Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

  To one fact he clung. His wife wanted out of this marriage every bit as much as he did.

  A heavyset man with beetle-brows, an odd little crumb who'd dogged Emile's feet all day, now gave him a lusty clap on the back.

  To please the fellow, Emile stumbled and nearly landed on his nose. The truth was he had drunk far less than everyone thought. A rogue knew how to play the fool without becoming one. Tonight Emile could not afford to be a fool.

  Recovering from his stumble, he shot a glance toward his wife.

  She'd sat at the high table and not moved from the spot all day. But now her expression did change. Her lips pursed in disapproval.

  Ah, if he could only get her alone. Once alone, Emile could present to her his plan. It would get them both out of this horrid mess. They could be rid of each other. Hope struggled through his knotted guts.

  Beetle-brow approached with another tankard. He offered it to Emile, smiling with odd gratitude.

  Smiling back, Emile calmly shoved the thing away. The time had come. He could not stomach another drop, he could not smile another minute.

  During this interminable banquet, a word alone with his wife had been impossible. But it was late now, past supper time. She could decently retire for the night. Setting his hands on his hips, Emile looked around the room for what he now required.

  But Lucy's father was nowhere in sight. Meanwhile, Lucy's sister sat atop a table, attending her admirers like the little minx she was. Both relatives were completely unconcerned with their duties.

  Disgusted, Emile blew out a breath. So be it. He would do the job himself. He pulled on his doublet, which was too big and kept falling down his back. He looked an utter clown. Nevertheless, he could make this appear...romantic. A bridegroom asking his own bride to retire for the night.

  If only his bride looked the least bit open to romantic suggestion.

  "Here, here. What's this?" Beetle-brow scurried around in front of Emile, looking worried. Foam slid off the top of the tankard he held. "Where are you going?"

  Once again, with a polite smile, Emile pushed away the tankard Beetle-brow offered him.

  "But—where are you going? Oh, no. Not there."

  Wry, Emile simply walked around the short fellow. He left the sputtering man's protests behind as he started across the room.

  At first it was like wading through a rushing stream. Bodies dancing and disporting obstructed his progress. But as people began to notice his apparent target, the dancing bodies rested. Tongues halted. Eyes turned.

  Emile tried to ignore the attention turning his way even as he acknowledged the reason. Lucy was a known shrew. That she was displeased with these nuptials was an understatement. It was unsurprising the guests expected a show. Sighing, Emile hoped that this once he could disappoint an audience.

  The prospect did not appear favorable. As he approached her, Lucy's expression took on the appearance of a housewife regarding a roach.

  Idiot. He should have waited to speak to her father. He should have found a way to send her sister. Aye, it might have cost him another mug of ale. But it was too late now.

  Coming to a stop on the opposite side of her table, Emile gave a deep and flowery bow. "Dearest wife."

  She stared at him. No longer the housewife facing an insect, now she was a sane woman confronting a bedlamite.

  It was a rise in the world, Emile figured. He pressed his advantage. "It is good to see you so enjoying the festivities. A bride should revel in her hour."

  Lucy's face showed Emile that he was growing crazier by the minute.

  Nevertheless, he persisted. "But it has been several hours, and I fear you may be growing..." Aware of the crowd, Emile stopped to search for a suitably discreet word. "Tired." To his consternation, he blushed.

  Tired. He could see her mouth the word, completely baffled. Then her brow cleared. Understanding flashed across her forehead.

  Emile braced himself. If sparks were going to fly, they would be now. If he could only explain. He didn't mean what the crowd thought he meant. He only needed an opportunity to explain his plan.

  Meanwhile, Lucy's eyes widened. Her mouth opened.

  Emile felt an abyss widen beneath his feet.

  "Ahem." As Lucy cleared her throat, her pale cheeks pinkened. "Good night, then."

  Emile teetered on the edge of the abyss. Good night? To his awkward request, she assented?

  Lucy rose.

  A murmur passed through the crowd, amazed and disbelieving.

  Emile was having a hard time believing it himself. For an instant he worried. A stupid idea jumped into his head.

  Did she think he was suggesting bed, as in for a real bride and groom?

