Page 5 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Whatever you do, pick your targetcarefully.

T hunk .

The knife sank deep into the tree trunk, the sound satisfying to the base of his spine. Sadly, Bram had been throwing at a different tree, so he was less than pleased with his performance.

He was trying out a new way of throwing daggers while he waited and worried about when Jeremy would come back. But since his Viking-like friend hadn’t shown up, Bram was distracting himself with target practice.

Instead of standing with his knife poised before the throw, he was drawing across his body from his hip and flicking the knife at the target. When done right, he could draw the weapon and throw it in a single, quick motion. But it was less than useless if he couldn’t aim properly.

Grunting his displeasure, he stomped to his knives where they lay scattered about the clearing. He’d been practicing all morning and hadn’t improved one bit.

He blamed it on the woman and the damned flowers that dotted the area. They didn’t even have to be bluebells, though a few were. If it was a flower, he thought of her. If he was eating food, he thought of carrots and wondered if she’d grown them. If he thought about the carriage he needed to sell, he thought about her suggestion to paint the thing. She was everywhere in his thoughts, and he didn’t like it.

He stomped back to his position and tried to focus. Draw, throw.

Ping.

Right tree this time. Glancing blow.

Maybe if he envisioned her on the tree, he could stab her straight through the heart.

Whoosh.

Apparently not. He’d missed by a mile. And he didn’t like picturing human targets anyway, much less a beautiful woman who drove him insane.

She wouldn’t be everywhere in his thoughts if he could just label her as one thing. “Frustrating as hell” was as far as he’d gotten. He’d only known her a day, but in that time he’d labeled her a beauty beyond compare, a conniving tart, a manipulative witch, and an ignorant peasant. But none of those labels fit her well.

She was a beauty, all right, but up close he had seen the flaws in her skin. She had freckles and a slight golden-brown cast because she didn’t wear her bonnet enough.

She was a conniving tart to be sure, except that when he’d teased her neck with teeth and tongue, she’d gone still with shock, and then terror. A tart would know that was foreplay, not violence. She’d reacted with a virgin’s fear.

“Manipulative witch” was certainly true. The local populace was wrapped around her finger. Except she wasn’t a witch at all, but a girl on her own. By all accounts, she’d grown up with no one but her mother to aid her, and together, they’d not only managed but thrived. That took strength and determination. And likely, no small amount of manipulation to get what they needed to survive.

And the last was “ignorant peasant.” That was patently untrue for all that she sounded like a stupid northern provincial. He’d seen the books in her small home. Mathematics, agriculture, Aristophanes, Latin. She had a library in her home and yet only one bed, likely shared with her mother. That meant they’d spent their money on her education, though why they’d made that choice, he hadn’t a clue.

And now she wanted lady lessons. As if he had a clue how to be a lady. And yet he’d promised a single lesson.

She came to him after another ten minutes of frustrated throwing. In another hour, he’d have chipped all the bark off the trees in this clearing. He smelled her the moment she appeared behind him. It was a lemony-green scent, though in his mind, it was mingled with the peppery taste of her skin. Objectively, he knew it came from the bloody cranesbill flowers he’d seen all over her yard, but in his mind they were her scent, and the pepper was her spice.

“Stay back,” he said, his voice gruff. “Don’t want to accidentally skewer you.”

“You’d never hit me, at least not on purpose. You’re too good.”

He was about to laugh at her statement, but then he did it. He drew, flicked, and thunk —dead center of the tree, exactly where he’d aimed. He rocked back on his heels in surprise. Had he finally gotten the knack of it? He drew again and threw.

Ping.

Close, but not quite what he’d wanted. The tree trunk was narrow enough that were it a man, he’d have hit something. On the tree, he’d carved off more bark. Still, it was closer than he’d been all morning.

“How did you learn that?” she asked, her words suffused with awe.

He glanced back at her. Was she truly impressed, or was that a lie? He couldn’t tell. She was a master at stroking a man’s ego. He’d seen her do it with Dicky.

“I practiced, is how.” He stomped over to retrieve his knives.

“But where’d you get the idea? I’ve never seen anyone throw knives like that afore. Not drawing from the side.”

He didn’t answer, choosing to let her think about it. Would she take the hint and go away, or persist with her questions?

“Please, sir,” she pressed, and though she’d used the word please , there was no begging in the tone. “’Ow’d you think of it?”

“What do you think?”

