A Rogues Proposal

Chapter 6

Demon ran Gillies to earth later that evening in the crowded tap of the Swan; he was nursing a pint and keeping a watchful eye on Bletchley. Their quarry was part of a genial group crowding one corner. Demon slid onto the bench beside Gillies. "Any action?"

"Nah. He went back to the Ox and Plough this afternoon, seemingly to check the post. He got a letter. Looked like he was expecting it."

"Did he leave it there?"

Glancing at Bletchley, Gillies shook his head. "He's got it on him, in an inside waistcoat pocket. He's taking no chances of losing it."

Demon sipped his beer. "What did he do after he got it?"

"Perked up, he did, and bustled right out again, back to the Heath for afternoon stables."

Demon nodded. "I saw him there-it looked like he had Robinson's string in his sights."

"Aye-that's my thought, too." Gillies took another long pull from his pint. "Robinson's got at least two favored runners in the Spring Carnival."

"I didn't see Bletchley approach any of the riders."

"Nor did I."

"Did he make contact with any gentlemen?"

"Not that I saw. And I've had him in sight since he came down the stairs this morning."

Demon nodded, Flick's warning in mind. "Stay at the stud tomorrow. Cross can follow Bletchley to morning stables-I'll take over after that."

"Aye." Gillies drained his pint. "It wouldn't do for him to get too familiar with my face."

Over the next three days, together with Cross and Hills, two of his stablemen, Demon and Gillies kept an unwavering watch on Bletchley. With activity on the Heath increasing in preparation for the Craven meeting-the official Spring Carnival of the English racing calendar-there was reason aplenty for Demon to be about the tracks and stables, evaluating his string and those of his major rivals. From atop Ivan the Terrible, keeping Bletchley in view in the relatively flat, open areas surrounding the Heath was easy; increasingly, it was Demon who kept their quarry in sight for most of the day. Gillies, Cross and Hills took turns keeping an unrelenting but unobtrusive watch at all other times, from the instant Bletchley came down for breakfast, to the time he took his candle and climbed the stairs to bed.

Bletchley remained unaware of their surveillance, his obliviousness at least partly due to his concentration on the job in hand. He was careful not to be too overt in approaching the race jockeys, often spending hours simply watching and noting. Looking, Demon suspected, for any hint of a hold, any susceptibility with which to coerce the selected jockeys into doing his masters' bidding.

On the fourth afternoon, Flick caught up with Demon.

Disguising her irritation at the fact that since leaving her before the manor steps, he'd made not the slightest attempt to see her-to tell her what was going on, what he and his men had discovered-she twirled her open parasol and advanced determinedly across the grass between the walking pens, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on him.

She was twenty yards away when he turned his head and looked directly at her. Leaning against the last pen's fence, he'd been scanning the onlookers watching his and two other stables' strings exercise. His back against the top rung, his hands sunk in his breeches pockets, one leg bent, booted foot braced on the fence's lower rung, he looked subtly dangerous.

Flick inwardly humphed and dismissed the thought of danger. She was impatient-she wanted to be doing something, not sitting on her hands waiting to learn what had happened long after it had. But she'd dealt with Dillon and the General long enough to know how to approach a male. It wouldn't do to show impatience or anger. Instead, smiling sunnily, she strolled to Demon's side, ignoring the frown forming in his eyes. "Isn't it a lovely afternoon?"

"Indeed."

The single word was trenchantly noncommittal; his frown darkened, deepening the blue of his eyes. Still smiling sweetly, she turned and scanned the throng. "Where's Bletchley?"

Straightening, Demon watched her check through the onlookers, then inwardly sighed. "Under the oak to the left. He's wearing a scarlet neckerchief."

She located Bletchley and studied him; against his will, Demon studied her. She was gowned once more in sprig muslin, tiny blue fern fronds scattered over white. The gown, however, barely registered; what was in the gown transfixed his attention, captured his awareness.

All soft curves and creamy complexion, she looked good enough to eat-which was the cause of his frown. The instant she appeared, he'd been struck by an urgent, all but ungovernable, ravenous urge. Which had startled him-his urges were not usually so independent, so totally dismissive, of his will.

As he watched, studied, drank in the sight of her, a light breeze playfully ruffled her curls, setting them dancing; it also ruffled her light skirts, briefly, tantalizingly, molding them to her hips, her thighs, her slender legs. Her heart-shaped bottom.

He looked away and shifted, easing the fullness in his groin.

"Has he approached any gentlemen yet? Or they, him?"

Relocating Bletchley, he shook his head. "It appears his task here-presumably the job Dillon was supposed to do-is to make contact with the jockeys and persuade them to his masters' cause." After a moment, he added, "He received a letter some days ago, which spurred him to renewed activity."

"Orders?"

"Presumably. But I seriously doubt he'll report back to his masters in writing."

"He probably can't write." Flick glanced over her shoulder and met his eye. "So there's still a chance the syndicate-at least one of them-will appear here."

"Yes. To learn of Bletchley's success, if nothing else."

"Hmm." She looked at Bletchley. "I'll take over watching him for the rest of the afternoon." She glanced up at him. "I'm sure you've got other matters to attend to."

He captured her gaze. "Be that as it may-

"As I've already pointed out, he won't expect a young lady to be watching him-it's the perfect disguise."

"He might not guess that you're watching him, but I can guarantee he'll notice if you follow him."

