Page 23 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Bastards don’t stay in one place for long. Use them while they are handy because you can never make onestay.

“I heard a story about you today.” Maybelle’s words came out breathless as Bram was kissing down her belly.

Another week of her Season gone. He didn’t come to her every night, but most nights. And when he wasn’t here, she missed him terribly. Her body ached for him at night, and by day she stored up things to say to him. Secrets, funny observations, anything she thought he might like to hear.

Tonight she had two days of events to discuss, but this was the most important.

“Mmmm?” he said as he gently spread her knees. She wanted to resist. She wanted to talk, and yet this was also so very good.

He licked her core.

So very, very good.

She gave herself up to it and to him. Her body convulsed around his tongue, then it opened to his cock. His thrusts were slow this time. Gentle penetration, slower withdrawal. But before long, she was gasping his name as he rammed into her.

Then he collapsed by her side, and she gathered him close. Desperate to keep him with her, she brought up the story again.

“You were quite heroic,” she said to the whorl of hair around his nipple.

“Slow is often better,” he quipped. “But I’ve never thought it heroic.”

She pinched him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You’d rather I go faster?” He was teasing her, so she teased him right back, stroking his cock. He was already thickening again.

“I’m talking about the story I heard. About you.”

“What was it?” His body had stilled, so she knew he was wary of the conversation.

“Someone was attacking a woman, and you saved her life. You killed the man who…well, I’ve heard different things. Rapist, thief, murderer—the villain is quite horrible.”

“That tale has been making the rounds—”

“They say you killed Jeremy. The bastard son of Lord Sturman.”

He froze. Then he took a slow, controlled breath. “Oh?”

He didn’t fool her. She knew he was not easy about the one-time friend he’d apparently killed.

“The tale said Jeremy died the next night.”

He shook his head. “He’s got a bad fever. Infection.”

“He still lives?”

“Yes. As of this afternoon.”

“How do you know?”

“My mum tells me. She’s friends with Lord Sturman’s new mistress.”

“Oh.” She lifted her head, wishing the candle was lit so she could study his face as he stared at the ceiling. “You didn’t kill him.”

“Not yet.”

She touched his face then, ruthlessly bringing it round so he looked directly at her. “There wasn’t anything else you could do.”

He tightened his hold. “Did you know he loved to play jacks? He was really good at it. Bollocks at marbles and darts, but quick hands for the jacks.”

“Really?” She caressed the contours of his chest, but kept her gaze on his. “Tell me more.”

“He had a laugh like a braying donkey. I used to tease him about it. He said I snorted like a pig.”

“You do sometimes.”

“I know. Then we would fight. Throwing bad punches, grappling like monkeys. It was the best time, even if he broke my toy soldiers.”

“You had toy soldiers?”

He nodded. “Every boy has soldiers. Once mine were done for, we played with his.” Suddenly, he was above her, spreading her knees ruthlessly with his own.

She twined her legs around him. She was wet and sensitive from five minutes before, but anything that kept him with her longer was fine. “Did he have other friends? Or was it just you?”

“Just me. Our mums were of the same status, you see. Similar protectors, both with young sons.” He pushed his fingers into her, stroking her insides in a way that never failed to make her whole body respond.

“What else did you play?”

He paused, his fingers stilled while she caught her breath. And then he was at her again, stroking her relentlessly. “Cruel games, now that I think on it. He liked to catch stray cats.”

“Cats?” She hadn’t the focus to say more.

“We were both so angry. We knew what we were—”

“Boys,” she gasped out. “You were boys.”

“Bastards with no future. And so we beat on each other. And when we grew tired of that, he would catch cats.”

“And…do…what?”

He shook his head. “I never knew, but I guessed. Even then…I guessed.”

His thumb was on her clit now, rubbing it with vague precision. He was watching her. Or thinking of the past. She wasn’t sure, except that she didn’t like it.

So she surged upward and gripped his hand. “In me,” she said firmly.

He stilled, and then he nodded. A moment later, he had on the French letter. There was no tenderness when he thrust. No subtlety as she welcomed the invasion. He was ruthless as he pounded, and she held on while he took her.

