Tempting the Wolf (7 page)

“What?” She stopped abruptly, looking back.

He had paused to caress the bell-shaped blossom of a foxglove. His fingers looked oddly gentle against the velvety bloom, but his wrist was broad, and against his golden skin lay a circlet of braided hair, clasped with hammered steel. “The wee lass what ye saved from surest death. What was she doing in Shoreditch?”

She shrugged and drew her gaze resolutely away. ” Tis difficult to say for certain, for she does not speak.”

He glanced up, surprised, his fingers still gentle on the flower’s snowy blossom. “Ever?”

“No.”

“Is there aught wrong with her tongue?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“She has not seen a physician?”

“She is a servant, O’Banyon.” She straightened her back a bit more, though there would be those who would surely say ‘twas not possible. “Saved from the dregs of society. She is fortunate to have avoided Newgate.”

He watched her, his eyes slightly narrowed, his body absolutely still, as though he could see into her mind. “Indeed?”

She raised a challenging brow. “Indeed.”

“Why do you call her Sibylla?”

Damn him. Why the devil could he not leave well enough alone. “I must call her something, mustn’t I?”

“Nay,” he said and shook his head. “In truth, lass, ye could have left her on the street. Surely it would have been wiser to find another to serve you. She cannot do ye much good. She is mute, filthy, and puny. All but worthless, if the truth—”

“Worthless!” she hissed, but there was no mistaking the gleam of clever trickery in the Irishman’s eyes. She drew herself up, cursing silently. “Perhaps you Celts have never heard of Christian charity, O’Banyon.”

For a moment she thought he would actually laugh at her. “Perhaps na, love. So why do ye call her Sibylla?”

A pox on him! ” Tis a name,” she snapped. “Just a name. I could not very well call her tattered waif all her life, now could—”

His eyes laughed. He shifted them aside. “Yer potentilla blooms early,” he said. “As does your honeysuckle.”

She skimmed her gaze from him to the flowers. She had tried to discourage them from cluttering over the wall, but they had become opinionated in recent years.

“And tall,” he added. “The vines in Jardin de Jacques did na reach half their height.”

“You’ve been to—” she began, then stopped herself and closed her eyes for a moment. Why the devil was she conversing about flora and children with this irritating Celt? “Shall we be honest with each other, Sir O’Banyon?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “If we must,” he said.

“Why are you here?”

His lips quirked roguishly. “Because ye are bonny.”

Honesty. From an Irishman. God help her. “Well…” She roamed away slowly, half hoping he would follow, half hoping he would refuse to be led. “It seems to me there are many
bonny
women in London.”

“
Aye
.” He nodded and wandered after her. “But only a very few show up on Aldgate Road, then vanish without so much as good eventide.”

“I did not van…” she began, twisting toward him, then gritting her teeth. “I was not on Aidgate.”

His damned eyes were gleaming like a hunting wolf’s. She hated hunting wolves.

“Tell me, me lady, why do ye forever wear gloves? Tis a foine spring day.”

She tilted her head at him then turned to stroll away, hoping to look casual, as if she spent every afternoon with an ungodly handsome man who made her want to strike him on the head with something good and solid. “Tell me, good sir, whyever would you concern yourself with ladies’ fashions?”

“And always white,” he continued. “Even in yer plant house.”

“Would you prefer I wear lavender?”

“I would prefer you wear naught a’tall.”

“What?” She jerked toward him, startled, but his expression was absolutely bland.

“I said I prefer a woman who is naught over tall.”

She searched his expression. Innocence shone like evening stars in his eyes.

“Did ye believe I said aught else?”

Who the devil was he? “No,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Ye are the perfect height,” he added.

“Well, I am ever so thrilled to know I shall not have to grow to please you.”

He grinned. She felt oddly breathless, strangely off balance.

“Are ye?” he asked.

“No,” she said. They were almost to the gate. “I was being facetious.”

