Hope Tarr

by Untamed

  Had someone not spotted him and Kate in the park and reported back—and he’d yet to discover who that creditable source was—he would have gladly allowed the wager to die. He hadn’t let his guard down all week. Sooner or later, word must get back to Kate, and once it did, he could only imagine her fury—yet another reason he felt in such a rush to finish up this wooing business and wed. If his luck held, he’d have her wedded and bedded and them both on their way back to Scotland before any gossip found its way to her ear. If he was truly fortunate, she might never know.

  The soft crunch of footfalls drew his attention inside the gate. Lantern light bobbed like an apple dangled on a string, starting at the house and coming ever closer. Kate? Eagerness gripped him. Anticipation had his pulse picking up pace and his cock throbbing.

  She met him at the gate, a fairylike figure attired in a fur-trimmed cape, its hood drawn up to cover her hair. “You came.” She pulled back the hinged gate door, and he stepped inside.

  “Aye, did you doubt I would?”

  “No, I would have wagered you’d come.”

  There it was again, the word he’d come to loathe. Tamping down his guilt, he reached inside his coat pocket for his spectacles to better see. He had his proposal speech—or rather, song—in his pocket, as well, but without glasses, he hadn’t a prayer of seeing it.

  Kate’s small hand shot out to his arm. “No, don’t. You look ever so much handsomer without them. Take hold of my hand. I could lead us through that garden blindfolded.”

  “That would be the blind leading the blind, indeed.”

  She made a face, or at least he thought she did. It was altogether too dark to tell. “You do trust me, don’t you, Rourke? Trust is the most important ingredient to a marriage, or so I’ve been told.”

  “Aye, I trust you.”

  Her small hand wrapped firmly about his wrist. Given that she was the woman with whom he meant to wed and spend the rest of his life, that ought to have been a comfort. So why was it he felt the hairs pricking the back of his neck and a feeling of dread dropping into his belly?

  They entered the garden. He ran his free hand along the edge of the stone wall. His other hand remained in Kate’s. She held the lantern aloft and steered them along. They stepped off the path and cut across the frost-parched grass. Feeling his way through the darkness with his future bride and her lantern as his guidepost, it occurred to him he must really care for this woman; otherwise he would never have opened himself up to this vulnerability.

  Out of the corner of his good eye, he glimpsed the sparse scenery in passing—a dilapidated gazebo, chalk-white statues, a boxwood hedge, and assorted topiary shapes, the latter grown shaggy for want of shears.

  “We are here,” she announced in a carrying voice, letting go of his hand.

  Feeling his way to the cold slab of stone seat, he wondered why she spoke so loudly. Surely the point of all this moonlit meandering was to evade calling forth attention from the house. “Indeed, we are.”

  She set the lantern on the ground at their feet and took her seat beside him. “All alone.”

  He moved closer, his thigh brushing her hip. “Aye, all alone.”

  Cold though it was, her closeness was making his blood heat and his pulse hammer. Once he got through the business of making his proposal, and her accepting, he meant to take her in his arms and pick up where they’d left off in the park. After a week apart, another nibble of forbidden fruit, dare he say, a larger bite, was due.

  But beyond any pleasure gleaned from the moment, it was the future he couldn’t wait to embark upon. Sitting beside Kate on the bench, he realized he was very much looking forward to taking her to his home. The castle he’d acquired was a shambles still, the steward he’d hired making slow but steady progress. Rourke had instructed him to focus his attentions on the grounds as his first priority, but now that he was bringing home a bride, he would need to alter that plan.

  He found her shoulders with his hands, careful not to grip too tightly. That day in the park he’d forgotten himself and been rough with her, not that she’d seemed to mind. Still, he vowed to treat her with kid gloves from thereon. Slowly, gently, he turned her in his arms.

  “I’ve always fancied the dark.” He leaned in, intending to claim her with a kiss. Only this time Kate didn’t open for him. Her lips, stiff and dry with the cold, remained locked. He drew back. “Shy, sweeting? I wouldn’t have thought it from your boldness the other day.”

