To Tempt the Devil (A Novel of Lord Hawkesbury's Players) Page 15

  “Ha, ha,” Lizzy said, one hand on her hip. She glanced at Rafe. He simply stared back, first at her chest, then at her face, then at her chest again. His Adam’s apple bobbed furiously until he looked down at his cards. He threw one on the table.

  Antony gave a triumphant snort. “That’s all you’ve got? Come on, Shake, your turn.”

  Will threw all his cards on the table. “I’m out.”

  Antony whooped with delight and put down a card. “You both owe me five thousand pounds.”

  Will’s head whipped around. “What?”

  “Ah, so you are listening.” Antony gathered up the cards. “Which is more than I can say for him.” He nodded at Rafe.

  Rafe passed a hand over his eyes. “My apologies.” He stood. “I’m hungry.”

  “There’s a lot of food in the sack,” Lizzy said.

  Rafe nodded without looking at her.

  “Or there’s some bacon left over from breakfast,” Will said. “I think we have cheese and bread too. Kate?”

  “Aye,” she said and disappeared into the storeroom.

  Lizzy sat on a stool near the fire and dried her hair, running her fingers through the long strands. She glanced at Rafe beneath her lowered lashes but he was once more sitting at the table, angled so his back was to her. Antony was trying to interest him in another game of Primero, but Rafe shook his head.

  “You have lovely hair,” Will said, watching her.

  “Thank you, that is very sweet of you to say so.”

  “You make it sound like I don’t mean it.”

  She shrugged. “You’ve seen my sister’s hair. Mine is like dirty snow next to hers.”

  “Alice’s?” Will almost shrugged, almost nodded, but didn’t really do either. “It’s different from hers, neither better nor worse.”

  She smiled. “You’re very diplomatic.”

  “Not at all!” The playwright looked offended. “I believe it wholeheartedly.”

  “I never met your sister,” Antony said, shuffling the cards. “Either of them. Are they truly both beautiful?”

  “Yes,” Lizzy said.

  “Not in the classic sense of beauty,” Will said with a glance toward the storeroom door and Kate. “But their faces were ones you could look at all day long and not tire of the sight. There was always something different about them, something unique and intriguing. And their eyes! Captured your imagination, those eyes did.” His own eyes had a faraway look in them.

  “Well,” Antony said. “That is quite a compliment coming from you. I wish I could meet these intriguing sisters of yours, Lizzy. What say you, Rafe? Is that how you remember them?”

  “I hardly recall,” he growled. “They were just girls when I last saw them.”

  “Not Alice,” Will said. “She would be about the same age as you?”

  “She was already a grown woman when Rafe left London,” Lizzy said. “I’m sure he must have noticed her.” She tried to put a laugh into her tone but her words still sounded forced.

  Rafe half-turned. His profile was dark and his jaw set like stone. “I didn’t notice her. I was too busy.”

  “Too busy to notice a beautiful woman?” Will laughed and caught Kate around the waist as she walked past him carrying a trencher laden with bread and cheese. She giggled and kissed the top of his balding head. “Then you are a man made of strong stuff.”

  “Or soft,” Antony said with a sly grin.

  Rafe said nothing and the silence quickly frayed. Will and Kate separated and Antony concentrated on fanning the cards out and closing them again. It took all his attention. Lizzy stared into the fire.

  “You shouldn’t think yourself less than your sisters.” Rafe’s voice was quiet but drew everyone’s attention with its golden tones. “You’re not, neither in appearance nor in any other way.” And with that, he helped himself to a piece of bread from the trencher.

  His words raised Lizzy’s spirits. At first. Then they came crashing down again. On his own admission, he hardly remembered her sisters, so his favorable comparison was simply a kindness. “Thank you,” she said all the same.

  It felt like a light had gone out within her.

  They ate supper and Lizzy asked Antony about the company. She missed them so and he told her they missed her equally as much. They were all very concerned. “Even Style,” he said. “I think he feels responsible.”

