Wild Hearts (2 page)

"Paris, tell Troy to go and change immediately. He's just come in from hunting, and he's left a trail of blood right across the carpet!" accused Damascus. Before she spoke, she had a habit of lifting her chin, which gave the impression she was putting her nose in the air. Paris observed her slim, delicate beauty, highlighted by golden red curls and pale green eyes. She looked as if she were made of porcelain, and he marveled that such a creature had been sired by Angus Cockburn.

"For God's sake, don't be so petty. Let a man be a man," declared Shannon, shaking her lovely red curls in exasperation. Paris's eyes moved to Shannon. There was a marked difference between these two sisters. She was a man's woman, voluptuously rounded in all the right places. Her mouth was generous and usually laughing with an earthy humor that reached her warm brown eyes. She wore her dark red mass of hair, loose, tossing it about her shoulders whenever she moved. The Cockburn blood ran strong in her veins.

Venetia, another Titian-haired beauty, taller than the others and proud of her height, cut in, "Damascus is expecting the young Laird of Cessford tonight, 'tis only reasonable she wants the place to look decent." Venetia always wore her hair in an upswept fashion to emphasize her willowy height and expose the beauty mark on her cheek.

Paris smiled at her attempt at peacemaking. "That's the reason Troy is being unbearable," he said.

Damascus demanded of Troy, "What have you got against Robert Cessford, you great ugly lout?"

Troy, an enormous young man, though not as broad through the chest and shoulders as Paris, considered for a moment, then grinned. "I think it's his bright copper head."

There was a moment's stunned silence, followed by a chorus of laughter, for everyone in the room had red hair of one shade or another.

Paris looked across at Troy. He felt a close brotherly affection for him. But who couldn't like Troy? He was such a handsome young devil, always laughing, always good-natured, The young girls of the village dangled after him shamelessly. He totally lacked the dark, forbidding looks that Paris had inherited from a Cockburn ancestor. "What did you get today?" asked Paris.

"Two red deer, one roe," answered Troy with pride.

Paris nodded his approval. "Can you forgo the pleasures of the hunt for a couple of days? I'm going into Edinburgh, and I prefer you stick close while I'm gone. I'll only take a small troop, but it would be just like the bloody Gordons to mount a raid as soon as my back is turned."

Alexander and Alexandria, thirteen-year-old twins, sat in the corner whispering together. Alexandria nudged her twin; made a sly remark and convulsed her brother. Alexandria, though a pretty child, could not claim beauty as her sisters did. She was the only one to be cursed with freckles, and to add insult to injury, she was the only sister lacking upthrusting breasts. She envied her twin's maleness and would have swapped places with him instantly if such a thing were possible. She did possess a cutting wit, which Paris did not approve of in one so young, but she could not or would not control her tongue. She almost invited his reprimands.

Paris frowned. "You may repeat that remark for everyone's edification, Alexandria." His dark brows drew together as he observed the twins with a dangerous scowl.

Alexandria's heart beat thickly as she faced her brother and saw the menacing flare of his nostrils. Then she tossed her head and repeated, "The three witches of Macbeth over there will run man mad, once the dragon leaves."

"I assume by 'dragon' you mean me?" Paris asked, his voice harsh and threatening.

Shannon diverted Paris's attention from their little sister. "Come now, Paris, you must admit you are easygoing only when it suits you. Usually, you rule with an iron hand."

"By God, I have a need to. This place is overwomaned!" he declared ominously. He glanced accusingly at his brother Alex. "You're supposed to be on our side." It set his teeth on edge to see Alexander's resemblance to his twin sister. His man's body hadn't yet developed, and Paris worried about his quiet, passive personality.

"I think we're better off without him," Troy said, laughing. He went off to change his bloody attire because The Mangler wouldn't leave him alone.

Shannon took a cloth to the carpet, and Damascus shuddered and advised her to let a servant do the distasteful job of cleaning up the blood.

