She made herself stiff in his arms. “I will cease struggling if you will unhand me.”
One dark brow tilted up. “A will if ye’ll no run off again.”
“I would be a perfect imbecile not to run off, wouldn’t I?”
For another moment he studied her like he had at the mill. “A’ve come for ma horse.”
“I suppose you have, but I’ve no doubt you’ve also come for Mr. Yale. But, as before, I shall not allow you to harm him. You will have to tie me up, bind my mouth with a gag and throw me into the shed with the chickens and bolt the door first.” She bit her tongue belatedly. Silly to give him ideas. But her head was muddled. It did not feel good to be hugged to his chest, and she thought she might be ill. It was, she supposed, useful to learn that the embraces of all men were not equally thrilling. “Now unhand me, if you please.”
Astoundingly, he did. She took an unsteady step back and glanced at the house in the distance. His eyes narrowed. Then he moved away from her, climbed over the stile and started toward the house.
She scrambled up the stile. “What are you doing? Where are you going?” She ran to meet his long strides. “You promised!”
“A promised nothing except ta unhand ye.”
“It’s true. But, please, I pray you. I beg you.” She grabbed his arm and tugged with all her strength. “Please! You mustn’t harm him.”
He halted. She slammed into him. He set her away and his brow came down over fixed blue eyes.
“A wonder, miss, why ye would imagine A could harm a man who’s bested me once in yer sight, another out of it, and half a dozen times afore that?”
Her jaw loosened. “I suppose I did not perfectly understand that.”
“What’s amiss with him then?”
“Amiss?” Oh, God. Her foolish tongue. “I don’t understand you. There is nothing amiss with Mr. Yale. It is only that I did not wish you to surprise him.”
“A reckon he’s never been surprised a day in his life.” He crossed his massive arms. “A’m nae a dull-witted man, lass. A’ll have the truth from ye nou, or A’ll be taking more than ma horse with me today.” He scanned her from brow to toe. There was no mistaking the threat. “All the way ta the duke, if A must.”
“The duke?” Could he be speaking of Wyn’s duke?
“His Grace’ll no take kindly ta ye standing in his way.”
Fear clogged her throat; a scream would not come. But even if she were to scream, Wyn could not come and save her. She must save him.
“Mr. Eads,” she said, drawing in steadying breaths. “I will tell you what you wish to know.”
Satisfaction settled upon his square jaw. “Ye will, nou?”
“I will.” She hated to manipulate a man in this manner, but God could not give her a mind that tended toward reckless calculation then fault her for using it for the good of another. “But first I would like to hear about your sister.”
“Rook to Queen four. Check.”
Sunlight streamed across the library onto the chessboard and Owen’s face wreathed in cheroot smoke.
Wyn studied the board. The scent of the smoke relieved the thirst that still dragged at him, though it did nothing to ease the hunger. Each time Diantha entered a room, as she’d entered the kitchen that morning, he could not wrest his attention from her. She moved with unselfconscious grace, erect and tempting and apparently unaware that she dazzled him. Dazzled. She made him hungry as the devil.
He knew it was the lack his body suffered now that made him want her with such intensity. But he also knew that he’d never before been dazzled by a woman.
“You have forgotten my other knight, young friend.” He glanced at the cigar in the dish, the last remaining that he must nurse, as once he’d been able to nurse a glass of brandy. But he had lost that ability. He saw this clearly now. “I urge you to reconsider.”
Owen whistled through his teeth. “It’s a tricky game, sir.”
“You will master it. You possess the natural intelligence.” He slid the black knight across the board. “You also possess a tendency toward defiance of authority that can prove useful for a man.”
The boy shook his head and reached for his rook. “The old girl didn’t mind coming home. But it’s true, sir, I didn’t know someone would need to be milking her.”
“Do you imagine cows drop their milk like one drops a hat?”
“Not now, I don’t. Should’ve learned to milk, I guess.” He studied the board. “Uncle always says a man can’t earn his keep with his head.”
