Midsummer Moon (13 page)

"
Bring Miss Lambourne.
"

"Instantly, Your Grace!” Mr. Peale made a rapid exit from the room. Ransom sat down at the desk and pressed his forehead into his free arm. His finger throbbed and ached, and if he made the slightest move the spines drove deeper, creating a sensation closely akin to holding his finger over a searing flame.

He waited. Seconds passed. He made a hissing sound of anguish into the crook of his elbow. Minutes went by. He groaned and panted and cursed dumb animals. The hedgehog showed no inclination to relax its curl. Ransom gave a soft keening moan, and then with his face still hidden in his sleeve he began a muffled pleading with the hedgehog.

"There's nothing to be afraid of,” he promised the animal. “There's not a wolf in sight. I'll give you a nice bowl of cream. How do you feel about worms? Do you like worms? We'll have tea together. Where the bloody hell is Merlin? For God's sake, oh, no—please. Don't squeeze any harder. Please don't. Listen to me. Worms and cream. We'll have worms and cream. Nice, juicy worms. The gardeners are standing by. I'll give orders on the instant. But I can't pull the bell unless you let go of my finger—"

"An’ would you be likin’ me to pull it for you, sur?"

Ransom's head came up. He winced, having caused the hedgehog to clench harder with the abrupt move. In front of his desk stood a stranger with a freckled grin and eyes of devil's green to match his Irish brogue.

"Major Quinton O'Sullivan O'Toole O'Shaughnessy.” The officer introduced himself with a flourishing bow. “I was just now proceeding down the hall to a visit with His Lordship Shelby Falconer, by way of inquiring about a small matter of pecuniary interest. The door was open, you understand, and the Lord above preserve me, but I couldn't help but hear you speaking in so distressed a manner. And, sir, me blessed mother would not want her only son to miss an opportunity to be of service."

Ransom had opened his mouth to snarl a dismissal when recollection of the war secretary's message and that ridiculous
bon mot
hit him. “What did you say you're called?” he demanded.

"Ah, forgive a poor son of the Old Sod, but me name is O'Sullivan O'Toole O'Shaughnessy. ’Tis a burden the Good Lord and me superior officer have asked me to bear."

Ransom glanced at the hedgehog clamped on his finger. “We all have our trials, don't we? Who's your superior?"

The Irishman looked very directly into Ransom's eyes. In a soft voice without a trace of the brogue, he said, “I believe you've had a note from my commander quite recently."

"Have I? I receive a large amount of correspondence. Tell me, Major, have you been introduced at court?"

The officer grinned. “'Oh, Jesus,’ His Grace of York said when he heard the name. It was embarrassin', sir, an’ me commander standin’ right there to hear it."

"I don't doubt that.” Ransom managed a thin smile. “Welcome to Mount Falcon. Will you make us call you by that mouthful?"

"Indeed, sir, an’ you may call me O'Shaughnessy. Or Quin. Bein’ a friend, like."

Ransom winced as the hedgehog loosened an instant and tightened again. “How long can you stay?"

Quin shrugged. He tilted his head so that the morning light from the windows emphasized the handsome deep red in his hair. “Well, sir, among other things, such as lookin’ after those particular ladies as might need lookin’ after, I wouldn't like to be leavin’ before this little matter of His Lordship's bill is clear."

Ransom frowned, not pleased that Shelby had been used in such a way—luring him into debt to one of the War Department's agents. Ransom would have put a rapid halt to such a ploy if he'd known about it. He filed the matter away for investigation, intending to make mincemeat of whoever was responsible when he found them out. But he had to admit that the debt made a most convenient cover. And it was comforting to know that Castlereagh had taken Ransom's project seriously enough to send extra protection.

As satisfied as he could contrive to be while a hedgehog was using his finger as a pincushion, Ransom nodded shortly. He shifted in his chair. “That should be an adequate reason to stay a while, then,” he said in a testy voice. “I don't intend to advance any money on my brother's allowance in the foreseeable future."

"Well, now, that is a shame, Your Excellency's Highness. But only what I was expectin'. I had heard you was a great farthing-pinch."

