Claiming His Defiant Miss Page 7

  May untied her apron, trying to ignore his smile, trying to ignore him which she hadn’t yet been able to do, he had made sure of that. Maybe that was his revenge. Maybe she wasn’t the only one who wanted to prove the other wrong. Maybe he wanted to prove to May he could change. At least a little. He would never be a gentleman-born, but he’d certainly become more than a street rat. Still, there were some things he wasn’t willing to change, not even for her. He would never forget where he was from. He didn’t want to, it kept him honest about the world and it was part of him. Anyone who accepted him had to accept the entirety of him, history and all.

  ‘How was Beatrice today?’ Liam pulled his customary high stool up to the table and sliced the bread, offering her a piece. Small talk and mundane actions could go a long way in creating the illusion of normalcy.

  ‘Fine. The same.’ May took the bread and spread butter on it, butter she’d traded for in the market. May hadn’t mastered the art of butter churning. It was good to see there was one domestic skill she hadn’t acquired. It meant he didn’t have to admit he was wrong just yet. ‘I don’t think there will be much change until the baby comes, which should be any day now.’ She ladled stew into his bowl and passed it to him, fingers brushing his. Normalcy was going well if one didn’t count the way his blood heated when she touched him, or when she reached for something on the table, drawing the bodice of her gown tight against her breasts with the movement.

  ‘Then perhaps we should go into town tomorrow,’ Liam suggested, ignoring the beginnings of an arousal he’d barely subdued in the yard with cold, hard work. The food, the firelight, the company in the warm kitchen seemed hell-bent on destroying those efforts. ‘We might not get another chance and it’s already been several days since our last visit.’ While he liked the stationary nature of the past week, he was growing agitated with the lack of information that came with such stagnation. ‘I was thinking there might be some news from Preston.’

  At the admission, May’s eyes met his. Whatever bad blood lay between them, they both loved Preston. They were united on that at least. It was a start. ‘Do you think he might find a way to send news?’

  ‘There are ways to disguise a missive and Preston knows them all.’ Liam smiled, enjoying for a moment that May’s guard was partially down. ‘A letter could be addressed to Beatrice Fields. It could be signed from a fictional sender,’ he offered. ‘No one would suspect it.’

  May set down her spoon and fixed him with a considering stare. ‘What exactly do you and my brother do for the government that demands such secrecy? That has people knifing my brother on dark roads?’

  Liam shrugged as if he hadn’t inadvertently opened himself up for an inquisition. ‘Your brother protects the coast against smugglers. You know that. Not all smugglers deal in brandy and not all smuggling takes place during war time. Just because the war is over, doesn’t mean there’s nothing to do.’

  ‘And yourself? What have you spent the last five years doing?’ May didn’t miss the fact that he hadn’t answered the last part of her question. Maybe he’d been wrong and it wasn’t her guard that was down, but his.

  How to answer? ‘I’ve spent the last five years proving to you that I can rise above my birth?’ or ‘I’ve spent the years trying to earn your father’s respect’, or ‘I’ve been proving to myself that I am worthy, that I’m more than a street rat.’ All of it? None of it? If he said the words, the old wounds would open. It would make confronting the past and their choices inevitable, something they’d barely skirted this afternoon. He’d not come up here for that. Liam groped for his professional detachment. Disclosing details about where he’d been, what he’d done, wasn’t part of the job. Liam opted for something far more neutral. ‘I’ve been working with your brother.’ True. ‘It’s my job to watch his back and right now that includes you.’

  May gave him a cold smile and tore her slice of bread in half. ‘I’m a job. What a positively lovely way to think of oneself.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ Liam didn’t back down although the comment drew them ever closer to more dangerous subjects. Her father had viewed him as a job, a piece of noblesse oblige to be satisfied with crumbs from the high table. ‘It really provides perspective when one understands their place.’ His sarcasm was sharply evident.

  ‘Stop it.’ May’s eyes fired, her hands braced on the table.

