“Why do you dress me in borrowed robes?”
MACBETH, MACBETH ACT I, SCENE III
The lass’s fan slapped Coll across the shoulders. He ignored it, too involved with kissing Persephone Jones and the things the embrace was doing to his nether regions to pay any attention. Another slap, this one harder, across the back of the skull.
He lifted his head to see Gavin cocking his arm back for another blow. “That’s enough, ye heathen,” he grumbled.
“If any of the lasses ye mean to wed were to see ye here now,” the groom muttered, “I dunnae think they’d look on ye kindly.”
Nearly empty or not, they were in the middle of a park where anyone could take a stroll. Reluctantly, Coll set Persephone down onto her feet before he took a step backward. “Ye’re making me think I’d prefer a marriage to an improper lass over a proper one,” he quipped.
She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirt before gracefully seating herself again while Gavin retreated to the safety of the barouche. “Be that as it may, you’ve told me that you require a lady.”
Strictly speaking, it was his mother who demanded he wed a proper female, but he did know what the repercussions would be if he went and married someone who didn’t travel in the same prestigious circles as the Oswells and MacTaggerts. He was looking for a lass to help him lead a part of Clan Ross, after all.
“Aye. But as I said, I cannae wait for a week while every lass decides if I’ve earned a dance or nae.”
“There’s a risk in putting all your eggs in one basket.” With dainty fingers, she gripped her glass of Madeira again and downed it all. “You might try several strategies at once.”
He poured her another glass, ignoring his own. Even if he still drank, it wouldn’t be Madeira. But Mrs. Gordon, the cook, had said that ladies liked Madeira, so he’d deferred to her knowledge. She’d had the right of it, evidently. “Ask lasses if they’ll dance with me at the next ball or two and what else, then?”
“You said you enjoy riding. Go riding in the morning, when ladies who also enjoy being on horseback might be found in Hyde Park. Ask them about their mounts, where the best riding trails are, if they like to hunt, that sort of thing. You could suggest you’ll be at Hyde Park at eight o’clock the next morning, if they’d care to try their paces in your company.”
“So—asking a lass to ride is safer than suggesting a dance? That doesnae make any damned sense.”
“A lady on horseback may escape. Or not make an appearance at all.”
She may have accused him of playing a part, of behaving like a thick-headed, countrified squire to set people at ease, but she’d gone along easily enough with that narrative. It was the one that made him the most comfortable, even if he did have some idea what he was about. It was his anger that had gotten in the way of his logic when he’d first arrived in London, and so if it took a bit more patience than he would’ve liked to smooth over his reputation again, he would put up with it.
Aside from that, he’d just learned a few more things about the intriguing Persephone Jones. She avoided Hyde Park and all the places proper ladies frequented, which wasn’t so odd, he supposed, but she seemed almost … calculating about it. She knew what time of day the aristocracy went riding, which dances signified which level of matrimonial interest, and actress or not, she’d played the most perfect, dainty English lass he could have imagined.
Of course, she was an actress. A fine one, according to all of London. And perhaps she was curious about the blue bloods of Mayfair and read the Society pages and listened to the gossip and stories. Perhaps she was jealous of them, though that didn’t come across at all, even when she pretended to be one of them for a few minutes.
“Have ye ever been to a Society fete?” he asked. “Surely ye’ve been invited.”
“Certainly, I’ve been invited,” she echoed, choosing another strawberry. “I’m a curiosity. But no, I’ve never attended a Society party. My status rests on the ladies enjoying my performances as much as it does the gentlemen doing so. I don’t wish to anger, threaten, or annoy either sex.”
“But ye just kissed me out here in the middle of a park.”
“No, I kissed you out here in the middle of nowhere. Just as I’m picnicking with you in the middle of nowhere. The odds of anyone who could ruin me by seeing us right now are almost nil.” She smiled at him. “Not to disappoint you, but you aren’t my first protector.”
“About that. Ye balked at allowing Claremont into yer bedchamber, shall we say.”