She swung to face him; he saw her chin firm. "Be that as it may-"

"No." The single word, uttered quietly and decisively, brought her up short. Eyes narrowing, she glared up at him; he towered, without apology, over her. "There is no reason whatever for you to be involved."

Her eyes, normally so peacefully lucent, spat sparks. "This was my undertaking-I invited you to help. 'Help' does not mean relegating me to the position of mere cipher."

He held her irate gaze. "You are not a mere cipher-"

"Good!" With a terse nod, she swung back to the Heath. "I'll help you watch Bletchley then."

Weaving back to avoid decapitation by her parasol, Demon swore beneath his breath. Falling back half a step, he glared at her back, her hips, the round swells of her bottom, as she stood, stubbornly intransigent, her back to him. "Flick-"

"Look! He's heading off."

Glancing up, Demon saw Bletchley quit his position by the oak and amble, with a less-than-convincing show of idleness, toward one of the neighboring stables. Glancing at Flick, already on her toes, about to step out in Bletchley's wake, Demon hesitated, then his eyes narrowed and his lips curved. "As you're so determined to help…"

Stepping to her right, he caught her hand and set it on his sleeve, anchoring her close-very close-to his side.

Blinking wildly, she looked up. "What do you mean?" Her voice was gratifyingly breathless.

"If you want to help me watch Bletchley, then you'll have to help provide our disguise." He raised his brows at her. "Just keep that parasol to the side, and as far as possible, keep your face turned to me."

"But how am I to watch Bletchley?"

He strolled; she was forced to stroll beside him. A smile of definite intent on his face, he looked down at her. "You don't need to watch him for us to follow him, but we need to see who he's meeting."

One swift glance ahead verified that Bletchley was heading behind the stable, which, from the horses Demon could see on the Heath, would almost certainly be empty. With Flick's not-exactly-willing assistance, he put his mind to creating a tableau of a couple entirely engrossed with each other, of no possible consequence to Bletchley.

Trapped by his gaze, by the hard palm that held her fingers immobile on his sleeve, by the strength, the power, he so effortlessly wielded, Flick struggled to preserve a facade of normalcy, to slow her breathing and steady her heart. To relax her stiff spine and stroll with passable grace-grace enough to match the reprobate beside her.

The glances he shot ahead, tracking Bletchley, were reassuring, confirming that his intent was indeed to follow the villain and witness any meeting behind the stable. His intent wasn't to unnerve her, to send her senses into quivering stasis. That was merely an accident, an unexpected, unintended repercussion. Thankfully, he hadn't noticed; she fought to get her wits back in order and her senses realigned.

"Who do you think he's meeting?" she whispered. Her lungs were still not functioning properly.

"I've no idea." He looked down at her, his heavy lids half obscuring his eyes. His voice had sunk to a deep purr. "Just pray it's a member of the syndicate."

His tone and his sleepy expression were disconcerting, of no help at all in reestablishing her equanimity.

Demon looked up. Bletchley had halted at the corner of the stable. As he watched, Bletchley's gaze swept the throng, then fixed on them. Smoothly, unhurriedly, a wolfish smile curving his lips, he looked down, into Flick's wide eyes. "Smile," he instructed. She did, weakly. His own smile deepening, he raised his free hand; with the back of his knuckles he brushed her cheek.

Her breath caught-she skittered back and blushed; effortlessly, his smile very evident, he drew her back.

"I'm only teasing," he murmured. "It's just play."

"I know," Flick assured him, her heart beating frantically. Unfortunately, he was playing a game with which she was unfamiliar. She tried her best to relax, to smile easily, teasingly, back.

From beneath his lashes, Demon glanced ahead; Bletchley was no longer looking their way. After one last scan of the Heath, he turned and lumbered around the building, out of sight.

Flick's eyes widened; she immediately stepped out. He hauled her up short, pulling her to his side. "No." She looked up, ready to glare; he leaned closer-nearer-so the ebb and flow of their interaction looked like a seductive game. "We don't know," he murmured, his lips close by her temple, "who he's meeting and where they are. They might be behind us."

"Oh." Obedient to his pressure on her arm, Flick, a smile on her lips, steeled herself and leaned against him, her shoulder and upper arm nestling into the warmth of his chest. Then, with the same sweet, inane smile, she eased away as they continued to stroll.

After a moment-after she'd caught her breath-she looked up, into his smiling eyes. "What are you planning to do?"

His lips quirked, very definitely teasing. "Join Bletchley and his friend, of course."

They'd reached the corner of the stable; without pause, Demon continued on, not hugging the shadow of the wall as Bletchley had but strolling on and past, into the clear area behind the stable bounded by a railing fence.

As soon as they had cleared the corner, Flick looked ahead. Demon released her elbow, slid his arm about her waist, drew her against him and kissed her.

She nearly dropped her parasol.

"Don't look at him-he'll notice." Demon breathed the injunction against her lips, then kissed her, briefly, again.

Wits reeling, she hauled in a breath. "But-"

"No buts. Just follow my lead and we'll be able to hear everything-and see it all, too." Setting her on her feet, shielded by her open parasol, presently pointed, rather waveringly, at Bletchley, his eyes searched hers, then he added, his voice deep and low, "If you won't behave, I'll have to distract you some more."

She stared at him. Then she cleared her throat. "What do you want me to do?"

"Concentrate on me as if you aren't even aware Bletchley and friend exist."

She kept her gaze glued to his face. "Has his friend arrived?" She hadn't been able to see before he'd kissed her.

