Betrothed

by Alyssia Kirkhart

  He snorted. “How convincing.”

  Toad.

  “Pray tell, Lord Cavanaugh,” she said, “what answer might I offer to make myself sound more convincing?”

  “No need for that,” he said gruffly. “In all the years I’ve known you, sarcasm has never been a prime feature in that unique personality of yours. I was merely seeking an honest answer to an honest question. We were able to make decent conversation at one time, were we not?”

  He had her there. For as long as she could remember, Cav had been a part of her life. What with her father’s close involvement with Cav’s father, Sir Dunmore, and the hours upon hours the two stayed shut up in her father’s study, she and Cav had created a close bond. He’d take her fishing, allow her to accompany him to town in his shiny curricle where they’d purchase apple tarts from Maggie’s.

  Sometimes they’d simply walk together. And talk. Oh, they’d talk of life, the land, and, later on, marriage. What he wanted from a marriage. What she thought she wanted from a marriage. She had only been fifteen, far from an expert on matters of the heart. From that moment, however, perhaps even earlier, something changed in the way she looked at Patrick Cavanaugh.

  It was precisely when she fancied herself in love with him.

  It was also when Cav began paying excessive amounts of attention to her. Calling upon her even when his father had no business in Dublin. Writing letters when they had gone days without seeing one other. From that day, the day they’d talked of marriage, Cav was always the first to sign her dance card. And though propriety limited him to only two per night, he found other ways to be near her.

  One night in particular, after they’d finished a polonaise and were walking the perimeter of the room, he’d taken her outside into the garden. She could still see him, just as calm and collected as a nobleman ought to be, bright green eyes lit by the staked-torches lining the walkway, smile sparkling in his handsome face. He was everything she was not, confident in his wants, and he was as blunt then as he was now.

  He’d come right out and confessed he wanted to kiss her.

  That he’d wanted to kiss her for some time.

  And kiss her, he did. Until she was weak in the knees from it, imagining they were the only two people on earth, and that she was meant to be with him, no matter what the contract in her father’s desk drawer said.

  The next day he asked her father for her hand in marriage.

  He was refused.

  Now here she was, standing with him--or sitting, rather, for a footman had just brought them a pair of chairs--on the bank of the Severn River, under the branches of a willow tree, at the house party of an English duchess. And instead of wanting his attention, of doing anything she possibly could to speak to him, to be near him, to have him hold her, touch her ... well, she was using him.

  Or was she?

  Yes, she was.

  Dear God, how had life become so complicated?

  “Well?” His left brow arched so high his forehead wrinkled. “Are we to sit here in silence, or shall you answer my question?”

  She’d forgotten the question.

  “Is England to your liking? And spare me the triteness of ‘I like it just fine.’ No one likes this country just fine, they either like it, or they don’t.”

  She bobbed her line a few times, resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Justin. “I do like England. It’s a lot like home, really. The land, the air.”

  “Mayfair agrees with you, then.”

  “The duke and duchess are very kind. And of course, there is Lady Anna. She has been wonderful.”

  “Ah, yes. A beautiful woman, that one. Surprising, she’s not married.”

  “She is particular, I think. Unlike the majority, she does not seek a title.”

  “Sounds like someone I know.” He gazed lazily at her from the side.

  “I do not seek anyone, sir.”

  “Of course you don’t.” He shifted his gaze back to the water, breathed a long sigh. “No, you’re betrothed to the tall, brawny one over there. If another man so much as looked at you, I daresay he’d pummel the poor fellow.”

  She didn’t know why, but hearing Justin spoken of in a disdainful manner irritated her. “You judge him poorly,” she said. “He is a gentleman.”

  “Naturally,” he said grimly. “The firstborn of the Duke of Tethersal would be nothing less. Why else would your father have gone to so great an extent, betrothing his only child to a stranger? But”--he glanced past her, toward Justin--“I must say, at present, he does not appear so much the gentleman. I do believe he’d tear me to shreds if there weren’t witnesses about.”