“Mm. I have heard that before.” So many times as a boy he’d lost count. “Your uncle is wrong.”
“Sir?”
Wyn nodded.
The boy bent again to the game. His hand descended upon the white bishop.
Wyn cleared his throat. “My knight?”
“My knight!” Diantha swept into the library in a cascade of sunshine. “Mr. Yale, you milked the cow.”
Owen jumped up and pulled off his cap. “G’day, miss.”
“Hello, Owen. And Ramses.” She bent and stroked the dog’s head, her fingers tender in the beast’s matted fur. “Owen, since the sun is finally shining, will you bathe poor Ramses?”
“Yes, miss. Right away.” His cheeks sported fiery red spots. “Come on, boy.” He hurried out of the library, Ramses alongside.
She set her lapis gaze upon Wyn. “How did you do it? How did you milk that cow?” Ribbons glimmered in her hair, her dimples glowed with life, and he could only stare. She was simply dazzling.
“In the usual manner,” he managed.
The pink on her cheeks deepened and he remembered when he’d last used those words with her, when he had taught her how to breathe.
But she recovered swiftly. “There is no usual manner in which a gentleman milks a cow. Mrs. Polley told me just now that it was you and not Owen. I could not believe it. But now here you are saying it is to be believed.” Her smile could not be bridled even by embarrassment.
He turned back to the chessboard. He had not stood when she entered, not because of weakness but because of a remarkable strength in one area of his body whenever she came near. “I am variously talented, it seems.”
“You truly are. I have never met a gentleman like you, Wyn.”
“Under the circumstances, Diantha, I am not quite certain how to take that. Although of course you have admitted that you are acquainted with very few gentlemen.”
“It’s true: my society has been limited.” She ran a finger down the glass panel of a bookcase. “Mrs. Polley dusted in here.” She opened the door and drew forth a volume. “She would be a remarkably fine housekeeper. Bess at Glenhaven Hall does not drop off to sleep unexpectedly, of course, but she’s not so clever in the kitchen. Or perhaps Mrs. Polley could open a bakery.” She slanted him a quick glance, her lips twisting. “And Owen could open a school for blushing ne’er-do-wells.”
Wyn allowed a grin. “He is very taken with you.”
“He is a thief.”
Not precisely. “He wishes to please you.”
“He will get us discovered.” She reshelved the book, drew out another, and pursed her lips to blow across its binding. Dust puffed into the air. “But so are we thieves lately, of course,” she said, her fingertip turning pages swiftly. “By the by, Mr. Eads has just been by to retrieve his horse.” She took the book in both hands before her like a shield. “We spoke then he left with his horse.”
Wyn stood and, carefully—because although today he was considerably improved, his pulse ran now with unaccustomed speed—moved toward her.
“About what did you speak, I wonder?” His voice pitched low without any effort.
Her gaze flickered up and down him. “You shouldn’t be upsetting yourself. You haven’t been well, which of course is an extraordinary understatement.”
“Upsetting myself? Isn’t that rather inaccurately fixing the blame?” He halted before her, the scent drifting about her not her usual scent yet so familiar. “Yo
u are wearing perfume.”
“I am.” She blinked. “You know, you were just about to chastise me. Are you still delirious, then?”
“Merely easily distracted, it seems. Why did Eads leave without speaking to me?”
“He said it would be far too easy to take advantage of you in your current state. As he prides himself on being a man of his word, he thought it best to depart and return when you are more yourself.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words. But, yes.”
Of course he had. Duncan Eads was not a dishonorable man, only misguided. But Eads’s quarry was equally misguided, standing now far too close to a maiden whose berry lips tasted like honey and kissed like sin.
He backed away and returned to the table. She would put it off to his illness. Damn Carlyle for not being home when he should. If Kitty Blackwood didn’t arrive within a day he just might tie up Diantha Lucas, sling her across Galahad’s flanks, and carry her to London himself.
“Where did you find the perfume?” He knew perfectly well.
