But most eye-opening of all was his readiness to defend her, the woman he took such delight in tormenting. It was a mind-boggling revelation. Never had she had a man on whom she could rely. During his precious visits to Philadelphia, Papa had always been more playmate than father, and she'd become resigned at an early age to the fact that she must fend for herself. She'd had to do precisely that against Aaron Townsend.
And yet, here stood Rafe, her scoundrel-for-hire. An unlikely knight in the least daunting armor she'd ever seen. He'd raced to her rescue. The knowledge touched her in a dangerously romantic way. For a moment, she was confronted by Raphael Jones the Hero, not the Rogue, and she thought him the most wonderful man in the world.
Unfortunately, the moment passed quickly.
"Silver!" he exclaimed again, striding valiantly to the tub. "Put down the fire poker. You'll hurt her!"
She blinked, somewhat dazed by his command. It wasn't exactly what she'd imagined a champion might say, especially her champion, who'd come to rescue her from the Thing.
Her senses affected once more by the passage of time, Silver became aware of the bite of iron in the palm of her hand and the tickle of woolen fibers beneath her toes. Her pulse hammered against the fist that clutched the neckline of her dressing gown; her hair spilled across the forearm that had been bared by her voluminous jade sleeve.
The caress of cool hall air against her thigh warned her that the paisley fabric was revealing more scandalous vistas of flesh, and she straightened, hoping the shimmering folds would conceal everything north of her ankles and praying the satin was opaque enough to withstand the backlighting of her hearth.
She needn't have worried, though. Rafe wasn't even looking at her.
"Tavy?" he breathed. His face transfused with wonder as the creature chirped and dived, chasing a cake of lavender soap. "You're swimming!"
Silver narrowed her eyes first at Rafe, who, contrary to all his wicked propositions, appeared too enamored of the bewhiskered creature sullying her bath to make good on his threats. She next glared at the animal itself, which was happily sloshing water all over the tarpaulin that, thankfully, she'd spread to protect her Persian rug.
"Tavy?" she choked out. "You mean this... this..." She hesitated, momentarily bemused. What the devil was the creature, anyway? A rat?
She quailed and retreated a step, tightening her grip on the fire iron. Other than its sleek little body and a disturbingly long tail, the thing was hard to see clearly. It kept splashing and submerging, lobbing bubbles into the air as if it were having the grandest of times wasting her imported French soap. Personally, she'd never laid eyes on a rat, having always prided herself on keeping an impeccable larder, but she wouldn't have put it past Rafe to own a pet rodent. Or better yet, a pet weasel!
"Do you mean to tell me this... this water-logged weasel is Octavia? Your ward?"
He was too busy grinning at the creature to do more than dart her the barest of glances. "Tavy's an otter, not a weasel. And look, she's swimming!"
Silver gritted her teeth. An otter. The rounder had smuggled an otter into her house! And Papa had clearly been in cahoots.
She was just about to explode into a denunciation of pests, prevaricators, and papas when Tavy's impish paw slapped the water, showering soap over Rafe. He laughed. The sound was a rumble of pure, unaffected delight. It was her first hint that his roguery sheltered a more innocent nature, and Silver, her breath catching, once again stood transfixed.
Before her eyes, her scoundrel-for-hire had turned sweetly boyish. Gone was the feral cast to his features and the haunted shadow she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes. In that moment, Silver came to understand that her playactor performed a multitude of roles. Beneath the guise of rascal and thief lurked the real Raphael Jones. She couldn't help but wonder if now she was seeing the authentic man for the first time.
She cleared her throat. It was hard not to be smitten by a man who cared not one whit for the soapsuds running down his cheek and into his collar. He simply splashed his otter back.
"Well, of course Tavy's swimming," Silver acknowledged grudgingly. "Otters do that, you know."
"Not this otter." Kneeling, Rafe beamed like a proud father as Tavy paddled after a sponge. "Tavy was orphaned. Couldn't have been more than four weeks old when I found her. Otters need their mamas to teach them how to swim. It's not an instinctual part of their nature."
"How... do you know that?"
He cast her a sidelong glance. "I've spent a lot of time in the mountains."
