Some Like It Wild (6 page)

T
he future Duke of Warrick leaned back in his chair, eyeing the straight razor in Pamela’s hand with palpable suspicion. “If you think I’m goin’ to let you within an inch of my throat with that blade, lass, you’d best think again.” He reached up to massage the faded scars that marred the corded muscles of his throat. “I’d as soon trust my neck to the hangman.”

“If you don’t allow me to clean you up for our journey, you may have to,” Pamela replied. “It will be much easier to smuggle you out of Scotland if you look more like a duke’s son than an unmannered ruffian.”

He glared at her through the tangled strands of hair that fell over his brow, looking more like a man with murder on his mind.

Morning sunlight poured through a jagged gash
in the stone in the tower chamber where she and Sophie had passed the night, gilding the dust motes that danced through the air. Unfortunately, the sun’s golden rays also highlighted the deadly gleam of the blade in her hand. She supposed she might have inspired more confidence in Connor if that hand had been completely steady. But his black scowl could have unsettled even the most skillful of barbers.

“Why don’t you just tell this new family of mine that I was raised by wolves?” Connor suggested, running one hand over the rugged curve of his jaw. Although less than a day had passed since Pamela had stroked that jaw herself, his crop of stubble was already blossoming into full-blown whiskers. “Then they’ll expect me to be nice and hairy.”

“Based on your fine temperament, I may tell them you were raised by badgers. Rabid badgers,” she added sweetly as his scowl deepened.

She dipped a shaving brush into the cracked ceramic mug sitting on the crude wooden table and whipped the soap within into a milky froth. Perhaps his face would be less forbidding when covered with a mask of shaving soap.

Swallowing her trepidation, she approached him with the cup and brush in one hand and the razor in the other. Unfortunately, she was so focused on keeping her hands steady that she failed to mind her feet. The toe of her boot clipped the edge of a broken flagstone and she went stumbling toward him, helpless to slow her momentum.

One minute she was on her feet; the next she was
in his lap. His hand shot out to close around hers, stilling the razor’s blade a mere hairsbreadth from his Adam’s apple.

Eyeing her warily, he gingerly extracted the razor from her quaking hand. “I do believe I’ll shave myself, thank you very much. I’d hate to be decapitated before breakfast. It might spoil my appetite.”

His lap was entirely too warm. Entirely too inviting. Pamela was beset by an absurd desire to press herself against his chest like a baby cat eager for the stroke of her master’s hand. Judging by the possessive way his arm had curled around her hip, she was afraid he would be only too willing to oblige her. He had a way of looking at her with those piercing gray eyes of his that made her feel as if she was the lead actress on the stage of her life. After surrendering that role to both Sophie and her mother for as long as she could remember, it was both a seductive and dangerous sensation.

Scrambling awkwardly to her feet, she peered into the cup. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. I didn’t spill a single drop of the shaving soap.”

He confiscated the cup from her hand before scooting his chair around to face the jagged spar of mirror propped against the wall. “I don’t know why the Brits bother sendin’ the redcoats to drive us off our lands.” He rested the cup between his thighs and brushed shaving soap along the curve of his jaw. “If they armed you with a razor and your sister with a parasol, they could conquer us without firin’ a single shot.”

Pamela leaned against the edge of the table, observing his reflection in the mirror. “Why do you hate the English so much?”

“Does a Scotsman need a reason to hate the English?”

“No. But I believe you do.”

He flicked her the briefest of glances, his eyes flashing silver in the sunlight. The razor looked far more menacing in his grip than it had in hers. Dismissing her question, he frowned at his reflection. “What if I don’t look anythin’ like this Warrick fellow?”

“That’s the beauty of my plan. No one knows what he would look like. He was only a few weeks old when he disappeared. He was as bald as an onion and his eyes were still that muddy blue all babies are born with. Besides, it’s all in the art of illusion. If growing up in the theater taught me anything, it was that people will see what they want to believe and believe what they want to see.”

Connor drew the blade down his cheek, clearing away a patch of bristling whiskers to reveal a swath of smooth, sun-bronzed skin. “So what will my new name be?”

