Tempting the Wolf (2 page)

“I can but apologize for me shortcomings, lass,” he said.

“Have you many then?” she murmured.

“Counted with the stars,” he assured her.

“Truly.” She stepped forward. “Then we must surely spend some time together, sir, so that ye might confess—”

“Rosanna,” said Mrs. Murray, her tone just a tad sharper than it had been only moments before. “I believe a breeze is picking up. Will you be a dear and fetch my shawl from the curricle?”

The girl hesitated just a moment, then pulled her gaze from O’Banyon’s and crafted a careful smile. “But auntie, the carriage is halfway across town.”

The women’s gazes met steadily. “I know, my dearest, and I do so apologize, but if I catch a chill I fear your visit may very well be cut short and you’ll be forced to return prematurely to your mother in Worcester.”

Temper darkened the girl’s eyes, which were met by her aunt’s knowing stare.

Then Rosanna nodded sharply and turned toward O’Banyon. “Another time, sir,” she said.

He bowed and watched her go.

“My niece will be visiting her cousins this afternoon,” said Mrs. Murray, pulling his attention back to her. “Perhaps you could come round for tea.”

O’Banyon grinned, well flattered. “I fear I dunna drink tea, lass.”

“In truth, sir, neither do I.”

He gripped his hands behind his back. “Did I na hear ye are betrothed to another?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Sir Banyon,” she said, her voice low and steady, “I have been wed twice before. My first husband kept a mistress at Brighton. My second was more fond of hazard than he was of me. I have no intention of being—”

“Then both yer husbands were fools,” O’Banyon said and bowing, caught her eye again. “But as I can see ye are na, I will tell ye straight and true— I’ve na the restraint to be at me gentlemanly best if we be closeted together alone, lass. Nor have I a wish to damage yer reputation and ruin your future with a wealthy lord, thus… I fear I must say adieu.”

She opened her mouth as if to argue, but he knew better than to delay, for he had already waited too long. There was a tingling in his thighs and a sharp honing of his senses, as if the world held a thousand secrets he could not quite yet fathom. Giving her a quick nod, he turned on his heel and strode away.

He would walk it off, he told himself. Let his mind wander until all was well.

Evening was settling across London, but the darkness could no longer dim the wealthy burgs of the city, for they were lit by stately iron lamps that held neither tallow nor wick. Their workings were a mystery to him, but what was not these days?

Striding down a cobbled boulevard, O’Banyon passed a young couple just exiting a silversmith’s shop. Their arms were entwined, their faces wreathed in smiles, but the woman turned her sultry gaze to his momentarily and that alone was nearly his undoing. He strode resolutely on.

His rented townhouse was nestled snugly in Hans Town, a shabby but comfortable annex. It was not a particularly safe section of town, but that hardly mattered. It afforded him some privacy and suited his modest budget.

But a short distance from the elegance of shops and coffeehouses of London, the city began to deteriorate toward the slums. An old man slumped against a wattle and daub inn, a bottle in hand. Across the street, a portly woman stood on her broken steps and smoked a pipe rough-crafted from a stag’s ivory antlers.

The smell of aged leaf and red deer melded harmoniously in O’Banyon’s twitching nostrils. Some things had not changed with time.

Removing the pipe from her lips, the matron cast a narrow glance up and down the Irishman’s still tingling form.

“Come hither,” she called, “and I’ll ‘elp ya with that problem of yours.”

“Me thanks,” he answered. Cutaway coats and skin-tight breeches may well flatter the wearer, but, as he had learned to his pride and chagrin, they left little to a bawdy imagination. There was naught like five yards of sodden wool and an ancient horsehide sporran to hide a man’s appreciation of the fairer sex. “But I’ve na troubles, lass.”

She laughed, her brown face wrinkling like a winter apple. “And I’m a sweet-faced virgin. Come over, lad. I’ve got girls. Young girls.”

O’Banyon smiled, but it was becoming more taxing. His skin felt hot beneath the snug confines of his fashionable costume. “I would like to accommodate ye,” he said, “but I fear I canna.”

