Perfect Knave

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Perfect Knave Page 17

by Kress, Alyssa


  In surprise, she turned and met his gaze.

  "You see, Lucy, I am good for something."

  As Lucy gazed into his golden eyes, she had a startling thought. Was Emile trying to prove himself to her? Prove his worth?

  No. Why would he want to do that?

  Firmly, she pulled her skirt from his grasp. "I suppose you have learned how to milk a cow." She lifted her chin. "But there is a great deal more than milking a cow that I require of a husband."

  His eyes flashed.

  Lucy held her breath. For a moment she felt floored. Why, she could swear she'd just seen pain in Emile's eyes.

  Pain, when he was the one who had rejected her as his wife? Pain, as if instead she had rejected him?

  Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it had come. Indeed, Lucy was hard put to believe she'd seen anything of the sort as Emile got to his feet, expression haughty, and grabbed the pail. His proud gaze reminded Lucy of the man who'd stood up against a troop of armed bandits.

  "Ah, Lucy. You are so very correct. There is more you should require in a husband." And then, his proud expression turning sly, he winked.

  A wink! That did it. The man was the very person of audacity. He thought she should desire him—when he was bedding the barmaid!

  At least, she was very certain he was bedding the barmaid. Almost positive.

  None of which prevented a part of her to feel weak, soft, and—and a little hot as she briefly met his eyes.

  No matter what he might or might not be doing with the barmaid, a part of her still desired him. Oh, a stupid, traitorous part of her. Indeed, she could not deny the reaction of her own body, the little heat turning into a blaze, as Emile strode past, jauntily swinging the near-empty milk pail.

  How mortifying.

