What A Scoundrel Wants (17 page)

Will grinned. “Yes.”

“Difficult man.”

The talented minx nearly disguised her fear behind anger and annoyance. He congratulated himself on being able to hear the truth. She was finally coming clear to him.

“I would ask how you freed yourself, but I care not,” she said harshly. “You’ve arrived too late to spoil this.”

“I doubt that,” he said. “Are we ready to speak with Finch?”

She stilled, a cornered fawn. “Dryden already went.”

Will tipped his head closer to hers. With an unsteady finger, he lifted the corner of her veil to reveal a pale sliver of her neck and jaw. As it had against the confines of the mask, his breath radiated off her body, warming his mouth and raising goose bumps on her skin. “Ah yes, Dryden. I saw him. The two of you seemed quite close over here.”

“You watched us? Are you jealous or pretending in order to raise my ire?”

“I know not. Should I be jealous, Meg? Do you intend to turn your wiles on him?” He pushed the veil up and back, needing to read her expression. “You’ve proven capable of as much. You decided on his aid rather than mine. Will he take my place in every respect?”

“You have no place to take.” She pushed him away, a hand flat to his face. He pursed his lips and kissed her palm. She wrenched away, tension making fired glass of her limbs—hard, luminous, and ready to shatter. “Leave now before someone recognizes you.”

“They cannot.”

He pulled her stone-bitten fingers to the jester’s cap, amused by her frown. She explored its comical shape and ornamental ribbons, trailing lower to discover his oversized tunic. “What are you wearing?”

His smile widened. “For you, I play the fool.”

“Granted.”

“Your plan is proceeding masterfully, then?”

“You know nothing.”

“Either your lies are slipping, or I am better equipped to read them.”

“Nonsense.”

“Ah, but let’s see what we can see.” He angled his head, peeking through the wedge of light between the overlapping tapestries. The fools continued their merry exploits, engaging half of the feasting guests in jests growing ever more vulgar. “Your man, Dryden—indeed, he’s speaking with the sheriff. At least he honed nerve enough for that. Whatever did you say or do to bolster his confidence?”

Her fingers found the stonework again, gouging weak places. Crumbles of mortar pooled on either side of her boots. “He’s being chivalrous, honoring a promise.”

“You once admired Hugo’s disregard for promises. I imagine you value chivalry now because it stands to benefit you.”

She pinched her eyes shut. “And you benefit me none at all.”

A flutter of unexpected movement caught his attention: Finch’s guards mustered their armaments. As fastidiously groomed as ever, Carlisle pointed and shouted directions to the drones. An icy call of dread sounded in his veins. He checked the daggers strapped to his hips, the only weapons he had worn when he crawled through the castle tunnels.

“We have to leave. Now.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“They arrested Dryden.”

She gasped, her eyes flaring wide. “Will, do not lie. Not about this.”

“I am in earnest.” He claimed her hands, pulling her along the makeshift corridor between the wall and the floor-length hanging tapestries. “Listen, Meg. The musicians have stopped. Listen to the room, how it has changed. They are taking him away.”

Her expression became that of a sculpted idol as she concentrated, distant and elemental. Life returned to her features when she accepted the truth, life animated by equal parts fear and cold reason.

“What manner of villain is he? No one will have recourse, not if they can commit such an act in front of these witnesses.” She pulled the satchel she wore around her body, resting a possessive palm on its fat contents. After a pair of flailing attempts, she found him with her other hand. She squeezed the muscles of his forearm, likely the nearest she would offer by way of a request for guidance.

“No time to worry about it now. We must go.”

“Without Ada?”

“Have you another idea?”

He coveted a reply, a snappish suggestion of cunning and dubious morality—anything to deliver them to safety. She licked her lips, but plans and schemes sat silent in her mouth.

Carlisle and the shouts of mustering guards grew ever louder.

Will swore. “Too late.”

She could not concentrate. The tedious word swallowed sound and every other thought.

Like Whitstowe before him, Dryden had been her promise. As a nobleman trained for combat, he should have been the man to release Ada. He wore influence like his family crest, a rare birthright that should have transformed hope into reality, despite his hesitant character.

Yet like his father and like Meg’s plan, Dryden failed because of faith in his own authority. The Sheriff of Nottingham, that notorious title, exploited that faith and authority both. When he dragged her liege to the dungeons, Finch set fire to justice and rendered even the nobility vulnerable to his ploys.

