The Wicked Viscount

by Heather McCollum

  He sat on Gaspar, letting the horse pick his way through the trees toward the abandoned hunting cabin that Grey had shown him on their trip down to London two months ago. Without looking, he knew Cat followed. He could almost feel the heaviness of the silence and her sharp gaze on his back. She likely rode straight in the seat, her hair floating unbound around her slim shoulders. Full lips set in a frown. Damnation, they were soft lips. He remembered the feel of her smooth skin as he cupped her cheek, the silky tangle of her waves as he ran a hand through her long tresses, the warmth of her body as he’d pulled her in close to him, and how she’d hitched both of her legs up around his hips to fit against him.

  Nathaniel growled softly and scratched along his scalp. But he knew he couldn’t scrub away the memory of their second kiss any more than he could forget the first. Even feverish, the memory of her response had caught his attention forever. Cat Campbell was a raging wildfire wrapped up and barely contained in a woman’s body.

  “I can ask at the next town for some milk curds if your scalp itches ye,” she said from behind. “’Tis an easy ailment to fix.”

  It was highly doubtful curds would cure what ailed Nathaniel. He dropped his hand to rest on the pommel before him. “My scalp does not itch,” he said. His father, Benjamin Worthington, had used to berate him for the telling movement. Whenever Nathaniel was trying to deal with his mother’s weeping or Evelyn’s comments about how horrendous the king was treating his wife or Scarlet’s preening for hours before leaving for court, Nathaniel showed the world his annoyance by scratching his head. He did it without thought. As a lad, his father had tried to beat the signal out of him. Nathaniel had thought he’d moved beyond it, but Cat had apparently lured it back.

  “’Tis nothing to be embarrassed about,” she said. “Dry scalp can happen even to aristocratic Englishmen.”

  “I do not have dry scalp,” he said, spying through the trees in hopes of spotting the cabin.

  “I mean, I have admitted to never having ridden a horse,” she said. “At least you can admit to—”

  “There’s the cabin,” he said, pressing into Gaspar. The horse shot off through the snow, leaving Cat and Stella to follow. He wanted to make certain the cabin was empty before the maddening woman barged in fearlessly.

  Since his sister, her husband, and he had stayed overnight there a short time ago, he knew the one-room dwelling was in fairly good shape. Boards of weathered oak made up the sides, and a small stone chimney sat on one end. When her husband wasn’t making Evie sit down and rest, due to her realized pregnancy, she was up sweeping and arranging the sparse furnishings into a comfortable little den in the woods. Although, staying inside alone with Cat was likely to be very uncomfortable if he couldn’t control the wayward sway of his thoughts.

  “Hold up, Stella,” Cat said to her horse as she trotted up next to him, bouncing in the seat. “Wait, Nathaniel.” She patted the horse’s neck when she came to a stop, her breathing a bit ragged as if she’d just nearly met with death. Stella may have taken off to follow Gaspar. “We should make sure no one is inside first,” she called in a hushed voice.

  Nathaniel dismounted. “I am pretty sure anyone inside already knows we have arrived.” He would help her down after he made certain all was safe. “Wait here.”

  “Nay,” she said and kicked a leg over to slide down Stella’s side.

  “Dammit woman, your first response to everything does not have to be no.” He trudged through the several inches of fresh snow to the porch where a dingy window had an open curtain, just how he’d left it in December. A quick glance showed no movement inside, and he pulled the latch at the top of the door to swing it inward.

  Cat came up behind him. “And your first response does not always have to involve trying to protect me. I am a trained Highland Rose.”

  “I did not know you could get down without falling on your arse,” he murmured. She was glancing inside the door but turned to give him a vicious glare. His frown relaxed almost into a grin, but he stopped himself, knowing that a smile would likely earn him a punch. She turned back to search for villains hiding in the shadows and pointed at a wide bed in the far corner.

  Nathaniel nodded and stepped inside quietly, his short sword drawn. Cat remained near the door while he approached the bed. With a flick of his hand, he yanked the covers back and dropped to one knee to look underneath. Sitting back, he called out. “All clear. Not even dust since Evelyn swept here a little over a month ago.”