  “He should,” Will said, tearing apart a piece of bread. “None of this would have happened if it wasn’t for his petty feud with Gripp.”

  “What’s done is done.” Lizzy sat at the table with them, her dry hair falling down her back. “Rafe and I must find a way out now.”

  Will shook his head. “It’s hopeless. You should catch a ship to France or the Low Countries.”

  “No.” Rafe spoke with such finality that no one contradicted him. “Lizzy belongs here in London. I will set things right for her.”

  That brought more silence down on them until Antony said, “Style is offering a reward to anyone who can name the true killer.”

  “Really?” Lizzy stared at him. “Roger Style?”

  Antony nodded.

  “And he’s offering real money?”

  “Three pounds.”

  Will paused with a slice of cheese halfway to his mouth. “Perhaps I should start an investigation of my own. Keeping a mistress costs a fortune.”

  “You get more than your money’s worth,” Kate said, hands on hips.

  They finished their supper and Rafe declared it was dark enough for them to leave. “It’ll be safe now.” He gathered up their sacks and thanked their hosts.

  Lizzy kissed Kate and Will on their cheeks and hugged Antony tight.

  “Take care,” he said, hugging her a second time. When he drew back there were tears in his eyes.

  “I will.”

  “I’ll call on your parents every day. Do not worry about them, just worry about keeping away from constables.”

  She nodded. He was so good to her. She hugged him again. When she finally pulled away she caught Rafe watching her. He had that odd expression on his face again, dark and cold like a looming winter storm.

  “Let’s go,” he snapped.

  She followed him out the front door, Kate’s cloak clasped over her breasts, and wondered how she would fare spending another night in the presence of Rafe Fletcher.

  CHAPTER 11

  Lizzy fell asleep almost as soon as she tumbled into bed. She awoke some time later in a tangle of blankets, shaking with cold and fear. She’d dreamed about Rafe again and the day he’d left London seven years ago. The cold, dark look in his eyes haunted her even now that she was awake. She told herself he wasn’t always like that. He’d shown kindness to her since his return.

  Yet…

  What would happen if she did something he didn’t like? How far would he go? How bad would she need to err before he turned violent?

  “Lizzy? Is everything all right?” He stood in the doorway dressed in his new clothes. Unlike the night before, he did not have a blade in his hand and he did not rush in thinking she was in danger. He merely hovered at the edge of her bedchamber, a powerful presence in the darkness. Surprisingly, it brought her comfort.

  Would she be forever undecided between her fear of him and her trust in his ability to protect her?

  “Yes,” she said. “It was just another dream.”

  He stepped closer but kept back a little from the bed. “It might help to talk about it.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He was silent a moment then, “Did you have these nightmares at home?”

  “No.” She got out of bed and untangled the blankets. By the light of the moon she could see his face was turned to her, watching. His eyes may have been shrouded in shadows but she didn’t need to see them to know desire dwelled in their depths. She could feel it vibrating off him.

  Too late she remembered the new shift didn’t modestly cover her breasts. Did his vast catalog of skills stretch to se
eing in the dark? There had been no doubt at Kate’s house that he’d noticed her cleavage. Everyone had.

  “I’m sure it’s because of the danger we’re now facing, and the uncertainty,” she said.

  “Hmm? What’s that?”

  “My bad dreams are caused by our current danger.”

  He cleared his throat. “You’re right. It’s nothing to do with—” He sucked in a breath. “With anything else.”

  Neither of them spoke or moved. Perhaps he would come back to her, comfort her, assure her all would be well again. Kiss her.

  Heat spread from her breasts to the tips of her ears and down to her toes. Her nipples tightened, tingled, strained against the shift. Thank goodness for the darkness.

  Rafe reached up to the door frame as if he needed it for balance. “Lizzy…”

  Now. Come to me. Here. “Yes?” she asked, breathy.

