Lions and Lace (27 page)

For one brief crazy moment she almost had the urge to tell him about
Christabel
. She actually considered purging herself of her troubles, with the wild hope that he would understand and even help her in her fight to exonerate her sister. But cold reality quickly set in, and she realized how stupid that would be. It had always been prudent that no one
know
about Christal, and it was only more so now, given the man she had married. Trevor Sheridan was a manipulator. If she ever told him her secrets, one day he might use
them
against her, perhaps even against
Christabel
.

"I am human," she whispered. "If you just looked close enough."

"I want to." His breath feathered against her forehead. "I swear I want to."

His mouth found hers in the moment she realized she'd yet to let go of his arm. He kissed her, offering damnation and salvation in one eloquent motion. She wanted to pull back, but something stronger—his arm, she thought— pushed her farther into his embrace until she was wrapped in his warmth and strength. The frock coat slipped to the ground, but she hardly noticed as his tongue burned into her mouth, flaming her entire body, torching even the wet velvet recess of her femininity. His lass exploded dormant emotions within her, and her hand rose inexpertly to caress his cheek.

This drove him further, his hand lifting to cover her corseted breast. She
moaned,
her kiss-drugged mind unable to form a protest. His thumb roughly brushed the crown of her
breast,
and through the layers of silk and cotton her nipple became a hard sensitive nub. Shocked, she was torn between wanting him to stop and begging him to drive forward. Anson had seldom kissed her, and she'd never allowed him to go this far. Now she knew why. He held no fascination for her. Feeling Trevor's hard demanding mouth take hers again, her only thought was that she would never summon the strength to make him stop.

His teeth gently nipped at her lower lip, and his tongue caressed her neck. He removed his hand at her breast, and she despised the empty feeling she had when it left.

His attention went to her neck, and one by one he released the tiny buttons that ran the length of her chemisette. When the lace was parted down to her bosom, he slipped a warm hand beneath it, caressing her flesh. Helpless, she sagged against him.

"I see you're not made of ice after all," he whispered against her hair, his palm pushing lower down her bosom to cup her breast.

His arrogance drove a nail into her heart. She wanted that hand to touch her. She wanted his body to keep her warm. But she wanted them only in tenderness. She wanted it only if his heart and mind were as engaged as his body, because hers certainly were. Yet it was clear that his were not, and with a strength she hadn't known she possessed, she pushed him away from her and turned to
rebutton
her gown.

"Alana," he snapped, obviously feeling, as she did, that he'd just fallen into cold seawater.

"No—don't say anything. We had an agreement. You can't change it from minute to minute." Her icy fingers fumbled at the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. She hadn't realized how frigid the night was out on this dock surrounded by the water.

"
You're weren't
protesting earlier."

"I was a fool. I'm not in this marriage to assuage your lust. Remember that."

"Of course," he said in a voice filled with venom, "a fine little lady like you wouldn't have gotten into this marriage if it meant you had to wrap your thighs around me every now and then."

She cried out in anger and pushed past him. Running down the planks of the pier to the boathouse, she vowed to go through the door even if she had to break it down. Wailing like a banshee and beating her fists upon the locked door, she was finally blessed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. A lantern lifted, and she came face-to-face with a surprised gardener.

"Mrs. Sheridan!" the man gasped. "I
canna
think how we locked ye out here!"

She didn't answer him. With the terrible sound of a repressed sob, she ran up the hill to the house, her chest heaving with unshed tears, her heart breaking in two.

For three days they said not a word to each other, going about their daily routine in utter silence. Alana arrived for dinner; Trevor silently watched her be seated. When Trevor announced plans for the evening, he sent a note to her suite on her breakfast tray. The soirees were the most difficult. For Mara's sake, Alana couldn't let anyone know she was anything but pleased with her husband. So they play-acted with a vengeance Shakespeare would have approved.

Mara continued her social success. But sensitive to her brother's moods, she couldn't miss Trevor's dark looks whenever she caught him gazing across a ballroom at his wife. It was worse when they spent the evenings at
Fenian
Court. The three of them would sit in silence, Trevor drinking his spirits, staring morosely at the fire, Alana working her Berlin wool-work as if the hounds of hell were after her to finish. Mara was beside herself. The time spent in the gazebo had done nothing to bring them together. If anything, Trevor and Alana seemed more cold and detached from each other than before.

This evening was spent much like the others, at home by the blazing hearth in the drawing room. They had dined on a magnificent turkey, but though the bird could have fed twenty, none of them seemed to have an appetite. Trevor was into his third glass of whiskey, and Alana was nervously admiring her finished needlework, a picture of Queen Victoria's pet spaniel, clearly regretting the speed with which she had completed it. Mara was just about to go to the piano and stir them up by playing a bawdy Irish tune Eagan had illicitly taught her when the devil himself walked in.

Eagan entered the drawing room with as much disturbance as possible. He tossed his top hat onto the sofa next to Alana, startling her into looking at the door. Then he sauntered into the room, his gait none too steady, for it was a good train ride from Manhattan and when he had started out, the Pullman's decanters were full. The smile on his face was dazzling, and Alana couldn't help but return it.

