Tempting the Wolf (21 page)

Her lips met his, warm and eager. He splayed his fingers through her hair and kissed her without reserve. Full charge ahead. ‘Twas now or never. He would forget the countess and her haunting eyes, would put her from his harrowed thoughts.

Mrs. Murray’s breasts were soft against his chest, but she was breathing hard when she drew away. “You weren’t lying,” she murmured, face flushed and eyes alight. “The witch hasn’t enchanted you.”

She was hastily undoing his pants.

“Witch?” he breathed.

“The countess,” she said.

“Witch?” he intoned rustily.

“Yes.” She was tugging at his trousers. “I thought you knew.”

It wasn’t until that moment that he realized the truth—indeed, he
hadn’t
changed. Not a’tall. He was perfectly flaccid.

“God’s balls!” he growled and jerked to his feet.

She ran her gaze down his body. “Truly?”

“Me apologies,” he said. “I fear I must away.”

“What?” she asked, rising too.

“I must go.”

“This instant?”

“Aye. Something has arisen,” he said.

“That was supposed to happen.”

Damn right it was. But it hadn’t. And he sure as hell was going to find out why.

“What the devil have ye done?”

Antoinette jerked about, searching the darkness of her garden. “Who’s there?” she asked, and though she tried to hide it, he heard the tremor in her voice. Indeed, he reveled in it, for she had every reason to feel fear.

“Ye dunna ken who I am?” he asked.

“An intruder?” she guessed. He could see her back away a cautious step, her face an alabaster cast in the moonlight.

Anger roiled through him like thunder. “Ye dunna even know?” he growled and strode forward. “When all I can think about is—” He stopped both his words and his movement, his voice softening to a low rumble. “What have ye done?”

She clasped her hands in front of her. Even in the darkness, he could see that she was fully dressed. Her gown glowed pearlescent in the moon’s silvery light. Her gloves reached nearly to the sleeves that capped her delicate shoulders. “I fear I’ve no idea of what you speak,” she said.

“I think ye do, lass.” He stalked slower. She was not an adversary taken lightly. He knew that now. Mayhap he had underestimated her in the past. But no more.

“I am quite flattered by your faith in me, sir,” she said. “But I fear I must disappoint—”

“I felt nothing!” he snarled.

“Whatever—”

“Mrs. Murray!”

She straightened her spine like a beleaguered squire and refused to back away another step. Damn her. Damn her and all who dabbled in the black arts.

“She is a handsome woman,” he said.

“Is she?” she asked.

“Aye,” he growled. “She is that. Handsome and eager, yet I could na…” He paused, feeling suddenly idiotic. Perhaps he should consider it a good trade. After all, he had remained in human form despite the nearness of a willing companion. But if the awful truth be told he’d far rather be a damned beast than an impotent man. “Whatever ye have done, ye shall undo it.”

“If I had any idea what you were accusing me of, I would surely have an answer. But as it is, I fear I must bid you goodnight,” she said and turned away.

He caught her arm.

Feelings spurred through him like an enflamed poker, jerking back his head, galvanizing his body, but he kept his grip tight on her arm.

“That,” he said through gritted teeth. “That is what I accuse ye of.”

She shook her head, but she was backing away again, keeping as much distance as possible between their bodies. And yet she drew at him. Even now he ached to…

Devil take it! He did ache! He was not impotent. He was hard. For her. Desperate for her. Aching at the first touch of his skin against her clothing.

“Release me,” she hissed.

He shook his head, stunned, frightened, awed. “Release
me
,” he countered.

“I don’t know—”

“Aye, ye do,” he said. “Ye do, lass. Ye’ve enchanted me. Surely ye know it.”

“Are you intoxicated. I’ve not—”

“Aye,” he said. “I am that. I’m besotted at the verra sight of ye. Broken, trapped.” He drew a careful breath. Because it didn’t feel like he was trapped. Indeed, it felt as if he’d been set free, turned loose to soar with the eagles. “Lie with me,” he said.

