Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  She opened her mouth, the lie on her tongue, and then shook her head. She was too weary to lie tonight. Weary from the ball and weary of the wall they’d erected between them. She could lower hers, just a little, tonight.

  “I left the conservatory with Lady Thorpe and Lady Lindsey. Lady Lindsey’s youngest son has just left for the West Indies.” Charles’s lips grazed her ear and she dug her nails into her skirts because she wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him there. “I can’t remember where exactly, but Prinny has an extensive map collection in the library. He offered her use of it.”

  “And so you were in the library with Prinny?” The lips on her ear nipped.

  She gasped at the rush of arousal that flooded through her. “N-no. A footman brought us.”

  Charles pulled back. “And you spent the entire evening in the library with Lady Lindsey and Lady Thorpe?”

  “Why not? We had wine, books, friends.” She could see by the way his mouth tightened that he didn’t believe her. She hadn’t thought she would care, but she did. Some small part of her wanted him to trust her again. “I suppose that’s not as exciting as sneaking away for a tryst with a lover.” She shrugged. “I’ll oblige next time.”

  His hand landed roughly on her shoulder, and he spun her around so quickly she almost toppled over. He caught her by the arms and pulled her up. “No, you will not. Next time I will not allow you out of my sight.”

  She stared at him, hardly knowing her husband. How many years had it been since she’d seen so much passion in him—so much passion for her?

  “What has come over you?” she asked.

  His hands slid down her arms, protectively but sensually as well. “I told you. I intend to win back your affections.”

  “And how long will that resolution last? Until you find new prey?”

  He leaned close, so close she thought he might kiss her. “I believe the vow I made was until death do us part. I plan to keep it.” He did try and kiss her then. He bent to take her mouth, and she almost allowed it.

  Susan braced a hand on his chest. “And I should trust you?”

  He gave her a long look. “We will have to learn to trust each other.”

  * * *

  Lorrie hiked up her skirts and placed one leg over the window ledge. “Don’t look down,” she told herself. That was easier said than done. She reached for the tree whose branches brushed against the windowpane and woke her with their tapping on stormy nights. The tree limb was wide enough that she might crawl or scoot on it without any fear that it would break. But that would require releasing the window and grabbing the tree.

  “Dratted Viking,” she muttered to herself as she attempted to muster the courage.

  She’d spent the past seven days trying to escape the Viking with absolutely no success whatsoever. She woke in the morning thinking of the kiss they’d shared. She went to sleep cursing him because despite the fact that she and Francis had attended more than half a dozen of the same events over the past week—two musicales, three dinner parties, a ball, and a garden party—they had not been able to do more than nod at each other. Every time Francis approached her or she passed near to him, the Viking stepped between them and whisked her away.

  He was very good at whisking, that Viking. Somehow he managed to snake his arm through hers and ferry her away without making it look as though she were being dragged unwillingly.

  Which she was. Mostly. And she had wanted to protest each and every time he acted so impertinently, but she quite forgot her objections when he was close to her. This led to difficulty falling asleep. She felt horribly guilty for the way her body betrayed her when the Viking was near. If she had really loved Francis, would she keep wishing his cousin would kiss her again?

  Lorrie felt certain if Francis would simply kiss her again—really kiss her—she would not think quite so much about the Viking. And if Francis were to bed her, she would not think about the Viking at all.

  That meant she needed to marry sooner rather than later. She could not wait until Francis saw reason. And the more they were apart, the more unlikely Francis was to see things her way. She could blame that on the Viking as well!

  She would certainly blame him if she fell to her death climbing out the window. Lorrie took a deep breath and closed her hands around the tree limb. Behind her, Wellington yipped. Lorrie twisted her head around and glared at the puppy. “Shh! No!”

  Welly yipped again and laid his paws on the windowsill, clawing and tugging at her skirts. Normally, she would have found this invitation to play irresistible, but at the moment, she wished she had sent the dog to sleep in the kitchen as she had before he had been mostly housebroken. The Viking seemed to have ears like an owl. He was bound to hear Welly’s barks. He seemed to hear everything, including her whispered curses about him.

  Her only hope was the Viking had not chosen to sleep at the town house tonight. He didn’t always sleep under her father’s roof. The family had returned home relatively early tonight, and she had gone straight to bed. Hopefully the Viking had seen no reason to remain in Berkeley Square.

  Lorrie shushed the dog again, then eased her way off the window and onto the tree limb. Her heart pounded almost painfully in her chest until she was firmly planted on the tree branch. Now she only had to climb down the tree.

  Fortunately, her brothers had often climbed the tree when they’d been younger, and they’d nailed small pieces of wood to the trunk to give them a better foothold. The makeshift steps hadn’t been used in years, but Lorrie had surreptitiously tested the strength of the bottommost one this afternoon. It had been as sturdy as ever.

  She scooted along the branch, moving closer to the trunk and avoiding looking down. Her only regret was she did not possess a pair of trousers. The skirts tended to tangle in her legs and about her ankles. She’d elected to go without petticoats in order to lessen the material that might entrap her, but the dress was still cumbersome.

