Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(224)

Maximus was trying not to grin, trying not to look at her, but she was being very charming. It was extremely difficult to resist.

“Beg all you like,” he said, turning away from her so he wouldn’t have to look at that lovely, charming face. “I will never tell you. I would rather die than tell you.”

Courtly could sense a game afoot. “That seems rather harsh,” she said, feigning seriousness. “Did you steal from him, then?”

“Nay.”

“Beat him?”

“Nay.”

She sighed heavily. “Then I cannot guess what it is,” she said, pretending to be resigned and miserable. “It would seem that I must go to my grave not knowing what you and your brothers did to this uncle. It is a terrible curse you have put upon me. Do you not know that a woman’s curiosity must be satisfied or else?”

He looked at her then, grinning. “Or else what?”

She could see she had his interest and she looked away, being playful. “I cannot tell you,” she said, turning the tables on him. “You would not like the answer.”

“Tell me.”

She shook her head. “I would rather die than tell you,” she said, using his own words. “And do not beg because it will not do any good.”

She was clever, this one. Maximus appreciated her quick wit very much, seeing how she had turned the tables against him. Oddly, it made him respect her, for this was no simple-minded woman. She was sharp. With that in mind, he sighed heavily.

“Very well, then,” he said, folding his arms across his broad chest and pretending to be cross. “I will tell you what my brothers and I did to our uncle if you will tell me what happens when a woman’s curiosity is not sated.”

Courtly looked at him, pointing a finger at him. “Quickly,” she hissed. “Tell me swiftly. It will be less painful that way. Hurry!”

Maximus did as he was told without hesitation. “My uncle would fart uncontrollably when he slept and my brothers and I would light his farts a-fire,” he said. “One time, we burned up his breeches.”

Courtly burst out in a loud guffaw, slapping her hand over mouth to stifle the laughter. “You didn’t!”

“We did.”

She snorted into her hand, laughing deeply, but Maximus feigned a scowl at her. “Stop laughing,” he muttered swiftly. “Quickly; tell me what would have happened had I not sated your curiosity.”

Courtly removed her hand from her mouth, displaying her lovely smile in full bloom. “Nothing,” she said, throwing up her hands. “I simply said that so you would feel sorry for me and tell me what I wanted to know.”

Maximus pretended to be very cross when, in truth, he was swept up in her gentle flirt as surely as a leaf swept up in a breeze. He had no control over anything at the moment; he was purely at her mercy.

“You are a terrible woman to tease me like that,” he said. “Can you not see how gullible I am?”

Courtly’s smile never left her face, her gaze riveted to him as if he was the only man in the entire world. “I cannot imagine the great Maximus de Shera to be gullible,” she said. “I would imagine you are the smartest brother of all. You said so yourself.”

He shook his head. “I did not say I was the smartest brother,” he corrected her. “I simply said that I remember everything I am told. If my brothers heard me say that I was the smartest of all of them, they would beat me and roll me in pitch.”

Courtly giggled; she was coming to find the man very humorous and very delightful. As she opened her mouth to reply, a distant shouting stopped her. Both she and Maximus turned in the direction of the avenue leading from St. Clément’s Church in time to see well-armed men on expensive horses heading in their direction. Maximus recognized the de Lara bird of prey immediately.

Through the smoke and ash, armored men surrounded them and the man in the lead, one riding a big dappled charger, leapt from his steed. His gaze was on the women and on Maximus in particular. His confusion, and his concern, was apparent.

“De Shera?” he addressed Maximus, his brow furrowed, before looking to Courtly. “Court, what has happened? What goes on?”

Courtly pointed to the pile of smoldering ruins that had once been their hostel. “There was a fire, Papa,” she told him seriously. “Sir Maximus and Sir Garran saved our lives. We had to jump from the window and they were here to save us.”

Kellen de Lara, Viscount Trelystan and Lord Sheriff of the Southern Marches, looked at his eldest daughter with horror. A man in his early forties, he was fair and handsome, his face weathered from the years of harsh elements and harsh campaigns. His gaze moved between the smoking building and his daughter’s earnest face. Stunned, he simply shook his head.

“Sweet Jes?,” he murmured, reaching out to grasp his daughters, the both of them. “Is this true?”

“It is.”

“And you jumped from the building?”

“Aye, Papa.”

Kellen was nearly beside himself. “Are you well?” he demanded softly. “Did you hurt yourself in any way?”

Courtly shook her head. “We are well,” she replied, her gaze moving to Maximus. “It is Sir Maximus you must thank, Papa. He was a hero.”

Maximus, embarrassed by the praise, was already shaking his head even as Kellen turned to him. “It was not as much as that, my lord,” he said. “Your daughter was quite resourceful and constructed a rope from bed linens, using it to lower herself with. All we did was hold the rope steady and make sure she and her sister came to no harm.”