"He had gathered the crowd in his tavern," Emile went on. "So, in a way, he helped us get our custom."
"Indeed. More than 'in a way.' In fact, he's spent years cultivating the people of this village, gathering a friendly drinking group. We have stolen all of those years." Orville had to be furious. Lucy slid her stool back from the table and stood.
Emile squinted one eye up at her. "Are you saying...you don't think I gave Orville enough?"
"Aye, that's what I'm saying." She took a pace to one side, her hands on her hips.
Emile's squinted eye opened. "The devil."
"An angry man is a dangerous one."
Slowly, Emile shook his head. "Your tavern is better than Orville's. Your food is fresh, your ale isn't watered."
"That doesn't mean—"
"It does. After last night, you will not be stealing a thing from Orville. Whatever custom you have will be earned by your own hard work—and possibly mine. Losing business will be only what Orville deserves."
Taking another pace, Lucy waved a hand. "That is not how Orville will see it."
"Then Orville's thinking needs to be changed."
Lucy laughed. "How do you propose to do that?"
Emile glared at her. "I already have."
She opened her mouth, prepared to deliver another sally—until she looked down and saw what her argument had caused.
She'd lost the look of love.
"Listen." Emile's lips pressed flat. "I have met a dozen Orvilles, a thousand. They bluster, but they are all cowards at heart."
Lucy's fingers bit into her hips. He was tense, angry, unhappy. She was the one who had caused this effect.
"Cowards respond to firm handling, not generosity." Emile gave Lucy a tight smile. "Believe me, any weakness we show, Orville will rush to exploit. Offering him more money would be weakness."
Dismay cascaded through her. She had made him unhappy. Of course she had. Hadn't she learned yet? A man wanted to feel like he was the strong one, the protector. He wanted to imagine the woman in his life was a fading damsel who couldn't lift a finger for herself.
Hadn't she learned this from her father, who'd struggled so desperately to marry her off? Hadn't she learned it from Sir Robert, who'd left her to bed his silly-headed countess?
And here she was, doing her best to drive Emile off, too, when what she craved was the exact opposite.
She wanted him to stay. Oh, if she possibly could.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her face. "I see. Uh, I had not thought of that. A coward. Yes." She cleared her throat. "So, you think we gave Orville enough money?"
Emile gave a definitive nod. "I do."
Lucy returned to her stool at the table. "Well, then, if you think so...then it must be true."
Emile frowned.
Bringing forth a wavery smile, Lucy attempted to explain her change of heart. "You have a wider experience of the world. You know more about such things than I do." Yet in the back of her mind, she believed her calculations were correct for the amount Orville would be losing. Far more than one night's profit.
Lucy wondered if her inner thoughts showed because Emile regarded her for a very long moment, clearly wondering whether or not to believe her.
In that moment, she held her breath. His love for her was so terribly delicate. Had she just driven it away?
Finally, slowly, Emile smiled.
Lucy breathed again.
He reached for her hand. "You are quite correct. There are some things about which I do know best. Trust me."
Trust him? How could she trust him when she didn't trust herself? She didn't know how to keep a man's love.
But she wrapped her hand around his. "Oh, I do, Emile. I do trust you." She would declare it so, at any rate. She would say or do whatever was necessary to keep him looking at her this way, as if he cared.
Emile smiled at her and raised their hands to kiss her fingers.
Lucy looked down at his curly hair and the lashes lying long against his cheeks. Her heart danced crazily in her chest. He wanted to be the protector. He wanted to know best.
But she still wasn't sure: for how long?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Yawning, Emile made his way downstairs following an uncharacteristic nap. He was not used to eating so much at dinner time. For the third day in a row, Lucy had outdone herself with a fancy meal to pamper him.
Emile was well aware he did not deserve such treatment. Of course, that didn't mean he wished to give it up. On the contrary, the more tender Lucy showed herself, the more he wanted to keep her. To stay.
Since his conversation with Orville, his determination had grown to do so. Yes, he was a thorough rogue and confirmed wanderer, but in order to keep Lucy he would settle down. He would remain married, own property, and regularly pay his creditors.
