Bronwyn Scott Read online

  Mercedes could be managed. He’d saved her from the consequences of her impetuous nature once before and that deserved her loyalty. He would remind her of that if need be. Still, he wasn’t worried. Mercedes had been down that road before. She’d be wary about trusting the Captain outright.

  Lockhart laughed out loud. If he and Mercedes played their cards right, he’d come out of this with a protégé and a son-in-law. He’d give anything to be a fly on the wall in that parlour right now. If Mercedes was smart, she’d give the Captain a piece of her mind and then a piece of her heart.

  * * *

  Mercedes knew something had gone wrong the moment Greer stepped into the parlour. ‘What happened?’ She could guess what it was, though. Her father’s competitive streak had run into Greer’s principles. Nonetheless, she tucked her needle into the fabric and stilled her hands, giving Greer all her attention.

  ‘This is not what I signed on for—fleecing locals.’ Greer fairly spat the words at her in his frustration.

  ‘You were warned,’ she said evenly. ‘The night we played for the road, you said you were always serious about money. I thought you understood what that meant.’ In moments like this, she was convinced men were just overgrown boys, squabbling over principles instead of toy boats. A woman was a far more practical creature. A woman had to be.

  Greer pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Since when has “come bash around England and generate interest in the billiards tournament” been synonymous with taking money off unsuspecting local players who don’t have any idea who they’re up against?’

  Mercedes set down her sewing and rose. ‘Listen to me. If you’d come down off your moral high horse, you’d see the wisdom of it. You need to practise. You can’t simply walk into an elite subscription room in Bath, or a gentleman’s private home, and expect to be perfect without practice. A real player knows “practice” means more than shooting balls around the baize. It means knowing how to work the room to maximum advantage. Places like Bosham are where we practise that skill before we try it out for real in places that count, places that don’t give you a second chance.’

  Greer glared at her. ‘What an absolute delight you are. You really know how to cut a man down.’

  ‘Because you came looking for sympathy and I gave you truth?’ Mercedes stood her ground. His words hurt, especially after the fun of the afternoon and the flirting in the carriage that morning. But she had a job to do, for her father and for herself. Neither job involved making friends with Greer Barrington, no matter how enticing that option appeared on occasion.

  ‘Lesson one, Captain, is to separate your feelings from your pocket. A good gambler is not emotional about money.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he snapped. ‘You know very well I don’t wager what I cannot afford.’

  ‘Your money or theirs,’ Mercedes amended. ‘Emotions go both ways. Your problem is that you get emotional about their money.’ She paused, letting the words sink in. ‘And maybe you should,’ she added.

  ‘Maybe I should what?’ Greer challenged.

  ‘Maybe you should play with what you can’t afford to lose. You might try harder to win.’ Mercedes held his gaze, refusing to back down. He had to learn this most primary of lessons before they could move on. A player who could not set himself apart from the money would never reach his potential. She’d seen it happen too many times.

  Greer blew out a breath and she had the sense she’d pushed him too far. ‘I can’t believe you’re siding with him.’

  The words sliced her as surely as any blade. If he only knew! She wasn’t on her father’s side. She wasn’t on Greer’s side. She was simply on her side, trying to make a place in a world that insisted there wasn’t one for a female. Her own anger began to spill. ‘I’m not siding with him. I’m trying to save you from yourself. Or maybe you don’t care. Not all of us have the home farm waiting for us if this doesn’t work out.’

  Damn him and his high-road principles. She didn’t want to need him, but the reality behind all her bravado about emotional detachment was stark and simple. He was her chance. Her success was tied to his although she dare not tell him that.

  ‘I must apologise.’ Greer clicked his heels together and executed a stiff bow, his tone just as rigid. ‘I’ve taken my frustration out on you. You are merely the messenger of unpleasant news.’ He reached out and covered the star charm where it lay against her neck. His hand was warm on her skin, the gesture intimate, his fingers achingly near her breast. He smiled. ‘We’re in this together.’

