Chapter
3
S
heena was missing. Connor should have guessed that she would cause trouble tonight. The storm clouds of rebellion had been gathering for weeks, ripening for an outburst. She hadn’t forgiven him for forbidding her to see her convict, and social embarrassment was to be the rain of her revenge.
He strode down the gaslit hallways of his home. His face was dark, resolute, silencing the few servants who had sought to speak with him on some trivial matter. Ardath would cover his absence at the party; he’d left her coaxing a donation from the Solicitor-General for the Infant Pauper Asylum. Ardath’s mother, Bella, was flirting shamelessly with the viscount Connor had been hoping would take Sheena off his hands.
Presumably Sheena was hiding in a pout to punish him. He wondered irately how she could expect to be treated like a woman when she acted like such an infant. Yes, he knew he’d dealt sternly with her in the past, but it was for her own protection, because she’d never shown an ounce of common sense.
He came to a dead stop outside the door to the small withdrawing room. A candlelit shadow at the sideboard
drew his attention. On closer inspection he realized it was a woman’s silhouette. A woman he had never met, he was certain. All his hot-blooded male instincts went on the alert. Something in her manner caught his interest.
Graceful and delicate. An air of intrigue. Who was she?
“Sheena?” he said into the silence, even though he knew damned well that the slight figure who turned in surprise at his voice couldn’t possibly be his statuesque blond sister. “Sheena,” he repeated, entering the room, “is that you?”
S
he stood frozen at the sideboard like a deer trapped in the flare of a hunter’s torch. He suppressed a grin as he studied her face in the candlelight; she looked as guilty as sin of something. Perhaps she had just been scolded by her papa for some social blunder. Her vulnerability only added to her allure.
His gaze went from the hand she’d hidden behind her back to the platter of chocolate
é
clairs and bottles of iced champagne in the silver bucket on the sideboard. He chuckled to himself, welcoming a reprieve from another confrontation with his wayward sister. Meeting this girl held infinitely more appeal.
His fir
s
t thought was that she looked like a medieval princess in a French tapestry, with her classic features and that tumble of curly midnight hair down her back. There was something pure about her. Something unique and enchanting. He couldn’t resist.
A mystery. A conquest. A beautiful young woman caught in the act of demolishing the dessert course. He was fascinated by her aura of secrecy. Was she waiting for one of his friends? Or hiding from them? He could just imagine the young lawyers he worked with circling around her like a pack of wolves.
A droll smile twisted his mouth. “Excuse me. Obviously you aren’t Sheena.”
She didn’t answer. Her eyes were wide with mistrust. He closed the door behind them, aware of a strange tension crackling in the air. In spite of convention, he wanted to enjoy this introduction all alone. He wondered where she had she come from, if she could be Aaron Elliot’s daughter, fresh from boarding school in Marseilles. Aaron had said he
was going to bring the girl. He’d neglected to mention she was an exquisite beauty.
He regarded her finely shaped features in curiosity. “You don’t have Elliot’s nose.”
She crept back another inch, a cautious little thing. “Don’t I?”
He glanced past her to the sideboard. Amazed, he realized that she must have packed at least a dozen pastries into her petite frame. There was a tiny smudge of chocolate on her chin; he pulled out his handkerchief to gently rub it away.
She caught her breath as he brought his hand to her face.
“The evidence,” he said, his voice low and teasing, Sheena and the party suddenly forgotten in the pleasant anticipation of the moment. Then, reaching casually for her arm, he said, “Have you tried the champagne?”
“Of course not.” Which wasn’t a
li
e, exactly.
Maggie hadn’t actually sampled the expensive champagne. But she did have two bottles of it tucked under each arm beneath her specially designed cloak, which was lined with numerous oilskin pockets.
Stealing the champagne was her only concession to turning felon, and a present for the Chief back in Heaven’s Court, although there wasn’t anything remotely divine about the family of assorted criminals who called the shabby sanctuary home under the leadership of a crusty old Highlander named Arthur Ogilvie. In fact, Maggie wished Arthur were here right now to handle this mess. He was as accomplished in his chosen career of vice as Connor Buchanan was in upholding justice.
