Mystic Mountains

by Tricia McGill

They both froze in shock when he brought her slender body up against his hard one. She whimpered. Tiger swallowed an oath.

  "Bella," he muttered, shaking his head. "Why do you fight me? I'll never hurt you, you know." His fingers loosened on her arms, but he didn't release her. There was something almost heavenly about her, standing close to him in the gown that covered her from neck to ankle, yet revealed her shape as if it had been fashioned to lure a man. His pulse began to beat a steady rhythm he knew well as her full breasts pushed against the soft material, lightly brushing his shirt front.

  "Yes you will," she said, not knowing where that piece of knowledge sprung from. But instinctively she knew this man could hurt her more than any other living soul. It was up to her never to give him the means to break her heart.

  "What makes you say that? You know deep down I'd never do anything to hurt anyone I consider part of my family. And you're that now."

  "No I'm not." Frantically Isabella tried to free herself. Her body was reacting to his nearness in a way she knew he sensed.

  "As long as you're in my care you are." He lowered his head until his nose was level with hers and their eyes met. For one moment she thought he was going to kiss her; longed for it even while she dreaded what it would do to her.

  "We have no one else, Bella, you and me. Your family's so far gone from you they may as well be dead, and mine are dead. We are each other's world now. You belong to me."

  "Oh no." She shook her head. "I may be your servant and your property as long as I have my term to serve, but you'll never own me body and soul, Tiger Carstairs." She out-stared him, although every instinct told her to back away from the gleam in those penetrating eyes.

  "One day you'll see how false those words are, Bella O'Shea."

  "Why are you doing this to me?" She moved back a pace. She might as well have saved her energy for he merely moved so close she could feel his breath on her face.

  "Doing what? All I asked is that you attend a ball with me. Let me tell you, Bella, I think you're mighty strange to refuse such an offer." His hands went to her shoulders and squeezed. She jumped, her skin tingling.

  "That's my point, you think me odd. So why insist I go with you?" She tried to shrug his hands off, but he increased the pressure.

  Tiger stared hard at her. "You're a very beautiful woman, Bella. What man wouldn't want to be seen with you on his arm?"

  "Don't," she whispered, dropping her head. "I'm plain. I have a limp. I'm common and ordinary." She pulled back when he suddenly slid his hands to her wrists and jerked them towards his body. He pressed them against his chest and she could feel the steady thump of his heart. Something deep inside her began to quiver.

  "You're a fool if you believe that, Bella. There's a certain charm about your looks that make men give you more than a second glance. You're courageous and plucky, and very unordinary.

  "Now." His eyes grew serious. "We can carry on fighting over this, or we can do it my way. But teach you to dance I will."

  Isabella sighed and let her shoulders droop. She knew when she was beaten. Why not have the pleasure of a few stolen moments in his arms? He'd soon enough get tired of this game he was playing and when he found she was a useless dancer he'd be thankful she had the sense to refuse to go to the ball with him.

  He put her left hand on his shoulder, then took her right hand and held it lightly. He placed his hand in the middle of her back. The heat of his skin through the thin fabric of her gown made her gasp and look down.

  "But I'm wearing my nightgown," she whispered, shaken by the strength of the sensations raking through her.

  "So you are," he murmured, his voice sending a tremor up her spine. He loosened his grip and grinned wickedly down at her. "We'll pretend it's a fine gown such as you'll be wearing on the night of the ball. Now concentrate, let yourself relax and follow the movements of my body, right?" He waited for her to give him a minuscule nod before going on, "When I move my legs you move with me. Remember I will not let you go, so if you wish to run to your bed tonight you must at least learn the rudiments of the steps. Right? Right?" he repeated when she remained silent.

  "Seems I have no say in it, do I?" she muttered, lips compressed.

  "You're learning, little one," he drawled, his lips quirking as he began to turn, taking her with him in a small twist to one side.

  Isabella stumbled over one of his feet, almost sobbing in frustration. Not only did she have the humiliation of not being able to follow his movements but her body was reacting in the strangest way to the closeness of his. A heat was pooling low in her stomach and her breasts felt heavy. With a groan of self-disgust she tried to break free.

