by Lois Greiman
Sultan’s mane seemed suddenly as mesmerizing as a serpent as Faye studied each strand. Silence stretched between them, taut with anticipation, heavy with embarrassment. Which was mind-boggling, for surely he was not a man who should be embarrassed. He had everything. Strength, intellect, courage. And yet he seemed strangely uncertain where she was concerned. And somehow that spoke to a part of her as no strutting peacock ever would. It pulled at the base of her being, touched a spark to bone-dry tinder.
“You were very brave,” she said. The sounds of London seemed muffled and soft around them as the city settled in for the night. “At the inn.”
He turned toward her, eyes solemn, then, “You are wrong, lass,” he said and no more.
She chanced a glance in his direction, sure he could not mean what he said, but his expression suggested no humor.
“There were three of them,” she reminded him, which was probably silly, for it seemed unlikely that he would forget their number.
A trio of scrawny hounds trotted past, slinky and furtive. Somehow they reminded her of Cur. “Young cubs,” he said, voice thoughtful and distant. “Untrained and undisciplined.”
“Yet dangerous,” she said.
He paused an instant, as if thinking. “Neither training nor strength is required to be dangerous,” he said, and looked into the distance, seeming to see something not readily discernible to the rest of the world. “Just the desire to hurt.”
“And you have been hurt.” She said the words softly.
“Not today,” he said, and glanced her way.
“And neither was the maid because you are brave.”
“Nay,” he said. His lips twitched the slightest degree, and that glimmer of humor lifted her mood more than another’s bellowing laughter had ever done. “’Tis because I am large.”
“You are that,” she said, then blushed at her own foolish words and hoped he couldn’t see her high color in the descending darkness.
He was watching her closely now. She shifted her eyes away but could not ignore him for long.
“Is that troublesome for you, lass?”
“Troublesome?” she said, and raised one brow, hoping to appear haughty rather than discomfited, self-confident rather than self-conscious. “Certainly not. Indeed, I’m certain Marjorie was very grateful for your size.”
He was scowling at her. “Marjorie…” he said, then seemed to remember. “The maid at the inn.”
Had there been so many women he could not remember the one who’d last offered herself to him? Or was he even worse at social interaction than she?
That possibility made her feel strangely warm inside.
“She seemed a good enough maid,” he said
With bosoms as big as autumn gourds, she thought. “Yes, she was rather…Yes,” Faye said, not particularly wishing to discuss another woman’s cleavage.
“But she was not perfection come to earth.” His tone was low with sincerity, heavy with emotion, and suddenly Faye’s lungs felt deprived of air while her head seemed filled with the stuff. Though she struggled to find a witty comeback, she was at a loss, bewildered by the raw sensations created by his words.
“No one is perfect,” she said, and found she could no longer look at him, no longer view his boldness, his goodness, when her own failings loomed so large.
“And what are your flaws, lass?”
Guilt, harbored for an eternity, rushed in on a wave of fear. “I am a coward, for one.”
“As am I.”
She glanced at him, stunned by the ridiculousness of his statement. “There is no need to lie,” she said, but she felt no evidence of untruth in her head.
“Courage is not the lack of fear, wee lass. Courage is fear overcome.”
“Well I’ve not overcome.”
“Do you fear me?” he asked, and suddenly she wished she could tell him the truth, that she was afraid every day of her life, that she had, at first, thought him the Devil, that she still feared him even as she was drawn to him. To his strength, to his gentleness, to his honesty.
“Should I be fearful?” she asked.
“Many are,” he said.
“Perhaps my fear is overshadowed by other things.”
“Such as?”
“I cannot forever hide in the comfort of Lavender House.”
“You do not seem to be hiding.”
“What does it seem I am doing?”
He was quiet for a moment, considering. “Mourning,” he said.
She stared at him, shocked, for suddenly it seemed that he might well be right. Perhaps she was in mourning. Perhaps she was lamenting the life she had never had. The betrayals. The losses. And perhaps it was time to forget those disappointments. To put away the sackcloth. To move on. Perhaps then she might even be worthy of this man who rode beside her. This man with the artist’s soul and the warrior’s body. This man who terrified her and thrilled her all at once, so that she could barely breathe in his presence. This man who made her wish to do things she had never before considered. To touch, to feel, to—
“You must miss him a great deal,” he said.
“Who?” she asked, startled from her increasingly lurid thoughts.
“Your husband,” he said, and scowled. “You were wed, were you not?”
“Wed! Of course. Yes.” And she was an idiot. “To Albert Leonard Nettles. Only son of Martin and Elisabeth Nettles. Born on…” She was acting even more idiotically than usual, and yet she could not help herself. The lies took hold of her. She refrained from closing her eyes. From passing out. “June 3…1782 on…” Quit. Just quit. “Why ever would you think otherwise?” she asked, breathless.
He shifted again, seeming uncomfortable, and suddenly, the truth burst in on her. When he’d spoken of his size, he hadn’t been speaking about the width of his back or the bulk of his arms. He’d been referring to his…his…He must think her the most naïve widow ever to walk the face of the earth.