  She nodded, though he couldn’t read her downcast eyes. “That was daytime boldness. Things have a different face at night.”

  He glanced at her sharply, wishing he could better see. Her voice sounded choked. He wondered if she, too, might be nervous. There would be time aplenty for kisses later.

  “I suppose there’s no time like the present.” He stood, took off his hat and laid it on the vacant seat, and went down on his knees. He reached inside his pocket, for his spectacles or his song or both she couldn’t know.

  She grabbed hold of his elbow. “I’ve changed my mind. It was only a silly schoolgirl fancy that has passed. Let us forget I ever mentioned it. There’s no need for you to sing your proposal. I’d rather you didn’t.”

  He groaned. “You must have heard me before.” There was a flutter of white as he shook out a folded piece of paper. “But I’ve been practicing all afternoon.”

  I’ve been practicing all afternoon. Hearing those words, Kate felt her heart thaw. He’d been practicing to please her. The very thought made her throat thick and lumpy and her false smile wobble. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had tried to please her, let alone put so very much effort into doing so. It was entirely possible no one ever had. Her memories of her mother had grown misty with time, but what images she could piece together presented a picture of a parent who was kind but either too ill or distracted to pay her much heed.

  “You went to all that bother for me?”

  He looked up from the paper he held. “Pleasing you isna bothersome to me, Katie.”

  Kate stared down at him, feeling as though she were seeing him for the first time. Lantern light splashed across the sheet and his face, casting the blunt features into sharp relief. Until now, she hadn’t fully appreciated what a thoroughly beautiful man he was. Moonlight haloed his hatless head, casting the proud high brow, lean cheek, and strong chin into sharp silhouette. Her gaze strayed to his mouth, and she recalled how soft yet firm his lips had felt upon hers the time they’d kissed. Close as they were, the musk of him filled her nostrils. A rich, peaty flavor that brought to mind fall bonfires and buttery whiskey swirled about her like an Avalonian mist. If only they might set aside her plan for revenge and his for marriage and simply be a man and a woman taking romantic refuge in a secluded garden. Beyond anything, she wanted him to lay her upon that cold slab of stone bench, lift up her skirts, and teach her about pleasure.

  But it was too late for that. The plan was in motion. An eye for an eye … Only now did she see that the only aim revenge would accomplish was to render them both blind.

  Rourke cleared his throat. “I canna say my singing voice will do justice to the lyrics, but here goes:

  My dearest Kate,

  Of amber eyes and lips so sweet,

  Of honeycomb hair and satin skin,

  Of sharpest wit and tart-spiced tongue,

  Say you’ll come live with me and be my wife, my love?”

  Kate swallowed against the knot in her throat. The last line was purloined from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but otherwise the clumsy lines were heartwarmingly original.

  “My servant Ralph helped me write it.” He paused. “What say you, Kate?”

  Kate stared at him. She tried to answer but couldn’t seem to muster her tongue. She was helpless to do more than shake her head.

  As if influenced by the moon’s magic, the statuary and topiary shapes shifted and then sprang to life. Men and women popped up from their hiding places, putting forth peals of laughter.

&
nbsp; Rourke leapt to his feet. “What the devil …” He turned to Kate, who’d also risen.

  Kate brandished the lantern. “Consider yourself had, Mr. O’Rourke.”

  Blood pounding in his ears, Rourke turned to face the half-dozen or so “statues” advancing zombielike on him. They weren’t statues or specters, but living, breathing, laughing people. The little shrew had made a public fool of him, and in that collective laughter Rourke heard the echo of every childhood taunt he’d worked so hard to put behind him.

  He whipped his head back to his would-be bride. For someone who’d just put one over on him, she didn’t look particularly pleased with herself. She looked nearly as miserable as he felt.

  Even with the proof of her betrayal staring him in the face, he found it difficult to credit that such a small, adorable specimen of femininity could orchestrate mean-spirited mischief. But orchestrate it she had. The treachery involved in meting out such humiliation to another human couldn’t be excused by a sharp tongue or shrewish nature. It couldn’t be excused at all. There was only one state of being that could drive a woman like Kate to do that which she had just done to him.