"Not yet, but I think someone's drifting this way." Righting her parasol, Demon smiled down at her; his hand resting lightly at her waist, he turned her. Gazes locked, they strolled on, apparently aimlessly.

Bletchley had halted midway along the back of the stable, clearly waiting for someone to join him. From the corner of her eye, Flick saw him frown at them. Demon bent his head and blew in her ear; she squirmed and giggled, entirely spontaneously.

Naturally, he did it again.

With no option but to throw herself into their deception, she giggled and wriggled and squirmed. Laughing, Demon caught her more closely to him, then with a flourish, he whirled her, twirled her-they stopped with him leaning against the railing fence, her before him. His eyes glowed wickedly; his smile was distinctly devilish.

Flick caught her breath on a gasp, a perfectly natural, silly smile on her lips. "What next?" she whispered.

Screened from Bletchley by her parasol, Demon looked down into her eyes. "Put your hand on my shoulder, stretch up and kiss me."

She blinked at him; he raised his brows innocently, the expression in his eyes anything but. "You've done it before."

She had, but that had been different. He'd started it. Still… it hadn't been difficult.

Fleetingly frowning at him, she placed her free hand on his broad shoulder and stretched up on her toes. Even so, he had to lower his head-balanced precariously on the very tips of her toes, she had to lean against him, her breasts to his hard chest, to reach his lips with hers.

She kissed him-just a simple, gentle kiss. When she went to draw back, his hands firmed, one spanning her waist, the other closing about her fingers gripping her parasol. He held her steady as his lips closed over hers.

Tilting her and her parasol to just the right angle, Demon held her before him, and, from beneath his lashes, looked out under the parasol's frilled rim. Bletchley, ten yards away, had been slouching, watching them idly-he doubtless considered Demon a reckless blade set on seducing a sweet country miss. But although he watched, Bletchley wasn't interested. Then he straightened, alert, as another man joined him.

Breaking off the kiss, Demon breathed a curse.

Flick blinked, but he didn't shift, didn't let her down.

"No-don't turn," he hissed as she went to twist her head.

"Who is it?"

His lips, presently at eye level, twisted into a grim grimace. "Another jockey." Disappointment laced his tone.

"Perhaps he has a message from the syndicate."

"Shssh. Listen."

Balanced against him, she strained her ears.

"Let's see if I got this straight."

That had to be the jockey; the voice was clear, not scratchy.

"You'll give me three ponies the day before the Stakes, an' two ponies the day after, if I bring Cyclone in out o' the places. That right?"

"Aye-that's the deal," Bletchley grated. "Take it or leave it."

The jockey was silent, presumably ruminating; Demon looked down at her, then his arm slid further around her, better supporting her against him.

"Relax," he breathed. His lips brushed hers in the lightest of caresses, then the jockey spoke again.

"I'll take it."

"Done."

"That's our cue," Demon said sotto voce.

The next instant, he laughed aloud; his arm tightening about her, he swung her around and stood her on her feet. He grinned. "Come along, sweetheart. Wouldn't do for the local gabblemongers to start wondering where we've got to. Let alone what we've been doing."

He spoke loudly enough for Bletchley and the jockey to hear. Flick blushed and ignored their audience completely; locking both hands about her parasol handle, she turned back to the Heath with a swish of her skirts.

With another demonic laugh-one of triumph-Demon, his hand lying proprietorially on her back just a little lower than her waist, ushered her around the stable, back into the safety of the racing throng.

The instant they rounded the corner of the stable, Flick wriggled to dislodge his hand. It only pressed closer.

"We can't drop our roles yet." Demon's murmur stirred the curls above her ear. "Bletchley's following. While he can see us, we'll need to preserve our act."

She shot him a suspicious, distracted look; her bottom was heating.

He smiled, all wolf. "Who knows? An established disguise might come in handy in the following days."

Following days? Flick hoped she didn't look as scandalized as she felt; the laughing, teasing look in Demon's eyes suggested otherwise.

To her consternation, Bletchley returned to stand under the oak beside the Heath-and proceeded to watch the exercising strings for the next hour.

So they watched him, while Demon lived up to his nickname and exercised his rakish talents, using ploy after ploy to ruffle her composure. To make her blush and skitter, and act the besotted miss.

Whether it was due to his expertise or otherwise, it grew increasingly easy to act besotted. To relax and laugh and smile. And blush.

He knew just how to tease her, just how to catch her eye and invite her to laugh-at him, at them, at herself. Knew just how to touch her-lightly, fleetingly-so that her senses leapt and her heart galloped faster than any horse on the Heath. When Bletchley, after approaching one other jockey and getting short shrift, finally headed back into the town, she'd blushed more than she ever had before.

Clinging to her parasol as if it were a weapon, and her last defense, she met Demon's eye. "I'll leave you now-I'm sure you can keep him in sight for the rest of the afternoon."

His eyes held hers, their expression difficult to read; for one instant, she thought it was reluctance she glimpsed in the blue-reluctance to set aside their roles.

"I don't need to follow him." Demon looked to the edge of the Heath and raised his hand. Gillies, lounging against a post, nodded and slipped off in Bletchley's wake.

Demon looked back at his companion of the afternoon. "Come-I'll drive you home."

Her gaze trapped in his, she waved to the nearby road. "I have the groom with the gig."

"We can send him on ahead." He raised one brow and reached for her hand. "Surely you'd rather be driven home behind my bays than the nag harnessed to the gig?"