Pausing on the last few steps, Emil rubbed his eyes with a rueful smile. Crockett would never believe it.
Before Emile's mood could be ruined by thoughts of Crockett and the grim prediction his old mentor would have had over the situation, he heard his wife's voice.
"No bread!" she bellowed.
With a real smile, Emile entered the kitchen.
A small, bent man cringed before a red-faced Lucy. He made the mistake of trying to excuse himself. "We did not receive the load of flour until—"
"No bread!" Lucy echoed. She pointed at the cringing baker. "In an hour I am going to have a tavern full of hungry people and you are telling me there is no bread!"
"As I explained, mistress—"
"Go." Lucy pointed her finger toward the door. "And do not come back unless it is with a dozen loaves of bread!"
Bowing and wincing, the baker sidled his way toward the door.
Wiping her forehead with an apron, Lucy turned back to her kettle. Judging by the row of carrots lined up unwashed and unpeeled, her scullery maid had not lived up to expectation, either.
Emile stepped through the chaos of pots and pans. He supposed it took a little time to establish a reputation as a field marshal, even for so formidable a specimen as Lucy. While Lucy scowled and checked the contents of her kettle, Emile picked up a carrot and a knife.
Upon hearing the scrape of the knife, Lucy turned. "You took your sweet time— Oh. Emile." Lucy's black expression changed dramatically. "What are you doing?"
Emile continued scraping his carrot, disarmed by her abrupt shift in attitude. "You look like you could use some help."
"Oh, not from you!" With a nervous laugh, Lucy pried both knife and carrot from his hands. "This kind of work is not for you. You belong in there. " Lucy inclined her head toward the tavern room.
Emile relinquished his half-peeled carrot reluctantly. "There are no customers yet, are there? I might as well make myself useful."
Lucy set carrot and knife on the counter. "You are useful. Essential, really. There is no call for you to do kitchen duty, as well."
Emile wondered why not. Lucy took on a dozen different duties. Was he so delicate that he could only handle the one?
"Go." Lucy shooed at him with her apron. "Go practice your lute or something. Better yet, relax. Go on."
Glum, Emile went.
The tavern room was empty. Emile kicked at a rush on the floor. Sometimes Lucy was too solicitous of him, as if she thought he might break.
Sighing, he snatched up a lute and parked his rump on a table in order to tune the instrument. He was not going to break. He could handle a knife and a carrot.
Tightening a string, Emile smiled. Indeed, he would show Lucy just what he could do with a knife. Six—no, seven—of them. Later, when he had an audience and she couldn't stop him.
His earlier fears about his marriage's longevity were just fading when the front door opened, bringing in a cool rush of air.
Ah! A guest and a true chance to be useful. Emile set down his lute as a tall fellow strode in through the door, followed by his manservant.
"Welcome!" Emile started toward the pair with
a warm smile. "Welcome to the—" He stopped with a grimace as he remembered they had yet to give their inn a name. "Uh, how do you do?"
The tall fellow swept off his wide-brimmed hat, thus revealing his face.
Emile only needed one glance at the man's expression of lazy, patrician arrogance to want to take a step back. Not everyone would recognize the subtle ruthlessness lurking behind the man's narrow moustache and spearhead goatee. But Emile was an expert in men who inhabited the particular place in society obviously owned by this fellow.
"Goodness," the man drawled. "We are the first ones here." He handed his hat to his manservant. "Ah, well. At least the soup will be warm."
"Oh, indeed it will. Certainly." Emile worked hard to retrieve his smile. "Ahem. Do you require sustenance, or are you rather seeking accommodation for the night?"
"Sustenance, by all means." Yawning, the man swept back his cloak. "As for accommodation, I live in the little cottage on the hill. I imagine I'll be able to make it back there even after a stop in your so notable tavern."
The 'cottage' on the hill was a manse, the size of which could be seen from miles around, but Emile was relieved to learn the man was local. One of his kind from London would have been a disaster. "A private room, then. If you will follow me—?"