  “Lizzy…I’m sorry for what happened at Shakespeare’s house. I should not have…”

  He was sorry for the kiss? “Oh. Yes, of course. I’m sorry too.” Sorry she had enjoyed it so much and hadn’t wanted it to end. Sorry she could not get it out of her head, despite her nightmare, despite being afraid of this man.

  “James would kill me if he knew I’d forced myself on you.”

  Oh lord, poor dear James. Guilt stabbed her squarely in the chest. “Kill you,” she said dully. “Yes. I mean, no. James wouldn’t do that. He’s not violent at all.” She rubbed her forehead. What had come over her? Kissing Rafe, forgetting about James…what sort of woman was this escapade turning her into?

  He turned away and rubbed a hand through his hair. “No, he’s not. He’s a good man, a good brother. The best.”

  He stalked off before she could say good night.

  It hadn’t been easy to leave the house without Lizzy. Rafe had to convince her he was simply doing a check of the vicinity to see if Treece and his men were still in the area. She’d thought it best if he dressed as a woman again, and although he protested, he knew she was right. He used the new gown she’d stitched for him and a long, dark wig borrowed from Shakespeare. From the expression on her face when he asked her how he looked, he guessed the disguise hadn’t improved his appearance. At least he looked different enough from the day before that Treece wouldn’t immediately recognize him.

  He walked with a basket over his arm down Borough High Street toward the Marshalsea prison. Lizzy had thought the basket empty under the cloth covering, but he’d laden it with food for James and the other prisoners. He hoped it was enough.

  He also hoped his brother was still alive.

  There was no sign of Treece or his men on the way to the Marshalsea but he doubted they’d given up, not after getting so close the night before.

  A bored guard let him into James’s cell after he told him he was James’s mother. Either he didn’t look too closely at the face beneath the wig or he simply accepted that James came from ugly stock.

  The same four prisoners were in the cell. The ogre and the other two looked up from where they sat or lay on pallets and quickly dismissed him as someone they didn’t know. Good. It meant the disguise was effective.

  James did not look up. He lay on his pallet, his back to the entrance, his legs curled up in front of him. Rafe’s first instinct was to tell him to roll over and never leave his back exposed like that to the other prisoners, but the advice died on his lips.

  An ice-cold lump formed in his gut. James wasn’t moving.

  Rafe approached him carefully, keeping one eye on the ogre, who appeared to go back to sleep. The other two men played cards in the corner, their faces hollow amid the griminess, their eyes sunken but watchful.

  Rafe knelt down and peered at James. A dark bruise spread across his jaw and his lip was cut. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He set down the basket but instead of reaching for James, he strode over to the big prisoner and picked him up by the front of his jerkin. The man’s eyes sprang open just in time to see Rafe’s fist smashing into his nose. He roared in pain and clutched his face. Blood oozed between his fingers.

  God, that felt good.

  “Bitch!” the giant protested, rubbing his face. He got to his feet, flexed his shoulders, and stretched his neck. Rafe glanced at James.

  His brother sat up and tucked his feet in. His gaze swept over Rafe to the oaf and then to the others. He said nothing, only hugged his knees to his chest. He didn’t give Rafe a second look.

  “James,” Rafe said. “It’s me.”

  James squinted at him. The big prisoner looked hard at Rafe and burst out laughing.

  “God’s wounds, it’s your brother,” he said to James. “About time you came again. Thought you’d forgotten about us, hadn’t we, boy?” He tore the cloth off the basket and bent to look inside. “Got any apples for me today, big brother?”

  Rafe kicked him in the gut and the oversized body smashed into the wall with a satisfying thud near the card players. They scrambled out of the way like rats set upon by a cat.

  The ogre groaned and coughed. Finally he rolled over and sat up. “You’re one ugly wench, you know that?”

  Rafe joined his brother, keeping an eye on the big prisoner who remained sitting on the packed-earth floor.

  “Are you well?” Rafe asked.

  James stared at him. Then he started laughing. “He’s right, you are ugly,” he said. “Nice hair, though.”

  “Thanks. I spent all morning brushing it.”

  James grinned and Rafe grinned back. The other man gave a grudging laugh but didn’t rise.