“Ah.” This time, she downed half her glass of Madeira. “I didn’t like Claremont. He was pretty enough and served to keep the rest of the interested aristocrats away from me, but he was supremely condescending in that very polite way the elite tend to have.”
“Did he kiss ye?”
She lifted her chin a little. “Yes.”
“Did ye kiss him?”
“You mean the way I just kissed you? No. There’s no need to be jealous.”
And there she went again, turning the conversation back to him, no doubt thinking he would feel the need to protest that he wasn’t jealous, and she could then turn the talk to wherever she next chose. “Are ye going to tell me where ye reside? Ye’d be safer if I met ye there and drove ye to the theater in the morning.”
“I’ll make my own way to the Saint Genesius. If you could return me there by way of Pall Mall, that should inform the gents that I’m not fair game.”
And there went his theory that she was avoiding the aristocracy. This was becoming exceedingly complicated, and even more interesting. “But nae by way of Hyde Park?”
“The gentlemen’s clubs—or enough of them, anyway—are along Pall Mall. That is a street. I’m permitted to drive down a street on my way to somewhere else. Hyde Park is a destination in itself.”
“A minute ago, ye were worried over my reputation,” he countered, eyeing her Madeira and beginning to wonder if one wee drink would be so horrible. “Explain to me why a lass would be offended at seeing us eating or kissing, but nae driving about in a barouche together.”
“It’s all in the difference between rumor and proof, my lord. Th—”
“Coll.”
Her face dove into an amused grimace. “Coll. If someone sees us driving together on the street, I may be your mistress, you may be my protector, you may be kissing me, you may be taking me to a picnic. You may also be simply driving me to the theater.”
“So, if a lass asks what I’m up to with ye in my barouche, I can claim that the most innocent story is the truth.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s nae a lie, because I would be driving ye to the theater.”
“You see, this isn’t so difficult,” she said, with a grin that made him want to kiss her again.
What he saw—or was beginning to see—was that Persephone Jones had a very keen mind. No wonder she hadn’t liked Claremont despite his pretty looks and his surface politeness; she’d seen right through all of it, probably from the moment the earl had introduced himself. She’d put up with it until James Pierce became too insistent with his cock because she’d found him useful, as she’d just admitted, for keeping the rest of the drooling horde of males away from her. Hmm.
“What I see,” he said aloud, “is that ye seem to put a man through his paces until he wants to collect what he reckons he’s owed, at which point ye find some kilt-wearing lummox to step in and rescue ye so ye can begin dancing yer circles about the new fellow until it all goes round again.”
She set her glass down on the blanket. “Have I been at all useful to you today?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
Pretty eyes, he thought, blue as the noontime sky, then shoved that nonsense out of his skull. If he meant to keep up with her, he was going to have to toss his general take-on-all-challengers-with-his-fists mentality aside and use his mind. “Ye told me what the dances mean, which I didnae know. And ye made me realize I cannae stomp about Hyde Park like a bear looking for a sow if I want to find anything other than a sow. So aye, ye’ve been useful. Ye’ve told me nae to be myself.”
“That’s not … that’s not precisely what I meant. Be a more patient, cultured version of yourself. It’s still you—just more polished.”
It didn’t feel that way. Trying to act English felt like wearing another man’s coat, which would of course be too small and confining. His reluctance most have shown on his face, because her smile softened. “You are a likeable man. Just shorten your stride.”
That made it all sound a bit more palatable, even if he doubted all he required was patience. “What of ye, then? Ye said yerself, the sandbags were likely an accident. Ye may have partnered up with me for nae reason at all.”
“That’s not so. You’ve been—or will be—useful to me, when you drive me back via Pall Mall. A fair exchange, I’d call it.”
“And yet I dunnae ken where ye live, or if ye have any intention of going with me where yer kisses tease that ye will.”
“You are a confounding man.”
