Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
LATER
Saskia had intended to venture down to the Drunken Piebald’s taproom for only as long as it would take to grab a swift evening meal of chicken and leek pie.
She’d—rightly—begun thinking of the ten-mile radius of surrounding countryside as Liam Cassidy territory, and she wouldn’t be settled until she was back in her library in London—her territory.
However, she’d made a critical error in the execution of her plan.
She’d brought her writing materials to keep her company.
And, as ever, when her writing materials were at hand, an idea rushed toward her.
Of course, she jotted it down—as one did.
Then another idea came, and another, and she was no longer jotting, but writing, one idea following another in the flow that had become familiar to her these last few years.
This flow mustn’t be hindered. She’d learned ideas must be committed to paper the moment they were had.
Particular arrangements of words, too, as sometimes the muse gifted her not only with the idea, but the perfect order of words with which to express that idea.
Words so perfect they would surely be unforgettable.
But they were forgettable, she’d learned from hard experience.
If she didn’t write them down immediately, they would dissipate and float away into the ether.
The idea would remain, but the words she was left with would always be poor substitutes.
Sure, these new inferior words would suffice in getting the idea across, but they would always be mere echoes of their former selves.
Now, it was an hour later, and Saskia had a pencil in her right hand and a spoon in her left and a plate of chicken and leek pie long gone cold.
However, she did have five pages to show for that hour.
A fair tradeoff in her mind. She’d eaten her share of cold meals since she’d become a writer, and it wasn’t the worst thing.
Except, what she’d written during this last hour, well, it wasn’t what she should’ve been writing.
She’d written a scene for a novel she had no business yet beginning.
A scene where the heroine happened to meet the hero in a taproom remarkably similar to the Drunken Piebald’s, down to the dense, fuggy air, the knife-scarred tables, and the close-knit patrons.
Further, the heroine gave the hero a false name.
Araminta. And, oh, how Araminta and the hero flirted and bantered and flirted some more before they… kissed.
And the kiss Saskia had spent the last hour writing… It was like no other kiss she’d ever written.
In fact, the kiss she’d just written likely couldn’t be included in this or any other novel—not in its present configuration of words.
For the kiss she’d just written resembled diary entry more than fiction.
Criminy.
The sudden, strident scrape of a chair being dragged across grime-sticky pine floorboards screeched through the air.
A racket that was growing…closer. Irritated, she glanced up to get a look—and froze.
Before her mouth could gather itself to greet or protest or even gasp, Liam Cassidy was seated in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
Speechless, she was rendered.
A too-charming smile tipped at the side of his mouth. “Hello, Arabella.”
Her mouth resisted the impulse to offer a greeting—or even a protest.
His gaze lowered to take in the contents of the table between them. “What are you working on?” His head tipped to the side as if he were reading upside down. “My memoirs?”
Saskia’s brain, at last, caught up with the moment. “Erm…yes.” Frantic hands gathered pages, paying no heed to their order.
She and he reached for the last page in the same instant. “Can I see what you have so far?”
“No,” she said.
She may have shouted.
His brow lifted, but the page yet lay contested between them.
He couldn’t read this.
He couldn’t.
If he did, she might actually expire of mortification.
He released the page, and Saskia wasted not the split of a second shoving it into her satchel, which she closed with a decided snap. When she glanced up, it was to find him settled back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, observing her steadily.
She gathered herself. If there had ever been a time in her life in which she should be entirely herself—the formidable and unyielding Lady Saskia Calthorp—this was the moment. “I take it you will state your business any moment now?”
His too-charming smile didn’t alter a whit. My, but wasn’t Liam Cassidy on the formidable and unyielding side of the scales himself? “Oh, we have plenty of business to state between us. Really, the question is where to begin?”
What was the saying about curses and chickens roosting? For seated across from her, in the form of one exceptionally handsome and formidable and unyielding man was a curse come home to roost. No one would mistake him for a chicken.
He would have to be dealt with, that was what his formidably charming and determinedly unyielding smile said. “Shall we begin with last night?”
She didn’t answer; she waited.
As if he’d expected as much, he continued. “Last night, you were—”
“I don’t want to talk about last night,” sprang from her mouth. “Or who I was.”
Now it him not answering; him waiting.
Over the years, she’d learned a little trick.
A bracing of oneself on the outside tended to shore one up on the inside, too.
