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  Scowling, Emile bent to pick up the canvas sack and drew the neck tight. There would be no disaster. As soon as he could be sure everyone was asleep, he would be off with a small fortune in silver plate. Lucy would not be able to deny the value of that accomplishment.

  The voice in his head jeered. Would she not, then?

  Emile cringed and put a hand to his head, which threatened to start aching again. If only the voice didn't sound so much like Crockett. Emile's one-time mentor had despised thieving. Emile himself knew such behavior rarely could be justified.

  He lowered his hand as he considered whether the present case fell under that category. Lucy's father had done nothing to deserve a cozening, Emile had to admit, but Lucy herself—? Definitely.

  Oh? the voice butted in. She did? What did you imagine: that she should admire you, respect you? Indeed!

  Emile shook his head vigorously. No, in sooth. He hadn't expected that. It was more that Lucy deserved the prigging because she had tried to cage him. Thought she could turn him over to a constable. Emile did not care about her respect. Not at all. People could think what they liked about him: that he was a whoreson, bastard, thief... He did not care what epithet they chose. With a taut jerk, Emile tightened the knot on the sack.

  Since the last time Emile had seen his mentor and best friend, Crockett, he'd made sure never to care, not what people thought of him—nor for the people themselves. It was best that way.

  A loud creak—a sound that could not be construed as a mouse—sent Emile's heart into his throat. The big double door of the barn swung open.

  For one awful moment, Emile froze. Then he shoved the sack of booty beneath a loose pile of hay. It was the best hiding place he had time to find as the barn door pushed the rest of the way open.

  A head of dark hair moved through the door. The hair was all Emile could see over the wall of the stall, but he knew it belonged to Lucy.

  It was impossible she could know about the theft. Emile's fingers were too light, and he'd heard the servants decide to delay counting the plate until morning.

  But if she had not come about the theft, then what was she doing here? Emile simply stood there, stupid, as Lucy strode around the opening of his stall.

  Her hair was dressed looser than this morning. A man could imagine running his fingers through it now. A long cape covered her.

  Emile suddenly remembered a baron's wife who had entered his chamber late at night in a cape like that. She had been wearing nothing underneath it.

  "What?" From an expression of deep intent, Lucy's mouth twisted. "Struck dumb before my great 'beauty?'"

  Emile shook his head. What if she were wearing nothing underneath that cape? The very idea had him ablaze. "I am...surprised." He told himself not to imagine anything so absurd. Lucy thought him the lowest of the low. On the other hand, a low opinion did not necessarily stop a woman from desiring a man's body.

  She emitted a delicate snort. "You need not look so fearful. I have not come to call you to account for your extravagant flattery."

  "You haven't? I mean—what flattery?" It was highly improbable Lucy desired his body. He was being ridiculous. But then what the devil did she want?

  Rolling her eyes, Lucy stepped into the stall.

  The action forced Emile to move back. Gingerly, he stepped around the pile of hay that hid his sack of silver.

  "There is something unfinished between us," Lucy claimed.

  "Ah! Indeed there is." Desperate to take control, Emile held up one finger. "You've come to offer praise for my marvelous performance. A performance you were too—too tongue-tied to pay homage to in public."

  To his surprise, this took her aback. "No. That is—" She stopped, and her eyes slid to the side.

  Her small evasion made Emile draw in a breath. "You did think it was marvelous." Suddenly, he was flying. She had only pretended to deny it at the dinner. Being stubborn.

  Eyes still askance, Lucy tapped her palm against her thigh. "I did not come to praise you for your performance. I came to pay you for it."

  Emile's growing grin froze. "To pay me?" In a thin voice he added, "Money?"

  Lucy flattened her lips. "I pay everyone who produces honest work for the benefit of my father's household. You...did so." She opened the front of her cape, revealing she was fully dressed. All Emile noticed, though, was the purse she brought forth. She began to fumble with its tie.

  Honest work. Emile watched with lead in his limbs as Lucy finished untying the purse.

  She handed it across the space between them. "I see no reason to treat you differently."

