A Gift for Guile (The Thief-takers) (13 page)

“There we are.”

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and watched as she stood back to appraise her work.

“You’ll not have a second scar, I think,” she commented. “The injury is mostly superficial.”

“Good. That’s good.” Devil take the recent injury. What did she make of the scar?

“As for the other, it isn’t nearly as terrible as you made it out to be.” She tilted her head to the side. “Quite dashing, really. Pity it doesn’t come down over the eye. You’d be quite piratical.”

“I…” For a moment, his brain struggled to accept the obvious. Esther wasn’t repulsed. She didn’t appear to be even vaguely put off. The rational part of him had expected as much. The greater part of him was relieved. “That appeals to you, does it? Pirates?”

“I’ve some romance in me, you know.”

“Pirates aren’t romantic.”

“Not real ones, no.” She tossed aside the damp towel and handed him the mirror. “Is it as you remembered?”

“Yes.” He remembered it perfectly, every raised and jagged inch. And yet it was different. Somehow it was different. “And no.”

“Perhaps the scar is the same,” she ventured. “But the man is not.”

He made a second, closer inspection. The last time he’d looked at himself clean-shaven he’d been an angry young man, ashamed of his past, furious with the world, and tormented by the nickname he’d earned on his first day at Flintwood. Frankenstein’s monster. The wound had been fresh then, the mark of stitches still visible along the puckered skin. It had healed over time but the name stuck, and that was what he remembered—the taunting, the averted gazes in the local village, the barely concealed disgust.

He remembered the boy with the scar. Now he saw the man.

“Perhaps it is not as significant as I remembered,” he murmured.

“You see?” She grinned at him. “You should leave it uncovered and devise some preposterous story to go along with it. You can tell people you acquired it fighting off a bear.”

He lowered the mirror. “In England?”

“We have a zoo.”

“I fought off a bear at the zoo.”

“Yes.” She wiggled her eyebrows dramatically. “After a rival pirate forced you into its enclosure at knifepoint.”

“You’re an imaginative soul, Esther.”

“The best liars always are,” she replied with a wink.

Just now, he preferred to think of her as a gifted storyteller.

Tipping his chin up, he inspected the underside of his jaw in the mirror. “It’s strange seeing myself clean-shaven again after so many years.”

“It suits you, I think. But if you like the beard, there’s no reason you shouldn’t grow it back.”

He thought about it. “Do you like the beard?”

He meant to pose the question as if he was mildly curious, but he sounded uncertain even to his ears, as if he was seeking her guidance.

Embarrassed, he cleared his throat, then took a quick, furtive look in the mirror to make certain his cheeks had not become prone to blushing since last he’d seen them. They had not. Thank God.

“I do. And I like this.” She wiggled her fingers at his chin, then turned away to retrieve the discarded towel. “I like you, Samuel,” she said softly. “Just as you are.”

Well, now he was glad he asked.

He liked her as well. He was beginning to think it might be more than that. Not love, surely. It was too soon for love, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t just affection or attraction he was experiencing. He’d had both for that delightful country lass. Esther meant more.

His gaze drifted over her profile, taking in the disheveled golden locks, the rose of her cheeks, the long, elegant neck… Where a man had wrapped his hands around the delicate skin and squeezed.

All because he had not taken enough care.

“I can’t let you go back to the hotel,” he heard himself say. “It isn’t safe.”

* * *

Esther turned her back on Samuel and busied herself with the shaving materials to hide her disappointment.

I can’t let you go back to the hotel.

What sort of response was that?

The
I am eager to change the subject
sort, she supposed. Although, honestly, Samuel might have at least tried to be a little subtle about it. For the sake of his own pride, if not for hers. Who the devil panicked at “I like you”? It wasn’t exactly a confession laden with promises and responsibilities.

She liked him. That was all. She also liked asparagus. For all he knew, she liked them in equal measure.

So why couldn’t he like her back in the same manner? Say, as much as he liked clotted cream? She wasn’t aware that he had a particular fondness for clotted cream, but most everyone had some level of fondness for it—

“Esther?”

