Lois Greiman (9 page)

“Are they twins?” Megan asked.

He turned in amazement, but his surprise was unjustified. Just because she now spoke like a lady did not mean she would know much about the things the gentry found so fascinating. Horses were just another animal to her and not the showpieces behind which every preening debutante could be seen parading about Fallcome Gardens.

“Horses rarely give birth to twins,” he said.

She didn’t respond, neither moving closer nor backing away.

“Croft was my mount years before the mare was given to me,” he said, and straightened the gelding’s forelock.

Megan shifted her gaze from the horses to him. “Mare?”

He was honestly surprised, and that didn’t often happen, not until he’d met a gamine lass on the streets of Portshaven at least. “The female,” he said.

She nodded. “Then geldings are…” She searched for a moment. “Males.”

For a barmaid and a thief she seemed strangely squeamish discussing simple gender differences. But perhaps it was all a ploy. He would be wise to remember the headaches that had followed the loss of his watch. But it was difficult sometimes, when she looked like she did now. Small and refined and strangely in need of protection. Luckily, he was worn and jaded, and not easily taken in by either size or refinement.

Breaking off a few inches of the cob, he offered it to Croft. “Geldings are male,” he said. “In a manner of speaking.”

Her gaze was on him again. He could feel it in the gathering darkness and turned to look at her.

“But they can’t…” It was his turn to search for words, because, surprisingly, he found he had no wish to offend her. Her eyes looked wide and innocent, her face young and delicate. The bruise on her cheek had faded, but it was still discernible, and the sight of it made him feel strangely…inadequate. “Geldings can’t reproduce,” he said.

“Oh? Oh,” she said, and cleared her throat. “I see.”

He wanted to chuckle, but she looked enchantingly embarrassed, so he fought his glee down to a grin. “It makes them less aggressive. More dependable.”

She was watching the pair with obvious interest. Breaking off another bit of corn, he picked up her hand and placed the cob in her palm.

“Go ahead,” he urged.

She lifted her hand tentatively, and Nicol carefully straightened her fingers away from the treat.

“He’ll try not to bite you,” he assured her, “but you’d be wise to do your part.”

Croft picked the corn off her hand with a prehensile upper lip, then stepped back a pace to munch it. The mare stretched her neck past the gelding’s cocked hip, wanting her share but uncertain of the reception.

“Now Baroness,” Nicol said, reaching a hand toward the mare, “is a bit more skittish.”

“How old is she?”

“Six.”

“Is that young?”

He shrugged and broke off another piece. “Young enough to be wary.” Placing the cob in Megan’s hand again, he smiled into her eyes. “Female enough to be dangerous.”

Croft abandoned the cob on the ground and lipped the offering from the girl’s hand.

“Is that an insult, my lord?” she asked.

They were standing extremely close. He could smell the hint of lavender in her hair. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

Their eyes met, but she pulled her gaze away in a moment. “They want more.”

And so did he. Suddenly, inexplicably, he wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. He raised his hand, but in that moment good sense smote him and he drew away. “I’ll get another ear.”

Steadying himself, he stepped into the barn. What the hell was he thinking? She was a thief and very possibly worse. Didn’t he have the scar on his skull to prove it? Besides, he had made a promise, a vow, and that vow could not easily be broken. Not even if he wished to, which he—

He heard her gasp and turned just as hoofbeats pounded in the paddock. Cursing, he leapt through the gate. Crowded from behind, Croft had lunged forward. His shoulder struck Megan. She fell backward and in that same instant the gray bit Baroness again. She plunged blindly ahead. Nicol leapt forward, throwing himself at the mare, and the chestnut, frightened from all directions, veered wildly to the right, jumping straight at Megan before disappearing around the barn.

Nicol rushed forward and dropped to his knees.

“Lass.” He touched her face. It was cold and pale. “Dammit, lass, wake up,” he said, but she remained as she was, unmoving on the scattered snow.

“I
s she dead?” Brady’s tone sounded wobbly from the doorway.

“Fetch a lantern,” Nicol ordered, his own heart beating hard against his ribs.

The boy’s footfalls rushed away, but in that moment the girl moaned and sat up unsteadily.

