The Defiant One

by Danelle Harmon

  "There has got to be a way out of this predicament," she said. "If you're going to sit there and sulk, at least do something. You're the intellectual here. Why don't you put that superior brain of yours to work, sir, and engineer a plan to save us both from a fate that neither of us wants?"

  "I can assure you, madam, that I have been putting my so-called superior brain to work on that very problem since we entered the coach, and so far it has yielded nothing of value."

  "Ah. So you can design flying machines and double-compartmented coaches and write complicated mathematical formulas that no one but yourself could ever hope to understand, but you cannot outmaneuver your brother."

  "That is because it is far easier to design flying machines and write complicated mathematical formulas than it is to outmaneuver my brother."

  "So you think he's somehow behind all this, then."

  "Don't you?" he fumed, nailing her with a look of hard fury.

  Of course she did. The look on the duke's face right after she had thrown herself between him and Gerald had removed all doubt from her mind that he was behind it. Oh, what a mess this was! If Andrew, with all his intelligence and years of dealing with Lucien, couldn't figure a way out of this dilemma, how on earth was she going to do it?

  "Andrew —"

  "Look, I said I just want to be left alone, all right?"

  "You don't have to be so hateful. And I'm sorry I interfered with the duel, but I had to save Gerald. Had it been your brother whose life was in peril, you would have done the same."

  "Depends on which brother," he bit out, his eyes hard as he glared out the window.

  That did it. Celsie wasn't going to lay here against him a second longer. She started to push herself up on one hand, only to freeze on a hiss of pain. She looked down and saw the bloody sleeve where Gerald's blade had caught her, a sleeve previously hidden beneath the angle of her body against Andrew's own.

  Andrew saw it too. "Devil take it," he muttered, pushing her back down onto his lap. "Let me see that."

  She snatched her arm away, covering the wound with her hand so she couldn't see it and risk fainting all over again. "No."

  "Does it hurt?"

  "It does now that I've been reminded of it."

  "Here, let me see it."

  "Your concern is quite touching, but if you don't mind, I would prefer to have a qualified surgeon look at it, not a mad inventor."

  "And I would prefer that you leave the 'mad' out of your estimation of me, madam," he snapped, on a fresh wave of unprecedented anger. "I may not have had any formal training in the healing arts, but I can assure you that bandaging your arm is well within my capabilities."

  "You're not a doctor."

  "I am a doctor. Just not of medicine."

  "Of what, then?"

  "Philosophy."

  "Oh, well, that's helpful, isn't it?"

  "Celsiana, let me see your arm. Now."

  "Oh, very well then," she muttered, uncovering her arm and looking away so she couldn't see how bad it was. "Though what you intend to use as a bandage is beyond me."

  His hands were far more gentle than his tone of voice as he caught the ripped edge of her sleeve. "Hold still."

  With one sharp jerk, he tore the shirt from elbow to cuff. Celsie, who was beginning to wonder if she was squeamish about seeing her own blood, refused to look at the exposed wound. Instead, she gazed up at his face, grave now as he gave his attention to her arm, and tried to take her mind off what he was doing. Looking at his face made it very easy to take her mind off what he was doing. Did he have that same intense, focused look when he was inventing something brilliant? Did he give that same single-minded concentration to everything he did? And oh, what would it feel like to have that powerful concentration fully directed on her?

  In the bedroom?

  Now, where on earth had that thought come from?

  Suddenly flustered, she forced herself to think of her arm instead. He may not be a surgeon, but he went about his task in a confident, no-nonsense sort of way that was wonderfully reassuring. His hands were warm where they steadied her arm, his touch gentle but firm. All too soon he was wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound, snugging it comfortably, reassuringly, tight. His thumb holding the ends in place, he neatly tied them off, leaving her feeling strangely bereft as he finally relinquished her arm.

  "Thank you," she said, sitting up a bit and rubbing her arm through the bandage. "It feels better already."

