Kiss From a Rogue (5 page)

She heard their intake of breath, felt their indecision. “You’ll do no such thing.” She swung her free hand to the side of his head and shoved him back down to the sofa. Being a gentleman, he hesitated to use his strength to retaliate against a woman. She used that hesitation to jump up to her feet and plop down on his chest.

Who knew that years of minding her rambunctious cousins would come in so handy? The fact that he was undoubtedly still woozy was also in her favor. She’d once kept her fifteen-year-old cousin down like this for five minutes, until he’d promised to stop trying to kiss the upstairs maid.

Conscious of his hand around her wrist, she forced a smile and met the stranger’s shocked gaze. “No one is going to hurt you, sir, and you are not going to hurt anyone, either. Am I clear?”

He gave a brief nod, and glanced at the men.

She glanced at them also, though the stranger shifted beneath her, and she felt his free hand touching her lower back. Quite low. Her stomach gave a slight flutter. His silent message was a warning that he could unseat her if he chose. “Am I clear?” She stared at them until all had nodded in agreement. She looked back at the stranger. “You see? No one means any harm. This was all a terrible misunderstanding.”

“Can’t breathe,” he wheezed.

Sylvia hopped to her feet. Only then did he release his grip on her wrist. She turned sideways, her gaze darting between her men and the stranger as he slowly sat up again.

Tony filled his lungs with air and took in his surroundings. The woman hadn’t been that heavy, and he’d rather enjoyed the unusual perspective, but he didn’t like being at such a disadvantage.

After a moment of being upright, he stopped seeing two of everything. He eyed the people gathered before him—seven old men plus the young woman in gray. He blinked. They must have hit him rather hard that it took him this long to recognize the pretty widow from this afternoon, the one he’d been searching for. The one he’d stayed behind to pursue. The very same one who’d been sitting on his chest just moments ago.

What a wasted opportunity.

She still wore half-mourning, a plain gray gown that had seen better days, with no ornamentation whatsoever. The men surrounding her, however, were ornamented with pistols and daggers, and even a cutlass or two.

“You’re smugglers.” He shook his head, and regretted it immediately as his vision blurred for a moment. “How could I have been so stupid? Dark and stormy night, deserted inn on the coast…what else could be going on?” He held his fingers to his temples, hoping to ease the throbbing.

“What are we going to do with him, my lady?”

The voice was hushed, but Tony recognized the stoop-shouldered speaker as one of the first men who had come into the taproom earlier. Tony looked the group over again, and realized all of them had been in there.

The widow addressed him. “I’m afraid they mistook you for someone else, sir. How is your head?”

“Rather have another hangover than this.” He touched the back of his head, found the lump, and winced. His fingertips were now as bloody as hers.

“Scalp wounds have a tendency to bleed dreadfully,” she said, as though she dealt with them on a regular basis. “Galen, please bring my basket. Mrs. Spencer, could I trouble you for some warm water?”

Tony followed her gaze in time to see the only other females in the room, the innkeeper’s wife and an ancient matron in the black and white bombazine of a housekeeper, turn and leave. The ruffians in the room shifted, blocking the exit. Though could one call this group “ruffians,” at their advanced age?

He stood up, his knees threatening to buckle. Only a group of ruffians could have knocked him about so easily. The old codgers did have the advantage of surprise, and had blinded him at the start.

It was a poor sop to his ego.

The widow darted forward, her hand under his elbow to steady him. He rested his clean hand on her shoulder while the floor danced a jig.

Once the floor settled, and the contents of his stomach seemed willing to stay put, he tried speaking again. “Since you say this was a mistake, I’ll just go up to my room if you all don’t mind. We are still at the Happy Jack Inn, are we not?”

He felt her stiffen, but she didn’t reply.

“Afraid we can’t let you do that.” The men each took a step closer, forming a semicircle around Tony and the woman.

“Hayden’s right.” The young woman turned her troubled gaze on Tony. She stood close enough for him to inhale her soft lavender scent, and see flecks of gold in her green eyes. “You’ll need to stay here, at least for a few hours, until we’re, um, finished.”

