To Tame a Savage Heart

by Emma V. Leech

  Gabriel cursed; dammit, if the child had killed herself on his land …

  He threw himself down from his horse, running to her side to find her sprawled on her back in the snow, laughing hysterically.

  “Oh, my,” she said as her eyes glittered with mirth. “I can’t remember the last time I had such fun! Wasn’t it wonderful?”

  Gabriel stared at her.

  “No,” he said, his tone short. “You’re a blasted nuisance and deserve to have broken your silly neck.”

  To his astonishment, she stuck her tongue out at him. “Pooh,” she said with a dignified little sniff. “You’re just cross because I ride as well as you do.”

  “I am not …” Gabriel retorted, only to realise that he sounded like a five-year-old, and closed his mouth with a snap.

  She grinned at him, which only increased his desire to throw her over his knees and give her a sound spanking. Except that image didn’t help matters at all, and he forced it into a dark corner of his mind. There were plenty to choose from.

  “Are you going to stand there all day staring at me then, or give me a hand up?” she demanded, folding her arms and raising one imperious eyebrow at him.

  Gabriel swallowed a curse, though he imagined the look on his face was illustration enough as he reached down and grasped her arm, hauling her to her feet.

  In retrospect, he’d been a little overzealous for a woman of her size, and she squealed, her boots sliding on the snow as her feet went from under her.

  “Damnation,” he muttered as he was forced to pull her closer, his hands at her waist to steady her. She stumbled into him, her hands grasping at his lapels to keep herself upright. The appalling creature looked up at him then, a shocking, intimate look from under thick, dark blond lashes, revealing the most startling pair of eyes he’d ever seen. They were a strange, violet grey, like a stormy summer sky.

  Gabriel thrust her away, taking another step back, lest she should have any thoughts that he was in any way interested in her. Turning, he saw her horse had finally calmed itself and was cropping the icy tufts of grass in a desultory fashion, a good three acres away. Muttering and cursing about devious females, he strode off after it.

  ***

  Crecy watched the viscount as he walked to retrieve her horse. Her breath was still coming fast, partly from the race they’d just had, partly from finding herself at such close quarters with the man she’d been dreaming of for so long.

  He was everything she had expected him to be. Suspicious and brittle and with such walls built around him that he could not even conduct a simple conversation with her without growing angry. Although, to be fair, she had trespassed on his land and gone out of her way to tease him. Somehow, she doubted he was any different in any other circumstance, though. He was well known for being rude, abrupt, and downright insulting, and only got away with it because everyone was too scared to challenge him.

  He might call them out after all, and his reputation as a crack-shot was legend.

  But he couldn’t call her out, and she wasn’t the least bit frightened of him. Though she didn’t know why, really. Except he had in no way made her feel physically vulnerable, quite the reverse, in fact.

  She suspected he was afraid of her.

  The idea gained merit as she watched him traipse about the field. She smiled, amused, as he looked increasingly like a big black storm cloud with his great coat swirling about him as he tried to get close to her reluctant horse. The poor dear, he wasn’t having a very good day.

  By the time he’d finally caught hold of her horse, he had a face like thunder, and she suspected she’d pushed him as far as she dare for one day.

  “Thank you,” she said, sounding rather contrite as he walked back to her. “I’m sorry for being such a nuisance.”

  “No, you aren’t,” he growled, and she could not help the burst of laughter that escaped her. She covered her mouth with her hand and tried to keep it in as she shook her head.

  “No,” she admitted. “I’m not. Not the least bit sorry.” He glowered at her and she bit her lip. “I’ve had a lovely time.”

  “You ought to be locked up,” he muttered, bending down and linking his hands together to give her a foot up. “For the safety of the general public,” he added, his tone bitter.

  With his help, Crecy vaulted neatly into place and arranged her skirts, before gathering up the reins.

  “Oh, but I am sorry I’ve vexed you so,” she said, her tone softer now. “But you need not come all the way to the border. I’ll go, I promise. I expect you’ll be wanting to get back now.”

