With a brief frown, Emile let go of her face. "Did you?"
Lucy struggled to sit up. "We have to watch out for him."
Slowly, Emile rolled back onto an elbow. "Why?"
Lucy was pleased by his close attention. She pulled the sheet over her breasts. "You are never going to believe this, but, of all people, he is related to Orville!"
Leaned on one elbow, Emile stared hard at her.
"Can you credit that?" Lucy asked. "Orville is his brother-in-law."
Emile's stare grew unnerving. "That is what we have to watch out for? That the man is Orville's brother-in-law?"
Lucy smoothed the sheet over her stomach. "It is a problem."
Looking to the side, Emile let out a swift breath.
"Did you know that it is the role of a Justice of the Peace to license taverns?" Lucy lifted her chin. "I think we ought to give Orville more money."
Emile's gaze swung back to her. "What?"
"Under the circumstances, I think we need to give him more."
Emile's eyes went hard. "That is not a good idea."
"But the consequences—"
"No." He closed one hand over Lucy's and looked directly into her eyes. "You leave Orville to me."
Lucy felt her brows draw together. "Why?"
Emile squeezed the hand he held. His gaze perceptibly softened. "Because I love you."
Meeting his honey-gold gaze, Lucy faltered. Was not that the point of—of everything? For him to love her? She bit her lip. But was love enough? Was it a promise?
With one hand holding hers and a knee set casually between her legs, Emile was a picture of easy sensuality. Taught sensuality. And he had left every one of his previous teachers.
He shifted so that he could move his hand to her waist where he could embrace her. "I will take care of you."
Lucy scowled. "I would rather be the one taking care of you."
Emile's eyes crinkled at the corners and he rested his cheek against the side of her breast. "Does that mean that you love me, too?"
Lucy felt a lurch inside. What a question. There was no thought or wish in her head that was not of him. Of how to make him happy and keep him. Gently, uncertainly, she brushed her fingers through the curls on his head. "You know that I do but—" She bit her lower lip. "Emile, have you ever loved before?"
His brows drew down.
"Well?" She could not believe she was asking this. "Have you?"
She saw him swallow. But he met her eyes directly. "Like this, with you? Never."
Lucy smiled. "Never?"
Lashes dropped over his eyes. He ducked his chin. "Well," he muttered. "Not with a woman."
It took a moment to sink in. Then she laughed. "You loved a man?"
Emile kept his head ducked. "And you should have seen the fellow," he said with a low chuckle. "Bald, dropsical, and with a belly like a pregnant sow."
Lucy's smile faded. He was not joking.
Emile, meanwhile, took his arm from around her. "Not a likely candidate for enduring affection, but he fed me when I was hungry."
Did he mean they had been lovers? Lucy tried not to look too shocked. She had heard of such, naturally. She'd traveled to markets and dealt with all sorts of people. But to think that someone she knew—Emile— Oh, my.
She was careful to swallow her astonishment, however. Never had Emile spoken of his life, of what he had been or done before meeting her. She did not want him to stop now. Carefully, she asked, "Were you...very hungry?"
"Starving." His tone was jovial, but he sat facing the door, not Lucy. Gazing in that direction, he mused, "I probably would have starved to death had Crockett not pulled me out of the gutter."
Lucy stared. "Yes...I see how that might win a person's gratitude."
Emile shrugged a well-muscled shoulder. "It would not have been much help to save my life if he had not then taught me everything he knew."
"He taught you magic?"
Tsking, Emile glanced her way. "It is not possible to teach such a thing as magic."
Lucy found herself smiling. It was a unique style of arrogance, and now she knew where it came from. A bald, dropsical old man. "So it was all right? I mean, he taught you—everything but magic. And—" Lucy felt her cheeks grow warm. "He was kind to you?"
Turning to face the door again, Emile laughed. "As kind as I deserved."
Lucy's smile faltered. She recognized something in Emile's face as he gazed pensively at the door. It was the frightening thing she felt in her own heart. A lack of confidence in the ability to hold someone's affection. "What happened to him, the—the man you loved?"
