My Fallen Angel (2 page)

Why, he shimmied up that tree as swiftly as one of those monkeys she’d seen at the Royal Zoo. It didn’t seem possible for a man of his large bulk to move so quickly, yet he did. To her absolute and utter astonishment he was through the half-open window within seconds.

She waited until she judged him well into the house before she took a last look around, then carefully followed. She’d never had any intention of simply staying behind. It was her one fault, she admitted ruefully, this desire—more of a burning need, actually—for grand adventure. It had gotten her into trouble more times than not.

It was the sad truth; she was something of a madcap.

The tree was a simple one to climb, as trees go, and the new branch was definitely much sturdier and far easier to cross than the last one, not to mention now she had no candle to impede her progress. However, the limb was a good distance below the open window.

“Blast,” Lucy hissed, eyeing the dark opening. It looked impossibly far away.

As it stood, the only way she would make it inside was to jump for it. She mulled over the idea. It was risky, but she’d be damned if she just stood by and let Mr. Wolf have all the fun. This
was
her adventure.

Lucy took a deep breath and posed herself to jump. Grimly determined, she eyed the opening.

She jumped.

It wasn’t a miscalculation on her part, really; it was more of an underestimation of the weight of her body. That and the fact that she hadn’t planned on her arms feeling as if they were going to be pulled from their sockets when she landed. Her knuckles grew white as she clung to the sill. She let out a little squeak when she realized she was in trouble.

“Oh dear,” she murmured softly, then, “Mr. Wolf,” as loudly as she dared, in the off chance he was still in the room above. He wasn’t.

Her grip began to slip.

Drop back to the branch,
she thought, but then she realized sickeningly that she was too afraid to do so.

“Help?” she said a little louder.

Her hand slid ominously toward the edge.

Her fingers were just about to slide off the narrow sill when Mr. Wolf tugged her through the window and up against his wide chest. Her scream faded into a strangled gasp at being so quickly snatched from peril. She kept her eyes shut as she clasped her arms around him. He smelled like the sea, she noted distantly. She tried to stand. Her feet made contact with what felt like a hardwood floor, but her legs shook so badly he had to support her.

She hadn’t fallen to a messy death.

Thankful for being rescued, she squeezed him harder, then almost completely lost her train of thought. Her breath escaped in a rush as she hugged him tighter, rather enjoying the feel of him pressed against her.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She kept squeezing, just to make sure his muscles felt as firm as they looked, then said in a quavering voice, “I was too frightened to drop back down to the branch, and then I couldn’t pull myself up, and when I looked down I couldn’t even see the ground, not that I could see anything what with it being pitch black outside, but I thought for sure I was dead …” She pulled back, her words trailing off as she got her first good look at him in the light.

Her breath escaped in an awe-filled rush as she studied the features candlelight illuminated to perfection.

He was beautiful.

No, beautiful was not enough; he was, well,
magnificent.
With his Nordic-like cheekbones, golden hair, white lawn shirt, sea blue eyes made even more blue by the copper color of his skin, and his buff-colored breeches tucked into black boots, all he’d need was a patch over one eye and he’d be the spitting image of a high-seas pirate, a swashbuckling hero come to rescue her.

“Oh my,” she breathed softly, a strange mushy feeling surging through her insides, the same feeling she’d gotten after drinking that bottle of wine she’d snuck into her room on her thirteenth birthday.

“What the devil do you mean by climbing up here?” he hissed, pushing her away from him.

“You left me behind.”

“I told you to stay behind on
purpose.”

All Lucy could do was nod, still staring up at him in giddy bemusement. His expression grew thunderous. She gave him an undoubtedly wan smile in return. It was obvious by his lack of response that he couldn’t see her face with the candles behind her. Those candles revealed what appeared to be a sitting room.

A sofa, its long back against a wall, squatted on claw-footed legs to her left; two matching rose and whitechairs sat to her right. It was a feminine room with floral patterns on everything: the furniture, the wall hangings … good heavens, even around the perimeter of the hardwood floor. Mr. Wolf looked distinctly at odds with such a backdrop, still sinfully handsome, but out of place.

Suddenly he tensed, and before she knew what he was about, he stepped past her, reached for the candelabra on the floor behind her, and blew out the candles. Lucy wanted to protest. She would have been happy to stare at him all night.

