Charming the Devil

by Lois Greiman

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Naught but a Highlander.”

  It was a lie. That much she knew. And yet it did not feel like a lie.

  “And what do you think I am?” she asked.

  “You are a lady.”

  “As I said, I am not nobility.”

  “I believe such a thing is not defined by blood.”

  She felt a little breathless, a little light-headed. “What then?”

  “Character. Courage. Goodness.”

  Something crunched in her heart, for she possessed none of those lofty qualities, but she would play the game. “It’s the gown,” she said, and lifted the pleated confection. “Everyone looks good in mint.”

  “It is you,” he said, and the solemnity of his tone bored through her careful artifice.

  “Perhaps you misjudge me,” she said.

  He studied her. “Perhaps you misjudge yourself.”

  Music played in the background. A lively number.

  “Perhaps I hope others will do the same,” she murmured though she knew she shouldn’t. Knew she should guard the truth with every precious breath.

  “Do you mean to say you are not what you seem?” he asked, and she wanted, quite desperately, to tell him the truth. That she was terrified. Had been terrified her whole life. That she was weak and guilty and cruel. But before the truth could spill from her lips like essence of banewort, she caught herself.

  “Not at all,” she said. “I was but jesting. I am exactly—”

  “Mrs. Nettles.”

  She turned to the right, remembering to keep her expression placid, to keep from bolting, to act. “Mr. Cunningham.”

  “How nice to see you again. I believe we met some months ago. At Lady Branton’s garden party.”

  She remembered the day. It had ended with an innocent oboist being catapulted into a percussionist to escape Cunningham’s less-than-reputable hands. And though perhaps most did not realize the ensuing clatter was her fault, the memory brewed a squalling tempest in her soul.

  “I was hoping I might have the dance you promised me then,” he said.

  She knew she should speak. Indeed, she should be witty and gay, or at least conscious.

  “I fear that will not be possible,” McBain said.

  The aging lord turned toward him. Faye did the same, all the while believing that Rogan McBain feared nothing.

  “Mrs. Nettles and I were just about to take to the floor.”

  “Oh. I see. Very well,” Cunningham said, and bowed graciously toward the twirling couples that thronged the ballroom. “Be my guest then.”

  There was a moment of strained stillness before McBain turned to her.

  Their gazes met. Moments passed like bullets. Finally, he offered his arm, and when she took it, it felt as stiff and solid as an oaken bough.

  They walked in breathless tandem toward the dance floor.

  “My apologies again,” he rumbled.

  She didn’t look at him, couldn’t; her gratitude was too deep. “Whatever for?”

  “Perhaps you wished to dance with him.”

  She didn’t respond. The poor oboist had suffered a broken arm. This was so much simpler.

  “I can return you to him if you like,” he said, and glanced down. She could feel his gaze on her. “If I misinterpreted your feelings.”

  She knew she should lie, but a lingering ache in her head insisted on the truth. “No,” she said. “You did not.”

  They had reached the dance floor and turned now toward each other.

  “Then I must apologize for something else,” he said.

  She raised her gaze to his, felt the hard thrust of his earnestness. “What’s that?”

  “I do not know the reel,” he said.

  They stood facing each other near the gleaming expanse of the marble dance floor. He had saved her…again. And yet he looked chagrined. Almost guilty.

  “But this is a quadrille.”

  His scowl darkened. “I also cannot distinguish one dance from the next,” he rumbled, and she almost laughed, for he said the words the way another might have confessed to murder.

  “Then come,” she said, and turned away, but he failed to follow. Turning back, she caught his gaze with her own. “Come,” she repeated, and, reaching out, took his hand.

  His skin was warm, his palm broad with strength and calluses. Breath left her throat. No posh dandy, he, but a man filled with power and life. With triumphs and regrets and anguish. They froze in place, staring at each other, doing nothing, but in a moment she realized her foolishness. She was Mrs. Nettles. Sophisticated. Worldly.

  “Come,” she repeated, and finally he did so, following her through the crowd, past the arched, open doors, and into the fragrant expanse of the garden. Every witch’s refuge.

