Tempting the Wolf (24 page)

She snorted. “Nay, na I. I’ve na left the village. ‘Twas birthed just down the lane, na half a furlong from where we sit. Big as a bag o’ barley I was. Me mum said I near ripped her in twain when—”

“This tale,” he said, trying to rein her back to the topic at hand. “Did ye hear it from the lad himself or—”

“From Keelan? Oh no, me laird, as I says, he likes to keep such things hush like.”

O’Banyon sat in silence. Perhaps he was a fool to believe. Perhaps he was mad. Many said such gifts did na exist, but many had not lived in the days of the darkness, and many did not roam the streets in another form, with only hazy memories of the dark half-lives they lived.

And time was fleeting. It may already be too late. But he would not believe that. He would not. Too much had been done that he could not make right. This would not be one of those things. “Me thanks,” he said and rising to his feet, made his way to the nearby table.

None glanced up at his approach. “Might ye be the lad called Keelan?” he asked.

The boy shifted his attention upward. His eyes were a silvery blue and as bottomless as a highland lochan. “Aye,” he said. “That I am.”

O’Banyon nodded and braced his legs. Luck and history suggested this may not be a simple task. “I would have a word in private with ye, lad.”

“Certainly,” said the other, “but as ye can see, I am in the midst of a game. Ye’ll have to—”

“It canna keep,” O’Banyon said and set his hand to MacGill’s black handle where it protruded from his belt.

They stared at each other for a moment.

“Verra well then,” said the lad, then nodded to the others. “If ye’ll excuse me for a moment…”

There were complaints as he rose to his feet, but no one followed them to the corner of the room.

O’Banyon spoke without preamble. “I am in need of a healer,” he said.

Surprise shone like daylight in the lad’s eyes. “A healer.”

“Aye.”

“I fear ye’ve been misled then, me friend,” he said and glanced toward his companions. “If the truth be told, I’m na but a simple tinker what enjoys a bit of sport now and again.”

” Tis said there was a blind maid in Kirkcaldy what ye—”

“I’d like to help ye,” he said, his tone becoming brusque. “Truly I would, but—”

“There be a wee maid in London what gasps for her every breath even as we speak.”

“London?”

“Aye.”

The boy shook his head and turned away.

O’Banyon caught his arm and leaned close. “I’ve na wish to tell yer large companions that ye be cheatin’, lad.”

Their gazes caught and held. Silence encircled them, lean and hungry.

“Me apologies,” Keelan said loudly and turned finally toward his opponents, “but I fear I must away.” Shrugging, he pulled out of O’Banyon’s grasp and strode to the table where he scooped his winnings into a leather pouch.

“Ye’d na leave without giving us a chance to win our earnings back, sure,” said the nearest man. He had the shoulders of a smithy, O’Banyon noticed, or maybe an ox.

O’Banyon stepped forward. He was a peaceable man by nature. A lover and a poet. But battle was poetry of sorts, was it not? “I fear this be a matter of some import,” he said.

The smithy rose slowly, his head pulled into his shoulders like a recalcitrant bull’s. “So be me money,” he rumbled.

” Tis sorry I be to disturb ye,” O’Banyon said.

“Aye, ye will be,” said the smitty, “if ye dunna leave the lad with us.”

O’Banyon spread his hands. “I’ve na wish to cause trouble,” he said, “but young Keelan goes with me.”

“The devil—” rasped the other and charged, but in that instant, O’Banyon stepped aside, grasped him by his shirt and trousers and slammed him into the far wall.

The blacksmith straightened groggily, turned, then slumped to the floor at their feet.

O’Banyon eyed the group in silence. They stared back in abject silence. “If there be other complaints, now be the time to discuss them,” he said.

They shook their heads in unison.

“Come then, lad,” he growled.

The boy grinned gamely and ambling to the door, stepped outside.

The night was as black as a witch’s heart. Not a single star shone in the inky sky. “Yer quick,” the boy said.

Nay. He was slow. Too slow. Time scampered past like scurrying field mice while his own motions felt heavy and lame. His back ached, his eyes felt gritty. “As I’ve said, ‘tis a matter of some import.”