When he tugged her away from the window, she didn’t argue, happy to follow wherever he went. Not even when he scraped the sofa away from the wall, then pushed her down behind it, did she say a word. Actually, she was a tad bit disappointed he hadn’t placed her
on
the sofa, then lay down with her. She’d always wondered what it would be like to be kissed by such a man—a man who was tall and masculine and virile, the opposite of her short and somewhat chunky soon-to-be-fiance, Lord Harry Harrington.

She sighed. A man such as this would never want her, not with her clumsy nature. She’d been lucky dear Harry had agreed to take her on. Once again she squelched a familiar pang of longing to have been born tall and graceful and blonde. Perhaps then she would…

The door opened. “Who’s there?” a voice asked. It served to snap Lucy back to the world of reality far faster than if a bolt of lightning had zapped her.

Secret fantasies forgotten, she tensed as boot heels clicked on the floor. A shadow flickered against the wall and her eyes widened. She heard a step, then anotherand another. When the footsteps got too close for comfort, Lucy turned and knelt on all fours, then hastily started crawling toward the other end of the sofa, grimacing at the layer of dust she could feel beneath her hands. Actually, she had rather a lot of experience skulking about in such a way. Apparently so did her companion, for he made hardly a sound as he followed behind.

The footsteps stopped and Lucy tensed, expecting to hear, “Aha, I have caught you,” at any moment. Instead all she heard was a loud thud. It scared her so much, she nearly yelped in fright. Only when she heard the distinct click of a latch being shut did she realize it was the window being closed. She froze and waited to see what happened next, then rolled her eyes in exasperation when the footsteps sounded again … heading straight toward her.

She scrunched down, making herself as small as possible and jabbing her elbow into Mr. Wolf in the process. She heard him gasp and felt her cheeks flame in response. The footsteps receded, the light faded, and then there was the unmistakable sound of the door closing.

Silence.

She felt her rescuer stir. A moment later he stood, then grabbed her elbow and raised her up alongside of him. When he moved away, she followed his dark form, all the while hoping he wasn’t too terribly angry.

Garrick Asquith-Wolf, former naval captain now turned reluctant guardian, was beyond angry, he was furious. No, he thought, even beyond furious, he was livid. Hereached for the flint to relight the candles, wanting to see into the eyes of the dunderhead who had hung like a bat from a windowsill, tried to unman him, and used him as her personal landing cushion while falling out of a tree, a
tree
of all things. She was the most idiotic chit he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. He wondered if she looked as stupid as she acted.

He raised the candles high and nearly dropped the candelabra in his astonishment.

Good God. Anyone as accident-prone as she ought to look like a hag, not this … dazzling beauty with eyes as green as precious gem stones and skin as luminescent as moonlight. He nearly groaned aloud. With her lush curves and heart-shaped face surrounded by masses and masses of long, titian-colored hair, she put his former mistress to shame, even in breeches and boots. She was—he searched for the right word—temptation.

Garrick wanted to rail his fist toward heaven.

Now
he knew why the angel who had sent him back had looked at him so smugly when he’d told him he would be human in every sense of the word. To think he’d actually scoffed at his vow to remain chaste.

They had called the vow a test.

It would be torment, Garrick realized as he stared down at the woman before him. More than that. His mission to prove the boy in her care the son of the Earl of Selborne would be hell.

“Perhaps the person’s gone?” she ventured.

“’Twould appear so.” He resisted the urge to continue to stare at her and forced himself to turn away. He held the candles high as he walked toward the doorway.

“Where are we going?” She stumbled after him.

He turned to glare at her, which was a mistake, for as soon as he met her gaze, he felt a blazing shaft of heat stab straight to his manhood, causing it to stand at attention like an ensign saluting an admiral. He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her from getting any closer. Another mistake, he realized the moment they touched. He had to squelch the urge to pull her toward him. He almost groaned, then jerked his hand away as if scalded.

Damn it all to hell. He hadn’t had a woman in months, thanks to his last voyage at sea—the voyage which had ended his life—and now he was forced into the company of a woman who made his former mistress look like Prince George.

“Follow me,” he snapped. “I was in the process of examining the countess’s bedroom when your circus performance interrupted me.”

She blinked up at him, her emerald eyes soft and gooey. Garrick turned away. As soon as he was through the door, he snapped it closed, trying his best to ignore the huge bed centered against a wall, and the almost irresistible urge to toss his charge onto it, preferably naked. God’s teeth, he’d had no idea a man could feel so beguiled by a woman.