  “Good. I do not need any more slices to heal before going to court,” she said, her hand going up to the red line at her throat.

  Guilt tightened inside Nathaniel. Despite Cat’s abilities, he was tasked to take her to the queen unharmed. He had already failed.

  …

  Cat stood behind the corner screen in the one smock she had packed. Nathaniel was outside checking on the horses, so it was a perfect time to wash. She preferred smelling clean. It had nothing to do with wanting to be desirable to an English gentleman who thought of her as a distraction.

  The warmed water in the bucket smelled of roses because she’d added drops from the essence she distilled at home. She certainly hadn’t thrown her rose scent into her traveling bag to entice Nathaniel Worthington. It was for fitting in at court and refreshing herself on the ride.

  Using a rag, Cat scrubbed the water over her arms, neck and face. She pulled her sleeping smock off and washed as best she could with the rag. Days of riding and sleeping outdoors near smoking fires required a longer wash. She wasn’t able to thoroughly clean her hair, but she raked through it with a brush and fine-toothed comb. The red curls preferred springing out from her head to lying flat, and she finally braided the mass that fell to her waist. Lastly, she washed her teeth with the paste of rosemary ash and mint.

  “Better,” she murmured, enjoying the feel of being somewhat clean. She hoped that Nathaniel’s estate had a full bathing tub like the one she enjoyed at Finlarig. It was a benefit of attending the Highland Roses School. Evelyn encouraged the girls to stay clean, something with which Cat wholeheartedly agreed.

  She shivered. Chill bumps speckled her arms and made her nipples harden, and she shook out her smock, throwing it over her head just as the outside door opened. A brisk chill swept into the cottage with Nathaniel.

  “Roses?” Nathaniel asked as he walked inside.

  Cat poked her face around the screen. “Just getting clean.” His hair looked damp. “Did ye take a bath outside?” She hurried back to the bucket to scrub at the darker stains on her leather trousers.

  “Something Grey taught me,” Nathaniel said. “A snow bath, although the warm water baths at Hollings are much preferred.”

  Bonny good. There was a tub waiting at the end of the journey. She shook the dingy leather pants while trying not to get herself wet.

  Cat draped a wool blanket around herself and stepped out from behind the screen. Nathaniel’s broad back was to her as he squatted, adding more wood to the fire. She could see his muscles working through his white shirt and turned her gaze. His muscled body was too damn tempting, making her addlebrained.

  She attached the heavy trousers to a rope strung up in the other corner to dry and sat down at the table near the fire, curling her stockinged feet up under her. They’d had a hearty meal of roast rabbit with onions, potatoes, and rye bread.

  “’Tis dark,” Nathaniel said, standing. He turned, his gaze sliding over her. “You should find your bed.”

  “Winter brings darkness quickly. I am not ready to sleep. And it is our bed,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. One of her eyebrows rose. “Or am I too much of a distraction to ye to be able to sleep in that large bed next to me?”

  His handsome face remained void of emotion. “I will be quite comfortable sleeping next to you, as long as you do not kick or drool over me.”

  Did she drool in her sleep? Izzy used to say she kicked sometimes, but she’d never mentioned anything else. She leaned back in the chai
r and folded her hands to rest them on the rough, hewn planks of the table. “I will try to control myself.”

  One side of his lips quirked upward. “Truly? It seems you have difficulties with that.”

  She glared, but a smile nudged her lips. “Ye have no idea how many wayward, lethal, and inappropriate actions I have stopped myself from enacting. ’Tis fortunate for ye that I have such self-control.”

  He chuckled. “I am warned.” Grabbing something from his satchel, he scraped back the rickety chair and sat at the table opposite her. “Do you know how to play at cards?” He set a stack of rectangular, painted cards on the table before him. With a swipe of his hands, he fanned them out, shuffling them together.

  “We did not own any cards,” she said, watching the brightly painted pictures on the backs.

