Perfect Knave

by Kress, Alyssa

  Wasn't it?

  His hands were trembling as they took hers. "I—I almost got you hung. Not on purpose, it is true. It would be arrogant to think I could have guessed what would happen. And I am a whoreson bastard—but I am a whoreson bastard who loves you. Oh, Lucy, I want to be with you, to stay with you, more than anything else in the world! My 'freedom' was always...an excuse. Thinking I wanted freedom kept me from fearing I had anything to lose. But that did not work when it came to you. You are not something I want to lose. You make me want to be...the man you think I am. You make me want to deserve you. So if you want me, Lucy, by God you shall have me."

  Lucy was shocked by the depth of longing in his expression. Why, he looked very much the way she felt, gripped by so much terrible need. How could that be?

  The feverish glow that had lit behind his eyes simmered to a low burn. "I understand," he said. "If you cannot bring yourself to trust me, if you think I am not worth the risk. I—I will go away. I will not bother you again."

  He understood? Lucy thought, staring at him. Well, she did not understand at all. She had always thought she was the needy one. Emile had always seemed perfectly independent.

  Now, slowly, Emile lowered her hands. As Lucy stood there, confused and unanswering, he let her go completely. He took a step back.

  Looking at him, Lucy felt a terrible pang beneath her breastbone. He was leaving. Again.

  "No," she barked. She was not letting him leave—again. Reaching out, she gripped his arm.

  Emile jumped.

  "You cannot leave. Again," she informed him. She gripped his arm harder. "I will not let you."

  Looking shockingly vulnerable, Emile tilted his head. "Ah. Then...?"

  Slowly, she realized—with amazement—that she must reassure him. "I trust you, Emile. You are worth the risk. You—" She drew in a deep breath. "You are the man I love."

  His expression of incredulity was too much for Lucy. Emile was unsure of her.

  She threw herself against him, holding him tight. "Oh, Emile. I need you."

  She had thought this last, most difficult, admission would be enough for him, but Emile pulled back. He framed her face with two hands. "Are you sure?"

  The uncertainty in his tone undid her. The whole time he had not been so independent. Oh, not at all.

  "Aye, I am sure, but only on one condition," she now told him.

  He stilled.

  Mirroring him, she put her hands on his face. "That you need me, too."

  For a brief moment he stared at her. Then his hands left her face to wrap around her back. He crushed her against him. "Lucy." He kissed her: hard, desperate, grateful. "Do I need you? You are my better half. My best half. God almighty. You are never getting away from me."

  "Oh, Emile," Lucy managed to sigh between his kisses. "I do love you."

  She could feel Emile's laughter. "Then I am the happiest man on earth."

