Arms of a Stranger

by Danice Allen

  With a drunken roar the man lunged. Delacroix swung once, hit the man square on the jaw, and sent him sprawling.

  The entire ugly affair was settled in less time than it took to say sacre bleu. There had been no scuffle, no grunting, sweating, or thrashing about. With one neat clip to the jaw, Delacroix had flattened his foe. Dazed, Anne moved tentatively forward, as if afraid the man, like a wounded bear, might rise up and attack. He was facedown, a dribble of bloody drool hanging over his bottom lip. She stood over him, then nudged his arm with the toe of her boot. There was no response. He was out cold.

  Anne looked up into the face of her savior. Not even the first dew of perspiration dotted his upper lip. He was as cool as an English lake in spring. He was as unruffled and contained as a lone rooster strutting for the hens in his own personal barnyard. Anne was speechless.

  “Mademoiselle? Are you quite all right?”

  Anne dropped the board she’d been prepared to do battle with, and shook her head wonderingly. “You knocked him out. You completely leveled him with just one punch.”

  Delacroix frowned, working the fingers of the hand that had delivered the decisive blow. “Oui,” he said dismissively. “He was drunk and dirty, and I had no desire to wrestle with the fellow. Rest assured, I did him no permanent harm. He’ll sleep it off in a few hours, wake up wondering how he got where he is, then stagger home only a little the worse for wear.” He scanned her from tip to toe, a furrow of worry between his brows. “But I repeat, mademoiselle, are you unharmed? Are you only a little the worse for wear?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m perfectly fine,” she answered impatiently. “But tell me, Mr. Delacroix, how did you do it? I’d no notion you knew how to fight!”

  Delacroix shrugged. “I sometimes spar for the sport of it. As I am frequently in the company of females, I constantly have to be ready to defend myself against jealous ex-beaux, husbands, et cetera. However, rescuing damsels in distress is my specialty, and my favorite reason for using my pugilist skills.” He smiled slyly. “I usually get a kiss as a reward for my efforts.”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Anne, quickly looking away as the heat crept up her neck and flooded her cheeks with warmth. After kissing Renard so intimately last night, she felt it would be inappropriate to kiss Delacroix even as a reward for saving her. It confused her, though, that she still felt attracted to Delacroix after her tryst with Renard. “But I do sincerely thank you for coming to my rescue. How did you know where I was and that I needed help? I saw no one on the street when that lout dragged me in here.”

  Delacroix turned to pick up his cane. “I saw you at Congo Square. When you left, you did not take a cab, and I supposed you meant to walk home alone. That was foolish, mademoiselle, as foolish as coming to watch the dancing by yourself.”

  Anne was instantly defensive. “No one would bring me. What else could I do?”

  “You could have stayed home.”

  “But nothing happened to me!”

  Delacroix’s black eyes flashed. “Nothing happened to you because I had the presence of mind to follow you when you left Congo Square.”

  “I wonder you recognized me in that throng of people.”

  “Pigheaded females stand out in a crowd, mademoiselle.”

  “So do peacocks with a flock of hens in tow, Mr. Delacroix, but I didn’t see you!”

  Delacroix smiled, as if amused and pleased by her description. “You think me a peacock, eh? I have been called worse.”

  “Doubtless you have!”

  “However, I’m sure you meant to insult me. Enchanting, mademoiselle. Is this how young ladies in England are taught to thank their gallant protectors? By insulting them?”

  “You insulted me!” Anne gave a huff of impatience. “Oh, I do appreciate your intervention in this case, Mr. Delacroix, but I daresay the oaf only meant to dally with me. You know … kiss me, et cetera.”

  “It is the et cetera that ought to worry you. He may have meant only to dally with you at first, but passions have a way of running amok. He was drunk and very dangerous.”

  Anne sulked. He was right, and she hated to admit it. Indeed, she had been in grave danger of being raped, and she owed her salvaged virtue to Delacroix. Feeling unaccountably irritable, she changed the subject. “Why did you follow me from Congo Square?”

