Pale Moon Rider (36 page)

Renée could feel Antoine’s body tensing beside her as Miss Beaker thrust her younger sister forward for his inspection. He might only have been thirteen, but he was a
duc
and would be regarded as a highly prized catch to a family consisting of eight other siblings, all girls.

“I am afraid you will have to excuse us a moment, Miss Entwistle, for we have not seen our aunt and uncle since their arrival in
Coventry
.”

“Of course.” When she smiled, the end of her nose hung well over her front teeth. “But we shall expect to monopolize your company at supper.”

“Renée.” Lord Paxton’s voice was cold and dry, the nondescript blue of his eyes even more bland as he offered a perfunctory bow. “I trust you have been well these past weeks?”

“Thank you, yes.” Unable to stop herself, Renée stared at the abbreviated nub of his left earlobe and the scar just visible beneath the carefully arranged waves of his hair.

“Colonel Roth told me your gout was causing you some discomfort,” she murmured. “Was he mistaken?”

Paxton followed her gaze down to acknowledge the glaring lack of bandages or cane. “Bah. Sound as a tree stump, actually. It was all the braying and bleating in the House that began to wear on my patience. Shouting day and night. And all because this Napoleon fellow is scattering the Austrian army like skittles and putting Mr. Pitt in a righteous froth. Wants us to send troops to
Italy
, would you believe it? Wants to send Nelson and the whole bloody navy to the
Mediterranean
just to slap the wrist of some short-assed artillery commander who imagines himself a conqueror. I tell you it is enough to bring on a bout of gout, what with all the kicking and stamping and long-winded elocutions. I was thankful to have an excuse to come away.”

Sir John and Edgar Vincent joined the circle, the latter coming up beside Renée. After studying the appreciable amount of cleavage revealed by the low-cut bodice, he slid his hand with possessive familiarity around her waist.

“I can sympathize with your feelings of impatience, Paxton. These last three days are going to seem like an eternity.”

“You will be kept too busy to notice the time,” Lady Penelope promised, her smile as pretentious as the eyebrow that arched in Renée’s direction. “We will be hosting a small party here tomorrow evening. Nothing too elaborate on such short notice, of course, but it seems to be expected, so we must comply. Just a few neighbors and close acquaintances, some political associates, the like. The invitations were dispatched this morning from Fairleigh Hall before we departed, but if there is anyone you especially wished to include. A new friend you have made, or some such … ?”

“I did not have many opportunities to socialize,” Renée said quietly.

“No, indeed.” Her aunt offered another pinched smile. “Mrs. Pigeon tells me you have been quite the ideal houseguest. She claims she rarely saw you and never heard any complaints. I dare say, Edgar, she should make the ideal wife, so docile and demure. Not at all like her mother, by all accounts.”

It took every scrap of strength and willpower Renée possessed to keep her skin from flooding an angry red. It was not the first time she’d had to practice such restraint; the long months she had spent in
London
had been one test of endurance after another. As it was she could scarcely believe her mother and uncle had emerged from the same womb, or that they had grown into two such opposite individuals. To compound matters, her aunt was a jealous and resentful old crow who enjoyed picking at open wounds. She referred to Antoine as “that stupid little boy” and openly implied that he was not just mute, but slow-witted.

He was standing behind Renée, hoping to use her as a shield, but Lady Penelope could not let an opportunity pass. “Come out from behind there, Nephew, and greet our guests properly.”

Antoine edged forward. He looked solemnly at Lady Entwistle and offered a polite bow, then duplicated the gesture for his aunt.

Pronouncing every word with exaggerated care as if it were the language posing the barrier, she asked, “Can you not say hello yet?”

Antoine’s lips moved, delivering his reply silently in French, and beside him, Renée was forced to lower her lashes to keep her expression blank.

“What did he say?” her aunt demanded.

“He said”—
you hideous fat cow, I hope you choke on a mouthful of your own dung
—“welcome to you Madam, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

“Well.” Lady Penelope expanded her already prodigious breasts with a lungful of air. “At least he is civil.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

T
he evening dragged on for three endless hours. Somewhere in the five carriages there had obviously been crates of food and wine, for they had a late feast of roasted plovers, fresh trout, and grilled lamb, all of it accompanied by great bowls full of buttered vegetables and savory sauces—delicacies neither the cook nor the housekeeper had thought to squander on Renée and her brother. Antoine ate so many fresh custards and twists of cream-filled pastries his eyes were glazed.

When the men were left to their cigars the two older ladies and Miss Beaker declared they were too weary to linger overlong in the drawing room. This suited Renée just fine, for her eyes burned with fatigue and her cheeks were numb from maintaining a frozen, polite smile all evening.

Finn was waiting to tend to Antoine. He reported that he had looked in on Tyrone Hart and there was, quite simply, nothing else that needed to be done for their patient. He would be gone by morning and frankly, it was not soon enough to suit James Finnerty.

Renée wearily agreed, but when she was in bed and her arms were hugged around a fat feather bolster, she found she could not keep her eyes closed. She kept seeing Tyrone Hart bending over in front of the fire, his body naked and gleaming, or Tyrone beside her in the bed, his eyes smoldering like flames as he rose up above her.

With a sigh, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the shadows overhead. The firelight threw moving patterns onto the ceiling and she remembered the last time she had watched them dance and writhe—her hands had been twisted around the sheets and Tyrone’s tongue had been tracing wicked patterns across her belly and between her thighs. She closed her eyes and let the memories wash over her, arching into the flow as her nipples gathered and tightened, and her skin rippled with the remembered sensation of his hands roving from her breasts to her waist to her thighs. A soft groan recalled how his fingers had stroked deftly over places so sensitive she thought she would faint from the pleasure. An even softer sigh noted that the ache was still there, throbbing and insistent, and the heat caused her to throw off the blankets and quit the bed. She walked to the window and stood looking out over the darkness. And a moment later, she drew on her bathrobe, lit a stub of candle and, peering cautiously out into the hallway first, slipped through the door and along the corridor, refusing to even think of what she was doing until she was behind the tapestry and easing open the door to the old tower.