“And then what?” Perhaps he’d rather not know.

She flinched. He felt it. The hair stood up on the back of his neck.

“Can’t have no witnesses, my lady.” Tony didn’t recognize the low voice.

She stiffened again, raised her chin. “I said we shall have no bloodshed.”

Tony looked over at the men, noticing again the abundance of weapons on their persons, thrust into boot tops and belts or sashes at their waist. Harmless old codgers, indeed. “I have no interest in your affairs, good sirs, legal or otherwise. If you are in any danger, it is not from me.”

No one relaxed. At least three of the men rested their hands on a knife handle or butt of a pistol stuck through their belt. Oh, hell. How was he going to get himself out of this one?

The woman at his side spoke up. “We’ll leave him here, and Mr. Spencer will make certain he doesn’t go anywhere while we’re…busy, and then he can return to his room.” A low murmur went up, and a few more men reached for their knives. She noticed, too. “And tomorrow he’ll be on his way, out of our village, never to return.” She looked up at him. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Perfectly agreeable plan. I have no objection to waiting here. The sofa was quite comfy.” His smile felt a bit forced, but his skull was pounding, and the men still looked ready to use their knives. “Tomorrow I’ll be on my way toward Weymouth.” The floor was threatening to tilt again. Tony kept his hand on the woman’s shoulder.

Noticing his wobble, she reached out a hand to his waist, probably with the ridiculous notion she could help keep him from sinking to the floor.

Noise from the doorway made the men turn.

“I thought you were going to join us for—” The speaker, a lad of about eighteen, cut himself off at the sight of Tony and the woman. He, too, had a pistol thrust through his belt, and a cutlass at his waist. A black scarf almost covered his bright red hair. “What are you doing to Sylvia?”

Ah, the woman had a name. Strong, yet feminine. Suited her. “I am doing nothing to her. She, however, is keeping me from pitching face-first to the floor.”

The lad looked ready to continue his interrogation, his brows drawn together, but the two women returned just then, bringing a basket and basin of water to Sylvia.

“Please sit down, sir.” Sylvia urged Tony back to the sofa.

He allowed himself to be maneuvered down. Perhaps from this angle he would seem less of a threat to the men. Mrs. Spencer shoved aside a vase on the small table to make room for the supplies.

Sylvia used both hands on the side of his face to point his chin toward the floor. Her hands were warm, her voice soft and steady. “This will only take a moment.”

“The lad needs a restorative cup of tea, he does,” the housekeeper announced. She patted him on the knee. “Be right back.”

The men rearranged themselves again after her departure, their boots just visible in a ring around the sofa as Tony stared at the floor. Better than watchdogs. He closed his eyes to concentrate on Sylvia’s ministrations.

Her touch was gentle, working a damp cloth through the hair at the back of his head, washing away the blood. He’d noticed the gold band on her third finger. Had he been mistaken about her status as widow, and this lot simply guarding her in her husband’s absence?

“What is this, straw?”

Tony looked up, but Sylvia pushed his head down again. She was slowly carding her fingers through his hair. Might have been pleasant, soothing even, under other circumstances.

“Good heavens, what did you hit him with?”

He heard the irritation in her voice, and silently seconded it.

“ ’Twas a pitchfork.”

“From Spencer’s stables.”

“He wouldn’t go down, elsewise.”

Tony raised his head. “I would have responded to a simple request.” Sylvia pushed him down again.

“Be glad it wasn’t the fork they use for muckin’ out the stalls.” Laughter rang out.

“Hush, all of you.” Sylvia patted his shoulder. “What’s done is done. Mrs. Spencer, I need to borrow a pair of scissors. There are still buttons on the bandage.”

Tony tried to look over his shoulder. “You’re not cutting up a shirt on my behalf, are you?”

Sylvia touched his jaw, pushing him back into position. “What better use for Montgomery’s shirts, hmm?”

“Who is Montgomery?”

“My late husband.”

Mrs. Spencer briefly stepped into his line of sight as she retrieved scissors from a mending basket. Just what he needed, more sharp blades in the room.

