To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(20)

Not to mention that polite conversation had always bored him. “My affairs should be of no importance to you, but they are, aren’t they?”

Her brows drew together as she opened her mouth.

“Ah. Ah.” He held up a finger to forestall her denial. “It’s past midnight, and we’re alone in a dark carriage. What’s said here will never see the light of day. Humor me, lady, and be frank.”

She inhaled deeply and sat back, her face entirely hidden by shadows now. “What difference does it make to you if I do find your affairs to be of interest, Mr. Hartley?”

He smiled wryly. “Touché, my lady. I’m sure a sophisticated gentleman of your society would deny it to his death if he was moved by your interest, but I am made of simpler stuff.”

“Are you?” The words were whispered in the dark.

He nodded slowly. “So I tell you: I am moved by your interest. I am moved by you.”

“You are frank.”

“Can you admit the same?”

She gasped and for a moment, he thought he’d gone too far and that she’d retreat from this dangerous game. She was a lady of standing, after all, and there were rules and boundaries in her world.

But she slowly leaned forward, her face emerging into the small pool of light cast through the window. She looked him full in the face and arched one black eyebrow. “And if I did?”

And he felt something within his chest leap that she dared to pick up his gauntlet—something like joy. He grinned at her. “Then, my lady, we have a point of mutual interest that bears further discussion.”

“Perhaps.” She sat back against her plush red cushions. “What were you doing out on the streets this late at night?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly.

“You’re not going to tell me.” The carriage was slowing now.

“No.” He glanced at the window. They were outside her town house. It blazed in the night with lit lanterns. He looked back at her. “But I wasn’t with a woman; I give you my word.”

“It shouldn’t matter to me.”

“But it does, doesn’t it?”

“I think you presume too much, Mr. Hartley.”

“I think I don’t.”

A footman opened the carriage door. Sam stepped down and then turned to offer her his hand. She hesitated a moment, as if considering whether to let him help her or not. She was surrounded by the dark interior of the carriage, her pale face and bosom glowing as if lit by a fire from within. She placed her small gloved hand in his. He tightened his fingers over hers as he drew her into the light by the walk.

“Thank you,” she said, and tugged at her hand.

He stared down at her dark eyes, aware that he didn’t want to let her go. But in the end, he opened his hand and let hers slip away. There was no other choice.

He bowed. “Good night, my lady.”

And he walked away into the darkness.

Chapter Five

The wizard winked once, and Iron Heart found himself within the castle’s walls. He was dressed as the king’s own guard, and there, not two paces away, sat the king himself on his golden throne! Well, you can imagine how surprised he was. He opened his mouth to exclaim when he remembered the wizard’s words. He must not speak, else he would return to rags and the princess would die. So Iron Heart shut his mouth and vowed not to let a sound pass his lips. His vow was soon tested, for what should happen next but seven burly knaves rushed into the throne room, bent on killing the king. Iron Heart leapt forward into battle, swinging his sword left and right. The other guards shouted, but by the time they drew their swords, all seven assassins lay dead on the floor....

—from Iron Heart

“Samuel Hartley is the most irritating man,” Emeline said late the next morning.

She was in the little sitting room with Melisande Fleming. This room was one of her favorites; the walls were papered in yellow and white stripes with a thin scarlet line that occasionally repeated. The furnishings were not as new as the ones in her formal sitting room, but they were done in lush reds and oranges in lovely damasks and velvets. One felt just like a cat in the room, as if it would be easy to stretch out on the rich fabrics and purr. Not, of course, that she would do anything so uninhibited, but still, the feeling was there. In actual fact, she and Melisande sat quite properly by the windows. Or rather, Melisande sat and Emeline paced as her friend calmly drank tea.

“Irritating,” Emeline muttered, and straightened a tasseled pillow on the settee.

“So you’ve said before,” Melisande replied. “Four times since I arrived.”

“Have I?” Emeline asked vaguely. “Well, but it’s true. He doesn’t seem to have the first idea of social manners—he danced a jig in this very house just the other day—he always has a bit of a smile on his face, and his boots have no heels.”

“Horrors,” Melisande murmured.

Emeline shot Melisande, who had been her very good friend since nearly the beginning of time, an exasperated look. She sat as she always did, as if she strove to occupy as little space as humanly possible. Her back was straight and prim, her arms almost clapped to her sides, her hands folded in her lap—when she wasn’t drinking tea—and her feet placed neatly side by side on the carpet. She probably never felt an urge to lounge in the pillows piled up on the flame settee. Also—and this was something of a point of contention between the friends—Melisande always wore brown. Sometimes, it was true, she strayed from brown and was seen in gray, but that could hardly be called an improvement, could it? Today, for instance, she was in an impeccably cut sack dress that was an awful shade of dirt brown.