Charming the Devil

by Lois Greiman

  “I may well be if you intend to tell me you are honestly interested in that hulking Scot.”

  “Might you be speaking of Rogan McBain?”

  “Do you know another hulking Scot?”

  She tried a smile, but for the life of her, she could think of no pithy rejoinders. “Is he the vengeful sort?” she asked, her tone far more serious than she had intended. Breathless, in fact.

  Something passed across his expression, an odd flicker between amusement and curiosity, perhaps. Or perhaps not. What did she know of men? “Vengeful? No. Not particularly. But deadly…” He canted his head, watching her.

  She felt no lie in the statement. What the devil did that mean? she wondered, and realized in that instant that the moments were slipping into silence. It was a situation tantamount to high treason in the elegant world of the chattering ton. “It’s simply that wrath…Well, it is one of the deadly sins, is it not? And I would hate…” She was floundering, searching for footing in murky waters. “It is simply that I’ve no wish to see him bear more hardships than he’s already endured.”

  “You think Bain has endured hardships?”

  “Well, there’s the scar on his…” she began and caught herself, face burning as she remembered the mark that stretched across his furrowed abdomen to sink beneath the length of plaid he’d snatched around his waist.

  “The scar on his what?” Connelly asked, brows raised slightly.

  She pursed her lips. “He came to London on business with Lord Brendier, did he not?” she asked, fishing carefully.

  He watched her, half-smiling. “Is that what he told you?”

  Her every fiber was taut with impatience. Against the silver handle of the spoon, her knuckles ached with tension. “Is it an untruth?”

  Did his expression sober slightly or was she merely imagining? “So far as I know, lass, Bain is incapable of lying. Or perhaps he has yet to find a compelling reason.”

  She resisted scowling and forged on. “I assume Lord Brendier’s death made his business dealings more difficult.”

  He stretched out his legs, watching her, eyes slightly narrowed, mouth still quirked up the faintest degree. “Considering Bain had come to London with the express purpose of meeting the lad, yes, I suspect his death did put a bit of a crimp in the works.”

  The scowl was too much to resist. “Why did McBain wish to meet Brendier?”

  “I believe it was a favor to his uncle.”

  Faye shook her head.

  “I know,” Connelly said, grinning. “Difficult to believe the lug has kin, is it not? When first we met, I was not entirely certain he was human.”

  “What else would he be?” she asked, and refused to remember she had once thought him the Devil.

  “I would guess he failed to tell you of Boxtel.”

  “I believe he said he lost his mount there.”

  Connelly laughed. “Did he tell you that Wellington’s horse also fell and that the marquess, just a lieutenant colonel at the time, was able to make it to safety because Bain covered his retreat?

  “Wellington gifted him with a new steed. Three days later. After they could find him amongst the corpses.”

  She felt a little sick. “What?”

  “He stayed behind to defend the damaged animal against the French. Hence the scar you saw near his…” He nodded downward.

  She refused to blanch. “Why would he—” she began.

  “Listen,” he said, leaning forward abruptly. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather speak of me? Perhaps you’ve yet to notice my dimples.” He dimpled. She ignored them.

  “Why?” she asked again, and he sighed.

  “’Tis impossible to guess Bain’s mind,” he said, and stared into the middle distance as if seeing things that were not there. “One day he is mad in love with a maid, the next he won’t speak her name.”

  “What maid?” She hadn’t meant to ask that question, but surely she should learn all she could.

  “Charlotte.” He rallied a little, but his grin was wan, her magic strengthening. “Spoken in hushed and reverent tones.”

  “What was her surname?”

  “He never said. And indeed, he’ll not say now. Since that day he has all but shut himself off from life. Though it’s not as if he was the giddy sort before. Still, he’s all but transparent compared to his uncle.”

  “Tell me of him.”

  “His mother’s brother. Scotch to the very root of his being. Distinctly different from Gerald.”

  “Gerald?”

