Charming the Devil

by Lois Greiman

  Faerie Faye sat very straight on a handsome bay. She wore a black top hat, head held high over squared shoulders, hands just so on the reins.

  Her sculpted body was encased in the riding habit of the bon ton. Cobalt blue skirt and jacket. Snowy cravat. Austere, he supposed, or some might think it so, but to his simplistic mind it somehow only made her look more delicate, more feminine, and strangely pure. As fragile as a butterfly caught in a windstorm.

  He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such daft thoughts. He’d been a fool before and had no intention of riding that path again.

  So perhaps he should leave now. Turn tail and run. It wasn’t his way to abandon a fight, but there were battles that could not be won, and his gut told him this was one of those skirmishes. Connelly, after all, thought this rendezvous a marvelous idea, which, of course, meant it should be avoided at all costs. Indeed, Bain thought, lucidity returning suddenly, he should never have come. Should never have even considered—

  But in that instant he noticed a dapper, redheaded fellow turn toward her. Saw the man straighten with interest, saw his eyebrows rise as he reined his mount toward her. She spotted him as well, and in that instant, in that one fractured prism of a second, Bain thought he saw uncertainty spark her earth-stone eyes.

  It was naught but his imagination. He told himself as much, but it was no use, for he had already touched his spurs to Colt’s massive barrel.

  There was no hesitation. No delay. Colt flexed his powerful neck, and like a gifted dancer shifted his mass from a standstill to a canter in a second’s time, cleaving a path through the crowd.

  Reining to a halt between Red and the lady, Bain nodded a greeting, but for a moment he could think of nothing to say, for she was spellbinding. Yet it was neither her gilded beauty nor her polished veneer that held him speechless. It was something more vulnerable, something almost hidden but not quite.

  The sun had risen only minutes before and shone now with new-world glory in her upturned eyes. They were the hue of river-washed agates, or maybe the color of the very stone he now wore about his neck. Deep russet flecked with shards of black and green and a dozen shades he could neither name nor consider. A palette of wonder no man could paint.

  On some, the stiff riding habits of the elite appeared manly, but in the rosy light of dawn, wee Faerie Faye looked as delicate as a spring blossom. Her tawny face was small, her chin peaked above her white stock. Her shoulders were square but narrow, her leather-clad hands small and still, her waist so tiny he could have spanned it with his hands.

  “You’ve come,” she said, and there was something about her soft siren’s voice that made his heart sing, for it almost seemed as if she was relieved, nay ecstatic, to find him there.

  They stared at each other as he searched for some witticisms, some repartee. Nothing.

  “So you’ve not changed your mind, then,” he said finally, and couldn’t help but notice that his voice sounded as if it issued from the very center of the earth, as if it came from a being entirely unassociated with this woman’s lofty species.

  “Why ever would I?” she asked, and raised a single brow. It was that expression that convinced him he had entirely imagined the fear of only moments before. But that was good. He was no one’s protector. History had taught him that much.

  “It has always seemed a strange sport,” he said. “This foxhunting.”

  “Strange?” Beneath her, the bay pranced an intricate step. Her body swayed in perfect rhythm. “How so?”

  Because the word “sport” implied there was some fairness involved. Some sport. “One fox,” he said, and scanned the rowdy assembly, the elegant horses, the hounds, just beginning to bay. “A host of well-mounted riders.”

  She watched him in silence, head high, plum-plump lips pursed as she studied him, then; “Tell me, Mr. McBain, are all men of war so tenderhearted?”

  He returned her gaze. She must be joking; his heart had become calloused years before her birth. “I merely spoke of fairness.”

  “But the fox are vermin. Stealing chickens and the like from poor tenant farmers,” she said. “Surely we are doing a service.”

  Did that opinion make her heartless or simply pragmatic? “You’ve no qualms about this day then?”