  "Keep it clean and I doubt you'll even see a scar from it."

  His gaze met hers, and something warm and undefinable passed between them. Celsie flushed, a jolt of current leaping through her, its heat settling in her very bones even as Andrew stiffened. They both looked away at the same time, and Celsie decided that it was long since time she got up and removed herself to the safety of the other seat.

  She slid gingerly off his lap and took the seat across from him. The space around her felt cold. Empty.

  The emotions welled up in her heart again. She wrapped her fingers together and squeezed, hard, trying to divert the sudden sting of unshed tears. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Andrew, who had lapsed back into sullen silence, his gaze, like hers, redirected out the window.

  Reality was bad enough. But God help her, this punishing silence, this awkwardness, was downright unbearable.

  "Where are we going?" she finally asked.

  He kept his gaze directed out the window. "Where would you like to go?"

  "Anywhere, except back there. What about you?"

  "Anywhere, except the altar."

  "You really don't want to marry me, do you?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Which proves that you really don't want me for my money."

  "No offense, madam, but I really don't want you at all."

  Though Celsie didn't want to marry him either, no woman wanted to be rejected so bluntly, especially when the one doing the rejecting was without doubt one of the handsomest men in all of England. "Well, I can't blame you there," she said breezily, though there was a hard edge to her voice that she couldn't quite conceal. "I suppose the idea of marrying an heiress must be quite appealing, but even a fortune could never make up for the fact that you'd have a wife with no tits."

  His head snapped around. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me. I know you men all like to compare attributes and acquisitions, and my diminutive chest would be a constant source of embarrassment to you, to be sure."

  "Your language, madam, leaves much to be desired."

  "So does my chest, if most men's opinions are to be believed."

  He flushed angrily. "I could care less about most men's opinions. And for what it's worth, I happen to think you are most prettily endowed."

  "And you expect me to believe you?"

  "And why the blazes wouldn't you believe me?"

  "I know what men say about me."

  "Do you, now?"

  "I do. And I am utterly convinced that I do not measure up, if you know what I mean."

  "No, I do not know what you mean, and I can assure you right now, madam, that the absurd subject which we are currently discussing has no bearing whatsoever on my reluctance to take you to the altar."

  "Oh, so you're afraid of choking on a pea, then."

  "I am not afraid of choking on a pea. I do not even like peas. What I do like is the complete freedom to live my life as I please, without feminine encumbrances of any sort, be they mistresses, admirers, or God forbid, wives. I have work to do."

  She met his gaze, glare for glare. "Well, I have work to do, too. I have a network of shelters throughout Berkshire that need constant upkeep, funding, and attention so they can continue to take in unwanted animals. I'm fighting for the turnspits. I have instituted a program to teach the young people in my village how to properly care for their dogs and cats so they learn that animals are for life, just like children, and are not expendable objects to be given away, killed, or otherwise disposed
of simply because they've had an accident on the floor or are no longer as cute as they were when they were puppies and kittens. Like you, I do not need encumbrances of any sort. So you see, Andrew, I have no wish to get married, either."

  He stared at her.

  "Besides," she continued, "I have yet to find a man who loves dogs as much as I do, who would not only condone but assist me in my efforts to help them, and would also let them sleep on the bed."

  He shrugged. "I let Esmerelda sleep on my bed."

  "You do?"

  "Yes," he said impatiently. "What's so extraordinary about that?"

  She stared at him, his candid admission defusing some of her anger. "Nothing, except that you are the first man I've ever met to admit to such a thing. Ha, maybe marriage to you will be tolerable, after all."

  "You'll be miserable, I can guarantee it. As would any woman with the misfortune to be tied to me."

  "What compels you to say such a thing?"

  "The fact that I can think of no female who would willingly and uncomplainingly share her husband with his obsessive pursuit of science."

  "Well, I can think of no man who would willingly and uncomplainingly share his bed with his wife's dog, so I guess we're even."

  He just looked at her, an odd expression in his eye. "Very funny."

