The Passionate One (11 page)

“But—” she stared
at him without understanding, naive and stupid and ill, for he’d awoken with
his kiss such feeling as she’d never experienced for Phillip Watt. Never.

Mrs. Fraiser had
been wrong. Ash Merrick wasn’t dangerous. He was courtly and genteel and his
kisses were soft and stirring. Her feelings,
they
were dangerous.

“Go.” He was still
smiling. “You see, you’ve won.”

She turned away,
gathering her skirts and bolting into the too bright light. And so she did not
see Ash Merrick’s gaze follow her, or see him take his hands from behind his
back and turn them over. And she did not see the bloody hands that had been
torn strangling the thorny vines behind her so he could keep from crushing her
to him.

Chapter Nine

During the next
week, Rhiannon saw little of Ash Merrick. Edith Fraiser needed her services in
a myriad number of ways. Her foster mother sent her on lengthy errands to
neighboring estates, occupied her mornings with overseeing the processing of
spring honey, and decided now, of all times, to teach her the secrets of
brewing a potent clover wine.

When Rhiannon did
see Ash Merrick, perpetually on his way out to join the young men—of which
Phillip was one—at some masculine entertainment, he was invariably polite and
courteous but nothing more. He evinced none of the stunned bewilderment she
herself so acutely felt, none of the sensual attraction she fought so hard to
hide.

Their kiss meant
nothing more to him than the meaningless prize it had been proclaimed. It was a
simple meeting of lips, a casual misbehavior.

She only wished she
could be so worldly and unaffected. But there had been nothing simple about her
response to his kiss.

It had incited a
maelstrom of emotions and sensations. The memory of it heated her blood,
pooling a restless longing in her lips, her fingertips, her breasts...

It frightened her.
It haunted her. When she closed her eyes at night, Merrick’s lean, hard form
and dark-lashed eyes appeared with startling and all too revealing clarity.
She’d been careful since to avoid his company.

Tonight, however,
there was slim chance she would be able to avoid his company—or he, hers.
Tonight was Lady Harquist’s ball. She would have considered it the usual
overpopulated, uncomfortable, and crushing affair it generally was, if not for
the anxiety of wondering whether Ash Merrick would be there.

She assumed Ash had
been included on the guest list but then, doubtless, even if invited he would
decline. He had a more than adequate excuse; he’d brought no clothes fitting
for a ball.

The thought brought
relief at the same time as an acute, guilty regret.

Edith Fraiser had
been right after all; Ash Merrick was dangerous.

“Begad, that
creature you’re riding is unfit to feed my dogs, Merrick!” Phillip avowed
blearily.

Ash, jouncing along
on a squat pony some distance ahead, clad in black silk, three quarters of his
face covered by a mask, did not appear to have heard. The others in their party
did. They raised drunken voices in boisterous concurrence. Even the gypsy
rogues they traveled with had fallen prey to Ash Merrick’s bonhomie. Teeth
flashed beneath the fantastical papier-mâché masks as shouts in the Romany
tongue filled the night air.

Phillip, in no mood
to be ignored, spurred his pony forward. Far ahead of them, the Harquist manor
blazed with light, a beacon in the dark.

“You’re a right
Mogul,” Phillip proclaimed on reaching Ash’s side.

Ash’s dark gaze
flashed sidelong but he simply smiled in that lazy way of his and took another
swig from the leather skein bouncing on his hip.

When he didn’t
respond, Phillip went on. “Bedamned if this isn’t a grand notion. Don’t know
why one of us didn’t think of it years ago.”

It was indeed a
splendid notion, spectacular and hilarious. Earlier that day they’d been
disconsolately draining tankards of ale at The Ploughman, complaining loudly
about the deadly dullness of the fete they were obliged to endure that
evening—Lady Harquist’s spring ball.

Ash had been
taciturn—an increasing tendency in the last few days. Even though Phillip had
put himself out to entertain, Merrick was not to be cajoled. His obvious
boredom had infected the others’ moods, blighting their usual gaiety until a
band of filthy, beggarly looking rascals had entered the inn.

