Perfect Knave
Page 11
Yet his heart was punching in his chest. She had reached for his hand. His! As if he could help her. As if he would.
Emile flared his nostrils. He would not. On the contrary, he could leave now. Any time. Emile let out a deep breath. Thanks to the robbers, Lucy had lost her strongbox. Without her strongbox, she would not be able to pursue him effectively. He had been given the perfect opportunity.
Emile stared into the darkness and swallowed. He could leave.
Any time.
~~~
The horses stood lined up along the roadway, fully packed. Little clouds of moisture puffed around their noses as they stood with heads lowered, waiting.
In the trampled meadow they had used for their camp, Gawain detained Lucy with a hand on her arm. "Be reasonable," he urged.
Lucy fixed her gaze on the trees walling the clearing. "I am being reasonable."
With a jerk of frustration, Gawain released her arm. "We have lost our money."
"I know."
"We can no longer buy the farm."
Pointing out the obvious. Lucy released a gushing breath. "Yes, Gawain. I know."
"So?" Gawain peered down at her. "Then why are we not turning around? Why do you set the horse's heads away from home?"
Lucy could not meet her steward's eyes. With her hands clenched, she turned. She saw Emile dismounting.
Her heart, which seemed to have woken frozen, gave a sudden, wrenching leap.
Meanwhile, Emile left his horse and started toward them.
Lucy did her best to appear serene even while her poor heart went running like a panicked deer. She prayed she wouldn't stumble and stutter again, stupid and awkward, as she had the night before. Trying to thank Emile. Lord, the only person more embarrassed than herself had been him.
Emile stopped beside Gawain. Exchanging a cold glance with that man, he put his hands on his hips and turned to Lucy. "Well? What seems to be the problem?"
"The problem?" Lucy did her best to smile casually, but it was like dragging lead to raise her eyes to meet Emile's. The night before she'd stared at Emile like—like a silly adolescent. She'd grabbed for his hand. She'd clung to it, in fact. Merely remembering made heat climb into her face. Lucy hoped Emile understood she wouldn't try such nonsense again.
"Lucy will not turn back." Gawain's voice was flat.
Emile flicked his gaze to Lucy. "What?"
To her dismay, Lucy flushed some more. Meanwhile she had to think quickly. Admit anything but the truth. "Going back means going through that forest again. We would travel straight into the territory of that band of ruffians. I do not want— That is, the servants would be frightened."
Gawain crossed his arms and frowned, clearly surprised by this rationale.
Emile kept his eyes on Lucy. She now saw they were clear, intelligent eyes, not merely devilish ones. As he tilted his head, Lucy prayed he would believe her. She hoped he would agree.
Emile's gaze slowly narrowed. Finally, he gave a slow nod. "You have the right of it. I don't think any of us would care to camp in that direction again."
Lucy thanked the Lord. He believed her.
"In fact," Emile went on, musing. "It would be a good idea to get to a town. Civilization." He let out a breath that sounded like a relieved sigh of his own. "Yes, that would do it. I could rest easy knowing you— That is, knowing everybody was safe tonight in real shelter."
"We should go forward, then." Lucy tried to sound merely rational, not eager. "Since we know there is no town behind us."
Gawain gave an unhappy grunt. "I do not suppose either of you care to hear what I have to say?"
"No," declared Lucy.
"No," retorted Emile.
Gawain lifted his shoulders. "You are the master," he said.
Emile's face went dusky. To Lucy he muttered, "We'll get underway upon your word." He turned and started back for his horse.
"Why?" Gawain asked Lucy once Emile was out of earshot.
Lucy wrenched her gaze from her husband. "Why?"
Gawain's eyes were nearly as difficult to meet as Emile's had been. "Why do you refuse to go home?"
Lucy swallowed. "Why, for the reasons I said."
Gawain continued to stare at her.
But Lucy wasn't about to tell him the truth. That was her own private misery.
Returning home meant shame. It meant public acknowledgement that she was a complete failure. She'd allowed herself to be robbed. She'd put her servants in jeopardy. The amazing sum of money entrusted to her care was gone. And all of that was not yet the sum of what she was going to lose.