  Until it’s time not to be. Mercedes masked the self-serving thought with a smile. She needed to exit the room. The atmosphere between them was charged with a new emotion more reminiscent of their unfinished business from the fairground.

  ‘We’re not meant to be at each other’s throats,’ she offered by way of acknowledging his apology. If she didn’t leave soon, this conversation would veer into territory best left unexplored for the moment until she could make her mind up about the handsome officer—was he to be more than a protégé to her? But her feet stayed rooted to the ground.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He raised a hand to the back of her head, trapping her, drawing her closer, a secret smile on his lips. ‘Being at each other’s throats isn’t all bad.’ He took her mouth in a hard kiss, letting his lips wander along her jaw and down the length of her throat, teasing her with a flick of his tongue here, a nip of his teeth there, until he captured her mouth again, challenging her to a heated duel of tongues.

  ‘Or being in them,’ she managed between kisses. This was new territory indeed! Usually she was the aggressor. It was what she preferred. It reduced the opportunity to be taken by surprise. More importantly, it let her drive the encounter. But it was very apparent that Greer was driving this one.

  Her hands anchored roughly in the thick depths of his hair. This was not a gentle exchange and she roused to it, revelling in the feel of his hands at her hips, hard and strong as they held her, the thrill of his lips pressed to her neck, to her mouth.

  She sucked at his ear, her teeth taking sensual bites of his lobe until Greer gave a fierce growl of pleasure, but she couldn’t completely shake the thought that had taken up residence in the back of her mind. She’d use Greer, use this chemistry between them until he and it had served their purpose. Then she’d cut him free. She’d have to.

  Such an assumption had always been an underlying tenet of her plan. She was turning out too much like her father. She’d not meant to be. It was a rather sobering revelation and one she was definitely not proud of.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘What are the rules to a good hustle?’ Mercedes all but barked across the table in yet another small inn in yet another middling, nameless town. Good Lord, the woman was driving him crazy on all levels.

  Greer gave her a steely look across the billiards table. If she asked him how to hustle one more time he was going to walk out of this room. Every morning in the carriage it was the same drill: ‘Tell me the best place to aim a slice, the proper way to split a pair, what are the best defensive shots.’ Every afternoon, it was practice, practice, practice until he could execute the strategies in his sleep. At least he could when he wasn’t dreaming of her.

  Since Bosham she’d managed to torture him by day as well as night; the temptress that had sucked his ear lobe to near climax in the Millstream parlour had taken up residence in his dreams, leaving him waking aching and hard. But that temptress became a termagant in the morning.

  ‘Well? What are the rules to a good hustle?’ Mercedes prompted when he met her questions with silence. ‘Aren’t you going to answer?’

  Greer put down the cue stick and folded his arms across his chest. ‘No, as a matter of fact, I am not.’ Then he did as he’d promised himself. He walked past Mercedes and out the front door of the inn into the glorious spring afternoon.

  ‘Greer Barrington, come back here. I have asked you a question.’

  Oh, that did it. He was not g
oing to acquiesce, not before he gave her a piece of his mind. He didn’t stop until he’d reached the town green though he was aware of her behind him every step of the way, her anger palpable as it chased him across the street. Greer turned and faced her, fixing her with a hard stare. ‘Can you leave me the hell alone for once? What is it you want? “How do you shoot a slice, how do you split a pair, how do you compensate for angles?” It never stops!’

  His voice was too loud, but he didn’t care. It felt good to let out the frustrations, sexual and otherwise, that he’d carried for days.

  Mercedes answered him evenly, unfazed by his harsh words. ‘I like the best, Captain. That’s what I want. And if you want what I want, you’d better be the best because I don’t have time for anything less.’ Nothing got to her. Just once he’d like to see something get under her skin.

  ‘You did in Bosham. You had time for a picnic, time to stroll around the fair.’ Greer made a wide gesture to indicate the park around them. ‘Spring is passing you by while you’re penned up in a dark inn shooting slices and teaching hustles.’