Emile started. He glanced at Lucy and his eyes widened. "Oh, no," he said.
"Oh, no—what?"
He laughed and walked his arms toward her. "It was not between us the way you are thinking."
Lucy managed to look affronted. "And what am I thinking?"
Chuckling, Emile burrowed his nose against her stomach. "My master liked women. The same as I do."
"Stop it!" Lucy's knees jerked up as Emile chinned a ticklish spot beneath her rib cage. At the same time, she felt a small bubble of relief. She was glad Emile had not been forced in that way.
"Stop. So you say—now." Emile covered her left breast with one hand. "We will see how long you can carry that tune."
"Stop." Lucy put her hand on Emile's wrist. But she was not able to put much force into moving Emile's hand away as he proceeded to smother her neck with kisses.
"What was that?" Emile massaged Lucy's breast with his hand. As his beard sensitized her jaw, he rubbed a thumb over a nipple already hardening with eagerness.
Lucy moaned. He was doing it again, taking over.
"I did not hear you," Emile murmured. He circled his thumb. "Stop? Did you say stop?"
Lucy plunged her fingers into his hair. She could hear Emile's soft laughter as he lowered his face to her breast. But she was not completely enthralled. He had not completely conquered her. Lucy knew she had gotten none of the information she wanted from Emile.
He had loved. And somehow, he had left the one he loved.
Did he plan to leave her, too?
~~~
Emile turned over.
In the dark, Lucy's lashes were a smudge against her cheeks. Hair curled over her nose and under her chin.
The muscles of his chest constricted just from watching her sleep. Love, she had asked him. Have you ever loved before?
Emile scrunched his eyes closed. Why on earth had he admitted it? Why had he brought up Crockett?
Opening his eyes again, Emile backed one leg out from under the covers. Careful to keep the change in weight from shifting the mattress, he slipped out of bed.
He stood a moment with the floor cold beneath his feet and the air chilling his naked skin. He knew why he had brought up Crockett. To distract Lucy from any more talk about the magistrate.
Turning, Emile found his shirt on the floor. He pulled it over his head and then shook the hair out of his eyes.
Lucy slept on.
Emile's mouth curved as he looked at her. She had no idea, not a suspicion, of what he had to fear from a magistrate. For some reason she assumed she was the only one who could put him in danger of a gallows. So naive! She thought their biggest problem was that the magistrate was Orville's brother-in-law.
Stifling a scoff, Emile turned away. For that misfortune, he actually felt sorry for the man.
At the window, Emile drew back the edge of the curtain. He could easily imagine what Crockett would have said about Emile's present predicament.
These are the wages of sin.
Emile leaned his head against the cold windowpane. What he saw was the charcoal blur of street bordered by darker blurs of buildings. What he heard was every word of the accusations Crockett had hurled at him that last, ugly night.
Thief. Rogue. Whoreson. You were born rotten and you always will be.
Emile pressed his skin closer against the chilled glass.
; He did not want to remember that night.
Out the window, the town remained dark and silent. A breath hissed from between Emile's teeth. If he did not want a repetition of that night, he was going to have do something. Something other than playing sick in his wife's bedchamber.
But how, Emile wondered? Other than running, how did a man escape his past? How escape the knave he still was underneath it all?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
In one of the guest rooms above the tavern, Moll picked up a clean bed sheet and looked out the window. Pest! The sky was already starting to lighten.
She shook out the sheet and watched impatiently as it floated to settle over the bed. If only she'd noticed last night that this room had not yet been cleaned... Now she would be late.
But there was no use crying over spilt milk. Moll gripped the edge of the sheet, preparing to tuck it in.
She halted, bent, her fingers clutching the edge of the sheet. Slowly, she looked up.
Gawain stood in the doorway.
Moll stared boldly into his pale, penetrating eyes.
To her surprise, he did not look away, guilty and ashamed. Instead, he stepped into the room.
