Lions and Lace

by Meagan Mckinney

  He asked her something, but she didn’t hear him. All she could think about was how pitifully lonely she was going to be when their annulment came. She felt like Cinderella after the ball. Now that she had found her prince, her shadow man, he happened to be the one man she would never have.

  “What, no witty set-down? No defiant retort?”

  She stared at him. There was so much not to like about him. She even hated this mansion that he lived in. It was too big, too vulgar, too overdone. But when she thought of finally getting her white clapboard house along the beach and living there alone for the rest of her days, she knew how unhappy she would be. She’d pine for this harsh, angry man the rest of her days. The thought of never seeing him again, never taunting him, never sitting quietly in the drawing room holding hands and listening to Mara play the harp, made her want to throw herself to the sofa and keen as loudly as the Irish.

  “I’ve never seen you so quiet. Has the cat got your tongue?”

  “I—I’m not feeling well. I want to go to my room.” She put her hand to her burning cheeks and backed away. She left the library without another word while Trevor stared after her as if she were mad.

  It was almost two o’clock in the morning when Alana heard the banging at her door. Red-eyed and wide awake, she wiped her tear-stained cheeks, checked that the buttons on the neck of her peignoir were properly fastened, then went to the door.

  Secretly she nursed the hope that Trevor had come. In the small hours of the morning she’d spent pacing her room, she’d reconciled herself to the fact that she had somehow fallen in love with him. What she found difficult to accept was the hopelessness of the situation. And it was hopeless. She could never imagine that cold Irishman loving her, not when she represented everything he despised.

  With that thought giving her a grim resolve, she threw open her door and found Eagan smiling besottedly down at her.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” she whispered, her eyes reprimanding.

  “I jus’ got back from the Hoff’n House.” He walked passed her into her room.

  Her eyes widened, and she scurried in front of him. “You can’t come in here!” she said in a loud whisper. “Don’t you have any manners? This is a lady’s bedroom!”

  “Not to worry, Alana. I been in a lady’s bedrum afore. I jus’ came from one, ackshally.”

  “I can tell,” she answered, waving her hand to clear the air of the violet water that reeked from Eagan’s clothing.

  He sat down on her fringed and tufted chaise longue, looking ridiculously masculine slouched against all that pink satin. It wasn’t nearly big enough to accommodate his healthy frame, and every time he adjusted his seat, she was sure he was going to slide drunkenly down to the floor.

  “Oh, Eagan, you’re hopeless.” She went to him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I never had a mother, Alana. Least not as I can remember much. I want to talk to you like you’re my mam. Can I do that?”

  Taken aback, she nodded lamely.

  He gave her a wicked smile, then winked. “’Course, I feel things when I’m with you that I pray on me grave I’d never feel for me own mam.”

  Alana blushed and put a nervous hand to her neckline, wondering if her gown was too sheer.

  But before she could do anything about it, Eagan dropped his head in his hands and sighed. “Alana, I’m tireda havin’ all this fun. It’s killin’ me. For once I want to stand on me own two feet without Trevor behind me pullin’ the strings.”

  The honest ache in his tone touched her heart. She knelt before him and put a hand on his head. “He doesn’t pull the strings, Eagan. You just think he does. Trevor admires you. He’s always talking about how smart you are.”

  “He’s the one t’admire. He’s his own man.”

  “You’re your own man too. You just need to sober up a bit. I take it, it didn’t go well at the Hoffman House with your latest—uh …” She didn’t quite know what to call that woman she’d seen him with at the Academy. When she thought of Trevor’s word, she almost giggled.

  He looked up and clasped her arms. In utter earnestness he said, “For once, I want to bed a woman I love. I want to know if it’s any different. If it’s special.”

  She tried to pull away. Struck by a fit of nervousness, she said, “Oh, Eagan, why are you telling me this?”

  “’Cause I want to bed you. I want to see if I might love you. I think I might.”

  Shocked to her core, she sputtered, “This—this isn’t what you want, Eagan. You don’t love me. You just want to lash out at Trevor.”

