A sound rose in her throat. Her mouth opened wider. Her hands stole around his shoulders, pulling her body tight against his hard chest— He let her go.
Dazed, disoriented, lips sensitive and lush feeling, she stared at him. He stepped away from her, clasping his hands behind his back. His face was still. His dark eyes shuttered. Then he smiled and bent forward in a deep, courtly bow.
“I am well rewarded,” he said. “I heard the others coming back. You’d best go. Now. Meet them outside the entrance. I’ll follow later.”
“But—” she stared at him without understanding, naive and stupid and ill, for he’d awoken with his kiss such feeling as she’d never experienced for Phillip Watt. Never.
Mrs. Fraiser had been wrong. Ash Merrick wasn’t dangerous. He was courtly and genteel and his kisses were soft and stirring. Her feelings, they were dangerous.
“Go.” He was still smiling. “You see, you’ve won.”
She turned away, gathering her skirts and bolting into the too bright light. And so she did not see Ash Merrick’s gaze follow her, or see him take his hands from behind his back and turn them over. And she did not see the bloody hands that had been torn strangling the thorny vines behind her so he could keep from crushing her to him.
Chapter Nine
During the next week, Rhiannon saw little of Ash Merrick. Edith Fraiser needed her services in a myriad number of ways. Her foster mother sent her on lengthy errands to neighboring estates, occupied her mornings with overseeing the processing of spring honey, and decided now, of all times, to teach her the secrets of brewing a potent clover wine.
When Rhiannon did see Ash Merrick, perpetually on his way out to join the young men—of which Phillip was one—at some masculine entertainment, he was invariably polite and courteous but nothing more. He evinced none of the stunned bewilderment she herself so acutely felt, none of the sensual attraction she fought so hard to hide.
Their kiss meant nothing more to him than the meaningless prize it had been proclaimed. It was a simple meeting of lips, a casual misbehavior.
She only wished she could be so worldly and unaffected. But there had been nothing simple about her response to his kiss.
It had incited a maelstrom of emotions and sensations. The memory of it heated her blood, pooling a restless longing in her lips, her fingertips, her breasts …
It frightened her. It haunted her. When she closed her eyes at night, Merrick’s lean, hard form and dark-lashed eyes appeared with startling and all too revealing clarity. She’d been careful since to avoid his company.
Tonight, however, there was slim chance she would be able to avoid his company—or he, hers. Tonight was Lady Harquist’s ball. She would have considered it the usual overpopulated, uncomfortable, and crushing affair it generally was, if not for the anxiety of wondering whether Ash Merrick would be there.
She assumed Ash had been included on the guest list but then, doubtless, even if invited he would decline. He had a more than adequate excuse; he’d brought no clothes fitting for a ball.
The thought brought relief at the same time as an acute, guilty regret.
Edith Fraiser had been right after all; Ash Merrick was dangerous.
“Begad, that creature you’re riding is unfit to feed my dogs, Merrick!” Phillip avowed blearily.
Ash, jouncing along on a squat pony some distance ahead, clad in black silk, three quarters of his face covered by a mask, did not appear to have heard. The others in their party did. They raised drunken voices in boisterous concurrence. Even the gypsy rogues they traveled with had fallen prey to Ash Merrick’s bonhomie. Teeth flashed beneath the fantastical papier-mâché masks as shouts in the Romany tongue filled the night air.
Phillip, in no mood to be ignored, spurred his pony forward. Far ahead of them, the Harquist manor blazed with light, a beacon in the dark.
“You’re a right Mogul,” Phillip proclaimed on reaching Ash’s side.
Ash’s dark gaze flashed sidelong but he simply smiled in that lazy way of his and took another swig from the leather skein bouncing on his hip.
When he didn’t respond, Phillip went on. “Bedamned if this isn’t a grand notion. Don’t know why one of us didn’t think of it years ago.”
It was indeed a splendid notion, spectacular and hilarious. Earlier that day they’d been disconsolately draining tankards of ale at The Ploughman, complaining loudly about the deadly dullness of the fete they were obliged to endure that evening—Lady Harquist’s spring ball.