Pamela straightened. “You shall henceforth be known as Percy Ambrose Bartholomew Reginald Cecil Smythe, Marquess of Eddywhistle and future Duke of Warrick.”

Pamela had expected him to be intimidated by such an impressive list of monikers and titles. She did not expect his striking face to curdle in an expression of horror. “
Percy?
The duke named the
poor lad
Percy
? Why, you were right about the rotter! His wife should have shot him. If anyone calls me Percy, I’ll shoot them myself!”

She sighed. “I don’t think that would make for a very positive first impression. Christian names are very rarely used among the nobility. Your peers will probably call you Warrick and your inferiors will simply address you as ‘my lord.’”

“And which will you be?” he asked.

“As always, your superior,” she replied without missing a beat.

He snorted. “Then perhaps you can tell me where I’ve been all these years.”

“As I see it,” Pamela said, pushing off from the table to pace behind him, “when the duchess was stricken with the fever and realized she was going to die before she could reach the shelter of her grandfather’s cottage, she had no choice but to place you in a basket and leave you on the doorstep of a kindly old merchant and his barren wife.”

Connor’s voice rippled with mild sarcasm. “And I suppose I’ve been tendin’ the store ever since then.”

Pamela swung around to eye his brawny shoulders. She’d never encountered a man who looked less like a shopkeeper and more like one of the paid brawlers at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing club.

“I think not,” she said, conceding his point. “After the kindly couple died, you struck out on your own, determined to make your fortune in
this world. When I found you, you were…” She tapped her pursed lips with one forefinger, searching her mind for a suitable occupation.

“Robbin’ hapless travelers of their underwear?” he offered.

She glared down her nose at him. “Oh yes, why don’t we just come right out and tell the duke you’ve been masquerading as Connor Kincaid—robber prince of the night, terror of the highways and scourge of the Highlands?”

“You left off despoiler of innocent females.”

Pamela might have been able to tell if he was joking had he not chosen that moment to scrape away the whiskers beneath his nose, revealing a delectably kissable cleft.

For a breathless moment, she could only stare.

“If we make them believe I truly am the duke’s heir, you do realize that the same villain who killed your mother may very well try to kill me.”

Pamela clapped her hands together and beamed at him. “Yes, I know! Isn’t it marvelous?”

His reflection cocked one eyebrow at her.

She hastened to explain. “What better way to expose the wretch than to catch him in the act?”

“The act of slippin’ hemlock into my brandy or slittin’ my throat while I’m sleepin’?”

She waved away the heavy note of mockery that laced his tone. “Don’t be ridiculous. If this murderer doesn’t want to get caught, he’ll have to stage a convincing accident. And since we’ll be expecting him to do just that, we’ll have ample time to see that he’s brought to justice. If you see anything
suspicious at all, just send word to me and I’ll fetch the authorities.”

“Before
he kills me.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” she agreed cheerfully. “After all, he won’t be expecting you to be as dangerous as he is.
More
dangerous,” she quickly amended as Connor narrowed his eyes at her in the mirror. “And while we’re waiting for him to show his hand, you can learn to pass yourself off as a gentleman in society. The duke will no doubt want to complete your education. Why, just think of it—you can even learn to read!”

Connor gave her another of those enigmatic glances in the glass. “Indeed.”

“He’ll probably hire a fencing instructor and a dancing master.”

Connor shot to his feet. “I don’t mind the swordplay, lass, but you didn’t say anythin’ about prancin’ around a ballroom in ruffles and tights.”

Reaching up to clap her hands on his shoulders, Pamela gently urged him back down in the chair. “Have no fear, sir. Tights went out of fashion several seasons ago.”

Realizing that she had allowed her hands to linger against the muscled breadth of his shoulders, Pamela snatched them back and tucked them behind her. “Even though you’ve been living among the Scots for most of your life, the duke will be just arrogant enough to believe you should still be showing signs of your noble English blood. You should probably go ahead and make an effort to stop dropping your g’s.”

“I don’t know what in the bluidy hell ye’re talkin’ aboot, lass.”

