To Tempt the Devil (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players)

by C. J. Archer

  He turned. Fully. A small, strangled sound gurgled up from her throat. She’d never seen one of those before. The actors never changed in front of her and without brothers, the male parts were somewhat of a mystery. Was it supposed to lean to the left like that? Or be so big and, well, dangly? And should it move of its own accord? Why was it growing all of a sudden?

  A pair of big hands holding a damp cloth dropped in front of it.

  Lizzy jumped, spilling water from the bowl onto the floor. Her face blazed fiercer than ever before. She couldn’t look up. She’d rather die first. Indeed, death would be a welcome escape.

  Please kill me.

  She spun around. Tried to gather her wits and still her racing heart. “I…I…I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have…I’m very sorry.”

  His low rumble of laughter cooled her heated face a little. “Don’t be. I’m not embarrassed.”

  Then why cover up?

  She heard the gentle splash of water followed by the splish of drips. He must have resumed washing. She closed her eyes, but that was no help. The image of the water sliding over his muscular back, down to his buttocks and thighs…

  She tried to think of something to say but couldn’t. Where had her mind gone? Ah yes, straight to his nether regions.

  “You’re quite the innocent, aren’t you?”

  An innocent. Well, she supposed she was, compared to him. Rafe must have lovers in cities and villages all over the world. How many did he have? Dozens? Hundreds?

  It didn’t matter. It wasn’t her business. However many he’d had, it was more than she, virgin that she was, and more than James.

  James. She groaned. Poor, dear James didn’t deserve the sort of woman who desperately wanted to turn around and take another peek at his naked brother.

  On the other hand, it would be a good thing if she wasn’t such an innocent going into the marriage bed. What man would want a silly girl who couldn’t stop staring at his manhood like it was an exotic creature? Best to get the staring out of the way before they married so the sight of him wasn’t such a shock on their wedding night.

  She glanced over her shoulder and her heart sank. Rafe was already dressed in a clean shirt and hose. He caught her looking. She expected him to laugh at her to ease the tension and her flaring embarrassment, but he didn’t. His handsome features looked pinched, pained almost. He blinked once, slowly, and turned away.

  She bit the inside of her lip. She must have offended him after all with her blatant staring.

  “I’ll go upstairs,” he said. “You might as well stay here now and come up when you’re finished. Can you find your way in the dark? We’d better not use candles.”

  She nodded and folded her arms against a shiver.

  “Good night, Lizzy.”

  “Good night, Rafe.”

  He paused at the door, and she thought he would say something further but he didn’t. She waited until she heard his footsteps reach the landing upstairs, then she removed her clothes and washed.

  Rafe wasn’t known for making poor decisions, so why in God’s name did he undress while Lizzy watched? Why hadn’t he checked she’d left? He must have lost his wits during the pursuit. No other explanation for it. Lizzy was an innocent. He shouldn’t have subjected her to his nakedness. If he’d walked in on another man bathing in her presence he’d have thumped some sense into him.

  Not that Lizzy seemed to mind. Her gaze had been firmly fixed on his cock. She hadn’t looked appalled or repelled. Not in the least. Fascinated and thrilled if her flushed face was any indication. She’d been smiling too, just the hint of one on those full lips. Until he’d covered up. Then, and only then, had she been embarrassed.

  Worse than that, he’d liked the way she’d watched him. The way her big curious eyes fixed entirely on him, the way her tongue had skimmed across her lips and her breathing quickened. He recognized desire and want, the aching need to touch and explore and be touched and explored. Recognized it in himself too. He grew hard again just picturing her face. She’d wanted him down there in the kitchen. God help him, he would have taken her too if he hadn’t come to his senses just in time.

  Because she hadn’t wanted him, just his cock. There was a difference. She might be curious about the male body but that didn’t mean she desired the man attached to it. Nor should she. She was James’s intended. She loved James. James loved her, needed her.

  Rafe rolled onto his side and punched the lumpy straw pallet. It was going to be a long, restless night.