“I’m an open book,” he countered. “Ye’re the one who willnae even let me read yer title. For a simple theater lass, ye’ve nae common, leatherbound cover. Ye’re protected by a steel one, I reckon. That sort of thing piques a man’s interest. It piques my interest.” There. Let her think on that for a minute. Because she’d been correct about him, as well. Aye, he liked to talk with his fists. But he could also read Latin.
Folding her hands in her lap, she sat up straighter, letting the silence between them stretch out for a good half a minute. He waited, trying on the too-tight patience coat, as she’d suggested. “Number four Charles Lane, in St. John’s Wood, the blue house third in from Charlbert Street,” she finally said. “But if you come to my home, you’d best be prepared to charm Flora, Gregory, and Hades. If they don’t accept you, don’t expect that I will. There. Challenge met.”
“Hades?” he repeated, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes. In mythology, Hades and Persephone were quite close, you know.”
Yes, he knew that. More intriguing was that he’d pushed, and she’d given ground. “So ye do like me, then.”
She held his gaze. “Yes, I do. I don’t encounter many open books in my life.”
“And I dunnae scare ye even a bit, do I?” After all, he’d been called intimidating and threatening, and wee lasses trembled when he asked them to dance. A handful had even gotten wobbly on their feet. On first sight, however, Persephone had grinned and called him Romeo—and had made her attraction to him clear as glass.
“I don’t know you well, Coll,” she said slowly, seeming to choose her words carefully, “but no, you don’t frighten me.”
“What I want of ye doesnae have a damned thing to do with any agreement.” And it wasn’t just the agreement between them to which he was referring. Aye, he needed to wed. But now, at this moment, he wasn’t thinking about a bride or about Aldriss Park. No, he was thinking about the elegant curve of her neck and the sway of her hips and how kissing her wasn’t even close to what he wanted to be doing with her.
“Trouble,” she muttered beneath her breath.
“Beg pardon?”
“Nothing.” Shifting, she began putting cutlery and plates back into the picnic basket. “You. Gavin. Please come take this.”
“Are we leavin’?” the groom asked, shoving the remains of a sandwich into his mouth and rising from the comfortable rear-facing seat of the barouche.
“You are,” she said smoothly.
“I—”
“Ye heard her, Gavin,” Coll echoed, standing up and lifting the basket to shove it into the groom’s arms as heat dove down his spine. “Deliver this back to Oswell House and then ye come back here and get us.”
“But I…” The groom looked from one to the other. “Oh. Och. That’ll take me near thirty minutes, I reckon.”
“It’ll take ye near an hour.”
“Aye.”
Grumbling and stealing looks at Persephone as she leaned back against the nearest oak trunk, the groom set the basket in the carriage and climbed up to the driver’s perch. Then, still muttering, he turned the team back toward the road and vanished behind the shrubbery.
Coll faced Persephone. “It’s quiet here, but nae private enough for my peace of mind.”
She bent to pick up the blanket, folding it over her arm. “This way.”
Pushing out of his mind the idea that she knew a private place because she’d made use of it before, Coll fell in beside her, taking the blanket from her. He wanted to hold her hand, to touch her—she was one book he damned well wanted to read. But he was a big man, and learning to be more patient would do him good, whether he liked it or not.
But if being inside her lay at the end of this path, he’d manage.
She ducked beneath a tangle of low-hanging branches and then descended to a tiny stream that cut through one corner of the land. An old hay cart with a missing wheel tipped into the water and halfway up the far bank, and she made for the broken back end, where it dug into the hillside.
“How’d ye find this?” he asked, keeping his voice pitched low and noting the patches of wild heather growing around the wagon’s rear wheels. Now if that wasn’t a sign of approval, he didn’t know what was.
“I followed a rabbit in here once. It’s a good place for thinking,” she returned, climbing up to the bed of the wagon and holding her hand out for the blanket. “And I’ve yet to spy anyone else here.”
“They’d have to be following rabbits to find it,” he agreed, noting the hanging trees and wild bushes that had overgrown both banks and left the wagon shrouded from every angle but the one she’d found. Her own private bower, it was.