Actually, Maggie was one of only a few people aware that Arthur was secretly a gentle giant who befriended the downtrodden. Her first month in the city after her aunt’s death, Maggie had come to his aid when he’d been hit by an omnibus while supervising a swarm of amateur pickpockets. Arthur had broken his ankle and gold watch. To hear him swearing in the street you’d have thought he was mortally wounded.
She’d spent the last of her money on cab fare to see him to his house, and Arthur had been her unofficial guardian ever since. The Chief always repaid both insults and favors.
He had offered the frightened young exile a home, protection, security, and the strangest family she had ever seen.
Connor’s voice broke the silence that had fallen, sending a little chill down her back. “Are you sure you won’t try the champagne?”
“I don’t drink anything stronger than tea,” she said, wondering frantically what was taking Hugh such a long time, and how to get herself out of this situation. She couldn’t think of anything more disastrous than facing the devil alone. How had he found her?
His gaze drifted over her, warm and personal, confident of a conquest. “Really?”
She gave him an admonishing look. Good heavens, he wasn’t flirting with her, was he? What a dreadful complication. “Yes, really,” she said, her
li
ps tightening.
He chuckled. Before she knew it, the handsome beast was sliding his arm around her shoulders. “Let me take your cloak. I’m Connor Buchanan, by the way, and you must be—no, don’t tell me. I’m good at remembering names. You are—”
“Freezing to death. Leave my cloak alone. Brrr.” She blew out her cheeks and stamped her feet, thinking of the trouble she’d have explaining not only the champagne, but also the dozen chocolate
éclairs
she had wrapped up in his nice monogrammed napkins and hidden inside her bulky cloak. The children of Heaven’s Court rarely tasted such treats. She couldn’t believe anyone in his house would miss them.
He cast a puzzled glance at the blazing fireplace. “Freezing?”
“Cold as an icebox in January tonight, isn’t it? It must be the rain.”
Connor stared at her, charmed and confused. She was like a shadow that would elude him if he tried to catch her, a reflection in a moonlight pond that might vanish forever if he came too close. “Why haven’t we ever met before?” he asked in amusement.
Maggie glanced at the door, avoiding his eyes. What on earth was taking Hugh so long? Had something gone wrong? She was supposed to create a diversion among the guests in the event he ran into any trouble, which would be damn
near impossible with his lordship hovering over her like a dark angel. It had been difficult enough sneaking down the stairs unnoticed.
“I don’t get out much,” she said distractedly, realizing he expecte
d some kind of reply. “I’m a…
a recluse.”
“Tell me that it isn’t so.”
She frowned, slowly looking away from the door. “I don’t like people.”
“But you like chocolate
é
clairs.”
Maggie lifted her gaze to his face in reluctance, steeling herself for the power of her reaction. Hazel eyes. Heavy eyebrows, chin with a deep cleft. Experience had honed any hint of softness from his features, leaving only strong angles and a sense of ruthless elegance. Everyone said he was a hard man. But no one had mentioned the good-natured warmth that lurked beneath his dark intensity. She’d seen it herself in the way he indulged that woman on the balcony. He was human after all, but no less dangerous than she’d been warned.
“You look like you could use a glass of champagne,” he said lightly. “It’s the best, yellow label.”
“Clicquot-Ponsardin,” she said with a sigh. “Papa’s favorite.”
Connor was surprised by her remark. He’d always assumed Aaron Elliot to be a bit of a social oaf, the type to quaff beer from a bottle and belch at the table. But certainly Aaron’s daughter looked expensive, with her fragile bone structure and intriguing shyness.
He made a mental note to contact his florist in the morning. Something unusual, a bouquet of hothouse freesias, lilies, and Queen Anne’s lace, a tribute to her appealing delicacy.
