So Enchanting (21 page)

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Authors: Connie Brockway

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: So Enchanting
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“I do
not
give myself airs.”
“You do,” he said succinctly. He’d segued into a smooth, kindly manner, such as one might employ in giving advice to some pathetic soul incapable of following it. It would drive her crazy.
“Perhaps acquiring a caustic tongue is inevitable living out here, but, my dear, before you return to society,
should
you return to society, do endeavor to control yourself lest you end up wanting for dinner invitations.”
“Oh!” she breathed.
He smiled. Her affronted expression gelled into a cold, superior smile. He waited, eager to pounce.
“Happily, my dietary companions, or lack thereof, are no concern of yours. Nor will they ever be.”
His blood stirred. How dared she tell him what was and wasn’t his concern? The moment he heard she was in London, Paris, or wherever she chose to live after leaving here, he would find her and ask her to dine. Force her to dine, if necessary. Pick her up, throw her over his shoulder, and march her straight into Escoffier ’s dining room.

 

“Would you care to wager on that, my darling?” he asked softly, and immediately regretted the impromptu endearment, though it was, of course, ironically meant. Luckily, the sound of the birds in the nearby chestnut had increased to a din, masking his words.
“Come again?” she said, frowning. “I didn’t hear you.”
“What
are
those bloody things?” he asked over the birds’ racket.
“I think they’re larks,” she said, staring in bewilderment at where the chestnut tree was dropping a blizzard of petals as birds crowded its branches, bellowing at a stentorian level.

 

“What the devil are they doing?” he asked. How were they to have a sub-rosa conversation with all this noise?
She frowned at the tree. “I have no idea.”
He picked up an apple from the bowl on the table and hurled it at the tree. The flock within took flight, leaving them in relative quiet. Relative, because the birds simply moved their noisy chorus to the next tree over.
Amelie waved from the other side of the terrace. “Is everything all right, Fanny? Lord Sheffield?” she called anxiously.
“Right as rain, dear!” Fanny called back. “Just a bit of a problem with all those larks.”
“Oh, let them sing! They know it’s spring and they want to shout their joy!” Amelie called, and blushed.

 

Grey shifted his chair closer to Fanny’s so she could hear him more easily.
“If you are set against that pair furthering their acquaintance,” he said, “why are you so honeyed in your interactions with them?”
“I might ask the same of you, Lord Sheffield, and I suspect the answer would be identical,” she replied. “Amelie can be stubborn, romantic, and intractable, especially when she perceives herself as being thwarted. I might as well throw her into Hayden’s arms myself as deny her his company.”
She was right; that was exactly how Hayden would react. “That may be true, but it is the same answer you would have given if you wanted to deflect my suspicions.”
“Give me strength,” she muttered in disgust. “Tell me, Lord Sheffield,
are
your suspicions deflected?
Have
I persuaded you of my pure intentions? No?” Her mouth flattened. “I thought not. At least give me the courtesy of assuming I know exactly where I stand with you, sir. I’m not a dolt.”
She seemed angry. One might even think hurt.

 

“And you still haven’t found your razor,” she continued tartly. “I refuse to listen to someone who can’t be troubled to shave before visiting a lady. I refer, of course, to Miss Chase,” she ended bitingly.
“Don’t worry, madam. My unshaven face and I will be offending you only until I can find some way to wrest Hayden from Miss Chase’s company without doing something rash.”
At this, she blanched. “No. You can’t go,” she said. “You can’t go until you have found out who is trying to harm Amelie.”
Back to this. How disappointing.
“I insist that as your brother-in-law’s representative you either discover for a certainty whether Amelie is in danger or remove her from here to her guardian’s home.”
“Where Hayden just happens to live.”
“He said he lived in London.”
“Immaterial. When his father is in the country, Hayden is often at the family estate.”
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Lord Sheffield, I do not care if Hayden lives in London, Paris, or Calcutta. The one and the only concern I have is Amelie’s welfare, for which
you
have assumed temporary responsibility. As a gentleman—assuming you still have some pretensions in that direction—of honor—again, perhaps presumptuous, but still supposing your passing acquaintance with the concept—it is your duty—I won’t even trouble to speculate here, but remain naively hopeful—to protect those under your care.”
If she’d been a man, without a doubt they would have come to blows by now. As it was, he was forced to simply sit and marvel. “You have the most audacious tongue I have ever heard a woman employ.”
“Why? Because no woman has ever had the temerity to question whether you’re qualified to use the title ‘gentleman’?” she challenged.
“Oh, no,” he said honestly, “women are questioning that all the time.”
Ah. Finally.
A point for his side. Her spectacular eyes widened, and he’d be damned if the corners of her mouth didn’t quirk upward. She turned her head, stifling a laugh, but not before he’d heard it.
“No,” he continued, “I refer to your insistence on pointing out my lack of skill with a razor.”
This time she did laugh outright, and he smiled broadly in response, even as he asked himself why he found such pleasure in the sound of her laughter.
He watched her, bemused and confused, trying to analyze his response to her. Beautiful as she was, she still wouldn’t be to most men’s tastes. She was too opinionated, blunt, autocratic, and peppery. She would never be a comfortable sort of companion or a comfortable sort of anything else.