  “I told you why.” He extracted his glove from his jacket pocket and pulled it on, neatly and methodically tucking down the material between each finger. Anne watched, mesmerized as always by the lean shape and beauty of his hands. “I thought you might run into trouble.” He glanced up, his eyes brimming with wry humor. “And, you see, I was right.”

  “I live just a few blocks away. It really wasn’t such a foolish or unreasonable thing to attempt, you know, walking home such a little distance.” She gestured toward the prone figure of the man. “He was just an unfortunate fluke. Besides, why should you bother to safeguard a female you hardly know? It couldn’t have been convenient to traipse after me as you did.”

  “Oui, it was damned inconvenient. I left some rather scintillating company.”

  Anne took this to mean that, just as she’d assumed, he had been with fawning women. Or perhaps he had been with his mistress. For some reason, either possibility made her feel more argumentative. “Then there must have been some other more compelling reason why you followed me,” she insisted.

  Delacroix rolled his shoulders in a gesture of exasperation. “Is it a crime to be a gentleman? Other than the fact that it’s never safe for a female of your tender upbringing to walk out alone, an additional reason to keep your sort on a short tether is the fact that you, mademoiselle, seem to attract trouble.”

  Anne stuck out her chin defiantly. “My sort! There’s no reason for you to categorize me that way. Uncle Reggie keeps me perpetually on that hypothetical short tether you just mentioned, so I haven’t even had the smallest opportunity to attract trouble since I left England!”

  Except, of course, when she’d interrupted Renard’s escapade on the Belvedere. But there was no way Delacroix could know about that.

  They glared at each other.

  “Mademoiselle, I have observed you in society since we met on the Belvedere. You’ve made no secret of your rebellious nature. Such an unconventional, unfeminine attitude always attracts trouble.”

  Anne put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. “Is that so?”

  “Certainement. You don’t suppose I followed you because I’ve got some sort of tendre for you, do you? Believe me, cher, you’re not my sort. Not my sort at all.”

  Anne leaned closer, till they were practically nose to nose. “If I were your sort, Mr. Delacroix, I believe I’d have sufficient reason to instantly slit my throat. Real men don’t piddle their time away gaming and wenching—”

  “Don’t they?” he murmured.

  “And they don’t spend all their time and money on themselves. Real men do something important with their lives, like fighting for a cause, or raising a family, or building a school, or … or … something!”

  By now, Delacroix’s jaw looked as hard as granite. His eyes glistened like sizzling bits of blackest coal. Anne smiled triumphantly, thrilled to have nettled him out of his usual bored ennui. “And real men don’t—”

  Anne was startled and silenced when Delacroix grabbed her by the upper arms. He removed what little distance was left between them by pulling her flush against his chest. Then he walked her backward and leaned her against the wall. Dazed, Anne didn’t put up the least resistance.

  She could feel the cool, round contour of a watch locket against her right nipple—which had become instantly, embarrassingly hard. She felt the blood rush to her head, to her fingertips, to her toes, as if her heart had suddenly decided to pump full-throttle. Behind the locket, Delacroix’s chest was broad and warm.

  She was close enough to see the shadow of evening stubble on his jaw, to see how dark and st
ormy his eyes got when he was in a rage. But it was a contained rage, for which small blessing Anne was extremely grateful.

  “My poor, dear enfant,” he said with menacing calm, “I don’t believe you have the slightest notion what real men do.” His breath was pleasant, suggesting the taste of mint and lemon and afternoon tea. Reflexively she gave her bottom lip a quick swipe of her tongue. He caught the movement and riveted his gaze to her mouth. “So … as you are so regrettably unenlightened, why don’t I show you what real men do?”

  This was Anne’s second time against that wall within the short space of ten minutes. She’d been pinned there unwillingly the first time by a disgusting, dangerous stranger intending to deflower her. Now she wasn’t sure how she’d gotten herself pinned again, and she wasn’t sure whether it was unwillingly or not Delacroix’s hold on her was quite different from the stranger’s. It was strong, but it wasn’t restraining. She knew she had only to push him away, and he’d release her.

