by Lois Greiman
She had gone to wrest the truth from McBain. To ferret out the facts, not only about the terror in the library but about Brendier’s death. Indeed, she had used the most potent weapons in her arsenal, had held her amulet against his skin. But when that failed to produce the desired effects, she had gone so far as to touch him. It was then that all coherent thought had flown from her mind. That she had been flooded with nothing but incoherent feelings: a need to believe him, to hear her name on his lips, to caress the aging scar she’d seen slashed across his hard-packed abdomen.
How could this happen to her? She didn’t trust men. Didn’t like them. Certainly did not desire them.
Yet she had believed his every rumbled word though God knew she had learned far better. Worse still, she had given him a glimpse of herself. Her true self.
She closed her eyes against such idiocy.
Following that point, she had not even attempted to draw out the truth. She had been far too absorbed with the blizzard of emotions that had stormed through her to try to sift honesty from lies.
And who could say? Perhaps he had been truthful the whole while. Perhaps he had not been in Lindale’s library. God knew his eyes spoke of integrity and sadness. Of beauty and pain and a thousand…
Bringing her thoughts back to the here and now, she focused for a moment on the staccato clip of the team’s rhythmic trot before reminding herself of her vow. A vow more sacred than blood. A vow that she would reach past her fears, would learn the truth, would be strong.
She was not the fragile urchin Tenning had proclaimed her to be. True, he had weakened her with his toxic lies, frightened her with his threats, wounded her with his cruelty, but he had not broken her.
She was a white witch, and witches stood alone against the atrocities of the world. Therefore, she would do what she must. She would confront McBain again. Would tear the truth from him, even if it meant forfeiting his very soul.
And yet, at that very moment, she was traveling in the opposite direction, willing even to return to Inver Heights rather than challenge his charms yet again.
He had saved the foxes. The wee beasties, as he called them.
The memory of his voice as he’d gazed down at the faux lair sent gooseflesh skittering across her arms while the thought of his chest…
She jerked her mind back to reality.
It was all foolishness. He had implied that he had taken the kits for coin. But regardless of her amulet and her own waxing powers of truth persuasion, she had not believed him. What was true and what was false? What she wished to believe or the portion she must believe?
It was time to learn the truth. That much she knew, and yet she did not have the strength to return to him. What if he was yet abed? What if his chest was bare, one bulging arm bent alluringly above his head? What if the unyielding muscles of his chest roiled beneath the tempting sheet of his skin like a tide that could not be stemmed? Like a magical…
Good heavens, it would be all but a relief to reach Inver Heights, regardless of the terror she had experienced there. But who had caused it? And was it mere coincidence that she should be attacked while searching for clues to Brendier’s death? Perhaps the Devil had intended more than rape.
Perhaps he planned to kill her. To prevent her from learning the truth. But how could he know she searched for clues unless he knew of her powers. Unless he knew of her coven. The thought set her hands atremble, but she controlled them with an effort.
By the time Joseph opened the landau’s narrow door, she was once again in control of her emotions. He bowed, regal and solemn. She nodded, ducking her head and refusing to glance up at the manse’s looming height.
A black cabriolet with a folding top stood beside the curb, its chestnut cob content to rest a hip and doze in the morning sun. Faye only wished she could appear so relaxed. But her hands were trembling as she approached the looming door. Her neck was perspiring, making her realize she had, once again, forgotten a handkerchief to…
The door swung open. Her breath hitched as an elderly man stepped through, gray mustache drooping. Nodding solemnly to the portly woman in the foyer, he turned away, then started when he saw her.
“Can I help you?” His voice was raspy with age. He carried a small black bag in his right hand.
Faye gathered her courage. Who knew there were so many men in the world? “I’ve come to pay a visit to Lady Lindale,” she said.
His brows drew together. “I fear you must return at a later date.”
Confusion melded with fear inside her, but she fought them both, struggling for poise. “Is the lady not home? I only wished to thank her for her lovely—”
“There has been a death.”
“A—” Her heart recoiled in her chest.
“Perhaps you could return in a few days’ time,” he said, and descended, stiff-legged, onto her level.
Premonition weighed like a stone boat on her chest. “Whose death?”
He scrutinized her. “Might I ask your name?”
“Whose death?” she asked again, voice barely audible over the hard beat of her heart.
His scowl deepened. “I fear Lord Lindale has been taken from us.”
A half a dozen emotions smoked through her. “Are you certain?”
He drew himself up, narrow and lean. “I am a physician, miss. I assure you, I am quite certain. He has passed.”
She stumbled a little, but Joseph came up from behind, steadying her so gently that she forgot to move away.
“How?” she asked.
“Are you unwell?” asked the doctor.
“I saw him just last night.”
His deep, bushy brows had been low over his eyes, but they rose now as if perception had just dawned on him. “Lady Lindale is a good woman. Another shock would all but kill her now.”
Faye shook her head in bemusement. But he ignored her.