  As it to emphasize the befuddlement of her brain, it was only after the door closed after him that she remembered: the cat.

  ~~~

  With a flash of his hand, Emile made the flame of his torch disappear.

  There was a moment of hush in the crowded King's Head tavern, followed by a round of applause.

  Flourishing, Emile made his bows.

  A sandy-haired youth kept his mouth open. "How d'you do it?" he asked.

  Emile bowed again. He gave the reply Crockett had taught him. "Magic," he claimed and winked.

  "Magic!"

  A few people who'd heard laughed. One big fellow, with black hair sticking like spikes around his head, bellowed, "Magic. Aye, Emile must be a sorcerer indeed, to survive his wife's curse!"

  The laughter returned among the crowd, but different this time, sly and mocking.

  Emile felt himself stiffen. Then he clapped the shoulder of the nearest man. The fellow's ale nearly spilled on the ground with the force of that clap, but Emile laughed merrily along.

  He had no reason to defend Lucy. Emile gave the man one last pat and turned away. No, not even after the events of the afternoon.

  With his smile fading, Emile dropped onto a bench. While the crowd clamored for more drinks, Emile rubbed the palms of his hands down his thighs. He wished he could forget what had happened this afternoon.

  "What is wrong? You are all right?" Orville, the owner of the King's Head, stood above Emile, his hands twisted in his apron. He bent and lowered his voice. "You are not offended, I hope?"

  The oily servility of the man had Emile turning his head with a snarl. Usually he made an effort to be civil to Orville, but Emile had been in a terrible mood ever since stumbling on Lucy in the barn. "What?" he asked and reached for restraint. "Pray, why would I be offended?"

  Orville's clean-shaven face turned pink.

  "Wait." Emile caught the tavern-owner's sleeve before he could go. "A drink would be nice."

  "A drink. Yes, yes, Emile. Right away." The bald-headed toad skipped away.

  Emile was left with his thoughts again. He crossed his arms and set them on the table in front of him.

  It had been simple bad luck, running into Lucy in the barn. The bad luck, the surprise of it, had been the cause of the stupidity of the lie he'd come up with to explain his presence with the milk pail. And then, because the lie had been so stupid, he'd had to resort to low tactics to avoid the degrading temptation of the woman.

  Emile's mouth twisted. Games of pat-a-cake, really. So childish. Not surprising the strategy had not worked. Lucy had been so unimpressed, he'd then lowered himself to an outright boast. As if she would choose a man who could please her in bed over the one she obviously had in mind, the tediously industrious fellow.

  After walking off with the milk pail, Emile had sneaked into Lucy's tavern kitchen to fetch a saucer for the old tom he'd found in the barn. The cat was the reason he'd gone to milk the cow in the first place.

  But when he'd entered the barn with his saucer, he'd discovered he was out of luck. Lucy was still in there.

  Using the sound of her voice, he'd quietly crept through the barn until he'd discovered her position.

  She'd found the cat and was bending over it. Her murmurs reached Emile easily. "Ah, I was right about your empty stomach. Now you stay still, sirrah, while I take a look at that torn ear."

  Emile stood there, concealed by the wall of the stall, as Lucy ever so gently probed the cat's torn and bloody ear. She'd already poured some milk for the fellow in an improvised saucer on the floor.

  "A bandage, I think, and some turpentine," Lucy told the mangy cat. "Now your paw, too. Oh, no shyness with me, master. I must take a look."

  A strange tightness constricted Emile's chest.

  "There now," Lucy murmured, tender, as she soothed the mangled paw.

  Finally, silently, Emile had been able to back away. He had slipped out of the barn, and, still feeling that tightness in his chest, he'd run. He'd run through the meadow and to the streambed. He'd run over the stream and into the woods. He had run a long, long way.

  In the noisy tavern, Emile tapped the table in front of himself. He had not run far enough.

  "Your drink, Emile."

  Abruptly, Emile stood.

  "What, you aren't leaving?" Orville's voice was plaintive.

  "Mm," Emile reached for his cloak. Just thinking about it all made the tightness return. "I need air."

  "But—" Orville said. "Wait—"

  Swinging for the door, Emile heard Orville behind him.

  "You!" Orville accused, turning in another direction. "It is all your fault!"

  "Me?" A big voice bellowed. "What did I do?"

  "The curse. You teased him about being cursed, you idiot!"

  The cool night air was bracing. Emile balanced on the threshold and then plunged into the pale glow illuminating the yard. This afternoon he'd discovered he could not run far enough to escape the truth.

  He did not hate Lucy.

  Emile's steps slowed as he neared the inn on the edge of town. He came to a complete stop beneath the arch leading into the courtyard. Above, candlelight showed through a paned window. Emile swallowed deeply. In his mind's eye, he saw again a hand, gentle yet competent, against a wounded cat's ear. Tender. Caring.

  She was a warm and gentle human being. He knew that. Of course he knew it. She'd saved him from drowning in her bath and then from capture by Stone's thugs. She'd given him a trunk full of clothes and once called him a hero, though he certainly hadn't deserved it. Her kisses were the stuff of dreams. She was everything a man could want.

  While he was nothing at all. Certainly not industrious. No fodder for husbandhood. He was a player, a juggler—upon a few notable and infamous occasions, he'd been a thief.

  His chest felt very tight indeed. For he did not hate Lucy. Not one bit.

  It was himself he hated, for being unworthy of her.

  ~~~

  In the kitchen, Lucy's fingers brushed the bottom of the bin. Not even a cup left of flour. She straightened, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. For this morning, she could make bread from what she had already poured into a bowl, but after that—
what?

  A soft noise had her turning toward the inner door. Moll stood there.

  Lucy's stomach did a soft somersault. The maid was dressed to go outdoors.

  "Mistress?" A frown creased the maid's forehead. "You are up early."

  Lucy's gaze flicked away. "There is bread to be made." This was true. There was bread to be made, but Lucy did not usually get up this early to make it.

  "Ah, the bread." Moll looked toward the door, the one leading out to the kitchen yard. She licked her lips.

  The somersaulting sensation in Lucy's stomach turned sick. Emile had already taken off. His cot had been rumpled but empty when Lucy had tiptoed through the outer chamber.

  "I suppose you have something better to do?" Lucy looked around for a pitcher of water, pushing down a wave of nausea. She could not put from her mind the sensation of Emile's hand on hers as they'd milked the cow together or the bald statement he'd made regarding his use as a husband.

  Yet here Moll was, anxious to leave the inn.

  Moll caught her hands in the ends of her shawl. "Well, um, yes. I did have a...an errand to do."