Ash had been taciturn—an increasing tendency in the last few days. Even though Phillip had put himself out to entertain, Merrick was not to be cajoled. His obvious boredom had infected the others’ moods, blighting their usual gaiety until a band of filthy, beggarly looking rascals had entered the inn.
Merrick’s elegant head had lifted and he had watched them with more interest than he’d evinced all afternoon. A light of inspiration had slowly ignited in his silver eyes. He’d clapped his hand on the table.
“If the evening’s entertainment promises tedium, my dear sirs, you’ve but two course open to you,” he’d declared. “You can forego it—”
“Not bloody likely,” John Fortnum interjected disconsolately. “Me old pater would disinherit me if I gave the snub to Lady H.”
“Me, too,” Phillip confessed.
“Then you have only one option,” Ash said impatiently. “You become the entertainment.” He cast a knowing look in the direction of the foreigners. “Lest I be mistaken—and I am rarely mistaken in these matters—yonder sits An Opportunity.”
Before anyone could protest, he had hailed the band’s leader, Raoul, a gray-headed fellow as wiry as a river alder, to join them. Over the next two hours—and a keg of strong cider—Merrick had ascertained that the gypsies were in fact a troupe of acrobats and tumblers “what been hired to entertain at the big house.”
Forthwith Ash had bribed Raoul with sweet words and sweeter coin into allowing them to join their company for the night, masquerading as fellow tumblers. So it was that St. John, Fortnum, and Phillip himself—as well as a half-dozen nameless rascals—were trotting down the road leading to Lady Harquist’s, dressed in black leggings and shirts, faces concealed behind whimsical masks, drunk as lords, happy as angels, and as set on mischief as Satan’s imps. All thanks to that infernally amusing and fascinating fellow at Phillip’s side, Ash Merrick.
Phillip was dully aware he had a case of hero worship. Usually ’twas he, because of his height, his breadth, his looks, or his father’s wealth, who attracted admiration. But Ash Merrick was utterly unimpressed by any of Phillip’s attributes, having looks and address enough without seeking its reflection in others.
He was simply the damnedest, most dauntless, and most interesting man Phillip had ever met.
Phillip gazed blearily at his idol. Merrick was slender and hard as an épée. Even half-sotted, he fair stank of élan.
The thing of it was, thought Phillip, Merrick had the trick of making everything into a game. Take, for example, a few days ago when Merrick had suddenly announced that the local magistrates were old and blind and thus incapable of tracking down the rogue who had assaulted Rhiannon and Mrs. Fraiser. The task, he’d explained, belonged to young, sharp-eyed gentlemen.
Thus for the rest of that day and the next, Merrick had led his merry, confused companions over the countryside, interviewing hostelry workers, waylaying farmhands, searching for any clue as to the whereabouts of the highwayman.
They didn’t find anything—of course not—but that wasn’t the point, was it? The point was it had been fun. Exciting. Like this.
“I don’t know that this is such a good idea after all,” Fortnum called out from his position at the rear. The curling horns of his ram’s mask bobbed in agitation. “There’ll be the devil to pay when we’re caught!”
“What are we to do with them, Watt?” Ash sighed. A feeling of pleasure suffused Phillip.
“I don’t know,” he said, trying to
discern Merrick’s desire.
“I suspect we’ll just have to sweeten the game.” Merrick placed a fist on his hip and eyed St. John and Fortnum severely. The wind ruffled his black locks and plastered his loose linen shirt to his chest. He looked every inch a black-hearted devil. There was about him a fateful ferocity that Phillip admired greatly.
“Let’s see. How can we make this a worthy game for our friends here? You are betting men, are you not?” he asked.
Both men agreed.
“Ha! I knew I’d taken your measure right. Here it is, then. I wager that I can dupe everyone attending Lady Harquist’s party for a full hour.
“And furthermore, I bet you that when my identity is finally divulged, not one word of censure greets that revelation no matter how crudely I misbehave, no matter how lecherous my leers, no matter how deeply I drink—and make no mistake, my dears, I intend to be very, very drunk.” His smile was fierce and challenging.