  “His father. An Englishman. And rather refined by all accounts.” His eyes were going somber, his features somewhat slack. “A far cry from Bain’s uncle.” He nodded to himself. “The old man died some months ago. A bayonet to the gut. In truth, I was fair surprised he could be killed.”

  “And here I assumed he was human also,” she said, and wondered dismally if she sounded witty or just dense.

  “There was some doubt,” he said, and found a smile again. “Most of his friends called him Stone.”

  “And his enemies?”

  “His enemies will be silent for a very long while.”

  She watched him.

  He fiddled with his ice, but seemed far away. “I was never actually certain Bain had feelings…until recently. First old Stone’s death, and now…” He paused, finding her with his azure eyes.

  She felt strangely breathless, wanting more than anything for him to continue with his line of thought. But she had not come here on some schoolgirlish whim. She straightened her back and remembered her mission.

  “And what of Brendier? Did Mr. McBain feel badly about his passing?”

  “So far as I know, the baron was virtually unknown to Bain.”

  Did that mean the giant Celt would feel no need to avenge Brendier’s death? And what of herself? If Rogan had, in fact, believed Lord Lindale was her aggressor, would he have felt compelled to do him bodily harm?

  “And something of an ass,” Connelly added.

  “Why then did Stone wish for Rogan to meet him?”

  “Perhaps old Stone knew the lad was about to find trouble and hoped Bain would protect him. ’Tis my best guess.”

  “Why Rogan?”

  “If Bain wants someone alive…” His tone was pensive. He bent his neck as if flexing a half-forgotten wound. “…he generally stays that way for some time.”

  “And what if he wants a person dead?”

  “Then his target tends to cease to breathe in fairly short order. But enough about the lug. Let us…” he began, and in that moment she leaned forward, tugging the handkerchief from his sleeve and squeezing it between his hand and hers.

  “Mr. Connelly,” she said. “Did Rogan kill Brendier?”

  There was a pause, then, “I wouldn’t think so.”

  “What of Lord Lindale? Did the Scotsman kill him?”

  His features had become increasingly slack, his eyes all but sleepy. “Lindale of Inver Heights?”

  “Yes.”

  “He died?”

  She scowled. “Sometime during the night. Do you think Rogan might have had a hand in his death?”

  “Did Lindale do you some harm?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Then neither am I.”

  “Are you saying Bain is not above avenging me if he thought me damaged?”

  “He protects those he cares for.”

  “And he…he cares for me?”

  “Yes.”

  “As a…as a sister do you think or—” she began, then stopped, angry at herself. “So you believe he would be capable of killing Lindale.”

  “There is little McBain is incapable of,” he said. “There is none in all of Europe to best him. Be it weapons, strategies, or bare knuckles.”

  She held her breath and leaned forward, desperate to know if she truly had him entranced. “So he is your superior?” she asked.

  One corner of his mouth twitched up lazily. “I’m a child by comparison.”

/>   “If he killed Lindale, how would he have done so?”

  “By any method he desired,” he said.

  “Poison?”

  He scowled. “I don’t believe—” he began, but in that instant the door opened. For a moment the light of day was blocked, then Rogan McBain stepped inside.

  His gaze fell on her immediately. Their eyes clashed like lightning bolts before his attention dropped to the hand she had laid on Connelly’s. Something shone in his eyes as he pulled his attention back to her face. She tugged her fingers away and stood.

  “McBain,” Connelly said, voice returned to its normal jocularity. “We were just talking about…”

  Faye jerked toward him, breath held, willing the Irishman to refrain from spilling the truth, but there was no need to worry. Her powers had not failed her.

  “Something…” he said. “Happily, I’m quite certain it was not you. Which, by the by, makes me curious. What are you doing here?”

  “We agreed to meet.”

  “Did we? When was that exactly?”

  If Bain heard him speak, he made no response. Instead, his gaze remained absolutely steady on Faye. Emotions stormed between them in waves she failed to identify.

