by Laurel McKee
“You should not call me that. I am not that small.”
One dark brow arched over his mask. “You know Gaelic?”
“Not a great deal. But enough to know when I am insulted.”
He laughed, a harsh, rusty sound, as if he did not use it very often. “It is hardly an insult. Merely the truth—little one.”
Before Anna could tell what he was doing, he grabbed her wrist, holding it between his strong, callused fingers. Though his touch was light, she sensed she could not easily break away. That eerie fascination, that hypnosis he seemed to cast around her, tightened like a glittering web.
Unable to breathe or to think, she watched as he unfastened the tiny black pearl buttons at her wrist, peeling back the silk. A sliver of her pale skin was revealed, her pulse pounding just along the fragile bone.
“You see,” he said quietly. “You are small and delicate, trembling like a bird.”
He lifted her wrist to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to that thrumming pulse. Anna gasped at the heat of that kiss, at the touch of his tongue to her skin, hot and damp. She tried to snatch her hand away, but his fingers tightened, holding her fast.
“You should not be here among the hawks,” he muttered, his gaze meeting hers in a steady burn.
There was something about those eyes.…
Anna had a sudden flash of memory. A man on a windswept hill, his long, black hair wild. A man who held her close in a dark, deserted stable, who kissed her in the midst of danger and uncertain fates. A man all tangled up in her blood-soaked memories.
A man with dark green eyes.
“Is—is it you?” she whispered without thinking.
His eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “I told you, beag peata. You should not be here.”
“I go where I please,” she said, an attempt at defiance even as her head spun.
“Then you are a fool. Everyone should be most careful these days. You never know who is your friend and who your foe.”
“Insults again?” Angry and confused and, she feared, aroused by him, she tried again to twist away.
He would not let her go. Instead, he drew her closer, his other arm coming around her waist and pulling her up against him. His body pressed against hers, warm and hard through the slippery satin of her gown.
“Since you insist on staying then,” he said, “you should have a dance.”
Before she could protest or even draw a breath, he lifted her up, carrying her into the whirling press of the dance floor.
She stared up into his eyes, mesmerized as he slowly slid her back down to her feet. He twirled her about, her hand held over her head in an arch.
“I don’t know the steps,” she gasped.
“We’re not at a castle assembly,” he said roughly, dipping her back in his arms. “No one cares about the steps here.”
As he spun her around again, Anna stared into a dizzy haze. He was quite right—everyone seemed to use the dance merely as an excuse to be close to each other. Very close. The couples around them were pressed together as they twirled in wild circles, bodies entwined.
She looked back into his eyes, those green eyes that saw so very much. He seemed to see everything she tried so hard to keep hidden—all her fear and guilt. That mesmerizing light in his eyes reeled her closer and closer.…
She suddenly laughed, feeling reckless and giddy with the champagne, the music, and being so close to him, to the heat and light of him. Well, she had come here to forget, had she not? To leave herself behind and drown in the night. She might as well throw all caution to the wind and go down spectacularly.
Anna looped her arms around his neck, leaning into the hard, lean strength of his muscled body. “Show me how you dance then,” she said.
His jaw tightened, and his eyes never wavered from hers. “You should go home now.”
“The night is young. And you said I should dance.”
In answer, he dragged her tight against him, his hands unclasping hers from around his neck as he led her deeper into the shifting patterns of the dance. Even as the crowd closed around them, pressing in on her, she could see no one but him. The rest of the vast room faded to a golden blur; only he was thrown into sharp relief. He held her safe in his arms, spinning and spinning until she threw back her head, laughing as she closed her eyes.
It was like flying! Surely any danger was worth this. For one instant, she could forget and soar free.
But then he lifted her from her feet again, twirling her through an open door and into sudden silence and darkness. She opened her eyes to see they were in a conservatory, an exotic space of towering potted palms and arching windows that let in the cold, moonlit night. The air smelled of damp earth, of rich flowers, and of the clean salt of his warm skin.