  ‘Stop what? Stop reminding you that we have a history? That we have some difficult truths between us? Stop reminding you you’re my job? Hurts, doesn’t it?’ He half-rose and leaned over the table, the frustration of the last week coming to full boil. ‘Would you prefer I remind you that you were once my lover instead?’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ May hissed. ‘Do you want Beatrice to hear you?’

  He gave her a wicked grin. ‘I don’t care who knows, May. But apparently you do.’ He felt the grin slip off his face at what that meant and his anger pitched. ‘You little hypocrite. You’re still too embarrassed to acknowledge me, to stand up for me. Your friends don’t know what you got up to that summer at the lake, do they? They don’t know the pristine Miss May Worth went slumming for some hot Irish c—’

  ‘Stop it!’ she yelled, hurling her stew bowl at him in a lightning move that surprised them both. Only his street-honed, battle-tested reflexes saved him. The bowl sailed across the table, barely missing him and finding the wall instead. Meat chunks and carrots slid ignominiously down the wall. Better the wall than him. Crockery was hell on the skull.

  May covered her mouth and staggered back, anger evaporating in the wake of her shock. She couldn’t complete a sentence. He could see her playing the scene again in her mind, horrified at her knee-jerk reaction. ‘I’m sorry. Oh, my... I can’t believe... I didn’t mean to...’ But of course she did and maybe he had meant to do it, too. He’d made her mad, perhaps on purpose. She had a temper. He could always bring out the best and worst in her. He knew it and he’d done it anyway. In his book, that made him culpable, too.

  ‘Don’t lie, May. You’re not any good at it. You wanted to hit me.’ Liam snatched up a rag from the counter and bent to clean the wall. She was beside him on her knees, tugging the rag from his hand.

  ‘Let me. It’s my fault.’ She was quietly apologetic. He should have accepted what passed as an apology with May, but he was feeling penitent, too. He’d taken his frustration out on her by provoking her. So much for his vaunted objectivity, hardly the behaviour of a trained professional with his impeccable record.

  He clenched his hand around the rag, not giving it up. ‘It’s not entirely your fault, May. Maybe I wanted you to throw that bowl.’

  She pulled at the rag again with no success. ‘That’s just like you. You can’t even let me take the blame without wanting to one-up me. This is my fault. I could have hurt you.’ She paused, her grip on the rag going slack as she studied him. ‘You are all right?’ Her gaze searched his face for signs of a cut, of a bruise and the concern that flitted across her own face was more dangerous than any harsh words. He was always ready for her sharp tongue, always prepared. But he was not ready for kneeling together on the kitchen floor, the firelight and evening about them, those words of concern as heady as fine brandy as she looked at him. How many nights had he lain awake wanting this? Or worse, dreaming of this? Of her touch on his body again?

  With one hand she traced the small curving scar high on his cheek, the delicate tracing of her finger raising goose bumps on his flesh. ‘How did you get this?’ Her voice was quiet in the fire-lit darkness of the kitchen.

  ‘Carelessness.’ His old protectiveness surged, the protectiveness that didn’t want to burden May with anything unpleasant. ‘I was sloppy and a man got too close with a knife.’

  ‘You are too hard on yourself, I think,’ May said with a soft smile. For a moment it was easy to believe he had his May back, that they were both young again and anything was possible
as long as they were together. ‘Someday you’ll realise you aren’t invincible.’

  ‘I hope not,’ Liam breathed. It was his worst fear: that his strength and skill would fail when he needed them most. They had to last at least until after Cabot Roan was brought to justice and May was safe.

  He shouldn’t have done it, but the night was already so full of things he shouldn’t have done, shouldn’t have said, that one more hardly seemed to make a difference. Carpe diem was what Preston called it. Seize the day, or at the very least the rag. Would that be pannum or linteum? he wondered vaguely. Those Latin lessons of Preston’s had been ages ago. Liam tightened his grip on the rag, taking advantage of May’s inattention to it and pulled at the cloth until she was in his arms, until her body was up against his, and his mouth was on hers in a kiss that claimed and kindled, the old ways alight at last. Now this was how to settle a fight.

