The Rogue (12 page)

“What? No endless series of defensive maneuvers that I must first master?” Strands of golden hair dangled to her neck and cheeks, a single lock draping nearly to her eyes, which shone now. He already knew she enjoyed challenging herself and that it made her radiant. But each time he witnessed it, he lost a little of his mind again.

“A cane or parasol or similar object is useful for defense. But one does not deploy a hidden sword unless one intends to abruptly attack another,” he said.

“I daresay.” She brushed the lock from before her eyes and it slipped entirely from the binding. She tucked it behind her ear. He stared. He could swallow her whole, then he might feel inside him the simple happiness that she seemed to feel at moments like this, like the humble floorboards deliriously lapping up glorious sunshine.

“Fret not,” he forced across his tongue and lifted his sword. “There will be plenty of grueling repetition to dull the brief pleasure of learning this attack.”

Upon a dramatic sigh, she set her stance. “Real pleasure must always be fleeting, mustn't it?”

“Not if you're doing it right,” he mumbled.

Her eyes snapped to him. She blushed, a swift splash of brilliant pink sweeping up her sublime neck and over her cheeks to the very tip of her nose. Parting her lips, she released a short, audible breath. And the partial arousal that Saint had been battling for two hours became partial no more.

After that, he depended on two and a half decades of familiarity with the sword and the conditioned reflexes of his muscles to teach her what he had promised. For his thinking brain had gone on holiday.

Addled.

Worse than addled.

Considerably worse.

H
E BECAME AN
unforgiving taskmaster. Swiftly Constance came to regret having ever said a word to him since she entered the ballroom, and most grievously the words that had transformed her lesson in wielding a deadly parasol into military training.

He did not spare her. Instead of donning the usual padded coat and commanding her to hit him, he set before her the wooden mannequin and instructed her to advance and retreat endlessly, sheathing the blade each time then snatching it out to attack the wood over and over again. Then he ordered her to back up and he taught her how to lunge. Within an hour she could not feel her hand or wrist. But her thighs and calves provided misery enough for the entire rest of her body anyway.

“My arm is lead.” She dropped back into
en garde
.

“Again, swiftly,” he said.

“Quite literally.” She whipped the blade free of the parasol and thrust it into the mannequin and her hair, damp with sweat, fell again over her eyes. “If I were to make an incision in my skin, beneath it would be a metalsmith's dream.”

“Count aloud upon each strike, to ten, and then begin again. One, two, three—”

“Four.” She thrust. “Five.” Again. “Six—this repetition both exhausts and bores.”

“It is necessary if you wish to master the skill.” He had instructed her to direct her attention forward, toward her invisible assailant. Now she saw her teacher only in the periphery of her sight. He had retreated to a distance and spoke now to her as he had at the castle, dispassionately.

“I have learned the positions,” she said, striking the mannequin yet again. “Why can't I try to hit you now?”

“The movements must come without thought. For this, your muscles must know them as well as your mind. How
long has it been since you had to think of the actions needed to slow your horse from a gallop, or to turn her midstride?”

“A lady never reveals her age.”

“You told me your age within minutes of first speaking to me.”

Pleasure tingled through her screaming muscles. “You should not have remembered it.”

“Social niceties have never been my concern,” he said in an altered tone, lower, not quite even.

“Seven . . . eight . . . I will never master this.”

“You have.”

She halted, dropping her weary arm to her side. “I
have
?”

“You will.” His arms were crossed over his chest, the linen pulling at his wide shoulders, and his mouth was set in a hard line. The green of his eyes was like a forest at night, forbidding.

“If I am doing well, why are you glowering?”

He unfolded his arms and started toward the door. “Continue without me.”

She swiveled about. “Where are you going?”

He reached for the key in the lock. “Elsewhere.”

“You cannot leave yet.” She did not want this to end yet. She did not want it to end
ever
. “My lesson is not over.”

“Practice as long as you wish.”

“If you leave, how will I know that I'm doing it right?”

Silence crossed the ballroom.