A few snips, one button bounced on the floor and was retrieved by a guard dog, then Tony smelled something other than lavender wafting from Sylvia, an earthy and medicinal scent. Moments later she pressed against the back of his head and began winding a cloth around his skull.

“A bandage isn’t necessary, madam. I’ve had worse injuries that healed just fine.”

“Quiet, laddie, and let the lady tend.”

Sylvia finished winding the bandage and tied it off, but he still felt her hand on the back of his skull, pressing on the bandage, though she finally let him raise his head. “You needn’t wear it for long. Just a little while, to let the herbs do their work.” She leaned forward as she spoke, her words soft against his ear. Warmth began to spread through him, radiating from her hand on his head.

Tony stiffened. Here he was on a sofa, a beautiful woman putting her hands all over him. What would a real rake do under these circumstances?

A real rake would never be surrounded by seven old codgers. He sighed.

The housekeeper came back, handed him a full teacup, and sat on the sofa beside him. “So, are you married?”

He paused, the cup halfway to his mouth. “No.”

“Promised to anyone? Drink up, lad, drink up.” She urged the cup toward his mouth.

Tony swallowed. And coughed. “There’s tea in your brandy.”

“That’s the restorative part. Anyone you’re about to be promised to?”

“Galen, no.” Sylvia had removed her hand but stayed close to the sofa. He felt her increased tension.

“My lady, yes. Here’s the perfect solution, dropped on our doorstep, practically in your lap.”

Their positions were entirely wrong for him to be in anyone’s lap, but the suggestion certainly piqued his interest. As long as the lap was the lovely Sylvia’s.

He downed another swallow of the tea-laced alcohol. He’d swiped enough from his brother’s cellar to recognize fine French brandy. Made perfect sense, since he was among smugglers.

“What harebrained idea are you getting at, you old fool?” The eldest of the codgers took another step forward.

The housekeeper turned her steely gaze on the men in the room. “That good-for-nothing captain has been wanting to lift my lady’s skirts, but even the likes of him wouldn’t dare poach on another man’s property.”

Tony heard the gasp from Sylvia behind him, could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from her. This time the room didn’t tilt when he moved his head. He wasn’t sure whether it was the brandy, the herbs on the bandage, or simply the passage of time, but he was feeling much better. Better than she felt, at any rate, given her troubled expression.

“Galen, just what are you suggesting?” The redheaded interrogator took a step closer.

“The captain
has
been getting a might fresh,” one of the men said. Others nodded.

“Damned insulting, what he does.”

“I’d call the bugger out if I were a few years younger.”

“If it were up to me, I’d just take my knife and cut off his b—”

“Gentlemen, please!” In her agitation, Sylvia had rested her free hand on the back of the sofa, her fingers gripping the upholstery.

Without conscious thought, Tony reached up and patted her hand. At his action, the housekeeper’s eyes widened. She smacked his knee, practically chortling with glee. He resisted the urge to rub his stinging flesh. “I’m not sure I understand what it is you have in mind, madam.”

“Simple, laddie. You’re going to help protect our lady from that nasty piece of work captain by pretending to be her new husband.”

H
usband?

There was a buzzing in Tony’s ears, or was it just the men talking amongst themselves? A few hours ago he’d been trying in vain to learn the widow’s identity, and now they wanted him to pretend to be her husband. A broad, satisfied grin right now would probably not be wise. He bit the inside of his lip.

“This is insane,” Sylvia said. “We don’t have any idea who this man is. We don’t even know his name.”

“Well then, lad, what’s your name?” one of the watchdogs said.

“It doesn’t matter,” the eldest codger interrupted. “Have you gone daft, woman?”

“You’re not thinking this through, you old fart.” The housekeeper leaned forward. “If he goes down to the beach with you tonight, pretending to be my lady’s new husband, the captain won’t touch her. And if this lad is the one handing over the purse, he can’t exactly bear witness against us, now can he?”

“She has a good point.” The redheaded lad stroked his chin.

“Would it hold up with the magistrate, if it came to that?”