“If you are asking if Owen stole it, he didn’t. I found it here in the master suite.” She tucked the book back into the case and ran her fingertips along the row of gold-embossed bindings then plucked out another volume. “Mrs. Polley made a tasty oatcake with buttermilk contrived with beeswing from a recipe I found in here yesterday.” She opened the book and seemed to peruse it, but her body had stilled. “Are you hungry?” Her lashes flickered but she did not lift her gaze. “That is, will you have some of the oatcake concoction?” In the light streaming through the window her hair gleamed like polished oak, her figure picked out in motes of sun.
“I am Welsh, Diantha. A surfeit of oats is the reason I started drinking to excess.”
“Really?”
“No.”
She tilted her head. “Why did you start drinking to excess?”
“To be able to talk to my father and elder brothers.”
Her brow dipped.
“They drank every night,” he said simply, as though it were simple. “When I did not, they were . . . disinterested in my conversation.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them to sod off?”
He lifted a brow. She twisted her damnably delectable lips.
“I did not tell them to ‘sod off,’ ” he said, “because if I did not make myself available to them for sport they invariably turned to my mother instead.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” He set the white queen in the velvet-lined case and—as always—the black king beside her, just as his great-aunt used to like to arrange them. Remarkable how the gesture could push those other memories back, like the scent of perfume in a dusty room. “But that is ancient history and best forgotten.”
She moved toward the window, a book in her hands. “Well, this is marvelous.” She drew a loose page from the volume, unfolded it, and read aloud, “ ‘Rules a Man is Well Advised to Follow in Order to Be a True Gentleman.’ ”
Breath stalling, Wyn closed the case’s lid. She reached for a chair and settled onto it without taking her eyes from the page.
“Oh, I simply must read them to you! You will adore it.” She glanced up.
He could only nod her onward. His heart beat slow and hard now, but he could not resist.
“They are in descending order. ‘Rule Number Ten,’ ” she read. “ ‘A gentleman must always act with honor and honesty toward other men—men of lesser rank, equal rank, and higher rank.’ I suppose that is good advice, isn’t it?”
“Quite good.”
“ ‘Rule Number Nine: A gentleman must always put a lady’s welfare before his own.’ Well, I like that one a lot.” Her dimples appeared. “ ‘Rule Number Eight: A man is only a gentleman if he is never otherwise.’ ” Her brow puckered. “You said something very much like that once, I think.”
“Did I?” He should leave. He should walk over to her, take the page from her hand, and distract her with other activity. He should entreat her to play chess. Or promise to eat the oatcakes. Or grab her and kiss her until she forgot about everything but touching him. “Rule Number Seven?”
“ ‘A gentleman must never blaspheme before a lady.’ Oh, very right. Ladies can become offended so easily.” But her dimples peeked out again. “ ‘Rule Number Six: All ladies like to be recognized for their accomplishments, but a virtuous lady is immune to empty praise. Compliment her on that which she excels, but do not seek to flatter.’ That one is tremendous, don’t you agree?”
“Ladies do not like to be flattered emptily.”
“Not only ladies. All women. Rule Number Two makes that clear: ‘A gentleman must treat a lady with utmost respect, consideration, and reverence, whether she is common or highborn, antidote or beauty, poor as a pauper or wealthy as a princess.’ ” She dropped her hands to her lap, a smile of pure impenitence shaping her luscious lips. “So you mustn’t go flattering Mrs. Polley emptily.”
“I shall endeavor not to.”
“Of course you will. And she will berate you for it. Now here, I like Rule Number One the best: ‘If a lady is kind of heart, generous and virtuous, a gentleman should acquiesce to her every request. He should deny her nothing.’ ” Her shoulders dipped. “But of course you follow this rule even for ladies who do not possess all these virtues, so you are an even more impressive gentleman than the rules require. Really, these might have been written with you in mind.” Her voice had grown softer, less animated. “Down to a one.”
