Chapter 5 #2
When she glanced at him, he was frowning down at her with a strange look in his lovely gray eyes. As if he had been surprised by her answer. Or confused by it.
By her.
She hid her smile and turned her back to him once more. “Why am I in your bathing room, Bull?” Unable to resist a bit of flirtation, she added, “Do I need a bath? Did you invite me here to bathe me?”
A choked noise came from behind her, and it took all of Rosie’s self-control not to turn around and view his response.
Instead, she allowed her mouth to curve knowingly. “I suppose I am a bit dirty—”
“For fook’s sake, Rosie, shut up!”
She pressed her lips together to try to hide her laughter. It didn’t work, and a sort of snort emerged, which was echoed by Bull as he stomped across the tiles to the dressing table.
“Ye’re here so I can fix this mess of a coiffure. Who cut yer hair? A sheep?”
He’d managed to surprise her, and Rosie twisted in her chair to see his determined look as he lifted a delicate pair of scissors.
“Sheep are the ones sheared, dear Bull.”
He lifted a brow. “Ye look as if ye allowed a sheep to gnaw at yer head, dear Rosie. A sheep who already had a mouthful of cud. And was cross-eyed. And drunk.”
“Ouch.” She turned back around and arranged her shoulders. “Merida cut my hair.”
“She’s shite at it.” Bull stepped up behind her. “I thought artists had a better sense of style.”
Rosie opened her mouth to defend her cousin—which would be difficult, considering she didn’t actually believe the cut Meri had given her to be particularly flattering—but snapped her mouth shut when Bull’s palm landed on her head.
It was a gentle touch, just a way to tip her head forward and allow him access to the nape of her neck.
But in that moment, all of Rosie’s veins and arteries and nerve endings and spinal cord—all of the bits that made up her…rewired themselves. Because one moment she was sparring with Bull, and the next moment she’d turn to a sort of fooking goo puddle as he held her still with that large hand.
When the metal of the small scissors—of course he’d have something like this on his dressing table, he likely did all his sartorial adjustments himself—scraped across her neck, Rosie shuddered.
And she was smart enough to realize it had far more to do with his touch than that of the scissors.
He worked in silence, the only sound the scissors snipping far more delicately than anything Merida and her mother’s embroidery shears could have managed.
Rosie’s fingers curled into fists on her lap, trying to give herself a sensation to focus on, because she was afraid if she didn’t, she might just float away into the ether.
And then…
And then Bull’s fingertips brushed delicately against the nape of her neck, sending another shudder through her body.
“What’s wrong?” he barked.
She could barely breathe. “Ticklish,” she managed to mutter.
He grunted. “Ye were covered in little hairs.”
His hold on her head turned firm as he tipped her head back. All the way back, so she was staring up at him. This pose—half supplicant, half submissive—had her lips parting, her lids lowering in speculation.
Bull’s fingertips dug into her scalp as he moved to stand beside her, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stared down at her.
His hips—his pelvis—were right at her shoulder.
She could lean slightly to the left, brush herself against him.
Would she feel his arousal? Did it arouse him to see her sitting like this, her mouth open… ?
In curious experiment, Rosie drew her lower lip between her teeth then popped it back out again.
Bull released her abruptly and stepped back with a muted curse.
It was, judging from their history, something along the lines of For fook’s sake, Rosie.
She hid her smile as she turned forward once more, and after a long moment, he bent down to begin snipping at her hair again.
This was the most wonderful torture, to be teased and stroked without him having any idea how arousing it was.
Mother had often stroked Rosie’s hair as they’d read together, even in recent years…
but it had never made her feel like this.
Never made her feel as if every fiber of her being was focused on her scalp before jolting deliciously through her.
It was all Rosie could do to not groan aloud as Bull ran his thick fingers through her hair, fluffing it out as he snipped and cut.
Toad-spotted spunk-stockings, but this felt delightful.
She was having trouble concentrating on anything but the pleasure of his touch, so when he spoke, it took her a moment to process his words.
“Ye must do nothing tonight to alert anyone to yer identity, ye ken?”
Rosie had to remember how to make her voice work.
Right. Inhale. Hold it. Try to swallow. Clear your throat. Ah, good. Words.
“Yes,” she managed. “I do understand how disguises work.”
The noise he made might have been a laugh, might have been disbelief.
She found her courage again. “Why is it so difficult to believe, Bull?” she bristled. “I am not some little girl right out of the schoolroom—”
“That’s exactly what ye are.”
“I am one and twenty. Old enough to know my own mind and my own future.”
Bull bent over her head. “I ken how auld ye are, trust me. I’m aulder.”
Oh, is that what this was about? She sighed. “Not this again. Do you honestly believe those fifteen years make you better than me?”
He didn’t respond for a moment, but his fingers stilled against her scalp. “Ye ken how auld I am?”
I know everything about you.
The fact that he was surprised by this was a little depressing.
So Rosie just tried to shrug nonchalantly, pretending as if he wasn’t driving her mad with desire with a simple haircut.