Moll straightened. She resisted an urge to take a step back. A stupid urge. She was not afraid of Gawain. Bumbling, ignorant virgin.
Gray eyes continued to stare at her. They investigated, observed—as if they could see she was worried. As if—they cared.
Moll's mouth twisted. Oh, in sooth. Gawain's 'immortal soul' was all he cared about.
Suddenly, he bent. He took the edge of the bed sheet. To Moll's astonishment, he looked like he was about to help her make the bed.
Horrified, she jerked the sheet out of his hands.
Gawain looked over at her.
Sanctimonious worm.
She lifted her chin. "You are in the way."
Gray eyes simply looked at her. Without a word, without a smirk or a sigh, he again took hold of the bedsheet.
Moll watched in frustration. She would appear an utter wasp if she pulled it away again.
Meanwhile, calm and efficient, Gawain tucked in the bedsheet. His fingers were long—and ugly. As for his face, Moll thought he ought to grow a beard to cover it up.
Finished tucking, Gawain looked up. "I thought you were in a hurry."
Moll leaned on one hip, annoyed that his question now made it impossible for her to hasten. With a hand on her cocked hip, she gave him a saucy smile. "So, big man. You're still watching me."
His face went pink.
Moll laughed, feeling better. He was not so holy. He watched her. She picked up her side of the bedsheet.
"Yes."
Gawain's voice made her jump.
"I do," he continued. "Watch you." He looked very solemn, as if this confession were important.
It was laughable, but Moll couldn't laugh. Something about the way he was looking at her made her feel anxious.
"Why, Gawain, you do surprise me." She made sure to let none of her stupid fear creep into her tone. "Pray, what further sins will you admit to?" She bent very low to tuck in the sheet. "Peeking down my bodice? Or maybe—" She gasped in mock outrage. "Naughty dreams!"
Moll gasped for real when a steel band suddenly clamped over her wrist.
Leaned halfway over the bed, Gawain pulled Moll to lean over the other half. His expression was hungry and ferocious.
She felt herself relax. Now this she understood. She wondered if he would take her right there on the clean sheet. Or would he drag her somewhere more squalid? A crooked smile curved her mouth.
Gawain snarled. "He should marry you."
Moll stilled.
He gave her a little shake. "You know who I mean, the one you go to meet. He should marry you."
His command was so counter to what Moll had expected that she could only stare dumbly at the man. Once again, she had the odd impression he was concerned for her. It almost seemed as though he was concerned for her immortal soul, demanding that any lover of hers should give her the benefit of marriage.
But concern from Gawain's direction was too ridiculous. She forced a laugh, keeping to her role of a jade. "Why, Gawain. If I married, then I wouldn't be available for you."
The band grew tighter around her wrist. Moll kept smiling. It didn't exactly hurt—yet.
When he spoke again, Gawain's voice was like a frog's. "He owes you his protection. As a married woman, you would have it, both in law and body."
"Protection?" Moll's eyes widened even as she felt a strange pang inside. Nobody had ever felt the need to protect her. Not that anybody did now! No, Gawain was only...putting on an act. More of his false piety. "Why, darling," Moll chuckled. "'Protection' is what a man needs from me!"
Shock splashed across Gawain's hollow-cheeked face. He abruptly released his hold on her.
Moll chortled, resisting the urge to rub her wrist. Instead, she leaned over the bed and tapped her panting companion on the chin. "Haven't you noticed? How badly you need protection?"
To her displeasure, Gawain did not flinch or turn away from her touch. He simply looked at her. He was plainly disturbed but in control.
"No," he said, low. "It is you who needs protection. From yourself, if need be. And I will see that you get it."
Moll frowned. "That sounds like a threat."
"Take it any way you please." He retrieved his insufferably solemn expression before calmly turning and then leaving the room.
Moll was the one left shaking. The officious, interloping cur! She glanced toward the bed. She had not finished her task, but it would simply have to do. She turned and grabbed her shawl. On top of everything else, she was going to be even later than before Gawain had interrupted—to help.
