Tempting the Wolf (17 page)

Antoinette watched her, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that she should agree, draw back, stay remote. But there was wistfulness in the girl’s eyes—wistfulness and hope and love. “Have you spoken with a physician?”

“Yes.” She blushed slightly. “I didn’t…” She paused. “I didn’t tell my Edward. He is certain we’ve nothing to worry about. But…” She shrugged. “I suppose I’m being foolishly impatient.”

“What did the doctors say?”

“They can find nothing wrong with me,” she said, and scowled.

“But…”

The girl smiled, her expression weak. “As a child I contracted a fever. It was quite debilitating.” Her brow furrowed, her soft eyes worried. “They think that may have affected my… feminine organs.”

“Oh.” Antoinette drew her hands carefully to her sides. “Well… I wouldn’t worry. ‘Tis far too early to say whether there is truly a problem. And even if there is some small difficulty, today’s medicines can do wonders, I’m told.”

“Yes.” Amelia nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” she said and flickered her gaze away. But not soon enough to hide the bright unhappiness in her eyes. “Look,” she said, “Lady Trulane’s dear little Cecil is doing tricks. Excuse me, if you will.”

“Certainly,” said Antoinette and watched the baroness tread her way through the water toward the scampering dog. But in a moment she turned away. She felt sick to her stomach, weak and pale, not up to the task of living. She could not help the girl. She could not risk it. Already she felt drained, as if the waters were taking her strength, telling her secrets. Was there nowhere safe? Nowhere quiet? She wished for nothing more than to be alone, to hide within herself and forget.

But suddenly she heard something, or felt something, or sensed something in that part of her she dare not acknowledge. Danger. She turned breathlessly, skimming the surface of the pool.

But all was well. She was safe. No one came for her. And then she saw Amelia, facedown in the water, her body sinking, her gown floating up in ethereal release, like the faeries the Irishman had mentioned.

“No!” she rasped and jerked toward the girl. But the world dragged at her feet, pulling her down. Everything had slowed to staccato dullness. She lurched forward but couldn’t seem to move. Water tugged against her, swelling her sleeves, weighting down her hem. Terror squeezed her heart.

“Amelia!” she rasped and reached for her. The girl felt impossibly heavy in her hands.

Antoinette dragged her toward the surface. “Amelia!” The girl’s head broke the surface. Antoinette turned her over. Her eyes were closed, her lashes dark and bent with heavy drops against her pale cheeks. “Wake up!” She slapped her face.

“Please. Wake up,” she pleaded, and in that moment the baroness opened her doe-soft eyes with sleepy slowness.

“I was dreaming,” she whispered. “I had a baby.”

Antoinette’s heart clenched, and slowly, reverently, she reached out and touched her face. “You will,” she whispered.

Amelia smiled, then turned her head and coughed spasmodically, spewing water from her lungs.

And then the world erupted. People swarmed in—Amelia’s husband and friends, talking, crowding, worrying, pulling the girl from the water.

Antoinette backed away, skirting the crowd. Her knees were shaking. Her arms felt as heavy as death, and the world seemed strangely blurred, but she made it to the edge. It took every ounce of her energy to drag herself from the clutching waves.

Escape. She had to escape, before—

“… amiss?”

She managed to glance up, to lift her face to the glaring brightness of the sun. O’Banyon was squatting before her, reaching for her, his face haloed in gold, like a descending angel. She reached out, but whether to hold him back on draw him forward, she was never sure, and suddenly she was being drawn into his arms, pulled against his chest.

She shook her head, or perhaps she only attempted to do so, for she found that her head had dropped against the sun-kissed skin of his neck, and her body, draped in the sheerest of saturated fabrics, was pressed with intimate tenderness to his.

Warmth. It exuded from him. Enchanting. Forbidden.

She tried to draw away, but when she managed to glance up it seemed they were already at the lodging house.

“Where’s your room?”

