Tempting the Wolf (26 page)

LchsGrhman

He kissed her fingers, then straightened. “I have been privy to some disturbing rumors, countess.”

“I am sorry to her that. Your Majesty.” Her tone was absolutely serene. “And what rumors might they be?”

He canted his head, gold buttons gleaming on his beribboned waistcoat ” Tis said you are a witch.”

“A…” She raised her brows as if surprised, then, “Oh no, Your Majesty, I believe what you heard is that I was rich.”

“Oh?” he said, rearing back to study her.

“Or,” she added, glancing at Mrs. Murray. “Maybe ‘twas another word that rhymes with witch.”

“Another—”

“And begins with a
b
,” she added, leaning toward him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Which, I fear, is also true at times.”

The prince studied her a moment in silent rumination, then threw back his head and laughed. “Well said. Well said indeed,” he applauded.

She sketched a bow and turned away.

There was a moment of stunned silence and then the room fell back into noisy disarray.

Mrs. Murray frowned, stiff backed and silent as the countess made her way across the floor to the refreshments.

O’Banyon could not help but make his way to her, could not hold back the wild tide of feelings that erupted at the merest sight of her. He could feel her in his blood, could taste the sweet, exotic scent of her like honeyed nectar.

She was bent over the buffet table and didn’t turn to him when she spoke without acknowledging his presence. “And what of you, sir, what do you think I am?”

He was caught off guard, and when she turned toward him, her evergreen eyes like purest jewels, he felt lost. Lost and floundering in a sea of hopeless desire.

He couldn’t speak.

She watched him. Her face was as unmoved as stone, but her eyes… They were filled with a pain so deep he all but drowned. “Do you think I killed Lady Trulane’s pet?”

He watched her, engrossed, enchanted.

“And what of Mr. Winters? Do you think I jinxed his game?”

“I think…” He paused, fighting himself. But he had already lost. “I think I canna live without ye, lass,” he said.

Something sparked in her eyes. Was it hope?

“Do you believe I killed Sibylla?” she whispered.

The world went away, leaving them in silence, lost in each other.

“I believe ye cherished Sibylla like none other,” he said.

“That is no answer,” she breathed.

“Nay,” he said and took the plunge far past caution and into the turbulent waters of uncertainty, “I believe ye saved her.”

For a moment, for just the briefest instant, her face cracked. Emotion shone like a beacon in her eyes.

“That is not the consensus here,” she said.

“Mayhap ye do na make it easy, me lady.”

“Life is not easy.”

“Is it na?” he asked and longed desperately to know her, to understand her, to hold her in his arms until all was well. “Even for the countess of Colline?”

“Well, of course,” she said and laughed. And suddenly, she was back in absolute control. The white lady without a care, the world at her feet. “For me it is different.”

“I would know the truth,” he said.

Her gaze held him entranced, but finally she shook her head. “No,” she countered. “You would not.”

“Is it so awful then?”

She held his gaze then nodded once. “Some think so.”

“Mayhap I am different.”

“That you are,” she said and smiled ever so gently.

He controlled his desires, fought down his needs. “Why do ye let them distrust ye?”

“Let them? You say it as if I can control how they feel.”

“If ye but wished ye could make them soar at the sight of ye.”

She watched him.

“As I soar,” he said.

Her face was sad beneath her mask. “You are wrong.”

“And ye are magic,” he said and reached for her, but in that moment she jerked back.

“Excuse me,” she rasped and turning abruptly away, hurried into the crowd.

“Lass.” He rushed after her, but someone grabbed his arm.

“Good Christ, man, have some pride.”

O’Banyon turned with a growl.

Keelan raised his brows, but he remained as he was, silvery eyes gleaming.

“If ye’ve a fondness for that hand, ye’ll remove it from me person, lad,” O’Banyon suggested.

“What’s this then?” asked Mrs. Murray, approaching from the left. “A spat between two Celtic gentlemen?”