He released the handle and strode toward her. He halted so close that she could see the texture of the scar where it diverged from his whiskers to rise toward his cheekbone.

“The instant you saw me approach, you should have raised your weapon again. Harm comes to a victim who fails to react swiftly to a threat.” The rough syllables ignited her exhausted nerves like sparks.

“I did not know that you intended me harm.”

He wrapped his arm about her waist and dragged her to him.

Thigh to thigh, hip to hip, he held her securely as his gaze
swept her face and everything inside her erupted in heat. The perfection of his mouth mesmerized her. Once upon a time she had kissed that.

“The pull of fabric here”—his hand curved with purpose around her shoulder, then smoothed firmly beneath her arm and, with aching slowness, caressed the side of her breast—“and here”—his palm arced along her waist, over her hip to surround her buttock—“is how you will know that you are doing it right. And this”—he tugged her hips tightly to his, and the hard length of his arousal pressed into her—“is how you know that your lesson is over.”

For an instant there was not enough air in the world. Then the panic rose. Swiftly. The crawling dread. His hands on her were strong. Powerful. Locking her in place.

“According to your own accusation,” she forced across her sticky tongue, “shouldn't you have asked permission to hold me like this? Or at least given me warning?” Her voice was thin. “Hypocrite.”

Abruptly he released her.

The ballroom door swung inward. The butler stood in the opening.

“My lady, His Grace requests your presence in the upstairs parlor. The Duke of Loch Irvine has arrived.”

“So early?” Her hand was slippery on the grip of her sword. “I must change my clothes. Tell my father I will come shortly.”

“Very good.” He withdrew.

Saint stood motionless, his eyes steady upon her.

“Are you all right?” he said.

She could say nothing that would not reveal herself entirely. She nodded.

“Go ahead, now. Your duke awaits you.”

Setting down the sword stick, she went.

C
onstance's first thought upon entering the parlor was that Gabriel Hume looked remarkably like he had twenty years ago, when he still had a father and an elder brother and did not expect to inherit the dukedom. He was considerably taller, of course. And the prominent nose and severe jaw that had made him a homely boy now rendered him a shockingly attractive man, albeit in a saturnine fashion, with ebony hair and gray eyes and an air of earthy gravity about him. He wore his black coat loose and his cravat tied in a simple knot. He appeared to be scowling at her. But perhaps that was merely the cast of his brow.

An intelligent brow. Intelligent eyes.

From beside her, Constance heard Eliza's slow intake of breath.
Indeed.
If appearance were all there was to a man's identity, the Duke of Loch Irvine could easily be the leader of a Satanic cult.

Surrounded by his dogs, her father made the introductions.

“Good day, Your Grace.” She curtsied low.

Loch Irvine frowned. But he bowed in a perfunctory manner that made her want to laugh.

“You're as pretty as you were when we were bairns,” he said. “'Tis inconvenient.”

“I am honored that you remember me.” She gestured to the footman for tea.

“The duke has only a short time for this call,” her father said. “Given the purpose of it, I will leave the two of you alone to become reacquainted.” He gestured Eliza toward the door.

“Oh, no, Your Grace, I could not leave my lady in a gentleman's company without chaperonage,” Eliza said, disregarding the last several hours during which she had napped while Constance was alone with her fencing instructor. “I will remain here.”

Her father nodded at Loch Irvine. “Sir, until tomorrow.” Flanked by his dogs, he left the room.

“Tomorrow?” Constance said, moving to the tea table. “Have you and Father plans for an outing?”

His dark brows dipped. “I'm to host a party tomorrow night.”

“Will there be whiskey punch?” Eliza asked.

“My friend is trying to shock you. You are advised to ignore her. Have a seat, do.”

He peered down at her. Then he moved forward and took a seat so close to her that she could see where his valet had nicked his chin while shaving him.

She poured tea. He took it up in his ridiculously large hands but did not drink. His fingers were stained with black that was not ink. It looked like pitch. He said nothing, and after a moment bounced the teacup in his palm until it splashed onto his breeches. He seemed not to notice this, but studied her even more closely.

