Free Charming the Devil by Lois Greiman Page B

asked. His voice was level, but strangely soft.
    “I simply…” Sobs shivered at her throat, but she held them back, held them in. “I twisted my ankle,” she said.
    “Your ankle?” He sounded dubious, but she hardly noticed, for her head had already begun to tick with that insistent ache she knew so well.
    She put her hand to her brow.
    “Did ye injure your head as well?”
    “Perhaps when I…” she began, but she could not challenge another fabrication. “No. ’Tis but a headache. I am certain it will be relieved once I reach home.” Home. She wanted nothing more than to be in the safe confines of Lavender House. To hide forever in its darkened recesses.
    “I shall help you to your steed then,” he said, and stepped toward her, but she jerked involuntarily, ready to scramble away, and he froze. She almost closed her eyes to her own lunacy. How the hell had she ever thought she would fool anyone into believing she was refined? On the best of days she could barely manage sane.
    And he was scowling at her. “You’re right,” he said finally. “You should not rise,” There was something odd in his voice. Probably something that suggested she was madder than a caged monkey. “Not until we’ve assessed the damage.”
    “I’m fine,” she said, but he was close now. Too close to rise to her feet without touching him. So she remained where she was, staring up at him, fear crowding the misery.
    “Very well,” he said, and, bending at the waist, handed her a handkerchief. She took it with some misgivings. It was white and unadorned but for an embroidered image of the brooch he wore even now on his coat. She scrunched it in her gloved fist, and he stepped away, allowing her to breathe again as he lowered himself to sit with his back against a broad horse chestnut. “But ’twill do no harm to wait a few minutes. The horses should have a few minutes rest, regardless.”
    Kindness? Compassion? Or was this yet another game? One to keep her here alone? To wait until the others took their bloody trophies and left their prey’s tattered corpse behind.
    Tears burned her eyes again. She lowered them and wished to God she had been born male. That she was strong and confident and heartless.
    “All things die,” he said softly.
    “But not in terror. Not in—” She stopped herself. He was playing with her mind, trying to draw out the real her. The weak her. But she pushed the raw images from her head, remembering her assumed persona. “Might you think I am unaware of that fact?”
    The woods went silent. “My apologies,” he said. “I had forgotten your loss.”
    Her loss? she wondered.
    “Were you wed long?”
    Of course. Her supposed marriage. She closed her eyes and tried to think of a way not to lie. “No.”
    “I am sorry.”
    She nodded.
    “And there were no children to soften the blow?”
    “No.”
    He was quiet for a moment. “Did he want young ones? Your husband?”
    Was he intentionally digging into her past? Did he suspect she was not what she was said to be? Lifting her gaze, she caught him with her eyes, but his face was still impassive.
    “Most do,” she said.
    He watched her a moment, then nodded, but said nothing.
    She knew better than to be intrigued, but thequestion came just the same. “And what of you? Do you hope for children?”
    “I fear I am not the fatherly type,” he said, and though his tone was level, there was something in his eyes, some hint of emotion that went unvoiced.
    “Why do you say so?” she asked.
    His gaze was flat and steady. “Look at me,” he said.
    And she did. He sat before her, heavy legs spread with his arms resting atop his knees. His hands were wide and open, his shoulders endless, his jaw hard and dark with stubble. But it was his eyes that always snagged her. His eyes, low-browed and silver gilded with a thousand memories hidden behind them.
    “Do I look to be the image of the tender sire?” he asked.
    No. He looked like an ancient warrior