“Well, I, for one, am gentle… and a man,” said Keelan and dropped his hand before ‘twas too late and O’Banyon lost his fragile control.

“Oh?” She shifted her arch gaze to O’Banyon. “And what is your friend here?”

The lad turned his gaze back toward the Irishman.

” Tis difficult to say exactly,” said the boy.

“What are your suspicions?”

“I think he may be a smitten fool,” said Keelan.

Mrs. Murray laughed. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she said and lifted her hand.

Keelan bowed over it with a showy flourish. ” ‘Tis me own honor to meet a lady of yer quality and beauty.”

“I am Cecilia Murray. My friends call me Cece.”

Keelan bowed, eyes sparkling. “And I am the Forbes.”

“
The
Forbes?”

“God’s teeth!” O’Banyon rumbled.

Keelan didn’t so much as spare him a glance. “Me friends call me Laird.”

“Oh?” she said. “Tell me, my laird, do you sometimes wear the plaids of your ancestors?”

“Aye. Quite oft.”

She nodded and slipped her arm through his. “I’ve a question then” she said and led him away.

O’Banyon turned toward the crowd, searching, glad he was not so duped by a pretty face.

Near the edge of the ballroom, he thought he saw a flash of white and hurried toward it. But his quarry was not to be found. He searched the crowd, heart pounding with need.

Outside, the night was as black as sin.

A white carriage rolled away, drawing his attention. He turned and ran. It was elegant and closed. He grabbed hold of the handle and swung up, opening the door as he did so.

“What the devil?” cursed the owner, drawing back in terror. Across the aisle, his wife gasped and clasped the jewels at her neck.

“Me apologies,” O’Banyon said and jumped back onto the street.

She was gone, disappeared once again. But he would find her.

Antoinette hurried to her carriage.

Whitford opened the door, looking up at her from beneath his withered brow. “All is well, my lady?”

Her hands were shaking. “Yes. Quite well.”

“We go home, then?”

Home. Where was that? She had many estates, but no home. An abundance of acquaintances, but no friends.

“My lady?”

You could make them soar.

“My lady.”

“Take me to Lady Hendershire.”

Whitford shook his head and drew back like a gnarled, withered gnome being pressed against his will. “No, my lady. Please. Not that. Not tonight.”

“I must,” she said.

” Tis folly,” he argued. “Too much has happened of late. Too much—” he began, but she reached out and touched his face. He closed his eyes as if struck and dipped back his head.

A tremble of power seethed from her, easing readily through the fabric of her skin. “Such loyalty lies hidden within you,” she said quietly. “Such sorrow. But you need not worry, Whitford. All will be well.”

His tattered eyelids slid up and he forced himself back, but finally he nodded, face solemn as he turned away. Tears glistened on his ravaged cheeks.

Her own heart ached at the sight, but she forced herself to move.

The carriage dipped as she mounted it. The horses snorted as they leaned into their traces. She sat very still then, listening to the clip of the team’s hooves against the street, waiting, resting, shoring up her energy like a dike against the tide, until the hoofbeats halted and Whitford made his painstaking way to her door.

It opened on silent hinges. He said nothing, but his eyes pleaded.

She looked away, dismounted the carriage, and made her course up the stairs to a brownstone manse.

She was admitted shortly.

Lord Hendershire joined her minutes later. “Lady Colline.” His voice was cheerful, but his face was weary, his eyes afraid behind his careful facade. She knew that mask, understood the price it cost to maintain it. ” Tis ever so good to see you,” he lied.

She didn’t offer her hand. She dare not, but nodded instead, then searched his face, but there was little sign of hope. “I have come to see your bride,” she said simply, for she was tired, too tired to pretend, to dance and lie and hope he would not know the truth—that she was a monster, a freak of nature, with powers she could neither control nor understand.

