Betina Krahn (13 page)

He strolled back to the settee and sat down, contemplating his course of action. Revealing his reasons for helping Precious Jeffrey could actually work to his credit … might even mitigate his participation in the scheme.

“Very well,” he said, looking up at her. “The whole truth. Unvarnished.”

“It’s about time,” she responded, taking the chair across from him and focusing intently on him.

“The person responsible for your kidnapping … the person who originated the plan … is your niece, Priscilla Lunaticcio.”

She stared at him for a moment as the information penetrated several layers of incredulity, then crossed her arms in disgust. “Firstly, it’s
Lucciano,
not Lunaticcio. Secondly, that is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.”

He stared at her, then blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him that she wouldn’t believe her niece capable of initiating such a scheme.

“Your niece fancies herself in love with a young man named Jeffrey Granton, does she not?”

“Well, yes.” Some of her indignation faded and she sat away from the back of the chair. “But I fail to see—”

“The young man who came to see me that night … the man who hired Dipper and Shorty to try to rob you … was none other than Jeffrey Granton.”

The name broke over Beatrice like cold water and she drew a sharp breath. Priscilla’s beloved “Jeffrey” was behind the horrors she had endured? He would have been the very last person on her list of possible suspects … about as likely to engineer such a thing as William Shakespeare, Abraham Lincoln, or St. Francis of Assisi!

“That is absurd.” She searched his face. “Jeffrey Granton is scarcely capable of dressing himself properly. He could never have come up with such a plan.” She was struggling to discredit his charge with the facts already in her mind but found they supported his version of the story all too well. The pair who kidnapped her said the young man hadn’t wanted her harmed, just scared … he was supposed to join them, but hadn’t arrived in time … they had mentioned a “rescue” of some sort …

“I believe he had a bit of help in the creative department.” He spread his arms so that one lay on the arm and the other on the back of the settee, his mood expanding with his posture. “They say behind every successful man, there is a woman. And while the ‘successful’ part is arguable, the woman behind young Jeffrey was undeniably your niece. According to him, she came up with the idea and insisted he carry it out. To impress you.”

“Robbing me, kidnapping me, and imprisoning me in a house of ill repute was supposed to
impress
me?”

“Well, it would have worked better if Jeffrey hadn’t been late and missed rescuing you. Dipper and Shorty were supposed to ‘rob’ you and he was supposed to happen along, defend you and yours, and save the day. You, of course, would have been grateful and impressed enough with his bravery that you would have granted him immediate courting rights with your niece.”

Much as she hated to admit it, the story was sounding more credible by the minute. She could almost see Priscilla’s absurdly romantic mind at work in such a scheme. Her face flamed as she thought of her grim imaginings and the vehement accusations she had hurled in her mind against sundry of her competitors. Thank heaven she hadn’t aired those suspicions.

She jerked her head up to focus on him, her cheeks on fire. In characteristic fashion, she chose the moment she felt the most vulnerable to launch an offensive.

“And you,
Congressman …
what could you have been thinking … agreeing to help a total stranger with a plot to rob and kidnap a woman?”

“Not a total stranger, I’m afraid.” He drew in his arms and sat forward, looking decidedly less smug. “While it is true that I’d never set eyes on him before that night, Jeffrey Granton is my second cousin. Alicia Barrow Granton’s son. He sought me out because of my ‘unsavory’ connections in the Irish community.” His smile was self-deprecating. “Every family has a black sheep, and I am the designated ‘Barrow’ scapegrace.

“In my own defense I must add that he led me to believe he needed help with an elopement, not a pretend robbery or kidnapping. I am, after all, running for a seat in congress. I would never jeopardize my future political
career to appease an idiot eighteen-year-old’s thirst for intrigue. Had I known what he was truly planning, I’d have thrown him out of O’Toole’s on his pampered arse.”

“You agreed to help him because you thought he was eloping with my niece?”

“I had no idea who the young lady was.” He came to the edge of his seat. “He was reluctant to reveal her name, would only say that her family had money and influence, and that he and she were desperately in love.” He grew more serious. “He was so obviously in love and true love being such a rare and precious commodity … I confess, I found it impossible to turn him away.”

“True love.”
She could see the scorn in her tone surprised him, and she rose and went to look out the window. “He’s eighteen, for God’s sake. And she is sixteen—did he tell you that?” She didn’t allow him time to answer. “She believes in ‘happily ever after’ and all manner of romantic drivel. She wants to marry him grandly and ride off into the sunset on a white charger.” She turned back briefly. “She hasn’t a clue what life is about. Or marriage. Or men. Her ‘dearest Jeffrey’ knows even less. He wouldn’t know a white charger if it rode up and bit him in the—”

“Not much of a romantic, are you?” He rose with a wry laugh.

“Romance is synonymous with
illusion,
Mr. Barrow. Thankfully, I have none of those regarding relations between the sexes.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

She paused, drafting her response carefully.

“I believe true love is exceedingly rare and … probably overrated.”

She watched as he assessed that statement and stored it away.

“Well, how do you expect your niece to learn about love and marriage unless she has some experience with them?”

“She can learn by watching others’ mistakes, by listening to sound counsel, and by remaining unmarried long enough to become a person in her own right.”

“Nonsense.”

“What?”

“That’s nonsense,” he said, his voice softening and acquiring that alarming trace of Irish that caused her ears to burn for more. “Love is not somethin’ you learn by watching others do, it’s somethin’ you learn by doing yourself. And how would
I
know, she asks. I know because I’ve done a bit of lovin’ in my day.”