“Truly?” He drew back slightly. “A lady of yer ilk. I would na have guessed it.”

“I am certain there are a good many things you would not have guessed.”

” ‘Tis true,” he said. “I canna imagine why a tender lass such as yerself would be on Aldgate Road.”

“Tell me, sir, is there any hope of convincing you that your mystery maid in white was another?”

She lifted the heavy gate hasp. Perhaps she would have Whitford install a lock, and a bad-tempered dog… and a battalion of armed soldiers. OBanyon stepped up to the fence beside her.

He tilted his head, half smiling down at her. “She looked a good deal like ye, lassie.”

“Is it not generally dark at night, especially on Aldgate Road?”

“Me senses are wondrous sharp.”

“But most need some light to… Senses?” she asked.

“The mysterious lass smelled like ye.”

Antoinette drew back slightly, but the gate was behind her. “Are you saying I have an odor?”

“I am saying ye smell like…” He leaned forward the barest inch. She stifled a tremble, but she could not halt the feelings that tingled a harried path toward her heart. “The ripening earth,” he said, “with just a breath of comfrey.”

“I’m afraid you’re perfectly mistaken, sir. I haven’t worked with comfrey for a week or more.”

He filled his nostrils, eyes narrowed. “Five days closer to.”

“What?” she breathed.

His eyes smiled. They stood only inches apart.

“Me sense of touch is also quite amazing. Might ye like a demonstration?” he asked and reached out.

She jerked sideways. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

He stood very still, watching her, lowering his arm. “
A
lass such as yerself should never be afeared,” he said.

“I am not
afeared
.”

“Then why do ye draw away?”

“Why—” She huffed a laugh. “Perhaps in the hollows of Ireland it is proper for men to grope women they—”

“Grope!” he said and took a step closer. She hurried back. “God’s balls, lass, who have ye been with?”

She could smell him. She didn’t know how or why. Unlike him, she didn’t have particularly sharp senses. But she knew he smelled of sharp sunlight and hot desire.

“I’ve no idea what you speak of.”

“The bumbling groper what hath made ye nervous,” he said. “Who is he?”

She felt breathless and rigid. “I should slap you for disparaging my honor.”

“Verra well.”

“What?”

“Ye may slap me if ye wish, lass.”

“I… I…” The world was off-kilter. “What is wrong with you?” she rasped.

He laughed. “Are ye saying ye have been faithful to yer husband’s memory, then?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Was he the groper?”

“Get off my property.”

“Did ye cherish him?”

“Leave.”

“Or was it he what made ye cringe away?” he asked and reached for her again.

“Swear to God.” She was breathing hard when she pressed her back against the fence. “If you touch me, you shall live to regret it.”

He remained as he was. “Only if ye do,” he said and withdrew his hand.

“Go away,” she ordered, but her voice was little more than a whisper. “Please.”

“And windflower,” he said, taking in another breath of her fragrance. “But a wee hint of wind-flower.”

O’Banyon sat alone in the woods and watched the countess’s house. Arborhill was a fine estate. Set but a few miles west of Londontowne, it boasted a venerable stone house and a hundred hectares of rolling pasture.

The night was quiet and still around him. Somewhere in the decaying layers of fallen leaves, a mouse scurried for cover. Banyon heard its harried progress, sensed its winding course, but did not turn from the wrought-iron gates that enclosed her estate.

He was not obsessed though. Hardly that. He was the Irish Hound, the handsome beast, the golden wolf. He didn’t become obsessed.

He was simply curious.

Who was she? Why did she abhor touch? Why were her servants twisted and silent? And why in God’s name did she avoid him?

O’Banyon ground his teeth and closed his eyes. Very well then, mayhap he was a wee bit obsessed, but there was something about her… something ancient and sacred that called to the most primal part of him, and God knew that was pretty damned primal.

When she was near he felt that he was, for the first time in his life, entirely alive. As if every nerve ending was singing with full-voiced energy. He didn’t know why.