“I know you are older than me, Bull, and you have likely learned plenty in those years, plenty I have not yet learned. But do you honestly believe yourself to be better than me? Is that why you are irritated by my inclusion in this scheme?”
“I dinnae think myself better than ye.” His answer was growled, but he didn’t add anything else.
His work carried around to the front of her head, and Rosie tipped her head back to study him as he focused on her locks and very stalwartly did not meet her eyes.
“If I had come to you as myself and offered myself—I mean, offered my help on this case, you would have refused it,” Rosie said quietly, and when he didn’t respond, she pressed. “Correct?”
“Aye,” he grunted, still not meeting her gaze. “Ye’re a gentle-bred lassie. Daughter of a duke. Ye shouldnae be wrapped up in all of this messiness.”
Except…her family already was. His family was too, thanks to Allie’s great-grandfather’s involvement. And Bull had accepted help from Merida…
“Why is Merida acceptable to be involved in all this messiness?” She tried to keep her tone even, not to let him know his nonchalance hurt her. “She is my cousin.”
But she is not gently-bred. All of Society knows she is her natural father’s by-blow, adopted by a disgraced daughter of an earl and a simple chemist with ties to the underworld.
Rosie knew it. But she wanted Bull to say it.
He did not.
When she glanced at him again it was to see his jaw clenched, his eyes spitting with silent anger as he focused on her hair. Had she made him angry? Her questions? Or her presence?
The thought made her feel…small somehow, and his touch was no longer quite so magical.
He thought her less than Merida? Less than Hunter and Gabby, whom he’d employed before their marriages? Less than his step-sister Marcia, who had helped found the Bull Lindsay Detective Group?
Rosie swallowed. She might be younger than all of them, but surely she could be as useful?
Abruptly, Bull straightened. “Done. Ye look much better. Especially now that monstrosity of a mustache is gone.”
“Oh.” Rosie focused on brushing the hairs from her borrowed smock. “Right. Thank you.”
A large, tanned hand appeared in front of her face, and she followed the arm up to his shoulder, to his neck and jaw and mouth and eyes. He was still wearing only the shirt—no tie, no waistcoat, no jacket—and Rosie didn’t think she’d ever seen him looking more handsome.
“Come on,” Bull said, almost gently. “I’ll show ye yer costume.”
Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his and he gently lifted her to her feet. As she moved to look in the mirror, Bull brushed more hair from her shoulders and back…but she couldn’t focus on his touch because…
Because her reflection in the mirror…
The woman in the mirror was stunning.
In a daze, Rosie lifted her hand to touch the strands of hair which framed her face in a delicate, mischievous style. It was a puckish look, one she never would have imagined for herself, and it made her look…so much older. More knowing. More fun.
“Oh my word,” she breathed in wonder.
And behind her, Bull snorted. “Fook’s sake, Rosie, watch yer tongue. Next ye’ll be goodness graciousing and clutching yer pearls.”
His teasing caused her lips to curl and her heart unclenched.
Bull’s reflection in the mirror jerked its head back toward his bedroom. “Want to see yer disguise?”
And just like that, the anticipation of adventure thrummed through her veins again. “Are you certain you can disguise me thoroughly?”
He might not think she was as talented as the others when it came to detective work, but he hadn’t fought her on tonight.
Or rather, he’d capitulated when she’d pointed out—quite logically—that she could just go without him.
Truthfully, she was so much happier attending the art auction and masquerade with him, rather than alone, because he was used to this sort of—
Oh.
Bull pulled something from a hanger and spread it across his bed, and Rosie’s eyes had widened.
Whatever thought she might have had as far as disguises to attend the masquerade ball…None of it could come close to this. She likely would have slapped on a pair of cat ears and a mask, and hoped no one would recognize her, but this…
Holding her breath, she bent down to finger the fabric which felt like liquid jewels.
This was something else entirely. The fitted skirt, the deep cut of the bodice with the seashell motif, the beautiful, shimmering colors which looked just like scales when she moved the fabric…
“No one will recognize me in this,” she breathed.
Behind her, Bull snorted. “Ye ever doubted me? I have our cover stories ready to go. I will be a Romanian baron in Britain visiting my sister, who is married to an industrialist. I collect medieval art from the Continent, attending the auction at the urging of my mistress.” His finger poked her shoulder.
“Ye are a silly lass who has a passion for mid-century portraiture.”
If it would help the ruse for her to pretend ignorance of art, she could manage that, but…
Still in awe of this gown, she lifted it by the bodice, shaking out the bejeweled skirt.
So much skin would be on display, more than she’d ever displayed before.
A courtesan’s masquerade ball was not the place for cat ears and a mask; it practically demanded a mermaid costume as scandalous, as erotic, as this one.
Her gaze skimmed the neckline. Bull would dance with her tonight—he would have to. He would hold her. Touch her. Look at all that skin on display…
Rosie felt her lips curl upward in pure wickedness.
“I am delighted to tell you this, Bull: absolutely everyone who sees me in this will believe us to be lovers.”
And wouldn’t that just be wonderful?