Perfect Knave Page 2

  But she only drew in an outraged breath. "I must be cursed indeed?"

  "Mistress!"

  Emile uttered a profound oath as a man as tall and thin as a pikestaff came running through the untied slit of the tent.

  "Mistress!" the man cried and glared murder at Emile. "I will save you!"

  The mistress did not appear to need this assistance. With an expression of righteous fury, she drew back her arm.

  "Pig shit!" Emile exclaimed. Even though he was caught in the tub, he managed to duck the more punishing blow from above. There was no way, however, to avoid the open-handed slap of the woman.

  "There is nothing cursed about me!" she proclaimed, completely belying her original assertion. Her hand connected smartly with Emile's head. "Ha! Nothing different from any other woman!"

  Pain immediately exploded through Emile's head. Too much pain. By some absurd chance, the woman's hand had caught the very spot Carver had already softened with his fistful of grapeshot.

  Amused, Emile opened his mouth to chuckle. Instead a flood of water poured in. Suddenly he couldn't breathe.

  No. She couldn't have. One naked little woman could not have accomplished what half a dozen cutthroats had failed to do. But the black rose up.

  Emile actually felt an instant of panic, as if his life had any worth to the world. Then the moment passed, and he chuckled.

  To think he'd be dead—and Stone would never know.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She was not cursed. She was not.

  Faced backwards in the rocking wagon, Lucy assured herself of this truth. The curse was just a spiteful story put about by men who could not abide a woman who was so clever as herself, so hard-driving in a bargain, or so shrewd a housekeeper.

  Take this wagon of supplies, for example, she was riding back to her hometown of Bonham. Only her father could have done a better job trading the raw wool for coin or bargained the farmers into better prices on their goods. It was enough to make any man green with envy that Lucy was on a par with the most successful merchant in England. Aye, envy was the true source of her alleged curse. Not her so-called 'victims.'

  There was only one problem with this otherwise excellent theory. That would be the body nestled between the sacks of flour and the bags of onions. The body Lucy herself had smote to the ground.

  Lucy gnawed on a knuckle and regarded the evidence. Like a jelly pudding, the man jostled with each lurch of the vehicle. Though a seasoned ham knocked regularly against the wheat-colored curls of his head, he gave no sign of waking up.

  Cursed, that's what they said of her. But even the curse had never done this much harm to a man.

  "At least the knave breathes," Lucy murmured aloud.

  At the reins, her father's steward, Gawain, grunted. "More's the pity."

  Lucy hummed, resisting the urge to reach forward and touch her hand to the fellow's chest to check that it actually did still rise and fall. In the waning light, it was difficult to tell.

  She had been lucky, Gawain had said after they had hauled the man, choking and spluttering from the water. Her father's steward had gazed with approval as the fellow had collapsed senseless to the ground. Lucy must have hit the knave in just the right spot, Gawain had said.

  Lucky. In the wagon Lucy closed her eyes. When it came to men, it was astounding how this sort of 'luck' seemed to follow her around.

  "I still say we should have left him behind," Gawain grumbled.

  Lucy opened her eyes. Her gaze fell upon the man with his clipped, golden-red beard and the mop of varicolored curls. Golden lashes lay stubbornly flat against his clean-shaven cheekbones. "He was injured."

  "By his own hand," the steward retorted.

  "By mine."

  Gawain made a low, exasperated sound. "He is a rogue. In the market, three of the roughest cutthroats I have ever seen were chasing him."

  Lucy had nothing to reply to this fact and so remained silent. Her gaze turned into a helpless glare at the clear and even features of the man who refused to wake up. For eight hours he hadn't moved a muscle. Eight of them! Even if he did rouse now, he could easily suffer a relapse. A permanent one.

  Lucy shivered and quickly reminded herself that he had asked for it. Jumping into her tub, nearly drowning her, and then—and then—playing with her. Oh, yes, he had definitely asked for it.

  She was not cursed. Truly she was not.

  "What are you going to do with him once you get home?" Gawain wanted to know. "What then?"

  Lucy put her knuckle to her teeth again. If he survives that long.