She pursed her lips, and he regretted looking at her. He’d see her wet, puckered mouth in his dreams tonight.

“I dunno,” she said. “That’s why I asked.”

Well, at least she wasn’t prone to flights of fancy. That was a rarity in his experience. Most people developed elaborate tales about how he learned a thing. It helped that he encouraged them in such thinking, but with her, he simply shrugged and told the truth.

“Saw a gypsy do it once. Got a spider from twelve paces away.”

“And you ’ad to learn it?”

He shrugged again and studied her. He looked at her face, her body, her everything. He couldn’t stop himself from seeing her pert nose in the sunshine, the way her pale blue muslin dress pressed against her body in the breeze. Her blond locks were tucked neatly in place today, and he wished they were in disarray, tumbling about her face and shoulders while he spread her out on his bed and…

He cursed under his breath and stomped back in place. He tried to concentrate again on his throw, but he knew he didn’t have the ability. His mind was filled with the imagined sight of her naked beneath him, flushed and open. It was an obvious thought, so graphic that his blood thumped inside his veins. And he couldn’t draw his knife while thinking that. He just couldn’t.

So he stood there, fighting his carnal nature, while the breeze took her scent to him and made his entire body ache with yearning.

“Go away, Miss Bluebell,” he ground out. “I’ve no interest in play today.”

“I’m not ’ere t’ play,” she said stoutly. “I want me lessons.”

“Lesson. Singular. That’s all I agreed to.”

“That’s no’ true.”

He whipped around, using his fiercest stare. “It is true. You’ll be getting one and no more.” He let some of his lascivious thoughts show on his face. “Unless you want to pay for more.”

She swallowed. It was a small gesture, partially hidden by the way she lifted her chin and looked defiant. She was nervous around him, and yet so determined that he had to wonder why. What was so important that she had to speak like a lady?

“Go home, Miss Bluebell. I’m busy.”

“You’re sticking trees. You can teach me while you do it.”

He’d meant to turn away from her and go back to throwing, but he couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Not when her eyes were flashing so blue in the sunlight. Like gems on fire.

She folded her arms. “I’m not leaving ’til you do as you promised.”

“Very well. Here’s your lesson. Say your h ’s. Ladies speak the letter.”

“I do! I been working on that since I was a babe.”

“Well, it didn’t take. Repeat after me. My husband holds my hand. ”

“Me husband holds me ’and.”

He smirked. He hadn’t meant to, but she was so expressive as she spoke. First with clear defiance, but then she realized exactly what she’d said. Her eyes widened, and she scowled. With a frown of concentration, she tried again.

“Me husband holds my hand.”

He shook his head.

She concentrated harder. “Me husband holds my hand.” Each h was pushed out with a huff. “Me husband holds my hand.”

He still shook his head.

“I’m saying the h ’s.”

He grinned. “My husband holds my hand.”

“Me—” She abruptly cut off her words, obviously understanding her error. “ My husband holds my ’and. Damn it! Hand.”

He nodded. “There you go. Lesson done.”

“No, it ain’t!” Then she cursed under her breath. “No, it isn’t. This takes practice.”

“So go practice.”

“With you. You’re the only one around oo speaks properly.”

That was certainly true. “Then talk. I’ll let you know when it’s wrong.”

“No. I ’ave—have t’ hear you talk back.”

He grunted in answer, then grinned when her sigh filled the clearing. He was purposely aggravating her because she’d been plaguing him all morning. And all last night. But that wasn’t her fault, he supposed, so in the name of justice, he relented.

“Tell me why you want these lessons so badly.”

“I want t’ learn, same as you wanted to learn how to throw knives.”

“Not the same. I have need at times to hurt a man from a distance. You have no need to sound any different than you do.”

“And wot do you know about me needs?”

“My needs.”

“What?”

“Don’t say ‘me needs.’ My needs. My husband.”

“Oh. My needs. My husband.” She not only copied his words, but his inflection as well. She had the gift of a mimic, and that would help her enormously in this task. But there was more to being a lady than words. And nothing could make this sow’s ear into a silk purse. Nothing. But he already knew telling her would do no good. So instead of worrying about her, he focused on his task. Sighting his target, he angled his body how he wanted. Then he drew and threw in one single movement.

Thunk.

Good throw.

Nearly perfect, in fact. And her appreciative whistle made his satisfaction thrum harder. Until he’d realized what had happened. He didn’t want to draw pleasure from her admiration. It was a trap as sure as iron bars.