“Would you care for a stronger beverage?” she asked. “Claret, perhaps? Brandy?”

“No.” He set the cup on the table. “Your father has offered a remarkable price for you. Now I understand why. Your beauty is unmatched.”

This time she did laugh. “I am gratified to learn that the price suits the mare.”

His eyes squinted, revealing shadows beneath them. “But you're long in the tooth to be yet unwed. Tell me now, lass, be you a maiden?”

“Well, it seems I needn't have had concern over my companion's conversation after all.”

At the door, the footman announced, “Lord Michaels.”

The duke rose to his feet like an anchor being hauled from the sea, and now she saw quite clearly his weariness. He was awkward and uncivilized and most certainly exhausted.

“Your Grace!” Lord Michaels said with a broad smile. “What an honor to see you again so soon.”

The duke's dark brow cut down. “'Tis a tragedy, your cousin.”

The baron nodded soberly. “Thank you.”

“Your cousin?” she said.

“Saint's brother died at sea in January.”

“I—”
His brother?
“I am so sorry.”

“If I had known what lay in wait for him on that voyage I would have gone too. Saint knew, I think. Clever fellow. Not quick enough to halt a bullet, though.”

Her hands were numb around the porcelain. Saint had said nothing of it to her. That this omission stunned her only proved that she was still misguided enough to believe she could ever know a man.

“How does business go along these days, sir?” the baron said more lightly now.

“I feel the lack o' your cousin acutely.”

“Were you in business with Mr. Sterling?” she asked.

“Aye. Of a sort.” Abruptly, he stood. “I'll be taking my leave now. Will you come tomorrow eve?”

She rose and went toward the door with him. “Would my answer to your earlier question determine whether or not you welcome me to your party?”

His eyes cut to her face. Then his mouth tightened.

“I am a man of few words, lass, and even fewer bonnie words.”

“I do not require bonnie words. Merely courtesy.”

He stared down at her with a black frown. “If it's courtesy you want, you'd best be seeking a groom elsewhere.”

“I daresay,” she said, then smiled. “But I will no doubt enjoy your party tomorrow anyway.”

Something that might have been humor glimmered for an instant in his eyes. Then it was gone, and he departed.

Lord Michaels sat again and plucked up a cake from the tea tray.

“Peculiar fellow. Though if you're to wed him, I shouldn't say such a thing, should I? Rather, what a capital sort, the duke is!” A grin filled his face.

She returned to him at the tea table. “My lord, you are incorrigible.”

“Been told that before. Lady Fitzwarren said it. She likes to put a man in his place.” He took up another cake. “Are wedding bells in the offing, my lady, or am I precipitate to ask?”

“You are precipitate, and outrageous.”

“I am.” He leaned back and spread his arms along the back of the sofa. “It's why all the ladies like me. No brooding angst here. Why, we've only known each other a fortnight and we are such good friends already that here I am guessing at your wedding plans.” He twisted his lips till his cheeks became hollows. “So . . . are they? The wedding bells?”

She took up her cup. “You may presume outrageous familiarity with me, my lord, but I needn't return the compliment.”

He released a breath that sounded like relief. “Then they're not. At least not yet, I'm guessing. That's fine then. Just fine.” He folded his hands in his lap.

“You seem happy about that.”

“I am not
unhappy
.”

“My lord.” She set down her cup. “Do you know unsavory news of the duke, perhaps, from your cousin's—that is, your deceased cousin's former business dealings with him?”

“Not at all.” His eyes shot wide. “Deuce take it! I forgot
to attend your lesson with Saint this morning. No doubt you called on Mrs. Josephs in my absence.” He craned his neck about. “Mrs. Josephs?”

She awoke with a start and looked about. “Has that big slab of granite gone already?”

“He made a swift assessment, it seems,” Constance said.

