Blood Bond

by Alicia Ryan

  “Or we could pretend I brought you here on my own behalf,” he said, looking around the room. “That I could afford to bring a woman to a place like this.”

  “You’d never have the nerve to bring a woman to a place like this. Admit it.”

  “Let’s pretend I would have.”

  “Okay. Let’s pretend you’re having a mad, passionate affair with a stunning beauty.” She thought for a moment. “And she’s an orphan. You, with your riches and your good looks, rescue her from the clutches of some unsavory character. You preserve her honor, and she falls madly in love with you on the spot.”

  “I rescued you,” he pointed out.

  “My hero,” she said, smiling. She reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”

  He cocked his head at her but did as she asked, looking down when she grasped his hand in both of hers.

  “There is no way I can thank you enough for what you did. You are a hero, Phillip. I may well owe you my life.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  She drew back. “I know. You would have done the same for anyone. But that’s what makes it heroic. You didn’t have any special reason to help me.”

  She took in his pained look. “But I’m beyond words grateful that you did,” she added.

  For a long moment, he said nothing. “Can we pretend again?”

  It was her turn to be puzzled. “Pretend what?”

  “That Darren Highmore never existed.”

  She felt her breath hitch.

  “What would the time-traveling lass from America have thought of a proposal from her piano player?”

  “A what?” She laughed out loud. “Oh, my God, Phillip, even I don’t have enough imagination to put you married to a lounge singer.”

  “I didn’t necessarily mean that kind of proposal.”

  She suddenly wondered if she was in deeper waters than she’d thought. “What kind of proposal did you mean—exactly?”

  “One more like Highmore’s.”

  “But...but you’re nothing like him.”

  “Is that your answer?”

  “’What? No. I mean...What the hell’s come over you?”

  “I just realized if I didn’t judge him harshly for his actions where you are concerned, there’s no reason I should judge myself so either.”

  “In such a case.”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean if you and I were running off every night to have crazy, all-consuming sex?”

  “All-consuming?”

  “In more ways than you can imagine.”

  He dropped his eyes to the floor. “I just want...”

  “You want to know what that’s like,” she said, realization dawning.

  “Yes.” He looked back up at her. “It’s your fault. Those songs... I feel like I’ve been on fire since the very first night.” He shrugged. “Like I can’t breathe.”

  She stood, and he hurried to do the same.

  “We should get back,” she said, placing her napkin on the table.

  “Just a moment more.”

  She looked up at him, and he put his hand to her cheek.

  “One more moment of pretend?” she asked.

  He nodded, letting his eyes drop to her lips. “Pretend you love me?”

  She let out a breath. He’d put his life in danger for her. And what he wanted was so pure, so simple. And it was within her power to give.

  She stepped toward him and, putting her other hand on his shoulder, ran her finger slowly across his lips. “You know, these are extremely kissable.”

  She slid her other hand up, circling them about his neck. “Put your arms around me,” she instructed, waiting as his hands came around her back.

  Then she stretched toward him and brushed her lips across his.

  It was so light as to barely be contact, but his grip on her tightened exponentially, and she found herself flush to his body.

  She moved her head back to the other side, brushing across his mouth once more.

  On the next pass, he caught her mouth with his.

  The kiss was fleeting...but hot, and Roxanna instinctively turned her lips back to his. They both paused and then came together in earnest.

  Roxanna let her lips move under his, explore his. Let herself get to know the taste of him. He broke their kiss, but only to come to her from a different angle. And she explored that with him as well.

  And then she remembered she was supposed to love him, so she thought of the goodness that seemed to shine from him and yet weigh him down, and she thought of what he had done for her, how he’d saved her. And how he seemed to need saving himself.

  So she kissed him with all that she was but couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t enough. That Phillip Branham deserved better. So she kissed him all the more, leaning into him, delving into him, giving him all that he dared to take.

  Finally—she had no idea how much time had passed—he sent his hands plunging into her hair, groaned and pulled back to look at her.

  “Say it,” he whispered.

  She hesitated.

  “Please. Just a little longer,” he pleaded, eyes boring into her.

  She nodded, brushed another kiss across his lips and said words she’d never said to anyone.

  Phillip’s kiss began anew before she had a chance to consider what she’d done. And she was glad. She didn’t want to think about it, and, when he was kissing her, she didn’t have to. He was there, all around her—all soft lips and hard body and desperate hands that nevertheless didn’t venture past the bounds of decency, caressing only her back or the sides of her face.

  Her desire to urge him to do more made her pull back. For a moment, the room stood silent except for their labored breathing.

  Phillip lowered his head to rest it on hers. “Thank you,” he said.

  “I don’t know what to say to that,” she replied in earnest.

  He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Just know I consider any debt between us paid in full.”

  She took a step back. “Well, don’t ever go into business. You don’t drive a very hard bargain.”

  He grinned. “I’m glad to hear it.” His grin slipped a bit. “So, I wasn’t imagining it, then? You liked kissing me?”