Calling himself a fool, he headed for the lace-embellished
toilette
located near a window to his left. The bed loomed large to his right. He told himself he’d get over his instant attraction. He told himself a multitude of things, none of which he believed.

There were only three drawers to examine, thankfully, for the sooner he was out of the bedroom, the better. He set the candelabra down and began to search. There was only an odd assortment of ribbons, bows, and brushes. He closed the last drawer muttering, “Damn,” and stepped back, bumping into Miss Lucy who, he realized, was stuck to him like a fly on sap.

“Beg your pardon,” she said sweetly.

The contact was too much. “Get away from me,” he warned through gritted teeth, feeling as if he’d been scorched by the flames of hell.

As her eyes grew startled, he realized his words may have been a bit too harsh, but dammit, he needed her to stop looking at him as if he were a present under her Christmas tree.

She turned away from him, and Garrick thought he saw a glimmer of anger in her eyes. Good. Maybe if she was vexed with him, she’d stop mooning. He crossed his arms and watched as she grabbed a candle from the candelabra, then flounced back the way they’d come, her boots tapping militantly as she headed for the wardrobe closet near the doorway and the chest of drawers next to it.

She opened one, rummaged through it, then closed it with a snap. She did the same thing to the next drawer, only closed it a little harder. By the fourth drawer she was closing them with a full-fledged slam.

He turned away, content to let her wallow in her anger. As it turned out he didn’t have a chance.

“Mr. Wolf?” he heard her call out only seconds later.

So used was he to being addressed as “Wolf” or “my lord,” he almost didn’t realize she was calling him. He turned toward her, noting the piece of paper she held in her hands.

“What do you make of this?”

He walked forward and took the slip from her. “‘Tis the address of a solicitor.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she said impatiently, “but it was hidden in a drawer.”

When he said nothing, she said, “It
must
be important. Why else would she hide it?”

Garrick had a hard time believing they’d stumbled upon a clue so easily, but for the life of him he couldn’t squelch the feeling that they had. Not only that, but there was the oddest sensation as he held the paper, a tingling, very much like the feeling he got when he touched Lucy.

Where had that thought come from?

They both heard the footsteps at the same time. Lucy groaned at the exact moment Garrick stuffed the paper in his pocket, then extinguished the candles, secretly glad for the interruption. Darkness swallowed them.

“Phibbs, you’re a dodderin’ old fool draggin’ me out of bed like this,” they heard a man mutter.

Lucy felt Mr. Wolf tug her toward the wardrobe closet. Next thing she knew, he pushed her into it. In amazement, she felt him cram his big body in next to hers, somehow wedging in between what felt like ball gowns. The smell of cedar nearly overpowered her, and so did her fear, so she grabbed his hand and held it next to her pounding heart.

He tried to pull it away.

She wouldn’t let him.

The wood creaked ominously, and she envisioned them dropping out of the bottom of the wardrobe like potatoes through a rotted sack. Miraculously, the closet held, though she felt as if she were a contortionist she’d once seen at a fair. She shifted. He grunted. Then they both stilled when they heard the bedroom door open and a voice with a Cockney accent just like Tom’s say, “See? Nothing here,” in disgruntlement.

“I tell you I heard thumping.”

“Probably the sound of your brainbox trying to function,” the other man grumbled in exasperation.

“Very amusing,” a voice retorted. There was silence, and the obvious sound of a person rustling about. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“It smells like a candle.”

“You’re holding a candle, you dolt.”

“Yes, but this smells like an
extinguished
candle.”

There was a snort. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

“But I tell you, I
heard
something.”

“Then by all means, feel free to investigate. I for one am going back to my bed.”

“Wait.” There was the hurried sound of footsteps. “I refuse to walk through these hallways alone.”

Lucy heard the door close and breathed a sigh of relief. “I think they’re gone.”

She shifted a little; her body rubbed up against his. She heard a gasp, and wondered if she’d stepped on him again. She tried to push past him, her breasts sliding upagainst his arm. Her cheeks stung with embarrassment. She heard him gasp again, then her thoughts fled like petals on a breeze when she felt a hand gently caress her side. Strangely, she didn’t move away. She
should
move away. It was terribly disloyal to dear Harry to allow a man to touch her thus. Still, Mr. Wolf’s touch made her feel so strange, like when she’d plunged off the roof of the barn and into that haystack, just before she’d stepped on the pitchfork. It was a funny sort of feeling, right in the pit of her stomach, as if … as if she couldn’t breathe.