by Linda Ladd
Anger shot through Donovan again, and his long, tanned fingers tightened, threatening the fragile glass he held. He wanted to hurl it into the blazing logs, but he didn't. Instead, he intentionally relaxed his grip and set the tumbler almost gently atop the table before him. Donovan MacBride was not, and had never been, one to lose control of his temper. He kept his emotions tightly in check, and he prided himself on the fact that few ever knew what he was thinking. Much of his success in his business dealings relied on such self-control, and it was imperative in his intelligence work.
He re-crossed the room and gazed down into the crackling flames for a long moment, bracing an elbow on the carved mantelpiece. He had run out of options concerning the unwanted marriage to the Tyler girl, and worse than that, he had run out of time. He had been barely twenty-four when he had signed the agreement with Laurence Hampstead, eleven long years ago, and at the time, a vague betrothal to Hampstead's seven-year-old granddaughter had seemed a minor sacrifice to cinch a contract that would triple the fortunes of the MacBride family within a year of the signing. He had needed the money then, but he had expected that it would be easy enough to buy his way out of the betrothal when the time came. He had seen Laurence Hampstead for the doting grandfather he had been, and when he had died the year after they had become partners, Donovan had thought little more of it, assuming the marriage would be forgotten. And it had been, until Lord Daniel Tyler had come into the picture. Damn the man!
Donovan absently rubbed at the scar on his cheekbone again, then ran his fingers over his bearded cheek to stroke his jaw. His eyes grew hard. Lord Tyler had begun pressuring him to honor the marriage clause a little over a year ago, and Donovan knew full well why he had. Tyler never bothered to hide his politics. He was the most blatantly anti-American member of Parliament, and Donovan's London agents believed he was involved in British espionage as well. If that were true, what better way for Tyler to infiltrate New York than to ensconce his own daughter in Donovan's house?
Over my dead body, he vowed inwardly, both fists clenching. He had never wanted a wife, and especially not some simpering British girl with a treacherous father. He knew next to nothing about the girl herself, and the secrecy surrounding her whereabouts for the last ten years was suspect in itself. So much so, in fact, that Donovan had hired investigators to discover more about her. They had come up with very little, only that her mother had died years ago, which coincided with Daniel Tyler's story, and that the girl had been educated in an Italian convent. No one in London had seen the girl in years, and Donovan was beginning to wonder if it really was Laurence Hampstead's granddaughter he was about to meet. There was something strange about all of it, and the fact that Tyler had fought Donovan tooth and nail when Donovan had resorted to legal channels to dissolve the contract made it even more suspicious. He had haggled with Tyler's English solicitors for months, and when that had failed, he had offered the bastard enough money to ransom the Regent himself. Tyler had turned him down flat.
Donovan clenched his jaw. The tension between America and England had heightened in the last year as Napoleon's fight with England disrupted neutral American shipping. War was inevitable. Within the year, if Donovan's intelligence bore out, and he had prepared for that eventuality during this last trip to London, methodically severing his ties in London, both commercial and private, and if his last effort to discourage the marriage failed, he would return to New York alone and let Tyler do what he could from London to force his daughter down Donovan's throat.
He straightened at a soft rapping on the door, turning as his personal valet entered behind him.
"The young lady has arrived, sir."
"Thank you. You do remember what you are to say to Lord Tyler when he arrives?"
"Yes, sir, I am to bring him directly to your bedchamber."
"Very good, and remember, they are not to be announced. Just show them in."
"Yes, sir, I quite understand."
Donovan lowered his gaze to the dancing flames again, not particularly proud of the dishonorable scheme he was about to perpetrate against Tyler's daughter, but he had little choice. The man had forced his hand by insisting on the wedding. No man, not even one like Tyler, would subject his own daughter to marriage with Donovan, if what he planned went off as intended. Even if Daniel Tyler held firm, there was no doubt Alysson Tyler herself would refuse him. He grinned suddenly. The more he considered it, the more he thought the plan just might be bold enough to work, and now the time was drawing near to find out. Tyler and his daughter were due within the hour.
