"Maybe I don't deserve to have her back."
His words were sharp, deprecating, and she felt herself go cold at the resignation she could see so clearly in his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said. Maybe I don't deserve to have her back. So far I've been utterly worthless as a guardian. Once I find her, it might be better if I send her to live with Aunt Rue, after all. It's what the Dragon Lady has wanted from the very beginning. And why not? Apparently, she knew what she was talking about. I'm unfit to be the caretaker of anyone, much less an impressionable young girl."
He truly believed the nonsense he was spouting, Deirdre realized as she struggled to find the words to persuade him he was wrong. He had somehow convinced himself that his sister would be better off with a prim and unloving aunt than she would be with her own brother.
"Tristan, please. Don't make any hasty decisions. Wait until after you've found her and then decide what's best. But I must say, I cannot credit that she would be better off away from you. You're her brother, the only close family she has left. She needs you."
One corner of his mouth twisted bitterly. "It's not a good idea for anyone to need me, Deirdre. I seem to have a habit of letting down the people I care about the most."
"But—"
"No. That's enough." His face closed up, and she could practically see him reerecting the wall between them, which she had believed was gone for good. "It's time to end this conversation. Obviously, you see things differently than I, but you don't really know me, Deirdre. Not the real me. If you did, you wouldn't hesitate to agree that the farther Emily was from me, the better."
Rising, he strode toward the door with purposeful strides, speaking over his shoulder as he went. "As you said, right now we have things to do. I shall alert Cullen that we are ready to depart, and then we can be on our way."
He exited the room, leaving Deirdre staring after his departing figure, her heart breaking for him.
Chapter 19
Later that evening, Deirdre sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair with slow, meditative strokes as she turned the events of that day over in her mind.
What with her concerns about the Rag-Tag Bunch and the subsequent discovery of Mouse's death, things had been rather harrowing, to say the least. But what occupied her thoughts the most was Tristan's continued refusal to allow her to help him.
After bringing about such an abrupt end to their conversation earlier, he had once again retreated behind his usual shield of stoic reserve, treating her with a cool civility that had made her want to scream in frustration. On the way back to her town house, every attempt she'd made to broach the subject of Emily had been effectively cut off, until she had finally thrown up her hands in defeat and left him to his brooding ruminations.
What am I to do? she wondered, laying aside her brush with a sigh. How could she make him see that he was wrong about everything? He might think he'd given very little away, but whether he knew it or not, his words had been extremely telling. Ever since his mother's murder, he'd spent his life afraid to let people too close, certain he was undeserving of anyone's love or trust because in the end he would fail them. Just as he believed he'd failed his mother. Just as he believed he was failing Emily now.
An overwhelming sense of sadness washed over her as she recalled the look of anguish that had suffused his features when he'd talked about giving his sister up. She had no doubt that doing so would devastate him, but she knew he was prepared to go through with it despite all of her efforts to dissuade him.
Blast him, but he had to be the most stubborn man she'd ever met. He could give comfort, but he wouldn't take it. He talked about bottling things up, but he was just as guilty of that as she was.
Getting to her feet, she wandered over to the window to stare out at the night beyond. Never had she felt at such a loss. It wasn't in her nature to sit idly by and watch while someone suffered, but as long as Tristan continued to push her away, there was nothing she could do.
Damn the late Lord Ellington! And damn Barnaby Flynt! Both men had much to answer for.
At that moment, the clock in the hall outside her door struck midnight, and she sent a longing glance in the direction of her bed. If only she could lose herself for a while in the sweet oblivion of sleep! She was positive, however, that if she even attempted to lie down she would do nothing but toss and turn.
Perhaps now would be a good opportunity to slip out of the house and return to the Rag-Tags' hideout to see if she could ascertain what was going on in that quarter. But no sooner had the thought occurred to her than a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and she quickly discarded the notion. September evenings in London could be quite chilly at the best of times, and the idea of venturing out into the cold, wet darkness was far from appealing.
She wasn't certain how long she stood there, gazing out at the surrounding landscape with unseeing eyes, but the first drop of rain had just plopped against the glass pane when she became aware of a strange noise coming from the other side of the wall.
The wall her bedroom shared with the guest chamber.
At first it was faint, a low groaning that had her pricking up her ears and moving closer, straining to hear above the patter of raindrops outside. After a second or two, however, it rose in volume and became more distinct.
It was the unmistakable sound of a person caught in the throes of a horrible nightmare, and even as she came to the realization, there was a sudden loud thump, followed by an alarming crash.
Dear God! Tristan!
Without stopping to think or even bothering to retrieve her dressing gown from the foot of her bed, she raced pell-mell into the hallway, her heart pounding with fear and dread. She didn't pause to knock on the guest room door; she simply pushed it open and flung herself inside.
It took a moment for her eyes to become adjusted to the gloom. The fire in the hearth had burned low, and shadows filled the chamber. Gradually, however, things became more distinct, and she could make out the restless figure moving beneath the covers on the canopied bed against the far wall.
Taking a step closer, she immediately saw the source of the loud crash she'd heard. Pieces of a porcelain vase that had once rested on the night table next to the bed now lay scattered over the polished wood floor, a victim of one of Tristan's outflung arms.
