Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

  She sniffed and blinked away the moisture in her eyes. "No," she admitted.

  "Come, Lucy," he said. With a gentle smile, he drew her against his chest and then touched his lips to her forehead. "I have not left. I'm with you now."

  His tone and gesture were so tender she could not resist them. She put her arms around him and rested her head against his chest. But inside she heard echo that one last word he had used.

  Now.

  Did he only care for her now, temporarily? To Lucy, that seemed the only logical explanation.

  For Emile could not possibly feel this much, be so overwhelmed. No, he could not possibly care for Lucy as much as she cared for him.

  He could not.

  ~~~

  In the attic at the top of the inn, a chill brushed the early morning air. Gawain stood to one side of a small, diamond-paned window. His eyes narrowed as he looked through it.

  Down in the meadow, a skirted figure with a russet shawl hurried.

  Gawain raised one arm from where it lay crossed over the other and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. There was no reason to spy on Moll this morning. Emile was not with her; he never had been. Meanwhile Gawain's own pure love, Lucy, had chosen her husband. But as the figure in the meadow ascended a small ridge, Gawain did not budge from his window.

  Moll crested the ridge. At the top she paused, apparently fighting a strong breeze. The wind pulled at her skirt, stretching it like a banner to one side. On the other side, the material hugged against her hip, outlining the unique curve of woman.

  Gawain slapped his hand back onto his arm and bit his fingers into his flesh. He considered praying but knew it was useless. God was not answering this prayer. He was not releasing Gawain from his sinful memories: the sensation of a woman's body pressed against his own and the incredible softness of her breast filling his hand.

  Moll scurried down the other side of the ridge. She disappeared from sight.

  Gawain pressed his head against the wall. He could feel his heart beating in his chest and a twisting, biting pain inside. He was unable to release the grip of his other hand on his arm.

  Because he wondered. If Moll did not steal out to be with Emile, who did she go to meet?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  She cared for him.

  Emile stood outside the double door of the King's Head tavern. Rain beat down on his velvet hat and soaked the shoulders of his gray-green doublet. His boots were ankle deep in mud. The task which he was about to undertake would not be pleasant.

  But he could not erase the wide smile which had taken over his face. Lucy cared for him. She actually wanted him and not some alternate future husband.

  What this actually meant for Emile's own future was up for debate, of course. A rascal like himself could not exactly make long-term plans. Sooner or later he'd do something stupid or not quite honest and ruin everything. But for right now...

  For right now, he needed to dim this idiot smile. It would not do to look like he was gloating. Although he was, of course, gloating. Ah, Lucy...

  Giving a brisk shake to his head, Emile managed to blunt his grin and pushed open the heavy door of the King's Head.

  The floorboards clipped hollowly beneath Emile's boots. For once, someone had swept the place free of rushes. It made the room appear even emptier than it was, with the benches resting upside-down on the tables.

  Emile stood between the two gray smudges of light cast by the front windows. He peered into the gloom.

  His quarry sat hulked over a table near the back. Emile was not surprised to spy a heavy tankard by the man's elbow.

  Orville would think the way out of his troubles was through the bottom of a pewter tankard.

  With a short sigh, Emile started toward him.

  Orville raised his head at the sound of Emile's boots. His mouth sagged. "Oh," he said. "You."

  Emile came to a stop on the opposite side of the table. For a horrible moment he thought Orville might burst into tears.

  But the man managed to control himself. He picked up his tankard instead. It wobbled in his hand. "You took them all away."

  "So?" Emile shrugged. "Take them back."

  Orville said nothing.

  Repressing a sigh, Emile lifted the purse in his right hand. It landed on the table with a distinct ching.

  Orville was sober enough to recognize the sound. His eyes riveted on the small cloth purse and then shifted to squint at Emile.

  Emile gestured with his chin. "Start with that. Purchase some decent food to serve your customers for a change."

  Orville's gaze narrowed.

  Emile hooked a toe on the bench on his side of the table, pulled the bench out, and stepped over it to sit.

  Orville continued to stare at him.

  Sighing, Emile reached for the purse himself. He tugged on the drawstring to open the mouth and spread the coins on the table between them. "That's half our take from last night. I think that's fair, considering it was your place that started the crowd."

  Orville blinked. Emile could tell he was having a hard time keeping his eyes from the money. "And what about payment for all the other nights?" Orville's voice croaked. "When you came in here like a snake to steal my custom."