  "Well, I thought so," she returned, pleased that she'd managed to break the ice a little between them. "Oh, Andrew. What are we going to do?"

  "I don't know." He sighed and leaned his brow into his hand, rubbing it as though he was infinitely tired. "We could always quit the country in order to avoid this deuced marriage. France . . . America . . . no, neither is far enough away from Lucien. By God, the Arctic is beginning to look quite attractive."

  "Yes, but you have to admit, it would be an awfully cold place to build a new laboratory."

  He lifted his head and looked at her. Again something warm and unexpected leaped between them, but this time he didn't turn away. Didn't chase it off with anger. And as he held her gaze, he began to smile, and Celsie saw, for the first time, that this fiery, bad-tempered man actually had a charm that was quite lethal when he chose to display it.

  She looked down at her tightly-clenched hands, confused by the sudden jumble of feelings bouncing around in her heart.

  "Maybe you'd better take me back now," she said, a little shakily. "I need to get Freckles."

  "Celsiana."

  Her gaze flashed to his. "Yes?"

  "I'm sorry, too. I . . . just want you to know that I'm not angry with you, but with fate."

  "Thank you."

  "And that it's not marriage to you that I'm upset about, but the idea of it in general." He cleared his throat. "You have an uncommon amount of courage. It's hard not to admire it."

  She looked up. "For a woman, you mean?"

  "For anyone." His eyes were warm. "I want you to know that."

  He reached into his pocket then and extracted a small flask. "We'll find a way out of this. Somehow, some way." He uncorked the little vessel, and the strong fumes of brandy assailed her nose. "In the meantime, I propose a toast."

  "To what?"

  He smiled, but his eyes were hard and determined. "To outsmarting my Machiavellian brother."

  Chapter 12

  He offered her the metal flask, still warm from his palm. Celsie took it. She wasn't particularly fond of brandy, so she had only the tiniest of sips. But it was a toast to which she was all too happy to drink. She handed the flask back. He tipped the vessel, draining it.

  Their gazes met, coconspirators, allies, on a mutual smile.

  And a moment later, it hit her.

  Oh, no. Not again!

  "Andrew —"

  He must have felt it too, because at the same moment he shot to his feet, rapping his head on the roof and cursing loudly. "Hell and damnation! That cursed spawn of the devil!"

  It was the same thing all over again. The same warm languor spreading through her blood. The same desperate longing to get her hands on this man, under his clothes, on his skin, all over his skin. The same prurient, unfulfilled tingling in her breasts and between her thighs . . .

  Oh, no.

  Oh, yes.

  Oh, God!

  She flattened herself against the back of the seat, willing herself not to touch him. "For heaven's sake, Andrew, this isn't just brandy, it's —"

  "The bloody potion!" he roared, throwing himself back down in his own seat and twisting his face against the leather squab so he couldn't see her. His eyes were open, glazed, as surely her own must be. She saw his fists clenching and unclenching desperately. She saw the fine sheen of dampness breaking out across his brow, along his jaw and neck, and heard the almost inhuman howl of rage that tore from his anguished throat.

  "I'll kill him, so help me God, this time he's gone too far!"

  "I don't understand —"

  "Lucien was the one who gave me the brandy! He bloody drugged it!"

  He made a desperate lunge for the door, ready to hurl himself out of the coach at high speed if only to keep his brother from having the last laugh, but his knee caught the edge of Celsie's seat and he fell, heavily. Celsie was never to know whether he grabbed for her shoulders as he went down, or she grabbed for his in an attempt to catch him. It didn't matter. In the next moment, his mouth, hard and angry all over again, was slanting towards hers.

  And then he kissed her.

  She had never been kissed so thoroughly, so hungrily, so aggressively, in her life. Oh, she'd had the occasional chaste peck from fortune hunters posing as admirers; she'd had cold, sloppy kisses from the pea-plagued Lord Hammond and found puppies' tongues to be drier; and she'd had no cause, based on her own wanting experiences, to think there was anything more to be had from kissing a man than some vastly unpleasant sensations they had all seemed to enjoy far more than she.