  Not to mention it was a cold night, and she was already shivering. She still had to make it halfway across London in order to reach Francis’s lodging and speak to him. She had coin and planned to hire a hackney to transport her—she was not so foolish as to attempt to walk across London by herself in the dark of night—but she had no hopes that the hackney would be any warmer than she was right now. If only she had thought to drop a cloak at the bottom of the tree…

  Lorrie finally reached the trunk. With wobbly legs, she stood and carefully placed her feet. Now she would have to step down, backward, and find the foothold. She had spotted it in the day. It was a good three feet down. She could not see it at all in the dark of night.

  Gripping the trunk until the bark dug into her flesh, she eased one foot down, feeling blindly for the piece of wood. She didn’t find it. She lowered herself more and moved her foot all around the trunk. Finally, she touched the foothold, and just as she did, her hands slipped. For a moment, her world went dark as she panicked, but then she caught hold of the trunk again and hugged the tree fiercely.

  Lorrie laid her forehead on the trunk, momentarily debating whether Francis—whether any man—was worth this. Unfortunately, she’d come too far now to go back. It would be easier to go down than back across.

  Still holding the tree trunk, Lorrie placed her right foot beside her left on the little piece of wood. Then she began the arduous task of finding the next rung. And so it went. Little by little, she climbed down the tree until she had gone far enough that she felt safe in glancing down.

  Immediately, she wished she hadn’t.

  Standing below the tree, arms crossed and brows creased into a V, was the Viking. With a little squeal, Lorrie began climbing back up the tree, but the dratted giant reached up and grasped her about the waist, hauling her down into the garden beside him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, his voice so low it was more of a growl.

 
She pushed against him until he set her on her feet, but he didn’t release her arm.

  “You really shouldn’t use such language in the presence of a lady.”

  “Ladies do not climb trees.”

  “Quite right,” she said. “I will just return to bed then—” She tried to walk away, but he yanked her back. None too gently either.

  He’d lit a lamp in the house, and the light spilled from the French doors of the parlor on the first floor and into the garden. She wished she didn’t have such a clear view of his expression. The throbbing vein in his neck seemed to indicate he was furious.

  “You want an explanation,” she said with a sigh.

  He nodded.

  “Would you believe I was sleepwalking?”

  “No.”

  “How about midnight gardening?”

  He didn’t even bother to respond.

  “You won’t mention this to my father, will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Traitor,” she muttered, knowing he’d heard. “How did you know?” she asked. “Welly’s barking?”

  His careful expression revealed nothing. He would have made a good spy. If captured, he would have revealed none of his secrets.

  “It’s all your fault, you know,” she said, finally.

  His brow arched upward.

  “If you would have allowed me to speak to Francis at the garden party—”

  “Out of the question,” he interrupted.

  “You see!” She pointed a finger at him. “You left me no other choice. I had to see him.”

  “Not on my watch.”

  Lorrie could have argued further. It was in her nature to argue, but she could not see the point of it. “Fine. If you would release me, I will go to bed.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  Lorrie’s heart jumped with anticipation. Perhaps he would want to kiss her first.

  But, no! She could not allow that. Even though she really, really wanted to kiss him again. Strange that she could hate him so and still want him to press his lips to hers.

  “I want your assurance this will not happen again.”

  “I’m sorry. I cannot give it. I will marry Francis, and I will find a way to see him again. You will have to find another way to torture him.”

  The look that crossed the Viking’s face actually made Lorrie cringe. His light eyes darkened with anger, and his cheeks reddened. The grip on her arm did not tighten, though, and she could only imagine the amount of control it took to leash that sort of fury.

  “That is what you believe of me?” he asked. “That I tortured Francis when we were children.”

  Lorrie didn’t particularly want to answer the question—not with him glaring at her so. “What else am I to believe? Francis told me all about it,” she whispered.

  “I see.”

  “What do you see?” she asked.

  He shook his head as though he would not waste the effort it took to answer.

  “Are you saying—or rather not saying—that you did not bully and torment Francis when you were children?”

  “I did not.” The simple way he said it, the ring of truth in his voice, confused her. He gave her no particulars, offered no protests. He humbly denied the charge. He made it hard to argue and, she had to admit, difficult not to believe him.

  “Then why did he say you did?”

  “Ask him.”

  Lorrie saw her chance and jumped. “Very well, I will. Release me, and I will go and ask him at once.”

  The Viking shook his head and pulled her back toward him. Lorrie was growing colder by the moment, and she rather wished she might step a tiny bit closer to the Viking to share his warmth. She still remembered how warm he’d been in the prince’s garden. Tonight he wore only breeches and shirtsleeves, but he did not appear cold in the least.

  She supposed she could demand to return inside now, and he would probably allow it, but she wasn’t quite ready to part from him. “Putting aside the matter of whether or not you bullied Francis, why do you hate him? And do not say you don’t. I can tell that you do. Anyone who saw the way you looked at him would know you want to kill him.”