  "We haven't even started," he said, his mouth level with her ear. "You aren't relaxing, are you?" His breath was warm as it drifted over her earlobe and neck. She shivered and he chuckled.

  She would have punched him if she thought he wouldn't take his own kind of retribution.

  "I can't," she insisted, lifting her head to glare up at him.

  "No such word in my vocabulary."

  "Maybe not, but you haven't got a crippled foot, have you?"

  "'Tis all in the mind, Bella. Don't do this to yourself, woman. You've got such courage. For once in your life own up that I'm right. You want to go to the ball so much it's an ache deep inside you. I bet you can almost taste it, eh? I know what it's like to be an outsider, don't forget. Perhaps that's what I see in you that makes me determined to have my way about this. You want to reach the moon and grab the stars. Go along with me and together we'll make dreams come true."

  Isabella could find no words to answer. Perhaps he was drunk. But his breath smelt sweet, with barely a hint of rum on it. "Why do you say these things to me?" she whispered, her eyes shadowed. "I don't understand you."

  "Perhaps I don't understand myself, Bella. Let's dance. You'll not get to bed this night until you've mastered a simple waltz."

  "Arrogant Englishman," she breathed into his shirtfront.

  "Aye." He laughed again, then began to move. Isabella allowed him to lead where he wanted, and to her great surprise she began to follow his movements.

  A while later, when Isabella had been moving to inner music, he said, "See, didn't I tell you it was simple? You've done this before, you have a natural rhythm."

  "Aye, when I was a little one my Mother and Papa used to dance sometimes, then he would show me how to do the steps. He promised me that when I grew up a fine gentleman would one day take me to a ball where everyone would stop to watch me dance."

  "There you are, then, his promise is going to come true. Only difference is I'm not a grand gentleman." Tiger lifted her chin with a finger and saw the tears glistening in her eyes. With a thumb he smoothed one away as it trickled from a corner.

  "And the only ones who'll stop to watch me will be laughing at the fool who thinks to dance with a lame foot!"

  "Stop that," he scolded. "One thing I can't abide is self-pity. You've more gumption than that."

  She sighed, allowing him to lead her again.

  "Tell me about your mother and father," he asked after a small silence when all that could be heard was the shuffling of their feet.

  She smiled pensively. "Papa used to watch Ma at times as if he couldn't quite believe his luck. Every man of class would have wanted to dance with her if she'd been a lady of quality. That English swine should have made her his wife." Tiger felt her go stiff with remembered resentment.

  "And if he had you'd never have known your stepfather. 'Tis likely the English gent would have ill-treated her and left her to rot in his great mansion while he dallied with his mistress or any maid who took his fancy. Men like that never change."

  "Yes. No doubt you know all about the type."

  "I know as much about them as any other poor boy who had to live by his wits."

  "Did you live in London afore you were transported?"

  "Aye. I was born in Kent. But my mother died at my birth, so Dad upped and took me to London."
He gave a mirthless laugh. "He was going to make his fortune. 'Twas him who taught me to cheat at the gaming table afore I was this high." He gestured with a palm at his thigh. "I guess he taught me how to fend for myself, which put me in good stead for when I was sent out here as a green lad with no sense and no trade." Staring over her shoulder Tiger looked down long-forgotten pathways to the past.

  "What was it like when you came here?"

  He smiled down at her. "Well now, in those days men and women were packed together like so much useless cargo on the ships. It would take a while to tell of the horrors I saw. One man was lost overboard. Some fool went below and left a candle burning. It set a bag of rice to smoldering and the smoke sent everybody scuttling around like hens with their heads cut off. All except us poor fools locked below. If I live to be ninety, Bella, I'll never forget what it felt like to be chained below with fire threatening to set the ship ablaze." He swallowed, closing his eyes.

  "We arrived to a colony little better than a hellhole. Flogging was common."

  "Were you ever flogged?" she asked in a whisper. The thought of his beautiful body being so ill-used made her feel faint.

