To Seduce a Sinner (Legend of the Four Soldiers #2)(49)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“No,” Mr. Pynch said, dashing her hopes. “But I’ve known Scotsmen in the army, and they’re just the same as us, saving for the fact that they speak funny.”

“Oh.”

Sally looked down at her beef soup, made from the bones left over from the roast Cook had prepared for their master and mistress. It was a very good soup. Sally had been enjoying it until just a couple of minutes ago. But now her stomach made a little unpleasant turn at the sight of the grease floating on top. Knowing a Scotsman and traveling to Scotland were two entirely different things, and Sally was almost angry with Mr. Pynch for not knowing the difference. His Scotsmen were probably tamed from their time in the army. There was no way to know what a Scotsman was like on his home ground, so to speak. Perhaps they had a liking for short blond girls from London. Perhaps she’d be kidnapped from her bed and used in horrible ways—or worse.

“Now, see here, my girl.” Mr. Pynch’s voice was very near.

Sally looked up to find that the valet had taken the seat opposite her at the table. The kitchen servants had gone back to work while she brooded. Bitsy was snuffling over the pan of dishes she washed. No one paid any mind to the valet and the lady’s maid at the far end of the long kitchen table.

Mr. Pynch’s eyes were bright and intent on her. Sally had never noticed before what a lovely shade of green they were.

The valet put his elbows on the table, his long, white clay pipe in one hand. “There’s nothing to fear in Scotland. It’s just a place like any other.”

Sally stirred her spoon about in her bowl of cooling soup. “I’ve never been farther than Greenwich in my life.”

“No? Where were you born then?”

“Seven Dials,” she said, and then peered up at him to see if he’d sneer at the knowledge she’d been raised in such a hellhole.

But he merely nodded his head and sucked on the end of his pipe, blowing fragrant smoke to the side so it wouldn’t get in her eyes. “And do you have family there still?”

“Just my pa.” She wrinkled her nose and confessed, “Leastwise, he used to live there. I haven’t seen him in years, so that might not be true anymore.”

“Bad sort was your pa?”

“Not too bad.” She traced the rim of her soup bowl with a finger. “He didn’t beat me much, and he fed me when he could. But I had to get out of there. It was like I couldn’t breathe.”

She looked at him to see if he understood.

He nodded, pulling on his pipe again. “And your mam?”

“Died when I was born.” The soup smelled good again, and she took a spoonful. “No brothers or sisters either. Leastwise none that I know of.”

He nodded and seemed quite content to watch her eat the soup as he smoked his pipe. Around them, the kitchen and downstairs servants scurried about, doing their jobs, but this was a time of rest for Sally and Mr. Pynch.

She ate half her soup and then looked up at him. “Where are you from, then, Mr. Pynch?”

“Oh, a ways off. I was born in Cornwall.”

“Really?” She stared curiously at him. Cornwall seemed nearly as foreign as Scotland. “But you don’t have an accent.”

He shrugged. “My people are fisher folk. I got the wandering urge, and when the army men came to town with their drums and ribbons and flash uniforms, I took the king’s shilling fast enough.” One corner of his mouth curved in a funny sort of half-smile. “Didn’t take me long to find out there’s more to His Majesty’s army than pretty uniforms.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

Sally looked down at her soup, trying to imagine big, bald Mr. Pynch as a lanky fifteen-year-old. She couldn’t do it. He was too much a man now to have ever been a child. “Do you still have family in Cornwall?”

He nodded. “My mother and a half-dozen brothers and sisters. My father died when I was in the Colonies. Didn’t know about it until I returned to England two years later. Mam said she paid for a letter to be written and sent to me, but I never got one.”

“That must’ve been sad, coming home to find your father dead for two years.”

He shrugged. “That’s the way of the world, lass. Nothing a man can do but go on.”

“I suppose so.” She frowned a little, thinking of wild highland Scotsmen with beards that covered their faces.

“Lass.” Mr. Pynch had stretched out his arm and tapped her hand with one large, blunt-nailed finger. “There won’t be anything to fear in Scotland. But if there is, I’ll keep you safe.”

And Sally could only stare dumbly into Mr. Pynch’s steady green eyes, the thought of him keeping her safe warming her belly.

WHEN HE STILL hadn’t come to her rooms by midnight, Melisande went looking for Vale. Perhaps he’d simply gone to his own bed, not deigning to visit her that night, but she didn’t think so. She hadn’t heard any voices from his room next door. How the man got enough sleep when he stayed up until all hours and then left the house before she rose was a curiosity. Perhaps he didn’t need sleep at all.

In any case, she was tired of waiting for him to come to her. So she left her room—still in a shambles from Suchlike’s hurried packing—and went out in the hall to search for Jasper. He wasn’t in the library or any of the sitting rooms, and finally she was forced to inquire of Oaks if he knew where her husband was. Then she hoped that her cheeks didn’t flame in embarrassment when she learned that he’d gone out without a word to her.

She felt like kicking something, but since gentlewomen did no such thing, she merely thanked Oaks and ascended the stairs again. Why was he doing this? Asking her to accompany him to Scotland, then avoiding her? Had he even thought about a days-long carriage ride with her? Or would he spend the journey atop the carriage with the luggage? It was so strange. First he would pursue her for days, and then he would suddenly disappear, just when she thought they were drawing closer.

Melisande exhaled heavily as she came to her own bedroom door, but then she hesitated. Vale’s door was right next to hers. Really, the temptation was too great. She strode to her husband’s door and opened it. The room was empty, although Mr. Pynch’s work was obvious: Rows of shirts, waistcoats, and neck clothes were laid out on the bed in preparation for packing. Melisande shut the door gently behind her.

She wandered to the bed and touched a fingertip to the dark red coverlet. He would sprawl here at night, his long limbs spread wide. Did he sleep on his back, or on his belly, his tousled head half shoved beneath a pillow? Somehow she imagined him sleeping in the nude, although for all she knew, he had a drawerful of nightshirts. It was such an intimate thing, sleeping with another person. One’s shields were all thrown down in sleep, leaving one vulnerable, almost childlike. She wished desperately that he would share her bed. Stay the night and let himself be at his most vulnerable with her.