Charming the Devil (15 page)

“W
hy are you here, Irish?” McBain growled. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since he’d last seen wee Faye. Since he’d touched her, since he’d painfully admitted that Connelly was not entirely a bastard. Rogan’s mood hadn’t improved much since.

Beneath his considerable weight, Colt’s hooves clipped steadily down a rutted side street.

He had spent the day speaking with the family of Edgar Daimmen, but if they planned revenge on Brendier for the duel that took their kinsman’s life, he could not tell it.

“I am here,” Connelly said, “in an attempt to discern what the deuce you’re doing.”

McBain watched the street traveling between Colt’s ears and wondered what to do next. He had not mourned when he’d learned of Brendier’s death, for he had felt no kinship with him. No instant bonding. But he
had
been surprised at the other’s passing, for when they’d first met on the
previous day, he’d seemed fair jolly on his plush, four-poster bed.

How, then, had he died? And what of Lindale? How was his death connected to the breath-stealing Faerie Faye?

“Although you may not be fully aware I have not yet won Mrs. Nettles’s undivided adoration. If you used your head you might yet have some hope.”

Rogan glanced at his irritating companion. For there lay the crux of the problem: Rogan
did
have hope. Hope that she might care a small whit about him. Hope that she thought of him in the wee hours of the morning. That she lay sleepless and alone, thinking of none but him. Hope that she was as good, as right, as wonderful as she seemed. Hope. Even though he had seen her clutching the Irishman’s hand.

“But you’d best quit mucking about with meaningless drivel if you’re to catch her interest,” Connelly said.

“Meaningless drivel?” McBain said. “Such as murder?”

“Exactly.”

Anger boiled silently in his soul. “And what if the man murdered had threatened Faer—Mrs. Nettles?”

The dawn of understanding shone in Connelly’s eyes. “Is that what this is about?”

Rogan said nothing.

“Well that explains a bit of your ridiculous pre
occupation, I suspect. But really, the man is dead so it matters little if…” He paused. “Tell me it’s not true.”

Bain remained silent.

Without looking, Bain was certain the other’s face would be stamped with disbelief. The Irish bastard had always been as dramatic as a debutante. “Surely you do not think that someone as comely…as refined…as breathtaking as the scrumptious—”

Rogan gritted his teeth and glared.

Connelly grinned but continued. “Surely you do not think Mrs. Nettles might have caused the man’s death.”

Rogan remained silent for several seconds as memories wreaked havoc in his head. “Is it your esteemed opinion, then, that those who are beautiful cannot be evil?” Bain asked and turned baleful eyes on the Irishman. He grinned like a toothy serpent.

“So you’re not entirely daft. You
do
think her beautiful.”

McBain turned forward before the other could see the truth shining in his eyes; of course she was beautiful. She was light and goodness and…He swore in silence.

“Go home, Connelly,” he ordered.

“Very well,” agreed the other. “I will concede that not all beautiful women are innocents. But if you think her the culprit, why do you continue to search for another killer?”

He didn’t deign to answer, but Connelly finally grinned. Rogan could hear it in his voice.

“It is because you don’t
wish
to believe she’s the culprit.”

“Shut up, Connelly.”

He laughed. “So that’s it, then. You’re infatuated. Besotted. Smitten. The giant has finally—”

“I’ve no wish to hurt you, Irish. Well…” he corrected, not liking to lie. “I’ve
some—”

But Connelly wasn’t listening. “Not to worry, old man, because I don’t think it’s entirely beyond the realm of possibility that she has some interest in you.”

Rogan turned toward the other with a snap. “What makes you think—” he began, then stopped himself with abrupt and painful discipline. He was nearly nine and thirty years of age. Too long in the tooth to sound like a love-starved urchin. “It matters not if she is interested in me,” he said.

“What’s that?” Connelly asked, still grinning.

“For I’ll not touch her,” he added.

“You jest!” Absolute astonishment sounded in his voice. “I know you think her in love with me, and what woman isn’t? But truly, she’s all but panting…”

Rogan turned toward Connelly again and the man suddenly stopped his chatter. Sometimes that happened when the Scot looked at people a certain way. Sometimes there was also an abrupt scattering of bodies toward the nearest exit. But no
one had ever accused Connelly of knowing when enough was too much.