  “Answer my question,” Rafe said, “or I’ll be forced to beat someone up again.”

  James rubbed his jaw. “Do I have a bruise?”

  “Just a little one.” It wasn’t little, it was large and purple. Rafe shot a glance at the big prisoner who cast a grimace back.

  “I’m all right,” James said on a sigh. “Starving, though.” He checked the basket and groaned the way a man does when he sees his lover naked for the first time. “I love you, brother.” He pulled out a pie and bit into it. His eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy as crumbs dropped onto his lap.

  The other three prisoners descended on the basket like bees to the first spring blossoms. Rafe pulled it away from them.

  “I want a promise that you will leave my brother alone.” He spoke to them all but he looked straight at the giant.

  The man nodded quickly. Rafe pushed the basket toward him and he dove in with both hands and pulled out the other pie. The two quiet, hollowed-out prisoners had their turn next. Rafe let them all take their pick but he made sure James received the most.

  The food would only be enough to last them the day, he realized. They were all starving, which meant Rafe was probably the only one bringing in food for all four. They’d be dead if it wasn’t for Rafe. At least James didn’t look to be the worst off, despite his bruise. His eyes weren’t as sunken as the two smaller prisoners, nor did he look as tired or his bones as sharp. Those two ate the food so quickly they couldn’t have chewed properly let alone tasted it.

  Rafe waited until the basket was empty before shooing them all away. “I want to speak to my brother in privacy.”

  They moved to the far side of the cell, no questions asked, even the ogre.

  “What happened?” Rafe asked James. “He hit you?”

  James licked his finger and touched it to the crumbs clinging to his jerkin. “Aye.” He sucked the crumbs off his fingertip. “After you left that day. He wanted the last apple. So did I. He hit me, I gave it up.” He shrugged.

  “A wise decision.” But it galled Rafe to say it.

  “Rafe?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I know we’ve grown apart these last few years, and that we hardly know each other anymore. But tell me…have you changed so much that you now like wearing women’s clothes?”

  Rafe chuckled. “It’s a disguise.”

  “A good one. I didn’t recognize you. But why do you need a disguise? Does this have anythin
g to do with your new employment with Lord Liddicoat?”

  What exactly did he think Rafe’s new job entailed? “No. I don’t start there for a few more days.”

  “Oh.” James tapped his fingers on his knee. “So he wouldn’t let you begin earlier?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you buy all this food?” James looked Rafe up and down then screwed up his nose. “Good lord! You didn’t…” He fingered Rafe’s skirt. “…you know.”

  Rafe chuckled. “Would you pay to be with a woman who looked like me?”

  “Not even if I was desperate.” He nodded at Rafe’s wig, an impish smirk lighting up his face. “Perhaps if you were fair like Lizzy.”

  Like Lizzy, with her beautiful “dirty snow” hair as she’d called it, falling down her back, over her shoulders, brushing her nipples. Christ.

  He shoved the image out of his mind. It was beyond wrong to picture his brother’s intended naked and writhing and…

  Bloody hell.

  “Are you going to tell me how you got the money?” James asked. “Did you ask the Crofts after all?”

  “No.”

  James’s gaze slid to the other prisoners. He sighed. “Can you come back every day from now on? Or every second day, instead of forgetting about me then turning up dressed like the offspring of a she-monster and Briggs there.” He jerked his head at the ogre, who cracked open an eye at the mention of his name. His nose had stopped bleeding but his face and clothes were covered in his blood. He wasn’t a pretty sight. “So why didn’t you come yesterday?” James asked, his voice cracking with indignation. “Or the day before? I could have been eaten alive.”

  “The wardens won’t let them eat you,” Rafe said. Not in a civilized city like London, but some of the prisons he’d seen in Moscow would be a different story.

  Rafe stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He wanted to tell James to mind his own business or that he’d been too busy. Those were the responses he would have given to anyone else who’d asked him what his movements were. But that was in the past, and James was his brother.