  He frowned at her, looking rather more puzzled than angry all at once.

  “You’ll go?” he repeated, the suspicion in his voice quite evident.

  Crecy nodded. “I will, I promise.”

  He let out a sigh that seemed to be really quite heartfelt and nodded, turning away from her.

  “Lord DeMorte?”

  He froze, his heavy shoulders sagging as if he’d known it was too good to be true. The unhappy figure turned to glare at her.

  “What?” he barked, his heavy brows drawn over those blue eyes like thunder clouds in a summer sky.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” she said, grinning at him before springing her horse and galloping away, before he could utter the curse that was so obviously on the tip of his tongue.

  Chapter 4

  “Wherein evasive action is required.”

  It was twenty past one by the time he returned to the house. The staff tiptoed around him, their voices barely a whisper as they were well aware how such changes to his plans affected his temper.

  Gabriel sat down at the table, taking a moment to straighten the fork and tilt the napkin a little to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the serving staff send a panicked look in the butler’s direction, but Piper merely took a step forward.

  “Shall we serve now, my lord?”

  Gabriel gave a curt nod, too angry to actually speak.

  The food was placed in front of him and the staff retreated, leaving him alone. He reached for his napkin, unfolding it with care and laying it down with precision before he picked up his knife and fork. The plate was exactly the same every day. A cold collation of meat; beef, ham, and roast chicken. A platter of cheese sat at his left side, a pannier of bread on the right, a decanter of claret beside his glass.

  He ate first the beef, then the ham, then the chicken, the same order every day, before reaching for the cheese and cutting one - precise - triangle from each before reaching for three slices of bread. One glass of wine was poured, exactly to the wing-tip of the little engraved bird that flew an inch below the rim.

  The familiar ritual calmed him a little, and he tried to keep his eyes from the clock. He usually left the house at two o’clock, and he would need to hurry now to regain the lost time. Gabriel chewed, his face settled into a scowl. Damn the wretch for messing up his day, not to mention for having the audacity to tell him she’d return again tomorrow. Well, he’d just see about that.

  Unbidden, the image her of sprawled on her back in the snow and laughing her silly head off flitted into his mind. His mouth twitched, just a little, but he suppressed his amusement with a reminder of his anger at her disturbing him and ruining his day. The idea that she would be at his gates at every opportunity between now and Christmas was appalling enough to make him grind his teeth.

  The girl was a danger to herself and a blasted nuisance. He could only pray his cousin had the good sense to send her packing as soon as possible.

  ***

  The wedding between Belinda Holbrook and Lord Edward Greyston, Marquess of Winterbourne, was naturally a brief affair, but Crecy was disturbed by the stilted atmosphere. The groom looked ill and Belle resigned to her fate. Her sister seemed intent on avoiding her, though, and so there was little opportunity to reassure herself that all was well. But Crecy felt Edward Greyston, her new brother-in-law, was a good man underneath that dour exteri
or. He had proved himself a hero in the war, he was clearly devoted and very protective of his young sister, and despite glowering at everyone and being generally antisocial, Crecy could detect no sign that he would be a cruel husband. That he’d been scarred by the war was obvious, but if anyone could heal such scars, Belle could. She was patient and loving, and braver than she realised herself, in Crecy’s opinion. So perhaps there were some hurdles to jump, but her instincts told her that Edward and Belle would make a success of their rather impromptu nuptials.

  Her own ambitions, therefore, were rather more to the forefront of her mind.

  It was easier than she might have imagined to get away again that afternoon, as the rather odd atmosphere drove everyone to make themselves scarce. Her time was short, though, as she would need to be home for dinner, and she didn’t want Belle fretting herself to death as she had the day before when Crecy had arrived home so late after getting herself hopelessly lost. At least she’d had a valid excuse for her disappearance, which didn’t involve trespassing and aggravating Winterbourne’s neighbour.

  It was colder today, the sun less sure of itself and only giving tantalisingly brief glimpses between the thick clouds that were rolling in off the hills. The taste of snow was in the air as the temperature dropped, and Crecy rode hard, wanting to keep the chill from her bones as the freezing air bit at fingers and toes.