  But this . . .

  She melted under the delicious sensation of his hard, powerful body all but crushing her down against the seat. She felt his hand yanking her shirt free from the waistband of her breeches and sliding up her abdomen beneath the light fabric, his other hand cradling her cheek, holding her head right where he wanted it, his thumb slowly brushing her mouth as his lips drove hungrily against hers. There was nothing cold, wet or sloppy about the way Lord Andrew kissed; there was nothing chaste about it, either. He knew exactly what he wanted and he knew exactly how to go about getting it, and what he wanted was to put his tongue into her mouth and his hand beneath her shirt and then all over her suddenly sensitive, suddenly on-fire, suddenly very eager and happy-to-be-noticed, breast.

  Celsie let him.

  She moaned deep in her throat as he caught the nipple between thumb and forefinger and gently rolled it. And all the while his tongue thrust against her own, his mouth crushed hers, his harsh, quickening breath glancing off her cheek and a jutting hardness pushing against the top of her thigh.

  Celsie, gasping, finally broke the kiss. She stared dazedly up at him.

  "My God," he said, breathing hard. "I'm not going to survive this."

  "And neither am I, unless you kiss me again."

  "This is ridiculous, I hardly know you, I hardly like you, I want to do all sorts of wicked things to you and I can't seem to control myself —"

  "I hope you don't even try."

  "I don't want to try . . . Lord save us, Celsie. I need to touch you. I need to kiss you."

  His lips were against her temple, feathering down the outside corner of her eye, his breath warm against her chin. She shuddered, feeling herself go liquid with answering heat even as her own arms went around him and her fingers explored the hard ridge of his shoulders, his nape, the silky queue of his hair. She didn't know whether to be thankful or despairing that she'd only had the tiniest sip of the brandy . . . thankful because she didn't feel drugged as she had the last time, despairing because she'd had just enough to take the edge off any inclination she might otherwise have had to shove him away from her and straight out of
the carriage.

  Andrew, on the other hand, had finished off the entire bottle.

  His mouth found hers yet again, needy, desperate. How warm his lips were against her own . . . how good he smelled, like some exotic spice from a faraway land . . . and how wonderful his hand felt, driving through her hair, thumbing the velvety skin behind her ear, tracing the rise of her cheekbone, while his other hand —

  She moaned into his mouth as his hand roved over, then cupped, her breast.

  Her small, insignificant breast, which he would surely find wanting.

  "Andrew . . . you're touching my — my —"

  "Breasts? Ah, yes. So I am. I quite like touching them, you know. They're high and firm and fill my hand quite nicely. Very nice. Very nice indeed . . ."

  "You don't find them . . . wanting?"

  "I do find them wanting. They want my hands all over them. They want my mouth all over them. They want my tongue and teeth and kisses all over them. God, you're gorgeous . . ."

  He leaned down, his glossy, dark auburn hair filling her field of vision, his breath hot against her bosom and making her heart skip and trip and tumble all over itself as it fought frantically to retain its beat. And then he caught her shirttails in his hands and pulled the garment over her head, leaving her naked from the waist up.

  His mouth drove between the faint cleft between her breasts, out over the high, pale rise of the right one. The sensation was enough to make her head dizzy with pleasure.

  "A-Andrew, what are you doing?"

  "I am kissing your breasts."

  "But I thought kisses are for lips!"

  "Kisses are for wherever one chooses to put them. And I choose to put mine, here . . . and here . . ."

  He was now suckling the fiercely erect nipple, causing Celsie to gasp and squirm and tangle her fingers in his hair in an attempt to find anchorage on a sea of feelings that were totally overwhelming her. Oh, don't fight it. He's not going to stop. You don't want him to stop. Sit back and enjoy it . . . oh, enjoy it, this is never going to happen again!