  Roxanna felt her mouth fall open, but couldn’t bring herself to parry with a joke when he looked so sincere. “Yes, I did.” She went on when he only stared back at her. “There’s nothing lacking in your kissing skills.”

  “Huh. I never thought of that as a skill before.”

  “Every man should have it,” she replied, nodding in mock seriousness.

  “I suppose I should continue to practice, then.” His smile was back.

  “Don’t push it,” she said. “Or I’ll be forced to find you a girl of your own.”

  He laughed and extended his arm to her once more. “Let’s go. I want to hear you sing.”

  Chapter Twelve

  They hadn’t practiced for long. Roxanna’s mood had shifted the moment they’d entered the club. He’d hoped singing would distract her, but her heart hadn’t been in it. She’d left him to go rest, and he’d found himself hoping her dreams would be undisturbed. He hated the thought that Cranston might have hurt her in ways he couldn’t see or fight—that he might have somehow dampened the fire inside her.

  And so he found himself upstairs in the library staring at the pages of a book, replaying every moment since he’d stepped into that carriage with her when Darren Highmore touched him on the shoulder.

  The book nearly tumbled off his lap, but he caught it, slamming it shut and losing his place.

  “Highmore, I know it’s a library, but you don’t have to sneak up on a man,” he said, turning to look up at his new companion.

  “My apologies. But you wouldn’t have heard a pack of wild dogs about to set upon you.”

  “I was reading,” he asserted.

  “No, you were staring. You haven’t turned a page in the last five minutes.”

  “You were w
atching me?” he asked.

  “Actually, I stopped at the door to have a word with Cavendish as he was going in to dinner. You just happened to be in my line of sight.”

  “So what do you want?”

  “How was lunch?”

  Phillip paused to consider his answer. “Enlightening.”

  He could see Darren wasn’t satisfied with his response, but he couldn’t line up too many more questions without sounding jealous, and Phillip was betting his arrogance would keep such questions in check. And so it did.

  “That’s not really what I’ve come for,” Darren said, finally, causing Phillip to sigh inwardly in relief.

  “I want you to give Roxanna a message for me.” His lips narrowed to a straight line. “For obvious reasons, I won’t soon be leaving her any notes.”

  Phillip shook his head. “No, of course not. What would you like me to convey?”

  “I’ll be seeing Cranston later this evening. After his servants are abed. So I may be late in arriving. And there’s some chance I won’t be here tonight at all.”

  “He agreed to meet you?”

  “He’s a fool.”

  “What are your intentions?”

  “They haven’t changed since last we spoke. I intend to make him suffer. And then suffer some more.”

  “You’re sure you don’t need help? You should take someone with you. I’m more than willing to assist.”

  Darren shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’m stronger than I look.”

  And with that, he turned and exited the library, only, this time, Phillip watched him—really watched him. Watched him flick his gaze over every person seated or standing, making some rapid assessment before moving on, and all the while, even when he didn’t seem to be looking in that direction, moving unerringly, gracefully, and, yes, silently toward to door.

  Phillip felt an uneasiness he couldn’t put a name to, but in that moment, he fully believed Darren Highmore could accomplish exactly what he intended.

  ***

  Promptly at ten, Roxanna emerged from the darkened doorway separating the back of the club from the public sitting room. A smattering of applause greeted her from the audience, which filled about three-quarters of the room, along with a few admiring whistles.

  From his seat at the piano, Phillip watched her survey the assembled group of men. She wore the black dress he’d come to appreciate far too much, but her face showed no emotion. Which was so unusual Phillip felt his heart drop.

  She approached him, and he was about to ask which song she wanted to start with, but she cut him off.

  “I think I’d like to sing a cappella tonight. Do you mind?” She tilted her head toward the crowd. “You could sit out there and critique my performance—give me a guest’s point of view.”

  “Whatever you wish,” he said, standing.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

  He stepped off the stage and found a seat at an unoccupied table in the second row, for which he was far too appreciative. If he was getting to watch her, he didn’t want to be distracted, and he didn’t want to share.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she said when she stepped to center stage. “If you’ve seen me sing before, tonight’s performance will be a little different. But I promise you won’t leave disappointed.”

  Phillip applauded along with the others and noticed how chairs and heads turned to face her.

  And, as promised, he didn’t expect what came next. The first song in her set was low and slow, and she belted it out with such power it made his insides quiver. “House of Pain” seemed to be the theme, and he hated the thought that she might feel trapped in such a place, even if, as the song said, she wasn’t to blame.

  When the next song told the story of a woman torn by a man who didn’t live up to her expectations, who left her broken, his concern began to detract from his enjoyment. Agony was palpable in the air.

  When the last note trailed off, she lowered her head for a moment. Then she looked back out at the crowd.

  “So, I think that’s enough whining.”

  Some laughter came in reply.

  “You won’t hear any more of that from me, gentlemen. Not ever.”

  And then she began to sing again, and Phillip saw some of the fire he’d come to expect return to her eyes. When the chorus declared “I Will Survive!”, he rejoiced at the turn from pain to celebratory determination, laced with just a touch of righteous anger.