"Yes, I am. And I'm not at all fond of levity when my finger is being lacerated by a hedgehog. I don't suppose you have any notions on how to make the damned thing uncurl, do you?"

Quin's green eyes crinkled merrily. “Why, no, sir. By my soul, I can't say that I do. But I was after calling in the gardener, wasn't I? To be bringing tea, was it? Some beautiful juicy worms, plump as gooseberries, for Your Honor's Noble Grace."

"Go away.” Ransom glowered. “I'll deal with you later."

Quin laid his hand on his breast. “By the rod of St. Patrick—I never thought Quinton O'Sullivan O'Toole O'Shaughnessy's own father's son would be treated so uncivilly.” He looked up past Ransom toward the door. “But here now—perhaps this is a lady who needs my attention."

With a rush of relief, Ransom exclaimed, “Merlin, thank God—” He stopped as Blythe glided in. There was no sign of Merlin. He dropped his forehead into his free hand and groaned.

"Damerell,” Blythe said.

He looked up wearily. His finger had passed into a throbbing numbness. “Yes, Blythe?"

His sister glanced toward Quin. Her hands had been balled into small white fists, but as the green-eyed Irishman grinned and bowed, her fingers relaxed slightly. “Oh—are you occupied?” she asked with sudden and unusual diffidence. “I shall come back."

Quin reached out and caught her arm lightly as she began to turn away. “Dear lovely ma'am,” he said. “Pray don't take the sunlight from me poor empty life so soon."

Blythe's eyes widened at this familiarity. Ransom braced himself for an icy retort. Instead, he had the astonishing experience of seeing his stiff-necked sister allow a stranger, and an ill-bred one at that, slide his hand suggestively down her arm and lift her hand for a lingering kiss. Blythe stood very still. Frozen by shock, Ransom supposed. After Quin straightened, she remained for a full half minute staring up at him before jerking her hand from his and marching out of the room.

"That was well done,” Ransom said dryly.

Quin winked. “Every duty has its rewards, me wise old mother was fond of saying."

"I can assure you that my sister's favor will not be one of them."

"Your Dukeship's Highness may say that same. But I'm thinkin’”—Quin swept a bow—"that a man might be wont to study long before acceptin’ Your Grace's reckoning. ’Tis not meself with the hedgepig stuck on me hand."

"Perhaps you'd prefer a hedgepig stuck on your ar—"

"Hold your loose tongue, sir, if you please! Yet another lady graces our humble selves with her fair presence."

Ransom twisted—carefully, this time—to look toward the door. Merlin stood outside, peering in, dressed in her familiar apron with the bulging pocket.

He tilted his head back against the high back of his chair and closed his eyes with a harsh sigh of relief. “Get it off me,” he ordered. “This instant!"

"Oh, my,” Merlin cried. “Are you hurt?” He heard her rush toward him. “Here, let me—"

His bellow of pain drowned the rest of her words. The hedgehog reacted to her hasty attempt to pry it open by clenching with a force that thrust spines deep into his flesh—all the way to the bone, he was certain. He jerked his arm and the hedgehog out of reach. After an infinite moment of purest agony, he wrenched his eyes open to see Merlin wringing her hands.

"I'm so sorry!” she moaned. “Your poor hand! What shall we do?"

"I believe I shall retire, dear ma'am"—Quin began moving toward the door—"before His Dukeship becomes cantankerous."

"Oh, Ransom.” Merlin paid Quin no attention at all, but grabbed Ransom's free hand as the Irishman closed the door behind him. She clutched Ransom's palm between hers in a gesture that at any other time he would have found highly gratifying. As it was, he just managed to prevent himself from cursing her to bleeding Hades and back. “Poor Ransom,” she repeated, and slid to her knees beside his chair, holding his hand against her cheek.

He took ten deep, even breaths. Trust fate, he thought, to put Merlin in a devoted mood when he was paralyzed by pain. He spread shaky fingers against her soft skin and muttered, “Damn the luck."

"What?” She raised wide, gray, miserable eyes.

"Never mind,” he said. “Never mind."