  It occurred to her that she wouldn’t see him today. That he would take care to be out for the afternoon as she had forewarned him of her visit. Though she was much later than she’d intended to be, and it was almost four o’clock before she reached Damerel, and the countryside was already sinking into gloom. A shiver of apprehension rolled over her, perhaps she should not have come? Not that she was worried about seeing Lord DeMorte, far from it, but being lost again and in this weather …

  But then she caught sight of his carriage and those four glossy black horses, rolling their elegant path back to Damerel, and she pushed her mount on, galloping flat out until she caught up with them. Riding beside the carriage for a moment, she glimpsed inside just long enough to see DeMorte’s look of outrage, before riding off ahead to stand, awaiting his arrival on the doorstep of his home.

  A rather elderly butler came out to greet her, his rheumy eyes alight with curiosity.

  “I’m afraid his lordship is not here at this moment …” he began with a warm if rather anxious smile.

  “That’s all right, he’s coming now,” she said, sounding a little breathless as she slid from her mount. “And it’s Miss Holbrook,” she said, wondering if she had imagined the delight in his eyes at the sound of her name.

  “Indeed, miss,” he said, a flicker of mischief sliding into his expression. “Well, if Lord DeMorte is expecting you, won’t you step inside for a moment?”

  A look of understanding passed between them. It was quite obvious DeMorte neither wanted nor expected her after all, and both of them knew that they would likely pay for this small act of rebellion on the butler’s part, but neither of them gave a hoot.

  Crecy beamed at him. “I am rather cold, Mister…?”

  “Piper, Miss Holbrook,” he said, leading her in through the grand front doors, “Just call me Piper.”

  Crecy had hardly caught her breath and even to begin to take in the magnificent entrance hall before the sound of wheels on gravel could be heard and Gabriel Greyston stalked in, eyes flashing with anger.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he yelled, sounding so furious that even Crecy took an involuntary step backwards. Nonetheless, she put up her chin.

  “I told you I was coming,” she retorted, feeling that familiar sense of exhilaration that seemed quite normal in his presence prickle over her skin.

  “And I told you to stay away, blast you!” He walked closer to her, towering over her, his blue eyes bluer than ever as they glittered with anger.

  If he hoped to frighten her, however, he had misjudged, for the nearer he got, the harder Crecy found it to suppress the desire to reach out and touch him. She wanted to put her arms around him and rest her head on his chest; the urge to do so was so overwhelming that she blushed a little.

  DeMorte’s eyes darkened and he glanced up, a slight nod of his head to Piper indicating that he should leave, now. The old fellow hesitated for just a moment, before making himself scarce. DeMorte watched him go, before turning his attention back to her. Crecy’s heart skittered in her chest, her stomach taut, and yet such longing beneath her skin that she wondered if he could tell how much she wanted him.

  “Do you want me to ruin you?” he asked. His voice was low and dangerous, his hooded eyes angry. He reached out and she gasped as his hand slid around her neck, not tightly, but there was certainly an unspoken threat behind his actions. His thumb tilted her head back, forcing her to look up into his eyes. “Is that it? Is that what you desire from me?”

  Crecy was breathing so hard that for a moment she couldn’t find the words, but then she met his gaze, suddenly certain that there was confusion behind his eyes and that, in truth, it was he who was more afraid. He was trying to frighten her away, but there was no violence in the hand that grasped her neck; in fact, his touch was gentle and she felt sure he would release her if she were to seem afraid of him. It was the fact that she wasn’t that made him act so. She wondered if she ought to be more horrified by his words, if the fierce heat that uncoiled in her belly at the idea of allowing it to happen made her a vile and unnatural creature.

  “I want to be your friend,” she said, her voice soft and sincere.

  He snorted, the sneer across his cruel lips ridiculing that idea. “I do not have friends,” he said as though the idea was laughable, as though he’d descended beyond such ordinary human contact.

