The Black Angel (The St Ives)

by Barbara Samuel

  But it was her skin that made him ache and shift, and wish there was no one else in the room. Skin as clear and smooth and perfect as a bowl of fresh milk, skin that glowed with an inner light, almost luminescent in the bright room.

  He wanted to shed his shirt and press his chest to that silkiness. He wanted to lick it. And as he stared in pleasurable anticipation, letting his gaze swoop down her neck, glide over her collarbone, swell over that abundance of breasts that were near to spilling free—oh, lovely thought!—he noticed that her breath came faster than it should.

  He lifted his gaze to her face, and there, in the company of the dressmaker and her assistants, in a public shop in a public square in the middle of London, their eyes locked. In hers, Tynan saw reluctant arousal, awareness of his perusal, haughtiness and need, all in a whirl. Her nostrils flared faintly, and she suddenly sucked in a deep breath and looked away to let it go.

  The dressmaker, oblivious or polite, rushed forward with a new bolt of fabric. "Now in this you must trust me, my lord. We've said no pink, but this is—" She flung the edge of the fabric over Adriana, draped it close, tugged it close to her form. "—is different, no?"

  "Ah," he said.

  He did not know what name to put on the stuff, but he knew what it made him think of—fairy wings. Gossamer and pale. The color was pink, but only the faintest possible shade, the last moment of sunlight on a winter day.

  Nor did he know why it gave her skin so much more luminosity, so much more power. Against that breathy shade, her lips darkened to a hot berry and her eyes glowed vividly blue, and Tynan, unaccountably, wondered if her nipples were pale or dark, rose or cinnamon.

  He swallowed, surprised at the fever of his thoughts. With a wry smile, he nodded. "Yes. That one, definitely."

  Adriana looked mutinous. "I shan't wear it," she said.

  He grinned. "Oh, yes you will."

  The door to the shop suddenly swung open, halting any reply she might have made. Tynan glanced up, curiously, and saw a woman of some wealth, attended by a footman. The matron wore an enormous hat trimmed with feathers and fruit, and her wig was so tall she had to duck under the doorway. Her face was aging, but Tynan could see the beauty she must once have been.

  Adriana made a curious little noise, and both Tynan and the matron turned to look at her—which was evidently exactly what she did not want, in spite of the noise, for she was struggling to turn away, while Madame struggled just as intently to make her stand still so the gossamer fabric did not tear.

  "Well well," the matron drawled, "if it isn't the Lady Adriana."

  Pinned where she stood, Adriana looked down, turned her head as far as she was able.

  But the woman was not about to be deterred. She moved with the practiced glide of a woman who knew her power over men, her skirts bobbing on their panniers in a way that made a man wonder what lay beneath. "I hear your brother is in the Tower, my dear. What a pity."

  Still Adriana did not respond. She seemed to be shrinking into herself, as if willing herself to disappear, and Tynan wondered if he ought to go to her rescue. Instead he waited to see how it would unfold, looking for clues to the scandal, and to Adriana's heart.

  "Have you come back to London to whore around a bit more?" the woman inquired.

  Adriana's head snapped up and Tynan saw the blaze of fury in her eyes before she shifted, pushing the dressmaker—shocked into muteness—away. She turned away, head high, and carried herself with dignity into the changing rooms.

  Having lost her primary quarry, the woman turned to Tynan. "Is she your slut now?"

  He stood, and his height put her immediately at a disadvantage. "She is my wife," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "And I'll thank you to hold that evil tongue."

  "Oh, how divine!" she cried. "A bloody Irishman." She gave a mean laugh. "Who else would have her?"

  He raked her with a cold gaze and tucked his hands behind his back, glancing toward the dressmaker, whose face burned with the horror of this scene. "What shrews old, faded women become in the presence of youth and beauty," he said smoothly.

  Leaving the shrew to splutter, he moved to confer with Madame. "Do what you must to have the gowns ready posthaste," he said, and tucked a guinea into her hand. Raising a brow, he smiled. "The ball gown first."