“No. Yes. I know. I can’t go back to the hotel.”

“Your family will understand.”

“They’ll have to, won’t they?” She tried to sound chipper, or at least indifferent, but for once, her acting skills failed her.

“Is something wrong? Aside from the obvious,” he added when she gave him a pointed look over her shoulder.

“Why would there be?”

“I honestly do not know,” he replied carefully. “Are you cross with me?”

“No.” It wouldn’t be fair for her to be cross, really.

“I think you are. That’s the third time you’ve moved the soap on the tray. Will you set it down and look at me, please?”

She did as he asked, more confused than embarrassed. If he was eager to change the subject, why was he pressing her to speak?

“Have I been clumsy again?” he asked.

She was beginning to wonder. “Maybe.”

“Ah.” He scratched his jaw and eyed her cautiously. “Are you perhaps taking offense where none was intended?”

“Possibly.” That was
always
a possibility.

“Right. And do you suppose you could tell me what I might have done wrong so we can decide together if I need to fix it?”

Not without humiliating herself. But she couldn’t see any way around it.

“You’ve not done anything wrong, necessarily.” He wasn’t required to like her, after all. “It’s just…” She felt her cheeks grow warm. “I said I liked you and I’d rather hoped you would say it back.”

His dark brows drew together. “I did say it back.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Well, not in those exact words, but the sentiment was clear.”

“It really wasn’t.” But if the sentiment had been intended, that was good enough for now. She started to smile at him.

“Of course I like you,” he said. “That’s why you can’t go back to the hotel.”

The smile fell. Not because she was offended, but because she was utterly confounded by the comment. “I beg your pardon?”

He grimaced. “It all sounded less clumsy in my head.”

“One might hope.”

“Let me try this again.” His brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re important to me. You can’t go back to the hotel, because I want you safe. And I want you safe because you’re important to me.”

“Oh.” Oh, that was
lovely
. Quite a lot better than asparagus and clotted cream. “Thank you. You’re important to me as well.”

His mouth curved into a silly, inviting grin. “Because you like me.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Yes, I do. Clumsiness and all.”

What an odd pair they were, she thought. He was right when he’d said that their flaws weren’t complementary, but she’d been wrong to agree that they were not compatible people. They were well matched, really. They might take the long way around to understanding each other, but they got there eventually.

Not everyone managed that. They were too impatient, or too disinterested, or they were too unwilling to admit fault, or let go of anger.

Or they were dishonest with each other.

Suddenly uncomfortable, she busied herself with rinsing and wringing out the towel in a basin. She had lied to Samuel. She had lied to him about something important, and she didn’t know how to fix it.

“What are you thinking about?” Samuel asked softly.

“Beg your pardon?”

“You look very serious all of a sudden.”

“Do I? Concentration, I suppose.” So much for her skills as a liar. How much concentration did a wet towel require?

He patted the bed next to him. “Come here for a moment.”

She felt a little thrill of excitement despite her current discomfort. “Why?”

“I want to see your neck.”

“Oh.” She rather hoped he was being coy, but she doubted it. “It’s quite all right. I can barely feel it now.”

“Are you experiencing numbness? Come here.”

“It’s not numb. I meant it doesn’t pain me.” She dried her hands and pulled down the neckline of her gown to oblige him with a look. “You see? Much improved.”

“Sit down. I want a closer look.”

She shot a quick glance at the door. “I’m not sure that would be wise.”

“The damage is done, as you said.”

“I’m not sure there’s a finite amount of damage a lady might do to her reputation.” She was, however, quite certain the existing damage would not be improved should she be discovered sitting next to Samuel on his bed.

He gave her a curious look. “You will stand in a man’s bedchamber and shave him, but you won’t take a seat next to him?”

“Apparently so,” she replied, amused at both of them. “Strange, isn’t it, where one feels compelled to draw one’s lines? On the surface it seems rather arbitrary. Maybe even ridiculous in my case.”

