Laurel McKee

by Countess of Scandal

  “Not a great deal. But enough to know when I am being insulted.”

  He laughed, a harsh, rusty sound, as if he did not use it very often. “It is hardly an insult. Merely the truth.”

  Before Anna could tell what he was doing, he grabbed her wrist, holding it between his strong, callous fingers. Though his touch was light, she sensed she could not easily break away. That eerie fascination, that hypnosis he seemed to cast around her, tightened like a glittering web.

  Unable to breathe, to think, she watched as he unfastened the tiny black pearl buttons at her wrist, peeling back the silk. A sliver of her pale skin was revealed, her pulse pounding just along the fragile bone.

  “You see,” he said quietly. “You are small and delicate, trembling like a little bird.”

  He lifted her wrist to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to that thrumming pulse. Anna gasped at the heat of that kiss, at the touch of his tongue to her skin, hot and damp. She tried to snatch her hand away, but his fingers tightened, holding her fast.

  “You should not be here among the hawks, little bird,” he muttered, his gaze meeting hers in a steady burn.

  There was something about those eyes…

  Anna had a sudden flash of memory. A man on a windswept hill, his long, black hair wild. A man who held her close in a dark, deserted stable, who kissed her in the midst of danger and uncertain fates. A man all tangled up in her blood-soaked memories.

  A man with green eyes.

  “Is… is it you?” she whispered without thinking.

  His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “I told you, beag peata. You should not be here.”

  “I go where I please,” she said, an attempt at defiance even as her head spun.

  “Then you are a fool. Everyone should be most careful these days. You never know who is your friend and who is your foe.”

  “I am not stupid, sir.” Angry and confused—and, she feared, aroused by him—she tried again to twist away.

  He would not let her go. Instead, he drew her closer, his other arm coming around her waist and pulling her up against him. His body pressed to hers, warm and hard through the slippery satin of her gown.

  “Since you insist on staying, then,” he said, “you should have a dance.”

  Before she could protest or even draw a breath, he lifted her up, carrying her into the whirling press of the dance floor.

  She stared up into his eyes, mesmerized as he slowly slid her back down to her feet. He twirled her about, her hand held over her head in an arch.

  “I don’t know the steps,” she gasped.

  “We’re not at a Castle assembly,” he said roughly, dipping her back in his arms. “No one cares about the steps here.”

  As he spun her again, Anna stared around in a dizzy haze. He was quite right—everyone seemed to use the dance merely as an excuse to be close to each other. Very close. The couples around them were pressed together as they twirled in wild circles, their bodies entwined.

  She looked back into his eyes, those burning green eyes that saw so very much. He seemed to see all the fear and guilt she tried to keep hidden. That mesmerizing light in his eyes reeled her closer and closer.

  She suddenly laughed, feeling reckless and giddy with the champagne, the music, and being so close to him, to the heat and light of him. Well, she had come here to forget, had she not? To leave herself behind and drown in the night. She might as well throw all caution to the wind and go down spectacularly.

  Anna looped her arms around his neck, leaning into the hard, lean strength of his muscled body. “Show me how you dance, then,” she said.

  His jaw tightened, his eyes never wavering from hers. “You should go home now.”

  “Ah, no. The night is young. And you said I should dance.”

  In answer, he dragged her tight against him, his hands unclasping hers from around his neck as he led her deeper into the shifting patterns of the dance. Even as the crowd closed around them, pressing in on her, she could see no one but him. The rest of the vast room faded to a golden blur; only he was thrown into sharp relief. He held her safe in his arms, spinning and spinning until she threw back her head, laughing as she closed her eyes.

  It was like flying! Surely any danger was worth this. For one instant, she could forget and soar free.

  But then he lifted her from her feet again, twirling her through an open door and into sudden silence and darkness. She opened her eyes to see they were in a conservatory, an exotic space of towering potted palms and arching windows that let in the cold, moonlit night. The air smelled of damp earth, rich flowers, of the clean salt of his warm skin.