  "Not me, but many were. Some got up to five hundred lashes for stealing and others went about in leg irons for months on end. We English who were transported divided into two groups. I was a yokel and we would always be fighting with the townies who thought we had no more sense than sheep. The Irish set themselves up into three groups. They had the Cork Boys, Dublin Boys, and the North Boys." He grinned. "They all rushed into a fight until no one was sure who was fighting who."

  "How did you get the name Tiger? It can't be the name you was baptized with."

  "Aye, you're right. Captain Tate, who's a very good friend of mine, he gave me that title." He smiled reminiscently. "I was a tow-haired brat with this tangled mane flying about halfway down my back. He pulled me out of a spot of bother one day and reckoned I looked like a wild cat, and I guess I was in those days. The name stuck."

  "What's your real name then? The one you were given at your birth?"

  For a while he looked down at her, his eyes narrowed and speculative. "'Tis Timothy. But don't you go telling anybody. 'Tis so long since I was called it that if anyone was to call it now I would never answer."

  "I won't tell a soul."

  They'd long since stopped dancing, and with a shock Isabella realized Tiger was leaning back relaxed against the table edge. And she was between his knees, held gently by his hands on her hips. She looked up and caught a strange glint in his eyes.

  "I'd best get to my bed, then," she said, knowing it was the last thing she wanted to do. It felt so good, so safe, yet so exciting to be this near him. It was as if they'd stood thus a thousand times; as if her slender body was made to be surrounded by his strength.

  His eyes met hers, and he bent his head until his mouth hovered above her own. The warmth of his breath sent tingles over her skin. But then he seemed to come to a decision and with an abrupt movement almost lifted her off her feet as he put her away from him.

  "Aye, off to your bed, and no more talk of not coming to the ball with me, d'you hear?" There was a gruff note in his voice she didn't understand.

  "Yes, I mean no," she mumbled and fled to her room.

  Tiger stood for long minutes staring at her door. Shaking his head, he pushed himself away from the table and slowly went to his room. It had been a long time since he'd disclosed so much about his past. The wench had an unnerving effect on him. Lord above, for a minute there he'd almost dragged her into his arms and kissed her. She'd certainly been inviting it with her eyes. And her body had shown its eagerness for his touch; had been screaming for it, in fact. Ye gods—the woman was a contradiction; a siren luring him on, yet despite all she'd been through there was an innocent air about her that fascinated him.

  Sitting down to pull off his boots, he heard her moving about next door. He swallowed a groan, yanked his boots back on, and strode out of the house.

  For an age he stood leaning on the fence, gazing out over his land, filled with a restless yearning he'd never experienced before in his life. It was unsettling, and something that didn't appeal to him at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "I can't do this."

  Isabella stared at feet covered in the softest leather slippers she'd ever seen, let alone worn. Tiger had taken her into town and ordered the cobbler to make them to suit her. He'd fashioned them so well she hardly knew her toes were misshapen.

  "He's making a fool of me, Thelma," she moaned. "Why did you let him talk me into this?"

  Thelma gave her a gentle tap on the shoulder. "Don't be a dimwit. You'll be the belle of the ball."

  "The Bella of the ball," Gillie agreed from his chair.

  "Oh yes. With all those nobs there, I'm going to be the belle." Isabella pulled her mouth down at the corners. "I'll fall over my stupid feet an' this fancy skirt will likely trip me up. That'll teach him." She took a handful of the soft muslin in her fist and shook it.

  "It will not. The dressmaker made it long enough to cover your feet an' just short enough to allow you room to move. You look a picture, dear." Thelma fussed about, straightening the skirt of the gown of pale apple green. "And your hair's a treat fashioned on the top of your head like that."

  Isabella touched the few tendrils curling over her ears. Thelma had painstakingly placed silk flowers amid the soft folds of her hair.

  "I feel I'm about to pop out at any minute. I'm frightened to breathe too deep." Isabella touched the curve of her breast above the low scooped neckline.