There were a few whispers from unseen trysts behind the palms and the ghostly echo of music. But mostly she heard his breath, harsh in her ear. She felt the warm rush of it against the bare skin of her throat. Her heart pounded, an erratic drumbeat that clouded all her thoughts and obscured any glimmer of sense.
For the first time since they started dancing, she felt truly afraid. She was afraid of herself, of the wild creature inside that clamored to be free. Afraid of him, of his raw strength and strange magnetism that would not let her go, and of who she suspected he was. Afraid he would vanish again.
He set her down on a wide windowsill. The stone was cold through her skirts, and his hands hard as he held her by the waist. Anna braced herself against his shoulders, certain she would fall if he let go. Falling down and down into that darkness that always waited, so she could never find her way out again.
“You should listen to me, beag peata,” he said, his accent heavy and rich like whiskey. “This is no place for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” she whispered. “And what do you know of me?”
“You are too young and innocent for the likes of these people.”
“These people? Are you not one of them?”
His lips curved in a humorless smile that was somehow more disquieting than all his scowls. “Assuredly so.”
“And so am I—tonight. I am not so innocent as all that.” Innocents did not do what she had done, seen what she had seen. They did not commit murder.
“Oh, but you are,” he whispered. “I can see it in those blue eyes of yours. You are an innocent here.”
She laughed bitterly. “But I can be a fierce innocent when I need to be.”
“You’re very brave.” He took her hand in his, sliding his fingers over the silk of her glove.
She gasped. His hold wasn’t painful, but she was all too aware that she could not break free from him, could not escape. The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered, and she couldn’t speak. She just shook her head—she was not brave at all.
“Brave, and very foolish,” he said hoarsely, as if he was in pain. “Don’t do this to me.”
“What…” She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Do what to you?”
“Look at me the way you do.” He leaned into the soft curve of her body, resting his forehead against hers. She closed her eyes, feeling the essence of him wrap all around her. She felt safe, safer than she had in so very long, and yet more frightened than ever. This had to be a dream. He could not be real.
He let go of her wrist, bracing his hands on the windowsill behind her. Slowly, she felt his head tilt and his lips lower toward hers—the merest light brush, a tantalizing taste of wine and man. His tongue swept across her lower lip, making her gasp at the hot sensations. The damp heat of it was like a drug, sweetly alluring like laudanum in wine, pulling her down into a fantasy world. He bit lightly at her lip, soothing it again with his tongue.
She felt his hands slide over her shoulders, bared by the daring gown, trailing a ribbon of fire over her collarbone, the hollow at the base of her throat, and the sensitive skin just at the top of her breasts.…
But then he was gone, pulling back from her, and his arms dropping away.
She cried out involuntarily, her eyes flying open. He stood across from her with his back turned and his shoulders stiff.
She would wager that was not the only part of him that was stiff, either, but he would not turn to her again.
“Go home now,” he growled, his hands tightening into fists.
Anna was sure she might be foolish, but she certainly knew when to cut her losses and retreat. She leaped down from the ledge, her legs trembling so that she could hardly walk. But she forced herself to turn toward the door, taking one careful step after another.
“And don’t ever come here again!” he shouted after her.
She broke into a run, hardly stopping until she was safely bundled into a hackney carriage, racing toward home. She ripped off her mask and buried her face in her gloved hands. But that did not help at all; she could smell him on the silk, on herself, taste him on her lips.
Damn him! How could he do this to her again? Or rather, how could she do this to herself? He had drawn her into his strange world once before—she couldn’t let him do it again. She wouldn’t let him.
Chapter Two
Aigh se,” Conlan McTeer, Duke of Adair, muttered. He rubbed his hands hard over his face, resisting the urge to drive his fist into the stone ledge where she had just sat. Even though she had finally shown a glimmer of sense and fled, her presence lingered—a whiff of lilac perfume, a drift of warmth and softness in the air. He flexed his hand, trying to shake away the imprint of her skin there.
