A Rogues Proposal

hers.

Tilting her and her parasol to just the right angle, Demon held her before him, and, from beneath his lashes, looked out under the parasol's frilled rim. Bletchley, ten yards away, had been slouching, watching them idly-he doubtless considered Demon a reckless blade set on seducing a sweet country miss. But although he watched, Bletchley wasn't interested. Then he straightened, alert, as another man joined him.

Breaking off the kiss, Demon breathed a curse.

Flick blinked, but he didn't shift, didn't let her down.

'No-don't turn,' he hissed as she went to twist her head.

'Who is it?'

His lips, presently at eye level, twisted into a grim grimace. 'Another jockey.' Disappointment laced his tone.

'Perhaps he has a message from the syndicate.'

'Shssh. Listen.'

Balanced against him, she strained her ears.

'Let's see if I got this straight.'

That had to be the jockey; the voice was clear, not scratchy.

'You'll give me three ponies the day before the Stakes, an' two ponies the day after, if I bring Cyclone in out o' the places. That right?'

'Aye-that's the deal,' Bletchley grated. 'Take it or leave it.'

The jockey was silent, presumably ruminating; Demon looked down at her, then his arm slid further around her, better supporting her against him.

'Relax,' he breathed. His lips brushed hers in the lightest of caresses, then the jockey spoke again.

'I'll take it.'

'Done.'

'That's our cue,' Demon said sotto voce.

The next instant, he laughed aloud; his arm tightening about her, he swung her around and stood her on her feet. He grinned. 'Come along, sweetheart. Wouldn't do for the local gabblemongers to start wondering where we've got to. Let alone what we've been doing.'

He spoke loudly enough for Bletchley and the jockey to hear. Flick blushed and ignored their audience completely; locking both hands about her parasol handle, she turned back to the Heath with a swish of her skirts.

With another demonic laugh-one of triumph-Demon, his hand lying proprietorially on her back just a little lower than her waist, ushered her around the stable, back into the safety of the racing throng.

The instant they rounded the corner of the stable, Flick wriggled to dislodge his hand. It only pressed closer.

'We can't drop our roles yet.' Demon's murmur stirred the curls above her ear. 'Bletchley's following. While he can see us, we'll need to preserve our act.'

She shot him a suspicious, distracted look; her bottom was heating.

He smiled, all wolf. 'Who knows? An established disguise might come in handy in the following days.'

Following days? Flick hoped she didn't look as scandalized as she felt; the laughing, teasing look in Demon's eyes suggested otherwise.

To her consternation, Bletchley returned to stand under the oak beside the Heath-and proceeded to watch the exercising strings for the next hour.

So they watched him, while Demon lived up to his nickname and exercised his rakish talents, using ploy after ploy to ruffle her composure. To make her blush and skitter, and act the besotted miss.

Whether it was due to his expertise or otherwise, it grew increasingly easy to act besotted. To relax and laugh and smile. And blush.

He knew just how to tease her, just how to catch her eye and invite her to laugh-at him, at them, at herself. Knew just how to touch her-lightly, fleetingly-so that her senses leapt and her heart galloped faster than any horse on the Heath. When Bletchley, after approaching one other jockey and getting short shrift, finally headed back into the town, she'd blushed more than she ever had before.

Clinging to her parasol as if it were a weapon, and her last defense, she met Demon's eye. 'I'll leave you now-I'm sure you can keep him in sight for the rest of the afternoon.'

His eyes held hers, their expression difficult to read; for one instant, she thought it was reluctance she glimpsed in the blue-reluctance to set aside their roles.

'I don't need to follow him.' Demon looked to the edge of the Heath and raised his hand. Gillies, lounging against a post, nodded and slipped off in Bletchley's wake.

Demon looked back at his companion of the afternoon. 'Come-I'll drive you home.'

Her gaze trapped in his, she waved to the nearby road. 'I have the groom with the gig.'

'We can send him on ahead.' He raised one brow and reached for her hand. 'Surely you'd rather be driven home behind my bays than the nag harnessed to the gig?'

As one who appreciated good horseflesh, her choice was a foregone conclusion. With an inclination of her head that was almost regal, she consented to his scheme, consented to let him hold her by him-to enjoy her freshness-for just a little while more.

He was seated in the armchair before the fire in his front parlor, staring at the flames and seeing her angelic face, her soft blue eyes, and the curious, considering light that flashed in them from time to time, when, once again, she came tapping on his windowpane. Lips setting, he didn't even bother swearing-just rose, set aside the brandy balloon he'd been cradling, and crossed to the window.

This time, when he pulled the curtains aside, he was relieved to see she was wearing skirts-to whit, her riding habit. He raised the sash. 'Don't you ever use the door?'

The glance she levelled at him was reproving. 'I came to invite you to accompany me to see Dillon.'

'I thought we'd agreed not to see him at all.'

'That was before. Now we know Bletchley's the contact, and that he's wandering about the Heath, we should warn Dillon and bring him up to date, so he doesn't do anything rash.'

Dillon would never put himself to so much bother. The observation burned Demon's tongue, but he swallowed the words. He wasn't at all happy at the notion of Flick riding about the county alone at night, but he knew there was no point trying to talk her out if it. Mentally locating his riding gloves, he reached for the sash. 'I'll meet you by the stable.'

Pointy chin resolute, she nodded, then slid into the shadows.

Demon closed the window and went to warn the Shephards he was going out for a few hours.

Atop Jessamy, Flick was waiting by the main stable. Demon hauled open the door. In the dimness inside, lit by the shaft of moonlight streaming in through the door, he located his tack and carried it to Ivan's box. The big stallion was surprised to see him, and even more surprised to be saddled and led out. Luckily, before Ivan could consider and decide to protest, he set eyes on Jessamy.

Noting the stallion's fixed stare, Demon grunted and swung up to his saddle. At least he wouldn't have to exercise his talents on Ivan during their ride through the moonlight-Ivan would follow, intent, in Flick's wake.

She, of course, led the way.

They crossed his fields, the night black velvet about them. The cottage appeared deserted, a denser bulk in the deep shadows between the trees. Flick rode into the clearing behind it and dismounted. Demon followed, tethering Ivan well clear of the mare.

A twig cracked.

Flick whirled, squinting at the cottage. 'It's us. Me and Demon.'

'Oh,' came a rather shaky voice from the dark. After a moment, Dillon asked, 'Are you coming in?'

'Of course.' Flick started for the cottage just as Demon reached her; he followed close on her heels.

'We thought,' she said, ducking through the lean-to and stepping into the main room, 'that you'd want to know what we've learned.'

Dillon looked up, his face lit by the glow of the lantern he'd set alight. 'You've identified one of the syndicate?'

Wild hope colored his tone; settling onto a stool by the table, Flick grimaced. 'No-not yet.'