"Us?" Toby queried. He, too, peered into the darkness. "Mistress—and who be with you?"
Naturally, Toby would not guess it might be Lucy's own husband by her side.
"We've come to relieve you," Emile said, implicitly answering the sentry's question.
"Ah, 'tis you." The dim glow from the fire did not do justice to the wide smile that spread across Toby's face. "You will relieve me? Praise God. It has been passing cold out here."
Emile towed Lucy closer to the wagon. "Aye, go take yourself to the fire, man. Warm yourself with a mug or two of ale."
"I would at that! Oh—" Toby's happy smile faded as he turned his gaze toward Lucy. "But," he continued less happily, "I am scheduled to stay on duty until the hour. No switches. Those are the rules."
A little spike darted into Lucy's chest. The poor fellow must have heard all the music and singing from here. He must have felt nearly as lonely as herself. "Go on," she told the servant. "You have my permission."
"Do I? I mean—I do?" The grin returned, wider than before. "Oh, thank you, mistress. Thank you very much!" Without further ado, he shoved the pistol butt straight at her. "I will be back betimes. I will not be long at all."
Emile let go of Lucy's hand so she could catch the dangerous weapon.
"There is no rush," Lucy murmured.
Toby did not hear her. He was already off and skipping in the direction of the campfire.
"I hope you noticed that," Emile remarked.
Clutching the abandoned pistol, Lucy turned to look at him. "Noticed what?"
"That." Emile nodded in the direction of the disappearing servant. "Their loyalty lies with you."
It was as though he had reached inside of her and plucked a chord, one Lucy had thought was well hidden. She lifted her chin. "I never doubted it," she lied.
The distant fire was an orange stain batting Emile's face as his lips curved. "They like to laugh and sing with me. But that is all. They take their orders from you. Aye, did you ask, they'd string me up a tree."
Lucy clutched the pistol harder. The image of anyone taking such action against Emile made her feel sick—that is, as sick as she would feel regarding the harm of any human being. But she remembered that Emile had to believe her no such soft-skull. He had to believe she would set the law on him did he not keep by her side. "If you behave yourself," she said stiffly, "no such action will be necessary."
Emile cocked his head. "Then why don't you put down the pistol?"
"Oh." Lucy lowered her gaze to it.
Emile reached to tug it from her grasp. "Considering the way we feel about each other, it were best to put this beast to the side." He set the pistol with care on the edge of the wagon.
Lucy cleared her throat. "I have no need of that gun to harm you."
Silently, Emile nodded.
"And you— And you—"
He chuckled softly. "And I have no need of it, either."
Painfully, Lucy swallowed. He was right. As her lawful husband, he could do a great deal of unpleasantness to her. He wouldn't need a pistol.
He spread his hands to either side of himself. "So here we are, each with our, eh, disagreeable desires." He tilted his head. "I, for one, do not like the situation."
Well, of course he wouldn't. He wanted to be free, to leave the marriage—
He sighed gustily and dropped his hands. "I am tired of being angry with you, Lucy."
She blinked, her thoughts stopping short, like horses brought up by the reins. He was tired of being angry with her? What did that mean?
"I would like to..." He twirled a finger in the air as if thinking how to express his thoughts. "I would like to...ease the situation." He smiled.
Lucy's heart commenced galloping. Was he telling the truth? He wanted to end this silent warfare?
But matters worked so well to his advantage the way they were. Much more of this, and she might give up on the idea of her dowry altogether.
He clasped his hands behind his back. "What say you, Lucy? Would you help me?"
She felt almost dizzy. Peace between them had been her wildest, most inadmissible hope.
"Oh, Emile." She paused to clear her throat. "Yes. If you are in earnest, then yes, I will help you."
"You agree." He stepped toward her. "So quickly."
"I, ah..." Had her agreement been too quick? Did it make her seem desperate? "It is simply...that this enmity is a burden to bear. Life could be more pleasant—for both of us, to be sure—if we were to— That is, if we could—"
"Bury our differences?" He took another step toward her.