More confident now, Donovan quit the library and mounted the curving staircase to the upstairs hall. He strode quickly down to his bedchamber, his footfalls muffled by the thick carpet. He rapped a knuckle on the door panel, then went in.
Alysson jumped, then whirled around at the sound of the door closing. She stared in silence at the big man beside the door, her heart hammering inside her breast. He seemed absolutely huge, even taller than Jethro, probably four or five inches over six feet, and his shoulders appeared enormous in the black silk waistcoat and loose-fitting white shirt he wore.
She swallowed hard as he came toward her, his eyes jet-black and unreadable as they took in her hair and face before traveling downward over her body in a way that made her want to back away from him.
"Who the hell are you?"
The dark eyes burned into hers in the most compelling way, arousing the uncanny sensation that he could see deep inside of her, that he would know if she told him lies. He seemed absolutely satanic standing there with his close-cropped black beard and even blacker hair that swept back over his temples in loose waves. He was very handsome in an ominous way, with fine features, deeply browned by the sun. She struggled to get hold of herself as a massive frown brought dark brows down over narrowed eyes.
"My name is Silver ... Silver Sinclair,” she began, hating herself for stuttering. He would never take her for a worldly woman if she acted so nervous! “Rosalie sent me,” she added.
Donovan stared at the girl standing before him, unable to take his eyes off her exquisitely beautiful face. She had seemed all hair at first glance, shiny golden tresses rippling well below her waist, but now, on closer inspection, she seemed sheer perfection with her flawless white and pink skin, delicate features and soft lips, and absolutely huge green eyes, the color of sun-warmed emeralds. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen, and she was young, very young. He spoke, his eyes never leaving her face.
"Where's Odette?"
Alysson tried to meet his penetrating gaze as steadily as she could. She had assumed her role now and she would play it to the best of her ability.
"She came home from a party quite foxed, so Rosalie hired me to take her place."
"You're English?"
He seemed displeased that she might be, and Alysson forced a smile.
"Only if you wish me to be,” she said in her normal voice, then turned her next words into Odette's French-accented English. “I can be French if zou wish, or perhaps a FrÄulein vould be more to your liking."
The last was Mathilde's husky voice to perfection, and she watched in triumph as the man grinned, his strong white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark skin and beard.
"You'll do as you are, English, if you can act as well as you do accents."
Alysson watched uneasily as he turned slightly, his fingers unfastening the buttons on his black silk waistcoat. He shrugged out of it and tossed it on a nearby chair. His legs were long and hard-muscled, encased in black trousers and glossy black boots, and as he turned Alysson saw a small, pearl-handled pistol tucked into a holster at the small of his back.
He glanced at her as he took off his belt and slid it beneath one of the pillows.
"Do you know why you're here, English?"
She shook her head, wondering why he continued to call her that, and in such a mocking way.
"No, Rosalie didn't tell me."
He gave
her a sardonic grin, and his black eyes held hers until she could not look away.
"You're going to pretend to be my lover tonight,” he said, tipping his head toward the bed as he finished unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a dark tangle of hair on his tanned chest. He pulled the shirttail out of his waistband until it hung free. “Over there, on the bed."
His last words shocked her; he could easily read her feelings in those extraordinary green eyes of hers.
"You can handle it, can't you?"
Alysson recovered her composure quickly.
"I am an actress,” she told him, meeting his challenging eyes. “I can be anything I want to be."
"Shall we, then?” Donovan said, sweeping his arm toward the bed. “My guests should be here soon."
Alysson hesitated as he moved to the bed and pulled back the velvet coverlet with one sharp jerk. Suddenly Alysson was very aware that she was alone in a strange house with a strange man who expected her to climb into his bed with him. Never in her life had she imagined herself in such a predicament, and now she had only Rosalie Handel's word that the big, handsome, virile-looking man staring at her so mockingly was a gentleman who would not take advantage of her.