“Don’t tell me you have yet to kiss her.”

“If you touch her…” he began, then calmed himself, remembering; she was in need of a guardian. And despite Connelly’s irritating demeanor, there were few better equipped to protect her. “She is not for the likes of me,” he finished poorly.

“Who then?”

He glared again. His teeth were beginning to hurt.

“I mean, why in heaven’s name—” Connelly began, and then his eyes lit up with monkey-like mischief. “Is it because of the difference in your size? Because I don’t think—” Connelly began, then lowered his gaze to Rogan’s crotch, seeming to remember. “Tell me, old man, how long has it been since you’ve been with a woman?”

True ire began to rumble in his soul. “How long has it been since I’ve rendered you cataleptic?”

“Good Christ!” Connelly crowed. “That long? Well then, it’s little wonder you’re nervous. But this isn’t something you forget readily. In fact…

“Look, an inn,” he said, interrupting himself. “Let us stop. It’ll give me a chance to educate you properly.”

“Let us stop conversing so I no longer feel compelled to kill you.”

He laughed. “My silence has never guaranteed that outcome in the past.”

“I’m feeling charitable.”

“Excellent,” Connelly said and reined in beneath the inn’s bright shingle. “Feel free then to buy me a pint.”

Rogan considered arguing, but he disliked wasting that much energy on irritating Irishmen. Thus he stopped Colt beside Connelly’s mare.

Inside the inn it was dark and cool. Five tables occupied the public space. Only two were open. A fair-haired maid in a simple blue gown and white apron nodded to them as they pulled out chairs.

Rogan settled in, stretching his legs beneath the oaken table even as the barmaid hurried toward them. “What can I get you, gents?” Her voice was brusque, but when she glanced at Connelly, she paused for just an instant, as if caught unawares.

The Irishman smiled as he always did in the face of an interested woman. Or
any
woman. “I’ll have a pint,” he said.

“Very good, then. And what will you be having, luv?” she asked Rogan.

“What have you got to sup?” he asked.

“To sup?” Perhaps there was humor in her voice, but there was also kindness and more than a little fatigue, Rogan thought. Enough so she did not linger on Connelly’s idiotic smile.

“What my large friend means is, what is your fair establishment offering for the evening meal,” Irish explained.

“Ahh, well, you’ve a choice there between lamb stew and boiled fowl.”

“How’s the stew?” Rogan asked and she shrugged.

“Fair to middlin’ if you’ve a taste for charred taters and stringy mutton.”

“I’ll have the fowl and a pint,” Rogan said, then, sensing her fatigue, added, “when you’ve a minute.”

For just an instant there was the flicker of something in her eyes and then she turned back to Connelly. “And you, sir. What’ll you have to sup?”

He smiled, charming to the death. Bastard. “I’d best have the same so as to know what caused my large friend’s demise.”

“Oh, the fowl don’t kill folk,” she said. “Not usually at any rate. It just makes ’em wish to God it had whilst they hurl their guts out behind the privies.”

“Marjorie,” growled an aging man, scowling from the doorway of the kitchen. “There be meals waiting.”

“I was but extolling the quality of those very meals,” she said and shifting her gaze wryly toward Bain, bustled away.

At which time Connelly leaned closer. “What of her?” he asked.

Rogan returned his gaze to his so called friend. “What’s that?”

“Marjorie, the comely lass just gone. Surely you noticed her…charms.”

McBain scowled. “She had a pleasing enough smile I suppose.”

“Smile
,” Connelly said and laughed. “Well, aye, I failed to glance that high as of yet, but I suspect she did, and she didn’t seem to find you entirely repulsive. So, would you touch
her
?”

Rogan glowered and turned back to perusing the modest establishment. The room where they sat was smallish and dim, lit by little more than the flickering fire. A trio of young swells sat round a table near the far wall. Two aging fellows leaned over their beers by the fireplace, and near the window a seasoned man and a youngish woman sat in silence. He was squat but well groomed, she, as frothy as fresh milk, dressed in a lemon yellow gown that seemed to spout lace at every possible juncture.

“I didn’t think her your type,” Connelly said. “But if your taste runs toward frippery, it looks as if you’re in luck.” He leaned forward conspiratorially, but the barmaid was already hustling back, forearms pale but capable beneath the upturned sleeves of her plain gown.

