Chapter 6
“Iswear to Christ, Rosie, if you spill this on yer costume, I will never forgive you,” Bull hissed, handing his companion the smallest glass of wine he could find and reminding himself not to glare.
He was supposed to be playing the role of a bored baron, after all.
Fook. “Ye’re too young for this anyhow.”
Rosie merely rolled her eyes and snatched the not-quite-crystal from him. “Did you ever meet my father?”
“Of course I ken yer father,” Bull grumbled, stepping beside her so he could scan the crowded room from behind the ornate mask he’d bejeweled himself yesterday. “I’m terrified of yer father.”
Her laughter was too pure for this hellish company. Rosie—sweet, innocent Rosie—nudged him with her hip as she took a hefty sip—sip? Nay, gulp—of wine. “You are not terrified of him.”
“I am. The man once beat me senseless,” Bull explained without doing anything as crass as glancing down at her. He didn’t need to; she drew every single one of his senses to her. “In one particular place.”
“The drawing room?”
Bull winced. “I limped for a week.”
More laughter, low and sensual. Rosie’s laughter should be innocent and na?ve, but Bull couldn’t mistake the throaty sound of familiarity beneath it; it sounded as full-bodied as the wine he was gripping too hard as he pretended to scan the crowd.
Being in character, being in disguise, being back in the game…it was like flying. He loved this feeling, but this time Rosie was beside him, and he wasn’t sure why that didn’t make him far more nervous.
Rosie was sweet and innocent and didn’t belong here; but she’d swept in on his arm, playing a role the same as he was, acting as if she not only should be here, among this torrid company…but reveled in it.
She was acting the way he was, and why the fook didn’t that bother him more?
Now she lifted the glass toward him, as if awarding him a point. Anyone watching from a distance would think them engaged in intimate conversation. Once they saw the cut of her gown, they’d likely assume Bull was seducing the hell out of her, frankly.
Once they saw his face, they’d know how much he wanted to.
“You challenged Da to a sparring match, Bull, remember? I certainly do. You were teaching Hunter to throw a larger opponent, and when Da told you that you were doing it incorrectly, you challenged him.”
“Aye, and he beat me senseless,” Bull repeated in a growl, shifting toward her so observers would think him entranced. All part of the disguise, obviously. “Terrifying, like I said. What does that have to do with the fact ye’ve somehow finished the wine?”
Her bare arm snaked into his vision holding an empty goblet, and he took it without thinking. Before he realized what was happening, Rosie had plucked his mostly full goblet from his fingers.
When he opened his mouth and turned to object, she smiled up at him.
Nay.
Nay, that was too simplistic a description.
Rosie Hayle, in that costume…
Bull swallowed.
She glowed up at him. She fascinated up at him. She allured up at him.
She tempted up at him.
Aye, her lips were curled, and aye, her perfect little teeth were visible…but that wasn’t a mere smile that she was bestowing upon him.
That was everything.
Fook me.
Scowling, he swung back to the crowd.
“For fook’s sake, Rosie. Ye need to keep yer wits about ye,” he mumbled, the world’s greatest hypocrite. “I cannae have ye getting drunk at yer first masquerade.”
More throaty chuckles. “Oh, invidious cuntwomble!” she countered his curse. “Why do I need my wits about me? This is your case, yes? That is what you keep telling me. I am merely your companion for the night.”
She’s playing a part. Just playing a part.
Bull managed not to groan at the thought of her in that role, but it was close.
His cock very definitely refused to pay attention to the reminder.
He forced himself to focus on the raucous flock of young men who had just stumbled down the steps.
A penguin. The Madam’s note said her man would be dressed as a penguin.
Alas, no man-sized penguins stood out from the crowd.
“Ye need yer wits about ye,” he repeated, “in case ye find yerself alone with one of those arseholes.” He nodded to the half dozen young roisterers. “They’ll no’ hesitate to try to corner ye.”
Or worse.
Instead of being shocked by such a thought, Rosie hummed and shifted at his side. Christ Almighty, her hip brushed against him again and he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking, to design her such a delicious costume.
Ye ken what ye were thinking. Ye were thinking ye wanted to see Rosie Hayle decked out in a slinky gown and bedecked in pearls, and a mermaid was a damned brilliant excuse.
He wished Past Bull had given thought to Present Bull’s condition before making that decision.
Especially after the way he’d damn near spent in his trousers earlier today, just trimming her hair. She’d leaned so trustingly against him, her skin so silky beneath his fingertips, her breath catching whenever he accidentally touched her…
“Corner me, hmm?” Rosie had the audacity to stare blatantly as she sipped his wine. “And then what would they do?”