"Well, speak up. What do you want in Edinburgh?" asked Paris, once more the indulgent father figure.

"I need some pale green ribbons. They must be the exact shade of my new gown; I'll fetch it so you can see," volunteered Damascus, dashing off upstairs.

"Only ribbons? That's a good, frugal girl," approved Paris.

"You must be jesting! When the wagon arrived from Edinburgh this morning, it positively groaned under the mountain of clothes she ordered, Shannon corrected, then added sweetly, "I don't need anything, thank you, Paris."

Venetia laughed aloud. "That's because half the things on the wagon were for you."

"Well," Shannon quickly countered, "you don't think I'm going to let her outdo me, do you?"

"I'd like some sugared almonds, please, Paris," begged Venetia, who at fifteen hadn't outgrown her girlish craving for sweets. He looked inquiringly at the twins.

"The handle on my dirk needs repairing. They can't do it down at the forge because of the jewels," spoke up Alexander.

"And I would dearly love the second volume of Shakespeare's sonnets." Alexandria smiled.

The young liars did not fool Paris for one moment. He knew damned well the knife was hers and the poems his but kept the knowledge to himself.

Rogue Cockburn did not hesitate outside the formidable gray structure but strode in with his usual air of confidence and authority. Well over six feet in height, he moved as if impatient to be about his business. The set of his jaw was so determined, his eyes so shrewdly piercing, he stood out in any gathering, and on the street heads turned to watch him. He had discarded the leather jack in favor of an elegant blue velvet doublet with real gold buttons. His crest, a lion rising from a coronet, and his motto, "Endure with Strength," were embroidered in gold thread. His rings flashed fire. On one hand was a ruby, on the other an emerald, as well as a heavy gold seal ring, bearing his crest. A huge emerald earring swung from one ear.

What he wore at his belt had nothing to do with fashion. He always carried his dirk on the left and a short-handled whip tucked in on the right.

The entrance hall was bare and dismal. The air seemed dank, as though the windows had been sealed shut forever. A middle-aged woman appeared instantly. She was dressed in black from head to foot, her only adornment a bunch of keys dangling from her waist in chatelaine fashion. One look into her eyes told Paris she was neither kind nor motherly.

"How do you do, madam. Allow me to introduce myself."

"I know who you are, milord." She bent her head in acknowledgment, but not her knee. "I am Mrs. Graham." Silently she thought,
Rogue Cockburn! Everyone in Edinburgh has seen you swaggering up the High Street.

"Mrs. Graham, I should like to have a look around your orphanage and perhaps have a word with one or two of the children," he explained politely.

"Certainly, milord," she said without batting an eye. "Next Friday at two, I would be pleased to give you a tour and present some of my pupils to you." Silently, she thought,
Whoremonger! I bet there's more than one of your by-blows inside these walls.

"Today would be more convenient, Mrs. Graham." He smiled slightly, masking his annoyance.

She frowned, and her lips pursed as if she had been sucking persimmons. "That would be impossible, milord."

His eyebrows rose. "Impossible," he said quietly, silkily. "That word is not in my vocabulary, Mrs. Graham." His eyes narrowed dangerously.

Determined not to be overruled by him, she patronized him. "Let me be blunt with you, milord. Visitors disturb the children when they disrupt their lessons. We need time to prepare them for such an intrusion."

The silky tone left his voice and was immediately replaced with a harsh, knife-edged sound. "Let me be blunt with you, Mrs. Graham. Fetch the Lamont child now, or the money stops!"

Her nostrils pinched together with the distaste she felt at doing his bidding, but nonetheless, she turned and left without a word, her black skirts rustling their protest with each forced step.

Rogue Cockburn, not known for his patience, paced about the hall. Actually, he had been amused at the woman's temerity in trying to thwart him. He'd had too much experience with women— by now he was thoroughly familiar with every wile and device that had ever been dreamed of to manipulate a man. Mrs. Graham didn't stand a chance.

