Read Online Charming the Devil by Lois Greiman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lois Greiman
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knowing it was bound to slow its pace eventually, dropped to a walk of his own accord, allowing them to approach the creek at a more sedate pace. Side by side, the two horses lowered their heads and descended the bank.
“Is there a problem?” Faye asked, eyeing him as they climbed the opposite slope. “With your mount?”
“Nay,” he said, and though he knew he should elaborate, there seemed to be no more words in the face of such disastrous beauty.
She nodded, scowling slightly and looking like nothing so much as a piqued faerie. “Your eye,” she said. “I am sorry. It must make it difficult to see.”
It took him a moment to realize she was searching for a reason for their leisurely pace. And though he had, on more than one occasion, ridden riddled with bullets and near unconscious in the saddle, he would rather she think him a weakling than know he had remained awake half the night fretting over her safety during these moments together.
“It is healing,” he said, and realized suddenly that, indeed, it was mending with amazing swiftness. Reaching up, he brushed his thumb across her gift, hidden as it was beneath the traditional hunt garb. A white shirt, a canary waistcoat, and a dark coat, split up the back and nearly reachinghis knees. These English huntsmen wore enough clothing to stop a bayonet. “What manner of rock did ye call this?”
“Bloodstone.”
He caught her with his eyes, wondering about her. Who was she? The sophisticated widow she portrayed to the world or the fragile ingénue he imagined peeking from her eyes when no one was looking? “And what made you think it might be helpful?”
She stared at him, speechless for a moment, and he continued.
“A polished lady such as yourself,” he said. “You seem too modern to believe in the old ways.”
“Modern?”
“Aye.”
For a fleeting moment her lips quirked up before her face settled back into serious lines. “I fear you are thinking of someone else. I am quite old-fashioned. But what of you, sir? Tell me of yourself.”
Why would she take an interest? He was hardly the elegant pink of the ton so intriguing to the English elite. Indeed, some had called him a Celtic troll. A few of those clever wits still retained their teeth; he wasn’t as sensitive about his size as he had been in his younger days. “There is little to tell.”
“Judging by your accent, I would guess you were not born here in London.”
“You would be wrong.” His voice sounded gruffand unrefined, making him immediately regret his foolish truthfulness. He had no wish for her to learn the truth about him. Far better that she think of him as an interesting oddity. It had gained him entrance to the ton’s most prestigious venues after all. “My mother did indeed birth me in London, but I did not stay long,” he admitted.
“She traveled?”
“She died,” he said, then all but rolled his eyes at the bluntness of his own words. Why not tell her how it had felt to hold his uncle’s dying body in his bloodied arms while he was at it?
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Nay.” He tried to negate his words, but implying his mother’s death did not matter hardly made him sound any more the prince. “I remember naught of her.”
“Nothing?”
“Only that I was the one what—” he began, and stopped himself. She had died moments after his birth, and though his father had never blamed Rogan for her death, that did not mean he could not blame himself. He was, after all, a troll. At least by some estimations. “Only that she had summer eyes.”
“What?” She was watching him closely, and he realized suddenly that he had said the words with too much feeling, when in truth he did not recall her eyes a’tall, but only had others’ words to remember her by.
She blinked at him. “Summer—”
“Blue,” he said gruffly and wished to hell he hadn’t started down that path. “They were naught but blue.”
“I don’t understand how summer—” she
“Is there a problem?” Faye asked, eyeing him as they climbed the opposite slope. “With your mount?”
“Nay,” he said, and though he knew he should elaborate, there seemed to be no more words in the face of such disastrous beauty.
She nodded, scowling slightly and looking like nothing so much as a piqued faerie. “Your eye,” she said. “I am sorry. It must make it difficult to see.”
It took him a moment to realize she was searching for a reason for their leisurely pace. And though he had, on more than one occasion, ridden riddled with bullets and near unconscious in the saddle, he would rather she think him a weakling than know he had remained awake half the night fretting over her safety during these moments together.
“It is healing,” he said, and realized suddenly that, indeed, it was mending with amazing swiftness. Reaching up, he brushed his thumb across her gift, hidden as it was beneath the traditional hunt garb. A white shirt, a canary waistcoat, and a dark coat, split up the back and nearly reachinghis knees. These English huntsmen wore enough clothing to stop a bayonet. “What manner of rock did ye call this?”
“Bloodstone.”
He caught her with his eyes, wondering about her. Who was she? The sophisticated widow she portrayed to the world or the fragile ingénue he imagined peeking from her eyes when no one was looking? “And what made you think it might be helpful?”
She stared at him, speechless for a moment, and he continued.
“A polished lady such as yourself,” he said. “You seem too modern to believe in the old ways.”
“Modern?”
“Aye.”
For a fleeting moment her lips quirked up before her face settled back into serious lines. “I fear you are thinking of someone else. I am quite old-fashioned. But what of you, sir? Tell me of yourself.”
Why would she take an interest? He was hardly the elegant pink of the ton so intriguing to the English elite. Indeed, some had called him a Celtic troll. A few of those clever wits still retained their teeth; he wasn’t as sensitive about his size as he had been in his younger days. “There is little to tell.”
“Judging by your accent, I would guess you were not born here in London.”
“You would be wrong.” His voice sounded gruffand unrefined, making him immediately regret his foolish truthfulness. He had no wish for her to learn the truth about him. Far better that she think of him as an interesting oddity. It had gained him entrance to the ton’s most prestigious venues after all. “My mother did indeed birth me in London, but I did not stay long,” he admitted.
“She traveled?”
“She died,” he said, then all but rolled his eyes at the bluntness of his own words. Why not tell her how it had felt to hold his uncle’s dying body in his bloodied arms while he was at it?
“I am sorry,” she said.
“Nay.” He tried to negate his words, but implying his mother’s death did not matter hardly made him sound any more the prince. “I remember naught of her.”
“Nothing?”
“Only that I was the one what—” he began, and stopped himself. She had died moments after his birth, and though his father had never blamed Rogan for her death, that did not mean he could not blame himself. He was, after all, a troll. At least by some estimations. “Only that she had summer eyes.”
“What?” She was watching him closely, and he realized suddenly that he had said the words with too much feeling, when in truth he did not recall her eyes a’tall, but only had others’ words to remember her by.
She blinked at him. “Summer—”
“Blue,” he said gruffly and wished to hell he hadn’t started down that path. “They were naught but blue.”
“I don’t understand how summer—” she
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