Damnation. Where the devil were his own lads? Rolling over onto his back, he blocked another blow and slammed the head of the shovel into someone’s gut. As he scrambled to his feet, he caught sight of a figure standing at the corner of the stable building. With a grim smile Oliver Sullivan ducked out of sight.
The attack abruptly made sense—though the knowledge didn’t make it any less painful. He struck out again, whipping sideways to catch one of them with his elbow. They might be hired ruffians, but he’d been a soldier for four of the past five years. The gouge in his thigh ached, but he ignored it.
They’d obviously come to hurt him, but had they come to kill him? He didn’t think so, or that first blow would have been to the back of his head rather than to his legs. But he didn’t have any promise of money keeping him from using lethal force. And ever since he’d returned home he’d been spoiling for a good fight.
A hard fist met his shoulder, and he staggered back a step, throwing another punch in response. This would have been so much more satisfying if Oliver had stayed to fight his own battle. But with his half-brother gone and himself outnumbered four to one—
“Is whatever he’s paying you worth a cracked skull?” he panted.
Two of them grabbed him, shoving him back against the hard wooden railings of the pen. “Depends on whose skull’s being cracked,” the first one rasped, then reared back his fist and punched. Everything went blurry, until another fist connected with his chin. Then the gray morning went black.
He opened his eyes to someone shaking his shoulder. Striking out, his fist connected. The sound of a surprised yelp echoed around the yard.
“Mr. Waring! For God’s sake!”
Sullivan blinked hard. “Damnation, Halliwell, help me up.”
“We chased those brigands away,” his groom said, as he lifted one shoulder and Samuel pulled him up by the other. “For a moment we thought they’d murdered you.”
“No, they just wanted to give me a message.” Gingerly he shook dirt and straw out of his clothes and touched one hand to his bruised jaw. His skull and ribs hurt, as well, but none of the fellows who’d attacked him would be dancing tonight, either. If he had anyone to tell about the incident, they’d be fairly easy to identify.
“Lord Massey’s back at our wagon, asking after Spartan,” Samuel informed him, retrieving the gloves Sullivan had dropped and returning them.
So a little beating and then back to business. Considering his mood toward Massey’s kind at the moment, the viscount was not going to like how much Spartan was going to cost him. And as for Oliver…
Sullivan clenched his fists. Obviously this was because of Isabel. Walking over to a water barrel, he dunked his head. The cold water shocked away his grogginess, and he stepped back and shook out his hair.
Oliver considered him a threat? A rival? That was interesting, since Isabel and her parents would be foolish to let her dally with a horse breeder, even one of unacknowledged aristocratic lineage, when a viscount was panting after her. Oliver seemed to be worried about something, though. And it wasn’t a business rivalry, for damned certain.
For the moment he pushed back his anger. Riding Tilden down and beating him might give him some satisfaction, but it would also end with him in shackles. It was too soon for that, since he still had three paintings left to reclaim, three more opportunities to dig at Dunston’s hypocrisy.
Even with that in mind, he couldn’t help thinking about Isabel. He knew she liked him; from the moment she’d begun ordering him about he’d known that. But did she like him enough to threaten Oliver’s pursuit of her? Apparently so.
“Mr. Waring?”
He blinked. “Yes. I’ll go see to Massey. Halliwell, you have the papers for the other three animals?”
“I do, sir.”
“Good. After I sell Spartan I’ll need to go see to Zephyr’s morning training. Take Hector out when you return and run him. He’s to go off to Lord Esquille’s tomorrow, and I don’t want him trampling Esquille’s mares when he’s supposed to feel romantic.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want an escort?”
“What?” He noted Halliwell’s look, and touched the bruise on his chin. “No. They did what they came to do. They won’t be back.” At least not until he did something else about which Oliver could disapprove.
“I have to say, Phillip, I wasn’t terribly enthusiastic to have Lord Bramwell Johns here as one of your dinner guests last month, but perhaps I’ve underestimated his character.” Lady Darshear deftly changed the thread color of her embroidery and continued sewing. “If he hadn’t danced with Tibby last night, she might have had a difficult evening. We all might have.”
“It’s all frip and folly anyway,” Douglas put in, setting aside the book on horse breeding he’d found after Isabel had set it aside. “How can people be angry that we hired Sullivan Waring? Everyone wants to hire Waring.”
Isabel gave an indignant snort—or at least she hoped it sounded more indignant than panicked. “They’re not angry. They think they’ve found some good gossip, that I’m mooning over Waring or something, simply because I hugged him after he helped me ride a horse.”
“You should have been more careful, Tibby,” Phillip commented. “Especially with Oliver Sullivan hanging about.”
“You were happy as a kitten with twine when I hired Mr. Waring,” Isabel shot back, “and you were the one who knew of his connection to Oliver.”
“There is no connection, officially.”
“Don’t tangle the circumstances any more than they already are, Phillip. Sullivan is Dunston’s son, whatever anyone’s willing to say about it publicly.” Seeing the look her parents sent one another, Isabel swallowed. “So the entire thing’s just ridiculous. And I’m certain it won’t be more than a day before someone else does something more scandalous than thank someone for their help, and everyone will forget my…whatever it is we’re calling it. Act of gratitude, I suppose.”