Clasping her hands to her chin, Lucy turned her gaze back toward Emile. With one foot in the stirrup, he swung up and into his horse's saddle. Despite his obvious inexperience, the movement was full of grace and control.
Lucy's heart turned into a knot in her chest.
No, the money was not all she was going to lose. For she owed Emile now. He had saved Lucy from the worst failure of all, causing injury or death to her people. She owed him.
And Lucy knew what was his fondest desire.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was the worst inn Emile had ever seen, and he had seen quite a few. Grime coated a floor only thinly covered by a layer of rancid rushes. In the crowded public dining room, smoke vied with sweat for dominance.
Still, it was civilization, and Emile had promised himself to see Lucy safely to a town. Unable to sleep last night, he had decided this small task he could accomplish for her without any damage to his own plans.
Now, content with this achievement, Emile lifted his full tankard and brought it to his lips. At the taste, his nose wrinkled.
Across the table one of Lucy's footmen held his tankard away with a similar expression. The ale was bad. The footman cocked his mouth at Emile, wry. "The meat, too," he said, barely audible above the din in the crowded room. "Maggoty."
"Maggots." Emile set down his tankard. He looked around. On every side Lucy's people were stuffed among a crowd far dirtier and drunker than themselves. None of the servants were eating. None were drinking, either.
Emile sighed. Coming from the wealthy Latham Simple's household, they'd never had to deal with stale ale or maggots.
He stood up. "You there!" With a backhand move, he caught a skinny waiter who'd been slithering past.
"Y-y-yes, sir?" The waiter's eyes widened.
Sir? Emile asked himself. But he smiled. "We need fresh ale. And perhaps you have a goose or a hen back there instead of this roast?"
"N-n-no, sir."
Emile raised a brow. "Fresh ale," he repeated. "And freshly killed poultry. Now." With a vaguely genial, but unbending, expression, he gazed directly into the waiter's eyes.
"I— Well, then. Ahem! Y-y-yes, sir."
Smiling again, Emile let the poor fellow go.
The little waiter scurried off like a frightened roach.
Emile sat down again, his brows still raised, but now at himself. My, but he was becoming a responsible fellow. First, he'd stayed with Lucy and her camp through the night, then he'd seen her safely to this town—and now he was making sure the servants had fresh food and drink. His lips curved as he brushed a stray crumb from the table.
Next thing he knew, he'd delay his departure yet again.
Emile's smile vanished. His eyes flicked about the room.
Not that he felt guilty about his plan to abandon Lucy. On the contrary, wiggling out of this marriage was the right thing to do—for all parties.
"S-s-sir?"
Emile jumped, but it was only the skinny waiter, 'sir'-ing him again. "Yes?"
"Th-th-there's no fowl in the kitchen, sir. Would you accept cheese instead?"
Cheese. A clearly inferior food to serve for dinner but better than maggots. Emile nodded. "Cheese—and more bread."
"Y-y-yes, sir." The waiter's head bobbed.
"Maggots in the meat, were there?"
The voice whipped Emile's head around.
Lucy stood wit
h her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowly following the vanishing waiter.
Emile felt his nostrils flare to let in more air. A host of emotions welled up in his chest: a clamorous, unidentifiable mix. The only one he recognized for sure was lust.
Aye, his lust for Lucy was as punchy as ever. Drawing in a deep breath, Emile admonished his unruly body to calm down. He was not going to seduce the woman right before leaving her. Even for him, that would be low.
So he put on a cool look that belied his desire. "There wouldn't have been any maggots in the meat if we'd stayed at the other inn in town. That was a decent place."
Lucy scrunched her lips to one side. "I told you, the other inn was full up. Besides, this place is adequate."
Emile rolled his eyes. The other inn had not been full. He suspected rather that their prices had been too dear for Lucy's merchant soul. But why quibble? He wasn't going to spend the night here himself.
"The cheese will fill their bellies as well as meat." Lucy shrugged. "But I did not come down here to discuss the menu." Her gaze skipped away.