Nicol supported her back with his arm and leaned close.

“Lass,” he breathed, relief sluicing through him. “Are you well?”

She said nothing, but glanced dazedly to the left as if uncertain of her whereabouts.

“Can you talk?” he asked.

Raising an arm carefully, she touched her fingers to her skull. “Aye,” she said. “But I don’t think I like ’orses much.”

Flooded with relief, Nicol slipped his arms beneath her back and legs and rose rapidly to his feet.

Brady rushed out of the barn, lanternlight crazily sweep
ing the snow as he ran, but Nicol brushed past him, barely noticing the lad’s pale expression.

“Shut the gate, boy,” he said, and bore her rapidly up the hill to the house.

Her head lay against the hard beat of his heart, but she had wrapped her arms around his neck, and he could see no blood. God’s bones! Please let there be no blood.

“I’m certain I can walk.” Her words startled him, but he hurried on, barely glancing at her face.

“If you’ll put me down—”

“Be still,” he said, and, opening the door with some difficulty, strode through the foyer and up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

The hardwood floor rapped beneath his heels. The feather mattress sighed under her weight, and he drew his arms slowly away, careful not to jar her.

Someone had lit a trio of candles and placed them on the armoire beside the bed. The light flickered across her face. It looked pale, except beneath her left eye, where the skin was still a weak, greenish yellow.

“You’ve soiled your shirt,” she said, her tone implying that nothing could be more shocking, and he glanced down to find a minuscule smudge of dirt on his right sleeve.

What the hell had he become? “Where do you hurt?” he asked.

She was leaning back on her elbows and shifted to sit.

“Lie back,” he ordered. “Did you hit your head?”

“I think…” She looked slightly disoriented and refused to lie flat. Pulling a candle from its holder, Nicol held it close to her face. Her eyes looked immensely wide, but they remained clear and bright. His heartbeat slowed a little. “My head is fine.”

“She didn’t strike you?”

“Maybe…” She tried to move her legs and winced. “She may have stepped on me.”

He swore in silence. “Stay there,” he said, shifting toward the foot of the bed and sitting down on the mattress to push up her skirt.

She immediately yanked her legs away, then gritted her teeth against the pain.

He swore out loud now, wanting to strike something. “I said to lie still.”

“Is she well?”

Nicol turned toward the doorway. Brady stood there, his hat in his hands, his face as pale as the girl’s.

“Tell your mother to draw a bath and bring up a hot brandy,” Nicol ordered and turned back toward Megan.

“I need you to relax,” he said. “I’m going to have a look at your legs.”

“Me legs are fine.”

“Hopefully better than your speech.” Worry tended to make him mean-spirited. “We made a bargain, lass,” he said. “I expect you to remain alive long enough—”

Megan shifted her gaze to the door, and Nicol realized the reason a moment too late. Brady remained there, his mouth pursed tight and his hat wrung hard in his grubby hands.

“Are you well, my lady?” he asked.

“I am whole. But you are kind to ask,” she said.

A look of relief crossed the boy’s face, and in that moment Nicol realized this lad would eventually become the kind of man little Megs would marry. An honest lad with a strong back and heart-bending adoration. Not a hardened cad who would use her for his own ends and complain when she was injured by his horse.

“If you’re sure, my lady.”

“I am quite sure,” she said, and the boy nodded and hurried downstairs.

Nicol returned his attention to the girl. A raw medley of unwanted emotions churned in his belly. “Do you affect all males that way?”

For a moment, the girl’s lively face showed wide-eyed surprise. It did nothing to dispense the bile in his gut. But in a moment her eyes narrowed, evidencing anger and easing his mood. He had little use for innocence.

“Are you accusing me of something, my lord?”

He refrained from grinding his teeth at the nomenclature. “Of course not, my lady,” he said, and put his fingers to the laces of her right shoe. “I am merely surprised how fast you have learned the ways of the upper class.” Catching her shoe behind the heel, he glanced at her face.

“Why thank you, my—” She cut her words off with a hiss of pain when he eased off her shoe.

“Where does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t,” she said, speaking between her teeth. “You needn’t look so hopeful.”