“I hadn’t thought to use it for this, but I’m never going to be able to concentrate at rehearsal this afternoon if I don’t put my hands on you.”
It crossed his mind that she could be acting, playing the part of a wanton young woman overcome with desire for her protector, but as he climbed up onto the wagon bed with her, he didn’t give a damn. She was an itch, and if he didn’t scratch it, he would never be able to go find himself a wife. Devil take it, he wouldn’t even be able to stand up straight.
She sank to her knees, taking his hand to pull him down in front of her, then wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned in to kiss him. God, her lips were soft, and warm, telling stories only of mutual arousal.
Mindful of the old wood planks just beneath the blanket, Coll took her by the shoulders, pulling her closer against him. When he brushed a hand across her hair, moving to remove the pins that held it up in its fashionable tangle, she broke the kiss.
“Do not ruin my hair. I have a rehearsal this afternoon that I’m already going to be late for.”
“Then I’ll nae ruin yer hair,” he returned, slipping a finger beneath the shoulder of her yellow muslin gown and tugging it down her arm. “I cannae say that about the rest of ye.”
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Spare my clothes, but ruin me then, Coll MacTaggert.”
Spare her blasted clothes, when he wanted to tear them off her body. If he’d had a sewing kit in his pocket, he might have been tempted, regardless of her warning. But then she reached around her back to unbutton her own gown, and as she stripped her arms of it, he pulled the material down to her waist, revealing a pair of plump, pert breasts that looked as if they would perfectly fit his big hands. He wasted no time testing that theory.
At the same time, she reached one hand beneath his kilt, encircling him with her fingers and stroking a thumb boldly down the length of him. “Oh, my,” she whispered, her voice not quite steady.
Coll chuckled, a bit breathless himself. “I know how to use it, too.”
“I don’t doubt that.” She moaned as he dipped his head, taking a nipple in his mouth and flicking across it with his tongue. “Your mouth … is rather skilled … as well.”
Well, no one had ever said that to him before, but then she was probably the first person for whom he hadn’t troubled with pretending to be a giant lummox, probably because she’d seen through his act the moment he’d attempted it on her. Aye, his brothers knew he could hold his own, but he’d never had cause to dissemble in front of them. Even so, in public they called him an ox and a giant, just because they all found it amusing. He did as well. Generally.
Freeing one hand and keeping his mouth teasing at her breasts, he unbuckled his kilt and shrugged it off. His coat and cravat followed, before he put a hand around her back and eased her down flat. “Damn me,” he murmured, lowering himself over her to take her mouth again.
“‘Do not swear at all,’” she breathed, looking up at him. “‘Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, which is the god of my idolatry, and I’ll believe thee.’”
Coll frowned. “Ye dunnae need to be Juliet to please me, Persephone. I dunnae want an imaginary phantom. I want ye. Blood and bone and soft, soft skin.”
She shivered a little in his arms, goose bumps raising on her bare skin. “You truly aren’t some silly man looking for his Juliet. I don’t know what to make of you.”
“Likewise, lass. But I reckon I’ll take my time figuring ye out.” He lowered himself along her body to take one of her breasts in his mouth again, meanwhile occupying his hands with tugging her gown down her hips, over her knees, and onto the blanket beside them.
God’s sake, she was glorious. Tall but slender, narrow-hipped but buxom, a lass made for loving. His already engorged cock jumped. Straightening, he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on her gown. His boots would have to stay on, because he wasn’t taking the time to remove them. Not when someone could stray by the old wagon at any moment. Not when that might prevent him from having her.
Persephone ran her palms up his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle there. “You are a fit man,” she commented, her gaze lowering further.
“I dunnae sit on my arse and have servants feed me.”
“No, I don’t imagine you do. Kiss me again. I do like your mouth.”
Coll grinned. “If that’s so, there are other things my mouth can do.” Shifting backward on his knees, he took her legs, stroking his hands down her thighs to her knees, and set them on either side of his shoulders. Then he bent down and tasted her.