  No reason but the small fortune in her father's silver hidden by her feet. Emile smiled crookedly. "Nay, mistress. I'll not take your coin." Not in a thousand years. He gave an abbreviated bow. "Your acknowledgment was all I ever asked for."

  A healthy pink topped Lucy's cheeks. "I doubt my charm or beauty has ever filled a single belly." She shook the purse so that the coins jangled and then stepped forward to thrust it at Emile. "This ought to keep you an honest man...at least for the next week."

  A shamed heat rushed into his face. Emile opened his mouth to refuse the money again, but his lowered eyes saw that Lucy's foot had moved some of the straw. Through the wisps Emile could see...canvas.

  His gaze shot up. With barely a beat to think about it, he reached for the damned purse. Anything. He had to conclude this business and get her out of there.

  But to Emile's dismay, Lucy pulled the purse back, eluding his hand just before it made contact.

  He stared at her.

  "Why did you say that?" Lucy asked.

  "What?" Emile did not have to look down to know that Lucy's movement had uncovered yet more of the sack. A fine sweat cooled the base of his spine. Her smallest glance downward would reveal enough evidence to send him straight to the gallows.

  "Why did you call me charming and beautiful?" Lucy wanted to know.

  Privately terrified, Emile lifted his hands. "Because I...meant it?"

  "Charming?" she repeated with a smirk.

  Somehow, Emile smiled. Keep her attention, keep her gaze up, he told himself. "No, not charming," he allowed. "That was an exaggeration."

  She raised her brows.

  "The same with the beauty part," Emile admitted. He heard his voice go soft and deep. Meanwhile, he stepped toward her. Keeping her attention, gluing it to his face. "You aren't beautiful."

  She froze.

  Emile used the moment of surprise to ring his fingers around her wrist. He pulled her hand up, away from the floor, and pried the string of the purse from her fingers. With a flick, he sent the purse flying over his shoulder.

  Lucy gasped. Her eyes followed the purse and then jerked back to Emile's face, baffled.

  He could feel his heart thudding in his chest, beating very fast—acknowledgment that his life was at stake here. He pulled her hand toward his face. "You are," he murmured to Lucy's wrist, "irresistible." Then he brushed his moustache, ever so reverently, against the pale and delicate skin of her wrist.

  Her arm spasmed at the sensation.

  Enjoying that, Emile pressed his lips to the spot his moustache had just caressed. He slid her a glance.

  Lucy was glaring at him. Not happy at all. But her attention was all his. Not for a moment was it going to slip to the ground.

  "What—?" She cleared her throat. "What do you think you are doing?"

  Nothing! Emile assured himself. He was doing nothing but saving his life. Desperate fear was the only reason his heart was pounding like a battle drum. "You aren't listening to me," he scolded. He pressed her palm against his cheek.

  Her skin was cool, soft. Meanwhile, the glare in her eyes was looking more terrified than terrifying.

  Emile felt a baffling tenderness toward her. The tenderness accompanied an equal sensation of power. She was in his thrall.

  "I want you," he whispered. "I've wanted you since the moment I beheld you tousled in your bathtub."

  Her e
yes widened; she was definitely petrified.

  Emile let go of her wrist to cup her face in both hands. Feeling a positive wave of tenderness, he brought his mouth to hers.

  She stiffened at the touch.

  Emile felt it through his chest and belly, parts of his body which had no business being so close to their counterparts in Lucy's. But he did not let go of her. Letting go was not an option. He held her face carefully framed by his fingers and continued to brush his lips against hers, softly, coaxingly.

  Christ's blood, she tasted good. Sweet, yet tart. He licked her lower lip and then drew it between his teeth.

  He was not getting carried away here. He was simply...keeping her attention. Was it his fault that her lips tasted too good to let go?

  Suddenly, she jerked.

  Emile pulled back, afraid that somehow he'd injured her.

  But the look she sent up at him held no pain. Instead, her eyes expressed stark amazement, as if she had never been kissed so well. Her expression, Emile decided, proved his words. She was irresistible.

  But she pressed two palms against his chest when he bent his head again. She bit the lip he had suckled, swelling its plump arousal further. "The curse," she said hoarsely. Her eyes scanned his face. "You are not afraid?"

