by Lois Greiman
He watched her, expression unreadable. “Why indeed?” he said finally, and turned stiffly away.
She watched him go, reminding herself to breathe.
“Me name is Sean.”
Pulled from her reverie, she turned back toward the man who was not her husband.
“Sean Gallagher, me lady. Fresh from County Wicklow.”
“Wicklow?” she said, and raising the brows she had only recently lowered, immersed herself in her role again. “Are you quite serious?”
His eyes twinkled like an ill-mannered leprechaun’s. “County Wicklow. Aye, me lady.”
She allowed a small smile. Perhaps because her own birthplace had not been named after a truncated candle. Perhaps simply because she was so immensely superior in every possible way. “And what brings you here, Wicklow?”
He paused a moment as if debating whether to correct her, seemed to decide against it, and spoke. “I’m a fair hand as a smithy.”
“A smithy.”
“Aye, shaping horseshoes, mending wheels. I can even draw out a decent knife if the spirit moves me,” he said, and bending, pulled a dagger from the top of his tall boot. The hilt was etched with intricate knot work. “A body should never be without a fine blade.”
She pursed her lips, waiting for him to continue. He didn’t. “And?”
He blinked, grin never fading, though he looked soaked to the skin. His shirt was all but plastered to the high, tight muscles of his chest. And his breeches looked snug enough to have been born with him.
“I could be using a job, I could,” he said, and watched her, green eyes sparkling with hope or mischief or some decadent blend of the two.
She watched him back. She was quite certain Lady Tilmont had never liked the Irish. They were an un-groomed lot, though honestly, this one’s conformation could hardly be faulted.
He tilted his head a little as if waiting for her response. “I can even fashion a fair lock if you need something kept private,” he said. “I’ve some skill in me hands.”
She’d bet a small fortune he did that. But she didn’t say as much. Ladies of quality kept their lascivious thoughts to themselves…until they were well out of sight. “And why, may I ask, are you speaking to me of this?”
He grinned. “I come by asking to speak to the lord of the manor, but I was told he was out and about.” About sounded like aboot from his diabolically curved lips. “Thus I asked after the one what sees to the farm, but Mr. Underhill seems to have been stove up.”
That’s right. He had been wounded by a horse just the day before. When she first heard the news, her curiosity had galled her like acid before she remembered her role, at which time she told them to care for their own and rose, nose tilted, to her lofty room above stairs. She rather wished she were there now, staring at her handsome reflection in the gilded mirror above the dresser. But she was not. And why was that, exactly? Could it be that Gregors wanted her elsewhere? And if so, what were his reasons?
“Me lady?”
She drew herself regally back to the present. “Are you accustomed to managing a country estate…” She waved a dismissive hand toward the surrounding hills outside the rain-washed windows and made a mien of contempt. “…such as this?” she asked. Off to her right she heard a rustle of noise from behind a wall. Spies perhaps. But why?
“Managing?” Gallagher’s dark brows rose. “No, me lady. I’ve not an inkling how to keep such a grand place as this. I’m naught but a humble Irishman with a bit of skill, is all.”
She found that her gaze had slipped to his aforementioned hands. They were long-fingered, smooth-skinned, and oddly tempting, but when she lifted her attention, she thought that a sharp sparkle of something new now showed in his gem-green eyes. Challenge perhaps. Or interest.
Humble, my shapely behind, she thought, and lifting her frothy, beribboned skirts in tandem with her chin, turned away. “Then I can see no use for you,” she said, but before she had taken a trio of steps, Gregors reappeared.
“My lady.” He bowed, his bony face unreadable. “I do not mean to overstep my bounds.”
“Then don’t,” she suggested. Holy hell, she was mean, she thought in surprise. But what shocked her even more was the realization that she rather enjoyed the role. It was quite freeing. Being nice required a good deal more energy.
Gregors nodded, as if he acknowledged her order without caring a whit. “’Tis simply that Lord Tilmont insisted that the young gelding be fit for a saddle before his impending return.”