  “Are ye well?” he rumbled.

  “Yes,” she said, the word tinny.

  He stared at her a moment longer, shifted his gaze to Connelly, then nodded once and turned away. In a second he was gone.

  The little shop went quiet, and Connelly laughed.

  “Well,” he said, “that went quite well, didn’t it?”

  She turned breathlessly toward him. “What the devil are you talking about? He looked extremely…” What? “Cross?”

  He rubbed his hands together. “He did rather didn’t he?” he said, and, stepping up beside her, peered out the window to watch McBain stride away. His broad back was stiff, his big, artist’s hands clenched to fists. The sight seemed to bring Connelly nothing but glee. “Well, I believe my work here is done.” He smiled down at her. “Unless you wish to risk my life further.”

  “I believe you to be quite mad,” she said. “And I know a bit about lunacy.”

  He grinned. “A single kiss between us might well put him over the edge.” He was standing very close, his sky blue gaze locked on hers. “No? ’Tis probably just as well, for one kiss might also put me in the grave. Until later, then,” he said, and, bowing, hurried merrily from the shop.

  Chapter 17

  “McBain,” Connelly called, but Bain ignored the noise just as he would the buzz of a bothersome insect. Instead, he rolled the tension out of his shoulders and kept walking.

  “McBain, slow your ungodly long strides,” Connelly called, and ran up to his side. “My apologies, I entirely forgot we were to meet. But what a serendipitous bit of good fortune that Mrs. Nettles showed up, aye?”

  Anger stormed through him, but he kept it carefully at bay. He had no wish to knock the Irishman unconscious. Perhaps.

  “She looked fit, didn’t she?” Connelly asked. “A little…” He flapped his hand in front of his chest. “A little scrawny perhaps, but bonny enough in a frail sort of way.”

  Some kind of noise escaped Bain’s throat. Even he wasn’t sure what it was.

  “Still, the lady is unattached,” Connelly continued, “and far be it from me to turn aside a fair damsel’s interest in myself. She is a widow, after all. And as you may or may not know widows are known to long for a man’s…” He tilted his head as if searching for the proper word. “Attention.”

  Rage began to boil in earnest. Bain gritted his teeth and lengthened his strides.

  “And though I prefer a lass with a bit more…substance, I would feel amiss if I made her feel she were less than appealing. After all, I’ve certainly bedded women with fewer charms and would be happy to—”

  Upon later consideration, Bain never remembered turning. Never recalled drawing back his fist, but suddenly Irish was stretched out on the cobblestones. He remained there a while, looking stunned before he tested his jaw, then grinned like a drunken longshoreman.

  Bain stared at him for an instant, then turned away, but Connelly stopped him with a question.

  “You don’t mind if I accompany her to the opera then, do you?”

  It was well past dusk. Midnight was approaching relentlessly. Not the time to pay visits, of course, yet Rogan made his way down the dark streets toward Lavender House. It stood silent atop its lone hill, towering above the others and seeming to glower down at the world at large. For a moment, Rogan glowered back, but finally he lifted a heavy leg over Colt’s croup, stepped from the saddle, and strode resolutely up the curved, cobbled walkway.

  It had been a devilishly long day. After seeing Mrs. Nettles with Connelly, he had ridden to Inver Heights in an effort to determine who might have intended her harm, only to find that the very man he’d suspected had mysteriously died during the night.

  Questions simmered like bad stew in his soul. Questions that would be answered. Questions that would ease his mind, would allow him to forget her. After all, he could understand why she preferred Connelly. He could understand and accept. Indeed, ’twas for the best. After all, McBain himself was hardly the sort to make a life with a lady of such breathtaking—

  “So you return.”

  The voice from the darkness startled him from his rancid thoughts. He stopped, glared into the shadows, and exhaled carefully.