  “I will teach you. They play at court. Whist.” He gathered the cards, flipping them over and fanning them out again to show her the faces and numbers underneath. “There are numbers from two up to ten, then a jack, queen, king, and the top card in value is the ace,” he said, pointing to a card with an A printed on it. “There are black cards and red cards in four suits. The suits are diamonds, hearts, spades, and clubs.”

  “That does not look like a club,” she said, touching a finger to a black card. “It is a clover.”

  “Yes, but they call it a club.”

  “Very well,” she murmured, though it seemed wrong. If they were going to call it a club, it should look like a thick tree limb, perhaps with steel spikes sticking out of it.

  He pushed them back together and dealt thirteen cards to each of them, facedown, then flipped one card up on top of the undealt deck. It was a jack of hearts. “Hearts will be trump,” he said. “Trump cards will now be the most powerful in winning each trick.” He picked up his cards, shielding them from her, and she did the same.

  “Each hand will start with one person putting a card, face up in the middle, and the next player trying to beat it with one of their cards. You have to play the suit that was played first, unless you have run out of them. Then you play another suit to lose the hand or a trump to win it.” He laid down a five of diamonds.

  “So…” she said, selecting a seven of diamonds and placing it down. “I win this trick.”

  He nodded. “Good, and you used a small diamond to win because there was no one following you. But if we were playing with four people, someone could come behind you and lay a higher card to win the hand. And with four people, you are partnered with the person across from you.”

  The game seemed easy enough, and they ran through it, splitting up the tricks. She won two more than Nathaniel. “The terms are odd, but the game is fun,” she said as he took the cards together, shuffling them by spreading them out facedown.

  “When we arrive at Hollings, we can play with Jane and another to teach you some of the other versions that they play at court.” His fingers slid over the painted rectangles across the table, and she tried not to imagine them sliding over her skin. “If you did not play cards, what games did you play growing up?”

  She looked up, meeting his gaze. Her childhood had been brief. As soon as Izzy was born, Cat had helped take care of her, especially when her mother took to her bed during her sadness. Nothing could rouse Ma, and with their da out of the house most of the time, there was no one to make sure their small home was secure and warm except Cat.

  “Ye spent a lot of time playing games, did ye?” she countered. “What other games did ye play?”

  “When I was a lad, we played All Hid in the gardens, my sisters and me and some of our playmates. I also had glass marbles, and we each had a hoop with which to toss and roll,” he said. “Have you played any of those games?”

  She looked down at the cards that he drew back into a stack. “I did not play games.”

  “None?”

  She indicated the stack. “Let us play again.” She felt his gaze on her, trying to delve into her lack of information, but none would come out unless she allowed it, which she wouldn’t.

  Nathaniel stood up, retrieving a wax-sealed bottle. “A small drink first,” he said and handed it to her. “To help you sleep without kicking and drooling.”

  She snorted a little laugh. “’Tis the whisky that makes a man drool.” She sniffed, meeting his gaze. “I do not drink strong spirits.” In all the time she’d watched Nathaniel at Finlarig, she’d never seen him drunk. He may have sampled the whisky but kept mostly to watered down ale or wine.

  “Probably for the best,” he said.

  Her shoulders relaxed, but she frowned over her reaction. Nathaniel wasn’t her da, drinking until he yelled and punched the wall next to her mother’s face while in a rage. She stretched and took a drink from the wineskin they’d been sharing. “Another round?” she asked.

  “I have a new game,” he said and tapped the cards on their sides. He began to deal out the cards again, facedown.

  “What is it called?”

  He finished with six cards given to each and set the rest of the deck off to the side. He tipped his head slightly to the side and regarded her. “Cards Up.”

  She frowned. “Are ye creating this as ye go?”

  “Perhaps,” he said with a grin. “I will go first.”

  “How do ye play it?”

  “We lay our cards up one at a time. If I lay up a red card…” He pointed to her hair. “Then you have to answer a question. If I lay up a black card…” He pointed to his own dark hair. “Then I have to tell you something about me that you do not know.”