  There were a few whispers from unseen trysts behind the palms, the ghostly echo of music. But mostly she heard his breath, harsh in her ear. She felt the warm rush of it against the bare skin of her throat. Her heart pounded, an erratic drumbeat that clouded all her thoughts, obscured any glimmer of sense.

  And, for the first time since they started dancing, she felt truly afraid. She was afraid of herself, of the wild creature inside that clamored to be free. Afraid of him, of his raw strength and strange magnetism that would not let her go, of who she suspected he was.

  Afraid he would vanish again.

  He set her down on a wide windowsill, the stone cold through her skirts, his hands hard as he held her by the waist. Anna braced herself against his shoulders, certain she would fall if he let go. Fall down and down into that darkness that always waited so she could never find her way out again.

  “You should listen to me, beag peata,” he said, his accent heavy and rich like whiskey. “This is no place for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?” she whispered. “And what do you know of me?”

  “You are too young and innocent for the likes of these people.”

  “These people? Are you not one of them?”

  His lips curved in a humorless smile that was somehow more disquieting than all his scowls. “Assuredly so.”

  “And so am I—tonight. I am not so innocent as all that.” Innocents did not do what she had done, seen what she had seen. They did not commit murder.

  “Oh, but you are,” he whispered. “I can see it in those blue eyes of yours. You are a lamb among lions here.”

  She laughed bitterly. “But I can be a fierce lamb when I need to be.”

  “You’re very brave.” He took her hand in his, sliding his fingers over the silk of her glove until they completely circled her wrist and then tightened.

  She gasped. His hold wasn’t painful, but she was all too aware that she could not break free from him, could not escape. The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered, and she couldn’t speak. She just shook her head—she was not brave at all.

  “Brave, and very foolish,” he said hoarsely, as if he was in pain. “Don’t do this to me.”

  “What…” She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Do what to you?”

  “Look at me the way you do.” He leaned into the soft curve of her body, resting his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes, feeling the essence of him wrap all around her. She felt safe, safer than she had in so very long, and yet more frightened than ever. This had to be a dream, something not real. He could not be real.

  He let go of her wrist, bracing his hands on the window behind her. Slowly, she felt his head tilt, his lips lower toward hers. The merest light brush, a tantalizing taste of wine and man. His tongue swept across her lower lips, making her gasp at the hot sensation. The damp heat of it was like a drug, sweetly alluring like laudanum in wine, pulling her down into a fantasy world. He bit lightly at that lip, soothing it again with his tongue.

  She felt his hands sliding over her shoulders, bared by the daring gown, trailing a ribbon of fire over her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat, and the sensitive skin just at the top of her breasts.

  But then he was gone, pulling back from her, his arms dropping away. She cried out involuntarily, her eyes flying open. He stood across from her, hi
s back turned, his shoulders stiff.

  She would wager that was not the only part of him that was stiff, either, but he would not turn to her again.

  “Go home now,” he growled, his hands tightening into fists.

  Anna knew she might be foolish, but she also knew when to cut her losses and retreat. She leaped down from the ledge, her legs trembling so she could hardly walk. But she forced herself to turn toward the door, taking one careful step after another.

  “And don’t ever come here again!” he shouted after her.

  She broke into a run, hardly stopping until she was safely bundled into a hackney carriage, racing toward home. She ripped off her mask, burying her face in her gloved hands. But that did not help at all; she could smell him on the silk, on herself, taste him on her lips.

  Damn him! How could he do this to her again? Or rather, how could she do this to herself? He had drawn her into his strange world once before; she couldn’t let him do it again. She wouldn’t let him.

  Chapter Two

  Aigh se,” Conlan McTeer, Duke of Adair, muttered. He rubbed his hands hard over his face, resisting the urge to drive his fist into the stone ledge where she had just sat. Even though she had finally shown a glimmer of sense and fled, her presence lingered—a whiff of lilac perfume, a drift of warmth and softness in the air. He flexed his hand, trying to shake away the imprint of her skin there.

