A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  “Oh, that would never do. I need to make a special tea.”

  “How special can tea be?” he asked. “I’m sure Acton’s cook can produce an acceptable cup.”

  She refused to be drawn in to an argument with him. “I’m going to the kitchen.”

  “You know where the kitchen is?”

  She didn’t deign to answer this question. Of course she knew where the kitchen was. She started past him, surprised when he followed.

  “It’s not that large a house,” she said over her shoulder. “I won’t get lost.”

  “I feel a certain obligation to my host to see that none of his guests provokes undue comment. You shouldn’t be seen wandering about the house alone, peeking through doors.”

  She shot him an indignant look. Satisfaction awoke in his blue eyes.

  “Suit yourself,” she said, marching down the hallway toward the green baize door at the end. She pushed through the smoothly swinging door and immediately found herself in the kitchen.

  Two young girls perched on stools were peeling vegetables. A stalwart aproned cook was hefting an enormous pan filled with plump chicken breasts into a cavernous oven while another cook stirred a copper pot. The third cook, a rotund woman cloaked in flour dust, was pounding a huge slab of dough on a scarred and pitted table, her plump upper arms jiggling with her effort.

  As soon as they entered, the servants stopped their activity and stared at them in amazed silence.

  “How are you, Minnie?” Mercy asked the pastry chef.

  “Ah, fine. Fine, miss,” mumbled Minnie.

  Behind her, Hart stopped. “Miss Coltrane requires the use of the kitchen,” he announced. “Please leave.”

  “No, no. They needn’t—”

  “Now,” Hart said.

  The members of the kitchen staff dispersed like quail from a covey, fleeing through the various doors in the kitchen as Mercy made unheeded sounds of protest. In a matter of seconds she and Hart were alone.

  “You didn’t have to disrupt their work!” She swung around angrily.

  “You will not give grist to the gossip mill with your uncivilized behavior. The less people know about this bizarre insistence on brewing your own tea, the better. Do you think someone is going to try to poison you? I can assure you that I am the only one likely, or for that matter with the incentive, to do so.”

  “You really mean you don’t want any witnesses to your almighty presence among those who must earn their livelihoods.”

  “Miss Coltrane,” he said slowly, “you know better than anybody else in this house, the unthinkable things I’ve done to earn money—things nobody here would ever consider doing.”

  Confused, she dropped her gaze. He was an enigma. It made no sense that he should be so autocratic that he resented being seen here, and at the same time remind her of his past. Each moment with him made that past seem more implausible. The lank, sun-scarred range rider was gone. He was the complete aristocrat now: remote, imperious, sophisticated.

  “Besides, you aren’t really concerned about keeping them from their work, are you?” he asked.

  “Of course I am. Now I will have put them off their schedule and they will be playing catch-up for the rest of the day.”

  “Consider that I have given them an unexpected holiday.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to,” she answered tartly, crossing to the pantry door and swinging it open to study the contents.

  Barrels lined the far end of the cramped room. Above her swung cheeses cloaked in wax, garlic braids, and colorful bundles of dried herbs. Tins of spices, jars of jewel-colored jellies, and muslin bags of dried legumes marched along the various shelves. Mercy peered at the neatly labeled ceramic jars and selected two. She plucked a wreath of dried flowers from a hook overhead, adding it to her armful of ingredients.

  Returning to the table, she deposited them. After rolling up her sleeves she began snapping the flower heads from their stalks.

  “A complicated brew you drink,” Hart said from where he stood in rigid disapproval, watching her.

  “Oh, do sit down,” she chided him. “You might as well be comfortable. All that glowering must be wearing.”

  “I am not glowering,” he said, but, she noted with an inward smile, he’d ironed his voice of any inflection. He pulled over one of the stools the kitchen girls had used and took a seat.

  “Those two women are really your sisters?” she asked casually, filling a kettle of water and setting it on the stove.

  “Yes.”

  “Who would have believed it?” she murmured, returning to the table and measuring herbs into a silver tea ball. “The scourge of the Texas Panhandle has two doting sisters.”