She was wet for him. This wasn’t all some elaborate act. That thought—and her responding moan—nearly undid him right then. Through sheer willpower, he fought back against the urge and settled himself again. Parting her folds with his fingers, he licked again, then slid his forefinger inside her slowly as he continued his ministrations.
“Good … heavens,” she breathed, her fingers clutching at his shaggy hair.
A flurry of Gaelic came to mind, but he wasn’t going to begin spouting poetry just because he’d been without a woman for a handful of weeks. She’d have good reason to think him simple-minded if he did such a thing. Shifting his kisses to her inner thighs, he worked his way down one leg and up the other until he arrived at his starting spot again.
“Do stop teasing me,” she rasped, tugging on his hair.
Coll moved up over her body, caressing her with his mouth and his hands. Pinching her nipples lightly made her gasp, and when he did it in time with his finger inside her, she bucked, wide-eyed. “There ye go,” he murmured.
“I’m … beginning to think you … a very naughty man,” she managed.
When he reached her mouth again, she was panting, and he claimed her in a hot, openmouthed kiss. A few moments later, he had her writhing beneath him, her quiet mewling sounds driving him mad.
When she wrapped her legs around his hips, he gave in to the lust that had pounded at him almost from the moment he’d first set eyes on her. Slowly, he entered her, hot and tight and slick, until he’d buried himself completely. In the very back corner of his mind that still possessed logical thought, he noted that she wasn’t a virgin, but he hadn’t expected her to be one. This heat between them wouldn’t have been possible if she were some blushing debutante.
Persephone threw back her head, groaning, and he licked her throat. Sliding out of her only so he could enter her again, he moaned. He’d been right about her size; she fit him perfectly, and as he rocked into her again and again, the sounds of ecstasy and arousal she made were for him as well.
Just then, her fingers dug into his shoulders and her back arched, and abruptly she began pulsing around his cock, urging him on, deeper, faster, harder. He felt electrified, every inch of him alive and aware of the eager woman in his arms. And he wanted to prolong the moment, but this time, his body refused to listen.
With a grunt, he came, holding himself hard against her. More Gaelic went through the edge of his thoughts, older words that had gone out of fashion a century or two ago. Coll kept his gaze on her, on her blue eyes looking directly back at him.
Finally spent, he put an arm around her and turned the two of them so they lay face-to-face on the blanket. A strand of honey-blonde hair peeked out from beneath the coiffed ash-blonde mass, and he silently reached out and tucked it back in.
At that, she frowned, sitting up to fiddle with her hair. “Don’t do that.”
“I dunnae care what color yer hair is, Persephone. Ye said nae to ruin it, so I fixed it for ye.”
“Yes, thank you. As I said, it’s … easier to walk about the shops and streets if no one knows precisely what I look like.” Smoothing her expression, she lay back on her side again and brushed a strand of his hair out of his face. “There. We don’t want you looking disheveled, either.”
“Lass, I’ve been disheveled since I arrived in London. Ask anyone.”
“Well, I shall have to make you look like a gentleman, then. For your own good. No lady who wishes to land a title wants her lord to look like anything but a knight in shining armor.”
“The only lasses chasing after me are the ones who want naught but a title.” He shuddered. “‘Oh, m’laird, ye’re so big and strong, and I’m so wee and helpless’,” he mimicked in his highest-pitched tone.
Persephone laughed. “That was horribly done, but I believe I know what you mean. You played your part too well.”
“The idiot giant, ye mean? I played it once, and the gossips took it from there. I just dunnae care for the opinions of all these soft Sassenachs.”
“Yes, but you might use those same gossips to show everyone that you’re not who they think you are.”
“Am I nae?” He put an elbow beneath his head. “I help shear sheep, I pull stray cows from bogs, I argue with my fists, and I’ve been told I have someaught of an accent. And a temper.”