"Nay." The man's smooth voice cut through Emile's blather. "I want to eat down here—where the entertainment is."
Emile forced himself to meet the gentleman's eyes. They were dark and, despite the air of boredom, deeply inquisitive.
"As you wish," Emile hummed sweetly.
The fellow lifted one side of his mouth. "So I wish."
Giving something between a nod and a bow, whichever best hid his face, Emile backed toward the kitchen door. "Food and drink will be brought immediately." He did not look, but he felt sharp, dark eyes trained upon him.
"Who is he?"
Emile nearly ran Lucy down where she stood peeking out of the kitchen door.
"Some form of the local law." Emile put a few more feet between himself and the door to the tavern.
"The lord on the hill," Lucy breathed. "A baron, I think. Or possibly an earl."
Emile felt his chest tighten. A sheriff. Or possibly a magistrate.
"You." Swiveling, Lucy pointed to one of her new boys. "Bring him a drink. One for his man, too. Gawain—ah, there you are. See what he wants to eat."
The men rushed to attend the high-quality patron left alone in the other room. Apparently, nobility immediately commanded the respect Lucy's forceful personality had yet to achieve.
"We are moving up in the world," she softly crowed. "Think if we start a reputation among his crowd. Moll, break out that marchpane dessert we made this morning. Boys, let's bring up some Bordeaux wine."
More servants rushed. Meanwhile, Lucy's eyes sparkled eagerly as she turned to Emile. "This is a marvelous opportunity, and I am sure we owe it all to you."
"To me?" Emile croaked.
Lucy nodded, clearly delighted. "This baron or earl must have heard of your prowess. He must have been curious to view it in person."
Emile put a hand to his stomach. "You think he wants to see me?"
Moll sidled past him with a huge tray of marchpane.
Lucy's bright smile began to fade. "That makes you nervous?"
Emile could not prevent a laugh. He pressed his hand harder against his stomach. "I—I simply hope he did not come expressly to see me."
Lucy looked down to where Emile was holding his belly. "What is wrong?"
"Wrong?" Emile whispered. A list—a volume—of his past sins rose before his eyes.
"Your stomach." Lucy's gaze shot back to his face. "Are you sick?"
Emile moved his fingertips against the rich silk and velvet of his jerkin. Having so high a fellow visit her tavern clearly meant a lot to Lucy. Impressing him with the quality of her food—and entertainment—meant even more. "Yes," Emile said anyway. "I think I am a little. Sick."
Lucy went from eager ambition to concern in the blink of an eye. "What is it? Your belly?" She put her hand over his.
"Perhaps...something I ate."
Lucy's eyes were all concern as they went from Emile's stomach to his face. "But we ate the same food."
Emile had no answer to that, so he remained silent.
"Surely not a fever." Lucy put her hand to his forehead.
Knowing she would feel no heat there, Emile drew her hand away. He smiled. "Sick or not, I can still entertain your magistrate."
"Absolutely not." Lucy's eyes widened. "Up to bed with you. At once."
Emile did not know which was stronger, relief or shame. He wanted to make Lucy proud of him. He wanted to be honest for her, a law-abiding citizen. Aye, he wanted to be scrupulously so. He remembered Crockett and how being anything less than exemplary would extinguish the delicate emotion of love.
All of this meant he could not possibly stand one minute beneath the keen and scrutinizing eye of a magistrate. A man who held warrants and descriptions, a man trained to sniff out a rogue the same way Emile had learned how to sniff out a member of the law.
"Off with you," Lucy said.
"Well—" For a moment longer shame warred against self-preservation. To slink off like this made Emile feel utterly craven.
Then Gawain stuck his head through the door. "Where is the master? His lordship asks especially for him."
Emile's hand popped over his middle again.
Lucy meanwhile whirled. "Please make apologies to his lordship. Emile is going up to bed."
Gawain's brows rose. He looked at Emile.
"Yes." Emile averted his gaze from Gawain as he clutched his middle again. "Send my apologies. I am not well."
Lucy looked at him with worried eyes, and Emile actually did start to feel a little sick.
