THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  “You have to know that I find that exciting,” she remarked.

  Hawk almost had her where he wanted her, where he had to want her, but as usual her disarming frankness was like a shield, turning away all weapons.

  He made himself smile teasingly. “Is it? Most ladies find killing knives frightening.”

  She tried. She tried very hard. But he saw the flicker of muscles that registered a hit.

  “Killing?” she said, in the way of a person who knows they have to say it.

  He handled his stiletto, carefully out of the way of nearby people. “A knife like this is not for mending pens, Falcon. Though it does that job very well.” He turned the handle toward her. “Here.”

  She stared at it, all guard shattered. “What? I don’t want it!”

  “You said it excited you.”

  “No, I didn’t!” She was fixed on the knife like a rabbit on the snake that will kill it. He saw her swallow. It was like a knife in his own gut. A knife he had to push in deeper rather than draw out.

  “What did you mean, then?”

  She looked up. Tried to step back, but a tent support blocked her from behind. She was pale, her eyes stark, but she managed a kind of lightness. “I meant pirates and such. Romantic things.”

  “If you think pirates romantic, I should definitely equip you with a knife, and teach you how to use it.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “No?” He moved the knife again. Did you kill Deveril? If not, who used a knife on him? “I call this my talon. A Falcon should have a talon, too.” When she didn’t respond, he pushed. “Why does it bother you? Something else to do with Lord Deveril?”

  For a moment she looked shockingly like a man who realizes that his guts are hanging out, that he’s dying. “No!”

  People nearby turned to look. Damn. He slipped the knife back in its sheath and took her gloved hands. “Have I upset you? I’m sorry.”

  She stayed silent, though her chest was rising and falling.

  “It’s Deveril’s death, isn’t it?” he said softly, sympathetically. “These things heal when they’re spoken of.”

  It was usually a surprisingly successful ploy. He’d had men talking their way to the gallows this way. No words spilled, so he asked a simple, factual question. Often once people started to talk, they couldn’t stop.

  “When did he die?”

  She blinked at him. “June the eighteenth. When so many others were dying…”

  Against reason, he pulled her into his arms. “Hush, I don’t mean to upset you. Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  But the words he’d wanted were like lead in his heart.

  June 18. The day of Waterloo, when, indeed, so many others had been dying. But Deveril’s body hadn’t been found until the twentieth, and the date of his death had never been certain.

  To be so sure, Clarissa had to know all about the murder, and he knew now that he’d been stupidly hoping that she didn’t, that she was the innocent she seemed.

  How had it been? Had she killed Deveril to stop him from raping her? And was he going to send her to the gallows for it?

  That or Hawkinville, he reminded himself.

  He knew, abruptly and with astonishing relief, that he could not do it. Not even Hawkinville was worth that.

  Perhaps his father had had the right idea after all. Persuade her to marry him. He would not be like his father, after all, courting callously for gain. He truly admired his gallant Falcon. He would protect her, cherish her. A picture began to unfold of them together at Hawkinville. Children…

  But then a dark curtain fell. He wasn’t simply Hawk Hawkinville, fortune hunter. He was heir to Lord Deveril!

  It was hard not to burst out laughing at the farce of it. When did he tell her she was going to have to live her life with the name she loathed? Not before the wedding, for sure. She would run away. Right after the ceremony? No, he’d better make sure of her and wait until it was consummated.

  Damnable.

  And how did he expect to marry her? If she’d killed Deveril, she hadn’t done it alone. And there was that forged will, and someone after her money. Announce their betrothal and the other parties would have to act.

  Elope, then. But the other objection still stood. Could he really persuade a woman into a clandestine marriage knowing she would loathe him once she knew the truth?

  For once, he was totally adrift.

  He gently eased her away. “It’s stopped raining. It’s a sea of mud out there, but we should try to find the others.”

  She looked up, a little pale but much restored, perhaps even with a hint of stars in her eyes. Stars he’d been working so hard to put there. Pointed stars, that could do nothing but hurt her, one way or another.

  People were moving out of the tent, but slowly. Suddenly needing to be free of the place, he pulled out his knife and extended the hole, stepped through, then helped her out. They emerged into a field, so they escaped the trodden mud, but she still had to teeter over a deep puddle. That seemed to drive the clouds away entirely. She laughed, looking up at him, clinging to his hand.

  He put his hands at her waist and swept her over the puddle, wishing he could sweep her away entirely. Wishing he were someone other than the Hawk, and heir to John Gaspard, Viscount Deveril.

  They picked their way down the back of the tents toward the carriages as the fair slowly came back to life around them.

  “How optimistic people are,” she said, looking at the sky.

  “Another torrent on the way,” he agreed. “But optimism is good. Carpe diem.”

  She glanced at him, seeming almost completely restored now. “Is that optimism? Surely optimism should say that tomorrow will be as pleasant as today?”

  “Whereas Horace advised us to put no trust in tomorrow.”

  They were apart from the crowds, but he wasn’t sure he cared about proprieties anyway. He felt as if this might be his last moment. He drew her into his arms, and she came willingly, a trusting pigeon.

  “This is most improper,” he murmured against her lips.