  It was not a gentle kiss, there was no need to play the courteous swain. There was only need and it sprang like a wildfire from him to her, her mouth open to him, her tongue hungry for a taste as it sought him, her teeth biting greedily into his lower lip, sucking hard as he pressed her to the wall, their arms and legs starting to grip one another in an attempt to find equilibrium. Her arms were around his neck as if they remembered where they belonged, holding on to him as if he were a rock, an anchor that would keep her steady. His hands were at her skirts, tugging them out from where they were trapped under her knees. He wanted to slide his hands beneath them, up her legs, to her wet core. He wanted to touch her, wanted to remind her, wanted to remind himself.

  His hand was halfway up her thigh when she shoved at him, eyes blazing with a thousand emotions: want, need, anger, betrayal. She was no fool. She’d gone to him willingly and now she was angry with herself for letting it go this far, for liking it. He was no fool either. He was going to pay for her anger. ‘What the hell do you want from me?’ she snapped, her breath coming hard.

  His voice was a fierce growl. He gripped her arms. ‘I want you to admit you didn’t always hate me.’ That even now after throwing a bowl at his head, she didn’t hate him.

  She wrenched herself away, getting to her feet, her chin coming up in a mimicry of the defiance she’d displayed in the yard. ‘That’s something you’ll never hear from me, Liam Casek.’

  His own defiance couldn’t resist a parting shot as she stormed out of the kitchen. ‘Too late.’ He had what he wanted. May Worth still burned for him. She’d just proven it far beyond words. But like most ill-conceived wishes, it brought more questions than it answered. Now that he knew, what did he do with it? What could he do with it?

  In many ways, his hands were just as tied as they’d been years ago. Perhaps more so. The things that kept them apart once were still there and now there were new burdens—burdens he’d ironically acquired in an attempt to improve himself. He’d made his way in the world, become successful at what he did, but at what cost? What would May think if she knew? She had once understood the boy who disposed of remains for the doctor. Would she understand the man who occasionally disposed of British difficulties? She thought she knew what he did, but his life was far darker than her brother’s. With so much of the unknown stacked against him, he began to question what he’d done tonight. Why had he done it? What did he hope for?

  * * *

  What had she done? May stumbled down the short dark hall towards the two bedrooms in the back of the cottage. There was no sense in a composed, elegant departure now that she was out of sight, no sense in hiding just how much Liam had got to her. Sweet heavens, she’d nearly lost herself right there on the kitchen floor. Was that what she wanted? To have her lover again despite everything? She’d had her hands all over him; around his neck, in his hair, and that wasn’t even everywhere she’d liked to have had them. It had taken his hand up her skirts to bring her to her senses. Oh, she hadn’t minded that hand at all. She had to be brutally honest with herself.

  She’d plenty well liked everything that had happened on the kitchen floor. It was the motives she questioned. The physical game had never been their problem. It was the mental one. How dare he profess to be here only out of loyalty to Preston? How dare he tell her she was nothing more than a job and then act entirely to the contrary? He couldn’t waltz in here and pretend he hadn’t failed her at the critical moment, or pretend a five-year absence was akin to an apology, that there was a statute of limitations on betrayal and all was now forgiven. But she wasn’t sure his was the worst crime of the night. That honour was quite possibly hers. She’d let herself enjoy the interlude, if only briefly. Perhaps he could assume such pretensions, after all. Her response to him certainly indicated as much.

  Even now, with her anger still simmering over his parting shot, her mind was contemplating the possibilities of forgiving—or at the very least dismissing—the past, as long as she didn’t forget it. For her own sanity she had to remember that Liam Casek was no gentleman. He ascribed to none of the honour codes that defined a gentleman. Liam Casek was a product of the streets and had his own code: see to thyself first.