  “Why do you love him?” the Viking asked.

  Lorrie wasn’t prepared for the question. “I…” But why did she love Francis? He was handsome and charming, but were those reasons to love him? “You cannot do that,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “You cannot answer a question with a question.”

  “Apparently, you cannot answer the question at all.”

  Lorrie had the urge to stomp her foot. Instead, she glared at the Viking. “I do love him. He is kind and considerate and respectful. He has never tried to take advantage of me. He loves me.”

  And how pathetic did that sound? She loved him because he loved her? Was she so starved for love and affection?

  The answer echoed in her mind: Yes!

  All her life her mother had practically ignored her while her father had lectured her. Her brothers had been away at school or consumed with their own affairs. Welly was the only creature who ever appeared genuinely pleased to see her, who wanted to cuddle and snuggle with her.

  “Is it so wrong to want affection?” she asked no one in particular, freeing herself from the Viking’s grip and pacing about a square of the garden. “Is it so wrong to want to be loved and held and kissed and—and ravished?”

  “Ravished?” The word came out so low it was barely audible.

  Lorrie ceased pacing and glanced at the Viking. She’d forgotten he was there for a moment. But then, what did it matter? It was not as though he were a gentleman who would be shocked at her admission. “Just because I am a woman does not mean I don’t have desires. I want to be kissed and touched, like you touched me at the prince’s ball.”

  The Viking shook his head, as though he would rather she hadn’t mentioned the incident. Well, she had to mention it. She couldn’t seem to forget it. “I know it is sinful to want such things when I’m a maiden, but if you would only allow me to leave the garden, I will go to Francis and persuade him to elope. Then even the church will sanction all my wicked feelings.”

  “No.”

  Lorrie did stomp her foot then, and she wished she could lift the rock under her foot and hurl it at his head. “You kiss me then.”

  “No.” The Viking’s tone was firm and unwavering.

  “Well, that seems monstrously unfair. Next I suppose you will tell me I should behave as a lady ought, control my desires, and go meekly to bed.”

  He began to nod.

  “I don’t wish to behave as a lady ought! I am so very, very weary of behaving as I ought. I am exhausted by pretending I have no needs and wants of my own. And if my parents have their way, I will be locked away forever, the wife of some man I do not love. Think of that. Decades deprived of affection and love and the touch of the man I desire.”

  The Viking had not moved. If Lorrie hadn’t known better, she would have thought him a statue.

  “Why did you kiss me at Carlton House?” she demanded petulantly. “Was it just to give me a taste of what I cannot have? Perhaps you enjoy watching me throw myself at you. Well, it won’t happen again. I will go back to my room tonight, but I will find a way to see Francis. I am determined. And when I have made up my mind to do a thing, no one stands in my way.”

  * * *

  Ewan followed her to her room, leaving plenty of distance between them. He made sure she was safely inside with the door locked behind her before he ventured back to the garden to stare up at the tree. The offending branch would have to be cut. His heart had all but seized when he’d seen her creep onto it. Of course, it might have been the view of her trim ankles, but Ewan was not usually a man rendered immobile by the sight of a lady’s ankle.

  He’d order the tree branch trimmed and then he would
only have to keep watch on the doors. Fortunately, the dog tended to bark and scamper about when his mistress was awake. Ewan had trained himself to listen for the dog and thus always knew when Lady Lorraine was active in her room.

  It was sheer coincidence he was here tonight. His room at the town house was comfortable, but he’d taken to sleeping at Langley’s when he was not out with the Ridlingtons until the wee hours. His charge had not been too much trouble of late, and he had thought it was safe to let down his guard.

  Only then he’d remembered the time in Belgium when he and Wraxall had been watching an armory with the intent of breaking in and stealing weapons and ammunition. The entire group had been low on supplies and, without any means of replenishing them, they’d been forced to scavenge and steal when their coin had run out. Ewan and Neil had watched the armory for a day and a night without being spotted—or so they’d thought. Neil had noted the comings and goings and formulated a plan of attack. He and Ewan had sat on the roof of the building overlooking the armory, eating stolen bread and apples, and waiting until night fell so that they might return to the other men under cover of darkness and explain the plan. He and Neil had let their guard down, and it had almost killed them.

  While they’d been lounging about, watching the sunset, soldiers from the armory had ascended the steps of the building and burst onto the roof, rifles firing. Ewan and Neil had taken cover behind a chimney and attempted to shoot their way out. But, of course, the reason they’d been watching the armory—or supposed to be watching the armory—was that they’d been low on ammunition. They’d run out long before the French soldiers had. Then Neil had been hit in the arm and a shot grazed Ewan’s side, and the two had decided they had better run. They’d gone down the chimney—mercifully no fire had been burning in it—and made it out.

  Ewan still had nightmares about that escape. He would have rather been shot than stuck in that chimney again. Several times his shoulders had caught, and he’d thought he might die in the brick tomb. But Neil had pulled him free, and that was just one of the reasons Ewan owed Neil.