“Don’t matter, we can’t trust him.”

“Might be worth a try.”

“I say we cut off his ears and gouge out his eyes. Won’t see nothing, won’t hear nothing.”

Tony’s head began to swim again as all the men continued to talk at once.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Who’s your family?”

“Where are you from?”

Tony looked at the housekeeper in exasperation.

“Shut yer clacks!” she shouted.

The sudden silence was deafening.

Sylvia rested her hands on her hips, though she hadn’t moved away.

He took a fortifying breath, inhaling more of her sweet lavender scent. “My name is Tony Sinclair, and I come from a respectable old line but, alas, am the younger son. If we were to perpetrate this hoax, madam, you would become simply Mrs. Sinclair.” He tried to gauge her reaction. She gave him the same look she might to yesterday’s fish.

He turned back to her watchdogs. “I have no desire to be a smuggler, but I am rather partial to my features in their current arrangement. I would be willing to assist in your endeavors—tonight—if that would assure you that I have no intention of informing the authorities of your activities.” Though he did have every intention of using the opportunity to woo the widow. She was melting toward him. Now she looked more intrigued than affronted.

Someone moved, his cutlass blade glinting in the candlelight. Had he really just agreed to act as a smuggler? It couldn’t be much more dangerous than climbing about on rooftops with Alistair. Though one couldn’t be hung for doing what Alistair did.

The men grumbled and mumbled. Galen and Mrs. Spencer beamed. Sylvia furrowed her brow.

Tony glanced at each of the men. “Do we have an agreement, gentlemen? Tonight we work together, and tomorrow we each go our separate ways. Unmolested.” Well, he’d separate from the men, but he planned to have Sylvia begging him to stay.

“It’s up to Lady Montgomery.”

Her brow still furrowed, she sat on the arm of the sofa. The men also seated themselves, rearranging the various chairs and sofas so they could see her and still keep an eye on Tony. She raised her hand to her temple.

For his part, he would have no trouble whatsoever pretending to be married to the comely young widow. Gentleman’s honor practically demanded it of him, if the housekeeper’s assessment was accurate. It meant he would have to stay close by Sylvia’s side, tuck her dainty hand in the crook of his arm. Look longingly into her green eyes. Smooth a dark blond curl, the color of wet sand. Kiss that delightful rosebud mouth.

And later, when they were alone, remind her how much physical pleasure was to be had between husband and wife.

He would have no trouble playing the role of doting husband, with the lovely Sylvia as his wife.

Sylvia stared at the stranger, her mind racing. An hour ago she’d simply wanted to go have a drink with her men. Half an hour ago her men had wanted to kill the stranger. And now she was supposed to pretend to be married to him?

He gazed back at her, the smoldering heat in his brown eyes making her feel flushed. She remembered the touch of his bare hand on her throat when he’d tied her bonnet, his fingers hot against her chilled skin.

Perhaps she should move farther from the fire—the room was getting too warm.

She shifted her thoughts to her coming meeting with the captain. Mr. Sinclair’s scent was not offensive. True, he had tried to take liberties with her person, but nothing like what Ruford aimed for. Sinclair’s hand had been on her lower back only because she’d been sitting on his chest.

She remembered the feel of his muscles. He had strength, vitality, intelligence. And yes, drat him, charm. “Mr. Sinclair, have you ever dealt with a nefarious person before?”

“One of my chums has his own ship. While Nick may be a gentleman, his crewmen are not. I assure you, I can handle your smuggling captain.”

So he was comfortable around ships? That had to be in their favor.

“My lady, this is the best way to be rid of the captain’s advances.” Galen patted Mr. Sinclair’s knee again. “The lad’s willing, and the men will keep an eye on you both.”

There was a chorus in the affirmative. Her men sat straighter, their hands once again going to their weapons.

Her men would keep her safe, as they had always done. They may have lost some of the spring in their step, but with so many of them, what could go wrong?

Mr. Sinclair would be the one to deal with the captain, with Ruford’s malodorous person and putrid breath, his roaming hands and leering gaze. Not her. She almost sagged with relief.

