He scratched, but there was no answer, and he entered quietly. A fire burned in the grate, casting soft red illumination into the room, and from an embrasure set with a double set of mullioned windows, the softness of cloudy night came in. The bed was an enormous four-poster hung with brocaded drapes, and he thought of the night he'd first made love to her, in a medieval room much like this one. It seemed a very long time ago.
She slept on her belly, her hair and the top half of her face the only things showing, and he resisted the urge to kiss her. Instead, he disrobed quietly, and shivering, slid under the down-filled counterpane, moving across the cold expanse of bed to the warm island of her body, and very gently took her into his arms. Without waking, she flowed into his embrace, sighed heavily and settled hard on his shoulder.
With an odd sense of relief, he too fell asleep, holding her close to his heart.
* * *
Adriana awakened with a snug sense of well-being. Tynan's body cradled hers from behind, his long arms looped around her, his knees tucked into the crook of her own. His breath, steady and deep, brushed her nape.
Then she realized where she was—in her bed at Hartwood Hall, in her nightrail, buried under the heavy feather counterpane. He, quite obviously, was naked.
In gentle wonder she turned, and Tynan, still deep in sleep, let her go, pulling the cover over his bare shoulder and burying his face into the pillow. The sight of him, so beautiful, in her bed when she had not expected him, gave her a wild sense of gratitude.
Have I fallen in love with him?
Had she? She probed the spot in her chest that held him, and found it deep and wide and soft, pleasure and joy and… what? Her gaze caught on his slightly crooked, aggressive nose, such a refreshing flaw amid the graceful lines of cheekbones and jaw and eyebrows. From that broad forehead sprung his thick hair, dark but touched with those hints of copper when the light was upon it. His hand lay on the pillow next to him, and she reached up with her own, touching his fingers and palm lightly, letting the emotion pour through her—love.
Love that made her lean close and press a kiss to his brow, gently. Love that rested easy in the cradle of her heart. Love that made her wish to travel to his wild Irish world and see what he'd seen through his boyhood. Love that made her want to bear children that had his eyes.
Love that made her wish to be the one holding his hand when he died, or having him hold hers while she slipped away. If he had a mistress… it stung, that thought, and she scowled.
"Such a sour face," he said, touching her cheek.
"When you discover you want another woman, can you promise to make it several and never just a single one?"
He gave her a quizzical smile. "What?"
"I think I can bear the idea of several women, but I'm afraid a single mistress will make me a terrible shrew."
Rising up to his elbow, he looked down on her. "How many shall I have, then? Is twenty too many?"
"You're teasing me."
"I am." Idly, he untied the laces of her nightrail and put his hand flat between her breasts. "Why would I take a mistress when I have a wife who so suits my passions?"
"For now I do. But we're new lovers."
He lowered his lashes. "Will you have lovers, too, Riana?"
"No."
"Then I will not take them, either." He met her eyes soberly. "We'll be faithful, one to the other."
It pierced her. "Are we to remain married, then?"
"Aye," he said roughly, and she caught a hidden worry, quickly erased, before he kissed her. "Aye, that suits me."
She breathed in the scent of his hair, closing her eyes. There was pipe smoke in the length, and a hint of port. "How did you get here?"
"Gabriel and I came together, late. He was in a state, worrying, so I brought him." He straightened. "About our agreement, now. When all is settled with your brother, I will wish to return to Ireland." He paused. "There are things we will discuss then. And you may choose to stay here or come with me then."
"I'll go with you, of course."
"You may not," he said.
Perplexed, she touched his chest. "What is it?"
"Let's wait till the trial is done, shall we?" He lifted a rueful brow and pushed his hair from his face. "How is Phoebe?"
Frowning thoughtfully, she didn't answer immediately. "You've frightened me now, Tynan."
His mouth showed no hint of humor, and his hand strayed, brushing over her jaw. "I meant to."
She thought suddenly of him the first night they'd made love, sitting alone in the dark with his head in his hands. "Is it about your brother?"