  The woman must be pure evil.

  “Mark me, Kate, you’ll pay for this.” Sidestepping a toga-clad Lord Dutton, face and half-bare chest powdered white, he could only hope the viscount caught his death.

  She shot up her chin and threw her shoulders back, rising to her full if diminutive height. “My name is Katherine. Lady Katherine Lindsey.”

  Watching Rourke stalk away, bumping into statues—real ones—and walking into boxwood hedge as he fumbled for his glasses, Kate reminded herself she ought to feel triumphant. Her plan to humiliate her latest and most persistent suitor had gone off without a hitch. No man in his right mind would continue to pursue a woman who had done to him what Kate had done. She should feel happy, relieved, elated even.

  Kate felt none of those things. Though she couldn’t know for certain, she suspected she felt at least as bad as her victim and quite possibly worse. Looking about the crowded garden, she realized she was the only one not laughing. Watching Rourke stalk away, his broad back disappearing into the mist, she didn’t feel triumphant. She didn’t feel elated. Instead she felt empty—and very much alone.

  A smirking Dutton sidled up beside her. “Aren’t you going to thank me, Kate?”

  ’Actually, I’m not.”

  Looking beyond him, Kate glimpsed the Duncan sisters, sheets draped over their gowns and laurel wreaths in their hair, snickering amongst themselves. Cold reality crashed down over her. I’m no better than any of them. For someone who’d secretly fancied herself a cut above the company, the realization was humbling, indeed.

  Fat face painted green and silk leaves sewn to his coat, Cecil Wesley shuffled up to her other side. He looked more like a chubby bean stalk than a boxwood bush, not that it mattered now. “Good show, Kate. You put that Scottish bloke in his place.”

  “Oh, shut up, Wesley.”

  She turned to stride up the path leading back to the house. With the two principal players gone from the garden, a sense of anticlimax filled the air. The crowd began to disperse.

  Watching her go, Wesley stamped his cold-numbed feet. “Dash it, you’d think after all that she might have invited us in for some refreshment—tea and cakes at the very least. Hang the tea, a glass of port would be just the thing to knock off the chill.” He rubbed at bare, hairy arms.

  Dutton rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an ass, Wesley.”

  “What’d I say?”

  “The wrong thing or too much of the right thing—either way, you’ve managed to chase her off—again.”

  “Bullocks, I did, didn’t I?”

  Watching the ball of lantern light that represented Kate disappear into the house, Dutton shook his head. “Words and women, Wesley—how many times must I tell you the two mix about as well as oil and vinegar?”

  Sitting in Gavin’s parlor, Rourke lifted his glass of whiskey—his fifth or was it his sixth?—and knocked back another scorching swallow. Ordinarily he wasn’t much for drowning his sorrows in drink. Growing up, he’d witnessed firsthand what befell a man who let whiskey and gin gain the upper hand. When sober, his father had been a decent sort and a hard worker, but once the spirits took over, he became another creature entirely not unlike the high-minded Dr. Jekyll transforming into the murderous Mr. Hyde. Any woman, child, or animal unlucky enough to cross Seamus O’Rourke’s path when he was in his cups had better either run fast or take cover. But for one of the rare times in his life, Rourke was prepared to break his rule and get rip-roaring pissed.

  He shook his head, which was just beginning to ache. What a fool he was to ever think that a woman like Lady Katherine Lindsey could see beyond his blunt-featured face, coarse hands, and plain speech to the man beneath. He’d actually chalked up her odd behavior earlier to proposal jitters. When he’d first glimpsed Kate at the gate, his heart had fisted with gladness. Fool that he was, he’d fancied she was as bloody glad to see him as he was her. What had come over him to so let down his guard? He could almost believe some mischievous fairy had sprinkled him with pixie dust the potency of opium.

  Seated in a leather armchair nursing a sherry, his first, Gavin said, “I gather she found out about the wager?” Wearing a belted dressing robe and leather mules, he still managed to maintain the dignity of a top-notch barrister.

  “Aye, so it would seem. Still, it’s hardly the same thing. I never set out to hurt her.”