  But the look of hauteur Lucy laid across the room dispelled this troubling thought. She was not a woman with tumbling on her mind. Nay, if he wasn't careful, Lucy was like to go upstairs—and bolt the door against him.

  "Oh, Lucy, do you go upstairs?" This came from her father, who'd finally appeared on the scene. Latham smiled fatuously. "Patrice will attend you."

  "I will?" Patrice's head came up from sniffing a flower some swain had just given her.

  Latham kept smiling. "You will."

  Patrice pouted but slid off the table. Handing the flower away, she came up to take her sister's arm. "Oh, very well."

  Lucy opened her mouth, no doubt to refuse her assistance, but Patrice gave a surprisingly hard tug on her arm.

  "Come on, sister. Believe it or not, you need me tonight."

  Latham clapped his hand on Emile's shoulder, briefly, heavily, and then he was striding off, humming with satisfaction.

  Emile was left to watch in relief as Patrice towed Lucy from the room. He would have to wait a few minutes, give a decent interval to pretend his wife was readying to welcome him to her bed. Then he would go upstairs and have his talk with her.

  Emile felt his guts begin to tie again. As he turned toward one of the tables piled with food, he told himself there was no reason to worry. He would offer Lucy her dearest wish: freedom from him. She would gladly agree. Before morning he would be on his way as if none of this had every happened.

  "A braver man than I." The dry drawl came from behind Emile's shoulder.

  Emile turned to find a high-collared fop, one of those who danced attendance on Patrice.

  While flicking at his wrist ruffs, the fop gave Emile a derisive smile. "Do you truly intend to go join her?"

  The room was beginning to fill with noise again. The musicians retuned their instruments. But Emile could hear the insult to his wife loud and clear. He forgot about his gut entirely and stepped closer to the fop. "Well, I would not send you." Smiling, Emile used two fingers to rub the fellow's starched collar. "It takes a man to do a man's job."

  The fop turned red.