  So why didn’t she push him away? She didn’t like him. She didn’t like him at all…

  “You fight with the fury of a wildcat, cher. Do you kiss with the same passion?”

  Anne felt her control slipping away as Delacroix’s lips moved closer and closer. She supposed it was too late to pray for another rain shower to dampen their ardor.

  She saw the lips curve in a smile. “Remember, ma petite, close your eyes…”

  She closed her eyes. They kissed. She was fully involved, completely bowled over by an onslaught of sensations she’d never experienced before.

  Well, almost never … She’d felt very much the same while being kissed by Renard!

  His lips were firm and warm, coaxing and claiming her willing cooperation. Her own lips parted in a gasp, and he traced the smooth surface of her teeth with his tongue. She opened her mouth a fraction more and shyly touched the tip of her tongue to his. The kiss deepened. He made a sound of pleasure—a throaty, masculine sound that pierced through the remnants of Anne’s composure, leaving her quivering and weak with desire.

  And curious. Her mind reeled with the sensual possibilities of exploration. Her trembling hands moved from his upper arms, around to his hard back, and up to the nape of his neck. Thick fringes of his ebony hair lapped over the edge of his collar, and she wove her fingers through it. It felt like silk.

  Delacroix’s hands had, till then, been flat and unmoving against the small of her back. Now they moved, too, clasping her waist, pulling her closer. Oh, so close. She could hear the drums from Congo Square in the distance, their primitive beat seeming to vibrate through every nerve in her body. Anne felt deliciously wicked, wanton, abandoned to all sense of propriety. She was oblivious to time, to place, to everything but the man who held her, kissed her…

  “Cher? Shall I wait for you in the carriage, or will you be … brief?”

  Spoken with a tinge of amused sarcasm, the low-pitched, mellifluous, wholly feminine voice coming from where the alley opened onto the street shattered the spell that held Anne in thrall. Simultaneously Delacroix and Anne pulled apart, their arms dropping hastily to their sides, as if they were two guilty children caught wrestling in their Sunday best and endeavoring to look innocent.

  He looked at her; she looked at him. Delacroix appeared totally out of character—blissfully mauled, bemused, as if he’d been startled from a trance. She had the disturbing suspicion that she looked just as strange, just as disheveled and compromised. Then they both looked at the person who had interrupted them. It was Delacroix’s mistress.

  A few beats of silence fell. Anne stared at the beautiful quadroon, dressed in a stunning gown of bright pink, a white, lacy tignon on her head. She held herself with regal grace, as if she were somehow above the scene she’d just stumbled onto. She stared back at Anne, a cool curiosity in her expression, a faint smile on her lips.

  Under this condescending scrutiny, Anne felt more and more foolish by the instant. And all the rushing, swelling, fitful throes of passion shrunk and expired. Now Anne felt shame. She dropped her gaze to the ground. She did not dare look at Delacroix. But perhaps he was embarrassed, too…

  “You, of all people, Micaela, know I can never be ‘brief.’ So much pleasure is lost in haste, n’est-ce pas?”

  Anne’s head reared up at the sound of Delacroix’s mocking drawl. She couldn’t believe it! He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed. He was completely himself again, his eyelids drooping in his usual expression of haughty boredom. His mouth—the mouth that had so cleverly enticed her to forget any sense of propriety to which she had previously aspired—curved into a self-satisfied smirk. Anne was mortified, angry, and, for once, speechless.

  “What a shame, cher,” he said to her, “that such a pleasant interlude was cut short, eh? Life is unpredictable. Who knows when we might be able to take up where we left off?”

  Anne was speechless, but she had full command of her hands. She slapped his face.

  Delacroix barely flinched from the blow, though she’d put all her strength behind the swing and knew she’d hurt him. He rubbed his jaw and looked ruefully at her. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “I suppose you did.” She barely recognized her own voice. It was hoarse, faint, trembling.

  Anne’s conscience told her that she was just as much to blame for the intimacies between them as he was. She hadn’t pulled away, and she’d participated with as much ardor as he had. Maybe more. But with Delacroix’s mistress standing by, Anne’s embarrassment overrode all sense of fairness. As a lady, she had a duty to put the decadent dandy in his place.