  He must have drifted off to sleep eventually because he awoke with a start. Someone was talking. It only took a moment to realize it was Lizzy’s voice coming from the bedchamber across the landing. He crept out of his room, his feet silent on the bare floor. Straining to hear, he could just make out Lizzy muttering quietly beyond her closed door.

  Cold tentacles of fear wrapped around his insides. He reached for the door handle.

  Lizzy screamed.

  CHAPTER 8

  The screaming woke Lizzy. The door crashing back on its hinges sent her scrambling to the end of the bed, clasping the blankets to her chest.

  “Lizzy? Lizzy, are you all right?”

  In the darkness she could just make out Rafe’s big frame rushing into her room. She drew her knees up close to her chest, tried to make herself small and inconspicuous, but still a whimper escaped. That’s when she realized the screaming had come from her.

  She’d been dreaming. Rafe had been in the dream, coming for her. A menacing, powerful presence with madness in his eyes and teeth bared in a primal snarl.

  It was the same expression, exactly the same, as that awful day years ago.

  “Lizzy! Talk to me!” His voice was thready, desperate. He stood over her, so close she could reach out and touch him. She kept her hands inside the blanket, clutching it so tight her fingers cramped.

  He checked under and around the bed, rattled the clasp on the casement window to see if it was still locked. Then he came back and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Very close. His breathing was loud in the silence, almost louder than her own.

  He wrapped one arm around her and pulled her gently to his chest. She could feel his warm breath in her hair and his palm against the back of her neck. His body shuddered or perhaps hers did.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of him, and forced herself to relax. This was the real Rafe Fletcher, not the monster from her dream. That Rafe, the nightmare one, had come at her with anger and hatred oozing from him like blood from an open wound. He was not like that anymore. Definitely not.

  So why was she so frightened of him?

  She shifted away and tugged the blanket high up under her chin. But it wouldn’t work. No matter what he did, no matter how kindly he treated her, she would always remember the Rafe of his youth. The one who’d almost killed his own kin, then looked at her, a child of fourteen watching from the shadows, and smiled with satisfaction.

  He must not remember seeing her there that day, but she did. She remembered every pound of his fist, every spray of blood, every sneer. Most of all she remembered the cold ruthlessness in those pitch-black eyes. Killer’s eyes.

  He’d almost murdered the man who’d raised him from infancy. She knew old man Pritchard hadn’t been the warmest of fathers toward either of his sons, but surely he’d not warranted such a brutal beating on the street by his own stepchild. Her family and neighbors had been too shocked and too scared to stop him, and he’d left before any of them could summon the courage to confront him. They’d helped Pritchard inside and that’s when his wife’s body was discovered, with a tearful James cradling her. When asked if Rafe had somehow contributed to her death, he’d been adamant it wasn’t his brother’s doing. It was the last thing he’d ever said on the matter, to anyone.

  “Lizzy?” Rafe moved closer. She moved back. It was too dark to see his expression but she could sense his confusion. “What’s wrong?”

&nbs
p; “N-n-nothing. A bad dream. Sorry I woke you.”

  “You didn’t wake me.” He blew out a breath. “I thought someone was in here. I thought…Never mind. I’m relieved it was only a dream.”

  It was only a dream, yet it was a memory too. While a dream could be dismissed with a laugh and a lit candle, a memory could not.

  “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “I think there’s some pie left.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Cold bacon?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Especially for cold bacon.

  “Spiced wine?”

  “We don’t have any.”

  “I could find some.”

  That was a jest, wasn’t it? His teeth flashed white in the darkness. Yes, it was. The remaining shackles of her dream fell away and she lowered the blanket to her waist.

  “What if I said yes?” she asked.

  “Then I would set off and find some. But that would present a problem because it means leaving you here alone and vulnerable.”

  “You could leave me your sword.”

  “You would have me go out unarmed?” he asked with mock horror.