Young gelding. Young gelding. Young gelding. Her mind spun. If she’d been told anything about this, she couldn’t remember it, so she pursed her lips and waited impatiently as if she knew all but felt no compunction to respond.
Gregors cleared his throat with what she had thought of as Celtic stoicism until her very recent introduction to the all-but-giddy Sean Gallagher. “The Irish are said to have some expertise with the beasts of the field.”
They were also said to have some expertise with women. She wondered if either was true. And why did Gregors care if this man stayed? By the look of the aging cadaver, he shouldn’t care about anything but the condition of his coffin. Would that be too rude to say aloud? Even for Lady Tilmont?
“Well?” she said finally, and turned toward Gallagher.
He canted up one corner of his cocky mouth. “Well what, me lady?”
She let her brow crinkle with impatience. “Are you skilled with horses?”
“Horses, is it?” he asked, then shrugged, nonchalant, as if it were of no great importance if she turned him back out into the weather like a homeless hound. “Aye, me lady, skilled enough.”
She watched him, wondering. What went on here? “Very well then. I shall consider the matter closed,” she said, and turned away, dismissing all as she ascended the stairs. Her footsteps were silent on the plush runner, soundless as she turned the corner toward her chambers.
“Not a soul.” The words were whispered from the hallway.
“You’re certain?”
“I’ve got me eyes, don’t I? And me other senses, too, come to that. If there was another in there with ’er I’d ’ave knowed it.”
Chapter 2
“Gregors,” Savaana said, then paused on the stairs, hand just so on the banister, poised for effect. The midnight blue riding habit she wore was a tad tight. She would have to forgo a few of Cook’s delicacies if she hoped to continue to inhale while wearing this particular garment. Accustomed to vast amounts of exercise, she felt overstuffed and understimulated from the time she’d spent eating ultra rich foods in the solitude of someone else’s stifling bedchamber.
“Yes, my lady.” The old cadaver turned toward her, his face as expressionless as a rock, his tone absolutely without inflection. If he were, in fact, Celtic, he must have beaten his brogue into submission years before. Which seemed a shame, because Gallagher’s musical lilt continued to sing in her memory, titillating her nerve endings, exciting her—
But what was she talking about? The baroness wasn’t the sort to get either titillated or excited.
On the other hand, the Rom were just that sort, especially when she’d been isolated in the airless confines of this mausoleum for three days. Three days, fifteen hours, and two minutes, to be precise. There was an extremely accurate clock atop the mantel in her bedchamber. A clock she was rather likely to hurl into the beveled looking glass if she spent one more second without feeling the wind on her face.
“I wish to ride,” she said. Her tone was marvelously restrained, not suggesting for a moment that she intended to hurl things…things that very well might include his bony person if he stood between herself and fresh air for another moment. “See that a mount is prepared.”
“Ride, my lady?” countered Gregors.
“Yes.” She raised her brows in concert with her chin. “If that meets with your approval.” Holy hell, she was as accomplished at sarcasm as she was at nasty. Who would have suspected?
“Of co
urse, my lady,” he said.
She nodded once, then continued down the stairs. She was the epitome of elegant grace. She was certain of it, but his next words stopped her.
“I shall find you a companion posthaste,” he said, tone bored.
“A companion!” Her own attitude was harsh and perfect.
“Surely my lady does not wish to ride alone.”
That was exactly what she wished, but what the hell was his snide expression all about? She raised her left brow an extra notch.
“I assure you, I am a better equestrian than any you shall find to accompany me.”
“I am certain that is true, madam. But I made a vow to keep you safe until my lord’s return.”
She considered that for a moment, remembering that Clarette had been adamant that she arouse no suspicions. That she make certain her reputation remained unsullied and her identity unquestioned.
