Saw Matthew shove Melisande over the edge of the parapet.
Jasper fired the second pistol, and Matthew’s head jerked violently£erkf t back. Then Jasper was scrambling on the slippery tiles, a scream filling his head. He shoved Matthew’s corpse to the side and looked over the parapet, expecting to see Melisande’s body broken below. Instead, he saw her face, three feet down, looking back up at him.
He gasped and the screaming stopped. Only then did he realize that the sound had been real and that he’d been the one making it. He stretched his hand down. She was grasping an ornamental ridge of stone.
“Take my hand,” he rasped, his throat raw.
She blinked, looking dazed. He remembered that day, so long ago, in front of Lady Eddings’s town house just before they were married. She’d refused his hand to help her down from his carriage.
He leaned farther out. “Melisande. Trust me. Take my hand now.”
She gasped, her precious lips parting, and let go of the ledge with one hand. He lunged and grasped her wrist. Then he leaned backward and used his weight to haul her up and to safety.
She came over the parapet and fell limply into his arms. He wrapped his body about hers and held her. Simply held her, inhaling the scent of oranges in her hair, feeling her breath on his cheek. It was a while before he realized that he was shaking.
Finally, she stirred. “I thought you hated guns.”
He pulled back and looked at her face. She had a bruise on one cheek, and there was gore splattered in her hair, but she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He had to clear his throat before he spoke. “I do hate guns. I loathe them desperately.”
Her lovely brows knit. “Then how . . . ?”
“I love you,” he said. “Don’t you know that? I would crawl through the flames of hell on my knees for you. Firing a goddamn gun is nothing compared to you, my dearest wife.”
He brushed her face, watching her eyes widen, and he bent to kiss her, repeating as he did, “I love you, Melisande.”
Chapter Twenty
So the little kitchen boy was brought trembling before the king. It wasn’t long before he confessed. Three times, Jack, the princess’s fool, had paid him to have a turn at stirring the pot of soup—the last time this very night. Well! The courtiers gasped, Princess Surcease looked thoughtful, and the king roared with rage. The guards dragged Jack to kneel before the king, and one placed a sword against the fool’s throat.
“Speak!” cried the king. “Speak and tell us from whom you stole the rings!” For naturally no one believed the short, twisted fool could’ve won the rings himself. “Speak! Or I will have your head cut from your body!” . . .
—from LAUGHING JACK
One month later . . .
Sally Suchlike hesitated outside her mistress’s bedroom. It was late morning, but still one never knew, and she’d hate to go in if her mistress was not alone. She twisted her hands and stared at the little statue of the nasty goat man and the naked lady while she tried to decide, but of course the statue made her mind drift. The goat man did look so like Mr. Pynch and she wondered, as always, if his rather gigantic—
A man cleared his throat directly behind her.
Sally shrieked and whirled around. Mr. Pynch was standing so close she could feel the heat of his chest.
The valet raised one eyebrow slowly, which made him look more like the goat man than ever. “What are you doing, loitering in the hallway, Miss Suchlike?”
She tossed her head. “I was thinking on whether I should go into the mistress’s room or not.”
“And why wouldn’t you?”
She pretended shock. “She might not be alone, that’s why not.”
Mr. Pynch lifted his upper lip in a faint sneer. “I find that hard to believe. Lord Vale always sleeps alone.”
“Is that so?” Sally put her hands on her hips, feeling excitement heat her lower belly. “Well, why don’t you just go and see if your master is in his bed alone, because I wager he’s not in his room at all.”
The valet didn’t deign to reply. He just gave her a glance that swept her from head to toe and entered Lord Vale’s bedroom.
Sally blew out a breath and fanned her cheeks, trying to cool down as she waited.
She didn’t have long. Mr. Pynch reemerged from the master’s bedroom and closed the door quietly behind him. He stalked to where she stood and loomed over her until Sally backed against the wall.
Then Mr. Pynch lowered his head to breathe into her ear, “The room is empty. Do you accept the usual forfeit?”
Sally gulped, because her stays seemed a mite too tight. “Y-yes.”
Mr. Pynch swooped down and captured her lips with his own.
The silence in the hallway was broken only by Mr. Pynch’s deepened breathing and Sally’s sigh.
Then Mr. Pynch lifted his head. “Why do you find that statue so fascinating? Every time I catch you in the hall, you’re staring at it.”
Sally blushed because Mr. Pynch was nibbling along her neck. “I think it looks like you. The little goat man.”
Mr. Pynch raised his head and glanced over his shoulder. Then he looked back at Sally, one brow raised regally. “Indeed.”
“Mmm,” Sally said. “And I’ve been wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
He nibbled at her shoulder, which made it rather hard to concentrate.
Sally tried valiantly anyway. “I’ve been wondering if you’re like the little goat man all over.”
Mr. Pynch stilled against her shoulder, and for a moment, Sally thought that perhaps she’d been too impertinent.
Then he raised his head, and she saw the gleam in his eye. “Why, Miss Suchlike, I’d be happy to help answer your questions, but I think there is one thing we must do first.”