“Dammit girl—”

“My poor dear.” Widow Barnes rushed into the room, her cheeks flushed and her brow furrowed. “Whatever happened?”

“’Twas nothing,” Megan said, and laughed, but the sound was forced. Damnation. The pain must be great indeed if it could impede her acting ability. “The horses bolted and frightened me. I fell. Nothing more.”

“Oh! Thank the heavens.” The widow sighed. “By the look on Brady’s face I feared you were about to leave us. But you seem bright enough.” She smiled. “Still, it’s a shame, it is.” She tutted, standing arms akimbo. “But nothing that a warm bath and a hot toddy won’t set right aye?” Scurrying to the bathing room door, she set her hand to the latch. “Now that’s strange.”

Nicol watched the girl’s face. Color had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes looked alert.

“The door’s locked,” said the widow.

Nicol turned, stamping down his impatience. “My wife is a modest woman,” he said. “I fear she locked it from the other side.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Barnes said, and, chuckling at the idea, hustled from the room. In a moment they heard water running.

“You lie well,” Megan said.

Nicol canted his head as if accepting praise. “I can only hope to match your expertise, but I’ve had many years at court to practice. What of you?” Perhaps he was trying to distract her as he untied the other shoe, or perhaps she just set him off. He wouldn’t have to lock the damn door if he could trust her.

She made no reaction as he eased off her left shoe and dropped it to the floor. Her stocking followed.

“Me mum said to bring up something ’ot to drink.” Deirdre was in the doorway, bobbing a curtsy, careful not to spill the mugs she held.

“You may put them on the table,” Nicol ordered.

She scurried forward to do his bidding and bob another curtsy. “Are you well, my lady?”

“I am fine. No need to worry.”

“Is there anything else I might fetch you? Mum stewed pears for dessert.”

Megan’s eyes brightened.

“Bring up a bowl when you have a minute, will you, lass?” Nicol requested.

“Certainly, my lord. And you will ring if you need anything else?”

He assured her he would, and she disappeared as quickly as she had come.

The room fell into silence.

“You have a gift for winning allies,” he said, and eased her skirt up her legs.

She scowled at his progress, and he did the same, though in truth there was little with which to find fault. Her ankles were delicate, her calves lean and shapely. Malcontent stirred low in his gut.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“The servants,” he said, prying his attention from her calves to her evergreen eyes. “You won them over quickly.

She caught his gaze. “Perhaps it is because I do not glare at them.”

“I don’t glare,” he said, and did nothing to soften his expression as he shifted her gown above the sharpness of her knees. His hand skimmed upward, and he shifted, trying to ease his hardening discomfort and concentrate on her injuries.

The hoofprint on her inner thigh was not perfectly defined, but it was nearly so. The flesh was already swollen in the approximate shape of a horseshoe and turning the color of a ripening eggplant. He touched the edge of it, and she flinched, causing him to swear out loud.

“So gentlemen are allowed to curse but ladies are not?” she asked, her voice prim.

He shifted his gaze to her face. It had gone pale again.

“Gentlemen are allowed to do anything they wish,” he said. “So long as they have adequate funds.”

“How fortunate for you.”

She said the words softly, like a lady, and he settled back, watching her face and trying to relax.

“How much does it hurt?”

“More than a hangnail. Less than decapitation.”

“A broad range of knowledge for one who still has her head,” he said, looking at the wound again. “I’m going to have to check if it’s broken.”

“It’s—” she began, then gasped as he pressed gently against her leg.

He squeezed her thigh, and she squeaked in pain.

“My lady!” The Barnes lad was back in the doorway like the damned plague, his knuckles white on the bowl of stewed pears as he rushed forward. Nicol swished Megan’s skirts back down to her toes, rapidly hiding the slim elegance of her legs. “You are in pain?” he asked, but the girl gave him a tremulous smile.

“It is not so terrible, Brady, really. I am just being silly.”

“No, my lady,” murmured the child, his expression adoring. “It is not true.” He was at a loss for words as he bore the bowl to her bed, then, “I’ve brought your dessert.”

Megan drew the steam happily into her lungs. “That will make everything better, I assure you.”