The pit of his stomach burned. “What of the rule that requires a gentleman to ravish an innocent girl while he is in his cups?”
“No. That one is not on this list.” Her blue eyes turned up, glimmering with hope. “But we could add it.”
Wyn stood and left the library.
He did not remember that entire night at the inn in Knighton. He remembered touching her, but not how it felt to have her body in his hands. Amid the black of memory, he only recalled his inability to use her as he had intended in his blind desire. The thought of it now made him sick—the only night of his life of which he did not recall every single moment. That alone had made him suffer through fevered torture over the past sennight without complaint.
Now he found himself on the threshold of his great-aunt’s chambers. Dust lay thick on the floor, Diantha’s footprints crossing to the dressing table. Ever curious and full of adventure, she had come exploring.
He took up the bottle of perfume, cut crystal of the deepest violet that shone even in the dimness like a jewel. He had purchased it in Vienna. He’d traveled there supposedly in search of another missing noble girl, assigned to it by the director, given his orders by Colin, sent on his way this time without Leam, his partner, who had by then wearied of the work. But he’d known they were preparing him for something more, that this assignment was not like those that had preceded it. The girl was not truly the reason they’d sent him abroad. The real quarry, it turned out, was him.
There in the secret back chambers of the Congress of Vienna, the men who ruled Britain examined him. Impressed, they courted him. His skills were too valuable to waste on runaways, they said. Britain’s safety lay in its interests abroad. The director would release him and he would come to work for them. His future was golden. The boy who’d been beaten again and again for the aptitude of his mind was now, as a man, to be rewarded for it.
For three months in Vienna he got drunk on it, drunk on the praise of powerful men, the finest tobacco, aged liquor, women of aristocratic blood that undressed like any other women but seemed more enticing for being forbidden. While they offered their bodies to him, their husbands spoke loftily of ideals, of victories, and of the people around the world that would come to serve Britain. But all the while the Welsh blood in him—the blood that had fought for hundreds of years to remain free of English kings—kept telling him that the promises of these powerful men sparkled like diamonds but tasted like sewage.
He escaped, departing after the New Year
and returning to England on the pretext that his great-aunt was ill, only to discover that to be the truth.
He remained with her as she returned to health, and all the while she exhorted him not to fear the pride of which his father and brothers had always accused him. He should be proud; he had accomplished everything he’d ever set out to accomplish by the strength of his arms and his natural intelligence. She told him to make the choice that best suited his heart.
He agreed to work for them. The Duke of Yarmouth gave him his first assignment: find a traitor and assassinate her.
But she hadn’t been a traitor after all. She’d been barely more than a girl, begging him to believe her story. Begging him for help.
He unstoppered the bottle and the scent rose to him. Closing his eyes, he saw his great-aunt’s sober eyes so like his mother’s, gray and wise and kind. But not always serious. She had taught him how to laugh. She had taught him many things, but the laughter he’d nearly forgotten. He had forgotten it until he encountered a determined young lady who was loyal and steadfast and strong, yet who loved to laugh, who knew how to delight, who sought happiness in every nook and crevice of the life she’d been dealt. She had shown him a sort of bravery he’d also forgotten.
He set down the perfume and returned to the library. She stood by the window looking out onto the dusk, still as a sylph poised upon her toes to spring into the air, but listening for him; she turned immediately.
“When I encountered Mr. Eads, I dropped the bucket of apples I collected,” she said. “In the excitement of seeing him off with his horse I forgot about it. But now it is becoming too dark to retrieve it. I spent most of the day looking forward to apple tarts, and I’ll admit I am disappointed over this turn of events.”
Her blue eyes sparkled in the fading light, quietly wise. She was no more an innocent girl than he was still the boy whose father had punished him out of spite. Rather, she was a determined woman with a goal and, with few words—carefully chosen to deflect the truth of what lay between them—she was telling him that she would not allow him to deter her from that goal, even now.
How a Lady Weds a Rogue fc-3 Page 18