“I have administered laudanum to help her sleep.” He glared at her. “I might suggest that you get some rest yourself,” he said, and, brushing stiffly past her, headed toward his dark carriage.
But she caught his sleeve. “How did he die?”
He glanced down at his jacket, bunched in her frozen grip. “His heart simply gave—” he began, but in that desperate moment she curled her free hand around his scrawny biceps. Even through the layers of fabric, she could feel the truth seep regretfully from him.
His brows lowered dramatically, but he did not try to lie. “Debauchery has killed younger men with stronger hearts. This was not the first time he drank himself to unconsciousness,” he said. “It was merely the first time he died of it.”
Her hand dropped away. “Intemperance killed him?”
He drew a breath as if relieved to do so. “When they first wed, it was thought that he chose unwisely, her being a woman of the stage. But as it turns out, he did not deserve the lady he took to wife.” He eyed her up and down. “Perhaps he did not even deserve you,” he said, and brushed past.
The journey back to the landau seemed misty and surreal. She didn’t even flinch as Joseph helped her inside.
“You are well?” he asked.
“He’s dead.” And what did that mean?
“Was it he who attacked you?”
She glanced up abruptly, finding his dark, cleanly etched features. “How do you know—” She stopped herself, looked away and shook her head. “’Twas but a dream.”
“Becca would not have searched the grounds for a dream.”
She turned back toward him. “Becca?”
The glimmer of a smile lit his dark eyes but did nothing to his quiet features. “Not all are what they seem.”
“Shaleena,” she said. “How do you know her?”
“Were we not speaking of you, madam?”
“I hope not,” she breathed, and stifled a shiver.
“Was it he?” he asked.
She considered denying all knowledge of the subject, but she was too tired, too confused. When had she last enjoyed a full night’s
sleep? “I don’t know. I thought…It seemed so real, but when the light came on…” It was so reminiscent of old days, like a ghost from her past. But the ghosts had been planted. The past manipulated. “He was gone.”
“Do not some old houses have rejtett…” He paused, searching for the proper words. “…secret ways?”
She looked at him anew, for he was right of course. Ancient estates had often been built with hidden passages, Lavender House being no exception.
“Someone in the household, then. Perhaps a member of the staff,” she said, but he shook his head.
“The mester of such an estate would not inform his servants of these things.” His expression was wry. “On this you can trust me.”
“Lindale himself, then? But how did he die?”
“You do not believe in fate?”
She shook her head.
“What of vengeance?”
Her throat knotted. “No one knew of the attack.”
“No one?” he asked, and in her mind, she saw Rogan McBain. His eyes were flat and hard, filled with an emotion she could not quite read.
“Did he touch you?” The low rumble of his voice echoed through her mind.
Lindale had never been mentioned, but if Joseph had come to such a conclusion, there was no reason to believe Rogan would not do the same. There had been something in the Highlander’s dark demeanor that insisted on revenge.
And perhaps, if she were honest with herself, she wanted the same.
Chapter 16
“Mr. Connelly,” Faye said, injecting her voice with surprise and straightening abruptly from her perusal of a mind-dizzying array of whips. It was, for her, an acting feat worthy of a Parisian stage; she felt immediately light-headed with the effects of the lie. She had traveled to Bond Street with the express purpose of finding the Irishman there. Indeed, she had spent near an hour trying to look intrigued by the day’s caricatures posted in the window of the Repository of the Arts, all the while hoping Connelly would eventually arrive at the shop, which purportedly fascinated him.
The questions that nagged her could no longer be ignored. No longer could she wait to learn the truth about Rogan McBain; neither could she trust herself to keep her head in his presence for he had some kind of power she could not explain. She distrusted men, feared them, had for the entirety of her life. But now she wondered if, perhaps, in the deepest recesses of her being, she had also felt a need to be aligned with them, to be protected by them. Perhaps that was why she found McBain appealing, for certainly if ever there was a man who could protect if he so chose, it was he. But was he protective or was he deadly? Or was one the price you paid for the other? Questions raced through her brain like red squirrels until she was exhausted with the chaotic turnings of her mind and found herself on Bond Street.
Connelly turned toward her now, delight showing on his elegant features. “Mrs. Nettles, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that you have finally decided to stalk me,” he said, and reached for her hand.
For a moment she was tempted to turn and run. For longer still she teetered on the verge of disagreeing, of blathering denials and lies and long-winded explanations, for his accusation was, in fact, entirely correct. But something in her, a feminine instinct that could not be entirely extinguished, perhaps, told her that he was doing nothing more harmful than flirting.
“Well, certainly no mere woman could be expected to resist you a moment longer, could she?” she asked, and feeling her throat close up, pulled her hand cautiously from his.
“I certainly hope not,” he said, and smiled.
“Are you here alone?” she asked, and he lifted one eyebrow as she glanced about, and it was not until that moment that she herself realized that even though she had come to speak privately with Connelly, some small part of her hoped that McBain would be there too. Just so she could catch a momentary glimpse of his solemn, silver eyes, his rough-hewn features.