  “Perhaps you have mistaken me for some wilting flower,” she said. “I assure you, I am not.” Glancing down, she fiddled with the hem of her skirt, plumping the ruffled train across the pommel horn where her right leg was hooked in the manner that made him cringe. How the hell did anyone ride perched atop a mount like a flighty tree finch? And why? “Indeed,” she continued, but just then a shout went up as two horses rose on their hinds, forelegs pummeling the air as they sparred. One hapless rider tumbled to the cobblestones amid jeers and cheers.

  From the right, three more joined the crush, mounts dancing as they turned from the street. The din of the hounds was all but deafening now. The innkeeper raised a pitcher of beer as his boy hustled through the mob, handing out tankards to those who had not yet received one. The fair Faye, he noticed, did not accept one, though she controlled her gelding with one steady hand. So she had ridden some. And there was steel to her spine. That much was obvious, at least to him. Although, if he looked deeply, past her polished veneer, behind her spoken words, he wasn’t even sure she was aware of the fact. Still, there was a good deal of difference between sitting quietly in a cobbled courtyard and clearing oxers on half a ton of heaving horseflesh.

  But he had no wish to offend her by mentioning such a thing. Then again, neither did he care for the idea of returning with her broken body cradled in his arms.

  Although the idea of holding her against his chest made his heart feel diabolically traitorous.

  God almighty, he was a dolt. Why had he suggested this at the outset? He had things to do. Things to learn. He scanned the mob. There were already twoscore riders assembled. Most of them inebriated. All of them dressed to the gills. He himself felt like a damned stuffed monkey. Though he had always worn the required uniform into battle, he was most accustomed to his tartan, comfortable with his plaid and sporran. But Connelly had insisted he conform to the ways of the preening ton. It was all foolishness though, for his stock felt starchy, his breeches tight. ’Twas ridiculous to think he would ever belong in this parade of dandies and swells. He was a Highlander.

  Suddenly, a gust of wind flared, flapping the lacy tail of a nearby rider’s handkerchief. Startled by the motion, Faye’s mount shied, and without intent, Bain reached out to grab the bay’s bridle. The gelding stilled even as Faye’s gaze met Rogan’s.

  They sat in silence, frozen in time, a thousand thoughts tumbling between them, but what those thoughts were, even McBain wasn’t quite sure.

  “I could escort you home,” he rumbled, still bent from his saddle to restrain the fidgety bay. “’Twould do me no harm to miss this,” he said, and as he loosed the gelding’s cheek piece, didn’t add that he’d rather be engaged in hand-to-hand combat than here in this ridiculous circus.

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, and smoothed her expression just as easily as she smoothed her skirts. “I’ll be—”

  But just then a bugle sounded. The whipper-in loosed the hounds amid an ear-shattering racket while a piebald hack began pitching nervously before settling. The hunt-master raised his scarlet-sleeved arm, and they were off, galloping down the cobbled street toward the countryside.

  From Colt’s sturdy, rolling back, Bain breathlessly watched Faye gallop away, but there was no need for concern; she rode with confidence and panache.

  But they were already approaching the twisting River Darent. Here, so near London’s south side, the water was only a few feet wide, but the banks were steep and uncertain. The front three horses took it together, gliding over. But the fourth animal refused for an instant, floundered, then reared, nearly dumping its rider before lunging after its mates.

  Tension was building like a storm in Bain’s gut. “Mayhap we’d best walk them throug
h this first obstacle,” he called.

  Faye glanced over her shoulder, eyes luminous with excitement, golden hair beginning to blow free from its containment beneath her dark, flat-topped hat. “What’s that?”

  “It might be wise to slow for the water,” he said, though he felt silly now, and a little breathless, for with the light in her bright eyes, she looked for all the world like a pixie just come to earth.

  “Very well,” she agreed, and managed to slow her mount to a walk, though the animal shook his head and danced a few steps as others passed.

  Colt, having seen the world race by on innumerable occasions and knowing it was bound to slow its pace eventually, dropped to a walk of his own accord, allowing them to approach the creek at a more sedate pace. Side by side, the two horses lowered their heads and descended the bank.

  “Is there a problem?” Faye asked, eyeing him as they climbed the opposite slope. “With your mount?”