“Tell me about wot—what—got you traveling with Lord and Lady Linsel.”

He hadn’t told her to correct wot to what , but she’d heard it and done it anyway. Well done, he thought, but instead of voicing that aloud, he aimed and threw again.

A miss. Not even hitting a tree trunk but toppling into the dirt before rolling to an ignominious stop.

“What do you think brought me here?”

“Do others like it when you don’t answer their questions?”

He glanced back in surprise. “They don’t usually care. Most of my associates like to guess at my life. They call me a man of mystery.” Or at least the silly ones did.

“Yer associates? What about yer friends?”

“Your associates. Your friends,” he corrected.

“Yer…your. Your. Your friends.”

He nodded and didn’t answer. He thought of his best friends Benjamin and Jared, both trapped in the airless rooms of an office, and yet pleased as punch with their lot. “I don’t see them much.”

“Who are they?”

“A solicitor and a banker.”

She sighed. “Not what do they do? Who are they?”

He twisted to look at her, wondering if this was some northern way of speech that he didn’t understand. “What?”

“Who are they t’ you?”

“Speak slower,” he ordered. He still didn’t understand the question. “Ladies have all the time in the world to be heard, and they like the sound of their own voices.”

“You don’t have a ’igh opinion of ladies, do you?”

“You met Clarissa, didn’t you?”

She nodded, her expression rueful. “But what of yer mates?” He arched a brow, and she thought over her words. “Your mates.”

He nodded because she’d found the error. She was a quick study, he’d give her that. “They’re my friends from school.” Then, before she could probe deeper into things he never discussed, he gave her his back as he again sighted the tree.

Draw, thunk .

Draw, ping .

Draw—

“Wait!”

He stopped his motion midswing, but he’d been holding the knife loosely. It flew out of his hand—in the wrong direction—as a blur of yellow hair and light blue dress rushed forward. To his horror, the knife thunked within a few yards of Bluebell as she ran forward. God, a split second later, and he would have got her hard in the gut.

“What are you doing?” he bellowed, his heart thumping painfully in his throat.

He started forward, only to be pulled up short by the sight of her standing with hands on her hips over an enormous pig. It was probably black, but with all the mud on it and that enormous wet snout, he couldn’t decide if it was a bog fairy come to life or something mundane, like a small, bloated cow.

“Mr. Periwinkle, wot are you doing out here?”

He noted absently that she’d remembered her h but then grimaced as the creature stepped on the hilt of one of his knives. Oh, bloody hell, those were expensive.

“What is that?” he demanded.

“It’s Widow Dwight’s pig. He’s a prizewinner, you know.”

“And you call him Periwinkle?”

“Because of the bow.” She gestured to a massive ribbon tied about the thing’s neck, which was many colors, none of them periwinkle.

Meanwhile, the thing started to snuffle off, foraging for whatever he ate, but she grabbed at the ribbon and wrapped a firm hand around it.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she said. “It’s back to yer pen, it is.”

He stared at her. Forget that she’d risked her life running in front of his knives to catch that thing. The absurdity of her hauling on a ribbon to drag a five-hundred-pound pig to its pen was ridiculous.

“You’re getting your dress dirty,” he said, which was not at all what he wanted to say.

“I know,” she said on a sigh. Then she looked up. “Go on. I can’t hold ’im all day.”

She couldn’t hold him at all. The thing was already dragging her off into the woods. She dug in her heels and grunted. “Hurry up! Get the ale!”

He blinked. “I have no idea—”

“Mr. Periwinkle likes ale. Just tell ’em at the inn. They’ll know what to do.” She huffed out a breath as she tried to divert the pig to the right instead of the left. “I’ll be moving ’im this way.”

“You can’t seriously—”

“Go!”

Apparently, she could. So with a bemused shake of his head, he went back to the inn. He started out at a jog, but soon broke into a run. The sound of her heavy breath as she fought with the pig-beast followed him every step of the way. Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the inn, and he burst into the kitchen with a gasp.

“Big pig,” he said. Then, when people stared at him in shock, he gestured to his neck. “Ribbon. Periwinkle.”

The woman at the fire pushed to her feet, nodding. “We’ve got just wot you need.” She grabbed a bucket filled with kitchen scraps, and when he reached for it, she held it back and jerked her chin at Thomas. He was already moving, and soon he’d poured a couple pints of ale over the scraps.