  He made a disparaging sound. “Three. And they hardly dote.”

  “Three?” she echoed, shaking her head. “Here. If you insist on standing around, you might as well make yourself useful. Grind these flower heads.” She handed him the mortar and pestle. He stared at them as though she’d just handed him some complicated Oriental puzzle box. “You pound them with the pestle,” she said encouragingly.

  He flashed her a look of disdain but complied, crushing the dried buds with unprecedented enthusiasm.

  “Why is that so hard to believe?” he asked suddenly, sounding as though he hadn’t wanted to ask and was having a hard time figuring out why he had.

  “Well,” she said, “given your reputation—or rather your former reputation—as a sort of soulless demon of destruction, I’d rather assumed you’d sprung from a dragon’s tooth … like one of the soldiers in Cadmus’ army.”

  He stared at her a second and then, suddenly, impossibly, he threw back his head and laughed. He had a wonderful laugh: deep throated, rich, and infectious. And his smile transformed his face. He looked young, very young, and handsome, very handsome.

  “So you think I’m some mythical monster, eh?” he asked, his bluish-green eyes glowing with sardonic amusement.

  Mythical. Yes.

  “Like a minotaur or a gryphon?” he asked, finishing the task she’d set him.

  “Or a centaur.” As soon as she’d said the word, she blushed. The centaur was more a libidinous creature than a bellicose one.

  Disconcerted, she reached to take the bowl from him. Her fingers brushed against his. Sudden, potent recognition shivered through her with the brief contact. Her breath caught in her throat and she pulled her hand back.

  She was attracted to Hart Moreland. As a man.

  He had played a role in every nightmare she’d had for the past six years. Every terror that chased her from sleep had featured his cold, inimical eyes stonily regarding her just before agony ripped through her shoulder.

  She had never thought of “Duke” as a man. He was all at once more and less than human. Pitiless, ruthless, and, above all, infallible. That is why she had followed him. That is why she had approached him. That is why she needed him. Duke did not “fail.”

  But she had never thought of him as a man. And had never realized that he was a young, virile man whose rare smiles and rarer laughter were incredibly appealing, undermining her intention by making her too acutely aware of him; his scent; the breadth of his shoulders; the flat, hard silhouette she’d seen last night. She scowled as she fetched the whistling teakettle and filled a hefty mug with water. Her breathing was staggered, her pulse thrummed erratically. She wanted to touch his hand again.

  How that would amuse him. The graceless, gauche American girl agitated into a state of feminine vapors over the Earl of Perth. Her back to him, she took a deep, steadying breath. She refused to set herself up as an object of derision, or worse, pity. Even if it was a private derision. She doubted Hart ever confided any of his concerns or feelings to another person, let alone his amusements.

  “I suppose you’ll want to drink it here,” he was saying.

  “Drink it? Oh,” she murmured. “This isn’t for me. It’s for the Dowager Duchess.”

  “You have once more confounded me. I applaud you. W
hy are you making tea for the Dowager? Since you are so concerned with servants’ feelings, might I point out that Her Grace’s maid will doubtless take exception to your performing her duties?”

  “It’s for her headache. A tisane. I learned it from our ranch cook.”

  He hesitated a second before replying. “That was thoughtful of you. Here, allow me,” he said, rising from his seat. “That kettle looks heavy.”

  His fingers—long, elegant, fashioned for an artist’s hands—closed over hers. Even though she anticipated it this time, her response still shook her. Sensual awareness rippled through her, making her hand tremble, sloshing burning tea on her fingers.

  “Damn!” She hissed with pain.

  He strode to the sink and grabbed the bucket of peeled carrots that stood in ice water. He returned with it and swung it up onto the table. Catching hold of her wrist, he plunged her hand into the cool water, holding it there.

  “Damn, damn, damn my clumsiness,” she said.

  “Your language,” he said.

  “What of it?” she asked crossly, angry she’d been so clumsy, angry his masculinity had caused her to be clumsy, angry his tone was so coldly disapproving. “It hurts, damn it.”