  And then came “Hit Me With Your Best Shot”. By the second chorus, Roxanna was grinning and throwing mock punches in the air. This garnered some laughter from the crowd, and Philip joined in. She was clearly going to be just fine. She wasn’t giving Cranston an inch, and she rose even more in his esteem.

  “You’ll notice I don’t have my usual accompanist tonight,” she said, once again addressing the crowd. “But he’s here...” She gestured toward him. “And he’s done me a great service. A service I’d like to partly repay with a song.” She took a breath. “So this one’s for Phillip.”

  He felt his brows shoot up; with her, he never knew what to expect.

  So when the song asked where all the good men were, the white knights, and she looked only at him, he felt his chest constrict.

  But then she began to walk slowly toward him, and when the chorus came, she dropped to her knees in front of him, held up her arms as if in entreaty, and sang that she was “Holding Out for a Hero.”

  He swallowed the huge lump in his throat and thanked the heavens when she stood up before he had to give some sort of reaction. She completed the rest of the verses from the stage as usual, only glancing at him when the song referred to the hero as being fresh out of a fight. And he toyed with the idea of her holding out for a hero. But he didn’t think he fit the bill. He wasn’t larger than life, as the song seemed to specify. Darren was probably much more hero material. On the other hand, he thought, Darren might not live up to the requirement of a good man or a white knight. If Darren was anyone’s knight, he wasn’t a white one. Of that, Phillip was relatively certain.

  When she finished, she turned to him and began to clap, and the room joined in. Phillip waved them off, but finally stood and took a small bow before the clamor ended.

  The rest of the evening was more in keeping with her usual fare—sensual, sexual, daring. Though he thought he still detected a flare of anger now and again.

  When she got to a song about a woman on the floor crying out ‘more, more, more’, he closed his eyes against the image those words created. But that made it worse; the thought of her, under him, saying such things... It threatened to carry him away.

  As the night wore on, the room filled to capacity, leaving Phillip to assume that the other entertainments of the evening had begun to lose their charm for the club set. He saw Hartley come in.

  And when the last song told the cold-hearted, overtly sexual tale of a woman’s dominance of her lover who assumed various submissive positions and often said “please”, Phillip decided to give up being shocked. It was rather hypocritical given that every word she said, every noise she made, every picture she painted had, at some point, ceased to offend and now filled him with longings he didn’t fully understand. That was what he hated most, he thought. Not the wanting, not the virtual certainty that she’d never be his, but the fact that even his thoughts were limited by the constraints in which he’d lived his life to this point. He’d never regarded his uprightness as a fault, but now he felt the weight of it. He’d purposely left many things unlearned, and now that he had a woman to worship in his dreams, he felt incapable of doing her justice. What had before seemed reprehensible to him, now seemed vital to the full and complete possession and satisfaction of a woman like Roxanna.

  A woman like Roxanna. He sighed and wondered if he’d ever know what she was truly like. And then he wondered if Highmore knew. He had the sinking feeling the Earl had the upper hand on him there.

  Roxanna finished and went into the bar for her usual glass o
f water, and all around him conversations started up, new rounds were ordered, and some of the men made their way out front for cards or upstairs for billiards.

  Phillip got up to close the lid on the piano, and Roxanna joined him.

  “I hope you didn’t mind?” she asked.

  He smiled. “Being called a hero, you mean? How could I mind?”

  “Well, you don’t exactly seek the spotlight. I wasn’t sure you’d take it in the spirit in which it was intended.”

  “And...would you mind clarifying what spirit that was exactly?”

  “Miss Collins, Mr. Branham,” called out Hartley, joining them on the stage.

  Phillip checked his watch. “Given up target hunting so early, Hartley?” he asked.

  Hartley grinned. “Yes, but not for the reason you’re thinking.” He turned to look at Roxanna. “The lady’s advice worked like a charm. I’ve met the most extraordinary woman.”

  “Wow,” Roxanna replied. “That’s fantastic.”

  Hartley nodded in agreement. “It is. She’s got black hair that looks soft as silk and these incredible blue eyes...”

  “Did you speak to the young woman or just admire her more superficial qualities?” Phillip interjected.

  “Oh, yes,” Hartley said. “We talked for a bit. She wouldn’t agree to dance with me, but we did get in a trip to the cider table and a short taking of the air on the balcony. She’s very well-informed. From what I could gather, she seems to have a competent appreciation of current events, history, literature, music, philosophy, and even economics.”

  “Good lord,” Roxanna put in. “What did you do? Give her a test?”

  He laughed. “In a manner of speaking. I knew I had little time, so I talked about every subject I could come up with to see if I could trip her up or force her to resort to silence. Not a bit of it.”

  “She sounds too good for you,” Phillip opined.

  “Oh, yes,” Hartley agreed. “But, for the right woman, I’m determined to reform.” He stepped closer, rested his folded arm on the top of the piano, and looked between the two of them. “Given enough time, I believe I could convince the lady in question of my good qualities and honorable intentions.”