Page 4 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

It’s hard to look in two directions at once. Look ahead or look behind, anything else makes onedizzy.

“I ’ve found a way, Mama. Did you push him here just ’cause I needed him?”

Maybelle blinked back tears as she ground the foul muck with her pestle. She was in her tiny kitchen, making up the last of her stock before she left for London. She spoke to her mother’s portrait even though it was in the main room and couldn’t be seen in here. It was a sketch done by an inexpert hand, but her mother looked so young and vibrant that it had sat on the mantel long after the paper yellowed and the artist’s signature faded to a smear. But it didn’t matter. She knew every line by heart. Had even sketched it over and over as a child to practice her “lady arts,” as her mother had called them.

And now that her mother was gone, this was all she had left, except her memories and the legacy the woman had sworn her to before she’d died. A legacy that was even now coming to fruition.

She heard his footsteps coming up the path. She’d trained herself to catch every rustle outside, because a visitor usually meant money. Someone needed a posset, an extra egg from their chickens, or the butter that her mum had churned, day in and day out.

But his tread was heavy and crisp, and her hips bobbed in glee. He was her way to London, and she was betting everything that she’d be able to turn him to her task. His knock was equally ponderous, and she had to consciously shift her expression to surprise and a bit of disappointment.

“A moment!” she called by way of stalling. The window was open, allowing whatever breeze there was to deal with the stench of her ingredients. She gave her mixture a last grind before crossing to the door. Soon , she thought. Soon she’d never have to make that disgusting potion again.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the late afternoon sun. As it was still summer, the light shone down on him. “Thank you, mum,” she whispered. Before this morning, she’d had no idea how much she had yet to learn. And now she had a handsome teacher.

“Why, Mr. Hallowsby! Whatever are you doing here?”

“You told me where you live.”

“I’m sure Mr. Garwick said I’d be in tonight—”

“You told me to come.”

His tone was hard, and there was no mistaking the anger in his eyes. So it was like that, was it? Armed with his distemper, he was ready to negotiate for the carriage. Well and good. She knew he planned to drive a hard bargain, and she had her tactics well in hand.

Stepping back, she gestured for him to come inside. “I was drinking my tea. Would you care for some?”

“No, thank you, miss.”

She flashed him a smile, making sure her dimpled side showed. “Best tea in the land, but suit yourself.”

“I’ve come to sell the carriage.”

She heaved a sigh as she settled at her table. He entered her house, but didn’t sit while she looked morosely into her tea. “It’s no good. I stopped by the lady in question, and she doesn’t want it. She did more’n a week ago, but now…” She shook her head.

“What?”

She looked up, doing her best to appear heartbroken. “She don’t want it, Mr. Hallowsby. I tried all my ways on her, but nothing worked. Can’t force people hereabouts to buy what they don’t need.”

His eyes narrowed. “Was there ever a woman at all?”

“Well, of course there was!” she cried, pushing her air of injured innocence. “Did you think I’d lure you out here for some other reason?” She shoved up from her seat. “I’ll have you know that I’m a good Christian woman. And there’s souls not more’n a hundred yards that way. They’ll hear me scream if you—”

He held up his hands. “I have no designs on your virtue.”

Had he shuddered as he said it? But why? She had a mirror. She’d known since childhood how pretty she was.

She folded her hands demurely in front of her, the picture of chastened purity. “I apologize. I am sorry to misjudge you, sir. And double sorry that the lady no longer wishes the carriage.” That wasn’t exactly true, but it was close enough that her conscience didn’t quibble with it. “But I have thought of an alternative.”

He folded his arms and leaned back against the door frame, blocking the light. It was a position guaranteed to emphasize his height and breadth.

“Of course you have,” he drawled. “Out with it, then. Let’s hear what you want.”

She frowned, startled by his stubbornness. She was doing everything she could to be charming, and he was having none of it.

“Are you sure you won’t have some tea? And in a half hour I’ll have stew. Goat’s milk and honey with eggs and good vegetables grown by my own hand.”

“I’m sure you did everything but nurse them with your own teat.”

She stiffened. No one spoke to her like that. “There’s no cause to be crude, sir.”

“What do you want, Miss Bluebell?”

So he would have it straight out. She understood. She preferred the plain-speaking ones too. Told her exactly when they softened. So she huffed out a defeated breath.

“Very well, sir. I believe there’s a market south of here. A carriage house that will buy what you’ve got or know someone who wants it.”