As one who appreciated good horseflesh, her choice was a foregone conclusion. With an inclination of her head that was almost regal, she consented to his scheme, consented to let him hold her by him-to enjoy her freshness-for just a little while more.

He was seated in the armchair before the fire in his front parlor, staring at the flames and seeing her angelic face, her soft blue eyes, and the curious, considering light that flashed in them from time to time, when, once again, she came tapping on his windowpane. Lips setting, he didn't even bother swearing-just rose, set aside the brandy balloon he'd been cradling, and crossed to the window.

This time, when he pulled the curtains aside, he was relieved to see she was wearing skirts-to whit, her riding habit. He raised the sash. "Don't you ever use the door?"

The glance she levelled at him was reproving. "I came to invite you to accompany me to see Dillon."

"I thought we'd agreed not to see him at all."

"That was before. Now we know Bletchley's the contact, and that he's wandering about the Heath, we should warn Dillon and bring him up to date, so he doesn't do anything rash."

Dillon would never put himself to so much bother. The observation burned Demon's tongue, but he swallowed the words. He wasn't at all happy at the notion of Flick riding about the county alone at night, but he knew there was no point trying to talk her out if it. Mentally locating his riding gloves, he reached for the sash. "I'll meet you by the stable."

Pointy chin resolute, she nodded, then slid into the shadows.

Demon closed the window and went to warn the Shephards he was going out for a few hours.

Atop Jessamy, Flick was waiting by the main stable. Demon hauled open the door. In the dimness inside, lit by the shaft of moonlight streaming in through the door, he located his tack and carried it to Ivan's box. The big stallion was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to be saddled and led out. Luckily, before Ivan could consider and decide to protest, he set eyes on Jessamy.

Noting the stallion's fixed stare, Demon grunted and swung up to his saddle. At least he wouldn't have to exercise his talents on Ivan during their ride through the moonlight-Ivan would follow, intent, in Flick's wake.

She, of course, led the way.

They crossed his fields, the night black velvet about them. The cottage appeared deserted, a denser bulk in the deep shadows between the trees. Flick rode into the clearing behind it and dismounted. Demon followed, tethering Ivan well clear of the mare.

A twig cracked.

Flick whirled, squinting at the cottage. "It's us. Me and Demon."

"Oh," came a rather shaky voice from the dark. After a moment, Dillon asked, "Are you coming in?"

"Of course." Flick started for the cottage just as Demon reached her; he followed close on her heels.

"We thought," she said, ducking through the lean-to and stepping into the main room, "that you'd want to know what we've learned."

Dillon looked up, his face lit by the glow of the lantern he'd set alight. "You've identified one of the syndicate?"

Wild hope colored his tone; settling onto a stool by the table, Flick grimaced. "No-not yet."

"Oh." Dillon's face fell. He slumped down in the chair at the table's end.

Drawing off his gloves at the table's other end, Demon studied Dillon, noting his pallor and the lines the last week had etched in his cheeks. It was as if the reality of his situation, now fully realized, and the consequent worry of apprehension and exposure, were eating away at his childish self-absorption. If that was so, then it was all to the good. Drawing out the last rickety stool, Demon sat. "We've discovered your elusive contact."

Dillon looked up, hope gleaming in his eyes. Demon raised his brows at Flick, wondering if she wanted to tell Dillon herself. Instead, she nodded for him to continue. He looked back at Dillon. "Your man's name is Bletchley-he's a Londoner." Briefly, he described their quarry.

Dillon nodded. "Yes-that's him-the man who recruited me. He used to bring me the lists of horses and jockeys."

Flick leaned forward. "And the money?"

Dillon glanced at her, then colored, but continued to meet her eyes. "Yes. He always had my fee."

"No, I mean the money for the jockeys. How did they get paid? Did Bletchley give you their money?"

Dillon frowned. "I don't know how they got paid-I wasn't involved. That's not how it worked when I did it."

"Then how did you do the organizing?" Demon asked.

Dillon shrugged. "It was simple-the list of jockeys told me how much to offer each one. I did, and then reported if they'd accepted. I wasn't involved in getting their money to them after the race."

"After the race," Flick repeated. "What about the payments before the race?"

Dillon's puzzled frown grew. "Before?"

"As a down payment," Demon explained.

Dillon shook his head. "There weren't any payments before the race-only the one payment after the deed was done. And someone else took care of that, not me."

Flick frowned. "They've changed their ways."

"That's understandable," Demon said. "They're presently targeting races during the Craven meeting, one of the premier meetings in the calendar. The betting on those races is enormous-one or two fixed races, and they'll make a major killing. That's something the jockeys will know. They'll also know that the risk of being questioned by the stewards is greater-more attention is always paid to the major races during the major meets."

Dillon frowned. "Last season, they didn't try to fix any truly major races."

"It's possible they've been building up to this season-or that they've grown more cocky, more assured, and are now willing to take greater risks in the hope of greater rewards. Regardless, the jockeys for the Spring Carnival races would obviously demand more to pull their mounts." Demon glanced at Dillon. "The going rate for the two races we've heard fixed is five ponies."

"Five?" Dillon's brows flew up. "I was only once directed to offer three."

"So the price has gone up, and they're locking the jockeys in by offering some now, some later. Once the first payment's accepted, the jockey's more or less committed, which is less risky for the syndicate." Demon looked at Dillon. "They would, I fancy, be happy to make a down payment to avoid a repetition of what happened in the first race this year."

Dillon slowly nodded. "Yes, I see. This way, the fix is more or less certain."

