Don't Bargain with the Devil Page 6

  Your cousin,

  Michael

  Early the next afternoon, Lucy herded several twelve-year-olds down the path through the oaks behind the school. With the weather still unseasonably warm, it was far too lovely to sit inside and draw.

  Bearing their smocks, sketch pads, and charcoals, they quickly reached the old river landing, which had four spectacular views. Before them was the Thames with the countryside beyond, behind them lay the oak copse, to the left was the school’s boathouse, and to the right was the cherry orchard.

  That cursed cherry orchard. As the girls donned their smocks, she strolled over to gaze at it. Was Diego Montalvo out there now, or was he still abed?

  The idea sent an unwelcome warmth flooding her belly. Would he wear a nightshirt? Or sleep in his drawers, like some men in the regiment?

  She didn’t want to know. Because the thought of him bare-chested, wearing only drawers, set her pulse pounding, and she was going to see him later today. How was she supposed to react after yesterday’s kisses?

  Her fingers curled automatically into her palm, and a groan escaped her. The first had been bad enough, but the second and third . . .

  No man had ever kissed her palm or her wrist, not even Peter. It had nearly turned her to ash right there. How strange that such kisses felt so much more intimate, so much more sinful, than one to the back of the hand.

  Or was it just the way he’d stared at her while doing it?

  She shivered. His eyes, warm and coffee-brown, had met hers in a look that held more than mere admiration, something wild and wanton and very, very wicked.

  That licentious look, those unwise kisses, had fed last night’s dreams in the most shocking manner. She’d spent half the night imagining that dark gaze poring over her naked body, those possessive lips burning a path down her chin and upper chest and . . . and breasts . . .

  “Miss Seton?” asked a pupil, jerking her from her thoughts.

  She whirled to find the girls seated on the aging plank bench that circled the landing, with their charcoals and sketch pads at hand and their faces expectant.

  She struggled to regain her composure. “Ah, I see you’re ready. Very good.” This was her first drawing class. What in the dickens was she doing allowing thoughts of that wretched magician to intrude? If she weren’t careful, she would forget why she was here in the first place.

  And why he had come to Richmond, too. That was probably why he’d kissed her hand so scandalously: to make her forget about his devious plans.

  With matter-of-fact efficiency, she donned her smock and set out her sketch pad and charcoals. “Now then, ladies, according to your previous teacher’s notes, you left off with landscapes. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Miss Seton,” the girls said in unison. Then Tessa’s hand shot up.

  “Miss Dalton?” Lucy asked.

  “She told us we would start on figures next.”

  Lucy bit back a smile. The girls were always eager to go right to figures, so they could sketch their parents and beaus and friends. But it wasn’t wise to rush them beyond the limits of their competence too quickly, no matter how eager they were for it. It would merely frustrate them.

  “Let’s leave the figures until a day when the weather is not so fine.”

  Another girl raised her hand, followed by two others.

  Suppressing a sigh, she called on the first. “Yes, Miss Pierce.”

  “Our teacher promised that if we practiced drawing hands enough last term, we could go on to figures this term,” she protested. “And we’ve been drawing our left hands for weeks and weeks!”

  “And you’ll be drawing them for weeks more if you keep complaining,” Lucy said with a teacherly scowl.

  The other two girls’ hands went down.

  “Now then,” she said firmly, “today you will draw one of the views surrounding us—there are plenty to choose from.”

  Eleven heads bent quickly to their sketch pads.

  That went rather well, she thought as she settled herself on one end of the landing, where she could observe all of her pupils.

  Fortunately, only Tessa knew her as a friend. The others were too young to have attended here when she had, which would make it easier to maintain the proper distance. But for tomorrow’s class with the older girls, she’d have to make it clear that she was Miss Seton, drawing teacher, and not Lucy, the colonel’s daughter famous for never holding her tongue.

  She flipped through her own sketch pad, hurrying past the sketch of Peter to find an empty page. After her shameless response to yesterday’s hand kisses, she needed no more reminders of her flawed character.