  Emile smiled, rubbing the corners of that tasty mouth with his thumbs. What was this nonsense? Afraid? Then foxlike, his ears picked up a rustle out beyond the opening of the stall. He froze.

  "You are afraid," she accused.

  The mouse, Emile remembered. "Nay." Relaxing, he swept her hands from their resisting position on his chest. He bent down. "Not afraid of anything." Once again, he set his mouth to hers.

  She did not stiffen this time. No, indeed. Her lips softened beneath his. Then in a rush, her arms went about his neck. Suddenly that sweet, supple body pressed all along the length of him.

  Emile felt a wave of heat crash over his head. It splashed down his front and ended violently in his loins. With a harsh groan, he smoothed his hands to the small of her back and pulled in.

  She drew a sharp breath, and Emile plunged his tongue into her opened mouth. It was heaven. It was lust. Eager animals, they were racing to mate. And yet, and yet...he could not shake this terrible tenderness, this aching softness in his chest.

  "In a minute," Emile muttered against her lips. In a minute he would stop, pull back, keep his safe distance. He never got close. This embrace held far too much of such flavor for his comfort. But at the same time, it was thoroughly intoxicating, this feeling that...she needed him.

  The rustle out beyond the stall sounded again, much louder. With his lips locked with Lucy's, Emile shook his head, trying to shake the noise away. But it persisted. Very loud.

  With a gasp, Emile dropped his kiss. His gaze went blindly past Lucy's shoulder as he finally identified the sound. It was not the rustle of a mouse, it was the sound of a man clearing his throat.

  Emile's eyes popped wide. His head snapped up.

  There standing in the opening of the stall were two men: that pikestaff, Gawain, and Lucy's father. By the look on their faces they had witnessed every bit of the lusty kiss.

  No, Emile thought. No.

  With his expression murder, Gawain started forward, but Latham stopped him with a tap on the arm.

  That was when Emile's terror turned to absolute horror. For a big, brilliant smile spread over the old merchant's face.

  "Oh, yes," Latham said. "Yes."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The wedding was at dawn. Half the village turned out, everyone apparently amazed that the fire-breathing witch was actually to marry.

  Lucy was amazed herself. As she was escorted down the street on her father's arm, she could not believe she was on her way to the church steps.

  Blowing on their hands in the early morning chill, the watching villagers fell back nervously as Lucy approached. If she were not so dazed, she would have laughed. She was no powerful witch. Quite the contrary. She was completely conquered.

  For here she was on a new spring morning, about to say marriage vows. Marriage vows! She would be linked forever to a man, one of that cowardly, faithless species. She'd sworn never again to get close to such a creature. Not after Sir Robert. Not after all the lying tales about her curse.

  Now, despite her oath, this terrible fate was about to befall her. Because of one kiss!

  "Who gives the bride away?" In the cold air, the vicar's words blew misty where he stood on the stone slab that served the church for a porch.

  "I do," Latham replied. One kiss, but such a kiss, he had argued, as to be more than enough. Now in the shadow of the church, he took a deliberate step away from his daughter.

  He left Emile standing in his place.

  Lucy felt a dart strike beneath her breastbone. Her conqueror. She noted the bridegroom's wide grin. Triumphant. She glimpsed the outrageous outfit he wore, a borrowed doublet, inches too long. It dragged off his shoulders. Her husband-to-be looked the veriest fool.

  The vicar seemed to agree. After coming closer in order to murmur something to Emile, he stood back in scandalized disbelief. "What? You have no surname?"

  With his grin broadening to ridiculous proportions, Emile scratched his jaw. "Absolutely none." Then he leaned forward, whispering. "But they do call me the Fox." He nudged the poor cleric with his elbow.

  "Fox," the vicar repeated, latching onto that.

  Oh, aye, a fox, Lucy thought. That fit. The man was certainly no fool. He had cozened Lucy well.