"Hiding out from bounty hunters, no doubt."
His dimples flashed at her lofty tone. Still, he didn't deny her charge. "I think a coyote must have killed Tavy's mother," he said, watching the baby pounce. "The rest of the litter starved. I found Tavy huddled beneath the others, trying to keep warm. There was a late snowfall, you see."
Silver frowned, edging closer to peer over the tub's rim. The baby was now squeaking ferociously, rolling end over end, causing miniature tidal waves to lap onto the tarp as she battled the recalcitrant sponge. "So... you took it upon yourself to be Tavy's mother?"
"Someone had to." His jaw hardened. "All young ones need their mothers," he added in a fierce undertone.
Silver frowned. Was she imagining things, or had she heard sorrow beneath that gruff declaration?
Until this moment, she'd never thought of Rafe as anything but a bad seed. But even bad seeds had to have mothers—and a mother's love, she realized fleetingly. Had something happened to Rafe's mother? Had he lost her at an early age, like she had lost hers?
Silver's heart twisted. She wondered with uncharacteristic shyness if she should broach the matter, assuring him she'd felt a similar pain following Maria Nichols's carriage accident.
Rafe masked his grief quickly, though, and Silver thought better of her confession, especially when she sensed the return of his mischievous streak. He sneaked a hand behind Tavy and dunked her. The baby sputtered, splashing to the surface. When she gave him an indignant whack with her tail, a lopsided grin quirked Rafe's lips.
"I'll be damned. She's not a cannonball after all. How'd you do it, Silver? How'd you get Tavy to swim?"
He looked up eagerly, giving her his full attention for the first time since bursting through the door. She felt her throat constrict. With the fire shining in his pewter eyes, striking bronze highlights from the sopping, golden strands of his hair, she could imagine the child he must have been, chasing bullfrogs off their lily pads or hollering at the top of his lungs while he'd jumped into a swimming hole. Somehow, in spite of everything he had seen and done to become what he was, Raphael Jones hadn't lost his innocence. And she envied him that. She envied him the youthful pleasure he could take in watching an otter pup chase soap bubbles.
"I didn't do anything," she answered, her voice sounding unnaturally husky. "I was delayed, wiping up the soot your otter tracked out of my hearth, if you must know, and the water got so cool, I had to build a fire to..."
Her voice trailed off. She realized, with a nervous thrill, that Rafe's eyes were no longer trained on her face. In fact, he had begun a leisurely inspection of her mussed hair, clinging gown, and bare toes. She could feel the warmth of his stare like a naughty caress, smoothing over her skin, chasing tingles over her breasts and belly.
To her embarrassment, her nipples actually puckered. She hurriedly crossed her arms, making the tender rosettes chafe. So much for his innocence, she thought as his appreciative gaze returned to her own. She hiked her chin, thanking God she still gripped the fire poker. She prayed he couldn't sense her uneasiness.
"Now that the soot has been thoroughly cleaned from Tavy's paws," she said, forcing tartness into her tone, "I'll thank you to remove your otter from my bath."
The corners of his eyes crinkled. He had the most endearing way—no, annoying way, she corrected herself quickly—of displaying all those perfect teeth and pulse-stirring dimples when she was doing her best to admonish him.
"I neve
r thought to fill Tavy's tub with lady things to get her to swim," he purred. "Must have been the soap bubbles that did the trick. Lilac-scented, are they?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "The soap is lavender, if you must know."
"Hmm." He cocked his head, making a great show of mulling over this information. "So you and Tavy both like lavender in your bath. What a quaint coincidence."
Her heart picked up speed as he continued to assess her. Self-consciously, she hugged herself tighter. She couldn't help but think back to that night at the Grand Hotel, when he'd taunted her much more intimately, his lips hovering only inches from hers. His heat had been so intense that her breasts had grown flushed and damp, and the only thing that had kept him from pressing his advantage had been, ironically, his honor.
Or perhaps it hadn't been honor at all, she reflected nervously, but a perverse sense of play. If she were again the mouse to his cat, what was to keep him from pouncing this time?
She grew a little queasy at the thought.