  “Nay,” he said, and though he knew he should elaborate, there seemed to be no more words in the face of such disastrous beauty.

  She nodded, scowling slightly and looking like nothing so much as a piqued faerie. “Your eye,” she said. “I am sorry. It must make it difficult to see.”

  It took him a moment to realize she was searching for a reason for their leisurely pace. And though he had, on more than one occasion, ridden riddled with bullets and near unconscious in the saddle, he would rather she think him a weakling than know he had remained awake half the night fretting over her safety during these moments together.

  “It is healing,” he said, and realized suddenly that, indeed, it was mending with amazing swiftness. Reaching up, he brushed his thumb across her gift, hidden as it was beneath the traditional hunt garb. A white shirt, a canary waistcoat, and a dark coat, split up the back and nearly reaching his knees. These English huntsmen wore enough clothing to stop a bayonet. “What manner of rock did ye call this?”

  “Bloodstone.”

  He caught her with his eyes, wondering about her. Who was she? The sophisticated widow she portrayed to the world or the fragile ingénue he imagined peeking from her eyes when no one was looking? “And what made you think it might be helpful?”

  She stared at him, speechless for a moment, and he continued.

  “A polished lady such as yourself,” he said. “You seem too modern to believe in the old ways.”

  “Modern?”

  “Aye.”

  For a fleeting moment her lips quirked up before her face settled back into serious lines. “I fear you are thinking of someone else. I am quite old-fashioned. But what of you, sir? Tell me of yourself.”

  Why would she take an interest? He was hardly the elegant pink of the ton so intriguing to the English elite. Indeed, some had called him a Celtic troll. A few of those clever wits still retained their teeth; he wasn’t as sensitive about his size as he had been in his younger days. “There is little to tell.”

  “Judging by your accent, I would guess you were not born here in London.”

  “You would be wrong.” His voice sounded gruff and unrefined, making him immediately regret his foolish truthfulness. He had no wish for her to learn the truth about him. Far better that she think of him as an interesting oddity. It had gained him entrance to the ton’s most prestigious venues after all. “My mother did indeed birth me in London, but I did not stay long,” he admitted.

  “She traveled?”

  “She died,” he said, then all but rolled his eyes at the bluntness of his own words. Why not tell her how it had felt to hold his uncle’s dying body in his bloodied arms while he was at it?

  “I am sorry,” she said.

  “Nay.” He tried to negate his words, but implying his mother’s death did not matter hardly made him sound any more the prince. “I remember naught of her.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Only that I was the one what—” he began, and stopped himself. She had died moments after his birth, and though his father had never blamed Rogan for her death, that did not mean he could not blame himself. He was, after all, a troll. At least by some estimations. “Only that she had summer eyes.”

  “What?” She was watching him closely, and he realized suddenly that he had said the words with too much feeling, when in truth he did not recall her eyes a’tall, but only had others’ words to remember her by.

  She blinked at him. “Summer—”

  “Blue,” he said gruffly and wished to hell he hadn’t started down that path. “They were naught but blue.”

  “I don’t understand how summer—” she began, but he interrupted again.

  “Like the sky. In the warmth of the summer when the wildflowers….” He stopped himself abruptly. Good God, he sounded like a raving lunatic. “What of you? Your mother is alive and well?”

  “She died shortly after my father. Of a broken heart,” she said, then touched the tips of her fingers to her brow as though it pained her.

  And it was that pain, that scrunching of her fair forehead that troubled him.

  “Tell me they were with you,” he said.

  She watched him in silence.

  “When you lost your husband,” he said. “You were not alone.”

  She stared at him for an elongated, breathless moment, then lifted her attention quickly away. “I believe I heard the field-master’s horn,” she said, and, touching her crop to her dark gelding’s flank, eased into a canter.

  They did naught but ride then, Bain behind, her ahead. And though he knew far better, he could not help but admire her. Her balance, her grace, the gentle way she guided her mount.

  She glanced back once as if to speak, then the hounds went to full cry, and the run began in earnest.