  She turned toward him. A half dozen hanging lanterns lit the expansive, sweet-smelling grounds. Diffused light softly illuminated the foliage, the burbling fountain topped with laughing cherubs, the strong lines of McBain’s face, the dark sweep of his hair. And here, in the tender grip of nature, he did not look so much like a devil as an avenging angel.

  Their gazes met and lingered with something like breathless anticipation. She still held his hand, and from that simple touch, a thousand feelings stormed the bastions of her heart.

  “Lass,” he rumbled, and something tightened low in her gut at the low sound of his voice.

  “Yes?”

  “You should not be here.”

  She knew what he meant. And he was right, of course. She should not be alone with him, a veritable giant, a foreigner, a stranger, but her heart was racing with anticipation. Though in the past, she would never have wished to be alone with such a man. Indeed, with any man. “But I love gardens,” she breathed. Every witch did. She managed not to add that.

  “Men cannot be trusted.”

  She let the seconds tick away. “Even you?” she whispered, and forgot to breathe as she waited for his answer.

  “Especially me,” he said, and she felt her heart pick up the pace.

  “Are you so dangerous then?”

  “Aye,” he said.

  “But surely I would survive a few minutes, even with the surly likes of you.”

  His expression was dark, but there was a quizzical quality to it. “Why would you wish to?”

  Why indeed? What was wrong with her? “I owe you a dance.”

  “As I said, I do not know how—”

  “Then I shall teach you,” she said, and slanted a glance at him through her lashes, feeling light-headed. Feeling flirtatious. Good heavens, was she bewitched? “You did not think I brought you here for another purpose did you?”

  “Lass…” he warned, and she laughed.

  The sound wafted merrily through the garden, light and happy, almost as if it had come from some other source. As if she were normal, happy, unfettered by the detritus of her past, and the enormity of that realization rocked her to her very roots.

  And they were still staring.

  She cleared her throat and pulled her gaze from his but could not quite divine where to look, for every part of him seemed to hold a strange sizzling magnetism she had never felt before.

  “I do not feel unsafe,” she said finally, and when he did not respond immediately, she glanced up, only to find that his gaze had not ventured from her face.

  “Neither did…” he began, and stopped.

  She felt the breath clog in her throat. “Who?”

  He shook his head. “I do not think I am the sort,” he said.

  “For dancing?”

  “For…” His eyes were soulful, turbulent, haunted. And if she hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t realized he was the very embodiment of power and courage, she would have sworn they were also fearful. “You,” he said finally.

  “Am I so hideous?” she asked. It was meant as a poor attempt at a jest, but in the depths of her being she knew the answer, for though her face might be fair enou
gh, her soul was not. And he was a man to see past the surface. Indeed, even now it felt as if he was peering into the very core of her.

  In the lengthening silence, her heartbeat was surely as loud as a gong, then; “If I could but find a fault,” he said.

  She stared at him, lost, broken, floundering in the silence. “You think me flawless?” she breathed.

  “If I am mistaken, I would know now, before it is too late,” he murmured. “I’ve no fondness for lies.”

  She shook her head, wanting, nay, needing to speak the truth. And yet she would not. Not today. Not ever. “Too late?”

  “For me heart,” he said and, even though she knew far better, even though she realized with every atom of her being that she risked all, she reached up to caress his stubbled cheek.

  His world-weary eyes fell closed as though her touch injured him. Scorched him. Cut him to the core. And with that expression there was nothing she could do but kiss him.

  Chapter 10

  Her lips touched his, firm yet cautious. And with that tentative touch a thousand warring emotions stormed through her whirling system. Excitement, lust, fear. But she could not stop. Could not help herself. He might well be the enemy. The very embodiment of the Lucifer that had bedeviled her childhood. She knew that, but it hardly seemed to matter, for she was a fool. A weak, trembling coward. Had always been. Had always needed a savior, a protector.