“Oh, come now, Merrick,” Fortnum sputtered.
“Ha!” St. John burst out. “I’ll take that bet.”
“Will you?” Ash tipped his head. “But I haven’t said what the stakes are.”
“What?” St. John asked.
Ash smiled. “Two hundred pounds.”
Phillip caught back his surprise. Two hundred pounds was more than he’d ever wagered on a single bet before.
Ash’s cool, mocking gaze scanned their faces. “I thought not,” he murmured pleasantly. He took another deep draught from the wineskin.
“I say you can do it!” Phillip declared staunchly. Ash passed him the flask. Phillip slurped it greedily, eyeing his lily-livered companions scornfully.
“I’ll take that bet,” St. John finally said.
“Excellent, St. John,” Merrick declared. “I knew you were a game one. First, the rules. None of you, by action or word, must betray your acquaintance with any of Lady Harquist’s guests. You must, on your honor, keep strictly away from those you call intimates, be they friend, father, or lover.” His glance found Phillip. Heat rose to Phillip’s cheeks. “Agreed?”
They all nodded.
“Good. Now, I’ll want a sharp blade and a steady hand to hold a mirror.”
“But why?” Fortnum asked.
Merrick laughed. “I fear overcoming the clue my beard provides would strain even my thespian skills,” Merrick said. “Who can help me?”
It was one of the gypsies who found amongst his travel kit the means to rid Merrick of beard and moustache. Ten minutes later, the razor’s sharp blade had revealed a square and manly jaw, a pair of deeply bowed and sensual lips. Merrick held the mirror up and gave a mocking laugh to his own reflection before pulling the black silk domino back down over his blacker hair and upper face. “Now, away my lads.”
A short time later they were following Merrick down the cobbled drive that led up to the Harquists’ manor. The weak moonlight washed over the contours of Merrick’s thighs and shoulders. His hands were pale against the black silk cuff. Phillip quaffed more from the flask.
Who could possibly take exception to a man like Merrick? Yet, Rhiannon appeared to have developed an aversion to him. Odd. Especially since she had seemed to like Merrick well enough at first. But in the past few days Rhiannon had grown uneasy in Merrick’s company, skittish. Through no fault of Merrick’s.
Merrick was all that was pleasant and respectful to Rhiannon, even courtly. Perhaps he drank a bit much, and each day seemed to increase his thirst, but what of it? Phillip was perhaps imbibing more than usual, too. Especially now, with his impending nuptials closing in.
He twitched away the unpleasant sensation the thought awoke. Being a touch goosey about being leg-shackled was surely normal.
Rhiannon had best learn right now that Phillip was loyal to his friends and that his companions ranked high in his esteem. Nothing was more sacred to a man than his friends. They sustained and encouraged and understood him in a way a woman never could.
Phillip took another swig, arguing away his sense of unease. Rhiannon wouldn’t interfere with him, he reasoned. It was why he’d settled on her for his wife. That and his father’s prodding.
The old man had specifically chosen Rhiannon Russell as his youngest son’s mate, explaining that Rhiannon was kind and loyal and grateful. She would quietly accept whatever Phillip did. She would not demand things a man could—would not give.
The old man was right. Rhiannon was the perfect choice for a wife. Besides he was fond of her.
Yes, it was time he wed. Though still young, he felt this subtle resistance to the idea of marrying grow each year. If he waited too long he might not be able to bring himself to do the deed at all—there was so much about living a bachelor’s life that appealed to him. Freedom. Not being accountable to a woman for his whereabouts or his actions. Friends. And of course, he added as an afterthought, other ladies.
But he did want a family. He quite looked forward to having a couple brats, and the old man wanted grandsons, something his older brothers had yet to provide. Rhiannon would make a good mother.
As if he had read his mind, Merrick suddenly spoke to him. “Your darlin’ bride-to-be is at tonight’s festivities, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“And any number of other rich young wenches,” John Fortnum added. “Now that Phillip here is going all connubial, me dad’s all in a lather for me to marry. Perhaps I should take advantage of this evening’s sport to look over the prospects, unbeknownst to the prospects, of course. Just because Watt can sustain a penniless bride does not mean I can.”