Until they both burst.

And when he collapsed against her side, she realized his face was wet. Tears or sweat, it didn’t matter. She held him against her and kissed the salty taste of him. And when she brushed close to his ear, she whispered.

“I love you.”

He shuddered then. And exhaled a soft, quiet moan.

They lay together like that for an hour. He, so still, while she held him tight. But at the end, he kissed her gently and got out of bed. He was nearly gone when she said it. A whisper, but it was clear.

“I know a way to save his life.”

He froze and turned back to her. “What?”

“If you want to help him. I know a way that gives him a chance. If he’s not too far gone.” She straightened on her elbow. “But he’s not a good man, Bram. Do you want to save his life?”

He hesitated, then slowly eased back onto the bed. “He’s not a bad man. He’s an angry man.”

“If you get him this medicine, will he thank you? Will he keep from attacking you?”

He nodded. “He will stay away.” His voice was strong, but she wasn’t so sure.

“Bram—”

“What is the potion? Do you have it?”

She pushed up. “I don’t have the ingredients. I can mix it, but you need…” She tucked her hands together. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Tell me what you need, and I will get it.”

“I have to find it.” She scrambled out of bed and began pulling on her breeches.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” his voice was sharp, but she ignored him until he gripped her arm. His touch wasn’t bruising, but it was firm. “You cannot go out at night.”

“You cannot find what I need without me.” She looked at his eyes, trying to measure what he wanted. She didn’t think he knew. “Do you want to save his life? Or at least give him a chance?”

His gaze was resolute. “Yes.”

“Then take me to find mold.”

“What?”

“Mold. A certain kind. In Hull I got it from Mr. Periwinkle’s pigpen, but the witch-woman said it was stronger from somewhere else.”

“Where?”

She winced as she spoke. “The side of the shit house.”

He laughed, the sound tight and bitter. Then he sobered. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his jaw and looked out the window, his face almost gaunt in the moonlight. “How much?”

“A great deal.” She grabbed her satchel, feeling the weight of the only thing she’d brought that she’d never used. Her tools for making possets. “Take me,” she said.

He sighed. “Even on death’s door, Jeremy is still making me stink. And now it’s infected you.”

“We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, we do.”

*

Bram couldn’t believe he was doing this, but the thought of killing Jeremy put too much weight on his soul. He had to find a solution, and if Bluebell had one, then he would crawl through shite up to his neck to get it.

But he’d be damned if he allowed her to sully herself so.

He took her to the filthiest part of the Thames, crawled along the muck and stones while she held the lantern, and scraped where she pointed. By the time it was done, he reeked enough that even the footpads kept away. He didn’t want to imagine her doing this back in Hull, but when she didn’t even flinch at his smell, he knew she had endured this and much worse.

“Why didn’t you run away?” he asked as they trudged away from the river. “Surely there were better places to live than Hull?”

“Better how? I had a home with my mother. I had work that fed us, and people who cared for me. Not everyone, obviously, but it was a good life, even if it was hard.” Then she looked at him. “Why haven’t you settled in a village somewhere? No one needs to know you’re a bastard. You could be a younger son of a nobody vicar.”

He could hear Eleanor’s voice in her words, categorizing people by their social status. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t fault her for it. It was how the world worked. “And what would I do as a younger son of a nobody vicar? I have a life in London. Work that pays my bills—”

“And people to protect?”

He nodded. “I pretend that I am doing good.”

“You are.”

“Sometimes, yes. Other times, I’m not so sure.” He thought of Dicky and Jeremy. Had he truly done anything good there?

She entwined her fingers with his. He didn’t want her to touch him, given the filth that coated him everywhere, but somehow they were walking hand in hand. And he would not release her.

“Where are we going?” she asked as he directed her down a narrow alleyway.

“It’s a shop I know. Odd people with odd ideas. They won’t question what you’re doing. Actually, they’ll probably question everything but they won’t stop you.”

She straightened at that, her eyes growing luminous in the moonlight. “Witch women?”