Pamela had already opened her mouth to correct him when another deft stroke of the razor revealed his brazen dimple. Tilting her nose in the air, she said primly, “Regardless of how coarse his tongue might be while in the company of other men, a gentleman would never swear in the presence of a lady.”

“Is that so?” As he captured her gaze and held it, Connor’s voice both softened and deepened, its provocative timbre raising gooseflesh on her arms. “Then I’ll have to trust you to help me mind my tongue.”

Warmth purled low in her belly as she remembered how that tongue had traced the yielding softness of her lips before sliding between them to have its way with her. She tore her gaze away from his before she could blurt out something incredibly foolish like, “It would be my pleasure.”

She injected a deliberate note of briskness into her voice. “I suppose I should warn you that you’ll still be a wanted man in London. It won’t be the hangman you’ll have to beware but a horde of ambitious young women eager to become your duchess. I’m sure their attentions will become even more relentless when they discover that you’re young, virile and”—she shrugged as if his blatant physical charms were of absolutely no interest to her—“passably good-looking.”

“How kind of you to notice,” he said dryly. “So are these the willin’—I mean the
willing
women
you promised me?” he asked, correcting himself before she could.

“I’m afraid not.” Pamela shook her head sadly. “If you find yourself in a compromising position with an unmarried young lady, you may end up being forced to wed her against your will.”

“So I’m only allowed to find myself in compromising positions with married young ladies?”

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “That won’t do at all. A jealous husband might challenge you to a duel. You could cause a terrible scandal that could expose us both.”

He sighed heavily. “So despite your promises I should resign myself to a life of celibacy more suited to a monk than a duke.”

“Oh, there are always women of questionable moral character who will welcome a gentleman’s attentions—lusty widows, courtesans”—she sniffed as if the smell of some overbearing perfume lingered in the air—“Frenchwomen.”

“Ah yes, Frenchwomen.” A nostalgic smile curved Connor’s lips. “I robbed a coach once with a buxom young French maidservant on board. When I demanded her mistress’s jewels, she threw herself in front of my pistol and begged me to take her instead.” His smile deepened a devilish degree. “Begged quite insistently as I recall.”

Pamela’s own lips felt oddly stiff, as if they belonged to someone else. “I’m sure you were only too happy to accommodate her.”

“I’m afraid I had to disappoint the lass.” His smile vanished as the blade glided over his jaw,
revealing its hard, unyielding planes. “Pleasure is fleeting. Gold is the only thing that lasts forever.”

“What about love?” she asked softly, regretting the sentimental words the instant they passed their lips. “Isn’t it supposed to be eternal?”

“Love’s a luxury reserved for fools, poets and the rich. A poor man would rather have a bowl of warm stew in his belly and a pair of new soles for his boots.”

“What of your parents? Did they not love each other?”

Steel flashed in the gaze he gave her, reminding her how it had felt to face down this man over the barrel of a gun. “They did. But it wasn’t eternal. It only lasted until the redcoats murdered them.”

Pamela was almost relieved when she heard the cheerful patter of her sister’s boots on the stairs. “I’ve found the costume, Pamela!” Sophie sang out, her buttery curls bouncing as she came waltzing into the chamber. “I couldn’t find the garters for the stockings so I’m loaning him a pair of mine.”

It appeared that Brodie had already fallen beneath her sister’s spell. The burly smuggler was trotting at Sophie’s heels like a well-trained lapdog, his arms piled high with garments.

“Costume?” Connor repeated ominously, rising and turning to toss the razor and the cup on the table.

Nodding toward his all-black ensemble, Pamela said, “I had Sophie fetch you some more appropriate traveling garments from my trunk. And not a moment too soon, it appears,” she added as he
used the tail of his shirt to wipe the remainder of the shaving soap from his cheeks and chin. His unruly hair came tumbling around his face before she could gauge the full effect of his shave. “We had no idea what sort of financial straits we might find the duke’s heir in, so I took the liberty of borrowing this costume from the theater where Sophie gave her last performance.” Her
very
last performance, Pamela thought grimly.

Sophie whisked a shirt from the top of the pile of garments in Brodie’s arms and held it up in front of her. “Petruchio wore this one in
The Taming of the Shrew
. Isn’t it dashing?”