Merrick
’s elegant head had lifted and he had watched them with more interest
than he’d evinced all afternoon. A light of inspiration had slowly ignited in
his silver eyes. He’d clapped his hand on the table.

“If the evening’s
entertainment promises tedium, my dear sirs, you’ve but two course open to
you,” he’d declared. “You can forego it—”

“Not bloody
likely,” John Fortnum interjected disconsolately. “Me old pater would
disinherit me if I gave the snub to Lady H.”

“Me, too,” Phillip
confessed.

“Then you have only
one
option,” Ash said impatiently.
“
You
become the entertainment.” He cast a knowing look in the direction of the
foreigners. “Lest I be mistaken—and I am rarely mistaken in these
matters—yonder sits An Opportunity.”

Before anyone could
protest, he had hailed the band’s leader, Raoul, a gray-headed fellow as wiry
as a river alder, to join them. Over the next two hours—and a keg of strong
cider—Merrick had ascertained that the gypsies were in fact a troupe of
acrobats and tumblers “what been hired to entertain at the big house.”

Forthwith Ash had
bribed Raoul with sweet words and sweeter coin into allowing them to join their
company for the night, masquerading as fellow tumblers. So it was that St.
John, Fortnum, and Phillip himself—as well as a half-dozen nameless
rascals—were trotting down the road leading to Lady Harquist’s, dressed in
black leggings and shirts, faces concealed behind whimsical masks, drunk as
lords, happy as angels, and as set on mischief as Satan’s imps. All thanks to
that infernally amusing and fascinating fellow at Phillip’s side, Ash Merrick.

Phillip was dully
aware he had a case of hero worship. Usually ’twas he, because of his height,
his breadth, his looks, or his father’s wealth, who attracted admiration. But
Ash Merrick was utterly unimpressed by any of Phillip’s attributes, having
looks and address enough without seeking its reflection in others.

He was simply the
damnedest, most dauntless, and most interesting man Phillip had ever met.

Phillip gazed
blearily at his idol. Merrick was slender and hard as an épée. Even
half-sotted, he fair stank of élan.

The thing of it
was, thought Phillip, Merrick had the trick of making everything into a game.
Take, for example, a few days ago when Merrick had suddenly announced that the
local magistrates were old and blind and thus incapable of tracking down the
rogue who had assaulted Rhiannon and Mrs. Fraiser. The task, he’d explained,
belonged to young, sharp-eyed gentlemen.

Thus for the rest
of that day and the next, Merrick had led his merry, confused companions over
the countryside, interviewing hostelry workers, waylaying farmhands, searching
for any clue as to the whereabouts of the highwayman.

They didn’t find
anything—of course not—but that wasn’t the point, was it? The point was it had
been fun. Exciting. Like this.

“I don’t know that
this is such a good idea after all,” Fortnum called out from his position at
the rear. The curling horns of his ram’s mask bobbed in agitation. “There’ll be
the devil to pay when we’re caught!”

“What are we to do
with them, Watt?” Ash sighed. A feeling of pleasure suffused Phillip.

“I don’t know,” he
said, trying to discern Merrick’s desire.

“I suspect we’ll
just have to sweeten the game.” Merrick placed a fist on his hip and eyed St. John and Fortnum severely. The wind ruffled his black locks and plastered his loose
linen shirt to his chest. He looked every inch a black-hearted devil. There was
about him a fateful ferocity that Phillip admired greatly.

“Let’s see. How can
we make this a worthy game for our friends here? You are betting men, are you
not?” he asked.

Both men agreed.

“Ha! I knew I’d
taken your measure right. Here it is, then. I wager that I can dupe everyone
attending Lady Harquist’s party for a full hour.

“And furthermore, I
bet you that when my identity
is
finally divulged, not one word of
censure greets that revelation no matter how crudely I misbehave, no matter how
lecherous my leers, no matter how deeply I drink—and make no mistake, my dears,
I intend to be very, very drunk.” His smile was fierce and challenging.