"Are you aware that I forbid pets in this house?" she demanded, desperate to feel in control of a situation that had gone hopelessly awry the moment she'd spied a soot-covered snout poking out of her unmentionables.
Now that she stood practically naked before a man who, in spite of his soap-sudded costume, was too self-assured for her peace of mind, the fire poker wasn't bolstering her confidence. What if Rafe were able to wrestle the weapon from her? What if he actually tried?
His eyelashes swept lower, veiling the intensity of his gaze, but she instinctively knew he was watching her, perhaps even more closely than before.
"I believe Max did mention your distaste for fleas—something about your bedroll and a mule, as I recall?" Rafe flashed his fallen-angel's smile. "But you see, Tavy's my ward, not my pet."
Silver's face heated as he mentioned her bedroll. She couldn't miss the sultry innuendo in his tone. She wished Papa hadn't told Rafe about the blanket she'd sacrificed to keep the sun off their pack mule's blistered back. In those days, she hadn't had two dollars to buy lye soap, much less a salve to treat mule sores. She'd been clueless how to mix an ointment herself, so she and Papa had tramped nearly a hundred miles, carrying the better part of Billy's load until he healed.
But Rafe didn't need to know that. And he certainly didn't need to know about her sleeping arrangements in the mining camp!
"Ward, pet—I fail to see the difference," she retorted, hoping she sounded less flustered than her flaming cheeks implied.
"I plan on returning Tavy to the wild, once I teach her to fend for herself. So you see, she's hardly a pet." He nodded encouragingly at the baby, which, in a parody of otter fierceness, was crouched on the far rim of the tub, preparing to pounce on the sponge. "It just never occurred to me that Tavy might need a more... female influence. How would you like to visit a swimming hole with us tomorrow on Smuggler Mountain?"
"Out of the question!"
Tavy missed her mark. Water sprayed, and the sponge hit the tarp with a soggy smack.
Rafe chuckled. "Really, Silver, for a woman who once camped out with shovel stiffs, you sure can be persnickety. Max tells me you weren't always that way. He said you used to be fun, that you liked dancing. He said you even used to be good company in a rainstorm. He made that sound like it was a rare talent in a woman." Rafe tilted his head. "Sounds to me like something must have happened," he murmured more gently. "What changed you?"
She stiffened, blinking back tears. She'd been prepared for all kinds of assaults by Raphael Jones, but never once had she thought she'd have to rally a defense against compassion.
"Papa had no right to gossip about me," she said hoarsely, tightening her grip on the fire poker.
"He thinks you hung the moon, Silver."
She raised her chin. The traitorous thing quivered anyway. "What Papa thinks is none of your concern. Nor is it any of your concern how I used to spend my time in Philadelphia. Now kindly remove your otter from my bathwater and your presence from my bedroom!"
The impish glint crept back into his eyes. "You sure you wouldn't like some help, say... in scrubbing your back?"
"Get out!"
He smirked, pushing up his sleeve. "All right. All right. Tavy and I know when we're not wanted. Don't we, Tavy?"
The baby's ears pricked up at his croon, and she paddled closer, wrapping herself around the bared forearm he'd dunked into the water. He cuddled her close for a moment, then draped her, sopping fur, suds, and all, across the back of his neck. Rivulets of water rolled into his collar, soaking the lace at his throat and the velvet sateen of his waistcoat. Nevertheless, he rose with great aplomb, as if it were an everyday occurrence to have a wet otter nuzzling his cheek. "I fear you've made a poor impression on our hostess," he whispered sotto voce.
Tavy sighed happily. When he kissed her snout, with its abundance of catlike whiskers, Silver suffered the most ridiculous pang of jealousy she'd ever known.
Turning once more toward Silver, he pressed his hand to his heart. "Hereafter, in a better world than this, I shall desire more love and knowledge of you," he quoted in the melodious murmur she'd come to associate with his Shakespeare. "As You Like It, act one, scene two." He inclined his head. Then he gave her a crooked grin. "A pleasant bath to you, mistress. I'm sure I shall never look upon lavender soap, paisley satin, and fire pokers in quite the same way."