“Really, Mr. Barrow.” She glared and turned back to the window. “I don’t care to hear about your escapades with those poor creatures at the—”

“
Really,
Mrs. Von Furstenberg. How will your niece learn what marriage is like unless she marries? No amount of watchin’ or tellin’ can do it justice.” He strolled up behind her as he talked and she soon felt his breath stirring the hair at the nape of her neck. “How will she ever know the sweet communion of a longin’ look in the midst of company or across a proper dinner table. How will she know the deep, silent joy of watchin’ her beloved as he sleeps in the misty light of dawn? How will she know the solace to be had in a beloved’s embrace when the whole world seems to be dead set against you?”

He moved closer and her skin prickled with anticipation.

“How will she know the pleasure of a man’s body pressed against hers?”

A gentle pressure spread against her back and shoulders. She held her breath as the warmth of him began to seep through her clothes.

“How will she know the thrill of a well-tutored touch on her skin?”

His hand settled on her shoulder and slowly followed the slope of it toward her neck. When it reached bare skin she was tortured by, but resisted, an urge to shiver.

“How will she know the ache of a need so deep an’ such a part of her blood and marrow that there are no words to describe it?”

He ran his hand slowly up the side of her neck. A hot chill raced up her spine and spread out into tingles along her limbs.

“How will she know the sweet terror of trustin’ all that you are and all that you have to th’ care of another?”

He traced the outline of her ear and slid his hand from her temple downward across her cheek. It felt as if her skin was melting beneath his touch, as if her nerves were bared to his caress. And it was a caress … meant to give pleasure. It was only her resistance to it that produced this tension and discomfort. Then his voice rumbled at the edge of her ear.

“How will she discover the pleasure of small, wayward kisses dropped on her neck … for no reason other than a moment’s overwhelmin’ happiness?”

As she drew a long, erratic breath, it came: a gentle, moist pressure on the side of her neck, just below her ear. Then another just below it. Then another further down. So tender. Her head sagged to one side, allowing him access. Then it came again: a stronger, more urgent pressure on her collarbone. She was scarcely aware that she had closed her eyes until she opened them later and saw his dark head bending over her shoulder and the side of his face as he pressed kisses along her shoulder.

His arms slid around her and he nudged the fabric of her small bustle aside to press more fully against her.
Her responses weren’t her own as she sank back against him, curling instinctively into the curve he provided, feeling sheltered in a way she hadn’t imagined possible. The melting sensation she had experienced at the Oriental returned, twice as potent. Her knees were weakening, her skin was burning beneath his kisses. Something was stirring in her … something hot and powerful … rising up from her depths …

Her lips were beginning to burn. She turned her head toward him just as he raised his head from her shoulder. There was a dark glimmer in his eyes and his lips seemed thicker and softer. His smile was nothing short of rakish.

“How will she learn such things, Beatrice darlin’? How did you learn them?”

ALL BEATRICE COULD
do was echo his last words.

“How did you learn them?”

“Experience.” He gave her a sly smile. “How else?”

He backed away unexpectedly and she had to grab the heavy velvet curtain for support. She was reeling, scrambling for footing in her usually sane and rational inner foundations, and was so occupied with the struggle that it took a minute for the meaning in those words to register. Experience? With marriage? Her heart all but stopped.

“But you said there was no Mrs. Barrow.”

“There isn’t.” His expression remained oddly heated. “She died.”

Suddenly the feelings and sensations he had just evoked in her felt shameful. What was it about him that continually diverted her reasonable faculties and waylaid her most high-minded intentions? Sweet-talking wretch. Politics was the perfect place for his glibness. It was that thought that jarred her wits back into operation.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, collecting her
composure. “It has nothing, however, to do with my rebellious niece and her brainless excuse for a suitor. Your arguments have merely pointed up how unprepared Priscilla is for a commitment as weighty and grueling as marriage.”

“That’s what marriage is to you? Weighty and grueling?” His eyes were searching. “Then I should think marriage would be the perfect punishment for her crimes against you. Why not give her what she wants and let her marry her precious Jeffrey?”

“Let her marry a boy so immature and incompetent that he can’t even be on time for a crime he is supposed to commit?”

“I admit, he doesn’t exactly appear to be a prime specimen. But then, few of us show the true depth and range of our potential at that age. And your niece doesn’t seem to mind his deficits.”

“Of course she doesn’t. She has nothing to compare him to. No male acquaintances. No experience. Not even common sense.”

“Try thinking about it this way: his youth can be counted a point in his favor as much as against him.” He cocked a wry grin at her. “He can only improve with time.”

Something began buzzing in the back of her mind … an idea forming. “Improvement over time …” She began to pace, letting the movement jog the tumblers of her mind and open her most creative thoughts. It was also possible that he could
worsen
over time, at least in Priscilla’s opinion. After a few moments, she stopped and turned back.

“I believe you may have something there, Mr. Barrow. Personally, I have favored the notion of a convent school in France, but this might be even better. Spending time
together under the right circumstances could open their eyes to the realities of who they are and of what this marriage they believe they want would be like. If I could give them some real work to do … make them experience something of the world outside their privileged existence … then perhaps they’d learn something about themselves and each other.”

She ran an index finger over her lips, thinking, as she focused on a vision well removed from that elegant salon. Priscilla in an apron stained with cooking spatters … Jeffrey with his sleeves rolled up and his hands full of blisters …

“Work is the best tuition in the school of life,” she said. “It makes for a considerable amount of maturing in a short period of time.”