“Well, a fellow don't have to look for more than a moment to see something he can like here.” He grinned. “Was just saying that to Saint the other day, in fact, right about the time I was wiping myself up off the floor after sparring.”

The image of Saint sparring with Mr. Viking earlier came to her abruptly and her entire body got hot.

“How did he come to be an expert swordsman?” she said.

“Practice.” He snatched up another cake. “A great lot of practice, since we were little chaps. From the day he found that old sword in the dust alongside that cane field, he never put it down. Mustn't have even been seven at the time.” He chewed thoughtfully. “And we had a splendid teacher.”

“But he is not . . .” What he had done in the ballroom, touching her like that—she had not anticipated it. “He is not an aggressive man.”
Usually.
“I would think a man must want to hurt someone to become so proficient at being able to do so.”

“Oh, he does, believe you me,” Lord Michaels said with utter assurance. “It's just that he directs it all into that sword. No need to bluster about pushing everybody around when you know you can skewer them through quick as lightning, what?” He grinned.

At the door the footman said, “Her ladyship, the Baroness of Easterberry, and Mrs. Westin and Miss Anderson.”

“Good day,” Lady Easterberry said as she swept into the room. Edinburgh society's greatest gossip, her circle of friends was wide and her interest in everybody's business insatiable. “Maude, Patience, I must have a private tête-a-tête with Lady Constance. Do entertain Lord Michaels.”

Miss Anderson, a pretty girl of no more than seventeen, stammered and blushed. But she accepted a seat beside the
baron, and her elder sister sat too. Lady Easterberry linked her arm through Constance's and drew her toward the window.

“My dear,” she said in a hush, “it was not a quarter hour after you and Lord Michaels departed my home yesterday that I heard the most extraordinary news.”

“Do tell, my lady.” Constance ducked her head to come closer to the baroness's furtive whisper. She was a small woman, like her daughters in both height and the glow of her cheeks.

“But first I must ask.” She released Constance's arm. “Was that the Duke of Loch Irvine I saw riding away from this very house just now?”

“It was.”

She clasped her hands together. “Then the rumors are true. He is courting you.”

“How any rumor of that could exist when he has only called upon me for the first time since we were children, I am at a loss to know,” she said with a smile. “But do tell me your news, my lady. You have piqued my curiosity.”

“In fact it is news of the Devil's Duke!” she said in a whisper and leaned closer. “I spoke with Lady Melville only an hour ago and she insists that Loch Irvine is
not
the man we have all been imagining him.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed. She says we should all be pointing the blame for the disappearances of those girls at another man entirely, a
lowborn
man.”

“Lowborn?”

“She has cause to believe that the person who absconded with those poor innocent girls was a
merchant
.” Her mouth twisted up in a grimace.

“How interesting! What sort of merchant?”

“Oh, well, whatever sort is the most depraved, of course.”

“I see. Does Lady Melville have this man's name?” Or any reason to blame him for the missing girls.

“That is the most remarkable thing, for she learned it
from her housekeeper who overheard it at the fish market in Leith. Filthy, smelly place. I have never been there, of course.”

“Naturally. What did her housekeeper overhear?”

“A man whose ship came into port only twice last year, in September and then again in December, happened to be letting Loch Irvine's house here in town on both of those occasions. He departed Edinburgh mere days after that girl's cloak was found by the loch. Do you see? Everybody
assumed
the duke had something to do with it, but in fact another person altogether was living in his house.”

“Good heavens. That does seem like damning evidence.” If one discounted the merchant's captain, crew, and servants who would have been in Edinburgh at the same times, as well as every other sailor and merchant who made port in Leith then, not to mention Lord Michaels and Sir Lorian Hughes who had both been in town on those occasions. “What is the merchant's name?”

“
That
,” she whispered, casting her daughters and the baron a quick glance and lowering her voice further, “is the most distressing piece of it all. For, naturally, I sent my page early this morning to the dockyard to discover it. The merchant in question, Lady Constance, is a man by the name of Sterling. He is our dear, charming Lord Michaels's cousin!”