  She crossed her arms. “If I turn up a black card, I can ask ye a question?”

  He nodded.

  “What do the numbers mean then? In this game of yours?”

  “Well…if I turn up a low number like a deuce or three, then the question is an easy one, like what is your favorite sweet. If the number is high or a royal card up to an ace, then the question or revelation must be large. Middle cards can go either way.”

  “Ye are making this up,” she said, pursing her lips and nodding.

  “’Tis true I have never played it before, but I am certain it is a game somewhere.”

  His hand hovered over his cards, deciding which one he’d turn up. A black four. “Ah,” he said, sitting back in his seat. “Let me see. My favorite color is green.” He indicated her hand. “Your turn.”

  She inhaled, letting her fingers slide over the tops until she found one to turn. A black jack. She looked up to see him frown. “I can ask ye something big then.”

  “Ask,” he said, crossing his arms, the humor out of his voice despite a slight grin.

  “Hmmm…” She tipped her head to the side. “Are ye in love with someone?”

  “Love?” he asked with a small shake of his head. “No, I am not in love with someone romantically. I do love my sisters, but that is all.” The revelation made her stomach flip inside. He had no one back in England for which he pined.

  “Well now,” he said, flipping over a red queen. His grin widened. “Are you in love with someone?”

  She shook her head, giving him a sardonic smile. “Only my sister. She is the only one who will hold my heart.”

  One of his eyebrows rose. “You speak of all times? You will not ever let yourself love another? A man. A husband one day?”

  “That is another question,” she said, smiling smugly and turned over one of her cards. A red ten. Her smile drooped, and she glanced at him.

  “Something about you then,” he said. “Something fairly big.” His look showed doubt, as if he thought her not brave enough to reveal a large truth.

  She puckered her mouth like she was thinking, and then smiled. “I sleep naked when it is summer.”

  Nathaniel coughed, his fist going to his mouth. “In a tree?”

  She laughed. “Nay.” And pointed accusingly at him. “But that was another question.”

  He chuckled and cleared his throat. “Beware of giving answers when you do not have to,” he said, looking point
edly at her. “There are those at court who are very good at tricking you out of answers when you do not have to give any.”

  “Hunting for secrets,” she said.

  He nodded. “It seems to be everyone’s favorite pastime at court. The bigger the secret, the better.”

  “It is best to have none,” she said, meeting his eyes. His gaze was strong and seemed to search her.

  “We all have secrets, something in our past that we would like to change,” he said, and his eyes narrowed, a shadow of sorrow crossing them. His shoulders rose slightly in a shrug. “Regrets we wish to wash away.”

  He looked back at the cards facedown before him and turned one over. A black six. Glancing toward the ceiling in thought, Cat studied his strong features. Despite being English, Nathaniel Worthington did not have the weak double chin and puffy, wet eyes she’d seen in paintings of English monarchs. His nose was straight without being big or small, and his lips were full. But it was the perfect set of his eyes that drew her. There was so much depth to what she saw in them, and she wished she could study them in the daylight. A small pinch drew between his brows, as he thought, begging her to reach out and rub it away.

  “I had a dog named Blue when I was a boy, named for his bluish coat. I loved him more than any person.” Sorrow was evident in his tone, despite his smile.

  “He died?” she asked softly, imagining Nathaniel as a tall, lanky youth, running across the fields with a hound.

  “At a glorious old age of fourteen.” He set his fists on the table. “And you just tricked me out of a second answer.” He nodded slowly in approval.

  She blinked and looked down at her cards, turning over a red eight. Raising her eyes to his, she nodded. “I loved a pet once. A kitten. A little ball of gray fluff really. I called her Jasmine after the flower. She grew up, always in trouble.” Cat smiled, remembering the way the cat would pounce after butterflies in the meadow without watching where her legs were taking her. Her smile faded. “She left one day when she was old. I don’t know if something ate her or she hid away to die. But she left me.” She swallowed, clearing her throat, and indicated his cards. “Your turn.”