"Partly." He took a breath. "Now, you have to trust me. It will be better to wait. And I do not mean to appear callous, but can you leave Phoebe safely in the care of the others, just for this day and night?"
"The ball."
He nodded. "If you must stay, I will make our excuses, but it would be very good for my cause to go. And it will not hurt your brother's cause any, either."
"I understand. There is little that can be done for Phoebe today. We'll not know what damage there is until she is able to walk again, and that will be many weeks yet."
"All right. Then let's be on with the day." With his usual energy, he leaped up, shivering in the cold, and reached for his trousers. Adriana rolled to her side to watch him, smiling at the long smooth line of his back, the working of muscles in his shoulders.
"Can you spare even a few moments, sir?"
He bent over and kissed her, his hair falling around her face. "You're a lusty wench."
"So they say."
He chuckled. "We'll celebrate tonight."
Chapter 17
The dress had arrived while they were at Hartwood, and when Adriana went upstairs, she found Fiona simply standing before the creation with her hands folded reverently over her apron. The maid looked at her with misty eyes. "My lady, this is a queen's dress!"
Adriana blinked in awe. It lay across the dark coverlet on her bed like something fashioned from the wings of fairies or dragonflies. Letting go of a breath of approval, she moved across the room to put a palm on it. "I cannot wear this," she said with some sorrow.
"What? You must! They'll all swoon in envy, they will."
Which was exactly the problem. The fabric was one shade from her own skin tone, and it was shimmering, diaphanous—a froth of nothing in so innocent a hue. She closed her eyes. "I cannot."
With her mouth set, she whirled, stomped to her door and went to find Tynan. She came upon him in the drawing room, frowning over a letter that he hastily folded up when she appeared. "Tynan, the dress will not do."
"Is there some mistake?"
"No. It's too wicked. It's terrible. I cannot appear in such a dress."
His smile broke, devastating and knowing. "It is meant to be utterly wicked, Riana."
"You do not know what they will say."
"Oh, but I do," he said softly.
"What you think it was to be and what it actually has become are—"
Reasonably, he said, "Have your maid help you put it on. We'll decide."
Adriana sighed and waved a hand. "Whatever you say. You will see."
* * *
Tynan's smile faded as she bustled out, and he took the letter again from his jacket. It came from his steward, who warned him of raids that had been made on neighboring counties, Protestants against Catholics, and the law all on the Protestants' side. A young man, hotheaded and outraged, had been beaten to death. He'd left a wife and small child.
The raids, warned the steward, were coming closer. He feared what would happen when they got to the glassworks.
Tynan pinched the bridge of his nose, torn in two directions. Tonight he hoped to cinch his aspirations toward a House seat. Julian's trial would begin Tuesday. If all went very well, he could depart London by Friday next.
But some presentiment of danger warned him that he could not leave it so long. What if the raids progressed before he was able to make th
e long journey? It took several days even in good weather and no storms to block his ferry crossing from Holyhead to Dublin.
And if there was such unrest, he would be very unwise to take Adriana with him, as he had planned. Which would mean leaving his confession even longer. Tension drew up his shoulders and he shifted to loosen them.
He heard her step outside the door and carefully tucked away the letter. Time enough tomorrow to decide. He turned, hands clasped behind his back, and waited for her to appear.
She strode in, as if to weight her form with a man's sturdy walk. But nothing could have marred the perfect marriage of that dress to that form. She halted, nostrils flaring. "You see? It is impossible."
"Au contraire," he whispered. The gown was made in some light, airy way of such fine fabric that it appeared to float over her body, curving itself around her lush breasts, swirling around her belly and hips. She looked like a goddess. No man would be able to think clearly while she walked a room in that dress, which was exactly what he'd hoped.
And yet it was Adriana herself who gave it the greatest dash. Her long neck held her pretty head at a defiant angle, and wisps of hair, loosened in her struggles, brushed her oval face. Against the paleness, her eyes burned like sapphires, dancing and alive and bold. "'Tis perfect," he said.