Was it wrong to use Mr. Sinclair as a shield? He didn’t seem averse to the idea. Indeed, he was staring at her as a starving man would a buffet.

The important men in her life—father, uncle, husband—had all let her down at a crucial time. Could she trust Mr. Sinclair to hold up his end of their bargain? He certainly seemed eager to hold
her,
at any rate.

Well, it was only for tonight, and tomorrow Mr. Sinclair would be on his way. The captain would mind his manners in the future if he thought she had remarried.

“You’ll need different clothes.” Sylvia stood up. “Those fine garments you’re wearing will only make the captain want to charge us even more for each load.”

“He only brought but one little bag with him,” Mrs. Spencer volunteered.

“Traveling light.” Mr. Sinclair brushed some flour from his sleeve. “I didn’t expect to be taking part in a theatrical production.”

“I could fetch some of my husband’s things.” Mrs. Spencer pointed over her shoulder.

Aside from the incredible difference in size and build between the two men—Mr. Sinclair’s trim frame would be adrift in Spencer’s tent-sized shirt—the innkeeper’s coarse working-class clothes wouldn’t suit their charade. “Thank you, but I don’t wish to inconvenience you any more than we already have,” Sylvia said. “I think Hubert’s clothes might be a closer fit for the role.”

The smug look on Mr. Sinclair’s face acknowledged that she’d taken note of his person. Would he be so self-satisfied if he knew she’d not only looked her fill, but felt along his limbs, as well? Her hands burned.

The clock on the mantel chimed the hour.

“We best be getting up to the manor house, then,” Trent said. “Ain’t enough time to go fetch clothes, bring ’em back here, and still get down to the beach.” He turned to Mr. Sinclair. “Can ye walk, lad, or did the boys hit you too hard?”

Mr. Sinclair stood up to his full height, shoulders back. “Lead the way.”

“Good luck, my lady!” Mrs. Spencer called as everyone headed out.

The seven men surrounded Mr. Sinclair as they walked up the hill to the manor, with Jimmy and Galen on either side of Sylvia.

“We’ll be right beside you the whole time.” Jimmy patted the hilt of his cutlass. “We won’t let the bugger get away with anything.”

Sylvia wasn’t sure which bugger he was referring to, but it didn’t really matter.

Gerald opened the front door when they arrived, his white hair sticking up in tufts around his nightcap. He clutched his dressing gown closed. “I suppose there’s no point asking how the cribbage game went.” He looked only vaguely surprised to see so many people on the doorstep.

“Let us in, you sleepy twit.” Galen shouldered her husband aside and entered the house first.

The men swarmed in behind her and headed for the staircase. Galen reached between them and snagged Mr. Sinclair’s sleeve. “If you want to pull off this charade, you’ll need rings. Give me your hand, lad.”

“But I thought Lady Montgomery was to be my pretend wife, not you.” He winked.

The housekeeper cuffed his shoulder. “Don’t sass me, lad.” Her tone was gruff, but Sylvia could swear she saw the housekeeper blush before she ducked her chin to note Mr. Sinclair’s ring size.

Within minutes, all seven men accompanied Mr. Sinclair to an upstairs bedchamber, dressed him in Montgomery’s plain clothing, and returned him to the foyer. Galen left when they did as well, and had just returned before Mr. Sinclair and his entourage descended the staircase.

“I don’t wish to alarm you, my dear,” Mr. Sinclair said, still adjusting the slightly too large shirt and breeches, “but if your watchdogs continue to follow my every move, I may not be able to perform at my best on our wedding night.” He drew out the last two words.

Sylvia felt her cheeks heat, but before she could reply, Galen cuffed him on the shoulder again.

“Mind your manners, laddie. Hold out your hands, both of you, please.”

Sylvia twisted the narrow gold band on her finger. “But I’m already wearing a ring.”

“New husband, new ring. Off it comes.” Galen held out her hand.