Savaana almost closed her eyes to her own folly. How foolish she had been to follow this goose on such a wild chase. Since her arrival at Knollcrest she’d found nothing to bolster her hopes regarding Lady Tilmont’s true identity. “Very well,” she said. “But if this companion of yours cannot keep up, she shall be left behind.”
Gregors bowed again, looking as if he might shatter while doing so. “I shall surely relay that caveat, my lady.”
“Do so,” she said, and wondering about the meaning of caveat, glided back up the stairs to fetch a bonnet. In a matter of minutes she had secured a frilly straw hat upon her head and was heading resolutely toward the stables.
The sun had made a late afternoon appearance and shone crisp and bright on the saturated world. It made her feet itch to dance, but she kept her pace sedate, her demeanor refined until she reached the anonymity of the barn. She could not, however, keep a lively little ditty from trilling through her mind as she passed the lean-to that housed a smoking forge. Pacing briskly along, she sang a few bars under her breath as she stepped through the widespread doors of the barn. The air there smelled rich and earthy, soothing her frazzled nerves. She inhaled deeply, glanced about, then lifted her skirts and executed a skittering little jig to accompany her tune.
“Me lady.”
Stifling a squawk, she swung about as someone stepped up behind her, but the villain was already laughing.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Gallagher stood only a few feet away, eyes sparkling with mischief, one fist wrapped around a somewhat misshapen blade of twelve inches or so. “I apologize, I do.”
Savaana pursed her lips and found Clarette’s persona with surprising ease. What did that mean exactly? “Oh?” she said, and arched a brow. “And do you always cackle like a laying hen when you feel badly about your conduct?”
He chuckled again, reminding her that his laughter didn’t sound so much like a cackle as a bubbling fount of earthly pleasures. He had rolled his sleeves up well-muscled arms, and a slight sheen of sweat glistened where his kindly shirt lay open at the neck. “Please,” he said, wiping his brow with the back of a callused hand, “don’t quit your singing on me own account.”
She raised her chin. “I was not singing.”
“I heard—”
“Incorrectly,” she said. “For I do not sing.”
“What of dancing? Did I imagine that light little jig as well?” he asked, and laughed as she deepened her scowl.
Dammit, she would have to be more careful about her conduct. “Tell me, Irishman, are you always so jolly as this?”
“Only when I’ve had meself a bit of sport with me hammering,” he said, and slipped the incomplete knife into his boot. “A body should never be without a fine blade.”
“So that’s what makes you giddy? Hammering steel?” She employed her snootiest tone, but his forearms were corded with taut muscles; she felt a little giddy herself.
“Well, that, and accompanying a comely lass such as yourself.”
“Accompanying…” she began, then understanding his meaning, deepened her scowl. “Surely you are not to be my companion.”
“Think of me more as an escort.” He bowed again, making the neck of his tunic droop enough to show the taut muscles of his dark-skinned chest. Her attention dipped there. “At your service, me lady.” He straightened, and though she zipped her gaze instantly back to his face, his happy expression was already suggesting that he had noticed her wandering attention. For reasons entirely unknown to her, that obvious joy made her angry.
“As it turns out…” she said, “I do not require your services.”
His lips hitched up a roguish notch, making her wonder if there was something amusing about her phraseology.
“Then you merely desire them?” he asked.
She frowned as she tugged on her gloves. The black kid leather felt soft and warm against her skin, too warm for this weather, but years of study had taught her that what the gentry wore had little to do with need and more to do with…madness. Besides, it would be best not to call attention to the calluses that ridged the underside of her palms. “Unlike Gregors…” she said, tugging the frilly sleeves of her blouse out from under her sturdy jacket, “I have not found the Irish to be particularly good with horses.”
Something sparked in his eyes. Anger maybe. Good. ’Twas far preferred to his irritating good humor. “Perhaps you have tangled with the wrong Irishmen, then,” he suggested.