  An errand. Lucy did her best to ignore a stabbing pain inside. Still searching the table, unable to find that pitcher of water, she waved a careless arm. "An errand. Ah, yes, then of course you must go."

  Lucy kept her eyes on the sandy mountain of flour in her bowl but was still aware of the relief in the maid's face. Eagerly, Moll headed across the kitchen for the door. Lucy told herself the pain in her stomach was receding. It was going to be all right.

  "Stop," she heard someone say.

  Moll turned at the door. "Mistress?"

  Lucy lifted her gaze from the bowl of flour. "I need eggs for this bread."

  "Mistress?"

  "Please go to the henhouse and fetch me a half-dozen eggs."

  Moll's mouth opened. "But—my errand."

  Lucy gazed at the maid. Oddly, she felt no particular rancor toward Moll. But a curious power was stirring inside, a reckless determination. "Your errand," she pronounced, "can be postponed."

  Moll's eyes flickered with something close to desperation. "But—every morning. I count on that!"

  "Oh, I am sure you do." Lucy gave a little laugh. "But, no more."

  Moll's mouth opened. "No more?" she whispered.

  Lucy understood the maid's dismay. Since the episode in the barn yesterday, she had continued to feel a hard, angled hand beneath her own: male strength yielding to her lesser power. She could understand a woman developing a need for that sort of sensation.

  "You are surprised?" Lucy asked the maid. "Did you think I would put up with this forever?"

  "But—the inn is so empty, you do not need me."

  Lucy's eyes widened. "Your absence is hardly the point."

  Moll looked baffled. "Then what is the point?"

  Lucy faltered, baffled herself. Was it so difficult to figure? "I do not need you," she stated carefully. "But I do require my husband." Shame filled Lucy, but also relief. She was finally taking control of the situation.

  Slowly, the expression of confusion on Moll's face cleared. "Oh, that's what—? You think I am with Emile?"

  "Please. Let us be honest now. I am under no illusions."

  "But you are, mistress."

  Lucy's brows flinched downward.

  Moll shook her head. "Surely you know, mistress, I am not sleeping with your husband."

  Lucy continued to frown. Such a declaration she had expected, but not one delivered with so much sincerity. "You deny it?"

  On Moll's face was an expression of sad disbelief. "I thought you knew. I thought you planned it."

  "I planned it?"

  Moll grimaced. "You seem to dislike him so."

  There was a cold feeling inside Lucy. If it was not Moll, then who? What was going on?

  Moll bit into her lower lip. "I'm not sleeping with Emile—no one is. They couldn't. He couldn't." She paused. "Don't you see?"

  "No." Lucy's voice sounded strange and thin. "What should I see?"

  Moll dug her hands into her shawl. "He is cursed. Emile is cursed. You cursed him."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the five weeks Lucy had lived in the town, she had never had occasion to cross the meadow that ran behind the inn. Now she ran across it, her hair and skirts streaming behind her, the wind making her eyes water.

  No, it was not true, it could not be. Moll was lying! That curse—it was naught but a story, a mean-spirited fable. It was not real.

  Lucy crested a ridge. On the other side was a stream, just as Moll had described. Lucy stood there, brushing the hair out of her face, catching her breath, and searching for the break in the bushes lining the stream, the path Moll had told her about. Truly, Lucy had other things to worry about today, big problems—real ones. Like how they were to eat on the morrow.

  The curse was not real.

  A noise helped Lucy find the route. It was the sound of a blistering oath. In Emile's voice.

  Lucy picked her way through the bushes until, pushing down a tree branch, she found Emile.

  Emile without his shirt probably would have made a sight under any circumstance. But in this case he was standing on his hands, balanced with his bare feet in the air. A deep line bisected the rounded muscles of his back, showing the strain of power beneath his smooth skin. It was a power great enough to keep him perfectly motionless.

  With the same controlled power, Emile slowly lowered his toes toward his chest. Now Lucy saw two apples sitting on the balls of his feet. The apples did not move as Emile did his slow motion. Then, in one movement of utter grace, Emile swung his feet the opposite direction, toward his back. His entire body arched to follow. Lucy caught her breath at the surprising beauty of it. Meanwhile the two apples flew into the air.

