A Rogues Proposal

Ears straining, she listened. She heard a gruff word, then nothing more. The moon broke free of the clouds and shone down, lighting up the area. Flick took that as a sign. Metaphorically girding her loins-she'd come too far to retreat-she edged to where she would be able to see around the bushes, exercising supreme care to avoid stepping on twigs, or leaves, or doing anything to warn Bletchley and whoever he was meeting of her presence.

She was successful-Bletchley and his companion remained totally unaware of her.

Then again, they would probably have remained oblivious of anything short of a charge of Hussars.

They were decidedly engrossed.

From the corner of the stand of bushes, Flick looked down on the meeting in progress, first in stunned surprise, then with increasing distaste.

The female Bletchley had come to meet lay flat on her back, her skirts rucked up to her waist, exposing chubby, dimpled white thighs, currently clasped about Bletchley's equally chubby, equally dimpled bare buttocks. Said buttocks were rising and falling in a staccato rhythm, quivering and tensing and shaking like jelly as Bletchley strained up and down, plunging himself into the woman's body.

Despite her carnal innocence, Flick knew what they were about. She knew how animals mated, but she'd never seen humans perform the same act. For one long instant, the sight transfixed her-in horrified fascination.

The sounds that reached her were not words about racing, or horses-certainly not the names she wanted to know. Grunts, gasps, pants and moans were the extent of the conversation.

Disgusted yet inhibited from even muttering an oath, she curled her lip, gritted her teeth on her temper, and swung away. Eyes on the ground, she strode back for the inn, heading downhill, directly away from the bushes.

After all her work-all the risks she'd taken! She had half a mind to scream with vexation and hope the sound gave Bletchley a turn. At precisely the wrong moment.

Men!

She strode into the first swath of mist-and ran right into one.

Her nose stubbed against his chest, burying itself in a soft cravat. She sucked in a breath to scream-and recognized his scent. His arms had locked, iron shackles about her, but as her instinctive rigidity eased, he relaxed his hold. She looked up at him.

He glared down at her. 'Where-'

'Shssh!' Wriggling free, she tossed her head, indicating the bushes behind her. 'Bletchley's back there.'

Demon studied her face. 'He is?'

Without meeting his eyes, Flick nodded, stepped about him and continued toward the inn. 'He's with a woman.'

Demon looked toward the bushes, then back at Flick, who was stalking down the slope. 'Ah.' His lips twitched, but only momentarily. The next instant, he caught up with her. 'Actually,' he drawled, steel rippling beneath his words, 'I didn't come here to discover what Bletchley was about.'

She didn't immediately reply, but just strode on. 'I followed him here. You were in London. You weren't coming back until tomorrow.'

'I changed my mind-a lucky circumstance. If I'd returned tomorrow, God only knows what trouble you might by then have succeeded in bringing down on your head.' His clipped accents and the underlying force behind his words held a dire, not-at-all-subtle warning.

Unrepentant, Flick sniffed and gestured back at the bushes. 'Obviously, as Bletchley isn't here to meet with the syndicate, I won't be getting into any difficulty.'

'It's not Bletchley you need worry about.' Demon's voice lowered to a dangerous purr. 'He was never destined to be the source of your trouble.'

A very odd shiver slid down Flick's spine. Demon's fingers closed about her elbow. She considered twisting free, only to feel his fingers tighten into steel shackles. Deciding her wisest course was to ignore him and his hold on her, she haughtily elevated her chin-and allowed him to escort her down the hill.

They covered the distance in silence, a silence that grew increasingly tense as they neared the courtyard. The tone of the gathering had degenerated to raucous, rough and ribald; many of the crowd were weaving on their feet. It was no place for a gently reared lady.

Demon halted beyond the area lit by the flares. 'How did you get out?'

'The side door.' Flick pointed.

He tugged her hood down to her chin. 'Keep your head down.' His arm slid around her waist, and he whisked her across the danger zone, into the shadows by the door.

She barely had time to look up before he bundled her through the door and up the stairs. He followed on her heels. On the first-floor landing, he hissed, 'Where's your room?'

Flick gestured along the corridor. 'Above the main door.'

She led the way, but his arm snaked about her waist and yanked her back, anchoring her to his side.

Flick decided not to argue. Or wriggle. The glimpse she'd had of his face as they'd gone through the door had done very strange things to her nerves. His face was always hard, but it presently appeared fashioned from rock. Uncompromising was the term that leapt to mind.

Sounds of revelry gusted up the stairwell. The corridor leading to the front rooms began just before the stairhead.

Then Demon tensed. Flick looked ahead and saw four gentlemen come staggering unsteadily up the stairs. They were well away, rowdy and boisterous; instinctively, she shrank against Demon. He slowed, stopped, then started to turn toward her, shielding her-

Clapping each other on the back and guffawing, the four lurched off down the corridor in the opposite direction. Without, apparently, seeing them.

More voices drifted up the stairs.

With a barely muffled curse, Demon tightened his arm about her and hurried her on, forcing her to half run.

Flick pressed her lips tightly shut and held back her protest. She knew that if she even murmured, he'd throw her over his shoulder and stride on.

Then her door loomed before them. With a silent sigh of relief, she fumbled in her pocket and drew out the key.

Demon filched it from her fingers; he had it in the lock, turned, and the door swinging wide before she could blink.

Brusquely, he shepherded her over the threshold.

Shutting her mouth, Flick narrowed her eyes, elevated her chin, and swept on into the room. She walked straight to the fireplace, then regally swung about. Clasping her hands before her, spine stiff, head erect, she fixed her self-styled protector with a challenging glare.

He'd followed her in and closed the door, but he'd paused with his hand on the latch. His blue gaze raked her-from her head to her toes-then returned, sharp and penetrating, to her face.

She showed no hint of maidenly distress-Demon verified that fact with some relief. Whatever she'd seen of Bletchley's endeavors behind the bushes, she wasn't seriously upset. Indeed, her attention appeared to be fixed on him-which was undoubtedly wise. He was presently a far greater threat to her serenity than Bletchley would ever be. He captured her gaze. 'Stay here-I'll go and check that Bletchley doesn't go from the arms of his companion to some other meeting.' Even to his own ears, his tone sounded lethally flat. 'And,' he added, 'I'll need to speak with Gillies.'

A hint of color rose to her cheeks, and her chin rose another notch. Her eyes flashed with what could only be defiance. 'The notion to come here was mine-Gillies was good enough to come with me.'

'I know it was your idea.' Demon heard his words and wondered at their evenness; inside him, ungoverned fury raged. 'Gillies would never be such a sapskull as to even suggest bringing you here-into the middle of a prizefight crowd.' His anger broke through; ruthlessly, he reined it in. 'Gillies has only obeyed my orders to stay with you at all times. I'm not about to upbraid him.' He held her gaze and quietly stated, 'It's not Gillies I'm furious with.'