” He turned to Devlin. “You’ll have to be on your game to win against this one, vicar.”

  Miss Tomblin turned a startled gaze upon him. “Oh, do you play, Reverend?”

  Damn. “Indeed, I do.”

  Messingham let out a bark of laughter and leaned toward Miss Tomblin. “He plays well enough to sit me a match every now and again and hold his own, but he’s no artist like you, my dear.”

  “You flatter me, sir,” she replied demurely.

  “I never flatter,” said Messingham in a dour tone. “I but speak the truth. It was a pleasure being trounced by you, madam. That said, I hope to reclaim my dignity when next we meet.”

  “I would be delighted, of course. Until next Sunday, then?”

  Devlin listened to their banter with bewilderment. What in the seven hells is happening here? The world had gone upside down. According to Daniel, Messingham was a bona fide woman hater, and yet here he was looking at Miss Tomblin with calf eyes! She’d charmed the venomous old serpent and had wrapped him around her dainty finger for a ring.

  Well, she won’t wrap me around it. “Miss Tomblin, much as I’m loath to end what seems like a delightful visit, I’m afraid we must be getting on.”

  She rose at once. Before coming to fetch her cloak, however, she paused to place a kiss on Mr. Messingham’s white-whiskered cheek. Devlin looked on, flabbergasted, as the man chuckled in response and patted her hand in a distinctly paternal gesture.

  The woman is a bloody siren!

  Not a word was
spoken as they returned to the cart—mainly because the siren was currently employing her voice in humming a merry tune. With a jolt, he realized it was the same one he’d been whistling earlier.

  Devlin now regretted having flung himself at that coop with such abandon. In fact, he was regretting ever having ventured past his brother’s doorstep. His bad leg was hurting something awful, and the crutches were beginning to rub sore spots under his arms. Irritability spiked as his companion hopped up to the seat with all the ease of a gazelle, leaving him to clamber up with all the speed and grace of an ungainly tortoise.

  This time, it was she who carried the tune to the beat of the horse’s hooves.

  Finally, when he could stand it no more, he broke his silence. “I’m glad you’ve managed to make friends with Mr. Messingham. He has so very few visitors. A man should not be alone so much.” The moment it escaped his lips, he wanted to kick himself.

  “Being alone does not equate to being unhappy, Reverend,” she replied with a little laugh, surprising him. “Mr. Messingham likes his own company, to be sure, but he appreciates a guest who does not tax his patience overmuch. I simply learned what annoys him and vowed not to do those things.”

  “And just how, pray tell, did you learn such a thing so quickly?”

  A smile lurked behind her twinkling eyes. “The best approach with people like Mr. Messingham is to be direct. I asked.”

  “You asked him to tell you what he dislikes? And he told you? Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  He tried to picture it but couldn’t. She was bold, but not that bold! He wanted to refute the claim, but she’d already moved on to another topic—his reputed chess skills. Or, rather, Daniel’s.