  “You are no lady, Miss Coltrane.”

  “And you are no gentleman, Perth!”

  “I guess that makes us both imposters,” he said, releasing her hand and indifferently offering her a dry towel.

  “Not both of us,” she said, plucking the towel from his extended hand. “I am not pretending to be a lady.”

  His eyes narrowed between the thick fringe of bronze lashes. “And I”—he leaned closer to her. She could see the slight flare of his diamond shaped nostrils, like a panther scenting for fear in its prey—“I do not pretend to be a gentle man. You’d be wise to remember that.”

  She stared at him, knowing she should be frightened. There was a gleam deep in the glacial eyes and his words were delivered in a low, even tone, all the more frightening for its lack of inflection.

  “Don’t play games with me, Mercy,” he said. “Don’t whisper a word about our past association. The ramifications would be … unpleasant. For everyone. But most especially for you. That is why I followed you here. To remind you of your promise. You are no lady, but you needn’t be a lady to be wise.”

  Before she could frame a response, he disappeared through the green baize door.

  Shaken, she dabbed at the wet edge of her sleeve, undraping a carrot peel that had coiled around her wrist.

  He was right. She was no lady.

  Oh, she had manufactured a nice veneer. But deep inside, as soon as she was alone, restlessness pricked her, frustration nipped at her.

  As hard as she’d tried, as much as she’d wanted to, she’d never succeeded in becoming the lady her mother had yearned for her to be. The knowledge that she’d disappointed her sweet mother ached like an unhealed bruise, always there, touching every unfeminine pleasure she indulged in with the taint of guilt.

  She had tried. She had tried to find pleasure in trotting a horse along a prescribed halter path; she wanted to gallop across an untracked field of waist-high grass. She had tried to be an undemanding font of tranquillity; she liked laughter too well. She had tried to develop her hand at water-color artistry but she was too impatient; the bright colors she used always ended up running together.

  It was an appropriate metaphor for her. All her bright colors collided with one another. And when she tried to blend them together, they dulled and disappointed. Neither delicate nor vibrant, just muddled.

  She stood up. She could not change what she was—the years had taught her that—but she could keep her promise and, after finding Will, heal the breach between her father and brother. Particularly since she was responsible for that breach.

  She bit down on her lip. Mother had been so proud of Will; his polish, his sophistication. But Father … their father had no use for his bright, witty, urbane son. Except for their devotion to the same woman, they had nothing in common. So, Father had turned an all-too-willing tomboy daughter into a surrogate son. Herself.

  Thoughtfully, Mercy placed the teacup and pot on a serving platter. Her father was so proud of her; her riding ability, her shooting prowess, her skill with a fishing pole. He’d held her up as an example for Will, goading him with her achievements.

  And, God help her, she’d liked it. She’d liked being the apple of someone’s eye. She’d liked the attention, the approval. She’d deliberately set herself between them, widening the rift, afraid that someday their father would realize Will’s worth and her own feminine deficiency.

  She had to make up for it. Now all she had left were Will, their father, and a promise she was going to keep.

  If Hart Moreland would not help her, she would help herself. He could keep his damned secrets! She had time. Will had been living here for months; a few more weeks would hardly matter.

  The sound of a door swishing open drew her attention. One of the kitchen maids peeped in. The girl’s eyes grew wide when she saw the tray Mercy was holding. She mumbled an apology and disappeared again.

  Mercy smiled, but her amusement was bittersweet. Not a lady, no longer a Texas tomboy. A fraud in either world.

  But for a moment, with Hart Moreland, she’d felt … real. All the colors had been there, but for once they hadn’t battled for ascendancy.

  Picking up the tray, Mercy headed for the servants’ stairs to the Duchess’s private quarters. She seemed destined to insult, offend, and outrage Hart Moreland.

  But, she could not help remembering, she’d also made him laugh.

  Chapter 6

  “Thank you,” the Dowager Duchess said, placing the emptied teacup on the table beside the fainting couch. “But, naughty as it is, I must confess I believe much of my headache was a result of anticipating two hours of Mozart.”