  More silk rosebuds nestled in the pleats at the shoulders and center front, and for all her complaints she relished the softness of the material. It caressed her skin, the petticoats beneath softly rustling and swirling about her legs when she moved. Never had she expected to be wearing such a gown. When she recalled the rags that had been all she'd ever known her throat tightened with emotion.

  "It's the fashion. You wouldn't want Tiger to feel ashamed of you, would you? If you went on his arm in a gown that wasn't fashionable you'd be a laughing stock, an' so would he." Thelma raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Now, just remember, follow Tiger's lead. Hang onto him an' let him show you who to talk to an' who to ignore. An' above all have a grand time." She sighed. "I feel like a mother sending her daughter out to her first ball."

  Isabella put an arm about her shoulders. "And I feel as if I'm your daughter a going." She'd heard from her mother only a week ago, and the news was all bad. Her Papa had died in Newgate, and her youngest sister died of a fever soon after Isabella's transportation. Her two eldest brothers were caught stealing and one was in Newgate and the other on the Thames. That had been the lowest ebb of her life, after reading it. If not for Thelma's support she would have felt like dying.

  The door to Tiger's room opened. Isabella sucked in her breath. She couldn't go through with this. Not when he looked like every young girl's wildest dream. Beige breeches hugged his muscular thighs and his ebony boots were polished until you could see your face in them. The thatch of golden hair had been tamed, drawn back with a black bow at his nape. The shirt of pure white beneath his cutaway jacket had tiny flounces down each side of the front and must be new, for she'd not laundered one such as that. In his cravat a gold pin set off the golden light in his eyes as they surveyed her.

  Isabella had never felt so inadequate. "That's it, I'm not going," she blurted, swirling to run to her bedroom door.

  Tiger was too quick for her. Grabbing her arm he said softly, "And why, pray, did you make this decision? You look beautiful."

  It was the stark truth. Tiger couldn't believe the transformation. He'd never seen the pure line of her throat and upper breasts before, and the short puff of the sleeves showed off her slender arms. She was the picture of femininity, angelic, yet invitingly sensuous.

  "You don't have to lie." She stared at his boots as if she found them of great interest.

  Tiger shook her arm gentl
y. "You should know by now that I never lie." He glanced around at the others. "She looks a fetching picture, does she not, Thelma? Dougal?"

  Dougal, who'd just entered the kitchen, stood by the door, a strange expression on his face. He looked dumbstruck. Tiger felt sorry for the man; more than sorry, at the open longing in Dougal's eyes.

  Thelma went to him and patted his arm. He said something low to her, and she squeezed his hand.

  "Yes, a picture," Dougal finally agreed, his voice strained. He coughed and swallowed. "You'll be the envy of all the women, Bella, that's for sure."

  "Come, 'tis time to go." Tiger motioned to Isabella. "No time for second thoughts. I'm not about to let all those lessons go to waste. Don't wait up for us," he turned to tell the others as he ushered Isabella ahead of him. She hesitated briefly near Dougal, smiling at him, and he gave her a small nod before she went out.

  As they went down the path she was acutely aware of Tiger's hand at her elbow. Suddenly shy, Isabella was certain she'd never get through this night. "This evening will be a disaster," she murmured.

  He laughed. "Only if you let it be. Where's your spirit, woman? This is your chance to prove you're as good as every other female in this godforsaken place. You'll outshine most of them. You have naught to be ashamed of."

  Isabella glanced up at him. Heavens—now she had his high opinion to live up to. What if she let him down? Then not only would she be humiliated, but she'd have his scorn on top of all else. She caught sight of the four wheeled buggy parked outside the gate, a splendid white horse in the shafts, and all other thoughts fled.

  "Where did that come from?" She lifted a hand to point, her throat suddenly dry.

  "Do you like it? I reckoned that for your first ball you deserved something better than the old wagon pulled by the gelding. Come on, up you get."

  Before she could say another word he placed his hands on her waist and with easy grace lifted her. Isabella had to put her hands on his shoulders to steady herself before she could sit back on the padded leather seat. Her heart hammered as she looked everywhere but into his eyes.