  He stared at her, bleary-eyed. Taking her logic a step at a time, he finally cracked a smile. “But I do find you beautiful. Don’t that count?”

  “No,” she said sternly.

  “And Trevor ignores you somethin’ terrible, don’t deny it.”

  That truth lacerated her. She didn’t comment.

  “Come along, Alana, what’ll he care if you kiss me?” Eagan pulled her to him until she was half sitting, half struggling on his lap.

  “Eagan, stop this!” she said, unable to stifle her nervous giggle when he tried to put his lips to hers but in his besotted state kissed her chin.

  “Aw c’mon, luv, many a woman’d like to kiss me.…”

  “And has!” she answered, laughing and struggling in the same breath. “Oh, you bad man. For shame!” The words were barely out before Eagan lunged for her. That made him lose his precarious balance on the tiny chaise longue, and they both landed on the floor in an undignified heap.

  Alana became nearly hysterical with laughter, perhaps because she was trying so hard to dispel her gloom over Trevor. Eagan, being the man he was, simply took advantage of her good spirits. He gripped her waist and pulled her down onto him.

  He had just made an attempt to kiss her again when a voice shattered the moment, freezing both of them where they lay. “I ought to whip you like a cur, Eagan.”

  Terrified, Alana looked behind her and found Trevor standing in the doorway that separated their suite, his expression was hard and angry. He stared at her, and guilt seeped into her like water to a sponge. She scrambled off the floor, doing her best to pull herself together. In her peignoir, it was difficult.

  “This isn’t what it looks like, Trevor,” Eagan said, staggering to his feet.

  Trevor didn’t say a word. His stare burned into his brother until Eagan visibly flinched.

  “You’re mistaking this for something it’s not,” Eagan went on. “Now I grant you, I shouldn’t be here at this late hour, but it’s not—”

  “Get out.”

  It stunned Alana that Trevor could make two words seem like two hundred.

  At a loss, Eagan said, “Trevor, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I’d never cuckold—”

  “Get out.”

  “Let me explain!”

  “And what will you say?” Trevor snapped, glancing at his brother, then his wife, who clutched the neck of her peignoir like a terrified bride on her wedding night. “Will you say you don’t find my wife attractive? Will you say you think of her as a sister? Well, I’d never see you carry on with Mara like that.”

  Eagan glanced at Alana, his expression absolutely sober. He said to Trevor, “It was just me playing. I meant no harm.”

  “You ought to be gelded for such play.”

  Losing control of his temper, Eagan snapped, “Your wife might not be such a temptation if you kept her busy yourself.”

  Trevor moved forward, and Alana gasped. She thought they might get into a fistfight, but her husband stopped, his jaw clenched in one angry tight line. “Leave us,” he growled, his temper barely leashed.

  But Eagan would not leave without a final word. Angrily he said, “Admit it. It really bothers you to see Alana laughing with me, doesn’t it? I don’t think you even mind me touching her, but you can’t stand the thought that she might be having a good time—a good time that doesn’t include you.”

  �
�You’re talking about my wife!”

  “If she’s your wife, then make her your wife!”

  Trevor and Eagan stared at each other, locked in a silent battle. Alana was just about to intercede when Trevor said in an ominous tone, “Get out, Eagan. Get out now.”

  Eagan complied. He shot Alana an apologetic look, then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Left alone with her husband, Alana heard the ensuing silence like the boom of a cannon. Trevor turned to her, and the room seemed to echo with his rage. She was aghast at the emotion in his eyes. Part of her quailed at the fury she found there, but another part of her, the part that had paced in her room all night and longed for a husband who loved her, rejoiced. He was jealous, wildly jealous. If their relationship held any promise, it was in that streak of possessiveness that had flared when he caught her in Eagan’s embrace.

  There was a long foreboding pause while he stared at her. He seemed to be contemplating his next move and going through all the possibilities before making his decision. But he was Trevor Byrne Sheridan, and once his decision was made, he acted. “Go to my room, Alana,” he said quietly.