"Hmm." Flick frowned. "Did you ever hear anything from the jockeys you organized about how they got paid?"

Dillon paled. "Only from one, early last season." He glanced at Demon. "The jockey wasn't too happy-his money was left at his mother's cottage. He didn't feel easy about the syndicate knowing where to find his old mum."

Demon met Dillon's gaze. He didn't like what he was learning. The syndicate sounded disturbingly intelligent-an evil, ruthless and intelligent opponent was, in his book, the worst. More of a challenge, but infinitely more dangerous.

That, of course, would normally whet his appetite, stir his Cynster blood. In this case, he only had to look at Flick to inwardly curse and wish the whole damned syndicate to hell. Unfortunately, the way the situation was shaping, it was going to fall to him to escort them there, while simultaneously protecting an angel from the consequences of her almost certain involvement in the syndicate's fall.

While the thought of the syndicate didn't stir his blood, Flick did-in quite a different way, a way he hadn't experienced before. This was not mere lust. He was well acquainted with that demon, and while it was certainly in the chorus, its voice wasn't the loudest. That distinction currently belonged to the impulse to protect her; if he complied with his inner promptings, he'd tie her up, cart her off to a high tower with a single door bearing a large and effective lock, and incarcerate her there until he had slain the dragon she was determined to flush out.

Unfortunately…

"We'd better go." She gathered her gloves and stood, her stool grating on the floor.

He rose more slowly, watching the interaction between Flick and Dillon.

Dillon was looking earnestly at her; she tugged on her gloves, then met his gaze. "We'll let you know what we discover-when we discover something. Until then, it's best that you stay out of sight."

Dillon nodded. Reaching out, he caught her hand and squeezed. "Thank you."

She humphed and shook free, but without any heat. "I told you I'm only doing this for the General."

The statement lacked the force of her earlier rendering; Demon doubted even she believed it.

Dillon's lips twisted rather ruefully. "Even so." He looked at Demon and stood. "I owe you a debt I'll never be able to repay."

His expression impassive, Demon met his gaze. "I'll think of something, never fear."

Dillon's eyes widened at his tone; with a curt nod, Demon turned to Flick.

Frowning, she glanced back at Dillon. "We'll look in in a few days." Then she turned and led the way out.

Following on her heels, Demon breathed deeply as they emerged into the night. A quick glance at the sky revealed a black pall-the moon had been engulfed by dark clouds. Within the cottage, the light of the lantern dimmed, then died. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Demon looked around as he strode across the clearing; no other human was anywhere about-just the two of them alone in the night.

Flick didn't wait for help but scrambled into her saddle. Untying Ivan's reins, Demon quickly mounted, holding the stallion steady as Flick trotted Jessamy over.

"I'll ride home through the park. I'll see you on the Heath tomorrow afternoon."

"No."

Surprised, she stared at him. Before she could scowl, he clarified, "I'll ride back to Hillgate End with you. It's after midnight-you shouldn't be out riding alone."

She didn't scowl, but he sensed her resistance. She studied him, then opened her mouth, doubtless to argue, when a breeze wafted through the clearing and set the trees shivering. It moaned, softly, eerily, through the branches, then died away on a sigh, an expiring banshee leaving only the rustling leaves slowly stilling in the deep darkness.

Flick shut her mouth and nodded. "Yes, all right."

Shaking her reins she set out; muttering his by now customary oath, Demon wheeled Ivan and set out to catch up. He did in short order; side by side, they rode across the next field-the last bastion of his domain. Beyond its hedge, directly ahead of them, lay the furthest reaches of the former park of Hillgate End.

There was a spot they both knew where the hedge thinned; they pushed through onto an old bridle path. Flick led the way into the dark shadows beneath the trees.

Although some of the park's paths were kept in good condition for riders, notably Flick, to enjoy, this was not one of them. Bushes pressed close on either side, branches flapped before their faces. They had to walk their mounts-it was too dangerous to even trot. The path was deep in leaf mold; it occasionally dipped, creating the added danger of their horses slipping. They both instinctively guarded their precious mounts, alert to every shift in weight, in muscle, in balance, of the beasts beneath them.

The General had no love of shooting, so the park had become a refuge for wildlife. A badger snuffled and growled as they passed him; later, they heard rustling, then the yips of a fox.

"I didn't realize it would be this bad." Flick ducked beneath a low-hanging branch.

Demon grunted. "I thought this was the route you used to go back and forth to the cottage. Obviously not."

"I normally take the path to the east, but that crosses the stream twice, and after last night's rain, I didn't want to risk Jessamy's knees going up and down slippery banks."

Demon didn't point out that she was risking Jessamy's knees right now-they were deep in the park, with the centuries-old trees forming an impenetrable canopy overhead; he could barely see Flick, let alone any irregularities in the path. Luckily, both Jessamy and Ivan could see better than him. They stepped out confidently; both he and Flick fell back on trust and let their horses find their own way.

After some time had elapsed, he asked, "Doesn't this path cross the stream, too?"

"Yes, but there's a bridge." After a moment, Flick amended, "Well, there was a bridge last time I came this way."

Lips thinning, Demon didn't bother asking how long ago that had been; they'd deal with the rotted and possibly ex-bridge when they came to it.

Before they did, it started to rain.

At first, the light pattering on the leaves high above was of little consequence. But the tattoo steadily grew more forceful, then the forest about them started to drip.

Flick shuddered as a series of heavy drops splattered her. Instinctively, she urged Jessamy on.

