"Please,
Aidan." She came to him, laying one hand on his chest.
He
glimpsed the gold of his mother's wedding ring upon her finger, the symbol of
his right to claim her.
That
warm, feminine hand pressed against his heart. He wanted it to burrow past his
waistcoat, through the slit in the front of his shirt. He wanted that hand
eager, seeking out the ridges that marked his rib cage. He wanted them
threading through the gilding of dark hair with indescribable delicacy. He
wanted those feminine fingertips to discover the dark disk of his nipple,
circle it, before he taught her shy, soft lips to kiss him there the first
time.
But
wasn't it possible Norah had dreamed of another man teaching her the ways of
pleasure? Was it possible that she had dreamed of being taken to Philip
Montgomery's bed, having him worship her body?
Aidan's
jaw knotted. He'd already been chained to one wife who had hungered for another
man when he'd come to her bed. There was no way he would put himself through
that hellish experience again. Would he?
"Aidan?"
Her voice was pleading, when he'd already taken so much from her, hurt her,
lied to her.
Her
accusations in the church rippled through him again, chafing him. Reminding him
that when he'd dragged Cass out to the gardens earlier that day, it had been
with the best intentions, with a hundred resolutions to apologize to Norah for
the debacle of the marriage ceremony, and his callous disregard for her
feelings.
"I'll
join you later," he said, his voice harsher than he'd intended.
He
might have been able to recapture his good intentions were it not for the fact
that he caught her glancing once again at the polished English aristocrat who
stood with belligerent elegance beside the drawing-room window.
Was
it relief Aidan saw in Norah's great dark eyes? Why? Because she had averted
more conflict between the two men? Or was it something else?
Throughout
his marriage with Delia and the many sexual affairs he had had since, he'd
learned to regard women with a healthy dose of suspicion. Call it an attitude
of stark self-preservation, but he'd done his damnedest to unravel their
motives, uncover their plots, before he found himself neck deep in one of them
again. But Norah... Norah had baffled him from the first moment, confused him,
unsettled him.
There
was something so blasted genuine about the woman. Honest, open. No wonder she'd
been a target of ridicule to the haute ton. No wonder she had suffered such
embarrassment.
Embarrassment.
The
word lodged in Aidan's chest. Was that the reason his bride had experienced
such a sudden change of heart? It would be one thing to bar a bridegroom from
one's bedchamber with no one but servants to witness it. But to spend a solitary
wedding night, when the gentleman of one's childhood dreams was residing just
across the hall, would be painfully humiliating, would it not? And considering
Montgomery's obvious disapproval of Norah's choice of husband, wasn't it
possible that he would breach the gentlemanly code and discuss Aidan's
reprehensible behavior with Norah's stepbrother? And perhaps even others?
Aidan's
jaw hardened as Norah left the room, the scent of fading roses teasing him in
her wake.
"Kane."
Montgomery's voice made Aidan wheel to face him. "You're not fit to touch
the sole of her slipper."
Aidan
met the Englishman's glare with his own, filled with mockery, and a hard
challenge no man could ever mistake. A possessiveness so intense it shook Aidan
to his core.
"I'll
be touching a great deal more than her slipper tonight, Montgomery. Whether you
deem me...
fit
to do so or not."
"You
libertine bastard, taking advantage of her! If it were in my power, I'd—"
"It
seems to me that Norah's future might have been within your power some years
ago. All these pretty protestations of your devotion come a trifle too late.
Where were you when Norah was betrothed to that simpering child her stepfather
attempted to saddle her with? Where were you when she was so desperately
unhappy that she chose to run away, into the arms of a stranger? Promise to
share his bed? Bear his children? Though she had never looked on his
face."
"I
care about Norah! I—"
"You
danced one goddamned waltz with her at some society affair and you expect to be
nominated for sainthood. What did you spare her from? A half hour's agony in an
entire season of hell? Perhaps my daughter believes you to be Norah's hero. I
have more stringent standards than that."
"Standards?
You have no standards at all! You think I don't remember all the scandal that
swirled around you and your first wife? You, a gamester without honor; your
wife, playing the harlot to so many men, even the most dedicated gossip mongers
couldn't keep count."
Aidan
struggled to maintain the lazy air that had always been his defense during such
confrontations. "At last count, I believe the number was thirty-six—that
is if you include a brace of brawny stable lads and Lady Redmond's head
groom."
Montgomery
paled. "You repulse me."
Aidan
let a dangerous smile spread across his lips. "And yet here you are, a
guest in my home. I can only hope I repulse you so deeply you cannot bear to
remain at Rathcannon overlong."
Montgomery
turned stiffly and stalked toward the door.
"My
lord."
The
Englishman stilled, his back to Aidan.
"I
would
advise you against making any allusions to my first wife's... appetites to my
daughter. I promise you, you would regret it for the rest of your life."
"Are
you threatening me, Kane?"
"I
prefer
to think of it as saving your linens from unnecessary violence. You would most
assuredly end up on a dueling field with a nasty hole blown through your
shirtfront."
"Nothing
would please me more than ridding the world of one of your ilk, Kane, and
ridding Norah of this loathsome marriage in the process. But if you think I
would stoop to filling the ears of a child with such vulgar rubbish, you are
mistaken."
"I
am much relieved."
"Don't
be. There are dozens of others who would delight in nothing more. If you think
you can protect her forever, you're wrong. Someone will tell her, Kane—tell her
everything."
The
words struck Aidan like a verbal death blow from which there was no escape,
against which there was no defense. Montgomery knew he had won. He strode from
the chamber, leaving Aidan alone with the truth.
For
an hour, he paced back and forth through the drawing room, trying to gain
control of the beast Montgomery had unleashed inside him. Jealousy. Self-doubt.
