Grandma tasted the bread carefully, and Molly knew that no matter how good or bad it was, the response would be positive.
Wolf took his time making his way back to the house through the woods that separated his family home from Kingsport. He’d had no success hunting, but all he’d wanted was to be alone, to lose himself in the quiet of the forest for a time.
New York City was becoming more and more tedious, but it seemed he was able to return to his home in Maine less often as the years passed. Business required an increasing amount of time and dedication, and his social life was almost as demanding.
In New York the scandal of his marriage and disastrous wedding night seven years earlier had faded. It had not died completely, however, and in some cases the tales gave him a mysterious edge that some women — those silly whimpering females he detested — found attractive. Lately an increasing number of brave or desperate matrons had been thrusting their naive daughters upon him.
On occasion, he found it to his advantage to see that the rumors circulated again, whispered in drawing rooms and at balls, in smoky libraries and gambling halls. He then, often, made a point of pursuing a daughter or niece or sister of the shocked party. It was great entertainment that rarely lasted long enough to satisfy him.
There was no need to perpetuate the rumor in Kingsport. He hadn’t been able to walk the streets of that small village in seven years without being scorned. Women cowered and crossed the street, afraid and unable to hide it. Men glared, an open threat in their eyes. When he found himself in his family home, a home he maintained even though he was the last of the Trevelyans, he stayed there or in the surrounding forest. There was no reason for him to venture into the village and watch the reaction he caused.
He had become accustomed to their scorn, had even come to expect and appreciate it. Big, bad Wolf Trevelyan, who either killed his bride, tossing her from the cliff because she couldn’t satisfy him on his wedding night, or drove her to suicide, sending her screaming from their bedchamber preferring death to life as his wife.
Had he tried to defend himself, long ago? It seems he had, briefly and to no avail. It had not taken him long to understand his options. He could forever apologize for that night, or he could accept his reputation and even glory in it.
Wolf had never been one to apologize easily.
He’d been surprised to see the girl in red walking so carefully on the narrow footpath through the woods. Molly Kincaid would be impossible to miss, in any circumstance, but that red cloak had teased him, flashes of color amongst the brown and green, glimpses of swirling red velvet that had become more and more enticing as he’d neared her.
It had started as a game, he supposed. He’d intended to scare her a little, to see how long it took before she realized who he was, how long she would speak with him before she ran screaming down her narrow path. Already he was bored with the big house, with the sea at his back door. And yet, he wasn’t ready to return to New York.
But Molly hadn’t been scared. Not when she’d first seen him, and not when he’d told her who he was.
She looked all innocent, with those wide gray eyes and those untamed red curls that had escaped from her velvet hood, but Wolf knew that a true innocent would have run from him as if from the devil himself.
Molly Kincaid had been more curious than frightened, more inquisitive than innocent. What were her vices? Wolf knew that everyone had them. A weakness for drink or for gambling. Perhaps vanity, or a lust for money and the things that could be bought with it. Maybe even lust of another, more pleasurable sort.
Wolf was well acquainted with each and every one of these vices. It might be interesting to discover just what vice he shared with Molly Kincaid, what depravity would appeal to this young woman.
It might be entertaining to expose such shortcomings. To do a bit of investigating and see what came up. Wolf had become convinced, over the years, that no one was as pure and guileless as Molly appeared to be.
Wolf stepped from the woods and onto the road that led to the Trevelyan house. Already he could see the rooftops, and a portion of the third floor with its stone gables and stained glass windows. Wolf’s grandfather, the Trevelyan who had built this house, had undoubtedly longed in his childhood to live in a castle, because that was what his mansion appeared to be, at first glance.
All the Trevelyan house needed to complete the picture was a moat and drawbridge, and a fair maiden imprisoned on the third floor.
Wolf could not yet see the cliff, but it was there, behind the mansion, as much a part of his home as any room within. And the sea crashed against that cliff, far below the house, an eternal reminder of the night that had changed his life forever.
As Molly stepped from the footpath and back onto the road to Kingsport, her thoughts were unfailingly of Wolf Trevelyan.
Her mother had always tried to protect her, too much, Molly sometimes thought, and that protection included an attempt at preventing scandalous gossip that would be unsuited for a young girl from reaching Molly’s ears.
Molly was not as sheltered as her mother liked to believe. While she was certainly innocent, she was not ignorant. Her limited social life was no more than occasional afternoons in the company of other young women close to her age, in particular Stella Warwick and Hannah Meredith. Stella had been married two years, and had a child, a little boy. Hannah was a beautiful girl and a terrible gossip, who couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.
They’d both mentioned Wolf Trevelyan at one time or another, though neither of them had actually met him. His notorious reputation extended well beyond the scandal of his wife’s death.
Molly didn’t pay much attention to gossip, but she tried to remember what they’d said. He was supposedly a womanizer, a man who thought nothing of seducing young innocents and then abandoning them without a second thought. Of course, neither of them actually knew a woman who had been misused by the notorious Wolf Trevelyan.
They’d both said he was horribly ugly, but Molly knew that wasn’t true. While there was a harshness about him, he was far from ugly. His eyes were lovely, and his sharp features were strong. Masculine. Perhaps Wolf was not beautiful, but he was definitely handsome.