“You also knew I quoted Juliet earlier, and you seem to have a fair knowledge of the Scottish play.”
“Aye, I can read and write, if that’s what ye’re implying.”
“Stop being so self-deprecating. There are people—women—out there who will appreciate your intelligence. And those who think they can lead you about with a smile will take themselves elsewhere.”
“Ye do make it sound promising.” He looked at her for a moment. “A shame ye think we’d nae suit.”
“I don’t think we wouldn’t suit. I know we wouldn’t suit.” Reaching over, she slid her palm along his hip, then past him to dump his shirt and retrieve her gown. “I have another rehearsal this afternoon, for which I will be late, and then we have to be out before four o’clock, when the rovers come in.”
He sat up beside her to pull on his shirt. Whatever poetry had wandered through his soul, she didn’t seem to be reading the same book any longer. “The rovers?”
“Charlie never lets the theater close. He’s worried we’ll lose all our business to Covent Garden and Drury Lane. When we’re in between plays, he brings in other troupes to perform. This time, it’s a roving troop from York here for the next nine days, while we ready the Scottish play.”
“Then yer evening is free?” Even as he spoke, he scowled at London and all its ridiculousness, all the obligations it pulled out of everyone. “Dunnae answer that. I’ve a dinner tonight at Lord and Lady Crenshaw’s.”
“Good. You can practice not slinging young ladies over your shoulder if they don’t agree to waltz with you,” she returned, grinning in a way that lit up her blue eyes all over again. “Or ravishing one of them, however much she might wish you would, because then you will be obligated to marry her. I shall be making notes on Lady the Scottish play.”
That made him grin in return. “Ye’re very matter-of-fact about all this.”
With a shrug, she found her shoes and then climbed down from the wagon to pull them on. “I found … find you very attractive. I wanted you. And I believe you’ve already told me something similar.”
Buckling his kilt and checking to make certain his sgian dubh remained tucked into his boot, he jumped down beside her. “Aye. I’m nae adverse to doing it again, either.” Actually, he wanted her again already—repeatedly.
“Well, as I said, I have re—”
“Aye. For the Scottish play. As ye’re Lady the Scottish play.” He shook his head, determined not to push for something more after they’d both made it clear there was nothing more to be had. He needed a wife, and an actress couldn’t be the wife of a viscount. “That fellow—yer Macbeth who willnae say Macbeth—is a lunatic, ye ken.”
“Gordon? Yes, he is. He’s a very good actor, though, which is why we put up with his nonsense. If you’re about long enough, you’ll find that every one of us at the Saint Genesius is more than a little mad, I’m afraid.”
“And what do ye reckon all of Mayfair thinks of me, Mrs. Persephone Jones?”
One blue eye narrowed just a fraction. “My friends call me Persie. We’re not so much friends as we are partners in a mutually helpful agreement, but I’ll allow it.”
Partners who had sex, but he understood where she was trying to place him. A wee bit of distance so she could think. He felt the same need himself. “Persie? Nae. Ye’re more out of the ordinary than that. Persephone suits ye better.”
Being about Persephone Jones felt a wee bit like listening to a pretty piece by Mozart, but having the orchestra stop just before the last note. He’d spent a fine afternoon, had laughed and enjoyed keeping up with her conversation, had appreciated that she didn’t attempt to simplify her speech like he was some half-witted lummox, and he’d definitely enjoyed the intimacy, but as she descended from the carriage after him at the rear of the Saint Genesius, he definitely wanted more.
“Thank you for escorting me,” she said with a smile, lifting on her toes to kiss him on the lips once they were inside. “I need to be here tomorrow at nine o’clock. Shall I make my own arrangements, as you should be in the park asking for dances?”
“Nae. I’ll be by yer home at half eight. I reckon I can chat with a few lasses before that.”
“Very well. Thank you, Coll, for a lovely and very satisfying afternoon.” With a flick of her skirts, she headed for the back room, where they’d all been rehearsing earlier.