  Something shifted in her grey eyes and her gaze lost its hardness. Her anger was fading. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw something akin to sadness in them, then it was gone, replaced by something more stoic, more like the Mercedes he’d come to know. ‘If I am, it will be worth it. I can enjoy next spring. Chances don’t come my way very often, Captain. I have to take them when they do, spring notwithstanding.’

  ‘Greer, please. No more “Captain.” You only call me “Captain” when you’re angry.’ Greer gave up the last of his anger, intrigue overriding his frustration. ‘What opportunity is that, Mercedes?’

  ‘To be on the road with my father,’ she said simply but tersely, and Greer sensed this was not a direction she’d willingly take the conversation. Her relationship with Lockhart was a touchy subject and, quite frankly, the relationship seemed a bit odd to him. It was nothing like the relationship his sisters had with his father. Mercedes and Lockhart were more like partners than a father and daughter.

  It was strange, too, to think the indomitable Mercedes would yearn for time with her parent like any other child. He’d spent his childhood lapping up any crumb of attention from his father’s table, treasuring those rare moments when his father came out of his office to take him riding. Even now, he knew he still craved his father’s approval. He’d wanted to make his father proud of his military career.

  Greer gave Mercedes a considering glance as they walked; she was so beautiful and proud it was hard to imagine she harboured the same wants as the rest of them. But she’d no more admit to it than he would, if asked. The conversational angle was played out. She would let him go no further with it. All he could do was tuck her arm through his and change the topic.

  ‘Have I ever mentioned how much you remind me of my superior officer, Colonel Donald Franklin? We had a secret nickname for him.’

  Mercedes favoured him with a tolerant smile, the kind reserved for belligerent six-year-olds. ‘And what was that name? I’m sure you’re going to tell me whether I want you to or not.’

  ‘Drill book Donny or sometimes Old Prissy Pants.’

  ‘I’m sure you want to tell me what he’d done to earn such lovely monikers.’

  ‘He never relented. Buttons, boots, hilts—he’d have as big a fit over them not being polished to perfection as he would over something important like messing up manoeuvres.’

  ‘Little things matter,’ Mercedes said defiantly, taking the Colonel’s part. He’d known she would even if it was just to be stubborn. He understood that. It was better to be stubborn than vulnerable. ‘Besides, he brought you back alive didn’t he? His lessons couldn’t have been that useless.’

  He didn’t miss the subtle analogy. She could bring him back to life, give him the spark his life was missing if he’d just listen to her. Still, for the sake of argument, he had to respond. ‘Buttons and boots can’t get you killed.’

  ‘I disagree. Buttons, boots, manoeuvres—they’re all part of acquiring discipline. In fact, it was one of the first things I noticed about you: your well kept uniform. It spoke volumes about the kind of man you were.’

  ‘What kind of man is that?’ He was enjoying this now. They were good together this way—walking and talking, sharing insights the polite people of the ton would consider too bold between a man and a woman.

  ‘A man who can be relied on to follow the rules.’ She tossed him a coy smile. ‘There was no Colonel Franklin to insist on polished buttons that night in Brighton and yet they were. No matter how much you may rail against his rules, you will follow them.’

  Greer gave a growl of dissatisfaction. He wasn’t sure the analysis was all that complimentary. ‘You make me sound like a milksop, as if I can’t think for myself.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve never once thought you were weak. Following rules makes you a man of discipline. It makes you reliable. I find that a very attractive quality.’ She smiled again, a smile made for bedrooms and the dark, not public parks in the brightness of the afternoon.

  She was flirting overtly with him now, the first time since Bosham. Greer felt himself go hard. Did she have any idea what sort of fuse she was lighting? She was by far the most intriguing woman he’d ever encountered. She called to him body and mind. The very physicality of her sensuality beckoned in wicked invitation while her mind fascinated him with its insights on human nature. To truly know her would be a heady prize, one he doubted any man had yet to capture. But one, he was sure, many men had failed in the attempting.