Her mouth dropped open. “I beg your—”

He gritted his teeth. What the hell was wrong with him? He was the Irish hound, charming, witty, strong. “I need to feel ye against me.”

“I’ve no wish to make trouble for you,” she said, “but if you do not release me—”

“I canna,” he gritted.

She stood staring at him, silent in the moon-shadowed darkness.

“Lass…” He calmed himself with an effort. “I dunna mean to frighten ye. Indeed, ‘tis the last thing I wish to… Well, mayhap na the verra last. I’d rather frighten ye than…” He thought for a moment, but his brain did not seem to be functioning as efficiently as other parts of his body. “I canna think what would be worse. But never ye mind. Suffice it to say there be a host of things I’d wish to do with ye first.”

“O’Banyon, I think—”

“Kiss ye,” he said and nodded, struggling for the charm he’d once possessed. “God’s balls, I need to kiss ye.” Damn it all, if he could not be charming, perhaps he could manage lucid.

She was tugging at her arm, trying to break free. From him! What the devil was happening?

“Let me go,” she said.

He ground his teeth. “If I do, will ye stay?”

“No!”

He scowled. “Ye should learn to lie, lass.”

“Listen, O’Banyon. Go home. Sober up. If you insist, we could talk in the morning.”

“Talk,” he said.

“What?”

“I’d rather frighten ye than talk.”

She drew a careful breath. He could hear her in the darkness and found he wanted to step close just to feel her breath against his face. Like a halfwitted farm boy mooning over a blushing dairy maid.

“Well, you’re in luck then,” she said, her words soft and cadenced. “Because you have frightened me.”

He steadied himself, tried to release her, found he truly could not. “Me apologies,” he said. “I did na mean to.”

“Then release me.”

His fingers wouldn’t move. ” ‘Tis like this,” he began, struggling for lucidity, for normalcy, for a scrap of his old self. “Mrs. Murray invited me to her estate.”

“Did she indeed?” Was the fear gone from her tone suddenly? Did it sound rather frosty? Did her body stiffen just a wee bit more?

“Aye,” he said, intrigued by her tone, warmed by the potent possibilities. “She did.”

“How lovely for you.”

He felt himself relax a smidgeon. The raw, open emotion in her voice was like a balm to his tattered spirits. “Me thanks,” he said. “I did na think ye would mind, as ye have na interest in me for yerself.”

Silence fell between them. He felt her will herself to relax. He felt her fail.

“I am right, am I na?” he asked.

Quiet again, broken only by the deep-throated call of a courting bull frog.

“Lass—”

“Yes,” she answered abruptly. “Of course. You are right.”

He nodded, though it was not easy. “Thus I accepted her invitation and—”

“I doubt there have been more than a few score there before you.”

He almost closed his eyes to the sweet sound of resentment. Instead, he concentrated hard and released her wrist, prying his fingers away with a hard, mental effort.

She stepped back, ready to flee.

“I did na say I would be the first, lass,” he said. “Indeed, I did na say she could hold a poor candle to the blinding light of ye.”

She froze on the edge of escape. “Then why did you go?” she breathed.

“Because I canna have ye.”

For several seconds it seemed as though he could hear the beat of his own heart, that it thudded in unison with hers.

“Can I?” he asked.

Silence again, so deep now even the hopeful frogs dare not break it.

“No,” she whispered.

He gritted his teeth. “Why?”

“Are you mad?” she breathed.

“Aye.” He nodded and chanced a step toward her. She didn’t retreat, but remained exactly as she was, staring up at him, eyes as wide as forever. “Aye, I think I might well be. But mayhap…” He reached out and touched her face. Feelings flared like Chinese fireworks, jerking his body up hard. “Mayhap ye are too,” he said.

“I can’t do this,” she rasped, her eyes still closed with the hard burst of feelings between them. “I dare not.”

“Why? What dire things might transpire, lass?” he asked and stepped closer still.

“Bad things,” she whispered. “Terrible things.”

“What things?”

“You cannot imagine.” Her words were naught but a breath in the darkness.