And all the while the entire episode made her long, rather desperately, to hide behind the display counter that housed yet another dozen whips.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?”
She jerked her attention back to the Irishman, even as she felt herself flush. Felt heat rush to her extremities.
“Please tell me, beautiful lady, that you are not searching for someone large and socially inept when I am at your disposal.”
She forced herself to meet his eyes, to raise her own brows in challenge. “If you are suggesting I am looking for Mr. McBain, I assure you that an effort would hardly be necessary.”
“Oh?”
“He is, after all, not an easy man to miss.”
He laughed. “You’d think not,” he said. “Though several have managed. I always recommend a flintlock at close range. Unreliable at times, but deadly as an adder.”
She furrowed her brow. “I beg your pardon?”
He stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, then, “Might I buy you an ice, Mrs. Nettles? It’s rather warm today.”
Every screaming instinct in her demanded that she run, but her instincts had been honed by a man who was the personification of deceit. She knew that now. Had learned it through years of pain. Thus she forced herself to face her demons, to move her lips, to tug a handkerchief from her reticule. “Perhaps you could do me a favor, Mr. Connelly.”
He bowed, bending gracefully from the waist. “It would be my greatest honor.”
“I have been carrying this about for some days. I believe it is Mr. McBain’s. Might you return it to him?”
He looked down at it. “Bain carried a handkerchief.”
Her legs felt wooden. “Yes.”
“One not made from wool?”
“I believe he did. Indeed, he loaned it to me during the hunt.”
“When you were distressed about the fox,” he said, and took the proffered linen.
“Will you return it to him for me?”
“Certainly,” he said, and bowed again, handkerchief flopping from one long-fingered hand. “If you will agree to join me for an ice.”
Again she wanted to flee, but there was little purpose in getting him to agree to take the carefully imbued handkerchief if she did not question him while he held it. It was not like the amulet she had given Bain, after all. Fabric did not have nearly the stored power of minerals, but it would do for a while.
In a moment they were seated at a small round table in an establishment called Timber and Danes, which sold confections of every conceivable sort.
Connelly had tucked the handkerchief inside the sleeve of his cutaway coat, letting the embroidered end dangle out. Leaning back in his chair, he watched her, eyes alight with an emotion that might have been pleasure, but might just as well have been some feeling she did not understand.
“So, besides my charming personality and exceptional good looks, what brings you to Bond Street on this fine day?” he asked, hooking a lanky arm across the back of his chair.
She watched him for an instant. Perhaps he was good-looking. Indeed, perhaps he was charming, and maybe that was why she felt twitchy in his presence. Charm, in her opinion, was often false and enormously overrated. Unlike sobriety, earnestness, and a chest as broad as a stallion’s.
“Mrs. Nettles?”
She cleared her throat and her mind. “I was searching, rather fruitlessly, I fear, for a gift for a friend,” she lied, and braced herself for the consequences, a twinge of pain in the center of her temple.
“Not a friend of the male persuasion, I hope,” he said. And though she had studiously prepared herself for this meeting, she found that she could not prepare herself for someone of Thayer Connelly’s odd humor.
It made her want to question every word, dissect each innuendo. Instead, she raised one haughty brow and prayed. “I am allowed to have male acquaintances, am I not?” she asked.
“I imagine you are,” he said, and, tasting his ice, shook his head sadly. “It seems rather silly, however, knowing your infatuation with me.”
/> “Ahh well, there is that,” she said, and calmed her heart as she sampled her own refreshment.
“And too,” he added. “I might well be quite jealous. The sort who flies into a vengeful rage at the slightest provocation.”
“You’re not,” she said, and, sweeping a twirl into her ice, cautiously caught his gaze with hers. She could read his expression. It was one of surprise. “Men with such astounding egos as yours rarely make time for jealousy.”
He furrowed his brow. “I’m quite certain you’re wrong,” he said.
“About the fact that you’ve an ego the size of Gibraltar or that you’re not the jealous sort?”
“About the jealously issue.”
“So I’m correct about your ego.”
“Of course,” he said, flipping a palm upward. “I’m as vain as a cockerel, but who wouldn’t be…if he were I?”
“Tell me…” She forced herself to take another bite, though her stomach felt traitorous. “Are all Irishmen so narcissistic as you?”
He cocked his head at her.
“Vain,” she explained, and found it hopelessly intriguing that this man with the elegant manners and witty ways lacked the vocabulary of a man some called “Beast.” But perhaps each of them had his means of coping.
“Oh,” said Connelly. “Only those who have reason to be.”
“And what of the Scots?” she mused. “Are they known for their vanity or their jealousy?”
“Mercy,” he said, and spread his long fingers dramatically across his chest as if her interest in another had wounded him sorely.
Drawing herself from her reverie, she gave him a look for the affectations while mentally chiding herself for rushing things. She was not meant for these games, but neither could she wait forever for her magic to take effect. “Are you ill, Mr. Connelly?”