 

A man would never have the luxury of taking Fanny for granted, ignoring her opinions, or having her dutifully agree with his own. Particularly if they were contrary to hers. He would always need to be alert, nimble of mind and spirit, constantly reevaluating his beliefs and attitude to make sure they would stand if challenged, or she’d cut him to shreds.
It would be exhausting.

 

It would be exhilarating.
“You are a very difficult young woman, you know,” he said.

 

“You are a very difficult man,” she returned, the shadow of a smile still hovering on her soft lips.
“You didn’t say ‘young.’ ”
“So I didn’t,” she agreed.
“You want me to stay?”
The lightest flush of pink spread up her neck and tinted her cheeks. “You
have
to stay until you discover the would-be assassin or else remove Amelie from Little Firkin. Amelie might make light of this threat. Indeed, I seem to be the only one who takes it seriously. But I do.”
It was too bad, but this part of the game had reached an end.
“There is no assassin,” he said, watching her closely. “You wrote the letter claiming someone was trying to kill Amelie Chase.”
Her eyes locked with his.
“You wrote it assuming that Collier would simply send for the girl and your term of imprisonment here in Little Firkin would be ended. There is no threat to Miss Chase’s life, nor has there ever been, has there?” he asked, his voice softening. “I don’t blame you, Fanny.”
The color had leeched from her face as he spoke, but her eyes held his steadily. “No. That’s preposterous.”
She stared at him white faced, but before he could respond a movement behind her caught his eye. He looked up to see one of the urns balanced on the balcony rail teetering precariously right above where Hayden and Amelie—
He leaped past Fanny and lunged forward, thrusting Hayden and Amelie under the balcony as the urn crashed to the ground at his heels.

 

“Devil take it!” he swore as Amelie collapsed into Hayden’s arms.
Above her brilliant red head, Hayden’s eyes, dark in his ashen face, met his. “She could have been killed,” he whispered.
“I know,” Grey said, moving out from under the balcony. “I don’t see how the damn thing could have just fallen like that.”
He peered up in time to see a dark shape moving on the balcony overhead, and then an object was hurtling down at him. He dodged but too late. Pain exploded on the side of his head and he fell, a single thought following him as he dove into blackness: Fanny might not have written that letter after all.
Chapter Twenty-one
Fanny’s heart stopped as the second urn struck Sheffield. At first, his face betrayed only astonishment, and then he collapsed onto the flagstones and she was on her knees at his side, staring in horror at the gash oozing blood near his ear, matting the dark hair.

 

“Oh, dear God, dear God. Please, dear God,” she murmured, laying her fingers against his throat. His pulse beat strongly beneath his beard-rough skin. She closed her eyes, relief making her hand shake, and brushed the hair from his forehead.
Grey’s eyes fluttered open. “Lord, Fan . . . you’re . . . weeping. How . . . touching.”
“I am not,” Fanny declared, Grey’s face shimmering before her suddenly blurred vision.
“What can I do?” Hayden asked gravely.