  "We could still get rid of him." Gawain appeared cheered by the idea. "Dump him over the side."

  "Gawain. Is that the charity your Puritan Bible would teach us?"

  "Perhaps not." The steward's jaw set. "But it would be no loss to the queen's realm, I am sure."

  Lucy was saved trying to disagree with this assessment by a soft moan coming from the direction of the seasoned ham.

  "He lives," she breathed.

  "Get the pistol." Gawain pulled up on the reins.

  "'Tis here." Lucy scrambled for the gun.

  With a pained groan, the man tried to turn onto his side. A bag of apples got in his way. The obstruction made him gasp and then open his eyes.

  Lucy licked her lips, waiting.

  The fellow's gaze focused on the heel of the ham, shifted to take in the rest of the wagon, and finally found Lucy, pistol in hand. He blinked.

  This time Lucy was not caught off guard by the heady power of his ale-colored eyes. With the pistol in her hands, she told herself the advantage was on her side this time. But the link of her eyes with his still gave her an inexplicable punch in her stomach.

  "My God." The man put a hand to his head and winced. "I'm still alive—I think."

  Judging by his tone and words, he had not felt an inexplicable punch in the stomach.

  "And lucky you are," Gawain snarled at the man, "to still live."

  The fellow's head snapped in Gawain's direction. A look of deep apology came over his features. "I am sorry, master. I had no idea she was married."

  Gawain's face suddenly blazed, and he glanced toward Lucy. "Married! You think she is married to m-me?"

  Silently, Lucy sighed. Yes, even loyal Gawain believed in the curse. Considering all the stories concerning Lucy—including today's work—who could blame him?

  Calmly, even proudly, Lucy stated, "I am not married."

  "Not married?" With his brows raised, the knave turned to look at her. Very slowly, he smiled. "In that case, sweet—" He winked. "The apology is owed to me."

  It was Lucy's turn for her face to blaze. He was perfectly audacious! Unfortunately, his comment was also justified. In her bath she had showed him her breasts—but out of anger not lewdness. She had assumed him some idiot jumped in there on a wager. Instead, he'd—he'd handled her and joked that he could want her. Still blushing, Lucy rearranged her fingers around the pistol. "You were not in my tub on a wager. So, then. What were you doing there?"

  His sly smile faded, replaced by a politely stupid expression.

  Lucy's mouth twisted. "I heard those fellows. Gawain saw them. Lusty cutthroats. You were being chased."

  Chagrin eased past his supposed ignorance. "I was." He shrugged.

  "Mm hm!" If the fellow proved to be a big enough rogue, Lucy wouldn't need to care about his health. "Who are you, and what did they want of you?"

  "My name is Emile." With a wince, he struggled to a sitting position among the goods.

  "The brigands," Lucy insisted. "The ruffians you nearly drew to my bath. Explain."

  He gave her a sidelong look. "Ah, well, now. You want a long story, then."

  "Long or short, we will hear it."

  "We will, will we?" This time, the knave's confusion looked genuine. "Is that why you have taken me with you—so you can hear my story?"

  Lucy paused. No, of course that wasn't why, but she could hardly explain the truth.

  He ge
stured. "You could have left me behind for the brigands."

  Yes, she could have...if she hadn't been afraid of the effect of her 'curse.' Thinking quickly, Lucy lifted her chin. "I, uh, wish to know with whom I have had dealings."

  "Oh." He looked unconvinced.

  Lucy's jaw tightened. What did he think, that she'd hauled him along because she was attracted? "I believe you are a thief."

  His eyes widened. "No."

  "Yes. Some petty little thief." Lucy took one hand off the pistol to wave. "Only this time you stole your trifle from the wrong man. This one came after you for it."

  "Oh." His expression showed the very height of affront. "You could not be more wrong."

  Believing that she was, in fact, quite correct, Lucy smiled. "Convince me otherwise."

  He looked down at the pistol and sniffed. "If you insist."

  "She does," Gawain threw in over his shoulder.

  "Very well." Emile sniffed again. "I will admit you are correct about one thing. Those brigands following me were indeed sent by a wealthy man, a powerful man, a man I— " Here the fellow's hauteur suffered from a brief, smug grin. "I suppose I disappointed him."