  “Improper, yes. But most?”

  It broke a full smile from him, which he gave her in the kiss, then lost as he tasted her fully for the first time. Soft, sweet. With wondrous amusement he found he could actually taste her delighted curiosity as he teased her mouth open to him.

  Her hands clutched, holding him tighter. He could feel all the promising, firm curves of her body and a faint tremor that might even be partly his own.

  When had he last kissed for the kiss alone? When had he last lost himself in a kiss so that when their mouths slid free he felt dazed, as if from too much hot sun— which there certainly wasn’t today on the rainy downs.

  Her eyes were wide, but not with horror. After a moment she said, “I don’t think I need to worry about the memory of Deveril’s kiss anymore.”

  He pulled her close and held her. “Then I’m glad of that.” Did it mean Deveril was no longer such a power in her mind? If he told her the truth now, would she shrug it off?

  If she didn’t, he would have burned every conceivable bridge.

  She pushed slightly free. “You are not glad of other things?”

  What could he say? Hardly surprising that she expected more after a kiss like that. Hardly surprising if she expected a proposal.

  “I am glad that the rain has stopped, and for the tip of your nose.” He kissed it.

  She chuckled, blushing.

  “I’m glad to be out of the tent, and for your elegant ankles.”

  Her eyes shone.

  “I’m glad that I might, one day, discover other elegant parts…”

  He was saved from pursuing that insane course when something hurtled through the air and hit her.

  Clarissa screamed, but he grabbed the thing and discovered that it was a muddy, raggedy cat, hissing, squirming, and doing its damn best to sink in its claws.

  “Don’t!” Clarissa screamed.

  “I’
m not going to break its neck.” He usually had a way with animals. He held it close to his body and started murmuring to it. In moments it calmed.

  She staggered closer. “Is it all right? Where did it come from?”

  “Hush.” He worked at shrugging out of his coat one sleeve at a time without letting the cat free, murmuring to keep it calm as he gradually swathed it. Then a purr started and quickly grew in volume.

  Chapter Ten

  Clarissa watched him with astonishment. She never would have thought that her hawk of elegant plumage would go to such trouble for a scrawny cat.

  Now that the cat seemed calm, she looked around. A man came out of the back of a nearby tent and chucked a handful of dead rats into a sack, then ducked inside again. She heard squeals, yowls, and shouting from inside.

  She marched over to yank back the canvas curtain. As she thought, it was a ratter’s tent, where cats and dogs were set to kill rats. People were packed onto ranks of rough benches cheering on the hunters and calling out bets. Assaulted by noise, stink, and pure violence, she staggered back.

  Then a burly man blocked her view. “If yer want to come in, go round the front and pay.”

  Clarissa remembered her purpose. “Who threw” that cat?“

  “What frigging business is it of yours?”

  “It hit me! What’s more, it’s wounded and needs care.”

  “I didn’t wring its neck. What more does it need? Useless piece of scrag.”

  “You may not have heard,” said a calm voice behind her. “The cat hit the lady.”

  The ratter whipped off his hat. “Hit the lady, sir? Well, I never! Are you all right, miss?”

  How infuriating not to be taken seriously without a man at her back! This was an active lesson on the points Mary Wollstonecraft had been making in her writings.

  “What about the cat?” she demanded, though she was beginning to realize that the last thing the poor creature needed was to be returned to the ratters. People nearby were turning to look, too, their avid faces suggesting that they expected another juicy battle.

  The ratter put on an apologetic expression. “Didn’t turn out to be much of a ratter, you see, miss. If you’d like the dear creature, please, take her.”

  The purring vibrated the air by her side. Clarissa glanced once at Hawk, almost distracted by the fact that he was in shirtsleeves, but hoping he would take over. He had his arms full of purring cat, however, and his look seemed to say, This is your game. You play it.

  “Very well. I will take her. Does she have a name?”

  “Fanny Laycock,” said the man with a very false smile.

  Someone nearby sniggered.

  “Take her,” Hawk said.

  Clarissa found herself with her arms full of coat and cat. The purring stopped, and a slight shivering began. She tried murmuring to it, and it calmed a little. Her attention was all on Hawk, however, as he walked toward the ratter. The man’s eyes suddenly widened. Whatever it was Hawk did to impress people, he was doing it again.

  “You can’t go around throwing cats,” he said, almost lazily. “I’m sure that when my companion gets into clear light, she will find that her gown is snagged and stained with blood. I doubt you can afford the cost of a replacement, but a guinea will serve as penance.”

  “A guinea—!”

  He stopped and swallowed. Slowly, he dug into a pocket, but Clarissa caught a movement and saw the two other men moving closer. They were all so big!

  “Hawk!” she said sharply in warning, just as the first man ran for him.

  “You really shouldn’t,” Hawk said. But his fist had already shot out, hurtling the first man back into the stands, causing a yelling commotion among the people sitting there. He’d somehow avoided the other two.

  But then men leaped out of the stands and fists flew. Rats escaped and were darting underfoot, pursued by ferocious dogs and cats. Women screamed and wood shattered.

  It was the riot all over again!