Sylvia stared at the ring that Montgomery had placed on her finger just over four years ago. She hadn’t taken it off since. She’d been tempted, especially after she found out how badly she and her uncle had been misled about Montgomery’s finances. There had been seven little screaming horrors in her charge before she married, but the roof at her uncle’s home did not leak.

Now Uncle Walcott had ten children.

Sylvia yanked off the ring and handed it to Galen. She received a heavy gold band in exchange.

Galen placed a smaller ring on Mr. Sinclair’s palm. “They belonged to my parents,” she said. “I’ll want them back when you’re done.” She cleared her throat. “Go on. Exchange rings.”

Mr. Sinclair gave a rakish smile. “A pretend wedding for a pretend marriage.” He held her hand and gently slid the ring onto her third finger. “With this ring, I thee temporarily wed.”

Sylvia stared at the wide band, with an engraved pattern worn smooth in places. Anything to keep from staring at his hand holding hers. She remembered what had happened just hours after the last time a man had slid a ring on her finger. Mr. Sinclair’s hands were strong, but not roughened from years at sea. Rakes were supposed to be highly skilled in the bedroom. Against her will, her breath quickened.

Well, she wouldn’t be finding out how skilled he was. She wasn’t going to fall prey to a handsome face and charming smile. Men had caused her nothing but grief.

She looked up—and was hit dead center with the full force of said charming smile. Mr. Sinclair—should she call him Tony now?—was holding out his left hand, waiting. She reluctantly entered into the game. “With this ring, I thee temporarily wed.”

“Finally!” Jimmy stepped forward. “If we don’t leave now we’ll miss the signal, and all this will have been for nothing.”

“Ceremony isn’t over yet. The bride hasn’t been kissed.” Before anyone could protest, Mr. Sinclair leaned forward. Sylvia braced herself, torn between annoyance and curiosity. Very mild curiosity.

He curled his fingers around hers, raised her hand, and turned it over. With a smoldering look in his eyes, he dropped a kiss on the inside of her bare wrist.

Sylvia tried to breathe normally, not wanting her fluttering pulse to betray her reaction. No one had ever kissed her there before. It was just his mouth on her wrist. No reason his warm lips against her bare skin should send a tingle up her arm that spread down to her toes.

He let go slowly, his fingers trailing across her hand. “Now we’re ready.” He held out his arm, his eyes betraying his satisfaction, reveling in the reaction he’d provoked in her. “Shall we?”

Sylvia raised her chin. He wouldn’t have that effect on her again. She rested her hand in the crook of his arm, and led the way out the door and into the black night. Her men followed at their heels, while Galen and Gerald called out well wishes.

Tony tried to concentrate on the feel of Lady Montgomery’s hand resting on his forearm, rather than the apprehension winding through his gut. What had he involved himself in? He hadn’t felt this mix of dread and excitement since he’d followed Nick into a midnight prank against the headmaster. If this went wrong, there would be far worse consequences than a caning and stern lecture.

As they stood at the top of the cliff, buffeted by the wind, he swiped the bandage from his head and stuffed it in a pocket. With his free hand, he checked that he was no longer bleeding. His fingers encountered something gritty, coarser than dried blood. Sylvia’s herbal concoction? Couldn’t tell in the dark, but the scent was pleasant.

Soon, signal lights were exchanged, and he was standing on the beach with Sylvia, her seven watchdogs, and six more men who’d come from the inn. Small boats appeared out of the inky blackness and slid with a hiss and a rasp onto the fine pebble beach. Sailors spilled out of the boats and mingled with Lady Montgomery’s men, who formed lines and began passing small casks from the beach, disappearing into the darkness by the base of the cliff. Much as he was curious about the details of the operation, it wasn’t worth the risk to ask. The less he knew, the more likely her men were to let him go as agreed.

One man separated from the group and came toward them, taking off his feathered tricorne hat and sweeping into a bow.

Assailed by the stench of sweat, Tony took a step backward, then recovered his lapse. Through the thickness of his borrowed shirt and coat, Sylvia’s fingers dug into his arm. He gave her hand a reassuring pat. When he saw the flare of annoyance in the stranger’s eyes, he stroked her hand with a proprietary air.