Her eyes went wide as she reached for it. It was happening. He was going to show her. She swung the great heavy cloak around her shoulders, the scent of tobacco flower and juniper encircling her, and she resisted the urge to bury her nose in the lapel. The coat was his. She looked to him. “Won’t you be cold?”
“No,” he said, reaching for a lantern nearby and dropping into the hold.
She came to the edge and looked down at him, his face shadowed by the flickering light. “Another thing you control? Cold does not bother you?”
He raised a brow. “My power is legion.”
She turned and climbed down the ladder inlaid into the side of the hatch, trying to remain calm, trying not to notice that her world was changing with every step. That the old, plain, wallflower Felicity was being left behind, and in her place was a new, strange woman who did things like pick locks that opened doors instead of closing them, and visit smuggler’s caches, and wear coats that smelled of handsome, scarred men who called themselves Devil.
But truth such as that was impossible not to notice.
There was something to be said for being in league with the Devil.
When Felicity reached the dirt ground, she spoke to the rungs of the ladder. “I am not certain you wield the power you think, sirrah.”
“And why is that?” he asked, his voice quiet in the dark.
She turned to face him. “You made me a promise, and you have yet to deliver.”
“How is that?” Had he moved closer? Or was it the darkness playing tricks? “From what you’ve said, it sounds like your duke is won. What was it you said? He dances like a dream? What more would you like?”
“You didn’t promise me a duke,” she insisted.
“That is precisely what I promised you,” he said as he climbed several rungs of the ladder and pulled the door to the hold closed behind them, throwing them into darkness.
She blinked. “Is it necessary to shut us in?”
“The door stays closed at all times. It prevents melt, and the curiosity of anyone who might be interested in what we do inside the warehouse.”
“No, you promised me a moth,” she said, not knowing where the bravery came from. Not caring. “You promised me singed wings and passion.”
His eyes glittered with his attention. “And?”
“The duke is under no risk of bursting into flames, you see,” she replied. “And I thought it only right that I inform you that if you are not careful, you are at risk of finding yourself in my debt.”
“Hmm,” he said, as though she’d made an important business point. “And how do you suggest I change that?”
“It’s quite simple,” she whispered. He was closer. Or maybe it was that she wanted him closer. “You must teach me to lure him.”
“To lure him.”
She took a deep breath, his warmth around her, tobacco flower and juniper drugging her with power. With desire. “Precisely. I should like you to teach me to make him want me. Beyond reason.”
Chapter Fifteen
The idea that any human male would not want Felicity Faircloth beyond reason surpassed understanding. Not that Devil intended to tell her that.
It was important to note, however, that when the thought crashed around him in the dark hold beneath the Bareknuckle Bastards’ Covent Garden warehouse, Devil did not count himself in that particular group of human males.
Obviously, he had plenty of reason when it came to Felicity Faircloth. He wasn’t near beyond it. Not even when she stood mere inches from him, wearing his coat, and speaking of burning men to cinders.
He was immune to the lady’s charms.
Remember the plan. The words echoed through him as his hands itched for her, fingers flexing, wanting nothing more than to reach for the lapels of his coat and pull her to him, close enough to touch, until she couldn’t remember the Duke of Marwick’s name, let alone the way the man danced.
Like a dream, my ass.
He cleared his throat at the thought. “You want a love match. With Marwick.” He scoffed. “You’re too old and too wise for simpering, Felicity Faircloth.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t say anything about a love match; I want him to want me. I want passion.”
It should be illegal for a woman like Felicity Faircloth to say the word passion. It conjured images of wide expanses of skin and beautiful, mahogany locks across white sheets. It made a man wonder how she would arch her back to his touch, how she might ask for it. How she might direct it. How her hand would feel on his, moving his fingers to the precise location she wanted them. How her fingers would feel against his scalp as she moved his mouth to the precise location she wanted it.
Thank God they were standing fifteen feet from a hold full of ice.
In fact . . . “This way.” He raised the lantern and moved down the long, dark corridor, toward the ice hold, forgetting, for the first time, ever, that he didn’t care for the dark. Grateful for the distraction, he spoke as they walked. “You wish for passion.”
Remember the plan.
“I do.”
“From Marwick.”
“He is my future husband, is he not?”
“It’s only a matter of time,” he said, knowing he should be more committed to the endeavor, considering that Ewan and Felicity had to be engaged before Devil could steal her away from the engagement. The engagement was part of the plan. A part of Ewan’s lesson. Of course Devil wanted it.
“He asked me last night.”
He just hadn’t wanted it so quickly, it seemed.
He turned to her. “He asked you to do what?”
Her hair glittered copper in the candlelight as she smiled up at him. “To marry him. It was really quite simple. He introduced himself, told me he was happy to marry me. That he was in the market for a wife, and I had . . . how did he put it? Oh, it was terribly romantic.” Devil’s teeth clenched as she searched for the words and then found them, dry as sand. “Oh, yes. I had turned up just at the right time.”
Good Lord. Ewan had never been a brilliant wordsmith, but that was particularly bad. And proof that the duke, too, had a plan. Which meant that perhaps Felicity Faircloth’s request was not such a terrible idea after all. “Terribly romantic, indeed,” he said.
She shrugged. “But he is very handsome and dances like a dream, as I said.”
It didn’t seem possible that she was teasing him. How could she possibly know how the words would grate? “And that is a thing all women look for in their husbands.”
She grinned. “However did you know?”
She was teasing him. She was teasing him, and he liked it. And he shouldn’t. “You want the man mad for you.”
“Well, I remain unconvinced that he is not mad in general, but yes,” she said. “Doesn’t every wife want that from her husband?”
“Not in my experience, no.”
“Do you have a great deal of experience with wives?”
He ignored the question. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said, turning back down the corridor.