  Lost in Emile's embrace, floating on her own happiness, Lucy yet dimly heard her father grunt. "Oh, very well. But I am still waiting the year to give you her dowry."

  ~~~

  Yes, Emile was happy. Happy and thoroughly satiated, lying sprawled naked beside his equally satisfied wife. At least, he prayed she was satisfied. He had loved her long and well, so long and so well that he did not think he had the capacity to do as much again, not for a century or two, anyway.

  Lucy made a little murmuring noise—fortunately, it sounded contented—and snuggled closer to his side.

  Emile summoned enough energy to throw an arm about her shoulders.

  That morning after Gawain and Moll had married, the household had finally gotten rid of Latham. Although Lucy's father had staunchly refused to give them Lucy's dowry early, he had strutted about for the past two days looking passing smug. It was clear Latham took full credit for the happy reunion.

  Tired as he was, a smile twitched Emile's mouth. He knew who deserved credit. That would be a sly and smiling painting of a fox, a creature who bore a striking resemblance to himself. Seeing that sign hanging out in front of the tavern had given Emile the last courage he had needed to walk through the door. In bed with his wife now, he chuckled. Who could have guessed Lucy would put up such a thing, a positive advertisement, visible to all? Visible, and most comprehensible, even to Stone's illiterate cutthroats. No wonder they'd been able to discover Emile's location all those weeks ago.

  Beside him, Lucy stirred. Emile thought he heard her humming. She lifted a hand to circle her fingers upon his chest.

  Oh, Lord, Emile thought, alarmed. She could not want to get started again, not so soon.

  To his relief, she only wanted to talk. Fingers still circling his chest she mused, "...so after Crockett died you went out on your own, playing music and performing magic tricks?"

  Relaxing, Emile yawned. Yes, seeing the sign of the red fox had even made Emile feel better about old Crockett. Fate, chance, the hand of God—whatever you wanted to call it—did not rest on Emile's human shoulders. By putting up the sign, Lucy was no more to blame for Emile's capture by Stone's men than Emile was to blame for her nearly hanging. Or for Crockett's decision that frosty night to refuse Emile's succor.

  Emile had come to enough peace regarding Crockett's death that he'd been able to tell Lucy all about the old man. It had been strange that at the end of his recitation he'd felt something like a burden roll off of his shoulders.

  On the other hand, he would not dismiss his true sins. "Mm." He tapped a finger on the back of her hand. "Do not forget the time I spent prigging things. I did plenty of that."

  She chuckled softly. "Aye, prigging things like my father's silver plate after Gawain shut you up in the ewery."

  "After you made me pluck chickens," Emile corrected. He frowned. "Also, you didn't think I could do it."

  "Well, I certainly know you can do it now." Lucy laid her palm flat on Emile's chest. "But what about Stone?"

  Emile yawned again. "What about Stone?"

  Lucy rose on one elbow. "Why did you steal from Stone?"

  Emile glanced at her sidelong. "That was a matter of pure larceny, sweet."

  "Was it?" Lucy's gaze turned considering. "Then what happened to the money?"

  Emile's weary pulse quickened. "The money?"

  Lucy nodded. "Not only what you got from Stone by selling him the scrawny rooster in the first place and claiming it was a scrapper in a fight, but also what you won by gambling against him."

  Emile looked at her, knowing he had not a single, rational explanation to give. Worse, he could feel his face start to redden.

  "It must have been quite a sum." Lucy set her chin on a fist in the middle of Emile's chest. "Enough to infuriate Stone for months. Yet when we met, Emile, you had not a penny on you."

  Quickly, Emile grinned. "Why, you have found me out, sweet. Can't hold onto money to save my life. Fortunately, we have you to take care of that part of the business."

  But Lucy only shook her head. "You could not possibly have spent that amount of money in so short a time, not all of it."

  Watching her curious, much-too-intelligent face, Emile considered. Yes, he could summon just enough energy, he thought. He turned, rolling Lucy beneath him. Passionate, he nuzzled her neck.

  "Emile!" Stubborn woman, she pushed him away.

  "All right, all right." Emile kept his face hidden a moment longer, then sighing, pulled away. "The money. See, I had to, uh, obtain the rooster I sold to Stone."

  "Yes?"

  "'Obtain' is a pretty word. I stole it."

  Lucy narrowed her eyes. "You said it was a sorry rooster, not worth anything. Why would you have to steal a thing like that?"

  Emile closed his eyes. "She would never have let me buy it from her, not for the purpose I had in mind."

  "She?" Lucy's eyes narrowed further.

  Emile gave up. "The widow next door. Do not look at me like that, there was nothing between us, not that way. In fact, her husband had only just died—which was why her rooster