  And as he slipped his hand down to her waist, she knew she was in over her head, deep and going deeper. Falling as she had never before, with nothing to break her rush to—

  “Mrs. Nettles, are you here?”

  Faye jerked away, heart pounding as her mind fluttered to place the voice. A woman’s. A…Madeline! Here. By the fountain. About to find her kissing the very man they suspected of murder!

  “Mrs. Nettles…Ah, there you are,” said Madeline, and seemed to materialize almost instantly from the darkness surrounding them. “I thought I saw you venture this way.”

  “Lady Gallo,” Faye rasped, and felt her face flame with a dozen uncertain emotions. “You were looking for me?”

  “Indeed I was. You left the ballroom so quickly. I wanted to make certain you hadn’t taken ill.”

  “Oh. No.” Panic and shame filled her. What had she been thinking? She had made a vow to find a killer, yet here she was, all but breathless with a man she’d only just met. “I am quite well.”

  Madeline raised a dark brow. “I see that you are,” she said, and paused expectantly.

  Silence settled in.

  “Oh,” Faye breathed, and knew there were social obligations to be met. “Let me introduce Mr….” And the name was gone.

  Madeline waited in silence, but Faye was out of control, out of her depth, out of her mind. Thus the other finally turned toward the Scot with regal aplomb.

  “Rogan McBain,” he rumbled, as he pulled his deep gaze from Faye to Madeline. “Though most call me naught but Bain.”

  “Bain,” Madeline said.

  “Aye.”

  “What an unusual—” Madeline began, but Faye could not tolerate another moment of this blistering civility.

  “My apologies,” she said, and, lifting her skirts, prepared to flee. “I just now remembered I must speak to the lady of the house.”

  Bain watched her graceful exit through the moon-shadowed garden, like a pixie among the nodding roses, like an angel among men.

  Lady Gallo cleared her throat, drawing his attention back to her. She was a comely woman, he supposed. But she was neither angelic nor—

  “And how do you know Mrs. Nettles?” she asked.

  He was a fool. He knew that. A fool who would not learn. There was no such thing as angels. And yet wee Faye had, for a moment, seemed so innocent. So lost and small regardless of the steely bravado she shared with the world. “We were acquainted some days past.”

  “Ahh.” The lady’s dark gaze sharpened. “And what were your intentions escorting her out of doors?”

  He scowled, remembering the fear that had momentarily sparked in little Faye’s eyes upon the lady’s entrance into the garden. Or had he only imagined that emotion? “Why is it you ask?”

  She looked mildly surprised by his question. “I ask because she is my friend, Mr. McBain, and I am not one to forgive easily.”

  He said nothing but watched her, assessing.

  “Do you understand my meaning?” she asked, emotion bright as shooting stars in her eyes. But what emotion was it exactly?

  “I am not certain I do,” he said.

  “I am saying that if something amiss happens to her, I shall not take it lightly.”

  It was not often that people surprised him. Not after all these years, and yet he was surprised. He was quite certain he weighed a good eight stone more than his challenger. “Are you threatening me, my lady?”

  She stood absolutely still for a moment, then straightened marginally. The top of her head almost reached his chin. “Yes,” she said.

  He stared at her, looking past the well-groomed features and the steady eyes to the woman beyond. But she did not falter, and finally he nodded once, satisfied.

  “I shall hold you to that,” he said, and turned, leaving her to stare after him as he returned to the ball.

  “Why are you here?” The voice was quiet, little more than a murmur of darkness, but Cur heard it clearly and turned with a start. A figure stood among the shadows. The lights of the noble estate did not reach the spot where Cur crouched among the greenery. They rarely did. Yet Joseph had found him.

  “I would ask the same of you,” Cur said, rising as he eyed the other’s livery, “but I can see you’ve become their servant.”

  “Every man is another’s servant. No matter the circumstances.”

  “Ahh, words of wisdom. Just what I’ve needed all my wayward life. I shall cherish them always,” Cur said, and moved to slip farther into the darkness, but the older man caught his arm. Despite his unassuming manner, his grip was firm.