The noise hadn't been enough to wake him, however. He was still deep in the grip of some terrible dream, his harsh breathing and incoherent muttering loud in the stillness.
"No! Please, no! Emily!"
His raw, agonized cries were enough to fill Deirdre's eyes with sympathetic tears. Even in his sleep, it seemed he couldn't escape the torment of his waking hours.
Well, she couldn't just stand here and do nothing. She had to help him. But how? Should she try to wake him?
She paused for a moment in indecision, wondering if she should summon Mrs. Godfrey and ask for the housekeeper's assistance. In truth, she was surprised that one of the servants hadn't heard the noise and come running to investigate the cause.
It was then that Tristan gave another groan, chasing every thought right out of her head, and she hurried forward to stand at the edge of the bed, studying him in concern.
He lay on his back, the blue silk sheets tangled about his lean waist, his broad, bronzed chest gleaming with perspiration. As she watched, he tossed his head on the pillow, his teeth clenching as he fought off the demons that tortured him in his mind.
Dear Lord, hadn't he suffered enough? She couldn't bear to see him like this.
She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before reaching out to lay her hands gently on his strong shoulders, speaking in what she hoped was a soft, reassuring tone.
"Tristan. Tristan, can you hear me? It's Deirdre. Wake up. You're dreaming."
Surfacing from what seemed to him to be the darkest bowels of hell, Tristan became aware of the feel of hands gripping his arms, a voice speaking to him in garbled se
ntences that made no sense. Taunted by images of sinister dark eyes and a scarred face, he lashed out, his one thought to bring his ordeal to an end.
Twisting about at the same time as he lunged forward, he caught the wrists of the person who held him and flipped them onto the bed beneath him, pinning the culprit to the mattress with the weight of his body.
"Tristan, please! It's me!"
The frantic words suddenly registered, and he fought back the haze that clouded his head to find himself staring down at a terrified Deirdre.
Sucking in a stunned breath, he reeled back, releasing her wrists, as if burned. "God, Deirdre. Are you all right?"
"Y-yes. I think so."
She didn't sound at all certain, and Tristan felt his face heat with shame. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, putting his back to her. "I swear I didn't know it was you. I was—"
"Having a nightmare?" He felt the mattress shift behind him, and a second later tentative fingers trailed down his spine in a caress that had goose bumps breaking out across the surface of his flesh. "I know. It's the reason I came in here. I heard you."
He winced. "I apologize. I didn't mean to disturb your rest."
"You didn't. I hadn't even gone to bed." There was a heartbeat of silence before she spoke again. "You called out Emily's name. Were you dreaming about her?"
Damn. The last thing he wanted to do was relive the awful visions that had plagued his sleep. But something about Deirdre's voice, so quiet and understanding, invited him to confide in her, to share his burden, and he couldn't seem to resist.
"I was back in the alleyway in Tothill Fields," he said gruffly, reaching up to run a shaking hand through the sweat-dampened strands of his hair. "With my mother and the bastard who murdered her. He was laughing, holding a knife to her throat and daring me to try to save her."
He swallowed in a convulsive movement. "I wanted to run to her, to jerk the knife away from that devil and plunge it into his gut, but it was like I was paralyzed. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't move. The next thing I knew, I was looking down at her body on the ground, her lifeless eyes staring up at me." Pausing, he bowed his head before continuing, as if the words were being torn from him. "Then her face turned into Emily's."
"Oh, Tristan." To his shock, slender arms suddenly wrapped around him from behind. He went still, his lungs seizing as he felt her lay her satin-smooth cheek against the wide expanse of his back. "I'm so sorry."
It felt so good to have her touching him, comforting him. Cautiously lifting a hand, he covered hers where it rested on his chest, and he pressed it against his racing heart.
"All I can think about when I lay down at night is her. Wondering whether she's cold or hungry or afraid. Wondering whether Barnaby Flynt has her." He closed his eyes against a wave of pain. "I don't know what I'll do if I lose her, Deirdre."
"You won't." As she spoke, her warm breath fanned against his shoulder blade, a feather-light gust of air that had his anatomy reacting in a predictable male fashion despite the best of intentions. He was very much aware that aside from the blanket twined strategically about his hips, he was completely, utterly naked—a fact that Deirdre hadn't yet noticed.
"You're not alone, Tristan," she was saying, "and we'll find Emily together. I know we will."
He released his breath in a shaky exhalation. She sounded so sure, and damned if a part of him didn't believe her. Why was it that he couldn't seem to keep this woman at a distance? Every time he succeeded in pushing her away, she somehow managed to tear down his defenses and get close to him again. All with very little effort.
After what he had revealed to her earlier, he had to admit that he felt particularly vulnerable where she was concerned. Never before had he come so close to spilling out all of his most secret fears. Once they'd returned to her town house, he'd excused himself and escaped to his chamber to brood in solitude, needing some time apart from her to get himself back under control.
But control was the last thing on his mind right now. In fact, he was beginning to think it had all but abandoned him for good.