  ‘Circe,’ he said softly, letting the air charge between them and the afternoon be damned. If she wanted to play this game, who was he to deny her? He was confident enough in his abilities. Perhaps he’d be the one to claim the prize.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You,’ Greer drawled. ‘You’re Circe, the siren from Homer’s Odyssey.’

  She tossed her head, tiny diamond studs in her ears catching the light, an entirely seductive movement that drew the eye to her face. ‘Tell me, did Circe play billiards?’

  Greer laughed. ‘No, she was, and I quote directly from Homer, “the loveliest of all immortals.” She enticed men, but when they failed to win her, she turned them into animals.’

  Mercedes cocked her head to one side, giving him a smouldering stare of consideration. ‘Do you think I’m in the habit of reducing men to their baser natures? I think men do that quite well on their own without any help from me.’

  ‘I think, Mercedes, you know exactly how you affect a man.’ They’d come to an old, wide oak that hid them from the view of others in the park. It would be the most privacy they’d have. The game was getting dangerous now. How far did he dare take it? How far would Mercedes allow him to take it?

  ‘And Circe? Did she know or was it the type of curse where she was doomed to attract men? I must confess, I wasn’t all that good with the classics at school.’

  He could imagine that. Mercedes was the practical sort; the classics wouldn’t hold any appeal for her unless they held the secrets to turning metal into gold. ‘What were you good at?’

  Mischief flickered in her eyes. ‘Palm reading. Would you like me to read yours?’ She took his hand and turned it palm up between them.

  ‘They taught palmistry at your school?’ This must have been an interesting school indeed.

  ‘No,’ Mercedes said without looking up, all her attention riveted on his palm. ‘The gypsies did and they camped near the school every spring.’

  ‘And you ran off to visit them?’ At least he hoped her gaze didn’t drop any lower. There was an impressive show going on in his ever-tightening trousers. He’d have to get it under control before they started walking again.

  ‘Of course.’ She did look up briefly, then, her eyes dancing. ‘And no, my father doesn’t know.’

  He should have known. Greer chuckled. ‘Well, go on, tell me what you see.’ Besides a full-blown erection just inches from your skirts.
He was going to have to start wearing his darker trousers. A man couldn’t hide anything in fawn. Inexpressibles. Hardly. They were more like expressibles.

  ‘For starters, you have an air hand. That means you have long fingers and a squarish palm.’ She traced the outline of his hand with a slow finger. ‘I noticed your long fingers right away that first night.’

  ‘An air hand? Is that good or bad?’ He didn’t really care, he just liked the feel of her fingers tracing the lines of his palms.

  ‘Neither. It simply describes characteristics. You like intellectual challenges. You are easily bored. That would explain your enjoyment of the military and your eagerness to avoid the home farm, don’t you think?’

  Once more they skirted a truly personal issue. This time it was he who shied away from it. He caught her looking up at him from beneath her dark lashes. He chose to play the cynic. ‘It would if I hadn’t already told you that. How do I know you’re not just putting pieces of fact together and making this up to suit?’

  ‘You have to trust me.’ She spread his fingers and studied them each in turn. ‘Look at that.’ Mercedes licked her lips, looking entirely wanton and very much like a gypsy. He was positively rigid now. Her next words just about did him in. She caressed the flat of his palm. ‘You are a sexual creature who excels in the intimate arts.’

  ‘Be careful, Mercedes,’ Greer warned in low tones. He was about to ‘excel’ right there.

  ‘Or what? I’ll find my skirts up and my legs wrapped around your waist? Is that a promise?’ Mercedes gave a throaty laugh. The image she painted was a potent one but this was not the time or place for such a demonstration.

  Greer grabbed her wrist none too gently. ‘That’s enough.’ She needed to be taught a lesson about toying with a gentleman’s sensibilities. ‘I will not play the animal to your Circe in the middle of a public park.’