"It is not," she replied, and he realized he had missed, at first, the fury in her stance. "It makes me into a whore, and I will not wear it." Her eyes shimmered with tears. "And you are a pig, and I cannot believe you would have put me on display like this." She shook her head. "You're just like all of them, aren't you? You cannot see me for all of this." She gestured angrily at her breasts, at her body.
"Riana! No, that's not—"
"Perhaps I should attend as Lady Godiva," she said coldly. "I've the hair for it."
"Riana—"
She stepped away, shaking her head. "Why would you do this?"
He scowled, exasperated. "Because everyone in that room is expecting you to enter with your head bowed in apology and shame. Because they'll be wanting to look down at you." He stepped closer. "When you appear in this gown, like Venus, they'll be cheated of pitying you or disdaining you."
She made a sound. "No, they'll hate me instead."
"Hate you? No. Envy, perhaps. Lust, almost certainly. Not hate."
Wavering, she raised those dark blue eyes and bit her lip. It was an almost painfully vulnerable expression, and he told himself he must be very alert tonight, to protect her. "I'm frightened," she said quietly.
"It won't be easy, Riana," he said seriously. "But we've the Duchess behind us, and the arrogance of the gods to go with us." He put his hands on her arms and deliberately admired the fall of the gown over her breasts and hips. "And remember, 'twill be your husband who is most anxious for the evening to be at a close."
She nodded. "All right."
He kissed her forehead. "All will be well, Riana. I promise."
* * *
To her amazement, Adriana was able to nap—and quite deeply, waking only when Fiona shook her late in the afternoon, to take her bath. Even then the sluggishness of the nap clung. The hot, scented water was no real help, and she nearly drifted off again while she was soaking.
Fiona sent for strong, milkless tea, and as she dried Adriana's hair, patiently squeezing the water out, then combing and brushing it before the fire, Adriana drank her tea and very, very slowly, as if emerging from a chrysalis, grew more alert.
Now that she'd had some time to let the notion sink in, she realized Tynan was right, as ever. Society did wish for her to hang her head in shame. If women were allowed the same freedoms as men, there were a great many men, after all, who'd stand to lose quite a lot. Abruptly she asked Fiona, "Do you ever wish you were born a man?"
The girl made a snorting sound. "What woman has not?"
Adriana laughed, and suddenly the chrysalis broke entirely. She couldn't have said, just then, what it was that had fallen away, but there was a new buoyancy in her as Fiona and she worked together on her costume for the evening.
And a costume it was. She thought of Tynan, teasing her about being the god of love. "Who is the Irish god of love, Fiona? Do you know his name?"
"Aonghus Og?" she asked. "Sure, and I do."
"Who is his consort?"
"His lover, you mean?"
Adriana nodded at her.
"Well, let's see now. That would be Cáer."
"What is she like?"
"He dreamed of her and went to find her." Fiona combed through Adriana's waist-length hair. "Ah, milady, 'tis fine hair you have, that much is true." She paused a moment with the hair in her hands, as if trying to imagine what to do with it.
"Who was she?" Adriana prompted.
"Cáer, the one he dreamed of, was the daughter of the king of the sidhe. You know the sidhe?"
"No." She had been looking at the girl in the mirror—one brought without question to replace the one Adriana had broken—and now turned. "Who are they?"
"You'd call them the fairy folk, but in our land they're as dangerous as they are beautiful. And Cáer was the daughter of their king, who had other things in mind for his daughter, as fathers so often do."
Adriana chuckled. "So what happened?"
"Cáer took the body of a swan, but so lovestruck, so smitten was Aonghus Og, that he knew her straight away and carried her off to his castle."
"Was she glad to have him?"
"Well, now," Fiona said, a hand on her hip, a hint of a smile on her wide mouth, "what girl wouldn't want the god of love?"
Adriana laughed, full-throated. "Tonight, Fiona, I must be as beautiful as that swan girl. Cáer?"