“Which does me no good because the thing won’t travel.”

“Well, as to that, you have the pay to fix it up, and Mr. Grummer is ready to do the work. All you need is a horse to take it there.”

He was silent, his eyes narrowed. She usually allowed the quiet to linger, knowing that it discomfited others more than her. But this time, she was the one who fidgeted. What was he thinking? Why did he hate her so? The only explanation she had was exactly what Lady Linsel said.

Her speech. Her accent. Having thought hard on it all afternoon, she realized that when compared to Lady Linsel, her tone was different. The way she spoke was different. That had to be the reason this man despised her so readily, even in the face of her beauty.

“Let me guess. You have a horse?”

“I do. She’s none too pretty to look at and none too fast. But she’ll get you there well enough.”

He grunted, the sound like a bull. “I’ll see it first.”

“Of course you will.”

“But I’ll not buy it. You’ll have to get it back from the inn somehow.”

She turned on him, her hands planted on her hips. “Now, how am I to do that, I ask you?” It was all for show. If things went as she planned, she’d be down there with him, taking sweet Mina all the way to London.

He shrugged as if to say it was not his problem. She glared at him so he would think he had won. “That will double the price, you know,” she said in her most waspish tone. People liked it when they thought they’d gotten the better of her.

“No, it won’t. Because I’m not as vain as Dicky or as hoodwinked as your neighbors. It’ll be a fair price, or I won’t borrow your horse.”

“Rent,” she stressed.

“Even so.”

She glared at him because it made his lips twitch. Let him feel smug. She was ready for him as she headed toward the door.

“Mina’s penned outside.”

He bowed to her, then turned on his heel. She got a good look at his backside, which was as fine as his front. He had a way of walking that tickled her low in the belly. A slow, languid stride that drew the eye to parts she wasn’t supposed to notice. But she did look, and it made her cheeks flush hot.

Then she realized he was pulling ahead of her, and she rushed to catch up. His height made it such that she had to scurry to keep abreast of him, even though he walked slowly. It was a tactic, she was sure. Done to make her feel small and insignificant. Sadly, it was working, especially since Lady Linsel had begun the work earlier.

They made it quickly to Mina’s pen. Maybelle’s cottage was small and there was little space for keeping animals. She’d already sold the goat and chickens in preparation for leaving, so there was only Mina with her ratty tail looking sad as she cropped the grass.

“That’s a sorry looking nag.”

She knew he was baiting her, but she felt the wound nonetheless.

“She’s a truer horse than you’ll ever know. Mina and I have been friends since she was a foal. She may not look so fine as your London prancers, but she’ll get you where you need to go, be satisfied with the grass at her feet, and be ready in the morning.”

“Nursed by your very own hand…” he said, his eyebrows raised as he called her bluff.

“Not nursed. She came to us a little older than that, though I played with her as a child.”

“Of course you did—”

“And I feed her my right fine carrots. By hand.” Then just to prove the point, she clucked her tongue, and Mina trotted over, mouth eager for the carrot she pulled out of her pocket.

“The carriage needs two horses—”

“You can switch the hitch for one.”

He grimaced, and she knew she had him. He was thinking of the expense and the bother. But if he’d wanted to leave the carriage behind, he’d have left by now. Which meant he was here for at least a few days while the thing got repaired.

“You should add a coat of paint, you know,” she said as if she’d just thought of it. “It will sell better that way.”

“And what would you know about selling carriages?” he grumbled.

“Not a thing,” she lied. Selling was selling. She found out what people wanted and gave it to them, even if it was simple compliments and attention.

Which brought her thoughts to him. What exactly did he want? Coin, obviously, and maybe that was all. With his looks, he didn’t need attention. Did he want to feel important?

She turned to display her features in the best light. “May I ask your advice, sir?”

His brows went up in surprise and wariness entered his body. “Of course.”

She flashed her dimple but kept her expression anxious. It wasn’t hard to do. She was worried. “Lady Linsel said she couldn’t understand me. That I speak—”

“Clarissa always insults the prettiest woman in the room.”

“Oh, sir! Surely she couldn’t mean—”

“I’ll think about the horse, Miss Bluebell,” he interrupted as he took a step back. Clearly, he did not appreciate false modesty. “Good day.” He gave her a shallow bow.