The question brought a surge of panic. But even that was weak. She failed to answer.

There was the slight sensation of movement, as if they were swimming, as if she were still in the pool. But the waters were as clear as Austrian crystal now and cradled her with strength and caring. And they smelled of peace and stillness and ancient places.

A noise startled her. She managed to glance up, to look around. Rare bits of reality filtered in. A bed. A man’s jacket. A walking stick near the door.

“Where?” she managed.

” ‘Tis me own room, lass, but ye needn’t—”

Fear crushed her. Fayette kicked in wild terror and tumbled to the floor. Panic clawed at her throat, but she could not seem to right herself and lay sprawled near his bed, breathing hard, reality a swirl of chaotic colors in her mind.

“Lass, what is it? What happened?”

“
Purs
!” The word came out in a spitting hiss.

She saw him frown, but nothing registered, nothing was real.

“Ye needn’t fear me, lass, I’ve na wish to—”

Glancing frantically about, she snatched up the walking stick and held it in front of her. Her arm trembled like bearded barley. “I did no wrong,” she rasped.

He shook his head, approaching slowly. Abandoning the stick, she scrambled backward on hands and feet, bumping into the bed and freezing there, cowering against the mattress.

“Lass, please,” he said and reached for her, but in that instant she jolted to her feet.

“Stay back!” she warned. “Or I’ll kill ya. Swear by all that’s holy, I will.”

He watched her, his eyes somber, his body still. “Wee Mab,” he murmured and reached forward. She crowded away. “Yer safe with me, lass,” he murmured. His fingers touched her face.

Feeling rushed in like a burning tide, bursting her heart. She tried to fight it, tried to remain upright, but the darkness was coming for her, blowing in, swamping her, and there was nothing she could do but fall into the haunting mists.

O’Banyon sat quietly, watching the white countess awaken—an angel in repose, her hands as soft as rose petals against the coverlet. Her fingers twitched the slightest degree. Her lashes fluttered, dark against her delicate skin.

He waited. He’d lit a candle and sat now in the semi-darkness, comfortable in the flickering twilight, thinking, cradling a metal mug of stout in steady hands.

And then her eyes opened, the color of hope against her pale, flawless skin.

She lay unmoving for an instant as her senses flared back to her and then she scowled, turned slowly and glanced at him.

He didn’t move, and yet she jerked as if struck, almost sitting up, before realizing her circumstances. She was naked. After all, he could hardly have left her clothed in her sodden gown. ‘Twould have been ungentlemanly.

But perhaps she did not realize his chivalrous ways, for when she settled back against the pillows, she appeared rather stiff, and her lips were pursed. Gentle color diffused her cheeks in a quiet rush. Her fingers were curled tight against the top of the blankets that covered her, but in a moment they relaxed, a silent testimonial to her careful control.

“I’ve no wish to seem ungrateful, sir,” she said. Her tone was a husky melody, denying the sunrise blush of her cheeks. “But might I inquire as to the whereabouts of my garments?”

He couldn’t help but laugh, for though he knew not what he had expected of her, this serene formality was certainly not it. Of all the women he’d disrobed, none of them had phrased such a question in quite that manner when they lay naked before him. Setting his stout aside, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He did so slowly, cautiously, lest he frighten her, for despite her even tone and deadly steady eyes, he knew now something of her. Still, regardless of his caution, her eyes widened and though she did not draw back physically, she did so in her mind. He could feel it in the depths of his questionable soul.

“Good morningtide,” he said.

“My clothes,” she repeated. “Where—” But she stopped abruptly. “Morning?” she breathed.

“Some hours yet until lauds if I were to venture a guess,” he said.

She shook her head. He’d loosed her hair. It was a dark, sleek contrast against the white pillow casing. Her eyes gleamed vivid green in the wayward flicker of the gilding candle’s light.

“Not yet dawn,” he explained.

She seemed to assimilate that information, nodded once, then forced herself to relax. Until that moment he hadn’t quite known it was possible to do so.