“I would do more to help you, my lady,” he said solemnly.

“That will be all, lad,” Nicol said.

“But my lady—”

“Will surely summon you if she needs more pears.”

“Very well then,” Brady said, and left, though his steps seemed a bit slow to the viscount.

Megan scowled. “You were rude,” she accused.

He looked at her askance, lifting her skirts again. “I didn’t know you wanted him staring at your legs.”

Reaching down, she snatched the fabric from his hand and spread it back down to her feet. “I don’t,” she said. “No more than I want you staring at them.”

So that was it then. Despite his grand title and undeniable wealth, she had no more interest in him than she did a ragged farm boy. He would have laughed if he didn’t feel like grinding his teeth. Instead, he leaned back and studied her face. She was, after all, nothing more than a political tool. The last thing he needed was for her to become attracted to him. Or vice versa, he thought perversely. “Perhaps I should summon a doctor,” he said.

She relaxed a little. “It’s not broken,” she assured him, and took a tiny spoonful of her dessert. Nicol watched her tongue
peek out, watched her lips part. “I’m certain I could walk on it.”

“I’ve seen men walk with leg wounds,” he said, tearing his gaze from her mouth. “It doesn’t mean they’re unbroken.”

He considered examining her other leg, but the sight of her bare toes dissuaded him, for even that innocent bit of bare flesh made him feel oddly tight.

“When?”

He lifted his attention reluctantly to her face again. Her tongue swiped her plump lips, lapping up a bit of sauce. “What’s that?”

“What men walked with leg wounds?”

“Soldiers,” he said, though he was loath to. Hardly had he spent six months searching for her so that he could share his life story. “They’ll even run if the motivation is great enough. Broken or unbroken.”

“When were you in contact with soldiers?” she asked, and closed her eyes ecstatically as she finished off the dessert with a delicate lap at the underside of the spoon.

“When I was in the army,” he said, and realized he had clenched his hands into fists.

“But you’re a viscount.” She was scowling again. He failed to reprimand her. Funny how a few broken bones made a bloke ease up on a woman. Or perhaps it was the way her lashes brushed the lovely skin of her cheeks, or how he could imagine the feel of her tongue against his—

“How much?” he asked, squeezing her left leg through her skirts and effectively stopping her next words. “Does it hurt?”

Her scowl deepened slightly, but it did nothing to decrease her beauty. “It’s hardly unbearable.”

He eased his hand up her left leg, over her knee, and onto her thigh. She didn’t flinch. He moved slower when he touched the other, probing the outside gently as he worked his way up from the knee. She winced but remained still.

“Perhaps it is just bruised,” he said, resting his hand on the
outside of her thigh. It was safe, of course, since there were several layers of fabric between them. Yet, even so, it seemed that he could feel the heat of her flesh against his fingers.

“You needn’t worry,” she said. “I shall be well long before it is time for the test.”

Something tangled in his stomach. “Through no fault of mine.”

She watched him for a moment. “Aye,” she agreed. “You should have known the foolish steed would bite its mate, causing it to careen into me at that exact moment.”

“Yes,” he said. “I should have.”

“And that I would fail to get out of the way,” she added.

He watched her face. “Are you absolving me of blame, lass?”

“Hardly,” she said, and settled back onto her elbows again.

He could not help but rise to plump the pillows behind her back. Neither did he try to resist resettling her so that she rested comfortably against the oaken headboard.

“It is your fault entirely that I am here. Though I doubt…” She dropped her gaze to her hands. “It may be that I would never have tasted sugared almonds had it not been for you.” She still wore the gloves he had given her and fiddled with them now.

Reaching out, Nicol took her left hand in his and eased off the soft leather one finger at a time.

“And reading…” She raised her gaze to his as he removed the second glove. “I’ve oft wondered about books.”

Reaching behind him, he retrieved a mug of hot brandy. “Have you?” he asked and handed her the cup.

She shrugged as she took it, but only wrapped her hand around it, seeming to take comfort in its warmth as she gazed into its depths. “It’s something of a miracle. They seem sort of mysterious you know. When you can’t read ’em.”