“This lass,” said the boy. “Be she yer lover?”

“Nay.”

“Yer daughter?”

” ‘Tis na for ye to concern yerself aboot.”

“London be a long way to travel for someone other than—”

“We’ve na time for questions,” O’Banyon said and stepping ahead, pulled open the stable door. “Indeed, we’ve na time—” he began, but suddenly the world crashed against his skull. Pain washed him like a dark stain. His knees struck the earth. He twisted slightly. The boy stood behind him, a timber held in both hands.

“Sorry old man, but London’s not for the likes of me,” he said and loosing the branch, backed away.

O’Banyon dropped to one hand. The world swam hazily, but memories were clear now, sharp shards of pain sliced into anger. “Ye’ll be comin’ with me, lad,” he growled, “if yer hopin’ to see the light of day.”

The boy laughed. “I fear ‘tis na yer decision,” he said and turned away.

A snarl roiled up inside O’Banyon like a darkling wave. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as senses as old as time stirred to restless life.

It was dark again. But O’Banyon had returned. He smelled the scents of Arborhill, the sweet jasmine, the waxy moonflowers.

Rolling his shoulders, he turned a jaundiced eye on his companion. “Run and it may well be the last thing ye remember, lad,” he warned.

The Scottish mongrel looked older than his score of years this night, old and as weary as sin. It had been a long, hellacious ride from the Highlands. The bruise over his left eye had bloomed with a host of shining colors.

O’Banyon would have smiled, had he had the energy. Instead, he turned and pounded on the door. It sounded hard and solid beneath his fist.

No one answered. He pounded again. “Awake!” he called. “I’ve brought help for the lass. Awake.”

Silence again, as heavy as the night, then, “Who is it? Who’s there?” called a faltering voice.

” Tis me, O’Banyon, returned from the Highlands. Please, let me come hither.”

There was a pause, then metal scraped against metal. The door swung open, revealing a flickering candle and Mrs. Catrill’s parchment face. O’Banyon stepped inside, pulling his trophy along behind him.

“I’ve come as quick as ever I could,” he said and nodded toward the lad at his elbow. “With the… healer in tow. Please, we must see the wee lass.”

Catrill stood with her mouth agape, staring at the young man near the door.

O’Banyon glanced at him. True, the lad called Keelan did not look like one would expect a learned healer to appear? His hair was long and unkempt, his face rough shaven, and in his eyes there was a hint of the devil. More than a hint if the knot on O’Banyon’s skull was any indication.

“I fear…” she began, then blinked. “Why are the healer’s hands bound?”

“There will be time aplenty for explanations later,” Banyon said, pulling Keelan down the broad hallway. “But for now we must—”

“She’s dead.”

O’Banyon jerked his head up. The countess stepped into the passageway in front of him, her gown pristine white, her face nearly as pale.

O’Banyon stumbled to a halt, his stomach cranked up hard. “Nay,” he said and shook his head. He’d been so sure. So positive. Indeed, he’d not slept for an eternity, driven by the certainty that he could make amends, could draw the girl back from death’s brink. “Nay,” he said. “You’re wrong, lass.”

Her expression was unreadable in the uncertain light. Her hands were clasped as if in supplication before her pearlescent gown. “Indeed, she died more than a week ago.”

“Nay.”

“I am sorry.”

O’Banyon closed his eyes. The world swayed around him. “Nay,” he said again. “I am the one to be sorry.”

“Was it your fault then?” she asked.

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, but stared at her, soul aching.

“Was it your place to keep her safe?” Her voice was cool, her elegant brows raised above bottle-green eyes.

“Aye,” he managed, “that it was.”

“You must think yourself powerful indeed,” she said, “if you think you can protect all.”

“Not all,” he murmured. “But if I canna keep safe those I cherish…” He turned away, feeling foolish, feeling torn.

“It was not your fault, Irishman,” she said softly and turned away.

“Oh?” He took a truncated step toward her. “Who then?”