He watched her, fascinated. Women had forever intrigued him, but there was so much more here. Mayhap she was dangerous. Mayhap she was deadly. But just now he couldn’t seem to care. He wished to learn every inconsequential tidbit about her—past, present, and future. Perhaps it was a bit early for all of that, though. Perhaps for now he could be content to learn… say… her given name. “What happened, lass?” he asked. “One moment ye seemed right as daybreak and the next ye looked na stronger than the lass ye had just fished from yon waters.”

She watched him in silence, as though she were well above the likes of his irritating blather—and her… naked as a song. He liked that in a woman.

“Lass?” he said. “I would but understand.”

“As much as I would enjoy conversing with you,” she began, somehow managing to purse her lips even as she spoke. “I do not think this quite the proper venue for a discussion. Perhaps, instead, you might return my clothes so that I could journey back to my own quarters.”

He watched her, then nodded. “Verra well, lass,” he said, “but first ye’d best have a wee bit to sustain ye.” Reaching behind him, he retrieved his mug. Some hours ago, he had obtained a plate of sharp cheese and crusty bread. A knife’s wooden handle protruded from the loaf, but he had not touched it, knowing she would need sustenance when she awoke.

Their gazes met and melded. There was challenge in hers. She nodded and reached for the mug, but her fingers trembled and the delicate muscles of her lithe arm quivered at that simple feat.

He drew the cup away and set it out of sight.

“As any nidget can see, ye’ve na more strength than a swaddled bairn,” he said. “Thus I ask again—what happened?”

A flash of irritation shone in her eyes, but only for an instant, as if she were peeved with her own weakness and just as peeved to let it show. “Perhaps ‘twas the heat of the water,” she said. “I’ve not fainted before.”

“Haven’t ye?”

“Absolutely not.” She raised a brow. “Regardless what you might think of me, sir, I am no frail flower.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, watching her as he did so. Her cheekbones were wide and high, her jaw gently tapered, and her chin peaked. An intriguing little crease dented its center. Her eyes were sharp and green, slanted up like a curious cat’s. It was not the face of a weakling, but seemed most distinctly like the kind of magical countenance one would imagine peeking from beneath an oversized fern in some distant faery glen.

“I’m unaccustomed to the heat,” she said, tilting her head slightly as though she were speaking to a child found to be somewhat slow in the head.

“Ahh,” he said, amused, despite himself, “the heat.”

“Yes.”

Perhaps it was something about his tone that peeved her. Perhaps it was him. He couldn’t tell for sure. But she was peeved. That much he knew.

“When I drew you against my chest I thought for a moment you were gone from me,” he said, and found, to his surprise, that the memory yet brought with it a strange panicked clenching of his heart.

“Dead?” she asked, humor tingeing her tone. “I did not suspect you of excessive melodramatics, Sir O’Banyon.”

He watched her in silence and felt himself relax marginally. She was well after all—safe and unharmed and within reach. “You were as flaccid as a spent buttercup in me hands, lass.”

“And because I was… asleep, ye thought me dead,” she said, and gave him the corner of a smile. “Perhaps, good sir, you haven’t had a great deal of experience with the living. Or is it death you are unfamiliar with?”

No. Not death. He had seen its leering maw aplenty. But until she had slipped beneath the water, he had never felt quite that particular flash of undiluted panic in his soul, as if her passing would leave the world bereft of beauty, without hope or light.

Why? Why her? Why now?

And why, by all the saints, had she swooned? She looked to be in perfect health. So there had been little reason for him to assume the worst. The problem could be one of many, he supposed, even… His thoughts jolted to a halt. Something feral and unexpected growled in his gut like a hunting beast.

He watched her, trying hopelessly to determine her thoughts. She stared back, her gaze unwavering, like a queen of yore at the helm of her chafing army. Regal as a warrior maid. But regal warrior maids were not exempt from corruption either were they?