"Aye, and—and—"
"Attempt a more amicable relationship?" He smiled.
"Indeed." Lucy took a small step back as Emile had come very close now.
"But, Lucy—" With one cheek dimpling, he reached to take a two-finger hold of Lucy's collar. He softly rubbed the material between his fingers. "You don't even know what method I might propose to effect the desired result."
He was so close now that she could feel his humming male energy. A strange excitement took hold of her, something that rather made her hum, too.
"What, then?" she asked hoarsely. "Ahem. What do you propose?"
"Something small." With odd deliberation, Emile's gaze lowered from his appraisal of her collar to a point midway down her bodice.
Her humming excitement became a rush, swarming feverishly along the path of his eyes. But no, no. He could not mean that. He had spurned that on their wedding night.
And yet, his gaze lingered on Lucy's bodice for the span of a long breath. Only slowly did he raise his eyes again. "Small, but important," he said.
Small, the man had said. That would be no small thing. Nor could he imagine she would be willing— Even if he were— Pest, he was standing too close to her. It put her mind in a muddle.
"Lucy," he murmured and ran the knuckle of his finger against her cheek. "Will you help?"
The touch of his skin to her face, the timbre of his voice— What was left of Lucy's will collapsed entirely. All she could do was stand there and stare dumbly up at him.
His lips curved faintly as he gazed down at her. "Aye," he whispered. "Methinks you will."
She stood there, dumb and stupid—and trembling—while Emile lowered his head.
His lips touched hers.
Lucy's eyes closed. This couldn't be happening, one part of her insisted. Emile didn't want to kiss her. This couldn't be his condition for getting rid of his anger. Another part of her simply thought, Oh, Oh.
"Close," Emile murmured, his moustache brushing her lips. "Very close..." His hands were on her shoulders, near her collar, his fingers tracing her neck, almost as if they searched for something.
"Emile," Lucy breathed. She wasn't sure what was going on, her mind was still in a muddle, but she did know this felt...
His fingers stopped. His lips hovered over hers.
This felt...not enough. Her lashes lifted.
His own lashes were half-lowered, his eyes amber gleams.
"Please," she whispered, her eyes gazing into his. What was she asking for? She wasn't quite sure. But she set her palms against his chest and leaned lightly against him.
At the slight pressure, something changed behind his eyes. The cool deliberation with which he'd been leading the proceedings seemed to crack. "Lucy." Her name as a rough groan from his chest. His hands moved from her neck to clasp her shoulders.
Lucy caught a glimpse of his face, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing fire, before he drew her even closer and brought his mouth to hers.
Whatever was left of Lucy's brain vanished into the night air. His mouth, his taste—his heat. It was all more powerful than a witch's spell.
Emile's tongue swept into her mouth.
Another witchy spell coursed through Lucy. Her hands moved up to tangle in his hair. In this position she became aware of the delicious sensation of the tips of her nipples, rubbing against his chest.
Groaning again, Emile sucke
d her lower lip between his teeth. His palms lowered from her back to curve knowledgeably over her buttocks.
Lucy melted against him.
"Lucy." Emile tightened his fingers in the soft flesh of her backside.
"Emile," she sobbed back, pressed against him. "Oh, Emile." She felt as though they were galloping together toward some cliff, a place of no return. Almost there...
But before they could jump, everything ended. Emile gave a jerk, uttered an oath, and abruptly let go of her.
Lucy stumbled backward, suddenly responsible for her own balance again. "Wh-what happened?" she gasped.
"A good question." He glared at Lucy as he panted. "What did you do to me?"
"I do to you?" Lucy put a hand to her head, desperate to get her brain back again.
"In sooth." Emile pointed a finger at her. "Saying my—saying my name like that. It is all your fault."
Lucy lowered her hand from her head. Her brain was returning, albeit muzzily. "Mine?" Her lips pressed together as yet more of her mind returned. "You are the one who kissed me, Emile."
