“Right,” Rosie said in a small voice, rolling her shoulders and scooping up the cards. “I—I will remember that for next time.”
“Good. Aye.” Bull cleared his throat. “Now, where were we?” Och aye, the card game. “Hit—nay, I mean,I would like another card, please.”
Her lips twitched into a smirk as she plopped another card down on the bench.
“Stay,” he said, and she nodded.
“Dealer takes one. Dealer takes two—shitenuggets,” she muttered as she turned a queen, putting her over twenty-one.
Bull flipped over his nineteen, not surprised he’d won. “Again?”
They played a few more rounds and he felt himself relaxing. Aye, he was sitting beside Rosie, but she was way on the other side of the carriage, with the bench between them they were using as a playing surface. They were reminiscing, swapping stories about their families and the people they both knew and loved, but as the minutes turned to an hour, the questions turned more personal. By unspoken arrangement, the winner of each hand began to ask questions.
Bull found himself telling her of some of his cases: how it felt to bring a murderer to justice, and what the Princess Louise was like in private, and how to spot a counterfeit coin. She thought his stories fascinating and kept trying to downplay her own experiences. Truthfully, he had little understanding of the art theory she explained, although he enjoyed her stories of visiting the great museums of Europe and even chuckled at her accounts of interacting with eccentric artists.
Even if he didn’t understand the academic ramifications of post-modernism, Bull didn’t care. He was more than content to sit there and watch Rosie’s excitement as she lectured on them. Her eyes lit with enthusiasm, her hands waved as she tried to capture a motif, and her breaths came faster.
He could watch her, listen to her, forhoursif she gave him the opportunity.
That realization slammed into Bull, causing him to blink and shake his head as she was telling a story about finding proof of a particular theory in the basement of a gallery in Paris.
Christ, he didn’t just like kissing Rosie; he likedher.
He liked the way she threw herself into her passions whole-heartedly. He liked that she was smart and quick-witted, he liked that she understoodhiswork and could slip into a role as quickly as he could. He liked her teasing and intelligence and God help him, he liked the way she tasted. The way shefelt.
The next hand she won again, and this time, Rosie beamed hopefully. “Instead of a question, I have a request.” When he twitched his brow, inviting her to continue, shestraightened her shoulders, as if preparing herself. “I want you to teach me?—”
Dinnae think about kissing, dinnae think about?—
“—how to cheat.”
Yet again, she surprised him. “At cards?”
“Well, I know how to stack a deck,obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeated dryly, wondering how many other duke’s daughters—besides Marcia—had that skill. “So, palming a card?”
Rosie nodded to his sleeve. “Do not think I missed that little trick.”
With an affronted gasp, Bull lifted his hands, palm out. “I wouldnevercheat ye, milady!” He twisted his hands so the backs faced her, closed his fingers…and when he turned them back, palms out, he flicked the ace of clubs between two fingers. “Much.”
“See?” Chuckling, she snatched the card from him and slid it back into the deck. “I doubt you can help it.”
Unrepentantly, Bull shrugged. “Habit. But I dinnae think yer hands are wide enough to palm a card.” He took the deck from her as he eyed her gown. “And yer sleeves definitely arenae.”
“Then teach me some sleight of hand.” She leaned forward eagerly. “One summer after you refused yet again to show us, Merida and I taught ourselves how to pick pockets—I am better than she is, because she keeps laughing.”
Bull sat back against the swaying train carriage’s wall, brows raised. Finally, he said, “Ye ken, Rosie, I’m no’ even alittle surprised by that, andthatsurprises me. Ofcourseye saw a skill ye wanted to learn and ye taught yerself.” Chuckling, he pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his bag overhead. “Ye’re no’ wearing any jewelry, so I’ll see what I have we can teach ye to palm…”
He'd reached his hand inside his briefcase, his fingers closing around a small object, when Rosie announced, “I have some coins, would that work?”
Bull paused, his brain trying to process what he was holding. Oh, it was Lady Mistree’s ivory box! The one with the ring inside, the one she’d said he should give to the woman he planned on marrying.
As if anyone would havehim.
Luckily Rosie had pulled out a silver crown and Bull allowed his fingers to unclench. He didn’t want to pull that thing out. He’d forgotten about it, only vaguely remembered throwing it into his briefcase. With a roll of his shoulders, Bull pulled his hand out of his bag and forced a smile.
“Excellent. We’ll work with that,” he announced, sinking down on the bench beside an eager Rosie. “Hold it between yer fingers.”
