A Rogues Proposal (Cynster 4)

"He probably can't write." Flick glanced over her shoulder and met his eye. "So there's still a chance the syndicate-at least one of them-will appear here."

"Yes. To learn of Bletchley's success, if nothing else."

"Hmm." She looked at Bletchley. "I'll take over watching him for the rest of the afternoon." She glanced up at him. "I'm sure you've got other matters to attend to."

He captured her gaze. "Be that as it may-

"As I've already pointed out, he won't expect a young lady to be watching him-it's the perfect disguise."

"He might not guess that you're watching him, but I can guarantee he'll notice if you follow him."

She swung to face him; he saw her chin firm. "Be that as it may-"

"No." The single word, uttered quietly and decisively, brought her up short. Eyes narrowing, she glared up at him; he towered, without apology, over her. "There is no reason whatever for you to be involved."

Her eyes, normally so peacefully lucent, spat sparks. "This was my undertaking-I invited you to help. 'Help' does not mean relegating me to the position of mere cipher."

He held her irate gaze. "You are not a mere cipher-"

"Good!" With a terse nod, she swung back to the Heath. "I'll help you watch Bletchley then."

Weaving back to avoid decapitation by her parasol, Demon swore beneath his breath. Falling back half a step, he glared at her back, her hips, the round swells of her bottom, as she stood, stubbornly intransigent, her back to him. "Flick-"

"Look! He's heading off."

Glancing up, Demon saw Bletchley quit his position by the oak and amble, with a less-than-convincing show of idleness, toward one of the neighboring stables. Glancing at Flick, already on her toes, about to step out in Bletchley's wake, Demon hesitated, then his eyes narrowed and his lips curved. "As you're so determined to help…"

Stepping to her right, he caught her hand and set it on his sleeve, anchoring her close-very close-to his side.

Blinking wildly, she looked up. "What do you mean?" Her voice was gratifyingly breathless.

"If you want to help me watch Bletchley, then you'll have to help provide our disguise." He raised his brows at her. "Just keep that parasol to the side, and as far as possible, keep your face turned to me."

"But how am I to watch Bletchley?"

He strolled; she was forced to stroll beside him. A smile of definite intent on his face, he looked down at her. "You don't need to watch him for us to follow him, but we need to see who he's meeting."

One swift glance ahead verified that Bletchley was heading behind the stable, which, from the horses Demon could see on the Heath, would almost certainly be empty. With Flick's not-exactly-willing assistance, he put his mind to creating a tableau of a couple entirely engrossed with each other, of no possible consequence to Bletchley.

Trapped by his gaze, by the hard palm that held her fingers immobile on his sleeve, by the strength, the power, he so effortlessly wielded, Flick struggled to preserve a facade of normalcy, to slow her breathing and steady her heart. To relax her stiff spine and stroll with passable grace-grace enough to match the reprobate beside her.

The glances he shot ahead, tracking Bletchley, were reassuring, confirming that his intent was indeed to follow the villain and witness any meeting behind the stable. His intent wasn't to unnerve her, to send her senses into quivering stasis. That was merely an accident, an unexpected, unintended repercussion. Thankfully, he hadn't noticed; she fought to get her wits back in order and her senses realigned.

"Who do you think he's meeting?" she whispered. Her lungs were still not functioning properly.

"I've no idea." He looked down at her, his heavy lids half obscuring his eyes. His voice had sunk to a deep purr. "Just pray it's a member of the syndicate."

His tone and his sleepy expression were disconcerting, of no help at all in reestablishing her equanimity.

Demon looked up. Bletchley had halted at the corner of the stable. As he watched, Bletchley's gaze swept the throng, then fixed on them. Smoothly, unhurriedly, a wolfish smile curving his lips, he looked down, into Flick's wide eyes. "Smile," he instructed. She did, weakly. His own smile deepening, he raised his free hand; with the back of his knuckles he brushed her cheek.

Her breath caught-she skittered back and blushed; effortlessly, his smile very evident, he drew her back.

"I'm only teasing," he murmured. "It's just play."

"I know," Flick assured him, her heart beating frantically. Unfortunately, he was playing a game with which she was unfamiliar. She tried her best to relax, to smile easily, teasingly, back.

From beneath his lashes, Demon glanced ahead; Bletchley was no longer looking their way. After one last scan of the Heath, he turned and lumbered around the building, out of sight.