Extricating himself from her arms, he turned to look back at her. The instant he did, he realized it was a mistake. Gazing up at him with her soft, red curls tumbling down around her shoulders and her willowy curves subtly outlined by her lacy white nightgown, she was exquisite. The picture of temptation.
He gritted his teeth against a surge of lust and hitched the covers further up on his hips, trying desperately to think of a way to get her out of his reach before it was too late.
"I appreciate your assistance, Deirdre, but I'm fine now, and I believe it's time for you to go back to your room."
She must have sensed something from his tone, for she stiffened, her brow lowering. "Why? What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"I don't believe you. For heaven's sake, Tristan, you're practically growling at me. Now, what is it?"
That did it. Lunging to his feet, he whirled to face her, making no attempt to hide his burgeoning erection beneath the drape of the sheet.
"All right. You want to know what's wrong? The truth is, if you stay in this room for even one minute longer, I'm afraid I'm going to have to kiss you again. And this time I can guarantee I won't stop at a kiss."
Her eyes rounded, her jaw dropping as she stared at the glaring evidence of his arousal. One hand fluttering to her throat, she sat as if stupefied.
The silence stretched out between them for what seemed like an eternity. When she finally spoke, her words were barely audible, but Tristan heard them as clearly as a shout. "Maybe I won't want you to."
He knew what she was saying. He knew, but he couldn't quite bring himself to hope it might be true. The urge to sweep her up and lose himself in her, to forget all of his worries about Emily while he plunged into her silken body was very strong. But he had to be certain it was what she wanted, too.
Striding forward, he caught her chin in his hand and forced her to meet his eyes, willing her to be honest with him. "Are you sure, Deirdre?" he prompted huskily. "Be very, very sure."
She let out a shuddering sigh—and slowly nodded. "I'm more sure than I've ever been of anything in my life."
He wanted her too much to question her decision any further. Without giving her a chance to change her mind, he leaned forward and captured her mouth with his own.
It was like coming home, just as he'd known it would be. And to his delight, she responded after only a second's hesitation, her sweet lips parting under his. Leisurely exploring their lush contours, he savored her honeyed flavor before giving a low, rumbling groan and thrusting his tongue forward into the warm cavern of her mouth.
She accepted him with eagerness, her tongue meeting and twining with his in a sensual dance that started his blood pounding in his temples. By the time he finally forced himself to pull away long enough to draw in a much-needed lungful of air, his senses were reeling with the power of his desire for her.
Why had he been so determined to fight this? he wondered dimly, resting his forehead against hers for a brief moment. It all seemed so inconsequential now. To hell with society and his blasted aunt. And to hell with his feelings regarding her late husband. He had to have her or go bloody mad!
Deirdre felt adrift in a sea of never-before-experienced sensations. As Tristan turned his head to graze a soft kiss against the curve of her cheek, then moved on to nibble tantalizingly at the lobe of her ear, she forgot all the reasons they shouldn't be doing this. He was sure to hate her once he discovered the secrets she'd been keeping from him—not the least of which was the truth about her marriage to Nigel—but if she could only have this one night with him, she was going to grab it with both hands. At least once in her life, she wanted to know what it would feel like to make love to a man she—
She pushed the thought away before she had a chance to finish it.
With one last brush of his mouth to her temple, Tristan suddenly drew back
from her and stepped away from the bed. Letting out a cry of protest, she reached for him in supplication, afraid he'd changed his mind and didn't want her after all. But he forestalled her words with the light touch of a finger to her lips.
Then, never taking his eyes from her face, he let the sheet that had been covering him drop to the floor in a heap.
A soft gasp escaped her as she let her avid gaze trail over his naked form. He was perfect, like some museum statue of a Greek god come to life. Firelight flickered over the rippling musculature of his chest and shoulders, the brawny strength of his arms, bathing him in an almost otherworldly glow. However, she couldn't quite bring herself to look for too long at the part of him that jutted from the nest of curls at the juncture of his solid thighs. The sight of it made her feel decidedly light-headed.
Apparently pleased by her dazed reaction, a lazy smile flitted at the corners of his mouth as he moved back toward her with his usual fluid grace, his strides purposeful. Catching her about the waist, he lifted her from the bed and pulled her to him, fitting them together until there was not an inch of space between them.
Deirdre's breath escaped her in a rush at the feel of his hard, strong body aligned so perfectly with hers. It was as if they had been made for each other, two halves of a whole that had been made one.
Swept up in the passion of the moment, her eyes fluttered shut as Tristan's hand fisted in her long fall of auburn hair, gently tugging her head back to allow him better access to the creamy skin of her throat and the pulse that beat there. She felt the scrape of his teeth against the spot, then the moist flicker of his tongue, and she couldn't contain a slight shiver of reaction.
"Dear God, Deirdre," he rasped against her skin. "I've dreamed of this from the moment we met."
The only response she could manage was a ragged moan. Clutching at his biceps for support as he continued to blaze a trail of fiery kisses along the indentation of her collarbone, she was lost in a state of blissful arousal, aware only of the pleasure he was making her feel. She didn't even notice when his nimble fingers went to work on the buttons of her nightgown.
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