Coll watched her go, then went looking for Charlie Huddle. He found the barrel-shaped theater manager in a wee coffin of a room, occupied only by a small desk, chair, and a cabinet that looked to be full of papers. No one of any size could work in such a tiny space, and with an uneasy roll of his shoulders, Coll stopped in the doorway. “Huddle.”
Charlie looked up. “Ah, Lord Glendarril. I hope you realize Baywich and Humphreys were jesting. I cannot afford to hire you as a dialect instructor.”
“Who’s in charge of checking to see that the sandbags are hung securely, so that the heavy things arenae going to kill anyone below?” he asked, ignoring the first bit of conversation.
“Ah. That. Our head stagehand is Harry Drew. After the incident this morning, I saw him personally walk every catwalk and check the riggings. He was beside himself; aside from being our main reason for success, Persie is well-loved here. No one wants to see her injured.”
“Do ye reckon it could have been Claremont’s doing?”
The manager shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible, but he wasn’t much liked here. If anyone had seen him, we’d all know about it.”
That didn’t eliminate the possibility of the earl paying someone to cut a rope, but as that theory also made everyone who walked backstage a possible saboteur, Coll kept it to himself. It might have been an accident. But the idea that it wasn’t had troubled Persephone enough that she’d sought him out and suggested a business agreement, which was in itself enough to make him want to have a look at the all the rigging himself. Even if it was up in the dark rafters, and even if the spaces were tight and cramped.
“Ye dunnae mind if I have a look for myself, do ye?”
“Not at all. Just don’t knock anything else down while they’re rigging for tonight’s performance. I already have Gordon Humphreys refusing to say ‘Macbeth.’ I don’t need any more ill luck before we open.”
Coll backed out of the office and looked up. The stagehands had moved from making props to setting up the stage for that evening’s performance of The Rover, and the rafters were full of man-sized spiders calling out and tossing ropes up and down as they attached bits of scenery and checked curtains. He scowled. If anything had been done purposely, he’d never find a sign of it now.
In a way, it was a relief that he wouldn’t have to go up there, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be watching. Or asking some questions. He would uphold his end of this business agreement, if that was what she chose to call it.
“Let me guess,” one of the actresses playing a witch commented, coming around the edge of a curtain toward him. “Persie told you about the sandbags, and now she has you playing her white knight and casting about for dragons to slay.”
“Ye think she doesnae have reason to worry?” he countered.
The tall woman shrugged in her low-cut gown. “Claremont wasn’t her first beau. Admittedly, I don’t think any of the others were knocked to the floor, but men like you don’t take women like us as wives. We know we’re not permanent, and so do you.”
That made sense. Persephone had outright said that Claremont wasn’t her first protector. And her part of this agreement was to help him snare a wife. “So ye think she’s using it as an excuse to keep me about?”
“I certainly would, if I were her. I mean you’re gorgeous, my lord.” She gave an elaborate curtsy that showed off a good portion of her bosom. “Jenny Rogers, at your service.”
“Glendarril,” he returned, inclining his head.
“If you want to know the truth about Persie Jones, you just ask me,” she continued in a sultry purr. “She has drawers full of expensive trinkets, and she gets the lead in every play we stage. I’m not saying she’s mercenary, but she would make a fine puppeteer.” She mimed moving strings with her fingers.
He rather liked the idea of Persephone both knowing how to look after herself and possibly inventing a peril as an excuse to keep him near. He liked being near her, in spite of the fact that it seemed … dishonest to go looking for a wife while he was after a different woman entirely. “She said she lives with someone named Hades. Who might that be?”
“Her cat. He hates everyone, especially men. She thought she was being clever, I suppose, naming him Hades, since in Greek mythology Persephone was Hades’ wife. She’s oh-so-clever, don’t you know.”
A cat. Hmm. “And Flora and Gregory?”