  Smirking, Emile let him go. He grabbed a cherry off the table and threw it into his mouth. Slowly, he let out a sigh. Everything would be fine—as long as Lucy had not bolted the door against him.

  ~~~

  Firelight flickered over the bedchamber walls. With the coverlet pulled up to her chin, Lucy kept an eye on the latch of the unbolted door. She felt naked in the fancy night rail Patrice had made her wear. Saints, she practically was naked in the delicate lawn. At least the bedcovers hid the fact.

  Patrice took it for granted that Lucy's dowry-hunting groom would want to make a true marriage of the affair. Lucy huffed at the thought.

  Huffed, and then shivered beneath the heavy covers. He had walked up himself to ask her to go to their bedchamber. The look he had given from those dark gold eyes... Well, a woman could not shake off such a look lightly.

  Lucy clenched her fists. Aye? So what if he did want a true wedding night? She would not be the first bride to be taken by her husband. Happened every day. There was nothing to get excited about.

  But at a scratching sound from the door, Lucy gasped and clutched the covers.

  The orange glow from the fire showed the latch lift. With a cre
ak, the door opened. Gold and red glinted off Emile's hair as he poked in his head.

  Lucy held her breath.

  Silently, Emile slipped the rest of the way in. He stopped and glanced about. Then he squinted, as if not finding what he sought. Finally, he saw Lucy waiting in the bed. He started.

  Lucy fought the urge to crawl the rest of the way under the covers. She'd rushed matters. She shouldn't have undressed or gotten into bed. She never should have listened to Patrice, no matter how knowledgeable her little sister had sounded.

  Saying nothing, Emile turned and closed the door. After a moment's thought, he threw the bolt.

  Oh. Well, then. Lucy clutched and released the covers. A bolted door. Perhaps he was not completely put off, then.

  Slowly, he turned. "You, um." He gestured toward the bed. "You did not have to do this."

  Lucy's stomach did a funny tightening and loosening exercise. "I know."

  Carefully, as though he approached a wild animal, he took a step toward the bed. "But, uh, all the same. There you are."

  "Here I am." Lucy would have given anything to know whether or not he was going to go through with this. Her heart was pounding so hard she was certain he could hear it.

  "And, ah, here I am." He gave a brief, unfathomable smile, then turned to grab a stool. He set it firmly on the floor several feet from the bed and straddled the thing. He shot Lucy one more unreadable look and then gazed downward. "Married," he said.

  Lucy found herself staring at his unruly curls. She wondered if she would be allowed to run her hands through them. She thought she might like that, if he meant to do this at all, that was. "Ahem. Yes, we are married."

  Emile sucked in his lips. "I know you wouldn't have picked me for your husband, given a choice."

  Lucy's gaze flew back to his face. He was giving her an opportunity to declare her distaste for him—or its opposite. "I—I had not wanted to marry any man," she waffled and immediately felt like a fool. They were married. There was no shame in admitting she wouldn't mind consummating the thing.

  Emile nodded. "But we've taken vows. It is done."

  "It is done." Relieved, Lucy agreed. They were married. There was no use pretending it was otherwise.

  And yet all he did was sit there, looking down. Surely he should be doing something.

  Lucy had a heart-stopping thought: what if she was the one supposed to make the first move?

  "But perhaps—" Emile's expression was impossible to read in the dim flicker from the fire. "Perhaps there's a way to make it undone again."

  Lucy could not hear him for the sudden roaring in her ears. She was supposed to be doing something. Horror consumed her, for she had no idea what that something was!

  Emile lifted his head. "Would you like to know how?" he asked.

  Lord in heaven. Whatever she was supposed to know, her husband was now forced to teach her. "Well..." Lucy flushed with embarrassment. But a reckless excitement overrode any shame. "How?" she asked.

  Emile leaned forward. His gaze was intent. "I could die."

  Lucy blinked several times. He could die? Then, in a rush, understanding dawned. The curse. He believed in it, after all. Disappointment crashed upon her, the more crushing in that it was so unexpected.

  "Do not be ridiculous," she snapped, pleased that her tone did not betray her hurt. "You will not die from it. Or...or have anything else happen to you!"

  Shaking his head, Emile leaned forward, putting his forearms on his spread thighs. "You don't understand. I can die. I can make you a widow. All last night I thought it through. This could work."

  Lucy frowned, wondering if he was talking about the curse, after all. "You can make me a widow?"

  Emile's expression lightened. "I would deal fair, free you as well as myself."

  "Free me."

  He nodded. "Yes. Just think. You could get this nice dowry for yourself and with no husband to interfere. As a widow, you could control your own fortune." He tilted his head. "Although I suppose you could remarry if you wanted, to a husband of your own free choice."

  Lucy stared. Instead of understanding, she was growing more and more confused. Yes, if she were widowed, she would have every advantage he described. But her husband looked very far from dying. Indeed, he appeared every inch alive.

  With a muttered oath, Emile rose from his stool. He paced to the mantel.

  Lucy could not take her eyes from the handsome sculpture of his face, bathed in the fire's glow. "I do not understand how you could die," she told him, with a funny pang of fear. "Or...why you would want to?"