"No!" Demon scowled through the night. "Hold her steady. It's too dangerous to go faster-you know that."

Her silent acquiescence told him she did. They plodded on, increasingly damp, increasingly cold.

Above them, above the trees, the wind started to rise, to whistle and moan and shake the leaves. Jaw set, Demon searched his memories, trying to gauge how much farther they had to go, but he'd never been on this path before. He didn't know how it meandered, and he couldn't place where it came out. But given the fact that this path crossed the stream only once, and they'd been making very slow progress…

He didn't like the answers his estimations suggested. They were still a long way from the manor.

Just how far was revealed when they came to a break in the trees, and he saw before them the stream with a narrow log and plank bridge spanning it. And the charcoal maker's hut in the clearing beyond. That, he recognized.

Beneath his breath, he swore.

As if in answer, the heavens cracked; the rain positively teemed. Faced with the sudden torrent-a curtain falling between them and the bridge-Jessamy and Flick balked.

Muttering all manner of dire imprecations, Demon swung down. He tied Ivan's reins to a tree; the stallion, made of stern stuff, seemed unfazed by the downpour. Head up, he sniffed the air and looked toward the bridge.

The bridge that, if not in good condition, would assuredly collapse under his weight.

"Stay back!" Demon yelled at Flick. Pushing past Jessamy, he strode the three paces to the bridge. Ignoring the rain, he checked the structure thoroughly, in the end standing atop its middle and jumping up and down. The timbers didn't creak; the bridge seemed sound enough.

Ducking back through the rain, he nodded at Flick, then freed his reins and was back in the saddle. Despite the downpour, he wasn't soaked; the bridge itself was protected by a huge oak on the stream's opposite bank.

Flick was looking back at him, her brows high. He nodded again. "You cross first."

She nodded and sent Jessamy forward; they clattered across in ordered style. Demon shook Ivan's reins-he bounded forward, keen not to be separated from the mare. His heavy hooves clattered on the planking; in a few swift strides, he was safely across.

Flick was waiting under the spreading branches of the oak; Demon reined in beside her and fixed her with a look calculated to impress on her the unwisdom of arguing with him in his present mood. "There is no possibility that we can ride on to the manor in this."

Eyes wide, she looked at him consideringly, then cast a swift glance at the clearing before them, the surface of which was already playing host to myriad tiny rivulets. "It'll stop soon-these squalls always do."

"Precisely. Which is why we're going to wait in the hut until it does."

Flick eyed the hut and immediately thought of dust, and cobwebs, and spiders. Maybe even mice. Or rats. Then she looked at the steady rain coming down and grimaced. "I suppose it'll only be for an hour or so."

Demon tightened his reins. "There's a small stable tacked on the other side-ride straight there."

Flick shrugged, shook her reins, and did.

A second later, Demon followed.

The small stable was only just big enough to house both horses; with the two of them in there as well, laboring in the darkness to unsaddle, space was in short supply. It was impossible not to bump into each other. Arms brushed breasts, elbows stuck into chests. Searching for a loose strap, Flick inadvertently ran her hand up Demon's thigh-she snatched it back with a mortified "Sorry."

Which was received in fraught silence.

A minute later, reaching out to locate her so he wouldn't hit her when he lifted his saddle from Ivan's back, Demon found his fingers curving about her breast. An incoherent word of apology was all he could manage, too exercised by the battle to drag his hand away.

Flick's only reply was a muted squawk.

Finally, they were done, and the horses, contented enough, were settled side by side, Ivan with a minimum of rein. Flick joined Demon in the doorway, ducking behind him, into the protection afforded by his broad shoulders.

He glanced around at her, then looked back out, peering along the front of the stone cottage. "God only knows what state the inside is in."

"The charcoal makers come every year."

"In autumn," he replied incontrovertibly.

She grimaced.

He sighed. "I'll go and take a look." He glanced over his shoulder. "Do you want to wait here? It's perfectly possible I won't be able to get past the door."

She nodded. "I'll stay here while you check-call if it's all right."

He looked back out, then strode swiftly for the cottage door. An instant later, Flick heard wood grating on stone. She waited, looking out at the steady rain, listening to the dripping silence. Beside her, the horses shifted, heaved horsy sighs, and settled. All she could hear was their steady breathing and the soft patter of the rain.

And a hesistant, furtive rustling in what sounded like straw, coming from the rear of the stable.

Flick stiffened. Wild-eyed, she swung around. Visions of munching rats with evil red eyes filled her brain.

She whirled and fled for the cottage.

The door was ajar; without a thought, she slipped through.

"Stop." It was Demon's voice. "I've found the lantern."

Flick stood just inside the door and calmed her leaping heart. He was large-he had large feet. He'd been clomping around in the cottage for at least three minutes-surely, by now, any resident rodents would have departed.

A scrape of a match on tinder broke the stillness; light flared, then softened, throwing a warm glow about the hut as Demon reset the glass.

Letting out the breath she'd held, Flick looked about. "Well!"

"Indeed." Demon likewise was taking inventory. "Remind me to compliment the charcoal makers when next they're by."

The cottage was neat as a pin, and, bar the inevitable cobwebs, clean. The door had been tight in its frame, and the windows securely shuttered; no unwanted visitors had disturbed the charcoal makers' temporary home.

By extension, however, there was no food left in the cottage to attract vermin. The pots and pans and, most importantly, the kettle, travelled with their owners. There was, however, wood stacked and dry in the woodbox.

