She hadn’t noticed the deer when she’d attended the luncheon two days ago, but then she’d remained downstairs had been busily and stupidly thinking she didn’t have a care in the world. Today that seemed like ages ago. Taking a breath, she paused in the billiards room doorway, eyeing the pair of men seated across from each other at a small table set beneath a window in the blue-and-red-wallpapered room.
“I’ll do it for ye one more time,” Aden was saying, shuffling a stack of cards. “Pick the one ye want, show it, and shove it back in the deck.”
His younger brother, Niall, the one who’d just returnedfrom a supposedly planned elopement to Gretna Green where he’d married Amelia-Rose Baxter in spectacularly romantic fashion, selected a card and flipped it over in his fingers. “Seven of hearts,” he said.
“Ye certain that’s the one ye want?” his brother asked. “Nae an ace or a diamond or someaught? The king of hearts? I can wait while ye decide.”
“Shut up, yeskellum.”
“I’m only trying to make this as simple as I can for ye,bràthair.”
“Aye, and sheep grow coats of satin,” Niall intoned, and stuffed the card back into the deck his brother still held.
Aden shuffled again, his fingers sure and quick. No fumbling, no stacking, just a blur of cards flitting effortlessly together. Even from the doorway it mesmerized Miranda a little, and she detested it all the more for that reason. She wanted to detest him, as well; after all, she’d as much as said so at luncheon the other day. He gambled, and apparently very well. That made him unacceptable.
Everything about him—his careless black hair with its long, straying strands and the way it seemed to always be stirring in some mysterious, otherwise unfelt breeze, his hard, lean frame and grace, that handsome face and the way she wanted to sigh every time she looked at him—it all seemed designed to disarm her, to keep her from seeing a man with very questionable morality. And now that she knew he had some wits about him, he seemed even more dangerous.
Setting the deck down, Aden cut it, putting the lower half on top. “Turn it,” he said, moving his hands away from the cards.
His brother reached over and turned over the top card. The seven of hearts looked up from the table. Witha scowl Niall flipped the entire deck faceup and spread them out. “I didnae see it, damn it all.”
“So ye reckon I’ve an entire deck of naught but sevens of hearts?”
“I’d nae put it past ye.” Picking up the card, he examined it. “Tell me how ye do it.”
“Nae. I showed ye four times just this morning, Niall. Figure it out yerself.” He took the card back, danced it through his fingers, and put it back into the messy stack before he straightened the pile. “And do it elsewhere; I’ve a lass come to see me.” Turning his head a little, he caught Miranda’s gaze with gray-green eyes.
His brother turned as well, his eyes a startling light green very like his sister Eloise’s unusual ones. As he stood, she noticed the medium-sized black dog curled beneath Aden’s chair. Brògan, who wasn’t at all a male dog, whatever Aden claimed, and whomever he chose to fool. “Ye’re Matthew Harris’s sister, aye?” Niall asked as he reached the doorway.
“Yes. Miranda. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop; I didn’t wish to interrupt.”
“Have at him. I’m grateful ye appeared before I started losing blunt to him.” With a nod and a loose grin, he moved past her into the hallway and toward the stairs.
Aden remained seated, a king in his own well-appointed domain. Hiding her scowl at his very unsurprising lack of manners, she went over to sit in his brother’s vacated chair. “I’m not a lass who’s come to see you. I am a female acquaintance who would like to speak with you on a particular subject.”
“And I’m a male acquaintance all aflutter over what ye want to say to me. An unmarried lass coming to call—to speak with—an unmarried lad. Ye’ll have so many Sassenach tongues wagging, we’ll all feel the breeze.” Heshuffled the cards again, this time using only one hand to do it.
Miranda supposed he could imply whatever he liked, as long as he did end up helping her. And the fact that for a moment she thought him clever—well, she was not some fickle female who changed her opinions simply because she required some assistance. “If it flatters you to think I’m setting my cap at you, then indulge yourself. I only ask that you answer my questions.”
He chuckled. “Relentless, ye are. If ye’re nae here because our waltz made ye swoon, then, I reckon ye’re here for more free advice. An angel seeking out the devil for help with another demon, aye?”
“Your insights last night were useful,” she admitted, ignoring the fact that he’d called her an angel and suggested she made a habit of swooning. A man like him wouldn’t mean either one as a compliment. In his world no doubt angels served only to spoil all the devil’s fun. And swooning in his presence could be… precarious. It was beginning to seem, though, that he had more than a keen insight into fellow reprobates. No, he seemed to have taken her measure and decided he could stand toe-to-toe with her. And though she hated admitting it even to herself, he’d managed to do so—for the moment, at least. “My difficulty, however, remains unresolved. I require more information.”
His gaze assessed her, though she had no idea what he looked for, or what he saw. Worry? Fear? Frustration? Anger? They’d all been taking turns with her for the past half hour. “I’ll make ye a bargain,” he offered. “Ye tell me how I produced that card for Niall, and I’ll give ye all the insight I own.”
Miranda’s jaw clenched. The nerve of this Highlander continued to astound her. No, he wasn’t poetical at all. Devilish, yes. “You’re actually wagering me.”
“Aye. Ye insulted me. Climb down into the mud for a damned minute if ye want help from a man ye called a pig.” He held out the deck in one hand. “I’ll even show ye once.”
“I never called you a pig, sir.”
“Ye did; ye were just more polite about it. I may nae sound like ye, but I do speak English.”
Very well, he did have a point. At the same time, he hadn’t precisely disproven her original assessment of him. Pride pushed at her to refuse, to stand up, fling the cards at his face, and walk away. At the same time logic refused to budge, insisting on reminding her that having a little familiarity with this world into which she was being dragged might actually prove helpful. Clenching her jaw, she picked up the top card between her gloved fingers. “The queen of clubs,” she stated.
“If I were a superstitious lad,” he commented, lowering the remaining cards in his closed fist as he spoke, “I’d say I reckon ye’ve chosen the card that most resembles yerself. Regal and confident, and ready to whack at me with a solid weapon.”
Under other circumstances she might have found that amusing, and even slightly complimentary. “No doubt you arranged the deck precisely so you could make that comment. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” She gestured for him to produce the deck.