  “No, you would still have the twin weapons of wit and charm in your arsenal.”

  He laughed softly. “Then I really would be in trouble. I am not Hughe. Wit and charm are not two of my God-given talents.”

  No, but he made up for the lack in so many other ways. His sheer size and brute strength for one, and a way with his fists. A brutal way. She hugged herself. His admirable attempt to make her forget her nightmare with jokes suddenly fell flat.

  “Thank you for your kindness,” she said.

  “Ah. You’re dismissing me.” He made no move to go. “Care to tell me what happened in this dream?”

  She shook her head. “It was just a dream.”

  “But one that clearly haunts you still. Lizzy.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. She flinched and jerked back. “Lizzy,” he whispered, his hand dropping to the mattress. “What scares you? What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing.” She blinked back hot tears. Why was he doing this, being so considerate and kind? Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

  A long silence stretched painfully. Several times he drew a breath as if he would speak. Finally, he whispered, “Is it me?”

  Her throat hurt. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak.

  “Lizzy.” His hand swept her hair off her shoulder. She stayed very still. Even her heart stopped. “Why are you afraid of me?”

  All she could offer was a shrug and a mumbled, “I’m not.”

  “You never look at me directly. You cower when I’m near and bite your tongue rather than say what’s on your mind.” He paused, perhaps waiting for her to speak but she said nothing. There was nothing to say. He was right but she couldn’t even acknowledge that. “I’d never hurt you.”

  He sounded so convincing. And yet she couldn’t reassure him that she wasn’t afraid. Not when she didn’t believe him.

  “I-I’m worried about James,” she lied.

  “James. Yes. Of course you are. I’m worried about him too.” He sighed and pressed his fingers into his eyes. “I hope nothing’s happened.”

  She frowned. Why did he sound so worried? James was sensible; he would travel only during the day and he didn’t look wealthy enough to be carrying anything of value, simply because he owned nothing of value. No outlaw would bother with him.

  The mention of James brought Rafe’s visit to an end. He bid her good night and returned to his bedchamber. Lizzy lay awake, trying not to think about her nightmare, or the vulnerability in Rafe’s voice when he asked her if she was afraid of him. And she tried very hard not to think about the way Rafe touched her.

  She failed on all counts.

  The hammering on the front door was too loud to be a fist. Lizzy swallowed, counted to three, and opened the door. She was right, it was the handle of a dagger wielded by a thin man wearing a tall hat. Rafe had told her to expect him but she hadn’t been prepared for the colorless eyes and hollow, sallow face. Behind him stood three other constables. She recognized the one with the bandaged arm from the alley. She averted her gaze and concentrated on hunching her back and squinting. Coupled with the darkening of her skin, it should be disguise enough. She hoped.

  “I am Chief Constable Edmund Treece,” the leader said. “I’m searching for two fugitives believed to be in this region. Did you see any strangers yesterday? One is a large man of around thirty years with black hair, the other a younger woman, much smaller with yellow hair.”

  Yellow! Her hair wasn’t yellow.

  “Very pretty she is,” the injured man chimed in.

  Treece hissed at him. Lizzy screwed up her face to deepen the appearance of wrinkles and distort her face shape. “I ain’t been out for days,” she said with a shaking, thin voice. With the wads of cloth in her cheeks, she even sounded like she had an accent. Upstairs, Rafe coughed a deep hacking cough. Then he spat. Treece and the others glanced at the ceiling. “Samuel’s sick, see. That’s me ’usband. Real sick. Got spots all over and can’t keep nothing down.”

  The constables behind Treece recoiled and, as one, stepped back. Treece did not. He caught the good arm of the injured man, the one who could recognize Lizzy if he looked past the close cap covering her hair, the grossly padded clothing, and other elements of her disguise. There was no recognition in his eyes. So far. It would only take a small mistake on her part—a slip of the rolled-up shirt tucked under her bodice or the false moles falling off.

  “We’ll need to look through your house,” Treece said.