“It
is
arbitrary and ridiculous,” he grumbled.

“It isn’t.” It really was, but he looked so adorably disgruntled, she couldn’t resist keeping up the pretense of protesting. “I may not have been raised to follow the rules, but I was raised with knowledge of them, and I’ve been required to live by them for a very long time now. Furthermore, I am quite aware of the consequences of breaking the rules—or at least of being caught breaking the rules—and I’ve no desire to pay the price—”

He cut off her rambling speech by catching her wrist and giving it a gentle but quick tug. Caught off guard, she stumbled forward and only just managed to spin about and sit on the bed rather than tumble onto the mattress face first.

She sniffed, smoothed her skirts, and bit back a laugh. “That was very ungentlemanly of you.”

“It was.” His thumb gently caressed the inside of her wrist a moment before he released her. “Do you want to get up?”

Not in the least. “I probably should. Your staff…”

“The floorboards in the hallway creak. We’ll hear anyone approaching.”

He leaned in, his gaze settling on her mouth. If his original intention had been to inspect her injury, he seemed to have forgotten it.

Just for the pleasure of teasing him, she leaned back an equal distance and pulled down the neckline of her gown. “You wished to see my neck, I believe?”

His lips twitched as he pulled her hand away to look for himself. “So I did.”

Suddenly, all humor disappeared from his face. He ran his fingers above the injury and his eyes darkened, his expression turning cold. Before she could speak, he bent his head to her neck and gently touched his lips to the injury in a feather-soft kiss.

“I want to kill him for this.”

His words were barely more than a whisper, but they were hard and filled with rage.

“It wouldn’t heal me, or help you.”

“No, and it won’t come to that if I can help it.” He cupped the side of her face and laid his warm lips against her temple. “But I want to.”

She thought of the man with the gun and the bullet he’d sent skimming across Samuel’s face. Carefully, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

“I understand.”

She would have pulled away then, but his hand slipped around the back of her head, keeping her still. He turned to catch her mouth with his own, and for one brief moment their lips met and all the anxiety of earlier slipped away. Like the moment before the knife left her hand, she thought. Only better. So much better.

She wanted to stay like that, stay caught in that wonderful, magical moment, but the sound of footsteps and creaking floorboards broke the spell.

She leaped off the bed and was on the other side of the room by the time Mrs. Lanchor arrived. To his credit, Samuel didn’t so much as smirk at her admittedly ridiculous reaction.

“You’re just in time, Mrs. Lanchor,” he remarked casually. “Mrs. Ellison could use some assistance.”

She could? With what?

Confused, and feeling increasingly awkward now that the shaving was done and she had no excuse for being in the room, she looked to Samuel for direction. He nodded discretely at the tray on the chest of drawers.

“Right,” she chirped. “The tray. And the bowl. And the towel. Please.” Oh, brilliant. She couldn’t have sounded less nonchalant if she’d tried. Honestly, what was it about being around Samuel that turned her into such an abominable liar? It was absurd.

Mrs. Lanchor would have to be an idiot not to suspect something was afoot, but she gave every indication of being perfectly oblivious. “I’ll see to them. Will you be dining downstairs this evening, Mrs. Ellison?”

“Thank you, no.” It was time to make herself scarce for a little while. She’d supplied the staff with enough gossip for one night. “I’ll dine in my chambers, if it’s not an inconvenience.”

“None at all.”

“Well, then. I’ll just…” Do what, exactly? She began edging toward the door without any clear idea of what she meant to do once she reached it. “I’ll…go and have a lie down, shall I?”

Mrs. Lanchor inclined her head. “Very good. I shall instruct Sarah to bring you another cold compress directly.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind. Well, good night then. Sir Samuel. Mrs. Lanchor.”

Samuel’s low voice followed her to the door. “Good night, Mrs. Ellison.”

Samuel stepped into his parlor with his cheeks damp from the unseasonably cool and wet morning air. Transferring the small box he carried under his left arm, he rubbed the newly exposed skin and tried to figure out if he liked the sensation.