Hannah and Stella had painted the unknown Wolf Trevelyan as a cruel monster. So, for that matter, had Grandma Kincaid. They’d painted a picture of a man who should have had horns growing from that lovely head of black hair, a man who had no soul. Molly didn’t believe it.
She didn’t believe it, even though he’d grinned at her so wickedly, and he’d offered to assist her — for a price. Even though he’d called her Red, with such an intimate and familiar ring in his low voice that just the memory made her shiver.
“I’m home,” Molly called as she threw open the door to the little house she shared with her mother.
There were three rooms to their comfortable house. A large main room, a single bedroom, and a kitchen. The furnishings were plain and colorless, but always clean, and the rugs that covered the floor were worn, but did manage to keep bare feet from the cold floor in the wintertime. All in all, it was a simple and comfortable home.
Molly found her mother still in the kitchen, tired as she labored over the loaves of bread that were in several stages of the process: some cooling, some rising, some baking and filling the small house with that incomparable aroma.
“You must have run home, you’re so flushed,” her mother observed in a tired voice.
“I did,” Molly confessed. “There’s laundry to be done, and I wanted to get started as soon as possible.”
Molly was relieved when her mother didn’t take note of the cheer in her voice. She was never excited about doing the laundry.
Molly hung her red cloak on a peg not far from the front door, and she set about helping her mother in the kitchen. Before she realized it, she was humming almost merrily, and her mother did, just once, look at her askance.
Chapter Two
Molly did feel a twinge of guilt a
s she turned off the road and into the woods. But there was more excitement within her than guilt, more anticipation than trepidation.
Once again she’d allowed her mother to believe that she’d stick to the road, never intending for a moment to take the chance that Wolf Trevelyan walked the forest while she stayed on the road.
She felt a little sorry for him, though he didn’t look like the sort of man who was normally pitied. Everyone believed the worst of him, some even hated him. Molly had never before doubted the truth of the scandal that tainted Wolf, but having met him, having looked into his face, she continued to wonder.
He’d said he probably wouldn’t see her today, but in her heart she didn’t believe it. What a terrible disappointment it would be if he didn’t appear somewhere along the path to her grandma’s house.
Molly smiled. Her life had become so predictable, so dull, that a chance meeting with a stranger was the most exciting event she could remember. If she’d been given to more feminine pursuits, if she had energy at the end of her long day for visiting with Stella and Hannah more often or even courting with one of the local men who’d pursued her, perhaps she wouldn’t be so easily entertained.
Turning a corner, lost in her own thoughts, she saw him. Today, Wolf Trevelyan waited blatantly on the path, and to pass him Molly would have to leave the path and wind her way through the pine trees. The path was not so narrow, Wolf Trevelyan just seemed to fill it nicely, with his wide shoulders and long legs. His feet were placed far apart, as if he actually were trying to block her progress.
“Good afternoon, Red.”
“Good afternoon.” Molly stopped when she was still several feet from him. Wolf was dressed as he had been the day before, though the checked shirt was a different color if she remembered correctly. He cradled his rifle as lovingly as a mother would a child, and that same knapsack was slung over one shoulder.
He gave her a wicked smile. “What’s in the basket?”
“The same as yesterday. Bread, wine, cheese and fish.” Molly reached into the basket and withdrew a small loaf of bread. “I did bring extra today, in case you’re hungry and have nothing but hard bread and pork.” She offered him the loaf. “I made it myself.”
He didn’t take the bread, but settled his rifle against the trunk of a tree, and swung his knapsack forward. “That’s very nice, Red. And it just so happens that I came prepared myself.”
He withdrew a thin blanket, and spread it at his feet — there in the middle of the footpath, and then he pulled from his knapsack a bottle and two small glasses. These he held carefully as he lowered himself to sit on the far edge of the blanket.
Molly didn’t move, and when Wolf was settled comfortably he lifted that harsh face to her. “Have a seat, and bring your bread with you, if you’d like.”
With just a touch of uncertainty, Molly closed the short distance that separated her from Wolf Trevelyan, and she lowered herself to the edge of the blanket, tucking her feet beneath her skirt and pushing the hood of her cloak back.
“I really shouldn’t,” she protested meekly. “Grandma will be worried if I’m late.” The beating of her heart betrayed her ruffled nerves, and she hoped Wolf Trevelyan couldn’t tell that she was anxious. Given his reputation, he might take her apprehension for fear, and that wasn’t true.
She placed the loaf of bread between them, a barrier of sorts, the simple loaf marking the center of the blanket and separating his territory from hers.
Wolf was apparently unconcerned about Grandma’s state of mind. “Have a drink,” he said, opening his bottle and filling one of the small glasses nearly to the rim.
“What is it?” she asked as she took the glass he offered across the space that separated them.
“Brandy.” He poured his own glass, and drank it down quickly. Wolf was refilling his glass before Molly had even lifted hers to her lips.
She smelled it first, lifting the full glass cautiously to her nose. Of course, she occasionally had a glass of wine with supper, but she’d never had anything so strong as Wolf’s brandy.