  Colt lengthened his strides, eating up the turf, taking the stone fences as a matter of course, and always ahead of them, Faye rode like a wood sprite, as light as a leaf on the wind, soaring over downed logs, racing through the woods.

  Ahead, the hounds were milling. Perhaps the fox had gone to ground, but in an instant a bay split the air again, and the pack was off, with the horsemen racing behind, crashing through the underbrush like demons, galloping into the open.

  Cresting a hill, Bain saw the rolling countryside spread out before them. An open field lay ahead, and there, just past the tricolored pack, he saw the fox. It was racing flat out, twenty couples of hounds behind. More woods lay just beyond.

  Horses lathered and blew. The whippers-in urged the dogs on. They shortened the distance on the flagging vixen, and then the first cur leaped. The fox rolled beneath its fangs, and in a moment the others were on it.

  There was a cry from the fox, a cheer from the riders. Faye pulled up her mount even as Colt galloped past. Slowing him gradually, Bain pulled him around in a circle only to find the faerielike Mrs. Nettles sitting perfectly still upon her restive gelding.

  “Is something amiss?” he asked, heading back. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright, but it took her a moment to speak.

  “No,” she said finally. A pair of ladies rode past, laughing as they went. She didn’t glance their way. “All is well.”

  He scowled. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course.” She brushed back a wayward strand of golden hair. “What could be amiss?”

  He nodded, glanced behind them. The hounds-men were already beginning to restrain the dogs. Several riders had dismounted to perform their bloody rituals. “I believe they intend to lunch here. Would you care to join them?” he asked, but when he turned back he saw her jerk her knuckles from her cheek.

  “Mrs.—”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, and, turning her mount away, urged him back toward the woods behind them. “I need a few minutes of privacy.”

  Bain watched her ride away. Indeed, he was determined to leave her be, for he had no desire to embarrass her, but it was easy to get turned about in the woods. Thus he followed at a distance.

  By the time he entered the copse, her gelding stood alone, buckled r
eins looped over a nearby branch.

  He gazed around, but the lass was nowhere to be seen. And then he heard it. Muffled crying. Sobbing, actually. Inconsolable and incessant, coming from behind a fallen log and tearing at the fabric of his heart.

  Chapter 6

  Faye’s stomach convulsed, her throat felt raw. What had she been thinking? A foxhunt! It had sounded so cultured. So posh. The perfect venue for proving she belonged among London’s refined society.

  Wrapping her arms about her legs, Faye tucked her feet under the sturdy fabric of her skirt and rocked mindlessly to and fro, wanting to curl up inside herself. Wanting to forget the flaring panic she had seen in the fox’s eyes. Wanting with all her might to be unable so completely to empathize with the hunted animal’s fear. Communing with beasts was not her gift, yet she could feel the creature’s terror throb beneath her own skin. Could hear the footfalls of the hunters in the beat of her own frantic heart and knew she would be caught. Would be—

  “Where have you gone?”

  Faye’s breath rasped in her throat. She jerked her gaze toward the trail. They were coming for her. Tracking her just as they’d tracked the fox. Hunting. Without mercy. And they’d find her. They always did.

  “Mrs. Nettles.”

  She crouched lower behind the sheltering log, barely breathing.

  “Are you in here?”

  No. She squeezed her eyes closed, pretending she wasn’t there. Pretending if they couldn’t see her, she’d be gone. Disappeared. Like a wisp of smoke blown aloft by the fitful breeze. But her gifts didn’t work that way. Her gifts dealt with pain. With betrayal.

  “Are ye well, lass?” The voice rumbled through the woods from some unknown location. But the tone was low and quiet and seemed to have no edge of evil teasing. No threat of retribution. She drew a breath and exhaled shakily, remembering. She was no longer a child. No longer a pawn. She was Mrs. Nettles, polished, educated, powerful.

  Lifting an unsteady hand, she swiped her gloved fingers across her cheek, but she could yet see the fox’s wide eyes, could taste its acrid terror. And with that painful memory her stomach roiled again. She gritted her teeth, fighting for control.