Bull’s knuckles tightened around the glass. “Dressed like that? They’d definitely try to kiss ye, Rosie.”
“Dressed like this?” She swayed back and forth, so the flared hem of her gown brushed against his buff-colored trousers. “Do I look like a kissable mermaid?”
Dinnae answer. Dinnae answer. Dinnae answer.
Bull locked eyes on a fern across the room and vowed to remember how to work his voice.
“Besides…” Rosie drained his glass of wine. “You are the one we should be concerned about. Running about dressed as Poseidon, with that positively scandalous waistcoat.”
“It’s no’ a waistcoat,” he growled, gaze still locked on the fern.
“I know,” Rosie chuckled.
And then she slid her arm through his.
Her bare skin pressed against his bare skin. Aye, it was only an arm—and what’s an arm, in the general scheme of things? Nothing compared to a thigh or a tongue or a tit—Christ, dinnae think about her tits!
Past Bull really ought to have re-thought Present Bull’s costume.
At least as far as hiding a hard-on went.
But really, he was nothing if not sartorially proud, and this costume had been a brilliant design if he did say so himself. Which he did. Those years he’d spent studying fashion in Paris and Italy, thanks to his brother Rourke’s indulgences, had to be of some use.
However, none of his tutors had ever mentioned the necessity of hiding a raging erection under a toga.
Really. The damned thing was no better than a kilt when it came to hard-on concealment.
“Oh, look, Bull.” Her other arm—long, bare, adorned with garish fake pearls and bracelets made of mother-of-pearl—stretched out. “Another mermaid!”
The woman had hair a color of red not seen in nature, a loud sharp laugh, and was clinging to the arms of two men dressed—badly—as sailors. Bull studied their costumes with a practiced eye. They were poorly constructed.
But likely successfully hiding their hard-ons. Fook.
He shifted, hoping no one would notice. “A weak imitation, my dear.”
“Oh, I like it when you call me that.”
“I call everyone that.”
Another chuckle, then Rosie squeezed. “I know. I just thought tonight I could pretend to be special.”
Bull was ready to promise twenty Hail Marys if their contact showed up soon, and he wasn’t even Catholic. How much more of this could he stand? “Ye are special, Rosie.”
It wasn’t until she’d stiffened that he’d realized he’d said that out loud.
“So if you were to corner me,” she mused quietly—almost under her breath—"might you kiss—”
“Ye’re drunk,” Bull interjected, gaze still locked on the fern. Could he count the leaves from here? Best to focus on something so innocuous. “Ye had two huge glasses—”
“My father is Demon Hayle,” Rosie announced stiffly, running her bare arm along his bare arm. “Do not insult me. I have been stealing his whisky for years, I would not become drunk on two paltry glasses of wine.”
It was the disgust in her tone that finally yanked Bull’s gaze back to her.
Really, he had no choice, did he? Besides, the fern wasn’t nearly as fascinating.
He plucked her goblet from her fingers and leaned sideways to hand both glasses to a passing servant before turning to give Rosie his full attention.
She was glaring up at him, and he suddenly saw he had irritated her. Her bright eyes were framed by the green mask’s false pearls, the ones he’d glued himself, and her pupils sparkled with ire. He lacked the courage to claim the wine had anything to do with it, and realized he was smiling.
Smiling not because she was beautiful, although she was, and not because he wanted to charm her, which—damn him—he did.
He was smiling because he wanted to smile.
Rosie Hayle, the lassie he’d thought of as a little cousin for so long, had definitely grown up…and bantering with her made him want to smile.
When had he last smiled like this? Freely, without thought?
Oh, he was charming and gregarious, but in the last decade since his agency had become so successful, Bull had pared his actions down to those which served him—and his missions—the best. Nothing was to be wasted. If he smiled, if he laughed, it was because that’s what the situation called for.
But here he was, smiling not because he wanted her to see him smile, but because he wanted to smile.
“Bull?”
He hummed.
Her eyes had grown panicky behind the mask. “Bull,” she hissed.
“Aye, lass?” Shite, he felt marvelous. His bones felt like butter—all save one.
“Do not look now, but I think that is Lady Mistree standing across the room, speaking with a parrot.”
Damnation.
Bull’s senses went into high alert and he stiffened, moving to block more of her body from expected danger. This is what ye get for allowing yer mind to wander. Allowing yerself to smile, to react without thinking.