~~~
The afternoon following their visit by the local nobility, Lucy stood on a rickety ladder outside her tavern and called down from beneath her upraised arm. "Hold that steady, would you?"
"How can I hold it steady when you are swinging that hammer like a blacksmith?" Grumbling, Moll leaned harder upon the ladder set against the street-side tavern wall. "Go on," she muttered. "Finish it."
Modulating the hitherto vigorous strength of her strokes, Lucy concluded hammering in the newly painted sign.
"There!" she declared, and tilted her head. A sly fox grinned back at her. The paint strokes depicting his fur were a bright and jaunty red. "Do you think Emile will like it?"
"Will he like it?" Moll snorted. "You please him enough in the bedroom, mistress, and he will like anything."
Lucy's face heated. "Watch out. I am coming down."
Moll obligingly stood back from the ladder. She was grinning as Lucy jumped to the ground. "Come, no need to be embarrassed. Pleasing your man is better than throwing a curse."
"Yes," Lucy murmured, setting down the hammer. "It is." But she hadn't been able to stop thinking about her last conversation with Emile. He had never told her what had become of his one love. Pleasing Emile in the bedroom—even earning his love—might not be enough to keep him in the marriage.
"Hey." Moll tugged a loose curl by Lucy's ear. "Don't be stupid. He'll adore the sign."
Lucy bit her lip. "He might be embarrassed."
"You won't know until you ask." Before Lucy could stop her, Moll turned to a boy pulling weeds. "Go inside. Find the master."
Lucy stopped herself from blurting that Emile was not at home. Both Moll and the boy would think it strange she kept such close tabs on her husband's whereabouts.
Shielding her eyes with a hand, Moll gazed up at the sign. "The painter did his job. There is a decided likeness to the master."
Lucy followed her gaze. Swinging in the breeze, the fox grinned, looking happy and carefree. Very carefree.
Unease stirred inside her. She was very certain Emile had never settled anywhere.
"Moll," she asked, "what did you think of that fellow last night, his lordship?"
Moll yawned. "He was male."
"He is a Justice of the Pea
ce." Lucy frowned up at the grinning fox. "Such do license taverns."
"Do you mean to say these places actually get licensed?" Moll laughed. "And to think, even running a rat trap, the last owner never lost his."
Lucy pressed her lips together. The last owner had never angered Orville, brother-in-law to the present Justice of the Peace.
Meanwhile the boy ran out of the courtyard gate, panting. He shook his head. "Couldn't find 'im."
Moll scoffed. "Typical. A man is never around when you actually want one. Shall I put the ladder away?"
"What? Oh, yes. Thank you." Lucy gave one more glance toward the sign. The fox grinned, its gaze looking far into the distance. She remembered Emile rubbing his chin against her breast and evading an answer as to why he had left the one man he had loved.
The fear that had scurried under the surface for the past four days, ever since she had 'cured' Emile of her curse, rose like a cloud around the devil-may-care fox. Emile said he loved her. He wanted her to count on him. But she didn't even know if he meant to stay for good.
The unease within her grew into a dense fog. It split into equal parts fear and resentment. Perhaps Emile loved her. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might even stay.
But given his appetite for freedom and her own lack of charm, she would do best to assume otherwise.
Brushing her hands, Lucy turned and went upstairs to change into more formal clothes.
~~~
"Count it," Lucy said.
Across the table, Orville gave her a peculiar, wary glance.
In her dress of fine brocade, Lucy sat stiffly on an uncushioned bench in Orville's empty tavern room. She waited for Orville to open the purse.
He did so, shaking the coins into a long line upon the tabletop. He looked down at them.
He looked for a long time. Long enough to start Lucy worrying. Surely the amount was sufficient.
Orville lifted his head. He screwed one eye closed. "I warrant your husband does not know you are here."
Lucy let out a slow, silent breath. "My husband has no need to bother himself with so...trifling a situation."
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