Terror for his daughter, and terror of the fever Norah had fired in his blood.
When
Calvy, the footman, entered the chamber, Aidan all but snapped off the youth's
head. "What the blazes do you want?"
"I
just wanted to wish you all happiness with my lady," the boy said,
undaunted. "And also to let you know that... well, sir, the maids have
just left her bedchamber."
The
corner of Aidan's mouth tightened. "Is that one of your duties now?
Carrying servants' gossip?"
"No
sir. I just thought... well, I—"
"Goodnight."
Aidan bit out the dismissal and watched as the footman made his way from the
room. He felt like a surly bastard.
Damnation,
was the entire household going to be peeping about corners to see when Aidan
deigned to bed his bride? His jaw set, grimly. Blast the woman to hell. He
wasn't about to tolerate her sacrificing herself to his lust in order to quiet
gossip, and yet neither did he want any whisperings, any hint of ridicule to
hurt her.
He
would damn well have to join his bride in the bedchamber, Aidan admitted to
himself. The only question was what the devil was he going to do with the
infernal woman once he got there?
* * * * *
Norah
paced the confines of the Blue Room, excruciatingly aware of every sound that
echoed on the other side of the carved oak door: the giggles of upstairs maids
as they carried away Norah's bathwater, or the low voices of footmen in the
chamber across the hall, helping ready it for Philip Montgomery.
But
Aidan's room remained deathly quiet, and no matter how Norah strained to hear
the purposeful booted stride that she had grown so familiar with, she heard
nothing but the erratic beat of her own heart.
She
pressed her fingertips against the delicate bodice of her nightgown, as if she
could somehow still that tell-tale rhythm, and paced once again to where the
looking glass hung, suspended over Delia Kane's dressing table. The woman who
stared back at Norah seemed like a stranger.
Delicate
shades of rose had been buffed into her cheeks by the crisp Irish air, and the
dark skeins of hair that tumbled onto the pristine whiteness of the fragile
gown glowed with unaccustomed richness. Her lips seemed fuller, softer somehow,
and her eyes... they were uncertain, wary, and yet shining, alive in a way they
had never been before.
She
had invited—no, she had all but pleaded for Aidan to come to her room tonight,
so desperate had she been to prevent further clashes between her new husband
and the old friend who had come to display such belated concern for her
welfare. It had been a faint hope that Aidan would find the invitation to her
bed intriguing enough to dissuade him from continuing to match verbal swords
with Montgomery. But Aidan had answered her plea with a probing look in those
green eyes, one that peeled back all pretenses, seemed to be searching for
something in her eyes.
He
had promised to come to her. Yet she had already marked the militant click of
Philip's heels in the corridor, the sharp tones of his voice as the door closed
behind him; there had been not a whisper from her husband.
Had
he chosen not to come to her this night, remembering her angry words in the
church what seemed an eternity ago? Or was he merely draining another decanter
of brandy, in no particular hurry to claim her?
Norah
winced, astonished at the power such thoughts had to hurt her.
At
that instant she heard it: Aidan, none too quietly coming down the hall. Her
pulse tried to beat its way out of her throat, and her fingers tugged
ineffectually at the lace-edged collar of her bridal nightgown. When his
footsteps stopped outside her door, her breath froze in her breast.
She
jumped a foot when he banged his fist upon the door. God in heaven, Norah
thought, rushing to open it, did he intend to awaken the whole county and alert
them all to his arrival?
She
jerked the door open just as he struck the panel again.
Her
cheeks were afire with stark embarrassment as she stared into that
devastatingly handsome face. "Do you want the whole house to hear
you?"
"No,
my dear. Only our guest, and any servants that still happen to be lurking
about," he said, entering the chamber and shutting the door behind him
with one splayed hand. "That was the idea, wasn't it? The purpose behind
your unexpected invitation?"
Norah
drew back, chilled by his words. His smile was hard and reckless, dangerous and
silky with a kind of sensual menace that made her skin burn. "I don't know
what you mean."
"It
would be rather awkward to explain, I would imagine. A newly wed husband not
visiting his bride's chamber. But here I am, at your service."
Norah's
eyes stung, and her knees trembled. "I only wanted for you and Philip to
quit—quit behaving like..."
"Like
what? Rutting stags with only one doe between us? You must forgive the man—I
fear he has delusions of heroism where you are concerned. Conveniently timed, I
might add. Now he can stalk about like some Byronic hero, gnashing his teeth
and beating his breast in righteous fury, but without the inconvenience of
having to pay any forfeit for his gallantry."
"Forfeit?"
"Marrying
you himself, my dear. Interposing his bared chest between your vulnerable
breast and my villainy."
"You're
being ridiculous. Philip is a friend, Aidan. Someone who was once kind to
me."
"And
I am not kind." It was a statement. A challenge. "Or perhaps I am. At
least I'm not as vile as Montgomery would have me be. After all, I'm here, am I
not?"
With
painful deliberation, those long fingers went to his jacket and began
unbuttoning it, the muscles beneath flexing and rippling as he stripped it from
his broad shoulders. Norah caught her lips between her teeth, nervousness
running wild through her veins. She had already seen every part of Aidan Kane:
the perfectly sculpted muscles of his chest, the long, powerful lengths of his
thighs, the flat plane of his stomach, and that most intimate part of him
nested in coarse, dark hair.
She
had run her fingertips over his sleek, bronzed skin when it was damp with the
sweat of his fever, had pressed her body against his in an effort to still his
wild thrashings when the nightmares had grown too fierce. She had fallen in
love with that wounded, pain-filled man, the earnest, battered hero who had
confided to her the betrayal that had crippled his heart and changed his life.