And he could not have meant the gesture in any truly romantic way. Of course he had not! She knew this man. Indeed, now his face was all harsh angles and tight lips.
"What did you hope to gain?" she asked.
His nostrils flared. "You mean, what did I lose?" His gaze went, oddly, to her neck.
"You make no sense."
He laughed with an odd ring. "Did I intend to make sense? You are a—a—sorceress."
Her eyes widened. That idiot curse. As if he had not insulted her enough, he would bring it up now.
Emile shook his head. "Here I am, close to—to hurting you as I've so wished to do, but instead I—I—" Emile waved a hand. "Instead I do my best to bed you."
"In sooth. And what a sacrifice that would have been for you." Lucy made her voice a haughty mask. Had he meant to take his present deception that far? "For what purpose, I ask? In my father's barn, your kiss was to prevent me from finding your sinful bag of loot. For what purpose would you have taken me to your bed tonight?"
"For what purpose?" His eyes widened as if he could not believe she'd asked the question. Then he laughed. The horrible man actually stood there and laughed at her. "Good God, Lucy, do you not know the purpose?"
Lucy glared at him, but a ripple of confusion went through her. What did he mean?
He leaned toward her. "Mayhap you do not know, eh? Mayhap with that sharp tongue and shrew manner you have never felt true desire from a man."
He may as well have slapped her. It was as if Emile knew all about Sir Robert and how Lucy's affianced had gone straight from courting her to loll with his mistress. Sir Robert hadn't so much as kissed his betrothed. By cause of her shrew manner?
She took a step back, trembling, humiliated, and furious. But she would not show weakness, not to him. "Think not you can deceive me, husband. I will catch you out every time."
His nostrils went wide, and Lucy understood she'd just uttered a challenge. She didn't care. All she wanted now was escape. She whirled.
But she had enough presence of mind to realize she'd be leaving Emile alone with the wagon and the strongbox of gold coins. She halted long enough to put her hand to her bodice. She fumbled between the laces until her fingers found the cold, familiar key.
It was not merely the key to the gold coin but the key to gaining her dowry and then being free of all men forever.
This was the key Lucy now held, right between her virgin, unwanted breasts.
Ha. Emile could stay with the wagon all night if he pleased. Picking up her skirts, Lucy hastened on her way.
CHAPTER TEN
Emile was chilled through by the time Toby returned to relieve him. He was so disgusted by his failure to palm the key that he actually held the pistol in his hand, guarding the damn strongbox.
"'Tis only me," Toby said, cowering when Emile stepped out, demanding to know who approached.
"About time," Emile grunted. He shoved the pistol at the startled servant. "'Tis getting pestilential cold out here."
Toby's eyes were wide. "Where's Lucy?"
"Went to bed." Emile pressed his lips flat and stomped past the servant, not wanting to explain any further. As he walked toward the encampment of tents, he ground his teeth together.
Aye, Lucy had gone to bed, together with her devil-damned key.
He had failed to take the thing—and why? For the most idiotic reason beneath the stars. He'd let his cock take the place of his brain.
Emile smirked. Lust. The only part of the whole deceptive tête-à-tête Lucy had chosen to disbelieve. Stalking through the camp, Emile recalled how the heat of desire had crept up on him like a thief in the night. Before he knew it, his hands had stopped reaching for the key. They had reached instead for her.
Now Emile shivered in the cold night air. He could not understand his own actions. There was nothing special about Lucy...except perhaps for her breasts. Emile would concede Lucy did have an exceptionally fine pair of breasts.
But was a fine pair of breasts—a pair he admittedly had not had a chance to properly appreciate—worth sacrificing the key to the strongbox and his freedom?
As he strode into his tent, Emile bumped his toe against something hard. He cursed in an undertone as he fell onto the camp cot, his foot between his hands.
By the time the pain subsided from Emile's big toe, his eyes had adjusted to the dark. He could see it was a chest he'd bumped into. The top of it was loose.