  Her eyes locked with his. She knew what he was thinking. His jealousy gave her new hope, but the time for what he intended now was wrong. He was only accepting Eagan’s challenge. He didn’t want to make love to her because he cared for her but because of the man he was. She could see it in his eyes. He’d never let a dare go unanswered.

  “No,” she said just as quietly, just as firmly.

  He nodded. Not a good sign. “You’re my wife, Alana, my legal wife, wed in the Catholic Church. I’ve rights. Go into my room, or I’ll get a policeman off the avenue to drag you in there.”

  “If you do this, there’ll be no annulment.”

  “Then there’ll be no annulment.”

  She stared at him, everything she wanted within her grasp yet so impossibly for away. If she refused his demand, she might never have another chance to salvage this marriage, but if she surrendered under these circumstances, would he be anything but cold and indifferent?

  She thought about all that had happened to her this evening and the subsequent revelations. She had believed she loved this man. And when she looked at him, her gaze caressing his dark hair, his lean jaw, his angry eyes, she knew she did love him. Just glancing at the cane in his hand made her know it. To most, that walking stick represented fear and limitation. But she could see only strength. That stick was proof that he’d fought fear and limitation to become what he was, a rich and powerful man.

  Perhaps it was only his struggle that touched her, but when she raised her gaze to him and saw the gruff, distant Irishman who had wed her, she no longer cared about the reasons for her feelings. She knew she loved him, and she knew that she’d move heaven and earth to make him love her.

  “Go, Alana,” he said.

  “Is this only because of Eagan?” she whispered, making one last attempt at self-preservation.

  “No,” he rasped.

  She looked at him, knowing she was going to believe him. Slowly, she walked to his room. Behind her, she heard the door close with a click that seemed to resonate for an eternity. An eternity seemed to pass before she summoned the courage to look at him.

  He stood with his back against the door staring at her as if methodically planning her seduction. She hadn’t noticed before, but he was still clothed in his evening attire, his jet studs still on his shirtfront, his white piqué vest still buttoned.

  In her peignoir, she felt naked standing in front of him, and his first command stopped her heart. “Go to the bed.”

  She turned frightened eyes to his looming tester bed. The chambermaid had long since prepared it, the creamy silk sheets pulled back forming a neat triangle to one side. Hesitating, she met his eyes. His dark hazel stare confronted her. He was not going to back down. She took the long journey to the bed.

  “Take off your dressing gown.”

  Her hand protectively covered the column of buttons at her throat. Though she wanted this, everything seemed wrong. There was no wine, no roses, no seduction. Instead there were terse commands, long shadows from the flickering of the gaslights, and her husband’s unwavering stare, dangerous and enticing.

  “The dressing gown.”

  She lowered her gaze to the wispy garment of peach silk. The dressing gown hid the sheer nightgown he’d bought for her trousseau. If she took off her dressing gown, she’d almost be standing before him naked. Her gaze caught his. A rush of longing swept through her. It was now or never. It was love or loss. Reluctantly, her fingers began to undo the buttons at her throat. The garment slipped off her arms into a shimmering puddle at her feet. Clothed in the sheerest silk the color of her skin, her breath quickened, and she watched him from the shadows of the enormous tester bed.

  Taking his own torturous time, starting at the bottom where the hem of her nightgown trailed behind her in a small frothy train, his gaze moved upward to the suggestion of shapely calves and lush thighs alluringly molded by the translucent silk. From his expression, the womanly curve of hips was apparently approved before he took in the silhouetted nip of her waist. Hungry now, his gaze wanted more, but the show was interrupted by her crossed arms. “Put your arms down,” he whispered in a harsh steady voice.

  She didn’t move, didn’t even look at him. She just stood there, frozen with fear and an inexpressible need. They’d been playing a game of dare, and she’d gone as far as she could.