“Drink up,” Wolf encouraged, and Molly lifted the glass to her mouth, barely touching her lips to the liquid before she lowered it again.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. Molly sat the brandy aside, on a relatively flat portion of the blanket. “Are you hungry?” She tore a piece of the bread and offered it to him as he downed his second glass. “I hope you like sweet bread. There’s cinnamon and raisins in this loaf.”
“And you made it yourself,” he said dryly as he took the piece she offered. His fingers brushed hers, and Molly snapped her hand back into her lap. “You drink my brandy, and I’ll eat your bread.”
Molly retrieved her glass, and reluctantly lifted it to her lips. She swallowed a little bit, and her eyes immediately watered. The brandy burned her throat, and without hesitating she handed the glass to Wolf.
“I can’t drink this.” She thought for a moment that he was going to refuse to take the glass from her, and she would surely insult him if she tossed what remained in the glass into the woods. Besides, it would likely kill a tree if it soaked into the ground and into the roots.
“Why not?”
He reached out, but instead of taking the glass from her he wrapped his fingers around hers. His hand was so large it dwarfed hers, and his fingers were long and strong. She could see just a touch of her own pale skin peeking through those dark fingers.
His hand was warm, and soft, and steady, and his touch made her heart beat so fast she was afraid he would hear it. His green eyes glinted so dark and hard that she lowered her gaze to his strong jaw. A muscle there jumped. Was that a tic? Even that was too distracting, and Molly lowered her gaze again to his throat.
Wolf’s throat was not like hers at all, but was dark and rippled with muscle and sinew. A vein throbbed, and she watched the steady beat of his heart. Unlike her own, it seemed quite normal and unaffected.
She was staring at a button on his waistcoat when he finally took the glass from her, dragging his fingers lightly across the back of her hand.
“I have to be going.” Her voice was too soft, but it was all she could manage.
“So soon?”
His voice was light, and Molly chastised herself for being so foolish. It had been innocent, such a simple touch. He had held his hand over hers for a few seconds, no more, and here she was acting as if he’d tried to kiss her. Instinctively, she licked her lips.
“I haven’t even tasted your bread yet.” He took the piece Molly had torn off for him, and ripped off a small corner. He was looking right at her when he popped it into his mouth and washed it down with the remains of her brandy. “Pretty good, Red.”
She got the strange feeling, watching him finish off the small bite, that he’d rather be finishing her off, one tiny taste at a time. It was the eyes, she decided, those intense green eyes that watched, unflinching, unblinking, as if he were trying to stare her down, or paralyze her under his powerful gaze. She was the deer, and he was the wolf, and she didn’t have a chance . . . .
“You have . . . ” Molly fluttered her fingers at her own cheek. “A crumb.”
He swiped at his cheek with those long fingers, but it was the wrong cheek.
“No, over here.” She was still pointing to her own cheek, and Wolf missed again. Right cheek this time, but much too high. “Down a little.”
Wolf dropped his hands and narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t you get it for me?”
Molly didn’t hesitate, but rocked up on her knees and leaned forward. Not too far forward, but close enough so that she could reach his face without straining.
It was a tiny crumb, white against his dark face. Her fingers brushed skin that was just a little rough with the stubble that grew there. Surely he had shaved that morning, and already she could feel the tiny coarse hairs on his cheek.
His skin was warm, and rough, and just that brief graze of her fingers was enough to set her heart to pounding again.
�
�There,” she said as she resumed her seat. “All taken care of.”
He looked at her as if he knew something she didn’t. Something important. Something that would change her life. All in all, she hadn’t spent half an hour in his company, and yet she felt this time was somehow momentous.
He looked at her as if he wanted to eat her up, as if he were truly everything her mother had warned her about, everything Hannah and Stella accused him of being, and yet Molly trusted Wolf Trevelyan. That trust went against everything she knew of him, and even against her own common sense.
“You’re blushing,” he accused.
“I am not.” She defended herself needlessly. Of course she was blushing. She could feel the telling heat in her cheeks.
“If you say so,” he said.
“You shouldn’t make fun of me. It’s not polite.”
Wolf raised his eyebrows as she chastised him, as if he couldn’t believe that she would dare to speak to him so boldly. His surprise made him look more vulnerable, more human, and Molly smiled brightly.
“Don’t looked so shocked,” she said, relaxing. “Does no one tell you when you’re being rude?”
“No one,” he revealed in a low voice.
“Perhaps if they did, your manners would be much improved.” She didn’t mean to sound so prim.
“My manners?” he repeated softly.
“Yes.”
He seemed to contemplate her suggestion, and whatever surprise he had felt faded away. She could see it, the control that stole over his face and clouded his eyes. “I do many things well, Red, but I’m not known for my good manners.”
“What a revelation,” Molly said with a widening grin.
She didn’t fall into his trap and ask just exactly what it was he was known for, what he did well. Wolf’s stare hinted that they both knew perfectly well what he was implying.
It was not much more than a twitch, a tightening of his muscles that told Molly that Wolf was about to move forward, to come toward her, and she wasn’t ready for him to touch her again, not even a simple brush of his hand on hers.
Big Bad Wolf Page 2