  "Ball gown!" the shrew cried. "As if any door will be open to you!"

  Tynan gave her his best, most wicked smile. "Oh, I think you'll be surprised." He exaggerated his accent, rolling the r's and the lilt. "I've prettier manners than you, and an ever so irresistible smile." Lazily, he crossed to her, letting his eyelids drop suggestively, letting his eyes scrape over her powdered bosom. He knew his power, and it lay in sex, a subject he suspected this witch knew all too well. "I'll be welcomed."

  She glared up at him. "Not if I have anything to do with it."

  He shrugged lightly. "Do your worst." Adriana, garbed in the mustard cloak, joined him, and he put his arm about her protectively. To his surprise, there was a tremble in her shoulders, and she kept her head lowered. "Good day," he said, and departed with a slow, precious dignity.

  On the street he turned Adriana to face him, leaving his hands on her shoulders. "Why didn't you slap her?"

  Now that there was no need to control her expression, Adriana's face collapsed into misery. "That was Malvern's mother." She lifted those deep blue eyes. "Now do you see how it will be?"

  And Tynan, for all his bravado in the shop, did see. He would have to work quickly. "Let's get you home."

  She nodded, an expression of such defeat on her face that he could not bear it. More than anything, he wished to take her into his arms and hold her quiet and close, to ease this shame—but in this public street, with the sting of insult burning still, he thought it unwise. Instead he took her hand and placed it on his elbow jauntily, keeping his other hand over hers.

  Chapter 9

  Adriana retreated to the conservatory when they returned home. A long narrow room that ran the length of the building on one side, it housed an enormous collection of plants, most of them tropical specimens that Leander had gathered on his travels. There were exotic flowers and vines climbing posts, and greenery with enormous leaves. Many of the plants she remembered from Martinique, for while most of the children had taken shells and rocks as mementos, Leander had spent two weeks carefully settling various slips and cuttings in pots. He spent the entire ocean voyage hovering over the collection and worrying about it, but nearly all had survived.

  Adriana's father, indulgently, had the plant house built as a surprise for the youth. Now many of the specimens that had made that journey were almost a decade old and dripped blossoms from the ceiling, and cast shade on sunny days.

  It was one of Adriana's favorite spots. It smelled of earth and dampness and hints of sweetness from the flowers, and the agreeably dense warmth of the air made her forget her troubles in ways she never quite understood.

  This gloomy afternoon, she carried a box with her. It contained the pages of her journal and a freshly sharpened pen, as well as ink, a set of watercolors in cakes, and brushes. Hidden from the world behind an overgrown pot of fatsia japonica, sat a wide wooden table, painted annually to keep the moisture out. It was here that Adriana settled. The glass walls rose from the ground to a point far above her head, and on such a cool day, condensation covered the panes, effectively blocking out the world.

  She sat still and breathed the comfort of the air, closing her eyes to steady herself on the fragrance of times past. Times that were easier than these, sweeter. The mingled scents triggered memories—she and Julian and Gabriel running down a stretch of sparkling white beach, dashing in and out of the turquoise surf, the sky blue and endless above them. They'd been wild then, wild and free, and they'd all believed it would last forever.

  The tight knots along her spine began to ease at these memories, and encouraged, she tossed open the mental box that contained her days there—she always imagined memories as being stored in neat trunks
with careful labels on them—and let them spill into her mind.

  The birds were something she'd never stopped missing. Birds with wildly colorful feathers, and musical and strident cries, birds like flying flowers. And her bedroom on the plantation, with its polished floors and gauzy curtains and the mosquito netting around the bed. An airy place.

  Thoughtfully, she took out her paints and brushes, and wet the little cakes. A flash of blue, across the top of the thick paper, a triangle of bird wing, with a tipping of white.

  There had been dangers, too, of course. Deadly insects lurking in hidden places, beautiful snakes with fatal teeth, poisonous creatures washing up on the sand. Even the unlikely, fantastic threat of pirates had some basis in reality.

  But happiness had reigned for the children. As those gilded memories came back to her, she sketched them out in little patterns of watercolor, amusing herself with shape, soothing her tumult with repetitive motion.