She turned her head and pressed her lips into the curve of his palm. Instantly, his whole body began to sing a willing song, an ardent humming in his veins that clashed with the anguish in his arm, creating a peculiar desperation, a need to draw her close and crush her against him as if that might wipe out the pain.

He swore again, feeling foolish and furious. He cupped the nape of her neck, drawing her up to him as he bent in spite of the searing pain in his finger. It was stupid and farcical and it hurt like the devil, but her lips were warm, impossibly soft, impossibly generous in opening to his sudden demand.

"Curse it,” he muttered, pulling away and burying his face in his arm on the desk. “I really don't think I deserve this."

"What can I do?” Merlin asked in a wretched voice. “What can I do?"

Ransom bared his teeth in the imitation of a smile. “Very little, it would appear."

"But it's hurting you. I don't want you to be hurt. And it's my fault. I probably left the hedgehog in here. I'm sure I did. I often do things like that.” She bit her lip. “Oh, Ransom. Can you forgive me?"

He took a deep breath. Her gray eyes were lovely, the lashes like soft smoke against her skin. “Merlin...” He sighed. “At some time before I die, I will probably forgive you."

Her dusky eyebrows drew together. With pained amusement, he watched the irony go right past her, leaving that luscious, misty puzzlement on her face. She lifted her hand and touched her lower lip. Ransom moaned. He rested his head on his trapped arm and reached out to catch her hand. “Don't do that, please.” He clasped her fingers, keeping hold of her hand. “You make me feel quite uncivilized."

"I don't mean to."

"I know. You never mean to, do you?” He squeezed her hand. “Just sit here with me, Wiz."

She looked at the hedgehog sadly. “I know exactly how it feels."

"Oh, really? Have you had several score of hatpins driven into your flesh lately?"

"No. I mean I know just how the hedgehog feels."

Ransom sighed. “And I thought I was the sympathetic figure here."

"I'd like to curl up in a ball myself right now."

"Why don't you try it? And then ask yourself what would make you uncurl."

Merlin looked up at him. He gave her a faint smile, meaning to reassure, but she did not respond. The familiar, distant look of concentration was in her eyes, that way she had of looking at his nose and at a point a hundred miles away at the same time. It made her seem infinitely vulnerable and precious, that look—like a child smiling in its sleep. A fierce sense of his responsibility for her gripped him. He had torn her out of the safe existence she had known, forced himself on her body and her life. The price of that was a commitment, and Ransom was not a man to evade his duty. He propped their clasped hands on his knee and waited intently for her to come back to him.

"I have it!"

"
Ah,
” Ransom croaked, as the sharp sound of her voice made the hedgehog flinch.

Merlin scrambled to her feet and began searching frantically in her pocket. She pulled out a handful of metal springs and tossed them on the polished surface of the desk. Two broken pencils followed, a small mirror, and a snuffbox. She made a sound of vexation, holding The Pocket open and peering inside. Another diving search produced what appeared to be an extensive collection of clock innards. Ransom refrained from inquiring where they had come from, but he determined to look into the state of the Mount Falcon timepieces immediately.

"Here,” she said. “Here, I can feel it...” She pressed her fingers into the very bottom of The Pocket, scrabbling for purchase on whatever item was escaping her. After a breathless struggle, she held it up triumphantly.

"A sunflower seed,” Ransom said.

"It loves them!” She rushed around the desk and leaned over, scooting the single seed toward the bristling ball on Ransom's hand. “There. There. Watch."

A minute passed.

"I'm watching,” Ransom said.

She waved him into silence. He tilted his head, observing the way the sun caught her hair as she bent, staring at the bristling ball in profound concentration. Her hands were braced on the surface of the desk, her fingers spread in unconscious grace, unadorned by anything except a grease smudge on one slender thumb. The plain cotton blouse gaped slightly, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of a shadowed curve beneath.

"Come here and kiss me,” he said. “A watched hedgehog never uncurls."

She looked up, brushing back an escaped lock of hair. “It doesn't?” Her expression was dubious. “I've never watched one very long."

"Merlin, I'm in pain. Severe pain. I need distraction."