She gave him an arch glance as she reached for a quirt that hung on the wall nearby. It was three feet long and crafted of fine braided leather. She rather liked the feel of it, and smiled as she tapped it against the heavy fabric of her skirt. “As it is, I do not ‘tangle’ with the Irish at all.”
“Then perhaps ’tis time ye did,” he said.
She straightened her back, haughty as hell, disapproval seeping from every pore. “Might you forget that I’m a married woman, Mr. Gallagher?”
“’Tis unlikely,” he said, and there was something in his voice. Something almost calculating, that caused her to cant her head at him, to narrow her thoughts.
“And what exactly might you mean by that?”
“Me apologies,” he said, and though he dropped his head in the semblance of chagrin, his eyes were steady when they reached hers again. “It but seems strange that such a bonny lass should spend her time alone on this estate so far from the company of others.”
Bending an elbow, she flicked an invisible fleck of dust from her sleeve. “Perhaps the carefully bred don’t become lonely so easily as the lower class,” she said.
His eyes sparked again, but whether with anger or humor, she couldn’t quite tell. Neither did she care, she thought, but it was not so easy to lie to herself as to others.
“And what of boredom, me lady? Do the carefully bred feel that?”
She tilted her head at him. In the past three days she’d been bored enough to chew off her own arm. But he was watching her, and perhaps it would not suit her elegant persona to admit as much. “I’ve but a desire to see how my lord’s estate looks after the rain,” she said, then pursed her lips and perused him for a silent moment. “If you’ve no objections.”
Their gazes met and melded, and then he grinned. “No objections a’tall, me lady.”
She placed a splayed hand to her chest with dramatic flare. “What a pleasant relief.”
He laughed and gestured to a gelding tied to the nearby wall. He was as black as pitch. Tall and broad, he was deep through the heart girth and smooth through the forearm. Every elegant line flowed like river water into the next. He turned his broad head toward her, showing intellect and curiosity in his seal-brown eyes.
And suddenly it mattered little if she was Rom or royalty, for her heart was filled to brimming with something rather akin to love at first sight.
“Here then,” Gallagher said, breaking the spell. “Allow me to move Indigo so that you may mount your own steed.”
Tugging the gelding’s lead from the ring through which it was tied, he led the black away, only to reveal a paunchy chestnut
adorned with a lady’s silly sidesaddle. Little more than a spavined pony, the mare was barely fourteen hands at the withers. Never flicking an ear, she stood with one hip cocked and her bottom lip drooping.
Savaana stared at the aging hack for all of five seconds, then turned toward her unwanted escort. “You jest.” Her tone was perfectly level. Perfectly bored.
He raised a brow at her. “Me lady?”
Their gazes clashed. “Surely you do not expect me to ride that…” She lifted a dismissive hand toward the chestnut. “…thing.”
Gallagher scowled as if confused, but even an inbred Irishman couldn’t be as daft as all that. She was quite certain of it…until he spoke. “Mr. Gregors said to make certain you remained safe, and Daisy here will do just that.”
She smiled, making sure the expression did nothing more than move her lips into a ghoulish configuration. “Did Mr. Gregors also say to make sure I do not move above a snail’s pace?”
He shook his head once, looking befuddled. “I don’t believe he made mention. But if that be your preference I shall surely—”
“Change the saddles, Lowwick,” she ordered, though in truth she had never ridden aside as well bred ladies did.
“Me name’s Sean, lassie. Sean—”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re the king’s first cousin. Unless you’ve a penchant for riding aside, you’ll change their tack about.”
“The mare is a fine mount, me lady. A bit long in the tooth, mayhap, but well trained and responsive if you’ll but—”
“Did I ask about the state of her teeth?”
He shook his head. “Nay, me lady, but I fear Gregors will be sore—”
She slapped the quirt against her skirt. “Remove the saddle or you’ll have apt reason to fear.”
There was something in his damned eyes again. If it was humor, she might well have to kill him. “Truly, my lady, I do not think—”
“And ’twould be a bad time for you to start now.”