  She had not understood that before. But now that she did, perhaps it was possible to enjoy the earthy pleasures he provided without encountering the hurt. That was the improbable thought running through her head—a wicked compromise to the emotions he stirred in her. Tonight had been proof that those earthy pleasures still existed between them. Time had done nothing to wear down the edge of their physical attraction. If anything, it had ratcheted that attraction up a notch. He’d been no green boy kissing her tonight, but a man who knew full well what he was about, what he wanted and how to get it. That kiss had told her something else, too. She wasn’t alone in the frustration. He felt it as well. Tonight, it had been as if a dam had finally broken, burst apart by the tension between them. What if he felt the same way: that they might be able to assuage those physical needs without addressing the emotional ones? It was a dangerous thought.

  Her shin knocked into a small console set in the narrow hall. ‘Damn it!’ she swore, remembering at the last moment to keep her voice down. She didn’t want to wake Beatrice.

  ‘May? Are you all right? You can swear out loud. I’m not asleep.’ There was the rustle of covers from Beatrice’s room.

  ‘I’m fine, don’t get up,’ May called out softly. But it was too late. Beatrice, lamp in hand, stood at the door of her room.

  ‘You don’t look fine. Unless I miss my guess, you’ve been quarrelling with our house guest, again.’ Beatrice paused, fixing her with a stern stare, but her voice was soft and inviting. ‘Don’t you think it’s time you told me all about it? All about him?’

  Chapter Eight

  May entered the little room with a tentative step. This was a conversation she’d hoped to avoid from the moment Liam had shown up. ‘There’s nothing to tell. Yes, I knew him from before. He’s a friend of Preston’s who came to the lakes with us.’ May shrugged, trying to make light of it in the hope Beatrice would stop prying, convinced there was nothing to it.

  ‘I’ve never known you to throw crockery at any other of Preston’s friends,’ Beatrice said mildly. ‘In fact, I don’t recall you ever threw anything at Jonathon.’

  May winced. ‘You heard?’

  Beatrice gave a soft laugh. ‘Yes, I heard. How could I not? This isn’t Worth House in London with its twenty rooms and four floors. Now, you can either take a seat and keep a pregnant woman company, or you can let me imagine the lurid worst.’ That was the problem, May thought. The lurid worst might not be that far from the actual truth. Still, she opted to sit. If Bea wasn’t going to be dissuaded, she might as well get this over with.

  ‘Are you sure you want to hear? Wouldn’t you rather sleep?’ Bea looked tired. Even in the dim lamplight, May could make out dark smudges under her friend’s eyes. Bed ‘rest’ didn’t seem to be all the restful.

  ‘I lie around all
day and all night with nothing to do but worry. I am so uncomfortable I can barely sleep more than two hours at a time. You aren’t keeping me from anything but my own thoughts, which I desperately need a break from. I’d love a chance to worry about something else.’

  May reached for her hand. ‘Bea, what’s wrong?’ She heard the frustration in her friend’s voice.

  Bea shook her head resolutely. ‘Oh, no, you don’t. We are going to talk about you and Mr Casek. I believe you said it was the summer at the lake?’

  ‘Yes. The summer of 1816, the year after the war ended.’ She was stalling now, playing the coward. Bea didn’t want facts, she already had most of those worked out. ‘We were both very young and we became infatuated with one another...’ Or at least the idea of one another. The memory of her first sight of him was clear: he’d come striding into the drawing room of the big house they’d rented, dressed for dinner country style; buff breeches, polished boots, a bottle-green coat that had done devilishly handsome things for his eyes, dark hair slicked back in a queue. She’d never seen long hair like that on a man before. He’d bent over her hand and kissed it.

  It had all been a game to him and to Preston, to see if they could pass off a street rat as a gentleman. They’d apparently met at Oxford—although she hadn’t been quite sure in what capacity until much later—and Preston had decided to befriend him, to see if he could be polished up.

  She could have told them it wouldn’t work. There’d been an undeniably rugged air about him, something unfinished that was as appealing as it was obvious. It wasn’t something a Weston coat and Hoby boots could hide or change. She’d known immediately here was something wild, something that could not, should not, be changed.

  But they’d all tampered with it, with him. Preston with his Pygmalion game, her father with his sense of noblesse oblige, had found Preston’s efforts worthy and joined in. Perhaps she’d even contributed, too, tempting Liam to look beyond his station.