His eyes darted about the room and then he looked at the table where he’d set it close to the fire. “Do you mind if I move the table? One of us can sit on the bed, the other on the chair.”
She flipped her hand in the air as she pulled her other arm free of the pelisse. “That makes the most sense.”
It was farther away from the fire than she liked, but if she sat on the bed, she’d still be in the warmest part of the room.
As Evan moved the table and chair into place, she turned back to the fire after draping her pelisse off the wooden rungs of the foot of the bed. The top of her dress was cut wide for ease while traveling, and she peeled off the wet cloth from her left shoulder, then the right. Her hips moving side to side, she wiggled out of the wet cold of the muslin, letting it drop to her feet.
Her fingers touched the belly of her shift.
Damn.
She’d hoped the rain hadn’t soak all the way to her skin, but it had.
With a sigh, she loosened her short stays, removing them, and then pulled off her shift. The warmth of the fire finally cut through the air to her skin and she nudged her toes closer to the flames. There was absolutely nothing more glorious than the heat of a blaze on bare skin.
“What in the blasted purgatory is this?”
Evan’s roar shook the floorboards beneath her heels.
She whipped around, expecting a burglar to have made way into the room. Or for Evan to have cut himself. Surely blood must be involved for the yell that had just scared her half-to-Hades.
Nothing. No blood. No blackguard trying to steal their valuables.
Just Evan standing there, staring at her body, his face red in pulsating outrage. “Bloody hell, then ye think to turn around? Put a wrapper or a shift on, Juliet.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why?”
He dove at the bed, ripping the coverlet from the top and holding it wide between them as he moved around the table to advance on her. “Because I’m a bloody man and you’re a woman—a beautiful woman—and I don’t care to walk around with my ballocks twisted in pain the rest of the evening.”
Her head jerked back “What? But I thought…”
“You thought what?” With his head turned to the side, he waved the coverlet between them.
She took the hint and grabbed the edges of the scratchy grey cloth, draping it in front of her body and then wrapping it around her backside. “I thought you wouldn’t care. I thought you…you weren’t interested in women.” Her left hand gripped onto the front fold of the coverlet above her breasts as her right hand flew out at him, waving. “That you preferred something else. Something more akin to yourself.”
“Prefer something else?” His entire forehead folded into deep wrinkles until her meaning took root. He looked at her, his grey eyes now icy as they pinned her. “Why in the hell would you think that?”
Her hand swung in a circle between them. “Because…because…you. Who needs a fake bride to show off to his ill grandfather? You’re to be an earl—plenty of women would want to marry you. And most of them come bearing tidy dowries.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to marry them.” His gaze dipped to the coverlet wrapped around her front side and he shook his head, taking one step back to the table. Turning pointedly to the food, he sat on the chair and took the cloche off the platter, grabbing one of the plates and clanking it onto the table in front of him. Without waiting for her, he dug into the slab of beef and potatoes on his plate.
She stared at him.
Not want to marry them? Who was he? Jasper had this wrong. Maybe Evan wasn’t truly an heir to a title. A real lord would be consumed with finding an advantageous wife to add to his family’s household. Producing heirs.
She’d just been duped by Jasper. That was the only explanation.
Rewrapping the coverlet tighter around her body and then tucking the top corner of it into the wrap at her chest to secure it, she moved to sit on the bed opposite him. “Evan—”
“We don’t need to talk—no?” He didn’t look up from his plate, digging a chunk of potatoes onto the tines of his fork. “I’m a Scot, there’s no need.”
She leaned over the table, trying to get into his sightline. “So, you’re just going to grunt and groan at me?”
“I’m a beastly, grunting, burly Scotsman, so yes.”
She jerked back, her spine straight. “You heard me say that?”
His look lifted to her, his grey eyes no longer laced with ire, though his face was hard stone. Mirth. Of all things, mirth twinkled in the blue specks of his eyes. “Aye, I did.”
Juliet burst out laughing. Pure, belly-clenching laughter. Her hand went up to her face, covering the barrage of the unbecoming cackles spurting from her mouth. She didn’t laugh like that. Never. Always controlled. Always pandering.
He chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
She got control of the titters still forcing their way up from her lungs and her hand fell away from her face. “I do apologize that I said that. I had too many thoughts running madcap in my mind at that moment in the hallway and I thought to put an end to Jasper’s request as quickly as possible. It was rude and I wanted you to not like me.”
“You changed your mind.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
She grabbed her plate from the silver platter and picked up her fork. “The many madcap thoughts in my head.” She pointed to her temple. “I wanted to escape them, if only for a short time. What better way than a relaxing respite up in Scotland?”
He nodded, looking to his plate as he stabbed a bite of meat. He popped it into his mouth and he chewed, watching her. “People around you do what you tell them to, don’t they, Juliet?”
“Yes.”
He took a sip of wine. “Ye didn’t even think on the question.”
“I didn’t need to.”