Mrs. Graham returned with a young girl who stepped back in fear the moment she laid eyes on the tall man. Paris's eyes missed nothing as he keenly examined the maid before him. He saw little of her face because she hung her head, but he saw that her wrists and ankles were delicately boned, since they were uncovered by the ugly smock that did not fit her. His eyes traveled up to her bodice, and though the loose smock did nothing to enhance them, he saw that her breasts were developed and thrust up through the thin material. "Don't run away, my dear, tell me your name," he invited, and his features softened.

Tabby had been terrified from the moment Mrs. Graham had singled her out for attention. When she had been commanded to go with the woman, fear had almost paralyzed her legs. She had been brought to this room where she caught a fleeting glimpse of an enormous man with a forbidding face. When he spoke to her, she shrank from him.

Mrs. Graham answered for her: "Her name is Tabby Lamont."

"How old are you, Tabby?" he asked.

She hung her head and tried to dig a hole in the floor with her toe.

Mrs. Graham said, "She is fourteen, almost fifteen, milord."

He said, not unkindly, "Is she simple?"

With that, Tabby quickly lifted her head and shot him a look of pure hatred, which he observed with some amusement. He noted with satisfaction that if he angered her, he would get a reaction. It would have taken a blind man not to have noticed the budding beauty of her face. It was heart-shaped with a small retrousse nose and wildly pink lips. The lovely mop of auburn curls he remembered had been dragged back and tortured into such tight plaits, it pulled the skin around-her eyes. This emphasized high, slanting cheekbones.

After Tabby shot him the defiant look, she quickly lowered her lashes to veil her eyes. Her anger had dissolved back into fear the moment she dared to look at him. He was an authority figure, and authority was always associated with cruelty in Tabby's mind.

Lord Cockburn turned to Mrs. Graham quickly. "This won't do, madam. Show us to a more amenable room with a fire and somewhere to sit."

"We can use my sitting room," said Mrs. Graham, leading the way reluctantly.

He nodded. "This will do nicely. You may leave now." It was not a request, it was a command. He noticed cynically how comfortable and warm the room was compared to the rest of the building. It had a fireplace with a brass kettle hung on the hob. The stone floor boasted a thick-piled carpet, and the windows were covered with velvet drapes to keep the drafts at bay. He wondered how much of the orphanage's budget went toward Mrs. Graham's creature comforts. He was silent until she went through the door and shut it with a bang, which made Tabby jump with fright.

"Are you afraid of her?" he asked flatly.

Tabby trembled at the thought of being alone with him. She hesitated, her mind confused with the emotions raging within.

"I can see that you are afraid of her," he decided, sweeping her with a glance from head to toe, with glittering green eyes.

She nodded.

"Why?" he demanded harshly.

She hesitated. She tried to answer him, but the words would not come. Slowly, she pulled back the neck of her gown and showed him the purple bruises of a beating.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked softly. She nodded.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice getting louder.

"You are a man," she whispered.

"Bloody hell!" he exploded. "That says it all, doesn't it?"

She cowered.

"Don't do that. Raise your eyes and stop whispering. Don't you realize, if you make a doormat of yourself, the world will wipe its feet on you?" he shouted. He watched her closely as she raised her head. When she lifted her lashes, her eyes were pooled with tears in a mute plea that he not hurt her. When she looked him full in the face, he was startled to find her eyes the color of amethysts.

"That's better," he approved, smiling to try to lessen her fear. "Salt tears never grew a rose! I have four sisters between the ages of thirteen and seventeen, and although they cannot do whatever they like, they most certainly can say whatever they like.. We do still have freedom of speech in Scotland, you know. Now I give you permission to say anything you please in this room without fearing any consequences whatever."

Tabby's eyes widened in disbelief at his words. She saw his rich garments and jewels and wondered who he possibly could be. "Who are you?" she whispered in awe. Her voice had a husky, whispery quality that tingled along his nerves. He hoped it was always like this, and not just when she tried to swallow tears.