  She was a handsome enough child, thought the Dowager as Mercy dimpled. A bit bold featured and too many shades of brown to be truly pretty, but she had a clear complexion and fine teeth.

  “If you do not like Mozart, why on earth did you instruct the chamber orchestra to play him?”

  The Dowager sniffed. Handsome though she undoubtedly was, Mercy Coltrane was in many ways still deplorably naive. “Because it is fashionable and expected. You must learn to be anticipated if you are to make your way in English society, Miss Coltrane.”

  The Dowager gave a mental sigh. Some long-dormant mischievousness must have been responsible for her having undertaken Mercy’s cause. She was still surprised to find herself acting as duenna to this potentially embarrassing American. Potentially embarrassing, but perceptive. She could make use of the gel.

  “What do you think of Annabelle Moreland?” she asked. She would never have dared be so open with one of her peers. But in Mercy she had the unique advantage of a listener who would simply not be given credence should she relate any private conversation. She was, after all, only an American. If Mercy Coltrane was to repeat any of her words, she’d find herself immediately ostracized.

  “Miss Moreland?” Mercy asked. “She seems a very nice, agreeable, lovely young lady.”

  “Yes,” the Duchess said, “she does.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I fully expected Acton to be up here singing her praises to me—certainly the boy did little else last season—and urging me to allow him to make an announcement of his engagement at Friday’s ball.”

  “And he has not?”

  “No.” The Duchess sighed.

  “And this disappoints you?”

  Again the Dowager sighed, her thin, powdered cheeks dishing slightly as if she tasted lemon. “I simply don’t know my mind on the subject of Miss Moreland. All season I have endeavored to acquaint myself with her, but she remains an enigma.”

  Mercy inclined her head.

  “She is utterly unlike you, Mercy,” the Dowager said, allowing the faintest shading of reproof to color her words. “You wear your every emotion for al
l to see and energetically express opinions on any given subject.”

  Mercy squirmed. “Lord Acton asked me what I thought of animal husbandry.”

  “Quite. It is perhaps best not to answer every question posed us.”

  Mercy lowered her hazel eyes. She did, noted the Dowager, have extravagantly luxuriant eyelashes.

  “But I am not here to chide you. Forgive me. I was asking your opinion.”

  “At least on the subject of Miss Moreland, I haven’t any,” Mercy returned.

  “That’s the problem; neither have I. One ought to have an opinion regarding one’s potential daughter-in-law and a future duchess, do you not think?”

  “Is there anything about her you take exception to?” Mercy asked in the tone of one who is trying to be helpful and hasn’t a notion of how to go about it.

  “No. Her family is well connected. The Morelands are a revered and ancient country family. As is the one they’ve aligned themselves with, the Whitcombes. And Wrexhall is a promising young politician from an unexceptional family.”

  “And Lord Perth?”

  “Perth is, like his sister, an enigma. I have asked wherever seemly and possible after him. His father was something of a wastrel but the mother was a Quinton. Soon after his father’s ship was lost off the coast of New Guinea, Perth enlisted in the army. He saw action in North Africa as a regular.” The Dowager frowned. “It would have been better had Perth been an officer, but he joined the army when he was a lad. Romantic notions boys have. Too bad the mother wasn’t able to persuade him to wait until he could have had a commission.”

  Mercy was regarding her intently.

  “Perth inherited the earldom from a cousin. Quite unexpected and, I should think, fortuitous. The girls would not have married so well had Perth been simply Mr. Moreland.”

  “It must have brought him a certain amount of wealth too,” Mercy said.

  “No,” the Dowager clipped out, embarrassed by this discussion of money. Finances were a man’s province. Not that she hadn’t looked into Perth’s financial situation. She had. But she disliked admitting it, even tacitly. “The estate had fallen into extreme disrepair. Perth restored it to its past glory, but he could not have done so from inherited wealth. Apparently he filled the family coffers with coin netted from various investments in your own country.”