  It was her, Anna Blacknall. He knew as soon as he saw her there in the ballroom, the candlelight shining on her pale gold hair. Despite the risqué red gown and the satin mask, she could not hide her ladylike bearing or the bemused wonder in her blue eyes as she watched the dancers.

  Yet even then he could scarcely believe it. Lady Anna, daughter of Protestant aristocracy, toast of the Society Season, sneaking into the scandalous Olympian Club? Wandering alone amid hardened rakes in her scarlet dress? For one instant, he was sure it must be a trap, something meant to lure him and his work out into the open.

  But even as the thought flashed through his mind, he dismissed it. No one knew he owned the Olympian Club. And no one knew his connection to Anna or what happened between them two years ago in the midst of the failed Uprising.

  Sometimes in the bleakest hours of night, nothing could ease the memory of her beautiful face, her fierce anger, and her fiery spirit. No woman could substitute; no amount of whiskey could drown her out. She stubbornly refused to leave him.

  It was easy enough to push her away come the light of morning, because their paths never crossed. He sometimes glimpsed her riding in St. Stephen’s Green or sitting in the visitors’ gallery at Parliament with her friends during Union debates. And he certainly heard gossip about her. But he never went to Society balls, and she never came to his sort of parties. Until tonight.

  Conlan braced his palms against the ledge. It was mere hard, cold stone now, with no vestige of her heat. He could finally think, without her intoxicating presence so close. The party whirled on beyond the glass conservatory doors, louder and wilder, but he was removed from all that revelry—as he always was.

  He tried to think coldly and rationally. If Anna was not here at the behest of someone trying to close the Olympian Club, why was she here? He had heard rumors she was a most daring young lady, the toast but also the talk of Dublin for her exploits. Card-playing, horse racing in the park, lines of suitors trailing behind her. Perhaps she had slipped into the Olympian Club on some kind of dare.

  But how could she get in? His staff was well trained to scrutinize invitations, to let in only members and a very limited number of their guests. The exclusive nature of the club was one factor in its great success. People always wanted to be in where others were out, and they were willing to pay a great deal for that.

  Someone, then, had brought her as their guest. And he intended to find out who that was, to make sure Anna found out nothing at all on her little visit. She wasn’t stupid. She might be able to convince all of Dublin into thinking her a fluff-brained Society beauty, concerned with nothing but ball gowns and games of chance, but he knew better.

  He rubbed at the scar just beneath the cropped hair at the back of his neck, feeling the raised ridge that was a constant reminder of just how quick-witted and brave Anna Blacknall could be. And how he had once played the fool for her. She was the only person who managed to slide beneath his defenses during the dangerous days of the Uprising, the only one who brought him down.

  That would not happen again.

  Conlan frowned as he stared at the faint shadow on the window where her head had pressed. Is it you? she had whispered. Did she remember, too?

  A moan echoed through the conservatory, followed by a rustle of silk. He was not the only one to lose his wits in passion amid the plants, then. Good, that was what the Olympian Club was designed for, to wrap people up in hedonistic delights, make them forget everything else in pleasure, so they gave up all their power. All their secrets.

  Its allure was not meant to work on him, though. Pleasure could hold no snares for him any longer; he learned his lesson when he was a careless young man and nearly lost everything for it.

  Silently, he pushed away from the ledge and crept around the banks of towering palms and heavily scented flowers. There were a few couples hidden amid the shadows, engrossed in each other, but one pair lay entwined on a wrought-iron chaise just under the moonglow of a skylight. The woman’s head was thrown back, her gown slipping from her white shoulders. The distinctive auburn hair revealed her to be Lady Cannondale.

  The man who knelt over her, kissing the curve of her neck as his hand slid beneath her skirt, was Sir Grant Dunmore. Conlan’s cousin—and most bitter enemy. Once, years ago, Grant tried to enforce the Penal Laws that declared a Protestant could claim a Catholic relative’s property. Conlan’s ancient title saved his estate, but it was a hard-fought battle and not one he would ever forget or forgive.