  Today she would do better.

  “What a fine picture you ladies make,” said a male voice.

  Startled, she looked up to see Señor Montalvo striding up to the landing. Just the sight of him in a chocolate-hued riding coat, tight buckskin riding breeches, and well-polished Hessians sent her pulse racing. And a racing pulse didn’t augur well for good behavior.

  “What are you doing here?” she snapped.

  He laughed, the throaty sound making her go all shivery. “Such a welcome! You told me I might come, remember?”

  “I said later!” She rose to her feet. “After our lessons are done.”

  “I wanted to see you teaching your class,” he said smoothly.

  “But Mrs. Harris—”

  “I spoke to her when I entered. That’s how I knew where to find you. She thought my joining you a fine idea.” A devilish smile curved his mouth.

  A likely story. When Lucy had broached the possibility of taking Diego around the school yesterday, she’d had to twist Mrs. Harris’s arm to get her to agree. But apparently, even though Mrs. Harris wasn’t entirely sure that Señor Montalvo could be trusted, she did trust Lucy. Of course, that was only because she didn’t know about their previous encounter.

  “Very well, sir,” she said, determined not to let him intimidate her. “Feel free to watch, but I’m afraid you’ll be bored. The young ladies and I will merely draw for a bit, and then I’ll stroll around to observe and make comments.”

  “May I ask what you’re drawing?”

  “We were supposed to draw figures,” Tessa grumbled.

  “Miss Dalton—” Lucy warned.

  “I suppose you can’t draw figures without a model,” he jumped in, eyes twinkling. “Why not let me be your model? I might as well make myself useful.”

  Eleven pairs of hopeful eyes swung her way. She would have refused, except for one thing: being a model required utter stillness. He couldn’t distract her with magic tricks or flirtation, so she’d have a chance to extol the school’s virtues. And he’d have to listen.

  Besides, she could also ask him questions. She still felt that he was even more a Master of Mystery than he seemed, and this would give her the chance to unveil his secrets. It was crucial in any war to know the enemy well. Surely the man had some vulnerability.

  “All right, Señor Montalvo. We’d be delighted to have you as a model.”

  As the girls cheered, he flashed her an arrogant smile and strode to the bench at the other end of the landing.

  Enjoy yourself while you can, sir, Lucy thought smugly. Those planks will get uncomfortable very quickly. Even half an hour of holding the same position was sure to wipe that self-satisfied expression from his handsome face.

  When she resumed her seat, he called out, “How shall I pose?”

  “However you wish.” She picked up her charcoal, annoyingly eager to sketch him.

  “How’s this?” He stretched out on the bench on his back, crossing his ankles and tucking his hands under his head.

  When the girls giggled, she scowled. He thought he was so clever. “Planning to take a nap while we sketch you, sir?”

  “You did say I would be bored.”

  “Ah, but you’re not allowed to move, even in sleep. I would prefer that you choose a pose that allows you more control.”

  He sat up to cast her
a cheeky grin. “You’re a harsh taskmaster, Miss Seton.”

  “I do try,” she said. “The way you’re sitting now is fine.”

  More than fine. He was leaning forward, with his hands planted at his sides and his legs splayed wide, like a man on the verge of rising. It not only lent the pose energy and action, but it flexed the muscles of his thighs beneath his tight breeches.

  Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.

  She should focus on a part of him that didn’t tempt her. Not his broad shoulders straining against his coat. Not the well-shaped calves encased in fine leather. Certainly not those amazing hands that had haunted her dreams . . .

  With a groan, she jerked her gaze to his face—where his sensuous mouth reminded her of how he’d kissed her hand yesterday. Nothing was safe with him.

  Determined to resist his attractions, she forced herself to think of him as an object—a statue, perhaps, like the stuffy ones adorning town halls.

  For a while, only the scratch of charcoals on paper pierced the silence.

  Then he cleared his throat. “Am I allowed to talk?”