  “Did you tell her that?”

  “Well… no.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  The laughter from the garden still buzzing in his ears, he clenched his free hand at his side. “Kate Lindsey can go to the bluidy devil. I’m done, finished, washing my hands.” He illustrated the latter by chafing together his palms. Only the tumbler of whiskey he held had entirely slipped his mind. Whiskey sloshed onto his trouser legs and dribbled spots on the carpet.

  Suddenly the whiskey hit, blurring his already blurred vision and causing Gavin to grow a second head. A sigh broke from the opposite side of the room. Blinking, he glimpsed his friend rise from his chair and cross toward him.

  Gavin hooked a hand under his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Up you go.”

  “Where … where are you taking me?”

  “To bed.”

  Limp as a rag doll, Rourke felt himself being ferried toward the door. He dug in his heels. “Dinna wanna go to bed. Well, no with you leastways.”

  He cast Gavin a sideways glance and dissolved into guffaws. Suddenly everything seemed funny—almost everything.

  Expression droll, Gavin shook his head—heads. “I appreciate the clarification, but for the record I wasn’t offering.”

  The restless energy that had driven him ever since leaving Kate’s garden suddenly deserted him. Like a windup toy someone had forgotten to tend, he could only seem to function in slow motion. Speech was an effort, the resulting words garbled as though he spoke through a mouthful of marbles.

  “Dinna … wanna … be a … burden.”

  “Nonsense, you’re not a burden.”

  Somehow they’d gotten out into the hall. “That’s what you say now. What is it they say about houseguests and fish?” Not waiting for an answer, he delivered the punch line. “Both s-stink after … the first day.” A crack of laughter broke forth from him. Bowled over by his own cleverness, he doubled over, gripping his sides. Suddenly the corridor began to pitch and sway. “Gav?”

  “Yes?”

  Rourke gulped, the pendulum like motion picking up pace. He pressed a hand to his pounding temple and reached out his other to find purchase on the chair rail. “I’m verra sorry.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “For … this.”

  Rourke dropped to his knees and vomited.

  Sitting at Gavin’s breakfast table the next morning, Rourke sipped his second cup of black coffee and avoided looking at his friend’s plate of deviled kidne
ys and buttered eggs as best he might. For someone who was three-quarters Scots and one-quarter Irish he really ought to have a stronger stomach, along with better tolerance for spirits. His ancestors on both sides must be turning in their graves to see what a lightweight they’d weaned.

  Thinking aloud, he said, “I haven’t given up on marrying her, you know.”

  Seated next to him, a freshly ironed and still-folded copy of the Times between them, Gavin shot him a horrified look. “You can’t mean to marry someone out of spite.”

  Rourke shrugged, reached for a sweet roll, thought better of it, and then set it back on his plate untouched. “I don’t know why not? Lust and beauty fade, but a good, solid hating has a hold that stands the test of time.”

  “What of love?”

  Rourke was fond of Gavin. More than fond, he loved him like a brother. Still, at times such as this, he couldn’t help finding his friend something of a sop.

  He shook his head, which proved to be a very large mistake. Gripping the table edge, he waited for the dull pounding and black wave of nausea to subside. Sweating, he pushed his coffee cup and saucer aside and reached for his water glass instead.

  Taking a small swallow, he asked, “What of it?”

  “I was under the impression you held a tendre for Katherine, some fond feelings at the very least.”

  Katherine. The way Gavin spoke the name, it sounded as though he and Kate were long-standing friends. After the previous night, Rourke might detest the woman, he did detest her, but she was still his woman. Regardless of what he might have said about washing his hands of her, in the sobering light of day, he wasn’t yet ready to relinquish his claim on her, though, admittedly, forging a future with her seemed about as likely as strolling the moon’s surface or uncovering the ruins of Atlantis.

  But Rourke had been pulling himself up by his bootstraps nearly all his life. When it came down to it, Kate Lindsey was just another challenge to be faced, not terribly different from overtaking a rival railway company or boxing half-blind. Whenever the prize was in sight, Rourke always, always managed to find a way.