"Do you really think it necessary for us to be in the bed? Surely the fact that I am here in your bedroom, dressed like this, would be enough."
The shadow of a smile hovered at one corner of his mouth as he sat down and leaned back against the headboard.
"It's necessary. I mean to make my point in a way that will be hard to forget."
Alysson hesitated a moment longer, then walked around to the opposite side of the bed. She sat down gingerly on the edge, facing away from him.
Donovan looked at her prim posture, then grinned. “Is that the best you can do?"
Alysson looked around at him. “What would you have me do?"
"My women don't usually keep one foot on the floor when we're in bed together. For god's sake, come over here. They'll be here soon."
The last was nothing less than a peremptory command, and Alysson crawled across to sit on her heels nearer to him, but not too close.
"That's better,” he said softly, reaching out to grasp a handful of her hair. He caressed the silky texture between his thumb and fingers.
"You have beautiful hair, English, so soft and fine, like spun gold."
His voice had lowered and roughened slightly, and a shiver of something akin to fear raced down Alysson's spine as he wound the thick strand around his fingers, drawing her closer with a gentle tug.
"Can you tell me what is about to happen?” she asked nervously as he sat up, propping one palm behind her on the bed, his dark, handsome face very close to her own.
"No."
Alysson sat stiffly, her eyes on the door, wishing whoever was coming would hurry up and come. Every nerve in her body was attuned to the overpowering masculine presence so very close to her.
"I hired you to act as my lover; surely you can be more convincing than this,” Donovan said, pulling back the luxurious fall of red-gold hair to tuck it behind her ear. His eyes dropped admiringly from her delicate profile to the white flesh swelling so temptingly beneath the black satin bodice.
He was so close that Alysson could not breathe, so close that she could pick up the scent of tobacco and the light essence of some kind of manly cologne. Her heart began to pound as he touched her cheek with his fingertips, drawing her face around so that she had to meet his eyes.
Her lips parted breathlessly at the burning intensity she saw in them, and an unfamiliar, all-encompassing excitement took hold of her. He was going to kiss her, somehow she knew it, but she could not bring herself to pull back. Was this the way it felt to be touched by a man? This weak giddiness and hot, flushed feeling?
His face was very close above her own now, and he smiled a slow knowing smile that bespoke arrogant male self-confidence, but Alysson was beyond the point of caring as his lips came down to touch hers, as gentle and undemanding as the touch of a feather. She relaxed and felt his arm come up to brace her shoulders. So this is what it is like, she thought in wonder, this is what it is like to be kissed. Her eyelids fluttered closed as his mouth pressed harder upon her lips, molding them to his, gently but insistently. She moved her own lips as he was doing, then started slightly as his strong fingers came up to cup her fragile jaw, and his tongue explored the sweetness of her mouth. She pulled away breathlessly, and his hand dropped away.
Donovan smiled at the heated blush rising in her cheeks and the heaving of her breasts, wondering if she was really as innocent as her reactions indicated. Where on earth had Rosalie found her? She lay relaxed against him, her head in the crook of his arm, and he brushed the soft tendrils off her brow, then ran one finger over the elegant curve of her cheek.
"Show me what a good actress you are, English. Make me believe you are mine to have."
His lips caressed her ear as he whispered the words of challenge, and before Alysson could move, he had twisted until he lay half atop her. His hard chest pressed her deeper into the silken pillows, and a weak moan escaped her as warm male lips took complete possession of her mouth. His kisses were more intense this time, no longer gentle as if he tasted her, but hungry, ravaging kisses that melted her will, then her bones. Her senses began to reel as his tongue parted her lips, and she was not prepared for the electrifying currents that reached to the deepest parts of her body, making her want to arch herself up against him. Without understanding why, she slid her hands over his broad shoulders and felt them tense beneath her palms. Could her touch affect him the way his did her?