“And what’s that?” she asked breathlessly.
His face lost all trace of teasing. He suddenly became quite serious, his blue eyes gazing down at her almost hesitantly.
He cleared his throat. “I believe you must marry me, Miss Suchlike, in order for us to continue this discussion.”
She pulled back a little and stared up at him, completely at a loss for words.
He scowled. “What?”
“I thought you said you were too old for me,” she said.
“I did—”
“And that I was too young to know my own mind.”
“I did.”
“And that I ought to be looking at other men. Men more my own age, like that footman Sprat.”
His scowl became thunderous. “I don’t remember telling you to look at young Sprat. Have you?”
“Well, no,” she admitted.
It had nearly broken her heart when he’d said those words, for she didn’t want to look at any other man but him. The only thing that had saved her, in fact, was that he’d kept creeping up behind her in the mornings and losing his silly wager. Mr. Pynch didn’t seem able to stop himself from their flirtation, and she certainly couldn’t.
Not that she’d wanted to.
“Good,” he growled now.
She beamed up at him.
He stared at her a moment and then shook his head as if to clear it. “Well?”
“Well what?”
He sighed. “Will you marry me, Sally Suchlike?”
“Oh.” Sally carefully smoothed her skirt, because of course she wanted to marry Mr. Pynch. But she was a levelheaded girl, and she needed to make absolutely sure. Marriage, after all, was a very big step. “Why do you want to marry me?”
His expression was enough to send most girls into flight, but Sally had been studying Mr. Pynch and his expressions for some time now, and she knew she was quite safe with him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve kissed you every day in this hallway for the past fortnight or more. And even though you are too young and much too pretty for me, and you’ll no doubt regret sooner or later being tied to an ugly bastard like me, I still want to marry you.”
“Why?”
He stared down at her, and if Mr. Pynch had had hair, he might’ve pulled it out in frustration. “Because I love you, you silly lass!”
“Oh, good,” Sally purred, and wrapped her arms about his thick neck. “Then I’ll marry you. But you’re wrong, you know.”
At that point, Sally was interrupted by the valet kissing her quite firmly and enthusiastically, so it was some time before he raised his head and said, “How am I wrong?”
Sally laughed up into Mr. Pynch’s lovely, scowling face. “You’re wrong that I’ll regret marrying you. I’ll never regret marrying you, because I love you as well.”
Which only earned her another enthusiastic kiss.
MELISANDE STRETCHED LUXURIOUSLY and rolled against her husband. “Good morning,” she whispered.
“Indeed it is,” he said. His voice was lazy, with just a hint of exhaustion.
She hid a smile against his shoulder. He’d nearly worn himself out, making slow love to her. He did seem to like waking her in the mornings.
A scratch and a whine came from her dressing room.
Melisande poked Vale in the ribs. “You need to let him out now.”
He sighed. “Must I?”
“He’ll only scratch more, and then he’ll start barking, and Sprat will come to the door and ask if he should take Mouse out.”
“Dear God, such a large ruckus for such a small dog,” Vale muttered, but he rose from their pallet and padded nude across the floor.
Melisande watched him under lowered eyelids. He really did have the most beautiful bottom. She smiled, wondering what he’d think if she said so.
Jasper opened the door to the dressing room. Mouse trotted busily out with a bone in his mouth. He jumped on the pallet and turned about three times before settling and gnawing his prize. Their pallet had expanded in the last month with the addition of a thin mattress and lots of pillows. Melisande had had the bed removed from her room altogether, and now the pallet took up pride of place against the wall between the windows. At night, with only a candle for light, she imagined that she lay in some Ottoman palace.
“That dog ought to have his own bed,” Vale muttered.
“He does have his own bed,” Melisande pointed out. “He just doesn’t sleep in it.”
Vale scowled down at the dog. Of course, he had been the one to give Mouse the bone, so no one in the room took the scowl very seriously.
“Be glad he no longer sleeps under the covers,” Melisande said.
“I am glad. I hope never to find a cold nose against my arse again.” He turned his scowl on her. “And what are you smirking about, my lady wife?”
“I beg your pardon, this is not a smirk.”
“Oh, yes?” He began to prowl toward her, all lean muscle and intent, interested male. “Then how would you characterize your expression?”
“I’m admiring the view,” she said.
“Are you?” He made a detour to where he’d carelessly flung his coat the night before. “Perhaps you’d like me to perform a gavotte?”
She tilted her head, watching as he dug in the pocket of his coat. “I might like that.”
“Would you, you insatiable baggage?”
“I would.” She stretched a bit on the pallet, letting her nipples pop from the coverlet. “But I can be satiated, you know.”
“Can you?” he muttered. His eyes were on her nipples, and he seemed a bit distracted. “I’ve tried and tried and still you’re eager. You wear a man out.”
Her lips curved at his plaintive tone, and she glanced significantly at his cock, standing proud and erect now. “You don’t look worn out.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it,” he said conversationally. “You look at me and I become embarrassingly attentive.”