  “Come, mademoiselle, I will escort you home.” He reached for her arm, but she moved quickly away.

  “Nonsense, Mr. Delacroix,” she said haughtily. “You have someone waiting for you. I wouldn’t dream of wrenching you away from her scintillating company yet again. Besides, I daresay there shan’t be room in the carriage for all three of us. I shall walk home alone, just as I meant to do from the beginning.” She turned and took a step toward the street

  He detained her by swiftly catching hold of her arm. “Even a simpleton would have concluded by now that it is dangerous for a female of your type to walk alone.”

  “Are you speaking of the danger from you, Mr. Delacroix, or from that fellow lying facedown in the dirt? Because, as I recall, I was in just as much danger of being compromised by you as I was by—”

  “You are safe with me,” he said wryly. “I promise you.”

  “I wasn’t safe from you a moment ago—”

  “Nor I from you,” he returned.

  Anne stiffened. “Sir, you are no gentleman!”

  “The truth stings your pride, n’est-ce pas?” He rubbed his jaw again where she’d slapped him. “For today at least, I can vouch for my own good conduct. Can you?”

  Anne lifted her chin. “I can vouch for mine.” She indicated the mistress—who still watched with an amused expression—with a sideways nod of her head. “Is she the safekeeper of your conduct, Mr. Delacroix? Are we to have a chaperone?”

  “No.” He turned and spoke gently to the woman. “Micaela, go and wait in the carriage, s’il vous plaît. I will walk the lady home. I dare not leave her to her own devices.”

  Anne stamped her foot. “I don’t need your assistance!”

  Micaela arched her fine brows. “Of course, cher, I will wait for you in the carriage if that is what you wish. Certainly you must see the lady home. Take good care of her, but don’t take too long. Au revoir, cher. Au revoir, mademoiselle.” She turned with a swish of skirts and was gone.

  “I hope you’re happy,” snapped Anne, “mortifying me in front of that woman! Now if you don’t mind—” She tugged at her arm, which he still held in a firm grip.

  “I meant what I said. You’re not walking home alone. Now come along.” He ruthlessly pulled her arm against his side, their elbows locked, in the usual manner of promenading couples. “And unless you wish to make a scene, don’t strug
gle and try to dash off. I’ll run right after you, creating a diversion for Sunday strollers which will make both of us prime fodder for the gossip mill for weeks. The choice is yours, but I hope you’re not so pigheaded that you can’t acquiesce—for once!—to reason and common sense.”

  “Very well,” said Anne, angrily jerking her veil over her face again. “Walk me home if you’re so determined to be ridiculous. But don’t expect conversation.”

  He guided her toward the street. “Believe me, cher, I neither expect nor desire conversation. But I advise you, unless you wish to be thought quite unnatural, erase that scowl from your face and try to look more pleasant. I’m never seen with unhappy females. Show your teeth.”

  “Pompous toad!” she mumbled as they emerged into the sunlight.

  “Insufferable brat,” he retorted in an undertone.

  And thus did they return to Prytania Street, strolling along at Delacroix’s usual elegant pace, with smiles on their lips, pleasant greetings to acquaintances they chanced upon, and a steady stream of whispered insults exchanged with enthusiasm between them.

  He left her at the gate. “Don’t bother to invite me in, mademoiselle,” he said mockingly. “Though I’m sure you wish to thank me properly for my invaluable assistance—”

  “Humph!”

  “—since we were so sadly interrupted during your last attempt at thanking me—”

  “Scoundrel!”

  “—but I am persuaded to think that you’d rather enter the house the way you left it—on tiptoes.”

  Anne did not deign to reply. She rudely turned her back on Delacroix and marched with stiff dignity through the gate and down the flower-bordered walkway to the front door of the house. She had her hand on the doorknob, ready to turn it, when a perverse notion made her glance back over her shoulder to see if Delacroix watched from the gate.

  He was still there, but he seemed to have only been waiting for her to notice him, the cad! He smiled sardonically and tipped his hat, then turned his back on her!