Alysson gasped as his mouth left hers and moved to the soft flesh of her shoulder, and she realized from deep within the swirling mists of her awakening passion that he had slid the straps down her arms, baring her shoulders and breasts. His dark head moved lower, his lips at the base of her throat where a pulse throbbed out of control, then still lower to the silky curve of her breast.
Donovan heard her muffled protest as he swept her gown to her waist, but he captured her wrists beside her head as his lips tasted her sweetly fragrant flesh, reacting to her with a passion that half shocked him.
"Please,” Alysson managed as his hard body pressed intimately against her naked thighs.
His lips moved against hers in a husky whisper. “Please what, English? Shall I stop? Or do you want me as much as I want you?"
The sound of the door opening brought them both back to awareness, and Donovan rolled to his back, taking a trembling Alysson with him. He pulled up her gown to shield her nakedness when he saw Stephens and two other men in the doorway. Lord Daniel Tyler's face drained of color as his eyes met Donovan's, then slid over to the small girl held tightly in Donovan's arms.
Donovan gave a satisfied smile, his eyes leaving Tyler, and then, for the first time, he realized that Alysson Tyler was not with him. Instead, there was a heavyset constable in blue uniform, staring with openmouthed astonishment at the entwined couple on the bed. Donovan looked back at Lord Tyler, and the horrified expression on his face indicated that his daughter's presence would not be necessary. Donovan wanted to laugh as Tyler struggled to speak. His words came at last, hoarse and strangled.
"My God! Alysson?"
Alysson? Donovan thought in confusion, then looked down as Silver Sinclair stiffened in his arms.
"Father...” Alysson breathed in absolute horror.
"Father?” Donovan repeated dumbly, then realization hit him like a pitcher of ice water flung into his face. Before Daniel Tyler could reach the bed, Donovan was out of it, gun in hand.
"I'll relieve ye of the little gun, mate, unless yer hankering fer a hole in yer heart."
The fat constable cocked his flintlock pistol and pushed it into Donovan's back. Donovan whirled on him, black eyes full of fury, and the peace officer stepped back uncertainly but held the gun directed on the muscular brown chest, if slightly unsteadily. Donovan considered taking the gun away from him, then remembered the girl on
the bed directly behind him; she could be hit if the constable fired. So with great reluctance, he gave up his gun, turning cold eyes on Daniel Tyler.
"You'll not get away with ruining my daughter like this, MacBride,"
Daniel said fiercely, his face livid with anger. “Seducing her here in your bed without the sanctity of wedding vows! By God, I'll see that you do right by her, and I'll see it done this very night! No court in the land will let you leave the country after this! You'll rot in prison if you don't marry my Alysson!” His voice became shriller. “Constable Riggins is my witness that you had your way with her! Look at her, half naked, she is!"
The constable looked at her, but Donovan stared at Tyler, just beginning to understand the gravity of his predicament. Tyler had somehow turned everything around in order to compromise him into marrying his daughter. And she had been in on it from the beginning! He turned to look at the girl cowering in the bed. Alysson's stomach lurched with sick fear as Donovan MacBride's black eyes bored into her with cold, lethal contempt.
Three quarters of an hour later, Donovan stood ramrod straight, his back to the fire. He was fully dressed again, his face set in inflexible lines. Lord Tyler sat in a deeply cushioned gold brocade chair beside the bed, with the constable close behind him, gun still trained on Donovan. Tyler met Donovan's cold regard with a mocking, self-satisfied smile. A muscle twitched spasmodically in the lean contours of Donovan's cheek.
As he turned his eyes to the girl, he fought his desire to jerk the bastard up by his lapels and send a fist into his leering face.
She sat on the edge of the bed now, looking suitably upset and frightened. Yet another of her brilliant performances, he thought, rage roiling around inside him, fighting to be released. How could he have been so stupid? And how could Tyler have found out Donovan's plan to trick him with Odette? Someone had to have betrayed him. But who? Only a few trusted friends knew about his plan: his brother, Brace, and Stephens, of course. And Rosalie and Edgar and Odette. It had to be the French woman; she was the only one not a part of his spy network.