He set his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “I am not someone that can be ordered about.”
A half-smile curved the right side of her mouth. She knew exactly what he referred to. “Yet you went in and secured this room posthaste.”
“Aye.” He leaned back in his chair. “I also am not one to pick an argument out in the pouring rain.”
She pointed her fork at him. “You’re a Scot—what’s a little rain?”
“You think you know much about me just because of my birthplace?”
She shrugged and cut free a corner of the beef. “My job is to categorize people. I’m good at it and I’m rarely wrong.”
“Your job at the Den of Diablo?”
Taking the bite of beef, she looked to him, nodding.
“You came highly recommended from Jasper. You were, in fact, the only choice he would offer me. You must have many admirers there.”
She stopped chewing, swallowing hard. He was poking. Poking into her affairs. Her lifestyle.
A sip of the wine helped dislodge the beef from her throat. “There are a few admirers, though I am always able to swap in one of the other women when the time comes.”
His head tilted slightly to the side. “You’re saying you don’t partake in…activities with the men?”
She almost chuckled at his tiptoeing about her profession. “If you’re referring to the actual act of sex—no. I haven’t done that in a very long time.”
“That works? Swapping in another woman at the last second?”
“It does. All the women at the brothel are very good at what they do. There have never been any complaints.”
Save her current situation with Lord Vontmour.
Juliet swallowed another gulp of the wine. “My job at the Den is actually about efficiency. The sooner we can get the gentlemen comfortable—and they come to us with a wide variety of uncomfortable ways, some are shy, some are cheating on their wives for the first time, some want everything and the moon—the sooner we can make money off of them. I get the men comfortable with where they are and what they’re there for quickly and efficiently—be that a woman
or the gaming tables. In essence, I am a shepherd, making sure the men are moving through the Den efficiently. No one makes any money when a man lounges about.”
Evan leaned back against the chair, his eyes studying her. “That must entail a world of lies and pandering coming from your mouth.”
An astute one, this Scot.
She nodded. “Whatever it takes. My women take over as soon as I can move the men along into a room, and I get a cut of everything that happens in the Den. I hate to say it, but men don’t care what’s in their bed—not truly—as long as their needs are met.”
“I care.”
“Then you are an exception.”
His lips pursed for a long moment and he shook his head. “You truly are talented to have managed a way to avoid the seedier side of the business.”
“Is that a pun?”
He chuckled. “No.”
An honest smile cracked her face and she set her fork onto the table. “I have found that the best talent a woman can have isn’t between her legs, it’s between her ears.”
“How so?”
“There are the rabid dogs coming in looking for a wild roll in a bed, yes. But most of the men—they merely want to matter. They want someone to listen to them. They hide that need with a layer of sex and booze. But what they really want is to have someone listen to what they say without judgement—to let them know they matter to someone in this world where no one matters at all.”
His eyebrow cocked. “No one matters?”
She shook her head. “No one. Not in the end.”
“That is morose.”
“It is truth.” Her shoulders lifted, not willing to argue. “There is what I do in my job—lie and pander, and then there is what keeps my soul from dying, and that is the truth. If it is personal to me, then I only allow the truth.”
“So everything on this journey is truth?”
“I am being paid to be here, so one can never tell.”
“Can I tell?”
“I will say that I have thus far not felt the need to be dishonest with you. You aren’t at the brothel so I don’t need to move you from one place to another or convince you of anything. I accepted the terms of our agreement. I go and act as your betrothed, charm your grandfather, and that is all that will be needed of me. Fairly simple. There is no need for lies, except in front of your grandfather, of course.”
“Aye.”
“Though this is a welcome break from the world I live in.” Her fingers lifted to point about the room. “I do get tired of the pandering. The layers of untruths that are able to come from my mouth can be baffling—so many lies that I sometimes cannot tease out the truth myself. But that is why I tend to be brutally honest with myself and who I am and what I do. I’ve accepted my life.”
“So honesty, then?”
“Honesty. Yes. It is my guiding star, the only thing that I live by.”
He nodded, his look dipping to his plate.
She wasn’t sure if he believed her or not.
Not that it should matter.
But for some reason she didn’t care to explore, it did.
So much for honesty.
{ Chapter 4 }
“There.” Juliet’s arm lifted as she pointed forward past the slope of the hill in front of them. “Is that Bicester? Tell me it is, as this poor horse has suffered the brunt of us too long.”
Evan scanned the buildings coming into view beyond the alley of trees they were riding through and he noted the gothic bell tower of St. Edburg's Church shooting up from the surrounding buildings. “Aye, it is.”
He shifted on the saddle behind her, trying for the thousandth time that day to set the slightest sliver of space between them.
Miss Juliet Thomson was not what he expected. Not at all. Peculiar, even.