She eyed him up with worldly knowledge. “I believe you’re wrong there, love,” she yelled. “But another time, then. ‘Ell, I wouldn’t mind ‘avin’ a go at ya meself.”

He sighed and moved quickly on. The night slipped around him, allowing him to relax marginally, forcing himself to put the scents and sounds of women behind him, allowing him to breathe.

What he needed was a hobby. Some little thing to occupy his mind, to tire his body. A battle mayhap. But nay, battle seemed to be frowned upon amidst these posh Londoners, unless one took their silly pistol duels into account. Which he did not.

He could try his hand at badminton, he thought, and forced his mind down other paths just as idiotic. Cricket mayhap. Or lawn bowling, which was favored by the fashionable crowd referred to as the
ton
. But bowling on the green had never held his interest, not even when it had been banned to commoners.

Making love, on the other hand…

Desire grated at him. But he forced his mind away once again, for he dare not chance the changes passion wrought in him. Dared not loose his other self. If he could not burn away his frustrates in the arms of a willing lass, he would prefer to spend his time with a claymore in his hands and a shield slung across his back, but battle in jolly ol’ England was now fought with weapons that spewed flame whilst standing a good furlong from one’s opponent.

‘Twas terrible impersonal. Not the same a’tall. And even if he should succeed in getting himself a commission to fight for the regent’s royal army, the lust of battle might well prove to be more than his human skin could—

A whimper of noise snared his attention. O’Banyon jerked his head to the right. The dank taste of fear snaked out from a dusky alley that yawned off to the side.

“What’s your rush, girly?” crooned a quiet voice. ” ‘Aven’t ya learned no respect at all for your elders?”

Another whimper was heard amidst a rustling of feet.

“There now. ‘Old still so’s we can gets a good look at ya. Ahh, yer rather a pretty thing, don’t ya think Joles?”

Senses as old as time prickled along O’Banyon’s spine. He could feel a young girl’s terror, could taste the bite of her captor’s menace on the tip of his tongue.

“A bit skinny for my taste,” said Joles. “But ya knows what they says about beggars.”

The two men chuckled in unison.

O’Banyon curled his fingers against his thighs and shifted quiet as midnight toward the maw of the alley.

“Come along with your ol’ uncles now, girly. We got a little surprise for yah, don’t we, Joles?”

“Indeed we—” began Joles, but suddenly there was a yowl of pain. Someone gasped, and then there were footsteps thundering madly in the deepening darkness.

“It’s a chase she wants,” rasped a voice, and in less than a heartbeat a ragged girl burst onto the street.

Eyes wide as twin moons, she turned her cobalt gaze on O’Banyon and froze, mouth round in speechless terror.

God’s teeth! Had he changed already, he wondered, but his musing was interrupted by a noise from behind. He spun about, legs splayed, a snarl ready on his lips.

But ‘twas naught more terrifying than a woman behind him. Dressed all in white, she shone with an unnatural brightness.

Their gazes met and fused. O’Banyon stood transfixed, for she was an element out of place, a blinding shaft of light in the darkness.

But in an instant, she pulled her gaze away. “Sibylla,” she said, her voice calm in the maelstrom. “Come.”

The child broke from her trance and dashed toward the lady just as the two men burst from the mouth of the alley.

O’Banyon turned toward them. They skidded to a halt, breathing hard, searching the area. They were a skinny pair, stretched hard and mean by life in London’s dark underbelly.

“Well,” said Joles, still panting, “it seems as if we ‘ave us a dandy amongst us. Ho then, fancy pants…” They parted, Joles tall and bent, his companion as straight as a crusader’s lance. They eased out on either side of him. O’Banyon remained perfectly still, senses flaring. “Kinda far from your purdy home ain’t ya, m’ lord?”

The Irishman said nothing. If he had learned aught in the past mind-spinning months, he had learned to avoid causing a spectacle.

“Want to challenge us for the pair of ‘em?” asked the shorter of the two.

O’Banyon tilted his head. “I’ve na wish for trouble, lads,” he said. For the most part it was a true enough statement.