“Our relationship,” she began and instantly regretted her choice of word—relationship.
It wasn’t only that it wasn’t the correct word, but it was a word that implied solidity.
She cleared her throat. “Our association”—a far superiorly vague word in the circumstances—“must be kept within professional boundaries.”
Humor sparked in his eyes.
Professional boundaries.
Where had those been last night?
What a hypocrite she was, but she saw no other way out of this impossible situation than through.
He nodded, as if giving the idea of professional boundaries serious consideration. “May I ask you a question that might hold some relevance?”
“You may,” she deigned.
Oh, criminy, had she retreated so far into her internal fortress that she was now deigning?
“This morning,” he said, “why did you act as if we’d never met?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Oh, she was doing nothing to right this ship.
Nothing.
Though she couldn’t say his charming smile altered, it did, somehow, shift into what could only be characterized as wicked as he leaned forward.
Though a table stood between them, it was as if he’d erased all distance.
“Shall I refresh your memory?” he asked, his voice pitched low, for her ears only.
The feeling that suggestion produced inside her…
Unsettled wouldn’t be the correct word. It was too firm and held dark implications. No, this feeling was far less certain. It resembled more of a wobble.
A seismic wobble.
She reached for a retort—something witty and cutting that Lady Saskia Calthorp would say—and found one. “I suppose you would think yourself that memorable.”
He shifted back in his chair and looked at her as if he were taking the measure of an opponent.
Gone was the charm.
Gone was the wickedness.
She almost regretted that retort, for it was a falsity, wasn’t it?
Almost.
False words had gotten her into this situation, so how about they got her out of it?
It was a decent enough logical leap.
But it was he who spoke the next words. “Then how about we venture even further back into the past?”
She blinked. Further back in the past? They’d only met last night. What was the man on about?
“You see, I’ve given last night a long and thorough think,” he continued, “and I find something interesting about it.”
“What’s that?”
“I didn’t know who you were, but…” A few ticks of time sped past. “But you knew who I was.”
Saskia had never been punched in the gut, but she thought the feeling reverberating through her was how it would feel—lungs winded, heart racing, blood rushing through the veins and roaring through the ears. She now understood at a physical level the meaning of the word gutted.
He wasn’t finished, either. “The thing is, we should’ve encountered one another by now.
After all, I’ve met all your other siblings.
” He began counting them off, one after another.
“Your brother, the Duke of Acaster. Your sister, Lady Ormonde. Your other sister, Lady Viveca. In fact, it was Lady Viveca who used her considerable skills of persuasion to convince me to agree to the memoir in the first place. She said someone else would do the writing. Presumably, she meant you.” He tapped the table, his gold-flecked green gaze steady.
“At some point during the last few years, I should’ve met you.
And last night, at the very least, I should’ve known you on sight.
” His eyes searched hers. “So, why didn’t I? ”
Could he not hear her heart hammering against her ribs? The blood roaring through her veins? “Does this truly matter?” Was that breathlessness in her voice?
“That’s what I’d like you to tell me, Lady Saskia.”
Never had she seen this man this serious.
“Does it?” he asked.
It didn’t and…it did.
But she was under no obligation to tell him that.
Those were her private thoughts and reasonings.
They belonged solely to her.
Right.
An idea came to her.
An idea that might just come to her rescue.
She reached down, opened her satchel, and dug pencil and journal from its depths. Pencil in hand, she opened the journal to a blank page. Suspicion entered Cassidy’s eyes, and a frisson of relief pulsed through her. She was on the correct course.
At last.
“What are you doing?”
“What I’m here to do.” So lightly had she spoken the words that a breeze might’ve taken them.
“Which is?”
“To write down your every word.”
Open exasperation shone in his eyes. “Can’t we talk without you having to record everything?”
“But isn’t that the point of me? Lest you forget, Mr. Cassidy—”
“Liam.”
“Li-am,” she repeated. “Lest you forget, I’m writing your memoir as you. So, I need to record your manner of speaking so it will translate onto the page.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
It was, in fact, true.
Except…it wasn’t factually true to this moment.
But that didn’t stop a small thrill of triumph from whizzing through her.
She’d upset his balance—for once.
And it felt good.
It felt better than good.
It felt safe.
She’d always been good at this—at guarding herself.
For the first time since last night, she felt certain and firm and…
Safe.
And if making herself safe meant unsettling Liam Cassidy, all the better.