  “I told him you once asked for my hand.”

  Cav’s eyes slid to hers. Glints of sunlight, tinkling through the branches of the willow tree, had cast ribbons of white-gold throughout his short, dark blond hair. He was thinking of something. What she’d said, perhaps? Did he regret asking for her hand? Regret ever meeting her at all?

  “He wasn’t entirely thrilled when I told him,” she said.

  “Why should he be concerned? You belong to him now, do you not? Always have, for that matter. Why should it bother him if another man once … still …” He looked away for a moment as if to collect his thoughts. Then, gazing at her again, “Why?”

  Sara bit her lower lip. “Because he asked what I would have said had you asked me instead of my father.”

  Both brows rose expectantly.

  “And I told him I would have said ‘yes.’” She looked down at her hands, wishing she could seep through her chair, into the ground.

  Until Justin, she’d not told a living soul; that she would have said yes had Cav asked her instead. Cav had done his duty as a gentleman, properly asking the father of the lady before the lady herself. How differently things might have been had he not given in to duty.

  “Fancy that,” he said, and turned back to the river.

  “I’m sorry, Cav. I shouldn’t have--”

  “Do you remember,” he said, keeping his gaze straightforward, “the first time we waltzed?”

  “Yes,” Sara replied quietly. “Lady O’Malley’s summer ball.”

  “A fond memory, that. You were as nervous as a wee child, and I had to practically beg Lady O’Malley to let me waltz with you.” He leaned forward, white linen stretching across broad, well-defined shoulders, and pulled his line in from the water. “But she finally agreed.”

  “The orchestra played Lough Erin Shore,” she recalled, “and all I could think was how I was going to make it through an entire waltz without stepping on your toes.”

  He chuckled at that. “You only stepped on them twice.”

  “Thrice.”

  He shrugged, untied the minnow lure from his line. “I hardly noticed.”

  A brief silence ensued as he took up a wiggler lure with a set of sharp, tiny hooks attached to its belly, and began threading it carefully. Sara didn’t know what to say. Hard enough, it was, controlling this speechless, eye-batting quirk of hers. The one Justin found so amusing.

  “I kissed you that night.” His brow pulled taut as the knot he’d just made loosened. He spared her an aside glance. “Do you remember?”

  She nodded. Of course she remembered.

  It was her first kiss.

  And it was her last kiss.

  That is, until Liverpool. When Justin had pressed her up against a book case, brought his body against hers, and kissed her with all the ravishing hunger of a man on the brink of starvation. Never had she been kissed so thoroughly, so passionately. As if he simply couldn’t get enough of her. As if he’d devour her if she let him.

  She’d kissed him twice since that day. On each of those memorable occasions, she’d surrendered to him without the slightest hesitation. Practically melted into his arms. And it had felt heavenly. It had felt ... right.

  Heat infused her cheeks, and she looked over her shoulder, half-expecting to meet Justin’s gaze. Sebastian and Anna were no longer there. Out f
or an afternoon stroll, perhaps, as they seemed to be getting on well all of a sudden.

  Alas, Justin was preoccupied with changing his lure: dark head bent, equally dark eyes studying the knot he was making. The veins in his hands bulged, drawn by the balmy air to the surface of his tanned skin. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a swell of sinewy forearms. To her chagrin, Sara couldn’t repress the thought of being enveloped by them. Of having those steel-banded arms holding her body against his.

  Funny, how she noticed the smallest details about him, when she’d never given a second thought to such features on any other man, including Cav.

  “He’s kissed you,” said Cav. “Hasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  Affronted, Sara said, “I do not believe this is considered civilized conversation. You, asking me if I’ve kissed my own fiancé. Which, I might add, I have every right to do. It doesn’t seem proper.”

  Cav shrugged, nonchalant. “Just a question. Mayn’t the man who was the first to kiss a young lady inquire as to whether her experiences thereafter have been--oh, what shall we call it? Satisfying?”

  “That is none of your business.”

  “Why can’t you just answer the question?”

