Remmy sat with them, singing. It had been so long since she’d heard his voice wrapped like satin around a melody. She leaned against the frame, closed her eyes, and let the song carry her away.
“O my Luve is like a red, red rose / That’s newly sprung in June; / O my Luve is like the melody / That’s sweetly played in tune. / So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, / So deep in luve am I; / And I will luve thee still, my dear, / Till a’ the seas gang dry.”
When he finished singing, the room settled into a pleased sort of silence, and she opened her eyes.
And found Remmy staring right at her. He lifted one corner of his mouth, and his gold earring glinted in the firelight.
Her heart tripped, as if it couldn’t find the correct rhythm, and she rubbed circles into her chest just above the edge of her bodice. She’d avoided him since yesterday morning. He’d been rude and unbearable as well as protective and sweet, and the new duality of his nature made her want to hug him and hithim. He seemed a great loss to her, so far away, she’d never reach him again.
But his song, so sweet and rough, traveled over that chasm to her, and when he stood, slow as a feline stretching and prowled toward her, she greeted him with a smile.
“Good evening,” he said, leaning against the opposite side of the frame. “I thought you were angry with me.”
“I am. I heard your voice, and I’m afraid not even being tied to a mast would have saved me from seeking you out. Why must the most irritating men be the most talented?”
His eyes smiled, but only briefly. “I do not like it when we are at odds.”
“Neither do I.”
“I should not have been so crude.”
“No, you should not have.”
“Dare I ask for forgiveness?”
“Not quite yet.”
“You know,” Remmy drawled, “I continue to forgive you. Over and over again. It’s foolish of me, but I cannot control it.”
“When have I done anything requiring forgiveness?”
His laugh was low and dark, and she was afraid to look deeper into it. “I must be one of those men who like pain. Though I seem to only care for it when you’re the one wielding the whip.”
He was in an odd mood tonight. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”
“Not a drop.”
She looked toward the group by the fire. “Are they sleeping?”
“Dozing. My grandmother’s friends. Lady Gainsmorrow remembered I’m an adequate singer and requested an impromptu performance. It seems I put them tosleep. Not exactly the result I’m looking for. In fact, a theatre owner’s nightmare.”
Hiding a smile, she searched the room, seeking out the small table that used to be—ah yes, still was—in a corner, bracketed by two chairs, and decorated with the delicate, martial lines of a chessboard.
“You may earn your forgiveness by playing a game of chess with me.” She made for the table, his heavy steps quick behind her.
“Are you sure you don’t wish to play with Tilbunny?” When she sat at the table, he took the opposite seat. He leaned back in it, hands clasped behind his head, long legs outstretched.
“Tilbury, and”—she sighed—“no.”
Near her skirts, his foot moved, swaying back and forth, flirting with the hem of her gown. “Is he not meeting with your approval?”
“He’s perfectly fine.”
“But here you are. With me. Why is that?”
“Because I’d rather be with you. You’re my friend.”
He winced and opened a drawer in the table. “Wield the whip again, King.”