He slipped his hand onto her neck, reveling in the sharp stab of feeling. “I think mayhap ye are wrong,” he said. “For I can imagine quite a lot.”

“Can you?”

“Aye.” He brushed his thumb across her cheek and tightened himself against the burning pleasure of her skin against his. “Ye, for instance. Naked in me arms.”

“O’Banyon—”

” Tis where ye belong, lass.”

“You’re wrong.”

“What makes ye believe so?”

“I’m not who you think me to be.”

‘Twas true, of course. She was not what she seems, but somehow, just now, he could not quite bring himself to care. She was magic, so be it.” ‘Tis glad I am to hear it,” he said and smiled down at her. The pleasure was almost bearable now. “Because I think ye are a lady far above me own station who has na interest in the likes of an Irish hound such as meself.”

Perhaps the noise she made was laughter. But it sounded sadly close to tears.

“I cannot,” she said.

Bending down, he brushed his lips across hers.

Just a moment of skin against skin, and yet desire jerked up hard inside him. “Sadly,” he said, “I am na above begging.”

She did laugh now, breathily, shakily. “Don’t beg.”

“Please.”

“O’Banyon—”

“I’ll be the first to admit I have na pride.”

“I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“Nay.” He shook his head and skimmed his hand down her arm. They shivered in unison. “I give it up, gladly. For the briefest touch of me skin against yers. Ye’ve bewitched me.”

“Don’t say that,” she hissed.

“I must, for ‘tis the truth. I fear it may be love.”

“No.”

“Aye.”

“Don’t love me, O’Banyon,” she breathed.

“I would rather not.”

“Bad things will happen.”

“Shall I turn into a hunting beast what prowls the shadows by moonlight?”

“What?”

Nothing mattered. Nothing but her, the quick bend of her wit, the bright flare of her voice. “What things?” he asked, but she was shaking her head.

“Leave.”

“I canna.”

“You can and you must. Before more than your pride is wounded.”

“Do ye threaten me, lass?” he asked.

“Yes.” She jerked from his grasp. “Yes, I do. Leave now, before it’s too late.”

“For what?”

“For you. We were not meant to be.”

“I think ye be wrong. I think ye be the verra reason I arrived here in this time. Indeed, not in all me days has anything felt so right. So—”

“I’m to wed another.”

His world jerked to a halt. “What?”

” Tis true,” she said.

He shook his head.

“I’ll admit you’re…” She breathed a laugh. “You’re more pleasing to look upon than Lord Bentley.”

“Lord Bentley.”

“But he
is
a duke.”

He reached out and touched her face. Joy singed his fingertips. He drew back carefully, lest he combust. “You would give up this magic for a title?”

She backed away. “I would give this up for a song,” she snapped.

“Nay!” he said and grabbed her arm.

“Let me go!” Her voice was shrill.

“I canna, lass. This is na something ye find every day. Believe this—”

“Yes it is!” She jerked from his grip. “Every day, with every man.”

He shook his head.

“They beg for my attention. For my touch. For my—”

“And ye give it?”

Silence.

“Do ye give it?”

“Yes,” she said. “When it suits me.”

Anger roared inside him, ripping him open, tearing him apart. “Ye lie.”

She laughed. “You wish it were so,
Irandais
, but I will marry another.”

“Nay,” he said and reached for her, but she jerked away and suddenly she was spinning about and racing through the garden. He gave chase. She screamed.

And then he felt it. The change, snarling through him, bursting free. Feral strength. Wild inhibitions. Shadows lightened. Shapes about him seemed to grow and change.

A noise rang out. Pain ripped through him. He snarled in answer. The countess had disappeared beneath the arbor.

Another took her place. Whitford mayhap. He stood, pistol raised. O’Banyon grinned. ‘Twas sim-ply a frail mortal. So easily killed. He gathered his strength, ready to pounce.

“Please.” Her plea was like a silent prayer in his soul, but he heard it. He felt it like a sword through his heart, but there was little he could do, for the change was complete. The wolf had come.