Oh, aye, she was bonny enough, but as she herself had said, London was not bereft of bonny maids. She was wealthy, of course, but if the truth be told, he had never much cared for coin. It was women he loved. Women and laughter, and curling up near a crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. He was a simple man… in a manner of speaking.

Pebbles crunched on the countess’s drive. He stood up, testing the breeze, and in a moment a phaeton rolled away from the house and into sight. Black as the night, it was pulled by a pair of dark horses.

Whitford dismounted to open the gates, then, slipping the reins from the carriage dash, urged the team forward as he walked along beside. In a moment, he’d shut the gates, mounted the conveyance and clicked the steeds into a stately trot.

O’Banyon caught a glimpse of Antoinette inside, her face a small oval in the window, her eyes wide and haunting in the narrow rectangular pane.

And then they rolled away, heading east at a smart clip. There was nothing Banyon could do but follow, keeping to the shadows and wondering about her mission. Did she go to a lover? Did he await her even now?

It was not far to London. But they did not stop at some posh estate, nor did they turn aside at an inn. Instead, they hurried through the silent night. The streets narrowed, the houses became lower and shabbier.

It was more difficult to remain hidden now, but the shadows were deep and the night friendly to one so familiar with the darkness.

The horses’ hooves clicked smartly against cobbles and then dirt, steady and unwavering—a handsome pair of matched bays gleaming in the night.

O’Banyon’s senses picked up a rap against the carriage roof. The vehicle slowed to a halt. Hidden by shadows as dark as ancient magic, he watched as the driver hobbled from his seat to the countess’s door. It creaked open and in a moment she stepped down.

Whitford’s voice was little more than a rumble in the heavy silence.

“My lady, I beg you, do not do this.”

She responded softly. From his place behind a tilted pony cart, O’Banyon could not tell exactly what she said, but her face looked cool and pale against the night, her gloved hands lost in the folds of her skirt.

The closest horse turned his head as she went past, champing its bit and nickering softly, but otherwise all was silent. Whitford hobbled around her and rapped on the door of a nearby hovel. It seemed a lifetime before it opened. Weak candlelight flickered past the threshold, and then she stepped inside, leaving Whitford bent and alone.

Time dragged past, but perhaps, in reality, only a few minutes lapsed before she reappeared. Murmuring a few sparse words to her driver, she returned to her vehicle and rumbled into the night.

That was it. Nothing more. They returned without incidence to Arborhill. O’Banyon stood for a time in the woods again, watching, listening, but there was naught else to see, naught but the moon shining on the dark metal rail of the fence and the world growing slowly older.

It was early afternoon when O’Banyon entered the livery some blocks from his townhouse. A lad was pitching hay from a nearby wagon onto the dirt floor. Another was cleaning harness. They glanced toward him in tandem.

“Can I help ye, good sir?” asked an old man as he hobbled from a stall. Hanging a leather bridle on a peg near the door, he tilted his head for an answer.

“Aye,” O’Banyon said. The stable was filled with the sweet smells of fodder and horse and a dozen other scents as old as time. “I’ll be needing me steed readied.”

“Certainly, sir, and which horse might that be?” “The good-sized sorrel with the flaxen mane.” “Certainly, sir. Bailey…” called the old man and turned toward the wagon, but the boy who had been there was gone. The gaffer scowled, his wrinkled face perplexed. “Southren,” he began, but when they turned in the opposite direction, they saw that the harness lay alone and the lad was just disappearing through the doorway, bare feet flying. “Boy!” the old man snapped. “Come hither.”

The lad reappeared more slowly, slinking sulkily toward them.

“Fetch the gentleman’s steed, lad, and be quick about it.”

The boy shuffled his feet. They were near as filthy as the floor upon which he stood. “I’m unsure which animal that might be, sir.”

The old man’s scowl deepened, etching grooves like valleys in his withered brow. “We’ve only one sorrel hereabouts this day.”