  Sara wondered if his frustration stemmed from her refusal to answer his question, or the fact he still had not successfully tied his lure.

  Maybe it was both.

  “You should let me try,” she offered. “My hands are smaller, and I may be able to tie the knot easier than--”

  “Damnit!”

  “--you.”

  In his rushed, irritated, attempt to thread the hooked lure, Cav had managed to hook his index finger instead. Strike that. His index and middle fingers.

  “Ah, rath dé ort, Cav,” she said, standing. Of course, he probably needed more than the grace of God to remedy this particular situation.

  She kneeled beside him to get a better look at the damage. Blood seeped from the two spots in which the hook imbedded his fingertips. “We need to get the hook out.”

  He looked down at her, his face beading sweat. “I believe that’s obvious,” he ground out, as she reached for his hand.

  “Let me see it, you silly man!” she chided, and he conceded, turning his palm up and displaying his fingers as reluctantly as one hands over a rare diamond. “I’ll try not to hurt you. No, don’t move.”

  “Bí curamach.” He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “I said--”

  “I’ll be as careful as I can.” She cut her eyes up at him. “But you’re going to have to stop--” She broke off, her breath suddenly shallow.

  A warm, strong hand had alighted on her shoulder. Her eyes shut, sealed. God, but she’d know his touch anywhere. She could be in a room full of people, brushing shoulders so casually one couldn’t rightly tell who had touched them and who hadn’t, and she’d know.

  “Move aside, please,” said Justin, and Sara turned her gaze upward to look at him. His dark eyebrows lifted. “If the hook isn’t properly removed, the wound could deepen.”

  She nodded, allowed him to exchange places with her.

  Justin kneeled before Cav, took the damaged hand with a surprising amount of care. His hand was a touch larger than Cav’s, and much darker as well--two, three shades perhaps. She tried to remember if Cav’s hands were calloused as Justin’s were, and decided she needn’t think on such things.

  Cav was hurt, and she had the nerve to entertain ridiculous, unimportant thoughts.

  But instead of concerning herself with Cav’s dilemma, as she knew she should, Sara found herself unable to tear her gaze from Justin. Sweat soaked the slightly curled hair at the nape of his neck. His gleaming white shirt stuck to his back in several places. She frowned. The air was balmy, but not hot, and she wondered if he was merely hot natured, or if he’d really been that angry. So thoroughly riled from her façade with Cav he was literally sweating bullets.

  She longed to put her hands on his back and soothe him, lean against him. Kiss him, if he’d allow her.

  Sara took in a shuddering breath.

  Kiss him, lean into him ... Goodness, what was wrong with her? Here she was, fantasizing about him. Intimately. Envisioning his beautiful, masculine arms, flexing with lean muscle as he tied a foot of line around the hook imbedded in Cav’s fingers, wrapped around her. Holding her. Wanting her.

  “Keep your hand steady,” Justin murmured.

  Cav swallowed, nodded his understanding. “Go dtachta an diabhal thú, ye damn lure.” He winced as Justin applied a fair amount of pressure behind the wounds.

  Sara bit her lip to smother a laugh.

  Justin shot a disdainful glare at Cav. “What was that?”

  “‘May the devil choke you,’” Sara translated, and then she did laugh because it really did sound absurd. Who ever heard of the devil choking a fishing lure?

  But Justin was not amused.

  “Don’t speak to me in Gaelic, please, Mr. Cavanaugh.” He pushed the shank of the hook down to the skin of Cav’s fingers. “If you …” He stopped, called for a footman to fetch him a towel, and focused on the hook again. Drew the line taut. “If you’d like to hold a conversation in Latin, or perhaps French, I’ll be happy to oblige. Otherwise, I’ll ask that you use proper English.”

  “English is fine.” Cav inhaled sharply as Justin applied more pressure. “Just get this bloody thing out of me. Please.”

  “Lady Ballivar,” Justin said, but he didn’t look up at her. “Take the towel and be ready. The wounds will pour once the hooks are free, so a generous amount of pressure will need to be applied to stop the bleeding.”

  “All right.” She obediently took the towel from the footman, who bowed and stepped back a few paces.

  The sight of blood didn’t bother her, but this particular sight did. Justin, crouched before Cav, the fate of one’s fingers at the other’s mercy. Doubtless Justin was beyond vexed. The veins in his forehead had surfaced. Wisps of his dark hair stuck to his face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she imagined they were just as angry, darkened to near blackness as they always seemed to be when his emotions were high.

  “On the count of three,” Justin said, and Cav curled his free hand into a tight fist. “One, two …”

  But three didn’t come. Justin had tugged the line so quickly, so firmly, Cav’s face was still twisted in preparation when the hook pulled free.

  Blood gushed from the two holes, and Sara rushed to cover his fingers with the towel. “Good gracious, Cav!” She pressed the material, hard as she could, to the wounds. “You nearly frightened the life out of me!”

  Cav’s eyes peeled open. “Ah, thank God.” He sank into his chair. “Damned things hurt like the devil.”

  “What were you thinking?” She swatted his hand away when he tried to take the towel from her. “If you had been paying attention to your line, this wouldn’t have happened!”

  Cav didn’t answer. Only grumbled something about stubborn Irish women beneath his breath, at which Sara did allow him to take the towel, even giving it a healthy shove that caused Cav’s green eyes to flare with disapproval.

  “I take it this isn’t the first time,” Justin murmured in a low tone, handing the damaged hook to an awaiting footman.

  “Hasn’t everyone been hooked once or twice?” Cav came to his feet. “One good time, at least.” He gave Sara an assessing gaze, one she didn’t particularly like considering he had always looked upon her with kindness.

  Justin didn’t seem to like it, either. His eyes, black as coal, shifted slowly from her to Cav and back again. Clearly dissatisfied with what he saw, he turned to the river, sank to his haunches, and began washing his hands in the cool water. A footman was quick to his side with a clean towel.

  “I think I shall retire from fishing for today,” Cav announced. “Have this looked at before infection sets in.”

  “Shall I come with you?” Sara lifted a shoulder. “I feel par
tly responsible.”

  “It’s not your fault,” he said. “And no, stay and enjoy the fresh air. You once were a good fisherman, or so I recall.”

  They exchanged farewells, and Cav turned and strode for the house.

  “I certainly hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  Sara closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the hint of disdain in Justin’s deep voice. She’d dealt with one headstrong man today, had managed to make him so irrefutably angry, he’d fish hooked his own fingers.

  Which, privately, she felt he deserved.

  But dealing with a man like Lord Carrington was an entirely different feat. Headstrongness was by far the lesser of his objectionable qualities.

  He was drying his hands when Sara finally turned to look at him. “As Lord Cavanaugh said, the air is most fresh here by the river,” she said, unable to stop her eyes from wandering over him.

  He was completely untamed, linen shirt unbuttoned almost to mid-chest. Mud and water and grass smudged his light grey breeches; several drops of Cav’s blood stained his right thigh.

  By the time Sara refocused her gaze on his face her cheeks were burning.

  One of his dark brows winged upward. “Seems as though you were taking in more than fresh air, my lady.” He began a slow stroll toward her. “In fact, from where I sat, the two of you appeared quite cozy.”

  Sara stood her ground. Not because she was deliberately being defiant, but because she literally could not move. His progress toward her was too powerful, too knee-weakening, and the use of her feet was a task too difficult to achieve.

  “What did you hope to accomplish?”

  “Accomplish?”

  He stopped a scarce two feet before her. “This little display of yours with Cavanaugh. What did you hope to accomplish?”

  “My intention was to catch up with an old friend.”

  “You seemed to have an ample amount of topics on which to catch up. Neither one of you caught any fish, for all you seemed more interested in head-bent conversation and willy-nilly laughter.”

  “Did you catch any fish, Lord Carrington?” she retorted. “Because it seems to me you were more interested in watching me and Mr. Cavanaugh rather than managing your own rod.”