He fidgeted, but even that gesture looked weary. “I do so appreciate your visit,” he said. “And I am certain you would brighten her mood considerable, but I do not think that would be wise, my lady. She is sleeping now and—”

“Please,” she said simply and braced herself to be accepted.

***

O’Banyon waited in the sweet-scented shadows of Arborhill’s garden. She was not home.

That much he knew, but she would come and it would be soon. He felt it inside his shivering skin, inside his soul, and finally he heard the sound of her wheels on the road. He rose to his feet, watching, waiting, breath held.

The carriage rolled into the graveled courtyard. Whitford dismounted from his perch, his face a grotesque mask in the flickering light of the lantern as he opened the carriage door. Voices murmured quietly in the night, and then she appeared, her face a small, bleak oval in the blackness.

She stepped out, slowly, carefully. Her eyes lifted to the mercurial moonlight for an instant, and then she collapsed, falling silently to the earth beneath her.

Terror streamed like venom through O’Banyon’s trembling soul. He lurched forward, devouring the distance between them, needing to feel her skin against his, to know she was well, but suddenly Whitford blocked his way. The squat, gnarled body stood like an ancient gargoyle between the Irishman and the countess.

“Stay back,” he rasped. A pistol gleamed in the wobbly light of the lantern. “Stay back, or it will not matter if you’re man or beast.”

So he knew. O’Banyon drew a deep breath, steadying himself against the sight of her so still upon the unyielding earth. “What happened?”

” ‘Tis none of your concern, devil’s hound.”

O’Banyon gritted his teeth but remained as he was. “You’ve naught to fear from me,” he vowed, “unless ye try to keep me from her.”

The driver didn’t speak, but shuffled his weight slightly.

“What happened to your lady?”

“Leave her before—” Whitford began, but in that instant Antoinette moaned softly.

O’Banyon reacted without forethought, without anticipation, and suddenly the driver’s weapon was gone, snatched from his hand and tossed into the darkness.

Striding forward, O’Banyon bent and scooped the countess against his chest. She lay limp in his embrace, her satiny neck a regal arch against his arm. But he could feel the pulse of her heart in his very soul, fluttering softly beneath her perfect breasts.

“What mischief is this?” O’Banyon asked, soul tortured.

Whitford said nothing, but stood his ground, his brow a rumpled furrow of worry.

“Be out of my way then if ye canna help,” O’Banyon ordered.

But the gnome remained as he was.

“I’ll na hurt her,” O’Banyon snarled. “Na if me verra life be forfeit. But I shant give ye the same leeway.”

Silence echoed around them.

“What say ye?” asked the Irishman.

“Take her inside,” said a voice, but it was not the hunchback’s.

The maid called Minetta stepped from the shadows and placed a hand on the driver’s arm. He seemed to grow and wilt all at once, his face alight with an emotion almost painful in its intensity.

“Hurry now,” she murmured.

O’Banyon strode past them, barely noticing the discrepancy of the maid’s delicate beauty against Whitford’s hunched deformity.

Mrs. Catrill opened the door. O’Banyon took the stairs two at a time and the others followed, directing him toward the chamber at the top of the stairs. He stepped inside. A pink-shaded candle glowed there, casting its rosy light soft and luminous on a hundred glowing plants. They seemed to reach from every corner, delicate blooms and tenacious vines bowing reverently toward the bed that occupied the center.

“Put her down,” Minetta ordered. “Quickly. Before ‘tis too late.”

He did as told, depositing her on the mattress, then drawing back, though he found he could not forsake her completely. Could not abandon the soft silk of her hand. “Too late for what?” he asked, searching her face.

No answer was forthcoming. The plants seemed to lean in, as if needing to be near her.

“Too late for what?” he asked again and glanced toward the maid.

She remained at the end of the bed, while Whit-ford stood like a squat sentry between them.

“You must release her hand,” said the girl. “Or she’ll not—”

But in that moment the countess’s eyes flickered open, evergreen and hopelessly lovely in the pale beauty of her face.