“There you be. Pints for the two of you,” she said and swished the beers before them with practiced ease.

Rogan nodded his thanks and tried to ignore his companion. It was no easy task even as they took their first sips.

“So what think you of them?” Connelly asked, tilting his head sideways toward the pair by the window. “Might the lass be the bloke’s sister?”

Rogan glanced wearily toward the maid in
frothy yellow. Dear God, she could not have been more than seven and ten years of age. Barely old enough to eat unattended. Surely he had caused enough trouble among the bairns of London.

But Irish was already shaking his head.

“Doubtful. I have a sister. We’ve not yet been caught in the same room without warfare breaking out. They must be father and daughter.” His eyes were lit with some kind of sadistic glee. “Which means this is a fine opportunity for you to introduce yourself.”

Rogan settled a little deeper into his chair and took another swig of his beer. It was fair to perfect.

“Tell her you’re a friend to the Marquess of Wellington. Dropping a title here and there has proved to lift the skirts of even the most reluctant lass.”

Bain took another swig of beer. The cool brew almost made him think he might not have to disable the Irishman after all. “I suppose you’ve not considered they might well be husband and wife?” he said.

“Husband!” Connelly started, immediately upset. “The old gaffer could easily double her age. Of course…” he shrugged and drank, which, blessedly, hid all but a corner of his irritating grin. “So could you.”

Rogan ignored the gibe, took another draught and turned his attention to the left.

The barmaid had just brought additional drinks to the trio by the far wall. One of the lads was dark,
one smallish. The third wore a black, beaver hat at a rakish angle. She smiled down at the lot of them with animated camaraderie.

“But some women are quite forgiving of aging oafs. At least if the aging oaf in question has a bit of coin.”

The smallish lad reached for the barmaid’s hand. She seemed momentarily surprised, then she tugged her fingers out of his grip and continued with their conversation.

“Perhaps fair yonder lass be one of them. ’Tis impossible to say until you engage her,” Connelly said, and at that moment the lad in the hat stood, blocking Rogan’s view of the barmaid.

“The proper thing would be to simply swagger over and ask if she favors lumbering oafs,” Connelly continued.

The boy jerked back a sharp pace as if elbowed, but in a moment he was stepping up close to the maid again. By then the other two lads had risen as well, surrounding the girl as they crowded her silently toward the stairs.

Rogan rose with a scowl.

“Deuce it all, McBain—” Connelly began, sputtering beer. “I didn’t truly intend you should…”

But Rogan ignored the Irishman as he strode toward the far wall.

“What news, lads?” he rumbled, approaching the table.

The boy in the hat turned toward him with a snap, mostly hiding the maid behind him.

“Good Christ,” he said, looking Rogan up and down. “Has the carnival come to town?”

His friends snickered obligingly at their leader’s razor-sharp wit, but the maid’s face was pale, her right arm hidden between her back and the dark lad behind her.

Rage simmered quietly through Rogan’s system, but he kept his tone level. “Aye, it has lad,” he said. Convivial. He would be naught but genial. No body parts would be loosed this day. “And word has it that they’re looking for a simpleton with a jaunty hat at which to throw flaming knives. If you run right along you might yet convince them to appoint the task to you.”

His friends chuckled cautiously, and Jaunty glowered, face going ruddy. “This little bit of muslin invited us to her chambers, oaf,” he said, stepping forward. “Bad luck to you. Now you’d best sit before we take offense to the interruption.”

Rogan shifted his gaze to the maid, quietly assessing. It was possible, after all, that he’d read the situation incorrectly. But her eyes looked wide and dark in the pale oval of her face, and she shook her head once, a short, almost imperceptible jerk.

Rogan lowered his shoulders, spreading his legs the slightest degree. “I was already enjoying me beer, lads,” he said, “but a wee tussle would only make the brew that much more gratifying.”

“You want to tussle, do you?” The smallish lad shifted, drawing a knife from his handsome tail
coat just as Jaunty grinned and leveled a pistol.

Rogan glanced down at it, then raised his gaze slowly and gave one shake of his head. “’Tis a bad idea, laddie,” he warned quietly. “’I’ve no wish to get blood on your fancy clothes.”