  As she stood there, stiff with despair, she was still able to admire Emile's genius. Indeed, his sheer brilliance took her breath away. So subtly he had set the bait. So patiently he had waited for his victim to step into the trap. Then, in one crafty instant, he'd reaped the prize of the largest dowry in five counties. By no more than a kiss.

  It was exceptional. It was cunning. Amazing shrewd. It caused a peculiar sensation to shimmy through Lucy. A sensation very like...respect.

  In a fog, she pronounced her vows. It took a ridiculously short amount of time to become married. Linked. Bound for a lifetime. As the sun crested the knoll to the east, the vicar pronounced them so. After which he added something that, judging by his face, he immediately regretted.

  "The groom may kiss his bride."

  A stunned and horrified silence fell over the scene. The vicar looked as though he had just stepped into a pile of pig manure.

  But no one could have been more horrified than Lucy. Oh yes, in private Emile had kissed Lucy—in order to gain his nefarious ends. But to ask him to do so in public, to effectively mark himself a—a changed man, that was asking too much.

  With one fist, Lucy clutched the fabric of her russet gown. She clenched until she could feel her own nails through the thick material.

  "A kiss!" Emile's voice, cheery and exuberant, rose over the frozen scene. "Now, that's what I've been waiting for!"

  Before he had even finished speaking, Lucy felt two hands take a firm hold of her jaw. Startled, she looked up. Her mouth was instantly covered by a pair of firm, moist lips. They pressed briefly, emphatically, and pulled away with a resounding smack. The sound rang into the silence.

  Lucy gasped. She stumbled back. She stared.

  If possible, Emile's grin widened. But then he reached out to steady her. As his face neared hers again, he whispered, "Lucy—" His tone was confusingly at odds with his clownish kiss. It was a tone of deep and serious intent.

  Briefly, she met his eyes. As she met his focused gaze, she felt a deep shudder run through her and remembered how she had fallen into this hole in the first place.

  "That is it. That is quite enough."

  If Emile had meant to say more, Lucy never found out. Gawain's long arm reached forth to hook her bridegroom. Apparently, her father's Puritan steward had seen enough of public kissing.

  Jostled, Lucy stepped back. She then caught a glimpse of the watching crowd.

  They were flabbergasted. Absolutely stunned. Of course th
ey were. Emile had kissed her. In front of everybody, he had kissed her!

  A purely idiotic triumph rose within her. This marriage was a disaster. She knew that, but a deep and penetrating warmth crept into the place of her despair. Emile had shown them; he'd shown them all. There lived a man unafraid of her curse.

  "Lucy?"

  It was her father, offering his arm. In a daze again, she took it. But the warmth continued to steal through her, pleased and proud. Yes, she was conquered. But just now conquered did not feel so very bad.

  ~~~

  Good God. He was married.

  Emile's face ached. Surrounded by butchers and tailors, farmers and blacksmiths—all his best friends now—he'd been playing the happy bridegroom since dawn. But he didn't know how much longer he could keep this insipid smile on his face. Inside, his guts were churning in panic.

  "Ho, boy! Take this."

  Emile found a pewter tankard shoved beneath his nose. It was oversized and embossed with tiny angels. As he grabbed it, little angels poked into his skin.

  The noise in Latham's great hall was deafening. The entire village seemed to be crammed into the otherwise ample room. Half the crowd danced merrily between tables laden with food. The other half made the old merchant's liquor flow like a stream.

  "Drain it! Drain it!" Various mouths around Emile opened, grinning at him, daring.

  Emile turned to face the opposite end of the hall. A dark-haired woman sat at the high table there. The garland around her unbound hair remained unmoving amidst the celebratory chaos. Emile hoisted his vessel in her direction.

  "To my wife!" he shouted hoarsely. He lifted the heavy cup and drank. Hot, tangy liquor flowed down his throat.

  While there was life, there was hope. Emile had ever held to this tenet. But then, he'd never been in a situation so very far from hope. Not even with Stone's cutthroats breathing down his neck had Emile felt this desperate. Married. Caged, tied, captive.

  He could hardly breathe.

  Taking the mug from his mouth, Emile bowed forward and gasped, as if the liquor and not his thoughts were affecting him.