“What are you doing?”

“Mr. Periwinkle likes his ale, ’e does.”

Well, he supposed he couldn’t blame the pig. He held out his hand, but the woman held out her palm first. “Two shillings, if you please.”

“What? It’s not even my pig!”

She shrugged. “It ain’t mine neither. Get it back from the widow.”

“But I don’t know—”

She waved him silent. “Miss Bluebell knows wot to do. Just trust her.” Then she stood there with her hand outstretched.

He was tempted to stomp away. What did he know about pigs and widows? But the image of Bluebell being hauled willy-nilly through the woods had him cursing under his breath. He pulled out two shillings. Damned expensive for kitchen scraps meant for a pig.

He slapped the coins into her hand, and she had the gall to smile and curtsy before she handed him the bucket. “Mind you keep it back from ’im. Just rest it near ’is nose until ’e’s back in th’ pen. Otherwise, you’ll be coming back ’ere for another bucket and another—”

“Two shillings. Yes, I understand.” Though in truth, he had no idea how one let a pig smell a bucket but not bury his snout in the thing.

He grabbed the bucket and rushed back, afraid to find Bluebell missing from the clearing. He needn’t have worried. He could hear her cursing from across the way.

“This way, you obstinate brute!” How many villagers knew the word “obstinate?” For that matter, how many of the ton ?

He hurried to her side and had to stifle his laugh. She was now as filthy as the pig, her hair was matted with mud, and she was being pulled straight into a tree, no matter how much she dragged on the ribbon, which—he now saw—was laid on top of a heavy rope. Well, at least that part made sense, though trying to drag that thing by a rope was no more effective than by a ribbon.

“I’ve got the bucket.”

“Took you long enough,” she huffed. “Hold it out, but not too close.”

He nodded and tried not to spill the thing. “What pig drinks ale?”

“All of ’em, if you let ’em.”

The country was just one new thing after another. God, how he missed the black London air where all he had to deal with was footpads and faithless peers.

“Not there!” she said as she brushed the hair out of her eyes and left a mud streak across her forehead. “Lower. Not that low! He’ll get it!”

But Mr. Periwinkle was more interested in something under a bush, and so it didn’t matter how high or low the bucket was. The pig wanted under the foliage.

“Ow! Damn it,” she cursed. “Over ’ere, Peri. We got some good mash fer ye.” Her accent was getting thicker the longer she struggled with the pig. “Damn it. You take ’im. I’ll hold the bucket.”

He shook his head. “Not on your life. I’ve only got this one coat.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. The widow’ll wash it.”

“And charge me a crown for it,” he snapped. “You hold the pig—”

“I’m not strong enough.”

“A giant wouldn’t be strong enough,” he huffed. So despite what the muck smelled like, he reached in and grabbed the remains of a turnip now soaked in ale. Then he held it out and tried to sound coaxing. “Come on, Mr. Periwinkle. You like turnips, do you?”

“Ain’t no one really likes turnips,” she said between breaths.

He couldn’t argue that. “Don’t say ain’t ,” he muttered as he kept holding out the turnip.

“Drop it on the ground,” she instructed. “Near me feet.” Then before he could say anything, she grimaced. “Near my feet.”

“Very good,” he said with a grin. Then he dropped the turnip. Sadly, Mr. Periwinkle had no interest in it.

“Splash ’im with ale.”

“What?”

“So he can get the taste.”

“And how am I—”

“Just grab a handful and splat ’im with it.”

She was starting to tire. Her shoulders were drooping, and he would bet her hands were getting raw. So rather than argue that it was a liquid and not something he could grab, he tried to do what she wanted.

Cupping his hand as best he could, he scooped up some ale and wilted cabbage and threw it right at Mr. Periwinkle’s head.

He was in luck. The thing had lifted its snout out of the dirt, and so Mr. Periwinkle got a face full of ale. Which got his full attention.

He whipped around, moving faster than Bram thought possible for a thing that size. Bluebell stumbled around as well, and she nearly kicked the bucket over. He was able to save it—getting a kick in the forearm as he did—but that didn’t save them from the weight of Bluebell lurching for the bucket.

Oh, bloody hell.

Bloodydamnpissinghell.

The thing sat on him.

Getting flattened by a five-hundred-pound pig was not an experience he ever wanted to repeat. But as bad as that was, it soon got even worse.