“Does it feel strange?”

He turned at the sound of Esther’s voice and found her standing at the open door leading to the library. She wore a lavender tea gown clearly tailored to fit a larger woman. It sagged at the waist and drooped at the neck, and several inches of velvet-trimmed hem dragged on the floor. She looked a bit silly, really. And utterly beautiful.

Suddenly, he wished he’d waited to fetch Esther’s things from the hotel. She didn’t belong in widow’s weeds. They were too severe, too sedate. Esther was neither. Maybe he’d wait a little while before bringing her trunk inside.

“A bit. Good morning, Esther.”

“Good morning. What do you think of my new gown?” She grinned at him and lifted her arms out from the sides. The cuffs fell well over her fingers.

I think you’re beautiful.
“I think you’d make a fine scarecrow.”

Laughing, she dropped her arms. “I would at that. But I quite like the color. Your lady friend has very good taste.”

“Beg your pardon? Lady friend?”

“Mrs. Lanchor said the gown was left behind by a former houseguest.” She emphasized
houseguest
as if it were a euphemism for something far more tawdry.

It wasn’t a euphemism for anything. “I have house parties. And houseguests.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“I’m a gentleman. It’s expected.” Was she jealous? She didn’t look it, particularly. Her color was high, but that might well be amusement.

“Certainly, it is,” she agreed.

It was amusement, without question. Her lips were twitching.

A small part of him found that disappointing. A small, but evidently rather influential, part of him.

He shrugged with an affected carelessness. “A gentleman is expected to entertain all manner of…individuals.”

The twitching stopped. Her brows lowered.

That was better.

“Do you know,” he began conversationally, “I think I remember the owner of that gown.”

“You
think
you remember?”

“It’s been a week at least,” he replied defensively and watched with pleasure as her expression turned to one of outrage. “Caroline. No, Cassandra… No…” He tipped his head back and squinted his eyes. “Clarice? That might ring a bell.”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Quite a lot. “A little.”

She gave a snort of disbelief. “You don’t forget names.”

“Provided I bother to learn them first.”

Her mouth fell open in shock a split second before she burst into laughter. Wind chimes, he thought again. He could listen to the sound all day.

“I don’t believe it. Not a word of it,” she managed after a time. “I might believe it of Gabriel. Maybe even Renderwell before he married Lottie, but not you.”

She was wrong about Gabriel and Renderwell, but if she wished to have a higher opinion of him than she did of his friends, who was he to argue?

“Are you questioning my reputation as a rake?”

“You don’t have a reputation as a rake.” Her eyes grew round. “Do you?”

It was difficult to tell by her expression if she was fascinated by the idea or merely skeptical. Probably a bit of both. “What do you think?”

“You don’t.”

Well, that was a bit quick. “How can you be so certain?”

“Because you’re—” Esther’s explanation was cut short by a loud crash and what sounded like an elephant galloping through the library. She spun about and took several steps back from the door just as the beast appeared. “What on earth…?”

The dog slid to a stop in the open door, momentarily distracted by the appearance of someone new.

Esther went still, the beast went still, and Samuel slowly and carefully set the box aside and began moving forward.

“It’s all right, Esther.” He kept his voice calm and steady. If they both remained calm, if neither of them made any sudden moves, catastrophe might still be averted. “He doesn’t—”

“Oh, aren’t you beautiful,” she cut in, her voice breathy with delighted wonder. “Aren’t you
glorious
?”

Taking that as encouragement, the beast launched all thirteen glorious stones of himself right at her.

Samuel leaped forward, but he needn’t have bothered. Esther sidestepped the animal, quick as you please.

“Here now, none of that,” she chided. “Sit down.”

Not surprisingly, the beast did not immediately comply. He turned about and gathered himself for another charge. But this Esther averted by making a fist and holding it over his head, so that he had to stretch his neck up and back for a proper sniff at the suddenly fascinating appendage. She reached farther back, forcing him to lean back as well…back and back until, finally, he had no other choice but to plop his rump on the carpet to keep his balance.