  “Revenge does not spawn happiness, fiu. That I can promise.”

  They stared at each other in the darkness, thoughts tumbling like eagles in flight, dark gazes clashing.

  “If you think I seek revenge, you would be wise to watch your own back,” Cur snarled, and, jerking from the other’s grasp, disappeared into the darkness.

  What the devil had she been thinking? Faye’s head felt overheated, her hands clammy. She’d kissed him. Kissed him! Like a twittering schoolgirl. Like an undisciplined demirep. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she had been caught at it. What kind of witch was she? She was here on a mission. She was here to find a killer. A killer who might very well be in this very house.

  The idea seemed logical. Despite Lindale’s seeming affluence, Madeline had suggested the opposite might be true. Perhaps Brendier had held his cousin’s dun, and perhaps that debt was now null and void. Of course, it had not been Lindale who had challenged Brendier to a duel at the outset. That unfortunate was dead, as was Brendier himself. Why, if his affliction had only been a minor one?

  And why this merrymaking? Though Faye knew little of family, it seemed that Lindale should be mourning his cousin’s death rather than hosting his annual fete. Then again, more than two decades separated them in age. And she had no way of knowing how emotionally attached they had been.

  Searching the ballroom, Faye found Lord Lindale in the corner of the room. He was laughing with a young woman, seeming oblivious to any guilt, to any pain. She concentrated on him, trying to sense the honesty in him, but the distance between them was too great.

  And then she felt it. Just a niggle of something unknown.

  She turned. The feelings grew in strength. Truth. She could feel it like a tangible object. It was calling to her, pulling at her. She looked up the winding staircase. No one was there, and yet she felt a tug like a cord about her heart.

  She moved toward it, legs numb. Beneath her fingers, the newel post felt cold, the banister as smooth as glass as she ascended
the carpeted stairs.

  Up ahead a door was closed to her, but it mattered little, for inside that room she would find answers to questions still unasked.

  She turned the knob like one in a trance only to see rows upon rows of leather-bound volumes spread beneath an azure blue ceiling. Faye gazed upward. Bulbous clouds dappled the summery expanse, and standing beneath the imaginary sky was a statue of an angel, wings spread as he welcomed her into his library. Faye almost smiled as she stepped inside. Redemption was here. A journal that would explain Brendier’s death, perhaps. Or—

  “Can I help you?”

  Faye turned, startled by the revelation that the room was occupied. Lady Lindale stood only a few yards away, just to the left of a six-panel door. Her brows rose, as did those of the young man beside her.

  “Mrs. Nettles?” Lady Lindale’s soft, ivory cheeks matched her ball gown to near perfection.

  “Oh.” It was as if Faye were being snatched back to reality by sharp talons Confusion curled like smoke in her head. “No. I—”

  “Are you feeling unwell?” asked the matron, hurrying toward her. “You look quite pale.”

  “No. I’m fine,” she said, but nerves or something like it made her reach for the wall to steady herself.

  “Mots, dear boy, might you get poor Mrs. Nettles a bit to drink?” asked the lady. Faye scowled, trying to straighten out the rambling facts in her mind, but Lady Lindale glanced at the retreating man’s back, then shook her head. “My husband’s nephew,” she said, and took Faye’s arm in a gentle grip, steadying her. “I fear I was taking him to task. It’s time that he married, but these young bucks these days…” She shook her head with a tolerant smile that bordered on maternal. “So unprepared to settle down, even if the woman in question is most acceptable.

  “Here then, let me help you to the settee,” she said, and assisted Faye to the powder blue lounge beside the benevolent angel. “You sit. Mots will return in a moment with a nip of sherry.”

  Faye sat, mind churning. She should speak. Should make some sort of explanation for her presence there. The moneyed ton took the marriages of their kin extremely seriously, and she had interrupted these two while they were discussing the future of their coffers. “Please forgive my intrusion. I was told of your lovely library and was hoping to get a glimpse of it.” Pain sparked in her cranium for the lies, but they could hardly be avoided.