  The red-haired maid was once again in the garden. He swept his gaze to the left, though in truth, every instinct in him suggested that he back away and do so slowly. He found the average woman frightfully beyond his ken. How much less did he understand the ladies who lived in this glowering house on the hill.

  “I would see Mrs. Nettles,” he intoned to the night.

  “Surely even hulking Scotsmen realize it is long past the hour of proper visits.”

  Despite his best intentions, he snorted quietly. The last time he had stood in this garden, she had been engaged in some strange, inexplicable altercation with another.

  “Are you suggesting I am less than proper?” she asked, and stepped from the shadows.

  “I am saying I will see the lady,” he said simply.

  She smiled as if thrilled by the bite of challenge he let infuse his tone. “’Tis my task to make certain you do not bother those who have no wish to be bothered.”

  “Your task,” he said, and scowled.

  She shrugged. “Our Cur oft runs off, leaving me to defend the ladies within.”

  This was a strange place with strange people. There was an eerie feel to the house, even to the garden in which he stood. It made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. And he did not like that. He was an uncomplicated man, comfortable with more conventional conflicts, and yet he was here. What did that say of him? “And who are these ladies who have no wish to be bothered?”

  She smiled again, teeth bright in the shimmer of moonlight. “The ladies of Lavender House are simple womenfolk, widows mostly, gathered together to discuss politics and share the joys and woes of life.”

  And I am a turnip. “What do you know of Lord Lindale?” he asked.

  For a moment, he thought she would refuse to answer, but she did not. “I know that he is dead.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Not by my hand.”

  Perhaps her unconventional answer should have surprised him, but it did not. “Who are you?”

  “No one to trifle with,” she warned, and took a step forward.

  He refrained from retreating, though it was a close thing. “I’ve no intention of trifling, lass. I only wish to speak to Mrs. Nettles.”

  “Then you’ll return in the morning,” she said, and stepped more directly into his path.

  “Perhaps that is so, but I will see her this night also,” he rumbled. “Thus I ask that you move aside.”

  “I cannot do that, Scotsman.”

  “Because ’tis your duty to guard the house,” he said, tone dry.

>   She raised a brow in a sort of agreeable challenge.

  Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, but in that moment a rustle of sound issued from the rowans to the left. They turned in tandem as a dark silhouette stepped from the shadows.

  Absolute silence lay on the tension-soaked garden, but in a moment she spoke, her voice low with anger.

  “You dare disturb me again?”

  The man’s voice was quiet with warning and deep confidence, though he did not address the woman. “The lady is right, Scotsman. ’Tis not the proper time for this.”

  God almighty this was a strange place. Did no one ever sleep? “And who might you be?” Bain, too, kept his voice deep and gruff, but if the truth be told, he was thrilled near to tears by this new challenge. Better to face a fully armed regiment of battle-scarred soldiers than tangle with a woman who held a grudge.

  “I’m of no concern to you,” he said, “unless you harm the lady.”

  “I’ll not harm—” he began.

  “I do not want your help,” she said, tone pitched high in sudden, overt rage.

  McBain glanced at her, but her attention was on the man near the far wall.

  “And yet I give it,” he said.

  “Go away,” she hissed.

  “I did that once.” Silence echoed in the wake of his admission. “I’ll not do so again.”

  “You will leave me be,” she snarled, “or—”

  “I’ve no wish to interfere,” Bain said, and thought that a truer word had never been spoken. Nevertheless, he made a move to step around her, but she turned toward him with a snap, eyes blazing in the darkness.

  “You may not pass, you hulking—” she began, but the threat was never completed.

  “Why have you come?” asked a quiet voice.

  Bain lifted his gaze toward the front door. A dark shape stood there, indistinguishable in the overhead shadows. And yet he recognized her in the melodic glory of her voice. Could feel her goodness like a blade to his heart.

  “Faerie lass,” he breathed, and, though he told himself to stay away, he could not do so. He moved toward her. In a vague corner of his mind, he was aware that Shaleena raised her hand in anger, but the man spoke from the shadows.