  The firelit curve of Emile's mouth pulled into a faint smile. "I wouldn't really die—just pretend. We would make it look very real. No one would question the fact. And in consideration for setting you free and giving you access to your considerable dowry, I would ask very little in return. Just a modest, very modest gift. And my solemn promise that you'll never see or hear from me again."

  Finally, finally, Lucy began to see the picture. "A modest gift," she repeated carefully. A yawning hole opened inside her. How stupid she'd been. He wanted to leave. Abandon her.

  "Five shillings," Emile suggested, with a hopeful air. "It's less than you offered me last night."

  "Last night." Beneath the hole inside her, an animal stirred, waking from the stupor in which the idiot thing had been sleeping. "Last night you—" Swallowing, Lucy held the animal down. She wanted to make sure she understood this: every last, degrading detail. She struggled to a sitting position on the bed. "My father and Gawain." She kept her voice calm. "You did not know they would come out to the barn?"

  Emile looked shocked. "Of course not."

  Lucy took a deep breath. "You did not make sure they would see me leave the house. You did not expect them to find us together?"

  Emile's jaw dropped. He appeared to be starting to understand now himself. "You thought—?"

  "That you had planned the whole thing. Yes." Her last word was a bitter hiss. Lucy gripped the edge of the sheet, cursing her lack of decent clothing. She would have liked to sweep from the room. "You did not mean to capture my dowry?"

  "No!" His face a picture of astonished denial, Emile took a step toward the bed. "Never."

  "You did not want to marry me."

  "No! I mean—" It was almost comical, the way Emile caught his slip. "I mean, I knew you didn't want to marry me—"

  "You did not want me," Lucy interrupted. Her voice was harsh in its effort to get past the furious animal inside her. Emile had not meant to marry her. Now married, he had no desire to stay that way. "You did not want marriage. You did not even want my devil-damned dowry!"

  "Lucy! Now, wait—" He put his hands out in a calming gesture.

  It was a mistake. The wounded animal inside Lucy grabbed the handle of the warming pan that lay under the covers—another unexpected consideration of her sister's. The animal threw off the covers, heedless of Lucy's dishabille, and aimed the warming pan at Emile's hands.

  The man was quick. For his sake, it was fortunate he had the reflexes of an alley cat. By a hairsbreadth he missed getting marked for life, possibly losing his hands altogether. Air hissed from between his teeth.

  Meanwhile, Lucy scrambled off the bed. She kept the warming pan firmly gripped between both hands. "Get out!" she yelped, the animal leaping forth again. Five shillings he thought she should give him to abandon the wife he hadn't wanted. "You filthy, wormish cur, get out of my bedchamber!"

  Emile took up a street fighter's crouch.

  At the time it did not occur to Lucy that he was bigger than she was, had twice as much well-honed muscle, and a devil's dose of rough experience. In the wink of an eye, he could have dodged her next clumsy blow, reached in, and overpowered her.

  Instead he backed warily toward the door. Without turning his head, without daring to take his eyes from Lucy, he slanted one shoulder. With it, he lifted the bolt. Weighted, the door swung inward, batting him.

  Lucy took another swipe at the knave, bu
t he slipped through the door to safety. She charged the door as it swung into the room, then she slammed it against the jamb, unheedful of who might hear. She wished she could have slammed the whole house down. With all her might, she slammed the bolt home.

  With a choked sound, Lucy turned and leaned against the door. Fool! He did not want her. Never, ever had wanted her. Meanwhile she'd lain under the covers waiting for him, dressed in this ridiculous night rail. She was an idiot, fool, mad-brain!

  The animal had her by the throat. It squeezed until tears came. Hot, humiliating, and completely unwanted tears.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In his exchequer, Latham Simple knocked one bead of his abacus against the next. Ivory hitting ivory made a sharp, clicking sound. From the other side of a desk tiled with black and white squares, he rested his pale blue eyes on Emile.

  Emile sat on a joint-stool across from Latham with his hands laced across his stomach. He wore the borrowed purple jerkin of his wedding the day before, though he would have preferred his harlequin costume. At least that outfit fit.

  Planted on the uncushioned stool, he made a point of meeting Latham's unblinking gaze. He would rather have been scraping his fingernails down a stone wall.

  Lucy's father had heard the slam of his daughter's bedchamber door the night before. The entire town of Bonham had heard the sound.

  Following his ejection from her room, Emile had crept down the stairs like a rat. Feeling shocked, dismayed, and disgusted, he'd avoided the joyful party in the hall and spent the balance of the night under a table in a storeroom.

  At first, he'd felt furious. Stupid, stubborn woman! Couldn't Lucy have taken a moment to listen to reason? Surely she didn't want to be married to Emile any more than he wanted to be married to her.

  But then, squirming into a new position under the sack he'd found as a blanket, Emile had had to place the blame where it belonged: on himself. He'd handled the situation like a clod. The dimness of Lucy's bedchamber, the intimacy of the fire's glow on the pushed-back hangings of the bed; everything had combined to jumble his usually fine instincts. Lucy herself had done the most damage, her dark hair flowing unbound, her eyes large and dark in her face— She had looked like some plump and tasty bait, set squarely in the middle of a trap.