She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Twas not until that instant that he saw the aching sadness. Almost hidden. Almost shut away, and all the more overwhelming because of it. In the past, perhaps he had longed to see emotion in her face, to sense something in her soul. But now it was too much, too harsh, too abrasive. Her perfect features were not meant for sorrow.

He stepped forward, wanting, needing to pull her into his arms. But in an instant she drew herself up, the mask dropping in place, her eyes as hard as polished emeralds.

“I appreciate your labors on her behalf,” she said and eyed the young Scotsman who stood watching her in the flickering light. “I appreciate your…” She scowled, skimming her gaze to his bound wrists. “Efforts. But I think you would be wise to leave now and not return.”

Something scalded O’Banyon’s guts. “What’s that?”

“She’s gone. There seems little reason for you come hither again,” she said and pulled her gaze from Keelan to O’Banyon. “Good night.”

“What the devil—” he began and stepped forward, but she had already disappeared from sight.

Behind him, the young Scotsman cleared his throat. “Mayhap this be a less than perfect time to mention it,” he said, “but ye vowed to set me free should me services na longer be required.”

“Shut the hell up,” O’Banyon growled. “Lass, come back, ye—”

“Mayhap she is na particularly fond of wild beasties,” Keelan suggested.

O’Banyon turned slowly toward him. How much did he know? Oh aye, things had got a bit rough up in the Highland village, but the night had been dark as sin.

The lad stepped back a pace, then remained where he was. They eyed each other in the flickering light.

Keelan swallowed but set his jaw. “Set me free,” he said, “and she’ll na learn the truth from the likes of me.”

Without dropping his gaze, O’Banyon drew MacGill from his belt. The lad stared at him, not quite breathing. Seconds ticked away, and then

O’Banyon reached out and cut the other’s bonds. “Go then,” he said, and turned back toward the countess.

The boy grinned as he rubbed his wrists. “Where?”

“I care na,” said O’Banyon, barely shifting his attention from the door. “To hell if ye like.”

” ‘Twas na quite what I had in mind. If ye remember, Irish, I lost me coin whilst ye chased me down like a cornered hare. I have na money. Na horse. Naught to eat.”

The shuffling footsteps of Mrs. Catrill could be heard in the distance.

“And I’m loath to share me harrowing tales with the ladies of this house,” the lad murmured.

“Ye said ye would hold yer tongue.”

“I am a bard. As was me father and his father before him,” he said, and shrugged. ” ‘Tis in me blood to tell—”

“Ye said ye were a tinker.”

“As I was saying, ‘tis in me blood to tell fibs.”

“Ye mean to say ye lie.”

“Aye.”

Mrs. Catrill rounded the corner.

“What happened?” O’Banyon asked, turning toward her.

The old woman’s face was creased with a thousand sorrows. “The poor wee babe,” she said. “She never awoke from her slumber. Never opened her pretty eyes. She was dead the very next morn. Me lady found her.”

“Had she worsened? Was she—”

“Who’s to say? She never come to. But my lady…” Her face contorted. “I know she seems cold as river water at times. But in my heart I believe she cared for the child. After her death, she wouldn’t speak. Couldn’t eat. Weak as a lamb, she was, and wouldn’t let none of us see the poor babe.”

“You didn’t see the child?”

“Nay.” She shook her head, mourning. “Laid the wee thing in the casket herself, she did, and closed it up tight straightaway.”

He tried to assimilate the words, but his mind was fuzzy, his muscles limp with strain. “When was she buried?”

“The selfsame day. The countess couldn’t bear to see her lying there.” She shook her head. “So still… So…” She swallowed and lifted her chin. “And what with this heat…”

He nodded once and turned away, but in a moment he glanced back toward her. “What of Lady Hendershire?” he asked, his thoughts narrowed to a hard line, his body tight with fatigue. “How does she fare?”

The old woman shook her head. “Only this morning her Milly told Cook that she worsens. Luck is going poorly.”

***

No more than twenty-four hours had passed when O’Banyon stepped into Brook’s Club. He’d slept most of that time, fretted the rest. The room was packed to overflowing. Ladies giggled and fanned themselves. Men laughed and boasted.