  Emile lowered his lashes partway. "You got your 'payment,' in all the extra business I brought in." He made an expansive gesture. "Why, these walls have never seen the like of the past three weeks."

  Even in the gloom, Emile could see the dusky hue that took over Orville's face.

  Emile let his own face relax, let his body go light and flexible.

  "You slimy ball of shit," Orville muttered. "I've lost all those customers for good, and you think this—" He flicked a finger at the coins, scattering them. "You think this is going to satisfy me? You think it's enough to make me kneel down and take you up my arse?"

  Emile did not move as Orville heaved to his feet. The bench behind the tavernkeep rolled with a crash to the ground. The next sound was that of Emile as he released a long, slow breath, something that misted on the huge blade that Orville held beneath his nose.

  "I'm not going to take it," Orville fumed. He lay half-sprawled on the table, listing to one side in order to hold his knife.

  "You might want to think about this," Emile said. Each word fogged, then disappeared from Orville's blade.

  Orville's smile revealed the way one front tooth wrapped around the other. "Oh, why think?"

  Emile's lips curved. "Because, much as I would hate to lose my nose, I think you would hate to lose your balls more."

  Orville blinked. His gaze dropped down his torso to find the efficient little knife Emile held at his crotch.

  Emile watched all color drain from the tavernkeeper's face.

  Carefully, Orville moved his dagger away from Emile's face.

  Emile waited until Orville had gingerly pushed himself off the table. "Go on," Emile said. "Pick up the bench. Sit down."

  Glum, Orville righted the bench.

  Meanwhile, Emile sheathed his knife.

  "I thought we were friends," Orville mumbled toward the bench. "Compatriots, partners."

  Discreetly, Emile rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. What he had gotten from that 'partnership' was a few free drinks. "My only partner is my wife."

  Orville dropped heavily onto his bench. He glared at Emile, but Emile knew there would be no more tricks from his corner. This had been, in fact, the point of his visit today. To extinguish whatever threat Orville thought to become.

  Now Orville wrapped his hands around his tankard. "I don't understand. I thought you hated your wife. We all did."

  Emile's booted toe slid on the floor beneath the table. "You thought wrong."

  "No. No, we didn't." For a moment, Orville's gaze turned canny. "You did hate her, but you changed." His eyebrows rose. "Maybe she put a spell on you."

  Emile laughed. It was close enough to the truth that he leaned over the table with a grin. "Maybe she did. But I'm not complaining. 'Tis a good one."r />
  "A good one." Orville continued to stare at Emile, his eyebrows raised. Slowly, he nodded. "Aye, it is a good one, if she's even got you believing that."

  Emile's smile faded. "What do you mean?"

  "I think if you stick around, Lucy Fox will become a wealthy woman."

  Emile snorted at this reasoning, but at the same time a heavy weight formed in his belly. Stick around. The uncertainty of his future elbowed him again.

  Feigning ease, he leaned back. "Believe me, between Lucy and myself, 'tis I getting the better end of the bargain."

  Orville lifted his tankard for a swallow. "I would not argue with a man so fast with a knife as yourself."

  "Aye, and that is a wise thing to remember." The bench squealed as Emile pushed it back to rise to his feet. "Keep that in mind, man, as you pass my wife in the street. Do I hear a hair of her head you have touched, and you will know about it."

  Orville's tankard hit the tabletop. "You've made your point already."

  "Good." Emile stepped over the bench behind him and strolled toward the front door. His back was to Orville, but he didn't worry about the frustrated tavernkeep. What worried Emile were those two little words: stick around.

  Could he, indeed, stick around? Could he stay?

  Frowning, Emile stepped out the door. Cold rain immediately pelted him. He hardly noticed.

  Scoundrels could not count on the future. For one thing, past victims and members of the constabulary had a way of overtaking people such as Emile if they stayed too long in one location.

  But the even greater consideration was that rogues could not hope to keep love. Of all the matters Crockett had taught Emile, this had penetrated deepest. Toward a knave, love was a delicate emotion, highly changeable. In the blink of an eye, it could turn to hate.

  Emile sank ankle deep into the mud. Absently, he plucked one foot after the other from the sticky muck. There was another side to the question of his future, of course. He had much to offer Lucy and her tavern. He'd proved that last night. She needed him. Right now, she did love him.

  Emile stopped in the middle of the rainy, muddy street. He lifted his face toward the sky. Though the rain was cold, this thought filled him with warmth. Right now, Lucy did love him, and her love felt...heavenly.

  Wiping the rain out of his eyes, he blinked at the muddy road before him. Staying was a dangerous idea, terribly risky.

  But, oh, how seductive.