Demon glanced at Flick, then moved to the fireplace. "I may as well get a fire going." They were both damp, just this side of wet through.

"Hmm." Flick shut the door, then, rubbing her upper arms, came farther into the cottage. While Demon crouched before the stone hearth, selecting logs and sticks with which to start his blaze, she studied the furniture. There was only one chair-an old armchair from the manor. Beyond it stood three narrow pallets, each sporting a lumpy, tick mattress. Bending down, Flick grasped the wooden strut at the end of the nearest pallet and tugged until the end of the pallet was positioned before the hearth to one side. Satisfied, she sank down upon it. And sighed as she let her shoulders ease.

Demon glanced back, saw what she'd done, and nodded. The next instant, he had a flame laid in the kindling; busily, he coaxed it into a blaze.

Flick sat and watched the flames grow, watched the bright tendrils writhe, then lick along the dark wood. Patiently, Demon fed the flames, laying branch upon twig until the blaze roared.

Heat billowed out, enveloping her, washing through her, driving away the chill locked in her damp clothes. Contentment rolled through her; she sighed and rotated her shoulders, one, then the other, then settled again to watch Demon's hands, steady and sure, pile logs on the fire.

His hands were like the rest of him-large and lean. His long fingers never fumbled. His grip was strong and sure. His movements, she noted, were economical; he rarely used extraneous flourishes, a fact that enhanced the sense of control, of harnessed power, that invested his every act.

He was, now she considered it, a very controlled man.

Only when the flames were voraciously devouring two huge logs did he stand. He stretched, then turned; large and intensely male, he stood looking down at her.

Her gaze fixed on the flames, Flick knew he was studying her; she felt his gaze on her face, hotter than the heat from the flames. She looked away from the fire, to the nook beside the hearth, gathering strength to look up and meet his eyes.

In the dark corner she saw a flicker of movement, a twitch of a whisker.

A pointy nose and two pink-red eyes.

"Eeeeeehhh!"

Her shrill scream split the stillness.

With another shriek, she leapt up, straight into Demon's arms.

They locked about her. "What is it?"

"A rat!" Eyes glued to the dark cranny, she clung, her fingers sinking into his muscles. She gestured with her chin. "There-by the fireplace." Then she buried her face in his chest. "Make it go away!"

Her plea was a panicked mumble. Demon stared at the small field mouse cowering back against the stones. He stifled a sigh. "Flick -"

"Is it gone?"

This time, he did sigh. "It's only a field mouse attracted to the warmth. It'll leave in a moment."

"Tell me when it does."

He squinted down at her. All he could see was the crown of her curls. Putting his head to the side, he tried to see her face; she had it buried in his chest. She'd somehow insinuated her hands under his coat, and was gripping him, one hand on either side of his back, clinging for dear life.

She was plastered against him, from her forehead to her knees.

And she was trembling.

A faint vibration, the tremor travelled her spine. Instinctively, he tightened his arms about her, then eased his hold to run his hands slowly down and up her back, soothingly stroking.

Bending his head, he murmured into her curls. "It's all right. It'll go in a minute."

He could feel her panicked breathing, her breath hitching in her throat; she didn't answer, but bobbed her head to show she'd heard.

So they stood, locked together before the fire, waiting for the still-petrified mouse to make a move.

Demon had imagined waiting patiently, stoically, but within a minute, stoic was beyond him. The fire, a roaring blaze, had dried him; while Flick had been still chilled when she'd rushed into his arms, his body heat was warming her. Warming her breasts, pressed tight against his chest, warming her hips, plastered to his thighs. She, in turn, was heating him-it wouldn't be long before the largest blaze in the room was not the one in the hearth.

Gritting his teeth, he told himself he could endure it. He doubted she was even aware of his susceptibility; he could manage her easily enough.

The heat between them reached a new high, and her perfume rose to waft about him, to wreathe, then snare, his senses. Making him even more aware of the supple softness in his arms, of the warm breasts crushed to his chest, of the subtle pliancy in her frame that beckoned his hardened senses, of the feminine strength in the arms reaching around him. He snatched a breath-and drew her deep, into his soul. Closing his eyes, locking his jaw, he tried to keep his body from responding.

Entirely unsuccessfully. Hard became harder, tighter, tauter. Inexorably, yet in all innocence, she wound his sensual spring notch after notch.

In desperation, he tried to ease her away-she shook her head frantically and burrowed even deeper into his embrace. Teeth gritted, he used just a little of his strength to shift her, so she was more to his side and no longer in danger of learning, graphically, just how much she was affecting him.

He was in pain and helpless to do anything about it. He was paying for his sins in having dallied with her, teased her, enjoyed her.

But he didn't regret a single moment-then, or now.

The realization puzzled him, momentarily distracted him from the physical plane. Grateful for even such minor relief, he followed the thought, trying to unravel the mystery of why, exactly, Flick so attracted him.

He definitely didn't think of her as just another lady with whom he'd like to dally, no different from those who'd gone before. No other lady had made him feel this protective; none other had tapped the surge of feeling she so effortlessly evoked. That, of all things, was what set her apart-that something she made him feel. She could arouse him effortlessly-in itself a shock-but it was that other emotion that came roaring through him simultaneously with the lust that was so new, so addictive.

It was certainly different-something he'd never felt before. It was as if, in her innocence, she could reach into his soul and touch something innocent there as well-something new, bright, something he'd never known existed within him. Something no other had ever reached, ever touched.