No! She couldn’t lose him now. They hadn’t reached a bargain yet. “But sir, please tell me! Please…” She swallowed. He’d put on his hat. “Teach me.”

He frowned at her. “What?”

“I want t’ speak like a proper lady.”

His head tilted as he studied her. “It’s not how you speak. It’s what you say.”

“No, sir, that’s not true,” she shot back. “I am always respectful, always sweet.”

“All the best courtesans are.”

She blinked, shocked to her core. Had he just called her a whore? An expensive one, but still a woman who spread her legs for money. And spoken in such a matter-of-fact way, as if it were a foregone conclusion of little import. It was that last that truly bothered her. Most men who insulted her looked for a reaction. They spoke to wound her out of spite. But he’d said it as calmly as if he named a carrot or a tree. And in that moment of frozen surprise, she lost the upper hand.

“You know,” he said as he touched her chin, slowly closing her mouth, “there was a time I would have been completely fooled by you, taken in like all the other peasants in your life. But I am not, Miss Bluebell.” He stepped closer to her, letting his height dwarf her into insignificance. “You are a woman who gets everything she wants. A grasping tart in the most beautiful package I have ever seen.”

Never had anyone complimented and insulted her in the same sentence. And so she reacted purely from the place of a wounded animal.

She punched him square in the jaw, following with another to his gut.

Except he was faster than her, stronger than her, and definitely better at fisticuffs. He caught her fists in his palms, the smack adding insult to the sting in her knuckles.

She slammed her knee upward as hard as she could. That, he avoided as well, though she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in surprise. She tried to follow it up. She wore sturdy walking boots that stung when she kicked a man.

She missed because he was smart. He gripped her hands and spun her around. Her shoulders wrenched with the force of his twist, and then abruptly, she was wrapped up from behind. His corded arms bound across her chest, and when she struggled, he lifted her feet off the ground.

Easy enough from that position to bang at his legs, but he had on sturdy boots as well. They were planted solidly on the ground, and all her flailing did nothing. Worse, he started lifting her higher. High enough that her legs swung away from him.

Then she came down.

Feet first, banging hard into the dirt. And before she could use that as leverage, he stepped backward such that she couldn’t get purchase. She was fighting with her torso, twisting and flailing, but she was pinned. And he was so damned strong.

A second later, her bum landed on the ground with a teeth-jarring thump. She twisted with her legs, but they were splayed in front of her, and her skirts were in the way. Only then did he stop.

It took her a moment to realize he wasn’t moving. That she was sitting flat on the ground while he held her pinned from behind. And the more she scrabbled with her legs, the more dirty and tired she got, whereas he crouched behind her seemingly without a care in the world.

She began to curse him. They weren’t English words, but Romany ones she’d learned long ago. She called him a dog and worse, though she truly didn’t know what “worse” was. Just garbled sounds that she made when she was so spitting mad she couldn’t speak at all. Then to add to her humiliation, tears sprang into her eyes, leaking out the corners, and making tracks down the dust on her face.

“I can sit here all day, Miss Bluebell.”

She quieted, stilling long enough to catch her breath, and then—abruptly—she sprang into life again. She kicked and twisted for all she was worth.

Nothing. He didn’t budge and she only got more tired.

In the end, she stilled once more. Taking a shuddering breath, she came to terms with the truth. He was stronger and a better fighter. He could do whatever he willed with her, and she was terrified—

“What do you want, Miss Bluebell?” he asked. His voice was hoarse in her ear, a low rasp that ratcheted up her fear another degree.

“Let me go!”

“Not until we have a conversation—you and I. An honest one, if you please.”

“I want to be let go!”

“I’m not going to hurt you. I want to speak without lies. Do you know how to do that?”

“Of course I do! I have never lied—”

He choked her. His top forearm slipped up her chest until it pressed against her throat. Not hard enough to hurt, but the message got through.

“I told you. No lies.”

“I wasn’t,” she whispered, tears of frustration burning in her eyes.

“I count half-truths, slight omissions, and even things you wish to be true as lies, Miss Bluebell. And those times when you pretend to be dumb? Those are the worst lies of all. So think again. Have you ever lied?”

She swallowed. Of course she had. She’d told ugly women they were beautiful, fat men they’d lost weight. She’d flattered and cajoled. And she’d hidden her intelligence almost from the very start. Boys had taught her young that they didn’t like to be bested by a girl.

“I’m a poor orphan. I’ve done what I needed to.”