  One hit Emile in the shoulder. The other bounced against the top of his head. He landed on his rear, cursing. Then with his hand covering the spot on his head, he went silent.

  Lucy crouched down, but hiding was useless.

  He turned his head, pinning her location with stunning accuracy. "What," he asked in a frigid tone, "are you doing here?"

  Slowly, Lucy rose. "You—you are working."

  "Stuff." He got to his feet, brushing the dirt off his breeches.

  "You are working," Lucy said again. It was hard to take in. He was working, and, judging by the sheen of perspiration covering his chest, he'd been working very hard.

  He bent to pick up an apple, then threw a glare at her. "And I said, stuff."

  "You are not lazy." Lucy started to tremble. "You have been working—hard."

  Emile pointed at her with his apple. "Not as far as you're concerned." He waved his arm around. "You haven't seen anything."

  "But—"

  "I don't work at this." Emile tossed the apple in the air, waved his hand, and the fruit disappeared. "It's magic, you understand."

  Magic. How blind she had been. Of course he had to work. How else could he manage his astonishing tricks? How else hone his skill?

  "The crowd would never respect me did they know I actually have to try," Emile grumbled.

  "The crowd," Lucy repeated stupidly, her brain reeling. "And you are not with anybody."

  "Of course not!"

  Of course not. He was not lazy, and he was not with anybody else. In fact, he had not been bedding Moll. At all. Lucy's trembling grew worse. "What else have I been wrong about?" she whispered.

  "Damned if I know." There was a peculiar wariness in Emile's stance as he turned aside. "But you'd better go now. You've seen more than enough."

  Oh, Lucy did not think she'd seen nearly enough. Panic caught in her chest. "Emile—" She took a step forward.

  Immediately, he took one back.

  Inside Lucy, her panic sliced deeper. "Emile." She forced her voice to calm, as if he were wild, like that tom cat she'd found in the barn. "Emile, are you afraid of me?"

  "What?" The answer came too quickly. Lucy saw a brief flash behi
nd his eyes. "No," Emile stated in disgust. "Of course not."

  She took a determined step forward.

  Revealing he'd lied, he backed up again.

  "Emile." Her heart moved up into her throat. "Have I...injured you?"

  Again there was a quickly hidden acknowledgment. "Don't be silly. How could you injure me?" But he continued to back up as Lucy advanced. "Ouch." He hit a tree.

  Lucy came to a stop. Her heart beat high in her throat. It was just a story, she reminded herself. It was not real. But still... "Emile." She looked straight into his eyes, eyes that now wore the expression of a caught rabbit. "Emile," she asked. "Are you cursed?"

  He continued to give her the caught-rabbit look until, slowly, he relaxed. Leaning back against the tree, he lifted his chin.

  "Yes," he said.

  Lucy froze. "What?" But before he could repeat himself, she answered for him. "No. 'Tis impossible."

  He lifted a shoulder. "You wanted to know." He pushed himself away from the tree.

  Lucy turned as he brushed past her. "It is impossible. There is no curse."

  "Whatever you say." Finding his shirt on the grass, Emile bent to pick it up.

  Lucy scurried after him. "But you—you—" wanted me, she almost said. She had not been mistaken. The night Gawain had interrupted them, Emile had wanted to make love to her.

  Silent, Emile shrugged into his shirt.

  Lucy clasped her hands together and swallowed. She remembered that Emile had not made love to her that night. In fact, he'd been relieved to have been interrupted. A man avoiding shame?

  Lucy raised her clasped hands to her chin, the horror growing as other events came to mind. One by one, the pieces matched together. Their wedding night and the outrageous excuse Emile had made to avoid a demonstration of his weakness. The night by the wagon. One frustration after another.

  "Oh, my sweet Lord," Lucy whispered, staring at him. "You are cursed!"

  As he tied the laces of his shirt, Emile sniffed. "She believes."

  Lucy clasped her hands harder, her eyes wide upon him. "I am sorry, so very, very sorry. You have no idea—"

  "Aye." Emile grabbed a boot. "Fat lot of good that does me. You being sorry."

  Lucy opened her mouth. "I— But I cannot do anything about it!"

 

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