Defiant Angel (46 page)

Austin smiled. "Use your imagination."

Tristan winked at him, knowingly.

Tiffany sat up. Her hand moved to rest against the soft swell of her belly. She held her breath; a moment passed and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

Beneath her palm she felt the first stirrings; like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Lying back against the pillows, she felt the flutter again, and smiled. Their baby, her's and Clinton's. And as if in agreement, she felt the flutter against her womb once again.

She hoped for a girl. Clinton would be so good with a girl. And it would serve him and all the Barencourte men right, having to defend a maiden from the likes of their own kind.

She laughed, picturing Clinton, enraged over some ardent suitor, and Austin offering to dispatch him!

Yes, a daughter! Oh, with midnight tresses, smoky gray eyes. She would have the deepest dimples and the Barencourte smile.

She worried at her lip realizing how empty her happiness seemed without Clinton.

Getting out of bed and walking over to the table, she poured a small glass of wine, hoping it would help her sleep. She turned, nearly stumbling on a packet of letters on the floor. She picked them up. Her eye caught the seal on a letter. The seal of the Barencourte Bank.

Again curiosity won over, and removing the documents, she sat at the table and read them.

Clinton walked to the study window, looking out over the cobbled stone street, now quiet save for the occasional sound of a carriage.

He, unlike his brother, was unable to sleep and would not seek his cold bed until he had Tiffany to warm it.

He smiled knowing tomorrow would soon be here, and with it, Tiffany.

He could have made tomorrow today, but he had seen how pale and weary she was. She needed tonight to rest, and time to sort things out. Tomorrow he would board his ship and take her home. He smiled, confidently.

Tiffany rushed out from the companionway and onto the deck with the realization that Alan never could love her as Clinton did, and more important, she never loved Alan and she loves Clinton. With those thoughts, she made her way down the gangplank and was startled to find Keegan appear before her, and briefly wondered where he came from.

"How . . . how . . . what are you doing here?" she stammered.

"The guv'nor had me wait here in case anything happened or if ye needed anything." He nodded toward the shadows, where she saw, under the streetlamp, the gleaming carriage bearing the Wentworth seal.

Turning to Keegan, she smiled. "Take me to him."

A broad smile broke his face as he agreed, "Right away.''

He nudged the sleeping footman awake, who jumped down, opening the carriage door to assist Tiffany.

"Keegan," she called, "how long have you been here?"

"Ever since ye been on the guv'nor's yacht, lady."

"His yacht?"

"Well, 'tis yours really." At her incredulous look, he explained, "It's named for ye. Latin or French, not sure which, but it's yer name."

She gazed back at the yacht before ascending into the carriage, her eyes misting with tears.

Clinton leaned back in his chair. His steepled fingers brushed back and forth against his chin. A soft smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Closing his eyes, the image of a raven-tressed, gray eyed daughter appeared. A spitfire to be sure! Impetuously reckless, stubborn, and just slightly spoiled.

She'd have the finest coach--gilded, of course--with the mark of the File, and the softest of silks and velvets and the rarest of gems to adorn her. She would have four uncles and a father who'd gladly boot any overzealous suitor down the stone steps of Wentworth.

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head, a broad smile on his lips, thinking of the excellent child he and Tiffany would make.

The sound of a carriage stopping interrupted Clinton's thoughts. Rising, he walked to the window; pulling back the curtain, he smiled, watching Tiffany pick up her skirts and run up the stone steps.

The study door burst open wide, and there, at its threshold, stood Tiffany. Breathless, she paused, then walked grandly toward Clinton, who sat at the desk, his legs stretched casually atop it, crossed at the ankles, a cigar clamped between even white teeth, grinning back at her.

She stopped before him and quite openly studied him, raking him from head to toe and back. His grin broadened over her obvious appraisal of him.

"How dare you grin at me, Clinton! I should by all rights sail away on
my yacht
and be done with you, once and for all." Placing balled hands on her hips, she hurried on, "But you and those brothers of yours would only come after me--and while I might be damned for it, I'd be glad you did."

At her admission, his grin overtook his features. Her stormy blue eyes narrowed at him.

"But that does not change the fact that you are cursed with an inordinate amount of male conceit."

Clinton quirked a brow in mock disbelief, blowing out a curl of smoke, smiling.

"Along with innumerable other flaws; you're highhanded, manipulative, and terribly arrogant." She began to pace back and forth in front of him. "Oh, and let's not forget how terribly ruthless you can be. Or how tenacious! Why, you are an impossible man!"

She stopped. "Riming to him, she paused, meeting his eyes. "But in spite of it all, I do love you. Above all else."

He grinned broadly, grinding out his cigar; rising and coming around the desk, he scooped her up and headed toward the door.

"Well, aren't you going to say something?"

"What's there to say, Princess?" He grinned. "It worked out exactly the way I planned."