  He didn’t believe her. Oh God.

  “Not me!” one of the men said. “I’m not going in there.” The others shook their heads too.

  Treece gave them a look of disdain and pushed his way past Lizzy. He put the hand holding the dagger to his mouth and nose. “It stinks in here.”

  Lizzy said nothing. Let him think it was the scent of “Samuel’s” illness and not the dead fish she’d found at the bottom of the yard and used to cover up the smell of charcoal and ash.

  He went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later. He paused at the stairs. Rafe coughed again, ending it with the very real sound of throwing up. Treece pulled a face. Clearly he didn’t want to go up.

  With a heaving sigh, Lizzy began the slow climb. “I gotta check he’s not choking on his sick. You coming?”

  She acted as if every step was an effort. In many ways they were. The closer she got to the landing, the closer Treece was to Rafe. It wasn’t easy to disguise him with his size and distinctive looks, and Treece had such shrewd eyes, not like his constables, whose attentions were easily diverted by different clothes and a bit of face paint.

  She stopped at the open door to the front bedchamber. Rafe lay on the pallet, his back to them. He seemed much larger thanks to the extra layers of clothing under the blankets. His body shook as if with an ague and he moaned.

  “Turn him over so I can see his face,” Treece said from the doorway.

  “I can’t move ’im. He’s too big. Got so fat these last months, ’e did. Go in and take a look but don’t get too close. I seen this sickness before. He’s a dead man and most that get near will be too. I nursed a girl and boy once that had them spots on theirselves. Died, they did, but I lived, so I’ll see this through too.” She shuffled inside, her back stooped, and reached for Rafe’s limp hand. She held it up for Treece to see the black fingernails and pustules on the skin.

  He gagged and fled back down the stairs. “Come with me!” he shouted to her. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

  Rafe’s fingers closed around hers. He didn’t say anything, just held her tight. She winked at him and pried his fingers off. Slowly, she made her way down the stairs. Treece stood in the doorway again. His constables lingered out on the street, chatting to each other and already looking to the next house.

  “Remove your hair covering,” Treece ordered. �
�I want my man here to see you in your natural state.” He beckoned the injured man to rejoin him.

  “Me natural state, eh?” Lizzy chuckled. “Give me two shilling and I’ll show you more than the ’air on me ’ead.” Strange how she felt so unlike herself dressed as an old crone. The fear was still there, playing havoc with her nerves, but it was a different fear. It was fear for her life and not the fear of embarrassment. She could say the first thing that came into her head and not care about it being wrong or foolish.

  The injured constable looked repulsed. “Believe me, it’s not her, Treece. Let’s go.”

  “In a moment,” Treece snapped. “We must be thorough.”

  His companion rolled his eyes and sighed. “Better take it off or we’ll be here all day,” he grumbled.

  Lizzy licked suddenly dry lips. She reached up and unpinned the cap. The thick braid of hair remained coiled upon her head. She’d wanted to cut it but Rafe refused and hid the sharp knives when she said she’d do it herself. The ash they rubbed through it would have to be enough.

  “Told you. It’s not her.” The injured constable walked off to join his colleagues. Treece grunted and followed him. It seemed that was the only apology she’d get for having her morning disrupted.

  She shut the door on them and sagged against it. She counted to ten then climbed the stairs. Rafe sat on the pallet and smiled through his pimply lips. He looked ill, which was precisely how he was supposed to look.

  “Give me two shilling and I’ll show you more than the ’air on me ’ead,” he mimicked. “The stage is missing its brightest star.”

  “Women aren’t allowed to act.”

  “They’re not supposed to be tiring house managers either, but you are.”

  “I’m not the manager, my father is. I’m his assistant.”

  He waved a hand and one of the pustules fell off. It was surprising it had lasted as long as it had, held on with a paste of flour and water. “You really were excellent,” he said with a nod of approval. “I am in awe of your courage and ability. I couldn’t have fooled them as well as you did.”