“There you are,” she cooed. “What a good dog.”

Samuel watched in astonishment as Esther knelt down and gave the dog a rub. “You’re not afraid of him.”

“Of course not. I might have been, I suppose, if he’d come in slinking or with his teeth bared. He looks as if he could take my head off with a nip.” She ruffled the dog’s shaggy ears. “But you were quite happy to see me, weren’t you? What a darling you are.” She glanced over her shoulder at Samuel. “What is his name?”

“He hasn’t one at present. I’ve only had him a fortnight or so. We call him the beast for now.”

She threw him an offended look. “You can’t call him the beast. He needs a proper name.”

“Lucifer would be fitting. Mephistopheles. Doom. Mount Vesuvius.”

“Don’t listen to him,” she said to the dog. “What shall I call you, you great hairy Goliath. Ooh! Harry. I quite like that.”

“I am not calling him Harry.” Goliath had a nice ring to it, though. So did Vesuvius now that he thought on it.

“What’s wrong with Harry?”

“I know men named Harry. Give me your hand.” He pulled her to her feet when she obliged. “How is your neck?”

“Much improved, thank you.”

He brushed away a loose curl to see for himself. There was no sign of bruising or swelling, and the angry red had dulled to a faint pink.

She ducked away and pointed at the box he’d set aside. “What do you have there?”

“I… It’s… Er…” He didn’t know why he was suddenly stumbling over his own tongue. Retrieving the box, he shoved it at her. “It’s a present.”

She looked mildly confused. “For me?”

“No, I merely wished for your opinion on the wrapping.”

She snatched it out of his hands with a laugh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She shook it gently. “It’s rather light. Is it breakable? Should I be careful?”

“No. Are you going to open it?”

“In a moment. I’ve not had a present from a gentleman since my father gave me Mr. Nips. Well, I’ve had presents from Peter, but young boys don’t count. I want to make it last.”

“Will was alive for years after he gave you Mr. Nips.”

She shrugged and began pulling at the knotted twine. “He forgot most of my birthdays.”

Samuel made no comment but he silently wished he could go back in time, to when he’d known her as a young girl in London, and bring her a birthday present or two. What might have been different, he wondered, if she’d not been forgotten on those days?

Esther lifted the lid off the box and gasped when she saw the contents. She pulled out a long, thick rope with a series of dangling bright white ribbons tied along its length.

Samuel gave one of the ribbons a flick with his fingers. “So you can play more easily in the evenings.”

“Oh, Samuel. This is wonderful. Thank you.”

He grunted.

She grinned at the rope. “Peter will love it.”

“Beg your pardon? Peter?” What did Peter have to do with it?

She laughed and gave one of the ribbons a tug. “I never would have thought to add these. I’m going to tell him they were my idea.”

“Tell Peter?”

“Yes. Oh, he
will
be pleased. And impressed. As will his friends at school, I should think. Not so much about my fictitious cleverness, but with the set as a whole.”

His friends at school.

She’d bought the damn badminton set for Peter. Which meant
he’d
bought the damn rope, and spent a good half hour in the store tying ribbons to it like a girl tying ribbons to a damn braid, for Peter.

He felt like an idiot.

But she was smiling. Actually, she was beaming at him as if he’d brought her a king’s ransom in jewels. That wasn’t so bad.

“This was very thoughtful of you, Samuel. And uncommonly creative.” Hugging the rope close to her chest, she stepped forward and cupped his cheek in her free hand. Then she pressed a kiss to his cheek that lingered a hair too long to qualify as chaste. “Thank you.”

Maybe he wasn’t such an idiot.

“My pleasure,” he replied and balled his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching for her again when she stepped away.

She was still smiling as she replaced the rope in the box. “Have you been out for long this morning?”

“Not very. An hour or two.”

She shot him a speculative look. “Did you—?”

“I went in search of the rope. Nothing more.” He’d needed something to occupy his time while she slept and he waited for breakfast. Which reminded him. “Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. Your housekeeper has set breakfast out for us. Shall we?” She patted her leg as she headed for the door. “Come along, Harry.”