She ran up the steps, slowing only when she reached the top landing. A slit of light was fanning out across the stone floor and, with her heart throbbing in her throat, she turned the latch and eased the door open a few inches. The bed, the room was empty.

“M’sieur?”

A cool, metallic click brought her whirling around. Tyrone emerged out of the darkness of the landing behind her. He had one of the snaphaunces in his hand and even as her eyes were registering the shock of seeing him, he released the hammer and uncocked it, then lowered the gun to his side.

“What were you doing?” she asked on a gasp. “Where were you going?”

“I was just coming back, actually. I found it tiresome listening to Paxton and Sir John Entwistle debate the vagaries of fighting a war on two fronts.
”

“You were in the main house?”

“I was careful.” The cool, pale gray of his eyes followed the wild tumble of her hair down over her shoulders. Her belt had slipped its knot in her haste and her robe hung open, revealing the thin wisp of linen beneath. “And you, mam’selle? I might ask the same thing: why you are out roaming the halls in such a fetching state of dishabille.”

“I … came to ask if there was anything else you needed before I … before I went to bed.” She paused and swallowed hard.

“Finn was already here.” The dark slash of his eyebrow crooked upward. “I was left with the distinct impression it was a farewell appearance, for he conveyed your fondest wishes for my speedy departure. In fact, he very clearly indicated that he did not see any reason why either of us should have to see each other again, and that it would be for the best if we did not.”

“He said the same thing to me,” she admitted with a faint smile. “He even threatened to sit outside my door all night.”

“But you came anyway,” he mused, “to see if I needed any more broth, or wanted my forehead bathed, or my blankets tucked in?”

They stared at one another through a small, suspended silence, each acutely aware of the other’s closeness. His shirt was open at the throat and his hair was tied back with a strip of torn linen. Through the sheer white fabric she could see the wide band of bandaging that was wrapped tightly around his ribs. Above it the muscles across his shoulders and upper arms filled out the shape of the garment nicely, bulging farther as he bent over to set his guns on the table.

Finn had already expressed amazement at Hart’s speed of recovery, but Renée had difficulty believing the man who stood before her now, as cool and confident as the first time she had seen him, was the same one who could barely sit upright without help two days ago. Here was the jungle-cat again, dark and sleek and dangerous, just a little bruised under the eyes but equally as wild and unpredictable. She took what she hoped was a casual step toward the door, and when he followed, she took another and another until her back came up hard against the rough stone wall.

“So-why are you really here?” he asked quietly.

“I t—told you why.”

Tyrone’s gaze touched on the pale pink blush that warmed her cheeks, on the gaping edges of her robe that trembled with the same soft vibrations that shook her body. He had often taken pride in the fact that he could read a person’s intent through the way they stood or held their bodies or conveyed what they were thinking, feeling, saying with their eyes. Renée d’Anton wanted something from him and it had brought her to him at the run without a thought for Finn’s warnings or her own common sense.

Was it the rubies again? A woman’s mind was a fickle thing at best, not easily understood by the bravest of men, but if she had come to ask for his help again …

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

When she did, when she lifted the protective shield of her lashes, each and every hair stood up across the nape of his neck. The blue of her eyes was darker, more intense than he had ever seen it, filled with such an utter depth of loss and loneliness it would be easy to mistake what he was seeing for fear. It was not fear, however. It was desire and longing and a thousand other emotions all tangled up with a helpless appeal for understanding.

“I h—have to go,” she stammered.

She started to turn out the door but his arm came up, blocking her way.

“Please, m’sieur. I should not have come. Finn will be very angry if he looks in my room and I am not there.”

“Actually … while I was standing outside your door a short while ago, I could hear him snoring to wake the dead.”

She risked a sidelong glance. “You were outside my door?”

“I may be a thief and a scoundrel, but I am not ungrateful. I know the risks you have taken—that all of you have taken—and I thought I might have sounded a tad ungracious earlier this evening.”

“You do not have to thank me, m’sieur.”

“You save men’s lives every day, do you?”

“It was just as much Finn and Antoine—”

“It was you, mam’selle,” he murmured. “You saved my life, and I wish to express my gratitude.” His hand slipped up from her shoulder to her chin, turning it so that when he bent his head, her mouth was there to meet his. The warm, heady taste of him caused her to part her lips around a faint breath, but he did not take advantage of the invitation, and when she would have taken the initiative herself, he pulled away. Not without great reluctance. And not without a hardness in his jaw that belied the casual gesture he made as he tucked a few strands of blond hair behind her ear.

“You had, indeed, better go,” he said quietly. “You had better get the hell out of here while I am still feeling noble enough to let you leave.”

Her hands, clenched up to now in fists by her side, crept up to his chest, spreading flat when she passed the strips of bandaging and encountered the heat and texture of his skin. Her fingers combed through the soft dark hairs and she ran them higher, making no effort to pretend she had any claims left to modesty or pride as she slipped them beneath the open edges of his shirt. His skin was warm and smooth. The dark hairs tickled her palms and teased her fingertips as she ran them up his breastbone to his collar, then around to the back of his neck where she broke contact long enough to unfasten the frayed strip of linen that bound his hair. With a look that was still half pleading, half frightened of being rejected, she threaded her fingers up into the thick black waves, combing them forward so that the silk was on his cheeks, touching hers as she rose up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.