"Sweet sister-in-law, how I've missed you!"
He pulled her to her feet and
bussed
her soundly on the cheek. Embarrassed, Alana blushed and looked at Trevor. He stood and, white-knuckled, clutched his cane.

"What are you doing here, Eagan?" he said, his voice low and full of disapproval.

"Mara, me love, how
foin
it is to see
yer
luvely
face
agin
," Eagan announced, mimicking street Irish.

"What are you doing here?" Trevor asked, losing patience.

"
Me
own dear brother!" Eagan took the glass from Trevor's hand and kicked back the entire contents. Finished, he put his hand on his chest and stumbled back, a grimace on his boyish face. He could barely speak. "I swear, Brother, ye be
drinkin
'
th
' bloody fires of hell.
Thas
stuff could kill the
divil
hisself
!"

Trevor was not amused by his brother's antics. Sternly he asked, "Why did you come here? Don't you know I'm on my honeymoon?"

"Ah well, you told me you were going on your honeymoon, but with Mara here and all, I thought to
meself
, 'Now what kind of honeymoon is that for me brother's
foin
bride?'
" Eagan
stole a glance at Alana and winked.

Appearing thoroughly annoyed, Trevor took Alana's arm. She almost pulled away, but one look into her husband's eyes told her that now was not the time.

" '
Tis
time to take me '
foin
bride' to her room," Trevor said, the sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "We'll be saying good night, Eagan, but if you learned a thing from that '
foin
' Columbia education, you'll be on a train heading back to New York this instant."

"Wonderful. So I'll be seeing
ye
both
at breakfast, then?"

Alana had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. Mara had no such restraint and giggled behind her hand. Trevor, however, looked ready to pop a blood vessel. When he looked down and saw the amusement dancing in her eyes, his face grew so
furious,
it was all Alana could do to control herself.

"Trevor, me brother, ye don't look so well. I
niver
seen such a shade o' purple.

Upon Eagan's mocking accent, the dam broke, and Alana broke into hysterical laughter. Infuriated beyond reason, Trevor took her by the arm and dragged her upstairs to her suite. She laughed the entire way.

"How goes it here, Mara?" Eagan asked, sobering only slightly when his brother and Alana had left the room.

Mara released a great sigh and slumped on the sofa. "I suppose you didn't receive my last letter. I locked them out on the dock—you
know,
the gazebo?"

"You did?" Eagan
said,
his voice full of admiration.

"Yes." Mara's face grew long. "But it didn't work. They hate each other, Eagan. I know it's not possible, but I swear it's so. And I don't think Trevor's shy at all. I think something else is going on around here."

"It's a fine line between love and hate. We just need to make them cross it, that's all."

"I don't think we can make them, Eagan. I think something like that has to come from within."

Eagan looked at her,
a tenderness
in his eye. "How very astute you are, little sister. Sometimes I wonder where you get all this knowledge."

"It's just common sense, Eagan."

"Well, you're the only Sheridan with any of
that."

"Am I so different from you and Trevor, then?"

Suddenly not liking the direction of the conversation, Eagan tweaked her nose and skillfully changed subjects.
"Enough of that.
What are we to do about Trevor? If we can't force him and his wife together, I'm at a loss for ideas, and I want this marriage to work."

"They might have had a chance if we hadn't gone to the
Varicks
' ball. I made them hold hands one night, just as you told me, and by the end of the evening, they almost looked as if they enjoyed it. But after Trevor saw Mr. Stevens at the
Varicks
' ball, he hasn't been the same ever since."

"Who is Mr. Stevens?"

"Alana's old beau.
He walked right up to Trevor and took Alana waltzing. And the ire I saw in those eyes—I swear, Eagan, I thought Trevor might punch him!"

Eagan's expression filled with mischief. His Irish accent came back in force as he said playfully, "Is that so, me
darlin
'?"

Mara nodded.

"The old plan
ain't
workin
', is
it.
"

Mara shook her head.

"Then you know what I think?" Eagan laughed. "I think me brother's bloody jealous, is what I think. And you know what, me
sweeting
? I think what we need now is to change direction.
Yessir
, and
yer
darlin
' brother's just the lad to do it!" He tipped his head back and released another rather inebriated laugh.

His dear sister Mara only looked confused.

Trevor escorted Alana to her bedroom with all the warmth of a military procession. Still stifling her giggles, she arrived at her door and dared a peek at him. If he'd smiled then, she was sure his face would have cracked. Opening her door, he gave her a crisp "Good night" and abruptly left her there. Suddenly at a loss, her laughter died, and she stood in the threshold for a moment, grappling with something akin to abandonment.

After Margaret helped her into her nightgown and she went to bed, Alana heard Trevor pacing on the other side of these gilt double doors. His step was distinctive, considering every third beat was the hollow thump of the cane on the floorboards. Lying in the dark staring at those doors, her thoughts again turned to lions, caged ones. She remembered the anger and raw power of the lions she had seen as a child in Mr. Barnum's American Museum. Now she could imagine them, pacing endlessly back and forth across the bars, every muscle, every ounce of energy, tightly leashed, silently rebelling at their captivity until that split second when backs were turned and escape was possible.

And vengeance was possible.

Trevor paced until the wee hours of the morning. Alana knew this because she lay in her bed the entire time wide awake.
Thinking of lions.