"Let me take you up—"
"No!" Emile stated this so forcefully that Lucy jumped. He smiled and touched her shoulder. "Bad enough I disappoint you in not being able to entertain this—this baron or earl, but to take you away from your work in the kitchen, too—"
"I am not disappointed." Lucy's eyes anxiously searched his.
Emile gave a short laugh. "Well, you should be." After giving her a quick kiss on the forehead, he took a step back. "But I will make it up to you. I promise."
Lucy's smile was brief and worried. "Just get better."
Emile turned before he could feel any worse. Get better. If he only could.
~~~
By midnight Emile had definitely recovered.
Straddling her husband's loins, his shaft buried deeply inside of her, Lucy looked down into his eyes. The light of the fire showed a bright eagerness there.
"I am only trying to make it up to you," Emile explained, "that I did not entertain your sheriff."
"Justice of the Peace." It was an important distinction. "This...could feel better." Actually, it hurt.
Emile used his thumbs to spread her nether lips. "You must relax." Ever so gently, he tapped her sensitized nub. "In a minute it won't hurt anymore."
Lucy whimpered at the lovely touch on her femininity. But she really did need to talk about the Justice of the Peace.
Emile bucked.
Yelping, Lucy flailed for balance. That hurt more.
Emile caught her hands. He bucked again. "Relax," he gritted and then crushed her fingers as he drove into her again.
The pain in her fingers distracted Lucy from that inside, and suddenly it was not pain anymore. Lucy's eyes opened wide. It was her turn to crush Emile's fingers as each thrust stroked a magical chord deep inside. Bolts of pleasure zigzagged through her.
"Emile," she wept. Her bones melted from within. "Emile!"
His teeth bared in a feral clench, Emile kept on driving, making her body one shuddering ecstasy. It was beyond anything—beyond what a human could endure.
Lucy screamed. Dimly, she was aware of Emile's withdrawal and shout of satisfaction before she collapsed on top of his chest. Trembling with the echoes of
pleasure, she could not have moved if she wanted to.
Emile's heart beat in her ear as a pair of strong arms moved to hold her close. "I told you it would stop hurting."
Lucy made an inarticulate murmur of response. It sounded like a purr. Yes, he had known that. Over the past few days, Emile had taught her that when it came to matters of the bedroom, he always knew. He knew exactly how to make her lose control, even over her own body.
Lucy felt a warm liquid on her belly. As usual, Emile had retained enough of his own control to spill his seed outside of her womb.
Executing a leisurely roll, Emile tucked Lucy close against him. One hand reached to cup the lower cheek of her buttock. While his moustache caressed her forehead, he sighed. After a moment, he reached for a cloth and wiped her belly dry. Then, tossing the towel to the floor, he cuddled her close again.
Feeling cozy, Lucy was almost able to dismiss the significance of the way Emile had ended their lovemaking. She told herself it was only considerate of him to prevent a pregnancy when she had not stated any desire for children. In fact, she should be glad Emile was skilled enough to know how to do this. Well-educated, as it were. Aye, the man had had many previous lovers.
Emile's beard rubbed against the top of her head. "You are all right, aren't you?"
"Hm? Yes." But her eyes opened, staring at the curls on his chest. Emile had had many lovers. And he was careful to prevent the complications of progeny. So that he had been able to leave—unfettered—every single one of those lovers. He was always careful to maintain his freedom, even now that he was married.
"Hm." Emile pushed Lucy onto her back. He put one hand on either side of her face and looked down into her eyes.
Lucy blinked up at him, trying to wipe her expression clean.
Emile's brows drew together. "I think...you are worried." He rubbed his thumbs above her eyebrows. "What worries you?"
As if Lucy could possibly ask him straight out: was he staying? Quickly, she searched for something else to say. "You did not let me tell you."
Emile tilted his head. "What?"
"About the Justice of the Peace."
He stared at her.
Perhaps it was an odd topic to bring up at a time like this, but Lucy began to feel less vulnerable. This did not concern their marriage and her lack of control over Emile's love. "I found out something," she declared.
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