  "You 'disappointed' someone," Lucy repeated dryly. "How on earth could you have done that?"

  "Ahem." He struggled to sober his expression. Lucy could practically see his brain rushing to come up with an explanation. "Well...I am a player," he decided and gestured down his torso.

  Lucy's gaze slipped downward. It was true he had the look of a player, someone who juggled and performed gymnastics, with perhaps a little music thrown in. Neat and compact muscles were clearly visible beneath his tight and faded shirt. She lifted her gaze again.

  His eyes met hers. "You see the diamonds?"

  Lucy's face warmed. He'd meant to indicate his costume of harlequin for proof, not his male figure. "Just barely," she retorted. "Your shirt is threadbare."

  "Ah. So it is. Still, I play. Lute, mandolin, and...a few modest little sleight-of-hand tricks."

  "All of that?" Lucy queried.

  "Yes, all of that. And I am forced to admit, though it pains my delicate modesty—" The fellow pressed a hand to the center of his chest. "I am forced to admit that upon one fateful evening before the important gentleman in question, I surpassed even myself in skill and talent."

  Lucy snickered.

  Up on the wagon seat, Gawain made a similarly rude noise.

  The fellow did not appear to hear. "I played like an angel," he claimed, bringing his hand down from his chest. His gaze turned distant. "Armor-clad soldiers wept like babes. The guests were in tears. And the gentleman himself—an icicle if there ever was one—had to use his handkerchief...twice."

  "Twice!" Lucy exclaimed.

  "Oh, aye." Emile leaned back against a flour sack and sighed. "'Twas my undoing."

  "Indeed. How so?"

  "Pff! The wretch tried to keep me. Offered me a permanent place in his retinue."

  Lucy halted a beat. "And?" This was a bad thing? Getting paid, having steady employment?

  Emile gave her a look equal in bafflement to her own. "Clip my wings? Cage me in? Oh no. I am a free man, you understand. No promises."

  A free man? An unemployed knave, more like. Oh, but the whole story was a fabrication. Lucy waved the pistol. "The three cutthroats." Was it possible to return to reality? "They were sent to capture you for the gentleman, then?"

  Grimly, he nodded.

  Lucy's mouth twitched. "They were supposed to bring back your precious, talented self. Delicately, careful to keep all vital, tender parts intact?"

  The knave closed his eyes. "Precisely."

  Lucy laughed. "Oh, in sooth! Tell us another tale."

  His eyes flew open. "'Tis the truth!"

  "The truth. You would not know such a thing if it rose up and bit you on the nose."

  His mouth opened to make a picture of abused innocence. But he said not a word in his own defense. How could he? He was an utter, thorough rogue.

  Lucy lowered the pistol in order to point over the side of the wagon. "Give me one good reason we should not toss you overboard here and now."

  Empty land stretched on all sides, not a house in sight. The fellow's opened mouth closed. He looked at Lucy with something close to respect. "I have none."

  "Hm."

  "But on the other hand—" The man set his palm against his head. With a pitiful look, he set it in the very spot Lucy had struck. "On the other hand, would you be so heartless as to abandon an injured man?"

  Lucy pressed her lips tightly together.

  Pretended innocence shone from his devil-lying eyes. Unfortunately, she remembered watching those eyes roll up into his head, the horrible haste with which he had gone completely limp from her blow.

  Of course she couldn't abandon him. Not only would it be simple murder to leave a man alone on the road—there were thieves desperate enough to slay him for his hose—but she had to have at least twenty-four hours, one cycle of the sun to make sure he did not relapse.

  She had to know: had her 'curse' really harmed him?

  Lucy leaned back. Her thumb tapped a cask of vinegar. Fine. She could not throw him overboard, but she did not have to make life easy for him, either. "Mayhap you are right. Mayhap it would not be proper justice to throw you overboard." She paused. "Mayhap we ought to deliver you straight to the constable."

  "The constable!" The fellow dropped his hand from his head. His eyes shot wide. "By cause of what?"