  Conlan smiled. It had been a long road trying to lure Grant into the web of the Olympian Club. And yet, in the end, all it had taken was Lady Cannondale’s charms.

  “Oh,” she moaned, hooking her bare leg around his hips, tugging him closer against her. “You are being terribly naughty tonight, Sir Grant.”

  He laughed hoarsely, bracing himself on his forearms to gaze down at her. “Not nearly as naughty as I can be, my dear Jane.”

  “Then why are you holding back?” She threaded her fingers through his bronze-colored hair, dragging his lips back down to hers.

  Conlan had a sudden vision of Anna sighing as he kissed her, her mouth opening to him. What would she have done if he laid her back on one of those chaises, spreading her legs and tugging down her dress as Grant did with Lady Cannondale? A little daredevil Anna might be, but he doubted she would welcome him with moans and sighs, her lithe legs wrapping around him tightly.

  But a man could always dream.

  THE DISH

  Where authors give you the inside scoop!

  From the desk of Larissa Ione

  Dear Reader,

  “Family” is a word that means something different to everyone. Your family might consist of those who were born into it, or it might be made up of the people (or pets) you choose to bring into the fold. Your family members might be tight, or they might be estranged. Maybe they fight a lot, or maybe they get along beautifully. Often, family dynamics exist in a delicate balance.

  So what happens when something happens to throw off that balance?

  In ECSTASY UNVEILED, the fourth book in the Demonica series, I explore that question when the assassin hero, Lore, is forced to go up against his newfound brothers in a dangerous game of life or death.

  In previous books, the conflicts each hero faced brought the demon brothers together to battle an enemy. In ECSTASY UNVEILED, the conflict is more internal, their bond is put to the test, and they become their own worst enemies.

  Can love and trust overcome suspicion, tragedy, and an old enemy bent on tearing them apart?

  When Idess, an angel bent o
n thwarting Lore’s mission to kill someone close to his brothers, begins to fall for the coldhearted assassin, family ties are tested, betrayals are revealed, and a dark shadow falls over Underworld General Hospital.

  Fortunately, “family” can also be a source of hope, and with Idess’s help, Lore may yet find the family he gave up hoping for so long ago.

  For more about the Demonica world and the families that make it come alive, please visit my website at www.LarissaIone.com to check out deleted book scenes, sign up for the newsletter, and enjoy free reads.

  Happy Reading!

  From the desk of Laurel McKee

  Dear Reader,

  When I found out I had just a few days to come up with something for The Dish, I froze! There were just so many things I could write about that I couldn’t decide. Should I talk about the rich history of late eighteenth-century Ireland? The beautiful Georgian architecture of Dublin? The gorgeous fashions? Irish music? The inspirations behind the characters? Or maybe a cautionary tale of my one attempt at Irish step dancing (there were head injuries—that’s all I will say about that!).

  I confessed my dilemma to my mom, who suggested we throw an Irish party with lots of Irish food and some Chieftains CDs, and then I could write about it (though there would be no dancing).

  “Great!” I said. A party is always good. “But what are some Irish recipes?”

  “Er—there’s your grandmother’s soda bread recipe,” she said after some thought. “And, um, I don’t know. Something with potatoes? Fish and chips? Blood pudding?”

  “And Guinness,” my brother added. “Every Irish party needs Guinness. And maybe Jameson.”

  I happily agreed. Fish and chips, soda bread, Guinness, Irish music, and you have a party! Blood pudding, though, can stay off the menu.

  It was lots of fun to have what we called a “halfway to St. Patrick’s Day” party. I just wish my characters, the Blacknall sisters and their handsome heroes, could have joined us. And if you’d like to try the soda bread recipe (which is supereasy—even I, officially the “Worst Cook in the World,” can make it), here it is: