The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2)

by Monajem, Barbara

  “She’s not irritating, and he believes I will marry him rather than let him take her away.”

  “But you won’t.” He retrieved his left boot.

  “Never, but I’m afraid to go home for fear he’ll find me, and if he takes her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  He still doubted Bridget’s veracity, but not her fear of Fallow. Reluctantly, Colin considered that perhaps it behooved him to step in. Whether or not the Emma he conversed with was real, she might not forgive him if he didn’t.

  A commotion from below broke into his thoughts. A new arrival, surprised voices, and a slamming door were followed by Sylvie’s gleeful cry. “Mr. Fallow! Oh, Mr. Fallow, I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “My lovely Sylvie! I missed you so much,” a man replied.

  All color drained from Bridget’s face. “Oh, no.” Her voice rose in anguish. “Oh, no! What am I going to do?”

  “Calm down.” He put his arm about her; he couldn’t help it. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “How did he find us?” she cried, wrenching away, taking a swipe at him with a furious fist. “He’ll take Sylvie away from me, and you’re no use at all.” She clenched and unclenched her hands, looking wildly about. “Where’s my pistol? I’ll kill him.”

  Alarmed now, Colin said. “No, you won’t. That would only make things worse.”

  “He will die a gruesome death.” Her stare told Colin she wasn’t seeing him but rather some frightful picture in her mind.

  “You mustn’t. If you kill him, you’ll be hanged.” He tugged on the remaining boot.

  She dug through a trunk of clothing. “He will rue the day he thought to steal my daughter from me.”

  “Think, woman! What will happen to Sylvie?”

  That brought her back to reality. “I’ll find a way to provide for her first, and then I’ll kill him,” Bridget said.

  From below came Sylvie’s clear voice. “Will you take me to Gunter’s now?”

  “No!” Bridget’s panicked cry touched Colin to the heart and beyond. She headed for the door.

  Colin took her arm. “Wait. I’ll take care of this.”

  She struggled, but he set her firmly behind him and strode out. “It’s my fault she heard about Gunter’s in the first place.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Show some responsibility, God and Emma help me. “I told you, I’ll take care of it.”

  She huffed, trying to pass him, but he blocked her way. At least she was sane again, not some mad Irishwoman. “Nothing will stop him now that he’s found me,” she said. “But maybe I can hinder him. Slow him down. I’ll put a curse on him.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Colin hurried down ahead of her. “Curses don’t work.”

  “I have no alternative.” In a low voice, she spoke in a language he didn’t understand, but he supposed it must be Irish, judging by the lilt and the appallingly distinct words, ‘Ban Shee’.

  “What the devil are you muttering about?” he demanded.

  “A curse of the Ban Shee be upon you, Martin Fallow,” she translated. “May your parts shrivel and your heart break with misery and loss.”

  A damned good thing, Colin thought, that neither she nor any other madwoman had cursed him in the past year, or he might actually believe in it. “Stop it. You’re giving me chills.”

  She broke into Irish again. Colin gave up on getting her to behave like a civilized woman, clattered down the last few stairs, and strode into the taproom, where Sylvie now danced about a tall, fair, excessively handsome fellow dressed like a country squire.

  “This is Mr. Martin Fallow,” she said gleefully. “He’s taking me to Gunter’s now!”

  “No,” Colin said, “he’s not.”

  Chapter 4

  Bridget hurried into the taproom after Colin, curses boiling through her mind and gathering on her tongue, but at his calm voice, she stopped. She’d never cared for curses anyway, as they were more likely to have undesirable repercussions on the one doing the cursing and no effect at all on the intended victim. But when she was frightened, she didn’t think; it was as if she became possessed by some vengeful pagan ancestor.

  “Who the devil are you to say where she can and cannot go?” Martin asked, whilst Sylvie clung to his hand, eyes wide with dismay. He sent an affronted glance at Bridget, as if he were all innocence and this was her fault.

  “I’m her father,” Colin said, “and I forbid her to go anywhere with you.”

  Sylvie burst into tears. Bridget stood utterly still, disbelieving.

  “There, there, my darling, that’s nothing but a lie.” Martin patted Sylvie’s hair and shot Bridget another glance, this time full of counterfeit pain. “Bridget, sweeting…” He looked Colin up and down with a horrified expression. “You told me you loved me and only me, forever and always.”

  Unfortunately, this was true, but she’d said it when she was a besotted sixteen. “This is Mr. Warren. He is her father, and you’re not.” She stalked over and removed Sylvie from Martin’s grasp.

  Sylvie lashed out with infuriated slaps. “I hate you!”

  “Stop that,” Colin said, his voice so commanding that not only Sylvie went still, but all others in the taproom, too.

  Oh, saints in heaven, everyone and his uncle were gaping at them—not only Jed and Millie, Nan and Mary Joan, but strangers who happened to be at the inn, the tapster and the butcher’s boy, and Colin’s valet, who had just walked in the door.

  Sylvie’s lip wobbled pitifully. “I don’t want you for my father.”

  “I daresay, but you don’t get to choose your parents,” Colin said. “Henceforth, you will treat your mother with respect.”

  “She shouldn’t have to,” Martin said, his voice brimful of convincing passion. “She shouldn’t have to live with such a woman.” He turned his false dismay on Bridget again. “I saw the advertisements in the agony column. I saw what you offered this fellow to play the part of Sylvie’s father. What decent woman would do that to a poor innocent child?”

  Mortification crawled up Bridget’s cheeks. How did he know about the advertisements?

  Martin’s tone softened to a plea. “Don’t try to deny it, my Bridget. So much betrayal, so many lies, but I know you’re not really like that. You were a good woman once, good and true. Why will you not change your ways and marry me so our daughter can respect you once more?”

  His lies were mixed with just enough truth to be credible. He was the picture of agony and betrayal. Curses rose again in Bridget’s mind, but she shut her mouth just in time. Colin was right; they wouldn’t help. She glanced at him, but his eyes were on Sylvie.

  Millie nodded briskly, arms crossed, and muttered, “So she should, deserve it or not.”

  “Hush now,” Jed said, but his uneasiness showed in his hesitant stance. He knew Bridget had placed advertisements in The Times, but not what they’d said. Mary Joan and Nan both gazed rapturously at Martin, as all silly females were prone to do. Colin’s half-lidded eyes were still fixed on Sylvie. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Martin postured. “Instead, you bare yourself for this rake.”

  His gaze ran up and down Colin’s disheveled figure, shirt untucked, no waistcoat or coat. The circumstances were damning. Regardless of the unlikelihood, everyone must think they’d been in bed together.

  “Go with your nurse, Sylvie.” Colin took the girl from Bridget and handed her, weeping loudly now, to the wide-eyed Mary Joan. “Take her away. She shouldn’t be made to hear this.”

  Mary Joan gaped at Colin, then at Martin, who nodded and said, “Quite right, she shouldn’t,” as if he’d been the one to think of it.

  Bridget really did want to kill Martin then and there. As for Mary Joan, thinking she needed Martin’s a
pprobation… But it wasn’t surprising. He was so very credible.

  “Yes, take her to our bedchamber,” Bridget said quietly, and Sylvie went sobbing up the stairs with her nurse.

  “I’m not paying Mr. Warren,” Bridget gritted out, “in any way, shape or form. He is her father, and that’s that.”

  “Then you’re nothing but a whore,” Martin said.

  Colin gave up on controlling himself and let fly with an uppercut straight to the chin. Martin Fallow fell to the floor with a satisfying thump. Colin eyed him for a long moment, while voices burst into speech all around them.

  Whether or not Sylvie was his daughter—

  Of course she is, Emma said.

  —he wouldn’t surrender her to the likes of Martin Fallow.

  Martin groaned and pushed himself off the floor. He staggered a bit, propped himself against the wall and cradled his jaw. He glared at Colin. “I demand satisfaction.”

  Colin did his best not to laugh. Fletcher, over by the door, tsked and shook his head. Fortunately, Fallow wasn’t looking his way and didn’t see the warning. No duel would happen, but in the meantime, why not have some fun?

  “Don’t you dare fight a duel with him,” Bridget said.

  “Don’t worry,” said Colin. “He’ll change his mind.”

  “Name your friends,” Martin sneered. “Or are you too craven?”

  Colin raised his brows. “I’d be delighted to do so once the wound in my arm has healed, but the question is, do you have any friends?”

  Fallow glowered, clenched his fists, and advanced. “You’re a coward, just as I thought.”

  Bridget pushed herself between them. “Don’t pay any attention to him, Mr. Warren.”

  “Hiding behind a woman’s skirts?” Fallow said.

  Colin laughed and moved Bridget gently out of the way. “You’re new to London, Mr. Fallow,” he said easily. “Wait a week or two, make some friends, and if you still want to challenge me, feel free.”

  Martin eyed him for a moment, then visibly chose a dignified stance. “Needless to say, I would not seek to fight an injured man. You will hear from me in due course.” He scowled at Bridget. “Foolish woman. You’ll regret this.”

  Bridget put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “Nowhere near as much as I would have regretted marrying you.”

  Martin shot Bridget a malevolent glare and left.

  “So much for him,” Colin said, tucking his shirt into his breeches. “Get yourself and Sylvie ready for an outing.” He headed back up the stairs.

  It took Bridget a few moments to realize what he’d said. She followed him. “An outing? To where?”

  “Gunter’s, of course.”

  “No,” Bridget said. “I already told her she couldn’t go.” How dare he undermine her authority? “I’m grateful you acknowledged that you’re her father, but that doesn’t give you the right to spoil her.”

  Actually, she thought with a sinking feeling, it did. Had she exchanged one meddlesome man for another?

  “I’m not spoiling her,” he said. “I’m fighting fire with fire.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Of course it does. Don’t you want her to accept me as her father?”

  “Yes, but—” She hadn’t really thought of it that way. Colin might be able to oust Martin from Sylvie’s heart, but that raised a whole host of other questions.

  “I’ll bet you’d like an ice, too, wouldn’t you?”

  Bridget had almost as much of a sweet tooth as her daughter. “Yes, but—”

  “Well then, hurry up and get ready to go. Fletcher has brought my curricle, and I don’t like to keep my horses standing in the street.” He went into his bedchamber, saying “Fifteen minutes,” before shutting the door.

  With mixed feelings, Bridget decided not to argue. This wasn’t part of her plan. Colin was supposed to acknowledge Sylvie, nothing more. Much as she wanted Sylvie to forget Martin, she didn’t want her to become attached to Colin either. He was a wild, irresponsible rake, not the sort to be a good influence. He was only taking them to Gunter’s to thumb his nose at Martin, not because he cared about his daughter one way or the other.

  Which meant she needn’t worry. Once he’d treated them to ices, he would go his merry way. And why shouldn’t she take advantage of this opportunity? What with saving every penny lately, she seldom indulged her sweet tooth.

  Rather more than fifteen minutes later, Bridget exited the inn to see a shiny maroon curricle pulled by a pair of matched blacks. All the children of Grub Street and many of their elders had come out to gawk. The horses stamped and fretted; Fletcher stood at their heads, equally impatient. Colin was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where is Mr. Warren?” asked Bridget.

  “I assume he is still within the inn,” Fletcher said, “but until he comes out, I cannot leave these animals to remove his belongings.” A hackney coach stood waiting nearby.

  “I’ll hold them,” Bridget said.

  “I think not, ma’am,” Fletcher said. “They’re still very fresh. Darkling here is overly energetic, and he has already stirred Starlight up. Until they’ve worked off the fidgets, it takes a firm hand—”

  Bridget had already gone to the horses’ heads, first to the one indicated as Darkling, with an admiring whisper, then to Starlight with a calming caress. It was easy to control horses when one had the Touch.

  Fletcher’s eyes widened.

  Bridget shrugged. “Horses respond well to me.” It wasn’t something she wished to explain, as it only invited scoffing.

  “Mama has special horse magic,” Sylvie said. “It’s called the Irish Touch.”

  So much for not explaining.

  “I shall have the Irish Touch too, when I grow up,” Sylvie went on.

  “The Irish Touch,” Fletcher mused. “My mother told me of it, but I’d never seen it before. Didn’t quite believe it, to tell the truth.”

  “Your mother is Irish?”

  “No, ma’am, she’s a Scotswoman,” Fletcher said, with a hint of a smile. “I tease her about her superstitions, but seemingly this one has a basis in fact.”

  “Shall we ride in that carriage?” asked Sylvie.

  “Yes indeed, Miss Sylvie.” Fletcher glanced again at the tranquil pair, his expression bemused, but just then Colin came out of the inn, and soon they set off.

  “Are you sure you should be driving?” Bridget asked. “What about your injured arm?”

  “It hardly hurts at all,” Colin said, “and it’s only my left.”

  “So you could have fought Martin?”

  “Blindfolded and hamstrung.” His dimples appeared and her heart groaned. It was the same every time he smiled. Her whole being quivered with wanting him, but even if he was interested in bedding her again—which he wasn’t—it would never do.

  “That’s why Fletcher was shaking his head,” she said. “To warn Martin.”

  Colin chuckled. “He’ll find out soon enough why no one challenges me.”

  “Thank heavens for that. Duels are a stupid and dangerous way to handle disagreements.”

  “Curses, of course, are a much more rational approach.”

  “Curses are the weapon of the helpless,” she snapped back. This was much better. If they argued, she wouldn’t be plagued with inconvenient desires.

  “Mrs. Black, you are the least helpless woman I’ve ever met,” he said.

  She didn’t know whether to take that as criticism or praise.

  It didn’t matter. “I have to fend for myself. I have no choice.”

  “You have no male relatives to turn to?”

  “Only in Ireland. I don’t want to live there. There’s too much unrest.” And too many cruelties,
too many heartrending emotions and a divided loyalty that an Englishman would never understand.

  Sylvie was paying them little attention, preening at being driven in such a splendid equipage, but at this she said, “I can speak Irish.”

  “Can you?” Colin asked, brows raised.

  “Mama taught me,” Sylvie said, adding something unintelligible. “That means, Goodnight, my darling.”

  “She has learned a little from nursery tales I read to her,” Bridget said, “and a few songs.”

  “My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean,” Sylvie piped up. “We sing that at bedtime.”

  “That’s a Scottish song,” Colin said.

  Indeed it was—a political one, actually, referring to Bonnie Prince Charlie who had escaped after Culloden. But Colin didn’t seem disapproving, so maybe he didn’t know, or maybe the Jacobite uprising was far enough in the past that the song was now seen only as a lullaby.

  “I can sing an Irish song, too.” Sylvie launched into “Mo Ghile Mear,” and Bridget joined in softly.

  “Sounds like a lament,” Colin said when the song drew to a close.

  Well, yes—it was another song about Prince Charlie, but she thought it best not to point that out. “Many Irish songs are laments.”

  “Do you speak Irish fluently?” Colin asked.

  “Enough to get by,” Bridget said. “I learned from my father and my nurse, and then lived in Ireland for two years when Sylvie was a baby. It’s a pretty language.”

  “Except for the curses,” murmured Colin.

  “Curses are horrid in any language,” she retorted.