was so perfect. She barely had enough to feed her four children, let alone some sorry bird."

  Lucy squinted. "Are you telling me you stole a rooster from some newly widowed woman, a woman with four hungry children?"

  "I am. I did." It was the God's honest truth.

  "Well, I do not believe it." Lucy crossed her arms over the sheet that covered her breasts. "You would never have done such a thing—" She stopped. Her brow abruptly cleared. "Why, the money." Laughing, she poked Emile in the chest. "You gave the money to her!"

  Turning his head, Emile let the force of her poke roll him over. He wished he could keep falling, right through the mattress. Oh, he was never going to hear the end of it now.

  Sure enough, still laughing, Lucy followed his roll, throwing her arms about his neck. "You big fraud," she chuckled. "You are no kind of thief I have ever heard of. More like a hero."

  Hero. Emile rolled his eyes. As usual, she completely misunderstood.

  But Lucy only grinned and set her elbow on his side. "I tell you what, Emile. You want to give me a dowry, then do it this way: give me children."

  Emile's head snapped toward her. "What?"

  She smiled dreamily down at him. "Aye. Your sweet nature is just what I need flowing in the veins of our progeny."

  Emile gaped at her. She meant it: children—with him. His body, the body he had thought might never grow ready for a woman again, began to do just that, enthusiastically.

  "But—little lives." Along with the lusty urge to mate, a terrible fear stirred in Emile's belly. Vulnerable little lives dependent on...him?

  "Yes, little lives." With a smile of bottomless understanding, Lucy bent her head. She touched his lips with her own. There was all the trust in the world in her kiss.

  Emile closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the sign of the red fox affixed to the front of the tavern, a symbol of the terrifying role of chance.

  He now knew the only way to combat the vagaries of chance was to put your faith in the future, to engage in life, to jump in and enjoy it to its fullest. To win, you could not retreat.

  Opening his eyes, Emile muttered, "Very well." Somehow, there was no weariness left at all as he rolled her handily beneath him. Feeling quite energetic, in fact, he tucked his knee between her thighs. "If it's children you want—" He punctuated the sentence with a carnal, open-mouthed kiss. "Then it's children I'll be giving you." He kissed her again.

  Beneath him, Lucy started to shake.

  Emile pulled away, realizing she was laughing. "What?" he demanded. "What now?"

  "Cursed," she giggled. Her face was radiant. "I do not think so."

  Emile smiled. No, he did not think so, either. He was not even close to feeling cursed as he bent over his wife once more.

  The End

  About the Author

  Alyssa Kress completed her first novel at age six, an unlikely romance between a lion and a jackal. Despite earning two degrees from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and spending nearly a decade in the construction industry, she's yet to see her feet stay firmly on the ground. She now lives in Southern California, together with her husband and two children.

  You can learn more about Alyssa Kress and her other novels at http://www.alyssakress.com.

  Other books by Alyssa Kress:

  Marriage by Mistake

  The Heart Heist

  The Indiscreet Ladies of Green Ivy Way

  Asking For It

  Love and the Millionairess

  Working on a Full House

  Your Scheming Heart

  I Gotta Feeling

  The Fiancée Fiasco

  If I Loved You

  That'll Be the Day

  Preview of Call it Love

  The last place Cookie expected to run into him was the cemetery. If she'd dreamed for one minute that Chester Bradshaw would remember it was the anniversary of her father's death, she wouldn't have come to the hillside memorial park with the bunch of freesias, her father's favorite. At the very least, she would have made sure to have a chaperone—Alex perhaps.

  But instead Cookie stood there beside her father's grave with the delicate flowers in her hand, her high heels sinking into the soft grass—and that lowering feeling in her stomach that could only mean one thing. Chess.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she turned. A stray lock of dark hair whipped across her face in the cool summer breeze.

  Chess stood not twenty yards distant along the open hill. He'd been leaning against a crooked stone angel but straightened as their eyes met.

  Dammit, Cookie thought. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Aloud, she said, "Why, hello, Chess."

  "Hello, Rebecca." Of the extended family, Chess was the only one who never used her familiar nickname. Now he pushed off the angel and started toward her.

  Cookie suppressed the automatic reflex to straighten her clinging black dress. It was strange that the one man who was completely uninterested in her well-endowed body was the only one who could make her self-conscious about it.