  At last she was calm enough to write her thoughts in her journal. It was a rigorous requirement she set—she wrote every day. She did not require herself to record details of daily events necessarily, but an emotional and sensory history.

  Tynan played the hero this morning. I can't bear to put the details down just yet—perhaps I'll never be brave enough. We met up with Malvern's mother at the dressmaker's and—it was horrid. Tynan shielded me, hurried me away, would, I vow it, have slapped her himself. I admired the control he had over his anger, which boiled in his eyes, and I fear that anger would be an awesome thing to witness if he let it go. Perhaps that is why he holds so tightly to it, why one only glimpses a tail of it now and again.

  He is such a puzzle! I find myself watching him from the corner of my eye, drawn over and over and over again to something… something I can't quite grasp.

  Perhaps, if I am honest, it is in part his beauty. His hair and his eyes, of course, and that aggressive and graceful arrangement of features. But also the irregularities that take him from merely beautiful to breathtaking. His nose is rather too large, and the bridge is high and a little off center. It gives the whole a much more interesting aspect.

  And I like his hands, so long and lean and graceful. He uses them in conversation with a fluency that makes one think of the men of the Continent—it is more expansive than an Englishman would indulge.

  But there are many beautiful men. About Tynan, there is more, some internal quality that's most extraordinary. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live in his mind —I suspect there is, within him, a grand, wild garden, exuberantly overrun with some extravagant flower—foxglove or those tall pink things that grow on rooftops. It storms there, in his garden, for I've seen the darkness cross his eyes, sudden and fierce—and just as quickly spent. He is relentlessly good-humored. Even when he's wounded, he's quick to twist the moment to something wry.

  And that makes him appear to be shallow, but he is not.

  He is a puzzle. And he makes me think, all too often, of what sort of landscape is my mind, my soul. I think I have been walled inside a garden of my own making these past five years, protected from without, and fearful within. In my garden, things are carefully arranged, with nothing too untidy, and nothing too bright, and the door safely locked.

  I am frightened of what will happen if I fling open that door. I am afraid of the storms that could sweep me away. I am not brave enough anymore.

  A footstep on the stone floor made her hastily close the book and put down her pen. A dark head appeared over the tops of an extravagant orchid, then Gabriel came into view, carrying a single yellow rose. "I suspected I'd find you here," he said, and presented her with the flower. "May I join you?"

  Adriana lifted it to her nose and smiled. "Of course. We've had little time together since your return."

  He settled across from her and flung out his long legs. His breeches and stockings were immaculate, his hair tamed and combed back to a long, curly queue. As had become his habit, he stroked the tiny strip of beard on his chin and then raised those pale green eyes to her face. "Spenser said you met Malvern's mother this morning."

  "Yes."

  "And it did not go well."

  "No."

  "Riana, look at me."

  She sighed and raised her head.

  He took her hand in his and earnestly leaned forward. "You must not allow her to shame you." His lips quirked. "Especially not her."

  Adriana smiled a little. "A case of the pot and kettle, I'm sure."

  "Pot and the ashes of the fire, more like." He snorted, then shook his head. "The world is not all England, Riana. You were freed in the Islands—don't allow this world to put you in chains."

  She swallowed, an ache in her chest. "But this is the world in which I must live."

  "Is it?"

  And in this, she was clear. "I loved the islands, Gabriel, but I cannot live there now. I am too aware of the injustice. This world may be flawed, but at least there are laws against men owning other men." She took a breath. "And I cannot leave the family."

  "I know." He moved his thumb over her fingernail meditatively, his gaze fixed on something far away. "Julian bore it better than I, the separation. I was homesick every moment we were gone." He gave her a wry smile. "I'm afraid I do not have the heart of an adventurer at all."

  In her mind's eye she saw him as he'd been that morning in Hyde Park, horror on his handsome face as blood seeped into Malvern's coat. She thought of his thinness now, and the hints of great trials. "Were you really taken by slavers?"