  ~~~

  He cared for her?

  No, Lucy found it impossible to believe. No man had ever cared for her. Nor had she forgotten he'd only declared he was with her—for now.

  But just in case he might mean something more, she went to some trouble in preparing dinner for her husband the next night. She wanted to please him, coddle him... If it were at all possible, she wanted to persuade him to keep on caring for her.

  Upstairs in the private dining room, Lucy shook her finger where a run of molten wax hit it and then stepped back to survey the scene she had set. A fire crackled merrily on the hearth while a feast steamed aromatically on a table set with linen. Candles glowed about the room. Everything she had done served as a warm contrast to the rain pouring outside.

  Lucy hoped Emile would be pleased. She hoped he would return from his mysterious errand before all the food got cold. She hoped— Oh, she hoped for so many things.

  Mainly, she hoped he actually did care for her—and planned to stay.

  The latch on the door lifted, causing Lucy to spin and her heart to leap.

  Emile sidled through the doorway, his body at an odd angle and his eyes downcast. His hair and his clothes were soaked from the rain. He stopped dead once he was through, as if only then noticing he was not alone.

  Slowly, he raised his eyes. "Uh..." His gaze went from Lucy to the rest of the room, roving over the table laid with roast pheasant, vinegar oysters, and breast of veal. A guilty, even fearful, expression crossed his face. "Uh...this is nice." He swallowed. "Are we expecting someone special?"

  Just you. Lucy twisted her fingers in her skirt. He did not look pleased. And why was he standing all bent—? "What is wrong? Are you hurt?"

  "Ah..." With his cheeks pinkening, he let his arm curve down.

  A pair of furry ears could be seen poking up from the crook of his elbow.

  "I, uh, ran into this little fellow in the barn," Emile explained. "I went in there to...um, check on the roof. He was crying so piteously that I—well, I could hardly refuse to bring him inside." His eyes beseeched Lucy, apologetic.

  First guilty, then fearful, now apologetic. None of these were emotions Lucy wanted the man to have toward her. Besides, he'd only found the old tom she'd twice already traipsed out to the barn to try and locate.

  "I suppose it would not hurt to have a mouser about the place," she admitted gruffly. As she reached to scratch the fellow's head, she pulled back his ear to check on his wound. "Hmph. Looks red and healthy."

  When she looked up, she found in Emile's eyes the expression she'd been hoping for: the look of love.

  Relief swept through her. She had no idea how she had merited the look now, but she was not going to quibble with success.

  The cat wriggled out of Emile's arms. Exclaiming, they both stepped back, reflexively avoiding sharp claws. In a blur of tabby fur, the animal streaked across the room. The last Lucy saw of him was a twitch of tail as he disappeared behind a tapestry wall hanging.

  "Uh, anxious to get at those mice," Emile claimed.

  Lucy laughed, too pleased by Emile's look of love to worry what damage the untrained cat might do to her tavern. "Sit down," she told Emile. "Your dinner will get cold."