“And you are…lonely without him?” he asked.
She was ultimately grateful for the descending darkness that hid her blush, yet she was still tempted to set the quirt to Sultan’s flank. To fly down the streets, away from this heart-trembling embarrassment.
Instead, she tightened her hands on the reins and tried for normality. Sultan ducked his head at the increased tension, and Faye lightened the contact with a mental apology. “Certainly I…miss him.” Her head was beginning to ache.
“He was a good man then?”
“A merchant.” The words escaped against her will. She ground her teeth and refused to turn away. She had been given the fictional details of his existence. Height, weight, hair color, home. But she had never considered his temperament. Never envisioned him in her mind. Neither had she been able to fabricate a personality. Dealing with the lies handed her was difficult enough. Embellishing them might very well have meant her death. “Textiles,” she said, and closed her eyes to her own stupidity for a moment.
“It pains you to speak of him,” he said.
“No,” she lied, and felt an additional ache in her temple. “Perhaps a bit, but not—” She stopped herself. What had she been about to say? Had she nearly spilled the truth? Never once in all the years since her rescue had fabrications been this difficult.
“He must have been a brave man,” he said.
She glanced at him. “My…husband?”
“To ask for your hand,” he said.
“I don’t…” She shook her head, puzzled.
“Knowing you could deny him.” His face was the epitome of sincerity. “I would not have the nerve.”
“You jest,” she said.
Lavender House loomed above them. Sultan turned onto the cobbled drive of his own accord.
The world was silent but for the sound of the hoofbeats beneath them. Sultan’s light and quick. Colt’s solid and final.
“Rogan—” she began, but he spoke before she could continue.
“’Tis late. I shall care for your mount i
f you like.”
“No.” She tried to deal with this change of pace, but she was horrific at social interactions even with the average acquaintance, and he was so much more. “I will see to him.”
He dismounted with sweeping grace, then stood beside her, looking up, silver-gray eyes stunning in their moon-shadowed glory.
“You’ll ruin your frock,” he said, and raised his arms to catch her.
It took all the nerve she possessed to slide into his arms. All her control not to wrap hers about his neck.
He caught her easily, lowered her slowly, his legs hard against hers, his eyes earnest and devouring.
Time ceased to be. Beneath her hands, his biceps felt as broad and hard as living pillars. His fingers were against her ribs, and at each point of contact, her skin seemed to burn with the touch.
“It’s a riding habit,” she said. Nonsensical. She sounded as daft as a peafowl.
The shadow of a scowl crossed his features, and some long-buried yearning in her wanted nothing more than to smooth it from his face, to caress the scar that notched the edge of his lips.
“Sturdy,” she murmured. “Worsted. The dark fabric doesn’t easily show stains. And—”
“I’ll not hold you to it,” he rumbled.
The breath caught hard in her throat as she struggled for his meaning.
“You do not need to befriend me,” he explained.
Relief flowed through her, but it was drowned in disappointment, in desire, in something she could not explain, had never felt before. Why was he allowing her this opportunity to renege? Perhaps he had decided to return to the maid at the inn. Perhaps he didn’t find her attractive. And perhaps she should consider herself lucky that he’d given her an opportunity to retreat. But she did not. No one could have been more surprised than she to realize that truth.
“The utilitarian design makes it easy to move about,” she intoned.
“You’ve no need to worry,” he said, and loosened his grip on her ribs.
“But what if I want to?” The words came out in a jumbled rush.
He froze, so close her skirt brushed his legs. So close she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.
“What if you wish to worry?” he asked. Cautious. Good heavens, he was more cautious than she.
“To befriend you,” she breathed.
He inhaled carefully. “It has occurred to me that we may be speaking of two different situations entirely.” His words were very low.
If her legs felt a little steadier, she might very well have scrambled into the stable and hidden in the loft. “What are you talking about?”
“To me you are perfection come to life, and I…” A muscle jumped in his hard jaw. “Your nearness makes it difficult to…”
“To what?” She leaned a little closer, barely able to hear the masculine intensity of his voice.
“Before I met you…” His eyes searched hers. “I was content enough.”
“And now?”
He seemed to relax just a smidgen, as though he had decided on his course and would accept whatever it offered. “Now there seems to be little reason to breathe if you are not in my arms.”
Shivers coursed over her, followed by an urge to burst into song. Odd. “Oh.”
“I was not being completely honest when we spoke earlier.”
“Oh?”
“I am lonely,” he admitted. “But I am also aroused.”
She stared at him, lips slightly parted, heart pounding in her chest. By comparison, her last two ohs seemed rapier sharp.
“I wish to bed you, wee Faerie.”
She tried to speak, but nothing came to mind. Literally nothing but the thought of being in his arms.
“Might you feel—”
“Yes,” she said. Too quick. Too eager. Too…everything contrary to who she usually was. She had to slow down. Relax. Try for refinement. Or rationality. She took a deep, silent breath and steadied her voice. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He watched her carefully, as if trying to decipher her whimsical ways. But he was hardly the only one. There might well be a queue. “Lord Wrenwall is hosting a garden party in two days’ time,” he said. “I will understand if you change your mind before then.”