  The faintest ripple of pain crossed his face and he closed his eyes. "I was."

  A pain cut through her heart. "Did they hurt you?"

  He tightened his hand around hers, raised his eyes. "Not anywhere that won't heal." He touched his heart. "I'm whole, where it matters."

  She let go of a choking little laugh. "It certainly puts the matter of a being cut in Society into perspective!"

  "Indeed." His grin was quick and wry. "But in truth, I suppose you must attempt to conquer that Society. For Julian's sake."

  "I tried to see him today, and the guard would not let us in." A heaviness settled low in her chest. "What can we do, Gabriel? Tynan said the spirit was against him last night in the coffeehouse."

  "With them it is only the anger of the working man against the nobles. Not so much to worry about." A troubled expression crossed his brow, and his fingers went to that small strip of beard on his chin.

  "But?" she prompted.

  He took a breath. "But it seems there is some strong feeling about dueling. Even among those who should know better, there's talk of… making an example of Julian."

  Stung, she breathed, "Oh, God."

  "We won't let him hang, Adriana. That much I promise you. I've an appointment with a barrister in the morning, and have sent some of my friends out to see what they might learn about the source of this hanging mood." He clasped her hand. "You must not worry."

  "You must give me something to do, Gabriel. I'll go mad if I have to sit in this house, wondering and worrying."

  He seemed to consider a moment, then nodded. "I will think of something. In the meantime the guards can be bribed most days. And I'm sure Julian would welcome your letters—as many as you'd care to write."

  From any other man, Adriana would have felt the words a mere balm, a way to soothe the spirits of a child. She trusted Gabriel to keep his word. "Thank you," she said. Then, determined they should not spend all their time enshrouded in gloom, she lifted her head and pasted on a smile. "What are your plans now, Gabriel? Will you take a wife and become a merchant and raise a bunch of fat children?"

  "I think not," he said. "No wife or children for me. There are too many other things to claim my attentions—and no promise that any of them will ever provide me with a reliable living."

  "Oh?"

  "I am writing, Riana." His pale eyes were very serious. "And I am afraid I have married my cause." With a rueful lift of one heavy brow, he said lightly, "To free the slaves in all
the world."

  Taking her cue from his light tone, she said, "Well, it should certainly keep you busy." But she felt some sorrow that such a tender man would not take a wife. "At least I shall not be forced to share my flowers with some other wench."

  He laughed. "Just so." He stood, tugging her hand. "Come, let's find ourselves some dinner. I've supports to gather, revolutions to seed."

  Adriana shook her head. "I'll stay here. I must write to Phoebe."

  For a moment he did not loose her hand, but gravely gazed down at her. "Are you all right, Riana?"

  She smiled. "Yes."

  There was doubt on his mouth, but in the end he said only, "Very well," and left her.

  * * *

  Tynan returned to the town house well after dark, eager to share with Adriana the course of the afternoon. He peeked into the dining room and the parlor, but she was nowhere about. Finally, the butler directed him to the conservatory. It was tucked behind the kitchen, reached only by a single, unassuming glass door off the dining room.

  In the daytime it was likely a splendid place, Tynan thought, entering the close, scented dimness. Candles burned softly in one corner, and he headed in that direction, calling out her name. "Adriana? Are you here?"

  She peered around a large potted palm. "Here."

  "Ah, good!" Jauntily, he joined her. "I have good news."

  "About Julian?"

  He should have thought of that, that her first concern would be her brother. "No, I'm sorry."

  "Oh." She gestured for him to join her at the small table. Across its top were scattered small, botanical watercolors, along with her brush and paints and a jug of water. She lifted one to give him room. "What is it, then?" she prompted without much interest.

  "May I?" he asked, pointing to one of the paintings.

  She lifted a shoulder. "I have no true talent at it, but it… occupies my thoughts."

  Tynan frowned at the ennui in her manner, but picked up the drawings, several of them. The paintings were simple in form, strokes suggesting a shape, a flower, a leaf, the details suggested with subtle color graduations. "I disagree with your assessment," he said. "I like these very much."