  “As long as you move only your lips.” She seized on the opening. “I’m sure the young ladies would enjoy hearing about your home in Spain.”

  “What makes you think I’m Spanish?”

  “You speak Spanish.”

  “And English, Portuguese, and French.”

  “Fine.” She tried not to be impressed that he spoke four languages. “Tell us about wherever your home is.”

  “I’m from León.”

  Her gaze shot up from the sketch pad. “That is a province in Spain, isn’t it?”

  “You know of it?” He didn’t sound entirely surprised.

  She knew of it better than she wished. Her mother had died in its frozen mountain passes. “As a girl, I traveled through Spain with my parents.”

  “Why were you in Spain, Miss Seton?” Tessa asked.

  “My father served in the army.” Both of her fathers had. Her real father, a British soldier named Tom Crawford, had died at the Battle of La Coruña, heartsick and weakened by the recent loss of his wife. But not before begging his superior officer, Hugh Seton, to take her in. According to the colonel, neither of her parents had possessed any other family.

  “So you were on the retreat to La Coruña,” Diego said, his tone oddly gentle.

  Tears stung her eyes. “Yes, though I was too young to remember anything except being always cold. And hungry.”

  Years later, she’d pored over every document relating to that disastrous retreat, looking for information about Sergeant Thomas Crawford or his Spanish wife, Catalina, who’d died beside the road. There was none. But she now knew the horrors they’d faced in the British army’s mad dash to reach the coast ahead of the French.

  “The mountains of Ancares get very cold in January. The snow lay thick that year.” An edge had entered his voice, but when she glanced at him, his expression was bland. “Or so I heard.”

  And the dead had littered the road. “If you’re from León, you are Spanish,” she said, eager to change the subject. “Why did you imply otherwise?”

  “Because I’m Galician. We’re an entirely different people, though Spain has . . . appropriated us, shall we say.”

  “How can there be snow in Spain?” Miss Pierce put in. “Isn’t it hot there?”

  “It depends on what part you’re in. Where I come from, it’s hot in summer, cold in winter. On one side are the mountains, on the other high plains. It’s green but dry.” A palpable yearning for home filtered into his voice. “At present it’s spring. The cherries are in bloom there as well, and the grapevines are flourishing. The skies are clear and blue, and the days warm enough to doze in the courtyard.”

  Lucy caught her breath at his wistful tone. Why build his pleasure garden in England when he so clearly missed Spain?

  Perhaps it had to do with being Galician. “What makes Galicians different from Spaniards?”

  “We are descended from the Celts. Our ancient pallozas are much like the Celtic roundhouses in old Britain, and we play the gaita, which is exactly like the bagpipes your countrymen play.”

  Lucy stopped drawing. “What do you mean, my countrymen?”

  His gaze bored into her. “You are Scottish, are you not?”

  “But how—”

  “Your accent. I hear the burr of Scottish r’s in it.”

  A little shiver coursed along her flesh. Amazing that he should have heard it buried beneath the layers of her years abroad in an English regiment. “Not too much of a burr, I should think. But yes, Papa is Scottish.”

  “Even without the accent, I would have guessed you were Scottish.” He paused. “Or perhaps even Spanish.”

  A tingle of wariness vibrated along her spine. How did he know about her Spanish blood?

  He couldn’t possibly. Unless he’d been talking to people about her. But why would he? And why did the calculated look in his eyes make her think of medieval renditions of Lucifer enticing an innocent?

  Lucy shook herself. Now she was just being silly. “Why on earth would you guess I’m Spanish?” she said lightly as she forced herself to continue drawing.

  “You have their fiery temperament.”

  She sighed. Was “hot-blooded hoyden” branded on her brow, for pity’s sake? “Fiery temperaments are said to abound among the Irish and the Moors, too. You can’t guess a person’s lineage from her temperament.”

  “It was only an observation.”