Her champion stolen, she had no choice but to flee with the man whose greed imprisoned Ada in the first place—the man who had yet to fail her.

“Stairs! Down!”

She heeded his warning. Balancing with the aid of Will’s hand, she severed thought from action. Instinct assumed command. She focused only on his voice, the information he hissed over his shoulder.

“Last one.”

She stumbled only briefly, regaining her footing by the second step onto flat stones.

“Left. And left again.” Instructions spun behind her eyes like a compass needle in search of north. “Duck. Careful.”

On the other side of an archway, using a hand to outline its low camber, she struggled for a reprieve from the heady terror of flight.

Will permitted none. “This way.”

Dizzy, disoriented, she gave herself into his care. He could drag her into a flaming pit or throw her to the sheriff’s assembled hoards—none of it mattered. Faith and pride splintered, winnowing away like so much useless chaff. Her sense of direction fluttered in vast spirals, spinning and spinning until only Will remained.

“You there,” shouted a man with a deep voice. “Stop!”

“Meg, down!”

She dropped. The skin at her knees split, assaulted by the twin demands of bone and unyielding flagstones. A sword’s deadly steel clanged when it slammed into a wall. Shards of rock rained over her veil. Hearing only the grunts of a man-on-man brawl, she could not recall if Will wore a weapon. Had he relinquished his arms in favor of a jester’s disguise?

She pressed against the sanctuary of the nearest wall and fished in her satchel. Upon locating a particular glass vial, she held it aloft. “Will!”

He snatched the vial without question. The glass shattered and the other man screamed, his tinkling mail rattling to the ground. The slither of steal pulled from a scabbard, a sound too succinct to be that of a sword, etched the air. Will pounced. The other man’s life ended with a single nauseating gurgle.

Meg tried to stand, but trembling legs refused to sustain her weight. “A dagger?”

“Two daggers, in truth.” He sheathed the weapons, pushing air in and out of his nose. “Lye?”

“Fermented urine, in truth.”

“Do you create anything that does not stink?”

“Counterfeit jewels.”

“Funny girl.” He pulled her up, her knees throbbing. “Turn to your right.”

An endless labyrinth of turns later, he looped her waist and pulled her flush against the hard length of his armored torso. Bodies pressed into a tiny wedge of space, their limbs negotiated the mysterious confines. The rumbling clatter of metal and male shouts charged past.

Will panted, heating her temple. “Quiet now,” he whispered.

For a bare moment, Meg relinquished her fear. She sagged against him and sapped comfort from his arms. He tightened his hold, an enticing promise. He would defend her. No matter his lies or misdeeds, no matter the lengthy list of her own faults, he would defend her.

“I wish I could determine how much of this is to your blame,” she said.

He pushed her none to gently against the wall, both hands on her hips. “Before you decide, let me describe my grand scheme to have Dryden arrested, and well before the end of his usefulness.”

“Stop your foolery.”

“I still wear my new costume.”

“Will removing it put an end to your ill-timed wit?”

His lips were close, his words like a laughing sigh. “You and your obsession with removing my clothes.”

Inches separated their faces, but the wide gulf furrowed by her pride would not allow her to taste him. Her hands hovered uselessly between their bodies. She wanted to hit him, push him away, deny his existence. Yet the possibility of touching him again became a temptation worthy of a bargain with the Devil.

“Where are we?”

“An alcove,” he said. “A nice one, actually. Very secluded.”

“You’ve already compromised my faith in your ability to find suitable cover.”

“You would fault a man who was suffering a grievous injury at the time? Most unkind, Meg. But I assure you, this alcove is a wiser choice than that poor bit of brush.”

“Good.”

“How goes your plan now?”

His question provided a use for her hands: She pressed trembling fingers against her eyes, scrubbing her face as if the hard strokes would erase days, weeks of missteps. Grief welled behind her breastbone. Failure and hopelessness made her black world even more ominous.

“You truly abhor being wrong,” he said. “Even now, you refuse to confess it.”

“I will not.”

“How I would enjoy if you made a habit of simply admitting to a thing rather than arguing.” He placed a kiss to her forehead, but the hard hands at her hips, his insistent grip, laid bare the greedy tension beneath his teasing. “We would save many a wasted day filled with uncivil words.”

She swallowed. Her voice, when it came, sounded deeper, more exotic. “I confess it. I mislike being wrong.”

“Much better.”

And he kissed her.