Emile watched in mounting concern as her teeth bit deeply into her lower lip.
"This would be so much easier in private," she whispered.
"In private!" Emile echoed, appalled.
"I have a chamber upstairs," Lucy explained earnestly, "where we can speak undisturbed."
Emile gaped. For an instant, just a fraction of an instant, he actually imagined the scenario: him in a private room alone with her. Or rather, his lust imagined it and played the situation out in rapid motion to its pleasurable conclusion.
Briskly, he shook his head. That sort of activity was not what Lucy had in mind. More likely, she'd decided she needed to thank him again. Perhaps she'd even concocted a title more laudatory than 'hero' with which to crown him. This last thought caused him to choke and slam a fist to the center of his chest.
"What is the matter? You have the cough?" In a flash, Lucy's shy expression turned demanding. "No! Something is caught in your throat."
Emile shook his head and grabbed her wrist before she could start pounding him on the back. "I am fine. Really."
Except that he was touching her now, his fingers around her delicate wrist. Worse, they were staring into each other's eyes.
His desire for her rushed through Emile more powerfully than ever. For one stupid instant he wondered why he was denying himself her eager passion.
Fortunately, his brain had not died. It shouted the answer. Idiot. It's the 'hero' in the forest she wants—not you!
He blinked and let go of her. Yes, that thought did the trick. "Ahem. You wish to speak in private?"
"Um, yes," she mumbled.
Emile nodded. When swine could dance. He was not putting himself in a room alone with her. "Very well," Emile agreed. "...Later." Surely he could take care of the few small matters that would ensure Lucy's safety—and be gone—before he had to face any more temptation.
The pathetic, hopeful smile Lucy had been wearing wilted. "Later?"
"I'll speak with you privately—later." Emile gave an important look around the crowded dining room. "Right now I have to see what happened to that waiter. How long could it take to get some cheese out here?"
"But—"
"Later," Emile repeated sternly. "Uh, please excuse me now. I must take care of my, er, responsibilities." With a lordly nod, he stepped over the bench seat and started for the kitchen.
Just a few small details he needed to take care of. He was not used to responsibility, but he could manage a little, just enough to set his mind at ease and put Lucy safely on her journey home.
Meanwhile, 'later' never had to happen.
~~~
Someone was coming up the stairs. Lucy held her candle high and peered over the wooden rail. Her heart picked up speed as she wondered if Emile were arriving, at long last, to have their little talk, the talk that would release him from the marriage. But the stairwell was so dark that she could only hear the approaching feet, heavy, even angry, on the wooden boards.
"Oh, 'tis you." Lucy drew back as Gawain appeared in the stairwell.
He gave her a formidable scowl. "You are still awake?"
"I am—" Lucy broke off before she might blurt out why she was still awake. She frowned at Gawain. "Is something wrong?"
"This is a pestilential hole we are lodging in."
"I am sorry, but you know the other place was too dear—"
"Pestilential!" Gawain interrupted her. "Prostitution! There is licentious harlotry going on within these walls." His glare toward Lucy was ferocious.
Lucy bit the inside of her cheek. Poor Gawain. He must be very upset, indeed, to have brought such a matter to her attention. "Well...I suppose that is not very surprising," she countered gently, "considering the nature of the place—"
"It is an abomination!" Gawain exploded. "The sinners must be rooted out. She must be punished. Certain she has made herself deaf to the conscience God gave her!" Flailing his arms, Gawain nearly knocked Lucy's candle down.
"She?" Lucy asked.
"The ungodly harlot," Gawain hissed. Giving a directed look down the stairs, he appeared ready to root out the evil one right then and there.
Lucy's eyes widened. "Now, wait." With a hand on her steward's arm, she smiled. "In sooth, this is not our inn. It is not our place to—to take matters into our own hands. We are but humble guests here with the, er, godly duty of guests to...keep the peace."
Gawain scowled but appeared to have lost the immediate urge for action. "We will leave here—for anywhere—on the morrow."