Jenny waved her hand. “Oh, them. Flora Whitney used to be the head seamstress here. She’s Beth Frost’s mama. Beth is a miracle with a needle and thread. And Gregory Norman used to be a stagehand here, until a wall fell on him during our production of Henry V, and he broke his shoulder. Persie’s so kind that she hired them both to work for her. And to keep her secrets, I’d wager.”
“Well. Thank ye for that. Ye’ve given me someaught to consider.”
Leaning forward, she put a hand on his sleeve. “She’s wearing a wig right now, you know. She always wears one. I think she may be bald.” Jenny stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and lifting up along his body. “I provide exceptional commiseration, my lord.”
Normally, he would have been tempted. Not that he particularly liked a lass—or anyone else—who wagged their tongue about their companions, but with her brown hair and buxom build, she was a lass a man could take hold of.
But this afternoon had altered his thinking. And his foremost thought was of how to be rid of her without turning her against him, or more importantly, against Persephone. “I—”
“Jenny,” Persephone’s smooth voice came from beyond him, “Beth needs to do a fitting for your handmaiden attire.”
“Oh, fiddle,” the actress murmured, straightening again and lowering her arms. “I’ll be about, my lord.”
She lifted her chin as she waltzed past Persephone and further into the depths of the theater. In return, Persephone merely lifted an eyebrow.
“That lass seems a wee bit jealous of ye,” Coll commented.
“She read for Lady Macbeth,” Persephone answered, walking closer. “As did I. Charlie and his investors thought she was too … How did they put it? ‘Hysterically desperate,’ I think it was. They said she would frighten away the audience.”
“She scared me just now.” He found himself looking at her all over again. She’d been with him, and yet looked as composed as any woman could be, back to jesting and ready to rehearse being a murderess. Lasses. Just when he thought he had one figured out, she surprised him again.
“If you’re worried over me,” she said, stopping in front of him, “I’ve arranged for my usual driver to take me home before dark. I will remain there until you come to retrieve me in the morning.”
“Does Claremont ken where ye live?”
Persephone shook her head. “I daresay St. John’s Wood is far too low for him to have ever wished to set foot.” Reaching up, she cupped his cheek. “You have a dinner to attend and a wife to find, Coll. I will see you in the morning.”
“When I’m to charm yer household or nae darken yer door again.”
“That isn’t precisely what I said, but it does seem a fairly accurate representation.” She grinned. “Remember, don’t attempt to trap a lady into an engagement. We appreciate being left an avenue of graceful escape.”
Just like the one he seemed to be leaving her. “Aye. Nae flinging anyone over my shoulder.”
“Correct. I might have enjoyed it just a bit, but another young lady might faint at such physical prowess.”
Another lady might have, but she hadn’t. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said aloud. “And tomorrow I’d like ye to write out a list of all yer former protectors or whatever ye’re calling ’em. If someaught else happens, I’d like to know where to begin looking.”
Coll slid his hands around her slender waist. Just the idea of someone wanting to harm her was enough to make deep fury boil his blood, despite knowing she was likely using him and his attraction to her for her own ends. But then perhaps he was using her, as well. He leaned down and took her soft mouth in a hot, deep kiss.
“Pers—oh.” Gordon Humphreys stopped, flushing as he came around the corner. “We’re beginning act two, Persie,” he finished.
Lifting his head, Coll released her. “I’ll see ye in the morning, lass,” he murmured, noting that her gaze focused on his mouth. That was good; he’d never yet received a complaint about his kisses, or anything else he did with a lass in private.
She cleared her throat. “Yes. Of course. Thank you, Coll.” Blinking, she faced Humphreys. “We’re beginning act two of what, Gordon?”
The Saint Genesius’s Macbeth scowled. “Of the Scottish play, of course. I told you, I won’t be tricked.”
“Not yet.” Putting her arm around the actor’s, she headed back toward the rehearsal room with him.
Watching after her, Coll wiped a hand across his mouth. Whatever the hell this was going on between them, he liked it, even though it left him frustrated. He was a hunter, after all. And the greatest challenge for a hunter was prey that knew he was coming.