  Two feet from Cookie he came to a stop. Chess didn't look self-conscious at all. Elegantly, expensively dressed, he looked the way he always did: like a wolf in sheep's clothing.

  "It hasn't been easy," he declared, "tracking you down."

  Cookie smiled very brightly. "Oh, were you looking for me?"

  A quirk on one side of his mouth answered her question. Damn straight he'd been looking for, just as surely as she'd been avoiding him.

  As Cookie watched his brief amusement sober, her stomach sank. He was going to bring up his business with her right here in the cemetery. In a way, it would almost make sense. It was her father and the ridiculous codicil to his will, after all, that now rendered Chess so determined.

  But instead all Chess said was, "You shouldn't have come here alone."

  Cookie's tension turned to brief amusement. So predictable that he would criticize her. Criticism had always followed every time Chess had found her out after her father had sent him to check up on her.

  "I wanted to be alone." Cookie wondered if he would get the hint.

  Predictably, Chess didn't. He folded his arms over his charcoal wool suit. "Where's Alex?"

  Cookie's gaze lowered to the pale flowers in her hand. She plucked at a tiny petal, then knelt before the brass vase affixed to one side of the headstone. "Alex went away for the weekend. To Reno, with some friends."

  "He shouldn't have done that," Chess grumbled above her.

  Indeed he shouldn't have, Cookie hated to agree. Not only would her half-brother's cheerful, eighteen-year-old company have been a comfort on this particular day, but also his presence might have deflected Chess's purpose. Not that Cookie thought much would deflect Chess in his desire to protect Scents Allure, the fragrance design company he ran with his mother.

  "I told him to go." Determined, Cookie stuck her little bouquet into the ugly brass vase.

  "You would," Chess sounded disgusted. "Let him off the hook."

  "I don't think of it that way." With a last fluff to her flowers, she rose to her feet. Automatically, she tugged down the lace hem of her skirt. "I think there's no point in coming to the cemetery unless it makes you feel better, not worse."

  He dug his hands into his trouser pockets. "This makes you feel better?"

  She stopped brushing her hands. "Of course."

  After cocking his head at her, he took his hands out of his trouser pockets, clasped them behind his back, and turned to take a pace away. "I suppose one might be able to feel better here." His curly black hair faced her. If Cookie didn't know better, she might have thought he was trying to give her some space, some of the privacy she'd originally desired. "It's quiet and peaceful. Very pretty."

  She eyed the back of his suit. "You like the place?"

  He gave a brusque, emphatic nod. "It's perfect."

  At that she had to laugh. "Then you didn't know: I'm the one who picked it."

  There was a moment's hesitation, time for her companion to absorb this surprisi
ng information.

  But it was Chess who surprised her.

  "Yes," he said. "I did know."

  Cookie frowned. He had?

  A pair of gray-green eyes swung around to hit hers. "A year ago I was trying to keep the business running. My dear mother Kate was a mess and Alex was only a kid." He gave a tiny shrug. "You got stuck with all the details."

  Indeed she had. Deep in shock, riddled with guilt and grief, Cookie had been the one to slog through the thousand tasks necessary to put her father in the ground. She'd never imagined anyone else had noticed.

  She blinked now at the dark figure down the hill. Someone had: Chess.

  He squinted into the overcast distance. "You did good.

  Cookie blinked some more, unable to believe she'd heard correctly. Chess thought she'd done good. Chess, who like her father, never thought she did anything right? Her voice weak, she had to ask, "You you really like it?"

  In the narrow sliver of Chess' face she could see, a smile faintly marked the blunt angle of his cheek. "More important," Chess said, "David would have."

  A peculiar sensation shuddered through Cookie. David would have liked it. Chess thought her father would have liked the place. He'd have thought she'd done good.

  Cookie stared at that faint dimple in Chess' cheek and the peculiar sensation ebbed, leaving her cold and clammy.

  Chess turned around. His calm expression changed as he took in Cookie's face.

  Good God. What did it matter what her father would have thought of his final resting spot! What mattered was how Cookie had treated him while he'd still been alive. Difficult as her father had been, Cookie had done worse, miserably worse. A horrible pressure took root behind her nose.

  Chess took a step up the hill. "Rebecca?"

  He looked puzzled, Cookie thought, and wondered why. With a small thud, her black beaded purse fell to the ground.

  "No." Chess' puzzlement transformed quickly to alarm. He hurried forward. Or, Cookie thought that's what she saw, through the sudden moisture in her eyes.

  "The hell," Chess muttered. "I didn't mean—"