  “An unjust one,” she shot back, unnerved by his perception. She couldn’t believe he’d just guessed at her lineage and gotten it right. “Is this another of your conjuring talents, to be able to detect a person’s origins?”

  “Actually, it is.”

  “Can you guess where I’m from?” piped up Miss Pierce.

  “Wales, possibly,” he answered. “And Miss Dalton is certainly from the south of England, though I cannot narrow it more than that.”

  He was right on both counts. Perhaps he could guess lineage. If so, she shouldn’t blame him for using his ability.

  Diego relaxed as he saw the suspicion subside on Lucy’s face. He had nearly given himself away with that comment about the Spanish. Her startled expression had made it clear that she not only knew of her Spanish blood but was surprised a stranger should be aware of it. Certainly no one in Edinburgh had mentioned it when he and Gaspar had asked about her and her “father.”

  Then again, no one in Edinburgh had been all that eager to speak to them. The Scottish were suspicious of everyone.

  “How did you guess I’m from Wales?” Miss Pierce exclaimed, bringing his attention back to his audience.

  “He’s a magician, you ninny,” said another girl. “They can divine people’s thoughts.”

  “No, we cannot,” he said dryly. “And any magician who claims otherwise is only lying to get your money. I merely have a good ear for accents. When I was young and entertaining the regiments in Spain and Portugal, I met men from all over. I trained myself to notice how their speech reflected their origins. It has proved a useful talent for a conjurer.”

  “When lying to get people’s money, you mean?” Lucy said archly.

  Curse the woman—she knew exactly how to try his temper. “I am neither a cardsharp nor a thief, Miss Seton.” Though he had briefly been both.

  “Forgive me,” she said without sincerity. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were.”

  No, she had meant to imply that he was the devil. His role as villain already began to pall. He had always considered himself honorable, even while doing things to survive that he had not been proud of. He was not the sort of man to open a pleasure garden next to a girls’ school, even one belonging to the hated English.

  It gnawed at him that he must pretend to do so.

  The girls let out a loud cry.

  “What?” he asked, startled from his ill humor.

  “You’re to hold still, which includes your expressi
on,” Lucy reminded him. “No frowning. Or smiling, for that matter.”

  “Ah. Beg pardon,” he bit out, resisting the impulse to point out that she’d been the one to provoke him into a frown.

  She seemed to provoke him into many unwise things. Such as talking about Villafranca. He hadn’t meant to chatter on about the town of his birth like some old man reminiscing about his youth.

  He had only fallen in with her questions about Spain so he could determine if she had indeed been on the road to La Coruña with the Forty-second Regiment, as the marqués had speculated. When Diego and Gaspar had first begun to fix on her as their quarry, they had been perplexed to discover that the colonel had retired from the Seventy-third Regiment, not the Forty-second. They had finally decided that he must have purposely changed regiments to cover his tracks.

  Until she had spoken of the retreat to La Coruña, however, it had not occurred to him what it meant that she had been there at age four. How strong a little girl she must have been to survive deprivations that had killed sturdy members of the British army.

  He could tell that the memories pained her. If she did prove to be the marqués’s granddaughter, Diego might have to take a horsewhip to that colonel for having dragged her through such horrors, when she should have been at home being coddled by her true parents.

  Leave it to the British to think themselves impervious to cold and hunger, to count on being able to take what they wanted from whoever dared to—

  He gritted his teeth against the memories. He could not change what had happened to his family, but at least he could set to rights what the damnable British had done to her. A pity that Doña Catalina and her husband, Don Álvaro, had both died a few years after their daughter’s abduction. But if Lucy did prove to be Doña Lucinda, she would at least be reunited with her grandfather, who would make her the sparkling jewel of society that she deserved to be.

  Diego started to change position, then remembered it was not allowed. This modeling was none too comfortable. His left leg had gone to sleep, and his back throbbed. He tried shifting his leg, but the girls howled a protest. Dios Santo.

  Lucy began to look smug. No wonder she had agreed to his proposal so readily. She did like to torture him.