“You do have a point,” her father noted. “But please be cautious. There’s no sense in giving even a rumor teeth.”
“People are still stupid.”
“As a whole, I tend to agree,” the marquis returned. “And for your own sake, my sweet one, pray keep that in mind.”
“Oh, I will.”
She would definitely keep it in mind. Whether it changed her actions, though, was another matter entirely. Last evening had been a rather eye-opening experience.
The butler came into the morning room and sketched a bow. “My lord, Mr. Waring is here. You asked to be informed.”
The marquis winced, then pushed to his feet. “So I did. Excuse me a moment, everyone.”
Her heart skipping a beat, Isabel practically leapt to her feet, as well. “What do you want with Mr. Waring?”
His wince deepened into a pained expression. “I want a word with him, Tibby. None of your concern.”
“I paid him to accomplish a task for me,” she pressed, following him as he exited the room. “I expect him to finish it.”
“At the expense of your reputation?”
“I won’t embrace him again,” she said, knowing full well that she was lying. Nothing else seemed to matter where Sullivan Waring was concerned; nothing but being able to be in his presence. “For heaven’s sake.”
“I know you like to have your way, Isabel,” her father countered, continuing down the hallway, “but I suggest you choose your excitement more wisely. We’ll find someone else to finish Zephyr’s training.”
“You said Sullivan Waring was the best.”
“The best is not worth another night like the last one. You were devastated.”
“I was not devastated. I was angry. I’m still angry. I thought better of Eloise. And everyone else who whispered about me. Ridiculous. All of them.”
“You say that now, but I doubt you’ll feel the same if no one comes to your rescue next time.”
She wasn’t so certain about that. There were worse things she could imagine, and th
is was one of them. Her fingers shaking, something like panic tightening her chest, Isabel reached out to put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “I am nearly twenty years old, Papa,” she said, her voice mostly steady, “and I am perfectly capable of working with Mr. Waring.”
“Isa—”
“Leave it be, Papa,” she insisted. “I’ll take care of it.”
For a long moment he looked at her, the deep brown eyes beneath his straight brows serious. “Then do so, Tibby. Because of who he is, people notice him. And because of who he isn’t, you need to watch your step in his presence. Even more carefully now. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another riding lesson this morning.”
Her father obviously thought that was a very bad idea, and the logical part of her agreed. The other part, the one that had apparently taken control of her actions over the past several weeks, was hard-pressed not to run out to the stable yard. When had this happened? And why couldn’t she seem to listen to sense, even from herself?
Assuming a civilized walk and smoothing her skirts, she left the house. The stable yard was filled with its usual quotient of horses and grooms, but at first glance she didn’t see Sullivan. Not at second glance, either.
“Phipps,” she said, spying the head groom, “I thought Mr. Waring had arrived.”
“He’s in the stable, my lady.” A muscle in his cheek jumped. “You might want to give him a bit of distance this morning.”
“Why is that?”
“I—I couldn’t say, my lady.”
“Then I shall go see for myself.” Drawing her abrupt sense of uneasiness back in around her, Isabel trudged over the soft ground and into the building. She paused in the doorway, then saw his head and shoulders inside Zephyr’s stall. “I see you managed to be prompt this morning, Mr. Waring,” she said, continuing forward and unable to help the grin that touched her mouth.
Sullivan kept his back turned as he fastened a bridle over Zephyr’s harness, and then a lead line to that. “I try to please, Lady Isabel. How was your party last evening?”
She frowned. “Did Lord Bramwell say something to you?”
“No.”
“Well, I know you asked him to dance with me.”
He shifted, fastening a saddle blanket across Zephyr’s back. “I asked him to keep an eye on you. The dancing was his idea.” He paused. “Bram’s a notorious womanizer, you know.”
“Yes, he’s told me that himself.” Isabel put her hands on the board topping the near wall of the tiny enclosure. “Since you might hear it elsewhere, I’ll tell you that there were a few uncomfortable moments last evening, but they passed quickly.”
“I’m glad, then.”
She slapped her hand on the wood. “Sullivan Waring, look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
His broad shoulders lifted and fell, and then he turned around. “As you wish.”
Isabel gasped. “What happened?”
One of his sleeves was torn at the elbow, and he’d lost a button off his waistcoat. The damage to his clothes was secondary, though, to what she saw on his face.
Sullivan had a deep red scratch across his throat, and a black and blue bruise crossing part of his mouth and the left side of his chin. His left eye was circled by a painful-looking black bruise, and his brown and golden hair looked as though he’d combed it by dragging his fingers through it.
“What happened?” she repeated, reaching over the stall to touch his chin. His skin felt warm before he ducked backward, away from her fingers.
“I had a disagreement.”
“With what, a bear?”
He grinned briefly, wincing as the movement pulled the bruise over his mouth. “Several of them.” Taking the lead line in one hand, he unlatched the stall door with the other. “Do you want to ride Molly today?”
“Not until you tell me who did this to you.”
“I’ll assume that’s a no, then. Come along, Zephyr.”