  “I know,” she said, her voice shaking a little now, but she refused to look away. “That’s why you need me so badly.”

  He glared at her, and this close, she could see that there were tiny flecks of gold in the blue, that his eyelashes were thick and as long as any girl’s, and then her eyes dropped to his mouth. She wondered what he would do, just how angry he would be … if she tried to kiss him.

  His hand fell from her neck and he took an abrupt step away, putting distance between them and turning his back on her.

  “I’ll have my carriage take you back to Longwold. If you come back here again, I’ll have you prosecuted for trespass, and don’t think I won’t do it just because you can twist any other fool around your finger with those pretty eyes of yours, Miss Holbrook, because you’ll soon discover your mistake.”

  Despite the seriousness of his tone, Crecy felt a smile creep over her mouth, and though she knew it would only serve to aggravate him further, she couldn’t seem to stop it.

  “What the devil are you smiling at?” he growled, moving backwards as she walked towards him. Crecy paused, her head tilted to one side a little as she considered him and everything she had learned of him so far. “You think it would be amusing to be prosecuted and have your name in the papers?”

  Her face fell at the idea, now she really considered it, and she shook her head. “No, indeed,” she admitted, thinking of just how distressed Belle would be if such a thing happened, and from the look in his eyes, he really did mean it. She felt suddenly dejected, wondering if the whole affair really was hopeless after all.

  “Well?”

  Crecy looked up, realising that he was still awaiting an answer. She smiled at him, but suspected it was rather a sadder expression now. “You think I have pretty eyes,” she said, her voice quiet as she walked away from him and to the front door.

  “Wait,” he said, his tone as demanding as ever. She paused and turned back to see him watching her, looking puzzled. “You won’t come back, will you?” he asked, sounding as though he was anxious she would still disobey him, though the anger had gone from his voice now.

  “Goodbye, Lord DeMorte,” she said, dipping a curtsy and going outside to his carriage.

  ***r />
  The next day, Crecy stayed away, not being brave enough to push her luck that far. Besides, her sister needed her support. Belle’s wedding night had appeared to be something of a non-event, her husband preferring to go out and get himself drunk and then freeze to death outside until Belle was able to persuade him back indoors.

  Belle, however, seemed to have a new sense of determination about her this morning, and did not appear to need Crecy’s demands that she not give up. As she spoke, however, Crecy realised she needed to take her own advice.

  “Don't be frightened off. If you don't interact with him, even if it's not exactly a positive experience, well, you've already lost,” she said, urging herself on as much as Belle.

  Belle frowned a little, but seemed to see the sense behind her words, and Crecy decided she must not give up herself. She was certain that DeMorte was a deeply lonely and unhappy man, wounded, somehow, but in a less obvious way than poor Edward. She needed to discover what haunted him so and find a way to exorcise whatever dark past seemed to shroud him with such pain. Certainty gripped her, and though she knew well that it was the kind of certainty that would give poor Belle conniptions, she decided she would act upon it, come what may.

  "You'll have to seduce him, Belle," she said, wishing she had the slightest idea of how to go about doing such a thing herself.

  "Crecy!" her sister exclaimed with obvious horror, and Crecy couldn’t help but smirk. Good Lord, if she knew what she was really thinking, she’d likely drop dead with the shock of it.

  "Oh, Belle," Crecy replied, mimicking her shocked tone. "Do stop being such a goose. I know what happens between a man and a woman."

  "You do?" Belle replied in alarm, looking as though all her fears had come to fruition at once. "How?"

  "Oh, never mind that!" Crecy said, impatient, now, and not about disclose that Aunt Grimble had educated her on a number of points she really ought not to have. "The point is that what does go on is powerful. If you can get him into your bed, you've a far greater chance of getting into his heart!" she added, her tone fierce, as much to convince herself of the truth of it as Belle. Belle, after all, was married; it was right and natural. Crecy was not and unlikely to be, and she had no evidence to suggest that DeMorte wouldn’t simply take what she offered and leave her in ruins.