He chuckled at the hope in her voice. “We don’t have those in London!” he said with mock insult. “We have women and men who have not studied in the normal sort of medical school.”

She grinned. “I should love to meet them.”

“Then you’re in luck.” They came to the back entrance that led to a secluded garden in the middle of London. The lot was barely the size of two carriages and shadowed on all sides, but it was enough for a small garden and a woman who never seemed to sleep.

He knocked three times in a special rhythm and then waited.

“Who stinks?” came a woman’s raspy voice.

“It’s Bram, and a woman who wants to share some knowledge.”

“Does she know about baths?”

“She does. It’s me who—” His voice cut off as the door was pulled open by a woman cloaked in shadows. Her weight was slight but her hands were strong, and he knew the shape of her would be healthy despite her gray hair and wrinkled face. “Hello Madame Ille.”

The lady held a posset to her nose. “Where have you been that you stink like this?”

“The Thames.” Then before he could say more, Bluebell stepped forward.

“I need to make a drink that will cure an infection. A bad one.”

“A bad infection or a bad drink?” Madame said as she peered at Bluebell. “The one I’ll allow, the other is not for us. But I can give you the address for the poison maker.”

Bluebell smiled. “Really? Oh yes, I do—”

“Not tonight,” Bram interrupted. God, he wanted his bed. And a bath. And not in that order.

“Right,” Bluebell agreed. “Tonight I need mortar and pestle, plus…” She rattled off several ingredients that meant very little to Bram.

Madame Ille snorted. “That won’t do anything for anyone.”

“I know,” Bluebell answered. “I have the other part in here.” She held up her satchel where the mold was held in a heavy clay jar.

“And what would that be?” Madame Ille reached for the satchel, but Bluebell wouldn’t give it up.

And Bram was getting more tired by the second. “It’s mold, Madame. Please, can we come in? If I cannot bathe, at least let me sit.”

The two women looked at him with equal expressions of surprise. As if they had forgotten he was standing right there. Then the madame snorted.

“Fine, fine. But you stay in the garden. Maybe lie down in the dirt and fertilize it for me. Bluebell and I will discuss.”

She opened the door wide and let them step through. Except two steps later, the way was blocked by a large man with Chinese features. He’d obviously been woken by the noise, but he seemed very hale and ready to fight.

“Who is this?” the man demanded.

Bram sighed. He was in no mood to delay things further. “Bluebell,” he said pointing to her. “And you know me,” he said. Then he pointed to the large foreigner. “That’s AhLan. He pokes needles in people and swears it will cure them.”

“Wot?” Bluebell gasped, her language slipping.

“Yes,” Madame Ille said as she pulled Bluebell around. “And she has mold that will cure infection. Come, come. Let Bram stink up my garden. We will talk inside.”

Bram watched them go. He stayed on his feet long enough to hear their conversation. There was no threat in anyone’s tone. Indeed, the discussion quickly passed beyond his comprehension as they spoke about ingredients, treatments, and whatever AhLan did.

Good God, he’d never heard Bluebell sound so delighted except in the throes of passion. She was animated, her words coming fast and clear while the other two peppered her with questions. This was where she belonged, he thought, as he dropped down on the dirt. With others who did not judge but desperately wanted to learn from one another.

He could bring her here, now and again, while she was in London. But eventually, Bluebell would have a husband and Bram needed to be sure the man understood this side of her. The making of possets was not something titled ladies usually did, but Bluebell would need to. She was too passionate about it to cut off this side of her. So her husband must allow her to work her skills whenever she wished and would not cage her into the restricted life of the peerage.

He sighed as he let his legs stretch out. He couldn’t lie down. It would damage the young shoots planted here. But at least he was sitting down as he wondered who in all of London understood what Bluebell needed.

Him.

He saw what she needed. And yet, he couldn’t tie her to his bastard status any more than he could let Jeremy die. He was not good enough for her, but he could find someone who was. That was what he resolved as he sat in the dirt and in his stink.

Because that was what a good man did for the woman he loved.