Taking a deep breath, Isabel folded her arms across her chest and refused to move out of the way. “Answer me.”
Ice-green eyes met hers, then moved away. “I don’t live among tea-drinking dandies, Tibby,” he finally said. “Don’t trouble yourself about it.”
“It does trouble me, Sullivan. Tell me.”
He stopped directly in front of her, Zephyr behind him. “I was here at the appointed time, and I’m able to train your mare as per our agreement. Why should anything else concern you?”
“Because it does.”
“It shouldn’t.”
“And you ‘shouldn’t’ be arguing with me, and we ‘shouldn’t’ have kissed,” she retorted. “We’re friends, Sullivan, and I want to know—”
“‘Friends’?” he interrupted. He grabbed the front of her dress in his fist and yanked her up against him. “Are we friends, Lady Isabel?”
Her heart hammered so hard he could probably hear it. “Y…yes, we’re friends. You—”
“Are you shunned when you embrace your other friends?” he broke in again, his voice deepening to a low, sensuous growl. “We talk in secret. We kiss in secret. Any suspicion of even friendship between us gets you slighted and me pummeled.”
Desperately Isabel tried to follow the conversation rather than the heady rush of her blood beneath her skin. “Someone beat you because I hugged you? That’s—”
“I’m not worth the trouble as a friend, Tibby,” he murmured, the sound of her nickname lingering intimately in the air between them. “You have friends. Friends who don’t cause you trouble. So do I. I’m not here for friendship.”
If her heart beat any faster she was going to faint. “No, you’re here because I’m blackmailing you.”
He shook his head, pulling her a breath closer. “I’m here because I want you. Your touch. Your body. That is what I would take a beating for.”
Oh, goodness. “Sullivan, I want—”
“Before you finish that, consider what rumors of an innocent embrace did to you. And if you’re going to say you want to be my friend…” His voice shook as he spoke those words. “If you want us to be friends, friends don’t do this.”
He brought his mouth down over hers. Hard and ruthless, stealing her breath and the strength from her bones. Oh, she wanted to sink into him, to climb inside him and never emerge until she’d figured him out. Her seeking tongue tasted salt; his blood, probably from the blow to his chin.
She moaned, grabbing his shoulders, the back of his neck, into his wild hair with her hands. The taste of him excited her beyond words. It was the most intimate thing she’d ever felt. And he wanted more. More, when just this could destroy her.
With the fist still wound into the front of her dress, he abruptly pushed her away. “Consider all of that before you answer me,” he said brusquely, releasing her to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth. “Consider all of the ruin I could bring to your reputation and your future, all of the peril I could bring to your heart, because you and I both know that this leads to nowhere but ruin.”
Brushing her back another step, he led Zephyr forward. “And when you’ve considered,” he went on in the same heated, barely controlled tone, “if it’s damnation you want, then I’ll see you inside this stable at midnight tonight. If you have any sense at all, I’ll see you in the morning when I come to tend your mare.”
“But—”
“But right now if I set eyes on you again, I’m liable to wreck both of us. So go inside your house, Isabel, where you’ll be safe.”
She wanted to argue, to protest that he wasn’t allowed to order her about. She was the one who dictated to him. Isabel watched him leave the stable, caught her breath, and waited until the heat she felt in her cheeks faded.
He was right; she needed to consider what she wanted very carefully. And so she gathered her skirts and ran back into the house. He’d been wrong about one thing, already. Knowing he was just outside didn’t leave her feeling safe at all.
Chapter 1
6
Isabel flipped open the cover of the pocket watch she’d borrowed from Douglas. That was to say, if and when he missed it she would claim that she’d borrowed it.
Ten minutes until midnight. Sullivan had picked a good evening for his ultimatum: Parliament had an early morning session tomorrow, so no late-night events had been scheduled. By now the house was quiet, and as far as she knew, everyone had gone to bed.
She’d put on her night rail, but that had been because Penny was there to help her dress for bed. The maid would have been suspicious if she’d announced her intention to sleep in her gown. She’d blown out the candle on the bedstand, again just as a precaution against any of the footmen on their way to their quarters seeing that she remained awake.
At the same time, she hadn’t crawled beneath the covers of her very comfortable bed. In fact, she still sat at the dressing table, where she could eye Douglas’s watch every two minutes as midnight crept closer. And one thing had become clear: Sullivan Waring knew her better than she expected.
From the moment she’d begun ordering him about, he’d probably realized that she had more than revenge or blackmail on her mind. He’d kissed her first, but since then she’d looked for every opportunity to kiss him or to be kissed by him again. And yes, the only conclusion to this would be her ruination. At the same time, this seemed the most likely and logical step in her…growing up, in the opening of her eyes that had happened to her since they’d met.
She checked the pocket watch again. Six minutes. If he’d been reconciled to his father and the Sullivan family, then a connection between them might have at least been imaginable. As it was, with him climbing through noblemen’s windows and getting shot at in order to recover a handful of paintings he couldn’t even show anyone, he was very likely going to end up dead. And if anyone saw them together, she would wish herself dead.
After the Kiss Page 17