  Emile's eyes flitted toward the pheasant glazed with gallandine sauce. "My dinner?"

  "Aye, yours." Lucy relaxed a little. "Later tonight you will work hard entertaining the crowd. It is only wise to, uh, cosset you a little beforehand." It was only wise, she added to herself, to do whatever possible to keep him liking her.

  Obviously abashed, he laughed. "I fear any effort of mine would never merit such special treatment."

  "I have no fear of it." Lucy felt confident enough to take his arm. "Just sit down. Eat."

  With a smile and a shrug, he sat.

  Lucy pushed the bird toward him. "But save room for dessert."

  He looked over at her and laughed.

  Oh, this was working, Lucy congratulated herself. He was happy again. "Perhaps we can make this a—a custom," she stammered, hoping he would get the hint. Was he staying long enough for them to form customs with each other?

  "A passing costly custom," Emile remarked while sliding her an amused look.

  He did not get the hint.

  With a chuckle, Emile slid his dagger forth. "Although perhaps, for today, I did do something to merit a crust of bread or so." Smiling, he began to cut the meat.

  Hiding her disappointment, Lucy poured a scoop of oysters onto his trencher. "Ah, and what is that, pray?"

  Emile's expression turned smug as he reached for the veal. "I took care of Orville this afternoon."

  Lucy paused, her hand over the salad.

  "I had better get a taste of this pheasant before you discover how easy a job it was," Emile joked.

  "You took care of Orville," Lucy repeated, staring at him. The idea had not occurred to her—but it was so obvious. All the customers they had entertained the night before had come from the King's Head tavern, Orville's place. The man couldn't have been pleased about losing all his business. "I had not considered him," she muttered.

  Nodding absently, Emile broke off a piece of bread. "No reason you should have."

  Lucy continued to stare at Emile. No reason she should have? She was attempting to run a tavern, and she could not keep in mind potential trouble?

  "By Saint Chris, this tastes good." Emile swallowed down an oyster. "Sit, Lucy. Enjoy this with me."

  Slowly, Lucy sat.

  Emile gave her an indulgent look. "Do not concern yourself with Orville. I
tell you I took care of him."

  "But how? He must have been furious."

  "Nearly sliced my nose off." Emile tore himself another piece of bread.

  Lucy choked.

  Grinning, Emile reached over to pat her on the back. "In sooth, Lucy, the tavernkeep was not very fast with a knife."

  Lucy coughed. "No, I suppose he would not be as fast as you." She watched Emile take another oyster, then pluck up a napkin to wipe his hand.

  He turned to smile at her. For her, he'd taken care of Orville. He appeared happy with her dinner. For that matter, he appeared happy with Lucy herself. Today.

  But for how long would that last? Despite their recent loveplay—and even his confession of caring—he had not said a word about their marriage. In fact, he had made a point of saying he was only here with her now.

  He had almost sounded as if he was going to have to leave, that he had some other obligation. Lucy had a good idea what that obligation was.

  His freedom.

  Whatever caring he might have for her could not overwhelm his desire for that. Emile's freedom was an integral part of him.

  Wasn't it?

  Or was it?

  She did not know, but she certainly did wonder. She wondered and worried.

  "Orville... You did not tell me: how did you take care of him?" Though she tried to avoid sounding harsh, a seed of resentment might have crept into her voice. Why should she have to wonder about Emile's intentions regarding their marriage?

  The napkin with which Emile had been wiping his hand slowed. "Uh...To take care of Orville I used an age-old, time-proven method." He shot Lucy a wary glance. "I bought him off."

  Lucy raised her eyebrows. Money was pragmatic. It was a method she might have used herself.

  Although, of course, she had not even realized there was a problem. Instead, she had relied on her husband—whose tenure was unknown—to think of it for her. "How much?"

  Emile re-folded his napkin with care. "Half our take from last night."

  Lucy tilted her head.

  "It seemed fair," Emile added.

  "Fair." Lucy frowned. The owner of the King's Head would suffer much from Emile's defection.