It was her, Anna Blacknall. He knew as soon as he saw her there in the ballroom with the candlelight shining on her pale gold hair. Despite the risqué red gown and the satin mask, she could not hide her ladylike bearing or the wonder in her blue eyes as she watched the dancers.
Yet even then he could scarcely believe it. Lady Anna, daughter of Protestant aristocracy and the toast of the Society Season, sneaking into the scandalous Olympian Club? Wandering alone amid hardened rakes and roués in her risqué scarlet dress? For one instant, he was sure it must be a trap, something meant to lure him and his work out into the open.
But even as the thought flashed through his mind, he dismissed it. No one knew he owned the Olympian Club. And especially no one knew his connection to Anna, of what happened between them two years ago in the midst of the violent upheaval of the United Irish uprising.
Sometimes in the bleak hours of night nothing could ease the memory of her beautiful face or her fierce anger and fiery spirit. No woman could substitute, no amount of whiskey could drown her out. She stubbornly refused to leave him.
Come the light of morning it was easy enough to push her memory away, because their paths seldom crossed. He occasionally glimpsed her riding in St. Stephen’s Green or on her way to the visitors’ gallery at Parliament with her friends during Union debates. And he certainly heard gossip about her. But he never went to Society balls, and she never came to his sort of parties. Until tonight.
Conlan braced his palms against the ledge. It was mere hard, cold stone now, with no vestige of her heat. He could think now without her intoxicating presence so close. The party whirled on beyond the glass conservatory doors—louder, wilder—but he was removed from all that revelry, as he always was.
He tried to think coldly and rationally. If Anna was not here at the behest of someone trying to ruin him, why was she here? He had heard rumors that she was a most daring young lady, the toast but also the talk of Dublin for her exploits—card playing, horse racing in the park, lines of suitors trailing behind her. Perhaps she had slipped into the Olympian Club on some kind of dare.
But how could she get in? His staff was well-trained to scrutinize invitations and to only let in members and a very limited number of their guests. The exclusive nature of the club was one factor in its great success. People always wanted to be in where others were out, and they were willing to pay a great deal for that.
Someone, then, had brought her as their guest. And he intended to find out who that was, to make sure Anna had found out nothing at all on her little visit. She wasn’t stupid. She might be able to convince all of Dublin into thinking her a fluff-brained Society beauty, concerned with nothing but ballgowns and games of chance, but he knew better.
He rubbed at the scar just beneath the cropped hair at the back of his neck, feeling the raised ridge that was a constant reminder of just how quick-witted and brave Anna Blacknall could be. And how he had once played the fool for her. She was the only person who managed to slide past his defenses during the dangerous days of the Uprising, the only one who brought him down.
That would not happen again.
Conlan frowned as he stared at the faint shadow on the window where her head had pressed. Is it you? she had whispered. Did she remember, too?
A moan echoed through the conservatory followed by a rustle of silk. He was not the only one to lose his wits in passion amid the plants then. Good—that was what the Olympian Club was designed for, to wrap people up in hedonistic delights, make them forget everything else in pleasure so they gave up all their power. All their secrets.
Its allure was not meant to work on him, though. Pleasure could hold no snares for him any longer; he learned his lesson when he was a careless young man and nearly lost everything for it.
Silently, he pushed away from the ledge and crept around the banks of towering palms and heavily scented flowers. There were a few couples hidden amid the shadows, engrossed in each other, but one pair lay entwined on a wrought-iron chaise just under the moonglow of a skylight. The woman’s head was thrown back, her gown slipping from her white shoulders. The distinctive auburn hair identified her as Lady Cannondale.