 

Fanny looked up. Hayden and Amelie stood beside her, Hayden’s face pale with concern, Amelie’s hand tight in his.
“Amelie, fetch some water and bandages.”
“And some whiskey,” Grey muttered thickly.
“
No
whiskey. Water. Go, Amelie. Get Violet and Ploddy, too. We need to get Lord Sheffield inside.”
“Of course,” Amelie said, releasing Hayden’s hand and hurrying away.
“I’m going to go have a look around on the balcony,” Hayden declared, avoiding looking at Grey. “That was no accident.”
“Of course it was,” Fanny said, relief making her sharper than she’d intended. “A cat probably knocked the urn over,” she said. “I saw something moving about up there.”
“Then it was a damn big cat,” Grey mumbled, gritting his teeth. A stream of blood had begun trickling down the side of his face.
“We have lots of big cats here. Feral ones.”
“But what if it wasn’t a cat?” Hayden insisted, his eyes scanning the balcony. “Amelie might have been killed.”
“And what of your uncle?” Fanny snapped. “He could have been killed, too.”
“Exactly. I’m going to look,” Hayden said, and took off.

 

“No!” Grey protested, struggling to rise on his elbows. His eyes promptly rolled back in his head and he fell back unconscious in Fanny’s arms.
Fanny didn’t care where Hayden went, as long as Amelie got her water and bandages and some aid. But from where was that aid going to arrive? There was no doctor nearby to help, only Grammy Beadle. Oh, Grey would love that.

 

She shifted his head into a more comfortable position and bent to examine the wound. It bled freely, a pool already forming on the terrace. She wadded up as much of the hem of her skirt as she could and pressed it against the gash. He moaned, twisting in her lap, and she winced.
He was a big, rude, tactless, unkempt brute. True, he was attractive in a rough, elemental sort of way. Like the mangy old tomcat that lorded it over the others in the carriage house, perhaps a shade past his physical prime, but still more vital, more powerful, and more dominant than any of the others’ current best.

 

Yes, Greyson Sheffield was definitely a dominant sort. And she had never felt more alive than in his company. Combat, she supposed, did that to a person. Which only made sense. In order to survive one would need to be aware of one’s enemy on an almost cellular level. Certainly, that was so for her with Sheffield.
Not only did her mind seem more agile when she was with him and her anticipation sharper, but all of her senses seemed heightened, too. Her skin tingled with sensitivity, her vision seemed keener, her hearing more acute. She swore she could tell his proximity from his scent alone.

 

It was an ungodly provocative scent, uniquely Sheffield’s. Even now she wanted to move closer to him to capture every nuance. Of course, one didn’t go around sniffing unconscious men. It just wasn’t done.
She shook off the nonsensical impulse, studying the way the shadow of Grey’s lashes formed a crescent on his cheek and the interestingly asymmetrical line of his nose—had it been broken at some point? Relaxed, his mouth lost its characteristic curl of derision. In fact, he looked quite handsome.

 

She was being ridiculous. He thought the worst of her, suspected she was hiding something dire from him. And she was: She was hiding her strangeness. The difference that set her apart from everyone else. But mostly, especially him.
A bee, mistaking the bloodstain on her skirt for a flower, wandered over to investigate. She bent forward to whisk it away and caught a hint of that fascinating scent. Her eyes drifted shut and she sank closer, inhaling deeply. Warmth. How could a man
smell
warm? And virile. Virility was not a scent. Fascinating.
“Please, Fan, take off that hat . . . before it falls off.”
Her eyes flew open. Grey was regarding her in a woozily amused manner, his blue-green eyes lambent. “Having survived an urn, it would be too lowering to succumb to a hat.”
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said, squinting up at her. “I have a god-awful headache and the sun is in my eyes.”
She leaned back over him, her hat shading him.
He relaxed. “Too kind.”
“Should I send for Bernard? He’s not a physician, but he’s a very capable man.”
“To hell with Bernard,” Grey muttered. How he managed to sound so vigorous when his skin was the color of wet ash was beyond Fanny. “I’ll be fine. Had worse. Probably won’t be the last time, either. ”
“True,” she said thoughtfully. “I suspect there are an awful lot of people who want to hit you.”
“They try.” He smiled with a touch of conceit she found bizarrely endearing.

 

“Close your eyes.” He obliged, though she thought he had no choice, as his eyes had rolled back again before his lids fluttered shut.
Ridiculous waste of sooty lashes on a man like Sheffield. Black as his hair, thick as a painter’s brush. Tentatively, she brushed a few locks from his brow with her free hand. He didn’t move. Emboldened, she gingerly combed the hair from his uninjured temple.

