The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

contemplated flight, eying a nearby tree and wondering whether his tree-climbing skills had survived the years as well as Kate’s had. Facing her was not something he wished to do, not now when he was too confused to think clearly.

The girl . . . Anne . . .Duncan had never considered himself a man who was naturally at ease with children. The little ones had never flocked at his knee. Yet, silent though this child might be, she spoke to him in her own strange way. She was obviously intelligent, understanding all that was said. Those wide green eyes were impossibly expressive and way too wise for a child who could be no more than seven. He could feel that terrible sadness, understand it with an aching clarity. She reminded him of those somber, brown-eyed urchins of Lisbon, the war-tossed orphans who would sell their souls for the price of a herring. The tossing screeching wild fury of last night haunted him because those screams had been the reverberations of his own torment. And now, the girl had spoken again, the pressure of those small arms had said as much as the look on that luminous face. Trust. A wondrous gift from such a child, both favor and burden.

Had Anne always been thus, he wondered, trying to piece together the puzzle? Or was her present state the result of that “hurt,” that her mother had obliquely referred to. What terrible calamity could befall one so young that it would haunt her hours of sleep to the point of screaming torment?

“Duncan, please wait.”

The very sound of that breathless call seemed to paralyze him in his place. Duncan schooled his face into a stony expression; his hand rising to wipe away the last trace of tears. But while his countenance was the picture of composure, inside he was a mass of befuddlement. What confounded imp had caused him to behave with such incredible stupidity? Even though he had known Kate for less than a few weeks, every intuition had warned him that he would have to move carefully with a woman like her.

Yet, he had gone against instinct, resorting to a callow ploy that was not even worthy of an unshaven lad? Any respect that he might have hoped to engender had been squandered by that shabby attempt at trickery. For a kiss, a mere touch of the lips.

Was that the measure then, of his desperation? How the mighty had fallen! The Mad MacLean’s exploits with the ladies had acquired the patina of legend. If only Marcus, Lord Steele, could see him now. No doubt he would consider Duncan’s present state of decline the height of poetic justice.

Marcus. Duncan had not thought of him all too much lately. If only Marcus had not taken leave to go back to England, perhaps he would have stopped Duncan’s reckless charge into Vesey’s den. But there was little use in wishing the past undone.

“Duncan?”

Her face was flushed. It was obvious that she too, was embarrassed by what had just occurred. Desperately, Duncan cast about for something to say. Luckily, his years among the English had provided him with the perfect expedient, the weather. He cast his gaze to the sky. “It will be a heavy storm when it comes, Kate.” Duncan said, retreating behind the social bulwark of formality.

She made her own slow survey of the heavens. “Surely it will not reach us before evening. There is plenty of time to treat your back. Why don’t you go back to the kitchen and let Daisy put on the salve. It is a most excellent concoction, I assure you. And the lavender smell is quite soothing.”

So much for the storm as an excuse, Duncan thought, surprised that her evaluation of the approaching blow coincided so nearly with his. He had never met a woman before with an ounce of weather sense, but then again, he had never met a female before who, within the space of less than a month, had threatened him both at knifepoint and at the business end of a musket, ridden an avowed killer mount, scaled rooftops with utter fearlessness and looked absolutely enchanting in breeches. “I can do without your Daisy’s ministrations,” Duncan declared, seeking refuge in curtness.

But Kate was not to be put off. “If you wish, I will chaperone,” she offered solemnly. “That way you need not fear for your virtue.”

Although her face was entirely straight, there was the definite glint of a twinkle in her eye and the hint of laughter in her voice could not be denied. Duncan searched her countenance carefully, but there was not a trace of the pity or the contempt that he had feared. In fact, she seemed amused.

Contrarily, her reaction angered him. How dare she make him into an object of fun! No woman had ever before laughed at Duncan MacLean’s reputation with the fair sex. But when he looked into her eyes, he realized that her laughter was an invitation, not to make mockery of him, but to share in a moment of release, an opportunity to ease the burden of fear that had been building within him. When had he lost the capacity to distinguish between derision and gentle teasing? He did not know when his frown had turned to a smile, but it had. Nor did he anticipate the explosion that was building inside until it finally happened.

It was like a rusty hinge, at first, protesting after long disuse as a forgotten door opened. How long had it been since he had laughed? Beyond recent memory, certainly; there had been precious little occasion for humor in La Purgatoire. But this . . . this was unlike anything that he had ever experienced, this shared sense of the ridiculous that was like an invisible cord, twining them together. Perhaps it might have happened before but never could he recall enjoying a genuinely humorous moment with a woman.

Once the gate was opened, there was no closing it again. The chuckle