With that wicked sally, he sauntered from the room, dripping suds in his wake. Enormous brown otter eyes blinked back at her, and Silver, watching Tavy bob out of sight atop his expansive, paternal shoulders, secretly admitted that she would never view Raphael Jones in quite the same way, either.
* * *
Rafe reclined in the shadows of Silver's parlor. Despite the care he'd taken to melt into obscurity, a beam of moonlight sliced across his untied cravat and the gaping placards of his shirt. He supposed he could have drawn the hunter green bombazine across the glass, but then, he would have had to unfold his limbs and hoist himself off the velveteen comfort of Silver's settee. He was enjoying Max's imported brandy too much to go to the trouble.
Besides, he rather fancied the glitter of real Austrian crystal in his hand and the gleam of sterling sconces, knickknacks, and frames on every wall. Like the thief he was, he preferred darkness to moonlight; still, he had to admit, Diana's stark, pale beauty brought a certain fairy-tale charm to a millionaire's parlor.
He closed his eyes, savoring the brandy and the perfect stillness of the house. No Benson. No Max. No sycophants. Only silence, absorbed into his bones like a balm. He'd forgotten how exhausting it could be to playact for a con twenty-four hours a day.
Ever since he'd learned that he'd been hired to woo a woman old enough to be his mother, he'd wanted to teach Silver a lesson. But his impetuous plan to make a fool out of her had backfired. Max loved the blithering Chumley Rafe had created, and that meant Rafe was stuck with the game. At least, he was stuck with it as long as he wanted to woo Silver without Max's interference and, in the bargain, earn himself a business partnership with a millionaire.
Always on guard, always on his toes, he'd had no choice but to continue his farce over the last ten days. His asinine "Sink me's" had become the new slang, and chartreuse, much to Signor Marzetti's horror, had become the rage.
Not a day passed when Rafe couldn't find at least one report about him in the Society Pages, a phenomenon that had wreaked havoc on his privacy. Merchants trotted after him like lap-dogs; hostesses hounded him with invitations. He couldn't seem to walk down the street without that one-eyed Texican and his idiotic sidekick grinning lecherously at him. Rafe might have reported the nuisances to Marshal Hawthorne if he hadn't been worried the lawman might recognize him from some dated wanted poster.
Now his nerves were on a razor's edge. The only person whose company he still welcomed was, ironically, Silver.
He sighed, resting his head against the settee's burgundy backrest. While it was true he liked not having to play Chumley for her,
he wasn't sure exactly how he'd let her get under his skin. Max's tales of her grit in the face of hardship had both moved and mystified him; perhaps they were to blame.
Or perhaps, he conceded with a trace of self-ridicule, his pride just couldn't abide rejection. It was a sticky game, gambling on his ability to spark her jealousy, to make her want him in her bed before she forced him beyond a mere flirtation with Cellie. In spite of Silver's business approach to their rendezvous, his provocative whispers and wicked innuendoes tempted her. He was certain of it. Her blushes gave her away every time.
Still, seducing Silver hadn't been the child's play he'd anticipated. In fact, she was the first woman who'd ever flat out refused him. He was too accomplished at the game to think the problem might lay with him, although he could kick himself every time he considered that the Chumley he'd created was hindering his progress.
Even so, he'd finagled a great many private moments with Silver. Charming, witty, seductive, he'd plied every trick he'd learned from the heroes in Shakespeare's repertoire. He'd given her plenty of opportunities to come to her senses.
So why was little Miss Millions resisting him?
Rafe's lips curved with a touch of cynicism. He'd just have to try harder, he supposed.
Max had confided the other night that his daughter was gun-shy when it came to romance. Well, that had been an understatement. One moment, Rafe would catch her furtively staring at him, her eyes misty with yearning; the next moment, she'd turn stiffer than a railroad spike, her demeanor just about as cuddly. Sometimes he thought her behavior went beyond the bounds of maidenly honor or virginal uncertainty. Sometimes, he thought she was... afraid.
Take that night in her bedroom, for instance, when she'd been so appealingly attired in a robe of slinky jade satin. He hadn't subjected himself to Tavy's soapy showers for his health. If Silver had given him the slightest encouragement—say, by discarding that fire poker—he would have had her naked beneath him and moaning his name.
Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Page 15