“I’m sure you have,” he said conversationally. “And I don’t damn you for that.” She didn’t believe him. There was condemnation in every word he uttered. “But Miss Bluebell, if we’re to deal with one another, I need the truth. What do you want? Is it this?”

He leaned down, and she felt his teeth at her neck. It wasn’t a bite, per se. More of a slow compression of his teeth, drawing the edges across her skin while her body trembled beneath him. She whimpered, truly terrified, and then he licked where he had bit. His tongue was hot and wet, and she slammed her eyes shut trying to find a way out.

Could she scream before he choked off her breath? Would anyone come in time? She tried to still her racing heart as she gathered her breath to try.

But then he stopped and drew back. “You don’t want that,” he said, obviously startled.

She screamed.

As loud and as long as she could while he released her and stood back. She scrambled to her feet, screaming for all she was worth. And she kept going until her throat went raw, and he stood there looking bemused.

Then she had to draw breath, and in the pause as she pulled air in, she realized he wasn’t fighting her. He was just standing there, confusion all over his face.

She stopped screaming.

He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I thought…I believed…” He shrugged, then gave her a deep bow. “I was mistaken.”

She stood there, shaking and staring, not understanding what had happened. Her hair was in her eyes, dust coated her dress and face, and he wasn’t moving to attack. He wasn’t doing anything but standing there looking as innocuous as a doddering old hound.

And yet…

Her neighbor came thundering up the road. Mr. Bray was a good man with seven children and big, thick fists. She’d sold her goat and chickens to him for less than they were worth, and he was as close to a father as she’d ever had. His face was set into murderous lines as he came at them, an ax held in his fists.

The moment they saw him, Mr. Hallowsby raised his hands and stepped back. Then he stilled while Mr. Bray slowed, his great chest heaving. The man looked back and forth between them. He saw her dirty dress and mussed hair, and his mouth set in grim lines.

“Wot’s to-do ’ere?” he demanded.

“A misunderstanding, is all,” Mr. Hallowsby said, keeping his hands raised high.

Mr. Bray looked to her. “Bluebell?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” she said slowly. “He just…” She swallowed. Never would she say aloud that he had licked her.

Mr. Hallowsby slowly let his hands down. “Just confused you?” he prompted. “Startled you?”

“Did ’e touch you?” Mr. Bray demanded.

“Yes. Yes! I tried to punch him, and ’e caught me—”

“I kept her fists away from me. And when she began kicking, I flipped her around.” Mr. Hallowsby slowly moved his hands through the motions he’d made.

Mr. Bray straightened, though he kept the ax ready. “Why’d you punch ’im, Bluebell?”

“He called me…” She could not say courtesan. First of all, Mr. Bray probably didn’t even know the word, and she would not say whore. “He said I lie.”

“We’re good Christian folk, sir. I’ve known Bluebell all ’er life, and there’s no lie to ’er. I suggest you go on back to—”

“He’s going to buy Mina to take that fancy carriage to London.” And right there she was suddenly aware of how easily the lie came to her lips. Except, it wasn’t really a lie because he was going to buy her horse. He’d have no choice with Mr. Bray looking so threatening.

“I never said that,” Mr. Hallowsby stated.

“There ain’t others that would serve,” she said firmly.

Mr. Bray nodded. “Everbody else needs their cattle. Mina’s a good horse. Worth…” He looked to her.

“Fifty pounds,” she said.

Mr. Hallowsby’s hands went down. “Fifty pounds! For that nag?”

“Yessir,” Mr. Bray agreed. “Fifty pounds.”

Maybelle felt her lips curve. She’d learned the basics of selling from Mr. Bray. And the first thing he’d taught her was that a thing was worth whatever someone would pay. No more and no less. And right now, Mr. Hallowsby would pay exactly fifty pounds for Mina.

She watched the understanding build in Mr. Hallowsby’s body—not his face—as he understood the situation. His shoulders tightened, and his feet slid slightly apart as if he were about to fight. His hands even tightened into fists, but he planted those on his hips rather than lift them. She knew from experience that if Mr. Hallowsby ever chose to fight, he would move much faster than she could see coming. So that meant he would pay, though it clearly angered him.

Good.

She was angry too.

“Fine. Fifty pounds,” he ground out.

“Pay it now, if you please,” Mr. Bray said, all smiles, though he never lowered that ax.

“This is robbery, plain and simple.”