But the two laughed in unison, a rasping sound that grated against O’Banyon’s vibrating senses. “Ye hear that, Joles? ‘E don’t want no trouble.”

“Then ‘e should have stayed put in his parlor, drinkin’ ‘is fancy teas and—”

“I dunna drink tea,” O’Banyon said. His voice sounded ever so reasonable to his own ears, yet did naught to soothe the brigands.

Indeed, he knew the moment Joles drew the knife, knew the instant the villain sprang forward, though the shadows were as deep as the lochans of his homeland.

As for O’Banyon, he left MacGill hidden beneath his coat, but struck just as quickly, and suddenly the knife took flight, springing through the air and clattering with staccato clarity against a mortared wall. The would-be attacker fell backward, nursing his hand and staring.

O’Banyon growled and took a step forward. The brigands stood for a moment in indecision, then turned as one and galloped back into the alley from which they’d come.

O’Banyon let them go, exhaled carefully and glanced down, assessing himself, but nothing seemed amiss. Though his fingers were spread like reaching talons, all was well. He curled them carefully into his palms and took a steadying breath. The lassies were safe and no one was injured. He rolled his shoulders and turned about.

“Me apologies,” he began.

But the street was empty.

He glanced right and left, but he knew there was none hidden in the shadows. He was suddenly and inexplicably alone. So the white lady had not been foolish enough nor stunned enough to remain in harm’s way, but had fled at the first possible opportunity.

Still, he would not have thought her so fleet.

Striding forward, O’Banyon eased into a trot and peered down the next alley. But that too was empty.

It was then that he heard a shuffle behind him, then that he realized the girl’s tormentors had returned with friends.

Smiling, he turned slowly, savoring the moment. Five men stood spread in an arc across the muddy street. Five, and each one armed.

He should back away, he knew. Should retreat into the shadows, avoid spectacle, keep well out of sight. But he did so need a hobby.

Dancers whirred and dipped, a swirling kaleidoscope of colors, dark coats pressed intimately to pastel gowns, swallow-quick fans plied before flushed faces and gleaming eyes.

O’Banyon smiled. Women were everywhere— elderly matrons watching their wards like sharp-eyed peregrines. Tender maids, soft-lipped and eager. Young mothers. Content wives. He loved them all.

But he felt another’s approach. Someone neither tender nor young.

“O’Banyon,” rumbled Hiltsglen.

The Irishman half smiled. In many ways he liked this new world. Though London was far gone from the windswept hills of his homeland, there was much to appreciate in this raucous city. Women, for instance. Yet there were elements from his past that he missed from time to time.

Sir Killian of Hiltsglen, called the Black Celt by those who knew him well, was surely not one of them.

“Hiltsglen,” he said, not glancing sideways as he took a sip of punch. It had neither the bitter earthiness of ale, nor the full richness of spirits, but the fantastically delicate glass that contained it was a marvel to behold.

The Celts stood side by side, eying the blurring colors as they twirled about the ballroom.

“Choosing yer next victim?” Hiltsglen’s voice was rarely more than a rumble and oft resembled a feral growl when he spoke to O’Banyon. Their
friendship
had been long and fractious, and one oft punctuated with oozing wounds and bright contusions.

But the Irish Hound still lived. Or perhaps he lived, again. Though the Golden Lady of Ingle-waer had wielded terrible power, she had not destroyed him. Oh aye, she had cast a dreadful curse. But neither she nor his own vengeful liege had quite managed to best him. And although some might have found death preferable,

O’Banyon was not amongst them. Nay, he would take life at any price.

“Na need,” said the Irishman, and didn’t bother to turn from his perusal of the elegant crowd. “As it happens, I’ve spoke to yer wee bride just hours hence.”

“To me Fleur?” O’Banyon could feel the Scotsman turn toward him and had to contain his raucous amusement. It was too simple to raise the old man’s ire. Hiltsglen had no subterfuge, no appreciation for a lie well told, and damnably little sense of humor. On the other hand, those who met his fist tended to stay where he put them for long periods of time. Which may be a good detail for a man to remember, if that man weren’t spoiling for some sport.