Merrick slew about in his saddle, peering at Phillip. “Just how is that, Watt? How came you to offer for the penniless, if lovely, Miss Russell?”
“Phillip here is proof of an old man’s passion,” Fortnum supplied before Phillip could speak. “And his father does therefore love him dearly. If it would keep Phillip in Fair Badden, his father would let him marry a tavern wench.
“A rich wife might want a London house. A well-connected wife might have family to visit on long extended trips away. Miss Russell has no reason to leave Fair Badden, nor any desire to do so.”
Sober Phillip might have taken exception to such revelations, but he wasn’t sober. He was deliciously drunk and surrounded by his bosom friends and on his way to a fine piece of sport. What and why would he keep anything private from these men?
“True,” Phillip confessed. “But that’s not the only reason. Rhiannon’s clever enough to spend the rest of her life being grateful to me for making her my wife.” He grinned. “What other woman would have that sense?”
Chapter Ten
They were rough, uncouth fellows. And they were exquisitely, hilariously, vibrantly alive. Fair Badden had never seen their like.
Other traveling performers measured Fair Badden’s high society as the self-conscious, priggish band of yawners it was and suited their talents accordingly, somberly enacting philosophical vignettes or singing plodding chorales. Not these fellows. Rude and boisterous and bawdy, they had about them a joie de vivre that was infectious. True, the big silent fellow had no more important a role than letting his smaller fellows clamber over him, but he played the part of mountain well. Another masked man circulated through the room, snatching goblets of wine from Lady Harquist’s guests’ well-manicured hands and giving back salacious ditties in a high, inane falsetto.
They were unpredictable, thrilling, and novel. Even the most consummate snob in Lady Harquist’s company could not restrain an occasional smile at their antics. They sang ribald songs with leering enthusiasm, mocked their betters with uncanny insight, and quaffed expensive wine as though it were cider dregs. They tumbled and juggled, danced and somersaulted one over the other. Their short morality plays dissolved into delicious double entendres.
Rhiannon welcomed their vibrant company with relief, taking the opportunity to escape her unwelcome preoccupation with Ash Merrick by entering wholeheartedly into their heated word games. It was early yet. Not every
one had arrived. Cornered by a lean fellow in a black silk domino, she giggled, intoxicated by this unexpected freedom from her troubled thoughts.
“Ah, pretty ladybirds!” His voice was slurred and husky, and his thick French accent was so authentic one could not help but wonder if it were real. He peered owlishly at the young ladies tittering behind Rhiannon. “A full gaggle of them and all squawking love songs!”
He swept a crumpled tricorn from his head. A tight-fitting scarf of silk covered his hair. He bent over in so low a bow that his forehead nearly brushed the floor. Just as he was about to overset himself and crash face first into the ground, he snapped upright, blinking woozily.
Part of his act, no doubt, Rhiannon thought. Because though his voice was slurred, he moved with the grace of God’s own fool, dodging the vases his fellow acrobats hurled at him, catching them midair, and sending them back. Through it all the inane smile remained plastered on his lower face. But behind the mask his dark eyes gleamed with feverish light.
“Here now, miss,” he said snatching at Rhiannon and missing her by inches. Merrily, she danced out from his reach, twirling away in a cloud of jonquil-colored brocade. A tendril of hair escaped its knot and tumbled down her neck.
“Come, dearest. My haughty, devilish, quick-footed Mab,” he crooned, reaching for her again. “You look an adventuresome wench, a curious kitten. I’ve heard it said that all ‘ladies crave to be encountered with.’ Admit it, sweetling, ’tis a fact that virgins dream of what a gypsy’s embrace might be like.”
A French gypsy who knew Shakespeare? Not likely.
Rhiannon snorted. “If I allowed your arms about me, sir,” she said through her laughter, “I’d be wondering still.”
His head swung up. A flicker of surprise appeared in his shadowed eyes.
“Oh ho! What are you saying, mon amie? That I’m not what I appear to be”—his voice lowered, became silky with innuendo—“or that you’re not?”
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