In Bed With The Devil Part 15

"Do you know, before the night I showed up in your library, I thought you were a man without a heart?"

"You thought correctly."

She shook her head slightly. "No, I don't think so. You're a very complicated man. I'm not even sure you appreciate how complicated you are." She skimmed her fingers over his shoulder. "How did you get these scars?"

His body reacted with a swift vengeance. He grabbed her hand, her injured hand. She gasped. He swore.

"I'm sorry." He brought her curled fingers to his lips and pressed as gentle a kiss to them as he could. "You just really shouldn't...you just shouldn't."

Her eyes widened as though she'd only just fully awakened and realized- "Oh, good Lord, of course I shouldn't. I'm in a man's bedchamber. Oh, forgive me, whatever was I thinking. I shall leave now."

She came off the bed quickly and hurried to the door. He rolled to the side, away from her, but twisted his head back to look at her. "Catherine?"

She stopped at the door, her hand on the k.n.o.b, her face averted.

"Tell me you didn't have your carriage deliver you to my front door."

She shook her head. "To the park, but I told the driver not to wait."

"Then give me a few moments to make myself presentable, and I'll escort you home."

Nodding, she opened the door and slipped out.

He rolled onto his back and stared at the velvet canopy over his bed. He'd never had a woman in his bedchamber, in his bed, without making love to her. It seemed inconceivable that he had last night, but what was even more amazing was the immense satisfaction he felt in simply having had her here. It was enough.

Oh, he wanted more, he wanted a great deal more, but what she'd given him was enough.

He loved Frannie, he'd always loved Frannie. But of late, it seemed he was only capable of thinking of Catherine.

Chapter 11.

Catherine was mortified. Quite simply and completely mortified.

She sat on a bench in the hallway and fought to quell her trembling. She'd been carrying on a conversation with a man in his bedchamber-worse than that! In his bed!-as though they were sitting in the garden sipping tea and nibbling on biscuits. With nothing except a thin sheet hiding the treasures of his body.

Oh, how she'd wanted to explore those treasures.

Falling asleep on his chest had been lovely. He had such a magnificent chest. Even the scars didn't detract from his rough beauty. She couldn't imagine that he'd gained any of them after he came to live here. No, he would have acquired them when he was a lad living on the streets. She wanted to weep for what he must have endured.

Who could blame him for turning to deceit in order to gain a better life?

She wanted to hold him close, stroke him, and take away all the bad memories that must surely haunt him. No wonder he had debilitating headaches. Who wouldn't with the horrendous memories with which he no doubt lived?

Was she adding to his burden by asking him to kill for her? When he gave up the last of his soul, would he give up the last of his humanity?

She'd not expected him to be kind. She'd not expected him to be tender.

If someone had asked her who would be the worst man in all of England to marry, who would beat his wife and terrorize his children, who would selfishly care about only his own needs, wants, and desires, who would put himself first above all others-if someone had asked her, she'd have said Claybourne without hesitating. She'd come to him because she'd believed he was worse than Avendale-and one didn't ask an angel to destroy the devil. One asked another devil.

But he was not at all as she'd envisioned him to be.

Good G.o.d, he hadn't even taken advantage of her being in his bed, and that gentlemanly behavior, to her everlasting shame, disappointed her.

His bedchamber door opened, and he stepped out. Clothed. Fully clothed. Thank the Lord for small favors, even if they did provide a measure of regret.

"I feel like such a ninny," she said. "Really there's no reason for you to escort me home. If you'll just provide the carriage-"

"You can't possibly believe after our encounter with those ruffians and your belief that you're being followed that I'm going to put you in a carriage and not ensure your safe return home."

Before she could frame her argument, his stomach made a rumbling noise, and Catherine thought he was blus.h.i.+ng. Who would have thought the Devil Earl would be so easily embarra.s.sed? She might have considered it precious if he weren't so masculine, so much a man. He was so very different from what she'd thought. Oh, he could be formidable when he wished to be. She'd never forget how he'd made her tremble in his library and doubt her wisdom in going to see him. But he could be equally gentle.

"My apologies," he said. "I can't eat when a headache is upon me, and now that I'm feeling better, I have an appet.i.te." He glanced at the hallway clock. "We have a couple of hours before daylight. Will you join me for a bit of breakfast?"

She had every intention of being proper and saying no, but she heard herself say, "Yes."

Thank goodness, her mouth was wise enough to snap shut before she added that she'd enjoy it very much. As his butler didn't seem to know who she was, she thought she'd be spared from inciting gossip.

To her surprise, after he escorted her to the kitchen, he didn't wake the cook. Instead, he sat Catherine in a chair at the servant's table, found some cloths, and took her hand in his.

"I thought we were going to eat," she said, while he unwrapped the bandage.