Frowning, Emile rose from his seat. With one hand, he flipped the lid open. There was something dark inside. A blanket? he thought hopefully. He grabbed the thing, and as he pulled it out, it unfolded in his hands.
Not a blanket. It was... Emile squinted. It was a doublet. His fingers rolled over the material. A fine brocade, by the feel of it, padded and embroidered. Something to cut the chill of the night.
Only one person could have put this exceeding fine article of clothing here.
A sick sensation struck his stomach. It was the sensation that hit him every time he considered that he was married to Lucy. And now what had she done?
The doublet dropped from his hands to the ground.
Annoyed with himself, he picked the doublet up again. With a sharp, deliberate movement, he shoved it back into the chest.
Whatever Lucy thought she was doing by this gesture, it was not going to work. He was not going to be won over. Tamed. Not by kindness, not by lust, not even by the sort of expression she'd worn by the wagon an hour ago. Oh, Emile. Yes, I will help you.
Emile slammed down the lid of the chest. He leaned his palms upon it as if to make sure it stayed closed.
But it would not stay closed. Emile found himself pushing off of the chest and again lifting the lid.
The doublet lay in a twisted mass on top. He drew it out. Beneath the doublet, he saw, lay another one. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but it looked green. A whole pile of clothing lay beneath that. A regular treasure trove. She must have scurried about like a demon to gather all this before they'd left Bonham.
Emile fought down the tightness that was rising in his throat. Turning from the chest, he snapped open the brocade garment in his hands. He glared at it, then slipped one arm in followed by the other. With a shrug, he got it over his shoulders.
It fit. Like a glove, the thing fit. Emile ran his hands down the sides, feeling the expert weave of the material. It was by far the finest piece of clothing he had ever worn.
His hands trembled, but Emile shook his head. Lucy had not meant this out of kindness. She was only trying to get through to him, to get him to bend to her will.
It was not going to work.
To prove his independence, he was going to wear her fine doublet. Indeed, it would be a souvenir of the mistake he'd made in not getting that key. It would remind Emile to look for another opportunity. Because while there was life, there was hope.
Emile's fingers fumbled with the laces at the fro
nt of the doublet, tying it on. His face was a stiff, hard smile.
Aye, there would be another opportunity to slip Lucy and this marriage. When such came, he was grabbing for it.
Because he did not owe her anything. He did not owe her anything at all.
~~~
"Make way! Make way!" Emile's voice warned rather than commanded, floating over the cool morning air up the line of the caravan.
Startled, Lucy pulled her mount to the side of the road.
Madly clinging to his own horse, Emile hurtled past. Lucy caught a glimpse of his face, restrained panic beneath his neatly clipped beard.
The mere sight of him, silly as he was, caused a flutter in her stomach.
Disgusting, Lucy thought. In sooth, she was pure perversity.
Twelve hours it had been since Emile had kissed her, that lying false kiss, but she was still tasting the flavor of it in her mouth. She'd eaten her breakfast, she'd drunk her ale, but she couldn't rid herself of the rough texture of the man's tongue. She couldn't shrug away the pressure of his hands upon the small of her back.
She recalled it all as if the kiss had been true, as if she didn't know better.
Contemptuous of her own weakness, Lucy continued to watch Emile as he closed upon the upper train of pack animals. She watched as his mount abruptly stopped and lowered its head.
"A pox," Emile muttered.
He slipped out of the saddle and slid right over the animal's neck. He fell straight into the deep mud in the rut of the road.
"Oh, that is rich," Lucy chuckled. Emile the wonderful, Emile the man who could juggle a knife and three oranges, had dived straight into the mud.
Then he lifted his chest, and Lucy saw what he'd done. Her lovely doublet, the black brocade with the gold embroidered thread, her miserable little peace offering—he'd covered it with mud.
Her smile vanished. Jaw set, Lucy slipped from her own saddle.
"Pox," Emile moaned again and looked down at his chest. Drawing Lucy's attention there. Drawing everybody's attention. Making it clear what he thought of her gift. He'd only worn it in order to douse it in mud.
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