“I shall be there,” she said, and, granting him a regal nod, lifted her heavy skirts in one gloved hand before turning toward the house.
Chapter 22
Faye kept her steps slow, her head high as she made her way up the hill toward Lavender House. Her hands were steady, her expression serene.
“’Tis late.”
Faye jumped, heart thumping like a wild hare’s inside her constricted chest. Apparently, her careful pretenses had reached their shallow limits.
“Did he harm you?” Shaleena asked, and stepped from the shadows, fully clothed, but still intimidating.
“Who?” Faye rasped, and refrained from placing a hand to her chest to keep it from leaping into the open air.
“The Scotsman.”
“No. Why? Were you listening in on our conversation?”
“Was it terribly interesting?”
“Well I…No.”
“Then why would I waste my time?”
Faye stared at her a moment, then turned away, but Shaleena spoke before she could escape.
“So you have agreed to meet him.”
“I thought you didn’t listen in?”
“If that is true, you are even more naïve than I realized,” she said.
Anger welled like a fountain inside Faye, but she had little time for foolish emotion. She was confused and lost and jittery. “I just…am I mad?” she whispered.
Shaleena canted her head, studying her in the darkness. “For wishing to bed him?”
Faye felt the air leave her lungs in a rush. Though really, she should not have expected less from Shaleena. “I never said as much.”
“Perhaps I got the wrong impression,” said the other, and watched her in silence. “Perhaps the Celt did, as well.”
“I didn’t mean to…” Faye began, then closed her eyes and wished she were someone else. Or something else; hermit crabs had always intrigued her. “What am I going to do?”
“Are you asking for my advice?” Shaleena raised one haughty brow.
God help her. “I believe I am.”
Even in the darkness, Faye could see the other’s lips curl up with humor. But the moon-shadowed dimness made the expression look strangely soft. Not jaded or hostile, but almost self-deprecating, almost kind and longing and gentle.
Shaleena sighed and glanced toward the place where the lightning had crackled just a few nights before. “Ella would warn you to be on the alert, to determine what it is he truly wants from you before you make a decision. Madeline would tell you to think about how your life will change if you choose this path.”
But she didn’t want to think. “And you?”
“I would say that some mistakes cannot be undone,” Shaleena said, and suddenly, for the first time in Faye’s life, she felt a bottomless depth of sadness in the other woman, a well of pain covered by nothing more than a thin veneer of harsh superiority. “If you pass up this opportunity, will it be a mistake, do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
Besides fear? Very little. But Shaleena was watching her with careful intent, and she had no respect for cowards.
“I know he’s…” Kind? Courageous? Wounded? “Large,” she said.
Shaleena’s lips twitched up. “Then I would suggest you read a bit of Cleland’s little novel and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Read—Oh.” Remembering the lingering folderol associated with the publication of the scandalous Fanny Hill, Faye felt the blush reach the tips of her toes. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” she said, and turned away, but Shaleena caught her arm.
“Faye,” she said, startling her. Up to that point, she hadn’t been entirely certain Shaleena even knew her name
. “Don’t do anything rash.”
“It is rash, isn’t it?”
“I meant…” Something crossed her face. It almost looked like regret. Perhaps guilt even. She glanced toward the street again. “Do you care for him?”
She nodded, able to do no more.
“Does he care for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you?”
Hopes and doubts tumbled wildly in her mind. “He saved a maid today.”
Shaleena canted her head, waiting.
“He…I think he’s a good person. But…” She shook her head, still crazed. “In the past I’ve thought…”
“What?”
“That others were good.”
“And you were wrong.” It wasn’t a question, which was just as well because as memories assailed Faye, she found it impossible to force out an answer.
“Tell me, Faerie Faye…” she began, but her voice was distant, her expression far away. “Is it worse to live as if life is good and to be proven wrong or to believe it is evil and be proven right?”
Faye stared at her. “What was Joseph to you before he came here?”
“He was nothing,” she said, but the lie popped off a bright spark of pain in Faye’s temple.
“You knew him,” she countered, and Shaleena drew herself to full height.
“I’ve known many men, little witch. It does not make them important.”
Faye refrained from stepping back.
“He was someone you cared for.”
For a moment, a hint of honesty wafted through the garden, but an instant later Shaleena laughed. “He is someone who pleasured me for a time,” she said. “Several times, in fact. But you cannot expect too much from men. Not more than thrice in one night, no matter how powerful your charms,” she said, and tossed back her auburn hair. “Unless you have had the foresight to obtain more than one lively partner for the evening.”
Embarrassment almost caused Faye to back down, but she had done so most of her life with little to show for her cowardice. “You cared for him,” she repeated.
Something deep and earnest shone in Shaleena’s eyes, but in a moment she straightened, hardened, cooled. “Indeed I did. I cared for him with each hard thrust. With each soft death. You want advice, little witch? It is this. Enjoy your Scotsman to the hilt,” she said, and turned haughtily away.