She was about to argue, but she needn’t have bothered. Mr. Bray was before her, lifting his chin. “It were a misunderstanding, yes?”

Mr. Hallowsby met the man’s eyes, and the two stared at one another. Maybelle tried to comprehend what was passing between the two, but she couldn’t. It was as silent as the grave. But in the end, Mr. Hallowsby’s gaze dropped.

“Yes. My mistake.” And so he silently pulled out his purse and counted fifty pounds.

Add that to the money she’d already gotten from her basket of possets, and she was richer than she’d ever been in her entire life. Good Lord, this was a lucky day.

“Thank you, Mr. Hallowsby. You’ve bought yourself a fine horse.” Then she looked up at him, her expression serene. “Will you be taking her now, or shall I keep her until you’re ready to leave?”

He looked at her, his expression grim. Then he silently pulled out another note and slapped it in her hand. “That will cover the cost of stabling her, I believe.”

“Of course,” she said sweetly. “That, and my lessons, that is.” Normally she wouldn’t push this. Normally, she’d take her fortune and run laughing into the house. But this wasn’t a normal time, and he was the only one who could teach her what she needed to know.

“Lessons?” he said slowly, his eyes narrowed in fury.

“In how to talk like a lady,” she said.

“Aw, Bluebell,” interrupted Mr. Bray, “wot you need—”

“I need them,” she said quietly. And she knew he understood, not her reasons, but that she would have them. Just as she’d had her mathematics lessons and her astronomy teaching and her plays by Shakespeare.

Then she looked to Mr. Hallowsby, trying to judge him by his manners, but he gave nothing away. Any clue from his body was lost when he squared his shoulders.

Was he angry? Would he lie to her? Had she pushed him too far? The questions battered her mind, but she said nothing and neither did Mr. Hallowsby. They simply looked at one another, eye to eye, raised chin to clenched jaw.

And then he smiled. Slow and sweet, before he sketched a too-deep bow.

“It would be my honor indeed, Miss Bluebell, to give you a lesson.”

“In talking like a lady,” she stressed. She could hear the threat in the way he’d phrased it.

“Of course,” he said as he put his hat on his head, nodded once to Mr. Bray, then turned on his heel.

She watched him walk away, his loose-limbed stride taking him quickly off her property. She saw his height and his confidence. She remembered the feel of his arms as they’d restrained her and the fear that had consumed her when he’d touched her neck.

Except it hadn’t been complete fear, had it? If she were honest with herself, she’d been taunting him from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. She’d made sure to show him her most beautiful aspects. She’d given him her address when normally she managed all her affairs in the village. And most of all, she’d purposely pushed him when she usually let things be with a man.

She was attracted to him—truth be told. She was adult enough to know when a man interested her. But was he too much for her? Was she too bold?

“He’s not your usual gent, Bluebell. Won’t be led around by the nose.”

“I know,” she said softly. That was, after all, why he intrigued her so.

“You don’t ’ave to go to London. Ain’t nothing there that you don’t already got here.”

She looked at the man who’d become so dear to her. She loved his craggy face and salt-and-pepper hair that stuck straight up from his head. He’d held her hand when she was sick and taught her how to ride a horse. And if she stayed here, even without her mum, he would see that she married a good local man and lived a life such as he had. A passel of children, a farm that grew fine some years, and not as fine others.

Not a bad life, she thought. Maybe even a good one.

“I can’t,” she said as much to him as to herself. “I have to go to London.”

“And wot’s there that ain’t here?”

She swallowed and looked away. She didn’t want to hurt him with the truth.

He waited a breath. Then another. Then he sighed and spit into the dirt.

“Keep yer secrets then, Bluebell. But if you ever have need, even when ye’re in London, you send me a post. I’ll get to you. I swear it.”

She knew he would, and she impulsively threw her arms around him and kissed his weathered cheek, letting the scratch of his beard abrade her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Bray. Thank you so much.”

“Ain’t nothing. Now go get some o’ yer stew. We’ll add it to my Beth’s and have a good dinner.”

She nodded and did as he asked. But it wasn’t until late that night, when she was lying alone on her pallet in her silent house that she thought again of what he’d said. Not Mr. Hallowsby, though he’d certainly been in her thoughts all evening. No, what she thought about was the man who waited for her in London. The one who would make all her dreams come true.

What was in London that wasn’t here?

“My father,” she said. “I’m going to find my father.”