She abruptly dropped his hand.
“Ye wound me, love,” he said lightly, and wondered if it were true. Heaven help him if it were.
“Don’t be silly,” she muttered. “I’m surprised you know what a halo is.”
He grinned. “Oh, I do assure ye the Devil knows his opposite.”
Her brows drew together. “Is that who you see yourself as? The Devil himself?”
He arched his eyebrows. “D’ye doubt it?”
“I didn’t used to.” She poked at her artichoke thoughtfully. “But now I’m no longer sure.”
“Oh, be sure.” He tapped the table with a fingertip for emphasis. “I am the Devil himself, born and bred.”
“Are you? I wonder…” She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then down at her untouched artichoke. “What is this thing?”
“The artichoke?” His lips quirked.
“Is that what it’s called?” She stared disapprovingly down at the vegetable. “I’ve never seen the like. It looks like a giant flower bud.”
“Well, ’tis—or so I’m told.” He gently took the fork from her fingers and picked up her knife, beginning to pry apart the dark green leaves. “They’re grown far away in Italy. A sea captain gave me a crate o’ the things some years ago.”
“Gave?” She raised her eyebrows suspiciously.
He shrugged and flashed her a sly smile. “Gave, took, does it matter, love? To be sure the captain hadn’t much choice, but the result was the same: a case o’ artichokes ended up in me care and I’ve had a fondness for them ever since.”
“Humph.” She peered down suspiciously as he parted the leaves to reveal the choke. “That doesn’t look very tasty.”
“That’s because it isn’t,” he said. “Pay heed: the artichoke is a shy vegetable. She covers herself in spine-tipped leaves that must be carefully peeled away, and underneath shields her treasure with a barricade o’ soft needles. They must be tenderly, but firmly, scraped aside. Ye must be bold, for if yer not, she’ll never reveal her soft heart.”
He finished cutting away the thistles and placed the small, tender heart on the center of her plate.
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s it? But it’s so small.”
“Ah, and d’ye judge a thing solely upon size alone?”
She made a choking sound.
He paused, the knife and fork still in the air. “Now what is it yer thinkin’ about in that prim little mind?”
She shook her head mutely and pointed at the artichoke heart. “Go on?”
“Hmm.” He took bit of soft butter and spread it over the little heart. “Well, I was thinkin’ that sometimes the smaller the treasure, the sweeter the pleasure.”
He cut the heart in half and held it out to her on the tip of the fork and found he was holding his breath. Would she let him feed her? Let him care for her?
She stared suspiciously for a long moment before accepting the morsel into her mouth. His heart leaped in triumph. He watched as the taste in her mouth was reflected in her bright eyes.
“So delicate, so buttery,” he crooned to this fascinating woman. “Green and rich and smooth, but with a tiny bitter taste on top as if to keep yer interest.”
She swallowed and licked her lips. “It’s rather good.”
He laughed breathlessly. Have care, part of his brain whispered. This way only leads to pain. But his cock was pressing hard against the placket of his breeches and he wanted to take her hand and draw her away to his rooms and keep her there until she learned to scream in pleasure.
Until she screamed his name and no other.
“Yes, rather good,” he imitated her tones gently. “Well worth the trouble o’ the thorns and the prickles to reach that sweet, meltin’ center, I think.”
Chapter Nine
Now, it’s well known that an offer of three wishes must be carefully considered, lest the wrong thing be wished for. Clever John thought on the matter for some time, while he held Tamara’s soft neck in his broad hand.
Finally, he looked at her and asked, “Must I make my three wishes all at once?”
She grinned, as quick as a sprite. “Not at all. You have merely to call my name and I will come to grant a wish.”
He nodded and slowly unwrapped his hand from about her neck. “I wish for a kingdom ten times the size of my uncle’s.”…
—from Clever John
Silence savored the exotic taste of the artichoke as she listened to Mickey O’Connor’s deep, velvet voice talk about creamy centers.
She swallowed and looked down at the artichoke petals piled neatly on the side of her plate. Her center certainly felt like it was melting, growing soft and wet just from the rasp of Mr. O’Connor’s voice. Why should a man already devilishly handsome also have a voice that could charm birds from the sky? It simply wasn’t fair. And, goodness! Surely he didn’t mean what his words conjured in her too heated mind? Silence took a hasty sip of red wine, casting about desperately for something—anything—to say.
“Did your mother name you Mickey?” she asked.
He blinked as if he were startled by the change of subject matter.
“I… I mean, well…” She inhaled, gathering her thoughts into a semblance of order. “It’s from Michael, isn’t it? Did she christen you Mickey or Michael?”
His mouth twitched as if he knew she was desperately trying to break the tension between them. “Well, now, I doubt very much that holy water ever touched me infant head, but me mam did name me Michael, sure enough.”
“It’s a lovely name, Michael.”
“Is it, now?” he asked skeptically.
She nodded, tearing apart a piece of bread. “Saint Michael is one of the archangels. He bears a sword and leads the army of God.”
“A militant fellow, then.”
She nodded. “In the Book of Revelations he battles the Devil and all his minions and they are thrown out from Heaven.”
Mickey’s lips pursed, his dark eyes sardonic. “Not so very like me.”
“I don’t know…” Silence frowned. “After all, Saint Michael must be very hard, very fierce. He’s a warrior who metes out God’s justice. He did defeat the Devil, after all. In some ways he must be not unlike the Devil.”
He chuckled.
Silence glanced up, horrified. “Is that blasphemy?”