The man who knelt over her, kissing the curve of her neck as his hand slid beneath her skirt, was Sir Grant Dunmore, Conlan’s cousin—and most bitter enemy. Once, years ago, Grant tried to use the Penal Laws that allowed a Protestant to claim a Catholic relative’s property. Conlan’s ancient title saved his estate, but it was a hard-fought battle and not one he would ever forget or forgive.
Conlan smiled. It had been a long road trying to lure Grant into the web of the Olympian Club. And yet in the end, all it had taken was Lady Cannondale’s charms.
“Oh,” she moaned, hooking her bare leg around his hips, tugging him closer against her. “You are being terribly naughty tonight, Sir Grant.”
He laughed hoarsely, bracing himself on his forearms to gaze down at her. “Not nearly as naughty as I can be, my dear Jane.”
“Then why are you holding back?” She threaded her fingers through his bronze-colored hair. “Tell me again about how cleverly you persuaded Lord Ross to vote for the Union.…”
Conlan had a sudden vision of Anna sighing as he kissed her, her mouth opening to him. What would she have done if he laid her back on one of those chaises, spreading her legs and tugging up her dress as Grant did with Lady Cannondale? A little daredevil Anna might be, but he doubted she would welcome him with moans and sighs, her lithe legs wrapping around him tightly.
But a man could always dream.
He backed away, leaving Lady Cannondale and her lover to their business. He hurried out of the humid darkness of the conservatory and back into the whirling brightness of the ballroom. The music had reached an even faster pitch, the dance more frantic, and the laughter even louder.
He peered into the card room, making sure Anna hadn’t retreated there. He had heard she enjoyed a hand of whist almost too much. But all was well there. The roulette wheel spun with abandon, notes of credit no doubt piling up. Sarah, one of the pretty faro bankers, noticed him watching and gave him a little nod. Another most successful evening at the Olympian Club.
The buffet in the dining room had just been replenished and footmen now hurried to and fro with trays laden with fresh glasses of champagne. Conlan wouldn’t be needed for a little while longer. So he hurried down the stairs into the austere marble silence of the foyer. McIntire, who had long been the butler at Conlan’s family estate of Adair Court in County Kildare, h
ad come out of retirement for this job and was calmly sorting invitations at the front door. No one else was around.
“How did we do tonight, McIntire?” Conlan asked, leaning on the gilded balustrade. The cool quiet was delicious after the bacchanalia of the ball.
“Quite well, Your Grace,” McIntire answered. Conlan had told him several times not to do all that “Your Grace”-ing at the club, but McIntire was set in his ways. “Every invitation that was sent was redeemed, and most members brought guests of their own. Shall we be expanding the membership list soon?”
“That all depends on who applies.” Conlan tapped his fingertips on the gilded marble, thinking of Grant Dunmore and Lady Cannondale entwined on the chaise upstairs. If his cousin applied, they could assuredly add one more member. “Tell me, McIntire, do you remember a lady in a red and black gown arriving this evening? With blond hair?”
McIntire looked affronted. “I remember everyone who arrives here, Your Grace. That is my job.”
Conlan grinned. “And you are extraordinarily good at it. Who did she come with? A man?”
Suddenly, he had the strangest urge to punch whoever dared bring Anna here tonight. The man who held her arm, leading her through the door to the questionable delights of the Olympian Club…
“She came here with Lady Cannondale, Your Grace. In fact, she left a note for her ladyship before she departed.”
Conlan laughed aloud. With Lady Cannondale—of course. He had vowed he wouldn’t be a fool over Anna Blacknall, and yet there he was wanting to fight her imaginary escort like a pub brawler. “Did she leave? Alone?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She ran out of here so very quickly she left this.” McIntire picked up a black satin cloak from where it was draped on a chair.
Conlan frowned as he reached for the slippery fabric. It still smelled faintly of lilacs, its springtime sweetness strange and unexpected in the lurid midst of the club. “Did she go in Lady Cannondale’s carriage?” If she walked, alone and unprotected in the cold night, he would have to rescue her.