Lucy let out a short breath. The morrow. There was a great deal of uncertainty about the morrow. "Have you seen Emile?"
Gawain's eyes narrowed. "Emile? What do you want with him?"
Lucy drew back from the odd and unexpected suspicion in Gawain's demeanor. "I—I just want to talk to him." She was, in fact, married to the man, but she supposed Gawain, like everyone else, didn't think much of the fact.
He eyed her grimly. "I have not seen hide nor hair of Emile."
"Oh. Well, he was supposed to...talk with me."
"Hmph!" Gawain looked plainly disbelieving. "'Tis a late hour to be talking."
"Yes. Yes, I suppose it is."
"I would not wait up for him," Gawain advised, "if I were you."
"No." Lucy sighed. "No, I suppose I should not." Distractedly, she waved goodnight to Gawain before drawing back into her chamber.
Gawain was right, she admitted to herself, shivering as she moved through the cold outer room. If Emile were planning to come, he would have done so by now. With another sigh, she pulled open the door to the inner chamber.
The heat from the fire in the hearth immediately warmed her face but did nothing for the anxious wriggle in her stomach.
She wanted to get this over with, have her talk, tell Emile she would not carry out her dire threat to send him to the gallows.
Lucy stepped closer to the fire, frowning into its flickering light as she held out her hands to warm them. She supposed her talk with him would have to wait until morning. There was no suspense involved in the delay. The result was foregone. Once she lifted her threats, he would be gone in the time it took to breathe good-bye.
His hasty departure would not be very flattering, but Lucy didn't expect flattery from men—and particularly not from Emile. Why, he'd wanted to get out of this marriage so badly he'd once proposed 'dying' to that end.
Turning from the fire, Lucy tucked her hands under her arms and smiled ruefully. No, she had no illusions about Emile's reaction to her little speech. The more pressing question was how she would handle Gawain once Emile left. It was one thing to convince her father's steward that she didn't have to return home when she was properly married. It would be quite another thing once she didn't even have a husband.
Lucy's smile faded as she paced toward the diamond-paned window. She would handle Gawain—somehow. For go home she would not.
Lucy stare
d out the window and then blinked as she realized she saw Emile down in the courtyard. He was deep in conversation with a beggar man. With one hand on the beggar's shoulder, he gestured down his gray-green doublet. To her merchant's eye, he appeared to be bargaining. About selling his clothing?
Suddenly, he stopped dead. He froze with his hand on the beggar's shoulder. Slowly, he lifted his head and directed his eyes up toward her window.
Her heart took a gigantic leap. Feeling awkward and not knowing what else to do, she lifted her lips into a shaky little smile.
After a moment of apparent indecision, Emile smiled back. He was unable to disguise an expression of guilt.
Poor man. He had no way to know that the conversation he denied her would grant him his dearest wish: freedom.
Still looking guilty, he raised one hand. It was a gesture that said, 'Wait.'
Wait? Lucy's shaky smile abruptly dropped. Did that mean he was—?
She saw him make some comment to the beggar man, then turn toward the building. He was coming up to see her.
No. Lucy whirled from the window. It was too late. She was not ready any more. The talk had to be postponed. She strode swiftly to the bedchamber door with some vague notion of bolting it against Emile.
But when she reached the wooden planks, Lucy closed her eyes and set her forehead against the surface. What nonsense. It wasn't too late for their talk. It was never too late to do one's duty. Emile had saved everyone, and she owed him.
Lucy's forehead jerked off the door as a soft rap shuddered through it. He was here. Taking in a deep breath and planting a serene smile on her face, she opened the door.
If it was any consolation, Emile looked as awkward as she felt. He stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands crushing a battered old hat. "I, uh, I'm sorry it took me so long."
He was apologizing. Lucy's smile wavered. "'Tis no matter."
His stiff shoulders relaxed. "The truth is I've been rather busy." Instead of coming into the warmed bedchamber, Emile turned and paced further out into the cold outer chamber. "I am not completely irresponsible," he muttered. "I can take care of you, a little bit."