He frowned and tried to shift; she immediately gripped him tighter. Demon inwardly sighed-his protective instincts were well and truly engaged; he couldn't break her hold. Perhaps he should try and think of Flick in the same way he thought of the twins.

That was impossible, yet…

Flick the fearless was afraid of mice. He found the thought endearing. Still, as she was truly frightened, the mouse was as good as a dragon. The question was how best to vanquish it-the fear, not the innocent mouse.

Drawing a difficult breath, he grasped Flick's arm and eased her back from him.

"Flick-sweetheart-just look at the mouse. It's a harmless little mouse-it can't eat you."

"It might try."

"Not while I'm here." He brushed his lips to her temple, nudging her face from his chest. "Come-look at it. It's so small."

Warily, she eased her face from his chest; still pressed hard against him, she glanced at the tiny rodent.

"That's right. We'll just watch it until it goes."

A silent minute passed as they watched the field mouse, still frozen, whiskers twitching nervously. Demon couldn't move to scare it away, not with Flick clinging so tightly-she wouldn't appreciate him moving closer to the mouse-dragon.

Finally, reassured by their stillness and silence, the mouse started to edge forward. Flick stiffened. Out of the nook the mouse came, hugging the shadow of the hearth's edge. It reached the corner and paused-

A log cracked-sparks spat and showered in the hearth.

The mouse leapt, and dashed back into the cranny, straight to a small gap between two stones. It squeezed its way between and was gone.

"Quick!" Flick released him. "Block the hole!"

Demon sincerely doubted the field mouse would return, but, snatching a small branch from the woodbox, he swiftly bent and jammed it in the hole. "There. Now you're safe." Rising, he turned.

Flick was mere inches away. She'd followed him to look over his shoulder, to check he'd sealed the hole; now she stood, breathing quickly, all but against him once more.

His gaze had risen no further than her breasts, rising and falling in heightened excitement. Only excellent reflexes saved him from reacting-he locked every muscle, gripped every rein. And, slowly, lifted his gaze to her face.

Flick met his gaze and quivered-she told herself it was the remnants of her fright. But the glow in his darkened eyes-the sight of the embers smoldering in the blue-cut off her breathing, leaving her light-headed, swaying with the impulse to return to his arms, not for their safety but for the comfort her senses insisted she would find there.

Eyes wide, lips parted, her cheeks lightly flushed, she literally teetered on the brink of indiscretion-

His lids lowered, steel shutters cutting off the heat in his eyes; an excruciating awareness raced over her skin, from her breasts all the way to her toes. Her nerves flickered; a prickling sensation swept her. Heat washed in its wake.

She dragged in a breath-

He half turned and gestured to the pallet and the chair. "Which do you prefer?"

She blinked, and struggled to calm her rioting senses, to find her voice. She drew in another breath. "I'll take the pallet-you can have the chair."

He nodded; without meeting her eyes, he waved her to her selected seat. Uncertain-of him, of herself, of what shimmered in the air-she went; sitting on the pallet, she shuffled back and drew up her knees so she could balance her boots on the end strut, out of reach of any further rodents. Hugging her knees, she settled her chin atop them, and stared into the flames.

Demon built up the fire, then subsided into the armchair. He, too, fixed his gaze on the flames, denying the urge to gaze at Flick-to look, to wonder…

That moment of unexpected awareness had very nearly defeated him, nearly overcome the defenses he'd erected between her and himself, between her innocence and his demons. Only her abiding innocence-the innocent confusion, laced with equally innocent, equally open, curiosity, in her blue eyes-had saved them. Given him the strength to resist. The effort had left him aching, far more intensely than before. And inwardly shaking, as if his strength had been depleted to dangerously low levels.

Which meant he was in trouble-that matters between them had gone much farther than he'd thought. Than he'd been aware of.

Even now, although he'd recognized the danger, at least half his mind was fully engaged in wondering what having an angel beneath him would be like. In fantasizing, as he had so often that afternoon, about how far her delicate blush extended. But his thoughts of her were no longer merely sensual-they were possessively so. Intent, with an underlying, clawing need that he knew no way of easing, bar one. Which, in this case, by extension, meant…

The very thought made him shudder. Marriage was not a word he willingly used, not even in his mind.

A rustling had him glancing her way; he watched as, drowsy, her lids heavy, she turned on her side. Tucking her legs up in her skirts, she settled on the mattress, her gaze still fixed on the fire. Demon forced his gaze to follow hers to the flames. And tried, very hard, not to think at all.

Outside, the drops still pattered down in a steady, soaking rain.

When his mind started to wander, he tried to guess the time, but he had no idea how long they'd taken on the path through the park. An hour? Less?

A soft sigh had him turning, looking-after that, he didn't look away.

She was sleeping.

A hand curled beneath her cheek, her long lashes lay still, brown crescents brushing rose-tinted skin. Her lips, slightly parted, sheened softly, their curves the gentlest temptation imaginable. The firelight gilded her jaw and set golden lights in her hair.

Demon looked, and watched-watched the steady swell and ebb of her breathing reflected in the movement of her breasts, tightly encased in blue velvet, watched the ruffle at her throat rise and fall.

He still wasn't sure how she felt about Dillon, but he'd detected no sign of any sensual awareness between them. He'd initially wondered if they were simply too young, too innocent, to have developed that susceptibility, but he now knew Flick, at least, was more than capable of feeling it.

Which brought him to wondering how she saw him…

He watched, and pondered. There was no need to look away.