  To equal the score, Trevor leaned his stick against the door and walked toward her, his gait stiff and uneven. Letting her see him like this was his way of sharing an intimacy, and her guard came down a little as she watched him go to a table near the bed and pour himself a drink from one of the crystal decanters.

  The scent of the cheap raw whiskey burned her nostrils. She wondered if he was going to pour her a drink too, and she hoped so, not only because it might strengthen her but because drinking together would be another intimacy shared.

  He took two large swallows before turning. She was disappointed to see he had only one glass. But then he held the glass out, his eyes beckoning her to take it. Her hand trembled as she reached for it. Sharing the glass with him sent an ominous tingle of excitement down her spine. This was only a foretaste of things to come, of what they would eventually share.

  Her lips touched the rim, and she relished her small taste of the whiskey. It was as strong as she remembered, but it warmed her, and the flavor reminded her of his kiss. The whiskey tasted of him.

  She handed the glass back to him. He accepted it and looked down at her, his eyes taking in everything he couldn’t see before. Her arms weren’t covering her any longer, and her breasts thrust against the mist of peach silk, her soft dusky nipples in plain view.

  His eyes darkened, and he took the rest of the glass in one gulp. Grimacing, for the whiskey had to burn like acid, he slammed the glass down on the night table. She was just about to clutch her arms to her chest again when he whispered, “No.” He laced her hands in his and kissed her, not permitting her to fight, not permitting her to touch him.

  They kissed, his mouth taking hers in a wild ritual of domination. She could barely breathe, but he seemed to have the power to take away her need for air, leaving her with only her need for him. She tried to touch him, but he wouldn’t let her, forcing her hands to her side until she ached with the desire to cup his handsome face in her hands.

  “Acknowledge me,” he groaned against her hair when he pulled his lips from hers.

  Confused, she shook her head, not understanding and too drugged from his kiss to respond.

  “Say my name,” he insisted. “Not Eagan … not Anson … my name.”

  “Trevor,” she gasped.

  “That’s it. Tá sé agat anis.” After that enigmatic sentence, he released her hands, thrust his arm beneath her bottom, and lowered her to the bed.

  His lips and body crushed her into the softness of the feather matt
ress, and his hand roamed, but not where she thought it would. Bracing herself for his touch on her breast, she was shocked when he moved lower, rubbing his, thumb through the peach silk across the triangle of deep gold hair that covered her womanhood. She gasped, but the sound was muffled by the heat of his tongue. Shuddering, she pulled back from his exquisite torture, but there was no escape. He’d captured her, body and soul, her entire being in his hands, a fragile butterfly to be crushed or stroked according to his whim.

  Pulling the sheer gown above her thighs, his touch went deeper until he elicited an unwilling response. Overwhelmed, she lay beneath him, the well-bred, high-born girl aching to let this Irishman master her body. His method was ceaseless until she nearly sobbed with pent-up excitement, but she fought her desire, almost hating him when he toyed with secret places she hadn’t known existed.

  Then he slowed. He pulled off a stud from his shirtfront and pulled down her gown from her shoulder. Inch by wretched inch, he undressed himself, then undressed her. When his vest and shirt lay in a heap on the carpet and his trousers were unbuttoned, her gown was but a small band around her chest. He amazed her with his control. The last thing he needed to remove was his trousers, and he did this gracefully, sliding them down his hips without even sitting up.

  He rolled naked to her side, and she expected he would rid her of her clothing with the same exacting expertise. But a spark flared in his eyes when he looked at her, a spark that seemed to burn away his control. Suddenly he no longer took his time. His hand stroked her skin, golden in the gaslight, and his eyes met hers, her own as dark with passion as with fear. He pushed her gown away from her breasts, and those same hands that had been gentle ripped the gown in two.

  The violence frightened her, but he saw her stiffening and knew the cure for it. His mouth drew on hers, and he made her forget everything except how his skin burned against hers, how the hair on his chin and chest and thighs dragged sensually over her smooth body, how his tongue tasted of that potent unforgettable whiskey.