  Trying to protect the frantic cat, Clarissa was forced back, right out of the riotous tent into a gathering crowd.

  What was happening?

  Hawk!

  What if he was dead?

  She tried to soothe the poor cat, tried to soothe herself, but tears trickled down her face. Another disaster, and entirely her fault. She truly was a Jonah…

  But then she heard chattering and realized the tumult had calmed. The flap opened, and Hawk appeared in the midst of a group of cheerful, admiring men.

  Hard to imagine him so disordered and muddy, but he seemed unharmed. A giggle escaped. He’d lost his hat again! Then someone hurried after and gave it to him.

  He thanked all the men, who presumably had been on his side, then looked around for her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but what of you?”

  “Nothing serious.” He brushed a tear off her cheek. “I’m sorry if you were frightened.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It’s an escort’s duty to protect against all affront. I clearly need practice.” He took the cat, and the ungrateful beast immediately started purring again. “Let’s find the others before they call out the army.”

  As they walked away, navigating to avoid puddles, she glanced back. “What of the ratters?”

  “They decided not to be any more trouble. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, stopping. “One of them relieved his master of a guinea for you. It’s in my right pocket.”

  She glanced at his tight-fitting breeches. “I’m sure you can give it to me later.”

  “Are you encouraging me to be in debt?”

  She met his eyes and hid a smile. “I am rich enough to ignore a guinea. Please, consider it yours.”

  “Falcon, I’m disappointed in you. Think of it as storming a spiked wall under enemy fire.”

  Fresh from violence, it made her shiver. “Have you done that?”

  “Yes.”

  Despite what he said about his military life, he must have risked death so many times. “Then I can hardly retreat, can I?”

  “I didn’t think so.” It was almost a purr of his own.

  She wanted to laugh, but found a frown instead. “I’m perfectly aware of what you’re doing. You think I can’t resist a challenge.”

  “I seem to be right. Perhaps you need lessons. Sometimes it is wise to retreat.”

  “In this case?”

  “Probably.”

  “It’s only a pocket,” she said.

  She glanced around. They were still off to one side of the fair, with no one else nearby. They were in sight of the dozens of waiting carriages, but she couldn’t make out the rest of their party, so she doubted they could see her.

  Truth to tell, she didn’t care. She wanted this excuse to touch him. Perhaps it was something to do with the violence, the danger, the thought of his perilous past…

  She moved behind him and slid her hand into his pocket.

  Of course it meant standing close. It meant sliding her hand against his hip as if there was scarcely anything between her and his naked body. Well, there was scarcely anything between her and his naked body, his warm naked body, but she would do it anyway.

  In fact, since it was a challenge, she would raise the stakes. She pulled her hand out and stripped off her glove, then slid her hand in again.

  She heard a choked laugh, and grinned. “Feeling for a small coin with gloves on would be so awkward,” she said, spreading her fingers and exploring with them, hoping it tickled. What she discovered through two layers of cotton was strong, hard bone and warm muscle.

  And pleasure in the firmness of it beneath her hand.

  He was still, but she could feel tension. He’d invited this, however, challenged her to it. If it embarrassed him, it was his fault. She supposed she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Truly, she felt as if she was blossoming into someone very unlike Clarissa Greystone!

  She moved slightly closer, curling her left arm around his torso, and pressing her
cheek against his hot back. How firm he was. Muscle everywhere. Used to being close only with female bodies, she found this to be a magic all its own.

  An image flashed into her mind—the groom’s naked chest, rippling with well-defined muscles. The major wasn’t as big a man, but would his naked chest look like that?

  Would she ever find out?

  Suddenly, so closely and hotly entwined, it seemed a moment for bald truth. “You’re a fortune hunter, aren’t you, Hawk?”

  She felt his instant tension.

  “Why else were you in Cheltenham? You knew about me and came to steal a march on the others. You tempted me into coming to Brighton, and you’ve been stalking me ever since. I’d rather there were truth between us.”

  She felt him breathe, three steady breaths. “And if I am?”

  “I don’t mind.” Then she felt that went too far too soon. “But I make no promises, either.”

  “I see. But you won’t blame a man for trying?”

  “No,” she said, smiling against his back. “I won’t blame a man for trying.”

  And truth is, I can’t wait until he wins.

  Smiling at her golden future, she angled her hand down and forward, following the deep pocket of the man who would one day be her husband. Whose body would be intimate with hers. She sucked in a deep, steadying breath and wriggled her fingers in search of the coin. She felt him suddenly stiffen.

  “Am I tickling you?” she said unrepentantly.

  “After a fashion.”

  Her fingers touched a bone, but then she realized there couldn’t be a bone in the middle of his belly. Her little finger caught the edge of the coin as her mind grasped what she had to be touching.

  A girls’ school is not a haven of innocence. There had been many discussions, much sharing of knowledge, and not a few books stolen from fathers and brothers and smuggled into school.

  According to a slim, alliterative volume called The Annals of Aphrodite, she was brushing against the Rod of Rapture. But didn’t men only Mount to Magnificence just prior to Carnal Conquest?

  She seized her coin, pulled her hand out, and retreated a few steps, pulling on the armor of her sensible glove.