 

She’d never touched a man with this much latitude before. It was quite . . . stirring. In unexpected contrast to the warm scalp beneath, Grey’s hair was thick and glossy and cool. A nice clip would do wonders for his looks. And a shave.
She was still toying with Grey’s hair when Amelie reappeared carrying a tray, Violet and Ploddy trudging dolefully in her wake. Guiltily, she snatched back her hand.
“Here, Fanny.” Amelie set the tray down, her eyes locked on Grey’s face. “Is he dead?”
“No, he’s not
dead
,” Fanny replied, shocked by Amelie’s unhealthily fascinated tone. “He’s simply passed out.”
“What do you want us to do about it?” Violet asked, nodding toward the blood next to Fanny. “I s’pose I will ’ave to clean up that mess, won’t I?”
“Yes,” Fanny said, eyeing Grey’s wound. The bleeding had slowed, and she was relieved to see that the cut wasn’t very deep, though still long and with a jagged edge. It was a pity, but he’d have a scar. On the other hand, he’d probably like that.

 

She dampened one of the bandages in the bowl of water Amelie had brought and dabbed gingerly at the cut. His continued unconsciousness worried her. What should she do if he didn’t wake on his own? Should one attempt to rouse the insensate?
She didn’t know. A sense of powerlessness and ineptitude filled her, bringing with it feelings of frustration and helplessness. And fear. She’d felt the same way this winter when Amelie had fallen so ill.

 

She finished cleaning his wound and began dabbing it with iodine.
His eyes shot open.
“Bloody hell!”
Ah!
She smiled down at him, relief washing through her. He sounded almost like his old self. “You oughtn’t swear.”
“Bloody. Hell,” he repeated succinctly.

 

Ah, yes, quite himself.
She eased his head from her lap and stood up. At the chorus of gasps greeting her, she looked around. Her companions were staring in horror at her.
She looked down at her skirts and sighed. She had to admit there was a lot of very red blood on her very white dress.

 

Amelie was blinking as though she had sand in her eyes, and even Ploddy had turned a distinct shade of green.
She didn’t have the patience for such nonsense.

 

“If any of you faint, I will cradle your head in this very same lap,” she warned.
Both Violet and Amelie gulped and stared resolutely at a place on her forehead. Ploddy slunk into the background.
“Come, Fan,” Grey said. “Don’t threaten them. You look a horror. I’ve seen battlefield surgeons covered with less gore than you.”
“Hmm,” she said, unconvinced. “What good in an emergency is a person who cannot stomach the sight of a little blood?”
“I don’t intend to be in no emergencies, thank you very much.” Violet sniffed with the peculiar dignity with which she occasionally armed herself. “Now, what do you want us all here for? I hope you don’t think we’re going to lug the likes of him anywheres. I don’t get paid for ’eavy lifting.”
“You don’t get paid at all. You get meals and the opportunity to lurk to your heart’s content,” Fanny reminded her.

 

“Not content enough to break me back over,” she declared stubbornly. Fanny’s gaze slewed toward Ploddy.
“Don’t look to me,” Ploddy said. “My sciatica’s been a bastard these past weeks. Besides, I’m an old, old man, and he must go fourteen stone, lad his size.”
“Thirteen, actually,” Grey said. “And no one need worry about hauling me anywhere.” Before Fanny could stop him, he’d rolled over and climbed to his hands and knees. “For the love of God, Greyson, sit back down at once!” she said, alarmed.
This command achieving exactly the result she expected—none—she crouched down beside him and, linking her arm around his waist, helped him stagger to his feet. She angled her shoulder beneath his arm, taking as much of his weight as he’d allow. He didn’t object, and this, coupled with his deep, ragged breaths, told her the price rising to his feet had cost him. He was a cursedly independent man.
He looked down into her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t find anyone, but there was some sort of large beast in the shrubbery beneath the balcony.” Hayden appeared breathless at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the balcony. His gaze swept past his uncle, found Fanny, and dropped abruptly to her skirt. He stopped dead in his tracks.
“Dear Lord,” he muttered thickly. “Is all that . . . Grey’s”—he stopped, swallowing audibly and continued—“blood?”
Fanny didn’t bother to answer.

 

Hayden had already fainted.

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