  "Hm. While a judge might not consider your...sport in my bath a matter of law, I am sure there are others who could press charges against you." Lucy smiled as a worried frown creased his brow. "The man who hired those cutthroats, for example."

  "Ha!" Emile went from worried right back to outraged. "He would not dare."

  "No? He would hire cutthroats to pursue you but would not press legal charges?"

  Golden lashes immediately lowered to cover his eyes. "Very well," he growled. "You want me overboard, I will go."

  Stupefied, Lucy watched him turn and take hold of the side of the wagon, ready to jump. Unbelievable. He was willing to take his chances on the open road rather than face a constable.

  But—her curse. Panicking, Lucy reached forward to clutch his forearm. "Nay. Not so fast."

  He stopped and looked down at her hand clasped so fiercely about his skin-tight sleeve.

  Realizing she was touching him, Lucy felt an odd flutter in her stomach. She pulled her hand away.

  His gaze followed her hand, then rose to meet her own. "You...do not want me overboard?"

  His eyes caught her as they had once before. They reminded Lucy of that moment in her tub, when she'd been naked in his arms. She'd felt his excitement, a distinctly male excitement. Never had she felt such a thing. So...stirring. When he'd lowered his head, she'd thought he was about to kiss her.

  Lucy's spine straightened. Like the crack of a whip, her brain returned. Yes, she'd thought he was about to kiss her. Instead he'd tossed that joke about her curse. Mocking her. As they all did.

  Men were not attracted to her. She knew that, and she did not care. She had no need of male attention.

  Nor was she cursed.

  She only had to prove it.

  Lucy drew in a deep breath. "Let us not be hasty," she told Emile. "Allow me to consider. Perhaps...I could be willing to let you show us the truth of your fantastic story."

  He paused. "I should show you."

  "You said you played. What was it? Lute? Mandolin?"

  His expression turned guarded. "And some few, modest little sleight-of-hand tricks."

  Lucy nodded, feeling stronger again. "Then let us have you entertain at my father's birthday dinner tomorrow evening." That would give her time to make sure he suffered no relapse on her account. "If you acquit yourself, then we shall believe the rest of your tale, and you may go free."

  "How generous of you."

  Lucy smiled. "Indeed. For if you do not acquit yourself, then we shall
assume your whole tale is false. Gawain, here, will personally escort you to the nearest officer of the queen."

  For the first time in eight hours, Gawain looked pleased.

  Lucy felt the same.

  The alleged player, meanwhile, chewed his lower lip. He regarded Lucy closely. "All I have to do is acquit myself?"

  "To the high and marvelous level of skill you claim to own."

  Lucy watched him turn to gaze at the fast-darkening road, the cruel lack of shelter or food. She could almost see him make the calculation: going overboard now versus taking a chance with Lucy's test.

  He gave a tiny, almost invisible shrug. "Very well. Let me prove my tale."

  "It is a bargain, then." Lucy strove not to show her relief. She had her twenty-four hours and he would be gone at the end of it. It was the best of all possible results.

  And yet, the knave started to smile as though it were he who'd struck the better bargain. Stretching his arms to either side, he settled against the flour sacks. Smugly, he claimed. "Tomorrow I will win my freedom—and more."

  "More?" She narrowed her eyes at his smile.

  "Aye." He leaned forward. "Tomorrow I will win your admiration and respect."

  A laugh burst from her. The man was a jester, not a player. "Do you think so?"

  He leaned back again, still smiling. "I know it."

  Lucy twisted her mouth. Her admiration and respect! Aye, she would admire him—if he could last past tomorrow evening without dropping dead on her account. And she would respect him if he could avoid all...lesser evil.

  "I would like to see you try." In truth, she didn't care if he acquitted himself as a player, a jester, or a thief. All she cared was that he not become another victim, more evidence to perpetuate the myth of the curse of Lucy Simple.

  Meanwhile the knave passed a finger across his lips. "It will be my pleasure."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Her admiration and respect. Yes, Emile had been determined to get them and he knew just how. By taking himself far, far away from Lucy and her "honorable" bargain before morning. By avoiding the whole humiliating contest, he would most surely gain these two favors of the lady.