“Drink to my success,” he urged her.
Maggie groaned inwardly; apparently he wasn’t a man who took no for an answer. “Perhaps after supper.”
“The champagne won’t last that long. Everyone is looking forward to it.”
Anxiety, the fire’s warmth, and his dominant presence were making her feel light-headed. Of course, she couldn’t take off her cloak, not without explaining the stolen champagne and
é
clairs underneath. Anyway, she didn’t want to encourage a sense of intimacy between them.
“Half of the bottles exploded on the way from France,” Connor explained. He didn’t give a damn what they talked about as long as he could keep her in the room. “It’s the secret sedimentation process—it’s what keeps the fizz. Apparently, the corks can burst with such force that the vintners have to wear masks when they walk through the vaults. It’s an unpredictable phenomenon.”
Blood was beginning to rush to Maggie’s head. The pleasant scent of bay rum soap and rain on his skin briefly distracted her. “I really shouldn’t
…”
He’d have her transported to Tasmania if he found out she was a thief. The Chief had said they had vampire bats there that sucked the blood from your toes while you slept.
Her toes. Good Lord, what if he noticed she was barefooted?
“Yes, you should. We’ll have a private toast.” He reached around her for a bottle and expertly cut the string that secured the cork. The depth of his interest in her bothered him a little. It was a new experience, a woman unsettling him. For a moment he couldn’t decide what to do next. Experience took over where his emotions failed.
There was a loud pop. Maggie jumped reflexively, then suppressed a shiver as he handed her a flute and filled it. A toast tonight, Tasmania tomorrow. She took a hesitant sip, then gasped as he unexpectedly set down his glass and snagged her arm.
“You said you were cold. Let me get you settled in front of the fire. I want to show you something.”
Nervous tension churned in her stomach as his shoulder brushed her cheek. “I’m not cold anymore—did I say I was cold? I’m warm as toast, overwarm, to tell the truth.” She fanned her face with her free hand. “Whew. It’s like an oven in here. How can you stand it? I think I’ll just slip outside for a breath of air—”
He laughed, refusing to let her go. “Why don’t you take off that wet cloak instead and finish your champagne? That way you won’t risk running into any people on your way out.”
She looked away, taking another deep gulp of champagne.
He was a charming devil, she’d give him that. There was going to be hell to pay when he discovered the missing confession, and Maggie for one didn’t want to be in the vicinity when it happened.
“Your guests must be missing you, my lord,” she said pointedly.
Connor refused to be discouraged. She had an elusive quality about her that was driving him mad. Besides, he was dying to know what she looked like under that cloak. She had small bones, he could tell that much from her hands. The mystery of her tantalized him. “You’re one of my guests, aren’t you?”
She swallowed, trying not to choke. The uninhibited warmth in his eyes made her feel breathless. And aware. Suddenly she was suffused by her awareness of him, his size, his power and reputation.
“It’s my place to see that all of my guests are happy,” he said smoothly.
She could have hit him. “I’ll be happy walking outside, my lord.”
“In the thunderstorm?”
Damn, she thought. The thunderstorm. He was a lawyer to the last detail. “I love the rain,” she said. “I love walking in a thunderstorm more them anything in the world.”
He gave her a strange look, and no wonder. Lord above, she sounded just like Ardath with that remark. She hoped that Jamie appreciated what she was doing on his behalf, which of course he wouldn’t. Jamie was such a helpless old soul that he’d have confessed to murdering Julius Caesar if you’d dressed him in a toga.
“I’ll walk with you,” Connor said, surprising even himself at the offer.
“But you can’t leave your own party,” she said in alarm.
“Why not?” He put his hand on the small of her back, guiding her closer to the fireplace. “Look at that wall hanging first.”
Maggie obeyed, staring up at the old tapestry above the mantel, but she didn’t really see it. She couldn’t concentrate on anything but the pressure of his hand on her back. Strange things were happening to her body. The sheer maleness of him overwhelmed her senses.