Masculine heat invaded her body. Taste and touch united in a quick surge. Her senses staggered beneath the swirling rush, rediscovering the textures of his tongue, his lips. Danger, thought, protest—all receded. Lethargic pleasure melted her bones. She leaned into him, reveling in the strength of his body. The banded mail he wore frustrated her, a barrier between her hands and the firm ridges of muscle along his back. Instead she found his face, cupping the line of his jaw, the strong column of his neck.

As Meg threaded greedy fingers into the straight, shaggy length of his hair, he raised his lips. “I have much to make up to you,” he said gently. “Let me keep you safe.”

“How can I know you speak the truth?”

“Because I have a confession too. I arrived with the intention of relinquishing you to Finch, yet here we are.”

Will grinned, wanting to kiss her again, but she mashed pliant lips into a grim line. She went rigid in his arms. “Explain,” she said.

Forcing calm, he related Hendon’s bargain and his threats toward Marian. Days had passed, no more, but the strange confusion of that waning evening felt like an ancient memory. Much had changed, perhaps Will most of anything.

“I stood within thirty feet of the sheriff, there with you in the banquet hall, but I said nothing. I did nothing to betray you.”

“Another attack of conscience? Or obligation?”

“There’s more between us than obligation.”

“Liars say pretty things too, Will.” Her face remained stony and ghostly pale, lined by deep shadows. “You knew your bargain would not be upheld, not after Dryden’s arrest.”

“For grace, Meg! You looked like a lost child standing there.”

“For pity’s sake, then.”

He twined fingers into her loosened plait. “Did you feel any pity in that kiss?”

“Every man has a price.”

“That may be true, but I can only speak for myself. My price is you. I’ve surrendered friends and fortune. I’ve imperiled my family and my own life, but here we are. I’m not going to let you go now, not after trading away so much.” He watched for any signal from her smooth gambler’s expression. “Meg?”

“I believe you.”

His heart thumped twice. “What?”

“Hugo came to the cabin. He said as much about your intentions, about Marian.”

“When?”

“When you traveled to Keyworth for the sugar. Whatever his band of spies, he’d heard rumor of your intent.”

A vice pinched beneath his ribs. “Did he do anything to you?”

“With regard to Hugo, I could become used to your gallant nature.”

“Meg—”

“Enough, please. He did nothing.” Her teasing smile wobbled and faded. “It was never about the emeralds, was it?”

“No.”

“When you found me in the hall, I waited. You would either reveal me to the sheriff or…or not.”

The vise eased, eased again. Wonder momentarily replaced fear. “You truly believe me. This is no performance.”

“Christ save me, I do. Hugo would have sold me to the first peddler he met, but you…”

Before Will found words to object, had he wanted to, she grabbed fistfuls of hair and dragged his mouth to hers. Swift, hard, demanding. Her lips demanded of him a silent, binding contract. They would survive their tangled circumstances and live to explore each other anew, or he would betray her—at which point her promise would be one of vengeance. Either way, her gambler’s kiss wagered everything on him.

“Meg, we should leave.” His increased respiration had nothing to do with their flight from the hall.

She replaced a flicker of confusion with a resolve he had come to dread. “My intention remains unchanged. I came to free Ada.”

“Refusing to give you to Finch and rescuing his prisoner are separate matters.”

“We’re here,” she said. “I brought weapons to compliment yours. Why should we abandon her now?”

He labored to leash his temper and keep his words to a whisper. “She is not my sister, and she is a foul sister to you.”

“I cannot leave her, and you put her in this place.”

“By my thrift, do you have a cursed argument for everything? Is this how you wore Ada down, pressing her to do your bidding? I almost sympathize with the wench.”

He expected retaliation. Maybe he expected violence or stinging wasps’ words. But she gave him tears. Each tear, like a drop of acid, conspired to melt away good sense.

“Will, I cannot leave her, not with this great hollow between us. She is my sister, and I need to make amends.”

“What you ask is impossible. You said yourself, if they can detain a nobleman before a hundred witnesses—”

“Then no one stands to help us.” She dried the saltwater as soon as new tears streaked her cheeks. “This is
my
price. Please.”

A large and sensible portion of him objected. And loudly. He still clung to a lovely picture, the dream that had landed him in such woe. Women. Song. A life of comfort, early and late. But Meg would haunt him. If he fled, his misdeed against her sister would only grow and fester, poisoning his peace. The promise of his life stretching ahead, having abandoned Meg and her tearful request, was a bleak one.

And she had said
please
.

“Well good, Meg. You win.”