"But of course you must," the girl said quietly, "since you up and married Aonghus Og himself."
Adriana only smiled. "Come, we must hurry if I am to be ready in time."
An hour later they stood back to admire their handiwork. Taking a nervous breath, Adriana stood tall and inclined her head. "Might I pass as a daughter of the sidhe?"
Fiona's eyes shone, and she clasped her hands to her mouth in pleasure as Adriana turned in a slow, graceful circle. "'Tis just as well we are not in Ireland, or they'd think you one of their own and steal you away."
Adriana smiled. Her hair was piled loosely on her head, with curls and wisps drifting free, as if blown there by a soft wind. Into it Fiona had pinned small jewels of many colors, so the various fires of garnets and emeralds and sapphires flashed as she inclined her head. The dress, which had seemed so daring this afternoon, still seemed to be made of dragonfly wings, barely pink, as if dawn and moon had met and loved. The craftsmanship was so exquisite, the cut so perfect, that it glossed her, covered and revealed and hinted with every tiny breath, every simple shift of a finger.
Around her throat she wore a single, enormous white diamond. It was not a jewel she'd ever worn, but a diamond seemed the only possible pendant for such an airily colored gown. It had also been a gift from her father to her mother, and would serve, if the evening proved difficult, to remind her of who she was, and of those to whom she owed her allegiance.
With a rush of excitement she turned and grasped Fiona's hand in her own. "Thank you, my dear. You've quite transformed me." Earnestly, she bent and kissed the girl's cheek. "This night has loomed like a monster. But you've given me the tools I needed."
"I've spit in an eye once or twice," Fiona said, and flushed. Then she stepped back and flung out a hand. "Aonghus waits, Cáer."
"And you—the evening is yours. I suspect I shall not need your assistance removing my gown."
* * *
Tynan paced in the drawing room just off the foyer. He'd attempted to eat a little earlier, but the food had sat ill with him, and he contented himself with a measure of medicinal brandy. It steadied his nerves a bit, though it did little for the hollowness in his belly. Later, at the ball, he would have a supper.
He could not think why he felt so agitated this evening. There were matters of importance riding on th
e events of the rout, to be sure, but nothing that could not be addressed in some other way if this did not proceed as he hoped. He paused before the broad windows, staring sightlessly at the reflection of a candle in the dark glass. Society would not make a pariah of Adriana forever.
Or perhaps they would—what difference would even that make? His lot would be easier, would progress more quickly, perhaps, if he gained the seat he hoped to buy. But if he did not, they would return to Ireland, return to his estates there, and he would continue creating work for his tenants and others in the county, struggling in the Irish Parliament to affect change before more bloodshed erupted.
Such reasonable thoughts, but still his spine was tight with tension, with a superstitious and unwarranted sense of dread, a sense of impending disaster. Phoebe and Monique, one hurt, the other sick with a fever, had been two—he waited for the third. And this afternoon he'd intended to go out to purchase a new pair of gloves, but had opened the door to find a magpie on the step. It turned, unafraid, and cawed at him.
His mother would have taken to her bed for days over such a bad omen. Aiden would have blessed the house with holy water. Tynan, who insisted a man's luck was what he made of it, roared at it and stomped out on the porch, glaring after it as it flashed, black and white, into the heavens.
Dread.
And the letter he'd received tugged at him. He worried about violence at the glassworks. Worried about the ill feelings whipping higher and higher, as they had more than once in his lifetime, until the people were belting out their rage upon one another.
"Milord?"
He turned. Adriana's little maid, with her thick, thick hair bound into a heavy crown on her head, poised nervously at the door. "Milady Cáer is ready."
Though the girl was outwardly the very picture of humble servitude, he did not miss the sparkle in her eyes. And he could not halt the sudden, fierce pleasure that swelled in him as her meaning donned. "Thank you, Fiona," he said. He stepped into the foyer and halted, dumbstruck.
The Black Angel (The St Ives) Page 23