“We are not naming him Harry,” he called out after her.

Samuel followed the sound of her laughter, then stifled a groan when she stepped into the breakfast room instead of the dining room. He loathed the breakfast room. It was too small, the furniture was too delicate, the colors were too bright, and everything in it was too feminine. There wasn’t one square inch in the room that wasn’t covered in flowers, lace, bows, fringe, or a combination of all four.

“This room is very dainty,” Esther commented after they’d filled their plates at the sideboard. She took a seat at the small table and glanced about at the fringed purple drapes, vivid floral wallpaper, and contrasting wainscoting. “And complicated. How long have you lived here?”

Samuel took his own seat carefully. He didn’t use the flimsy little chairs with their spindly, tapered legs if he could possibly help it. “Six years.”

“And you’ve not changed it?”

He tried and failed to think of a way to answer that without sounding responsible for the purple drapes.

Esther’s eyes widened at his silence. “This”—she twirled her finger in the air to indicate the room—“was
your
doing?”

“Not exactly. Renderwell suggested I hire a decorator.”

“Was this decorator under the impression that only ladies eat breakfast in breakfast rooms?”

That had been his very assumption upon seeing the room for the first time. “He might have been.” Amused, he pasted on a surprised expression. “You don’t like it?”

“I…” She blinked rapidly several times and began to sputter. “I… That is… I apologize. I’ve been very rude. You’ve a lovely home, and I shouldn’t have—Why are you laughing?”

He’d never seen her so flustered. He’d seen her angry, embarrassed, hurt, and amused but not ruffled to the point of tripping over her own tongue. It was so contrary to the confident woman he knew, he couldn’t help but find it funny.

“Why are you laughing?” she demanded again. “I’ve insulted you.”

“You’ve insulted me before,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but this was out of carelessness, which is quite different.”

“You’ve not insulted me.”

“I have,” she replied with a wince. “You’ve invited me into your home and I’ve disparaged it. It was wrong of me—”

He threw up a hand. “Esther, stop. You’ve not disparaged my home. You disparaged this room. This perfectly hideous room.”

“It isn’t…” She trailed off as her eyes meandered back to the wallpaper. “Well, it does make one a bit dizzy.”

“Like a ride on a centrifugal railway.”

She leaned forward, fascinated. “Have you done that?”

“Been thrown in a loop at a tremendous speed? No, thank you.”

She sighed wistfully. “Oh, I should like to try it.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“Why haven’t you changed this,” she asked, indicating the room with her fork again, “if you don’t care for it?”

“I don’t give the room much thought, to be honest. I generally take breakfast in the kitchen.”

“I see. Was it also redecorated?”

“No. Mrs. Lanchor insisted it be kept as it was.”

“I see,” she repeated and glanced toward the door. “Might we…?”

He was out of his spindly seat and tugging the bellpull before she could finish the sentence.

* * *

Samuel felt better the moment he stepped into the kitchen.

This
was how a home should feel. Warm and inviting and lived in. It should smell of cut herbs and flowers and baking bread. It should be a little messy, a little bit scuffed at the edges. It should be a place where a man could move about without fear of damaging something.

He felt at ease moving about here. It didn’t matter if his boots scraped the kitchen table leg; it was already pitted and scarred from years of use.

“What a lovely kitchen,” Esther commented. “It reminds me of our old kitchen at Willowbend, the way the morning light comes through the windows.” She took a seat at the table and sighed happily when the beast settled himself next to her with a tremendous groan. “I wish more rooms were like kitchens. They’re so comfortably unpretentious.”

He’d expected her to be comfortable enough in the kitchen; he hadn’t expected her to truly appreciate it. “I thought you preferred finery.”

“Something can be fine without being pretentious: soft taffeta, a pretty bonnet, a cozy chair, a well-appointed kitchen with good morning light.”

“Fine company.”

“Exactly so,” she replied, but she grew quiet when his staff entered and set out their meal on the table.