“Oh, come now, Merrick,” Fortnum sputtered.

“Ha!” St. John burst out. “I’ll take that bet.”

“Will you?” Ash
tipped his head. “But I haven’t said what the stakes are.”

“What?” St. John asked.

Ash smiled. “Two
hundred pounds.”

Phillip caught back
his surprise. Two hundred pounds was more than he’d ever wagered on a single
bet before.

Ash’s cool, mocking
gaze scanned their faces. “I thought not,” he murmured pleasantly. He took
another deep draught from the wineskin.

“I say you can do
it!” Phillip declared staunchly. Ash passed him the flask. Phillip slurped it
greedily, eyeing his lily-livered companions scornfully.

“I’ll take that
bet,” St. John finally said.

“Excellent, St. John,” Merrick declared. “I knew
you
were a game one. First, the rules. None
of you, by action or word, must betray your acquaintance with any of Lady
Harquist’s guests. You must, on your honor, keep strictly away from those you
call intimates, be they friend, father, or lover.” His glance found Phillip.
Heat rose to Phillip’s cheeks. “Agreed?”

They all nodded.

“Good. Now, I’ll
want a sharp blade and a steady hand to hold a mirror.”

“But why?” Fortnum
asked.

Merrick
laughed. “I fear overcoming the clue my beard provides would strain
even my thespian skills,” Merrick said. “Who can help me?”

It was one of the
gypsies who found amongst his travel kit the means to rid Merrick of beard and
moustache. Ten minutes later, the razor’s sharp blade had revealed a square and
manly jaw, a pair of deeply bowed and sensual lips. Merrick held the mirror up
and gave a mocking laugh to his own reflection before pulling the black silk
domino back down over his blacker hair and upper face. “Now, away my lads.”

A short time later
they were following Merrick down the cobbled drive that led up to the
Harquists’ manor. The weak moonlight washed over the contours of Merrick’s thighs and shoulders. His hands were pale against the black silk cuff. Phillip
quaffed more from the flask.

Who could possibly
take exception to a man like Merrick? Yet, Rhiannon appeared to have developed
an aversion to him. Odd. Especially since she had seemed to like Merrick well enough at first. But in the past few days Rhiannon had grown uneasy in Merrick’s company, skittish. Through no fault of Merrick’s.

Merrick
was all that was pleasant and respectful to Rhiannon, even courtly.
Perhaps he drank a bit much, and each day seemed to increase his thirst, but
what of it? Phillip was perhaps imbibing more than usual, too. Especially now,
with his impending nuptials closing in.

He twitched away
the unpleasant sensation the thought awoke. Being a touch goosey about being
leg-shackled was surely normal.

Rhiannon had best
learn right now that Phillip was loyal to his friends and that his companions
ranked high in his esteem.
Nothing
was more sacred to a man than his
friends. They sustained and encouraged and understood him in a way a woman
never could.

Phillip took
another swig, arguing away his sense of unease. Rhiannon wouldn’t interfere
with him, he reasoned. It was why he’d settled on her for his wife. That and
his father’s prodding.

The old man had
specifically chosen Rhiannon Russell as his youngest son’s mate, explaining
that Rhiannon was kind and loyal and grateful. She would quietly accept
whatever Phillip did. She would not demand things a man could—
would
not give.

The old man was
right. Rhiannon was the perfect choice for a wife. Besides he was fond of her.

Yes, it was time he
wed. Though still young, he felt this subtle resistance to the idea of marrying
grow each year. If he waited too long he might not be able to bring himself to
do the deed at all—there was so much about living a bachelor’s life that
appealed to him. Freedom. Not being accountable to a woman for his whereabouts
or his actions. Friends. And of course, he added as an afterthought, other
ladies.

But he did want a
family. He quite looked forward to having a couple brats, and the old man
wanted grandsons, something his older brothers had yet to provide. Rhiannon
would make a good mother.