"We will." When he'd removed the wrapping, he studied her hand. "It doesn't look too bad. Does it hurt?"

"It aches a bit, but nothing I can't live with."

He raised his eyes to hers and she was struck by the force of his gaze, as though he had the power to peer into her heart.

"Last night you lied to me when you said it wasn't hurting."

"It wasn't that bad, truly."

"It was bad enough to bleed."

"It seems rather ungrateful to be put out with me after I worked to make your pain go away."

His mouth twitched slightly. "I suppose you make a valid argument."

Very gently, he began to wrap a clean strip of cloth around her hand.

"We'll be alike now," she said. "Both of us with a scar on our hand. Yours is from prison, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I noticed that Mr. Dodger has one. Yours is very different."

"Mine shamed me. I tried to slice it off. Only served to make it more noticeable."

Her stomach grew queasy at the thought of him taking a knife to himself. How desperately he must have wanted to be rid of it. "Were you in prison long?"

"Three months."

"What was your offense?"

He gave her a c.o.c.ky grin. "Getting caught."

He stood and she grabbed his wrist. "What did you do?"

"I stole some cheese. It's not easy to run with a block of cheese. Lesson learned: steal smaller items."

Turning away, he said, "I'm very skilled at making a ham and cheese omelet. Interested?"

"As stealing it was your downfall, I wouldn't think you'd care much for cheese."

"I'm very fond of cheese. Why do you think I tried to steal some?"

She watched as he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over a chair. He began rolling up his sleeves.

"You're really going to cook it yourself?" she asked.

He gave her a self-deprecating smile. "I keep odd hours. I often can't sleep. It would be unfair to ask my cook to maintain the hours I prefer keeping."

"But that's the whole point in having servants. They're supposed to be at your beck and call."

"They're available when I need them. Presently, I don't." He lit the wood already stacked in the stove. "You see? My cook keeps things ready for me." He looked at her, lifted a brow. "Omelet?"

"Yes, please. What can I do to help?" She started to rise but he stilled her actions with the raising of his hand.

"You've done enough, Catherine. Now it's my turn to do something for you. Relax and enjoy the pampering."

She watched as he moved about the kitchen. He knew where everything was. Leaning forward, she put her elbows on the table and her chin in her unwounded palm.

"Is that a hint of a smile on your face?" she asked, thoughtfully. It transformed him.

"I actually enjoy cooking." He broke eggs into a bowl and whisked them around. "Brings back good memories."

"Of your home? Before you were orphaned?"

He stilled for a moment, shook his head, and went back to preparing the eggs. "No, as we got older, Frannie began to do the cooking. I took pleasure in watching her. She was like a little mother."

"When you were living with that man? Feagan was it?"

"Yes, Feagan." He added the ham and cheese, then whisked the eggs some more, before pouring the batter into the skillet that had been warming on the stove.

"Your punishment for stealing cheese seems a bit harsh," she told him.

"I thought so as well, and I was determined to never get caught again."

"What was it like, truly, growing up as you did?"

He studied the eggs cooking in the skillet. She thought he wasn't going to respond, but then he said, "Crowded, very crowded. We lived and slept in a single room, spooning around each other for warmth. But we weren't hungry. And we were made to feel welcome. The first time I walked into Feagan's was a very different experience from the first time I walked into a ballroom."

"I suspect your age had something to do with the way you were greeted. Children are always more eager for new playmates than adults."

"Perhaps."

"I've been reading Oliver Twist to my father. It's the story-"

"I've read it."

"Did d.i.c.kens have the right of it?"

"He painted a very accurate portrait of life in the rookeries, yes."

"It wasn't a very pleasant life."

"Who would you die for, Catherine?"

It seemed an odd question. He looked at her over his shoulder, as though he were truly expecting an answer.

"I've never given it any thought. I suppose...I don't really know. My father, I think. My brother. I don't know."

"The thing about the way I lived as a boy is that it gave me friends for whom I would die. So as awful as some moments were, overall, it was not such a horrible way to live. It bound us together in a way that living an easier life might not have."

He slid the omelet onto a plate. Joining her at the table, he set the plate between them, handed her a fork and knife before giving her a wry grin. "I only know how to make one at a time. We either let this one get cold while I cook another or share."

He seemed to be waiting for her to answer. Sharing seemed so intimate, but then she'd shared his bed, in a way.

"I'm perfectly fine sharing," she said.

He grinned as though he found her answer amusing. "Would you like some milk?"

"Yes, please."

He removed a bottle from the icebox, poured milk into a gla.s.s, and set the gla.s.s on the table. He rolled down his sleeves and slipped his jacket back on, before sitting at the table with her.

"Try it," he ordered.

She sliced off a bit of omelet and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. Then she smiled at him. "It's rather good."

"Did you think it wouldn't be?"