He looked down at the top of her head, her auburn hair twisted into a simple chignon. The color of the strands mesmerizing, her hair swung between red and brown, never fully committing to either color. Her bonnet not in place, she’d tied the ribbon of it through one of the buttonholes in front of her pelisse and let it hang in front of her. It had still been more wet than dry this morning, and he doubted the shape of it would ever fit onto her head again, but she hadn’t wanted to leave it behind.
No matter the cause, he rather liked the thickness of her hair bared to the light of day. Not to mention that she smelled of citrus—not quite an orange, more of a grapefruit.
She’d rode in front of him on the horse for the full of the day, as there hadn’t been any other option for leaving the village they’d stopped in the previous night.
But now they were close to Bicester where he could rent a carriage and she would be back in the luxury she was accustomed to—not that she’d complained once about the current situation.
Though he had a complaint.
A major grievance that had to do with seeing her fully naked the night before, and then having to sit with her backside rubbing against him the entire day.
A naked woman that close in proximity to him usually had him two steps away from driving his shaft deep into her. And Juliet was not just any naked woman. She possessed beauty from head to toe, with full, round breasts and a slim waist that flared out to hips he could grip without fear of breaking her. His cock had been peeved and perplexed about the lack of any relief not only all night, but all day as well.
He heaved a breath.
Sex was not a part of the bargain he’d made with her, even if he’d now like to renegotiate the terms of their deal. There wasn’t any honor in that.
He couldn’t make it to a carriage fast enough.
And he was still attempting to wrap his head around what she had told him last night.
What kind of a courtesan didn’t have sex with her clients?
He’d assumed Juliet lived the life of the brothel thoroughly, but after he reflected on his night at the Den of Diablo when he had first seen her, he realized that he never saw her exit the main room for more than a few minutes at a time—not nearly long enough to pleasure a man.
Any man worth his salt, that was.
She would disappear up the stairs at the rear of the Den, arm in arm with a man, then quickly reappear, descending on any man in the main room that looked out of place.
Canny.
“You haven’t been around a lot of women, have you?”
Evan stiffened, looking down at the top of her head. “Of course, I’ve been around women—I thought we covered last night where my interests fall on that matter.”
She chuckled and gave him a quick glance over her shoulder. “I’m not about to insinuate again that you don’t like women. I’ve just noticed that it seems as though you haven’t spent a great deal of time around them.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You swear in front of me. You’re direct with your statements. You answer questions with as few words as possible. The only thing you asked of me for when I am to be set in front of your grandfather is that I am docile.” Leaning to the side, she craned her neck to look directly back at him. “All of those things point to you not being around women very often. Probably only to relieve yourself of base needs, if I guess correctly.”
His look met her blue eyes, her face far too close to him. “This is part of your uncanny ability to control men at the Den—first look into their souls?”
She shrugged, shifting to look forward again. “Am I right?”
“The truth of the matter?”
“Please.”
“You’re correct. The home I grew up in consisted of my grandfather, my younger brother, and a slew of my male cousins.”
“What of your mother?”
“Died in childbirth giving birth to us. My brother, Gilroy, and I are twins. My father died of consumption when we were eight.”
“No female cousins? No aunts?”
“No and no. Maids and Cook. Though none of them spoke often. And I imagine we had a nursemaid, though I have no recollection of her.”
His hands shifted on the leather of the reins in front of her. “Does my lack of manners bother you?”
“Not at all—it’s refreshing, actually.” Her hand lifted, smoothing strands of her hair back along her chignon. “Men like to tiptoe about their words around women—our ears and our constitutions are far too delicate to hear what men are truly thinking. They come into the Den with that façade fully set in place. A façade that disappears after the third or fourth drink, depending on who is pouring that night.”
She looked back to him with a smile on her face and Evan was overcome with the urge to tap the tip of her delicate nose.
What the hell was that? He didn’t tap noses.
His hands remained firmly in place on the reins.
“I like directness, Evan. And you’ve been nothing but direct with me and I appreciate it.”
“So you appreciate my rudeness?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “I never said you were—”
Her words cut off as the horse suddenly reared at a flash of a man in black cutting in front of them.
Juliet flew to the left, hitting hard against his forearm and her body slipped down between his arm and the horse, falling to the ground.
A grunt flew from her as she hit hard dirt and he jerked the reins to the right, moving the horse’s flailing hooves away from crushing her.
By the time the horse was settled and far away enough not to trample Juliet, the man dressed completely in black with a scarf across his face had yanked Juliet up from the ground, wrapping an arm around her as he set a blade onto her neck.
Evan was off the horse in an instant, charging.
“Stop—I’ll slice her neck, I will.” The blackguard jerked Juliet hard onto his body, sending her feet flying out from under her.
Evan skidded to a stop, dirt and dust spewing into the air about him as his hands rose to calm.
Blast. Too far away.
He refused to look at Juliet’s face. Just the man. Just his eyes. Reading intention.
His intention was desperate.
The man backed up a step, dragging Juliet with him. Then another. Another.
Wicked Exile (An Exile Novel Book 2) Page 3
