In the Heat of the Bite (4 page)

“She wouldna even let me see Ginny,” Rhiannon sighed. “She said she plans ta present her this season.”

Cait gasped as though she was affronted. “She never presented ye! Never even offered ta bring ye ta Town. That horrid—”

Rhiannon’s heart twisted a bit. “Evidently I’m no’ marriage material.” She waved off Cait’s protest. “She’s right.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I ken the truth of it, Cait. I willna suit anyone. There’s no’ a man alive who could withstand my powers. Or my temperament.” She smirked sheepishly at the last and tucked her ruined slipper farther under her skirts.

“I thought no one could ever fit me, either. Until I met Dash.”

“Doona make me ill, please. I havena had dinner yet.” Rhiannon laughed as Cait swatted ineffectually at her head.

“So, what do ye plan ta do? Free Ginny from the clutches of yer evil aunt? Or are ye goin’ home since she willna allow ye ta see her?”

“Hardly.” Rhiannon rubbed her forehead. “I’d like ta stay ta keep an eye on her, if that’s all right with ye.”

“Ye doona even have ta ask, ye ninny. Ye’re always welcome here if ye doona mind wild Lycans traipsin’ in from time ta time. Dash has become rather close ta his long-lost brothers, and if one of them isn’t here, then another one usually is.”

The image was particularly amusing, especially as Cait had never cared for werewolves until she’d married hers. But to be surrounded by the beasts on a regular basis was probably fitting, all things considered. “I’m sure it willna be a problem for me.”

“Good. I was hopin’ that would be yer answer.”

“I doona really have another option. If I’m no’ here ta keep an eye on things, Aunt Greer’ll marry Ginny off ta some old goat just because he is plump in the pockets or has some connection my aunt covets.”

“That would be success in your aunt’s estimation.” Cait cleared her throat. “Did sweet, old Aunt Greer offer any excuse as ta why she is presentin’ Ginny and no’ ye?” She avoided Rhiannon’s gaze.

“She said she brought Ginny ta London because she canna
escape the taint of my creation
back in Edinburgh. So, now, unless I can prevent it, my little sister will have ta suffer some blasted Sassenach for the rest of her days.”

Rhiannon jumped as a voice boomed behind her. “And just what is wrong with the blasted Sassenach?” asked Dashiel Thorpe, the Marquess of Eynsford. The golden-haired Englishman crossed the room, his amber eyes brimming with amusement. He stopped in front of his wife and bent to kiss Cait on the forehead. Then he rose to his full height and nodded at Rhiannon. “Miss Sinclair,” he said in greeting. “Let’s get back to the blasted Sassenach, shall we?”

Rhi almost laughed. How very single-minded of his lordship to not forget the slight to all Englishmen. “It’s nothin’, my lord.”

He situated himself as close to Cait as he could on the settee. “Don’t mistake me for a fool, Miss Sinclair. You Scots, lovely as you are, never use the term as one of endearment, and most certainly not after you’ve used the word ‘blasted’ to modify it.”

Well, what could she say to that? He was right, of course, and had she known he was within earshot, she wouldn’t have used the word. Rhiannon rose to her feet to allow them some room and to distance herself from the pair.

“Doona tease her, Dashiel. Rhiannon has had a difficult day,” Cait admonished as Rhi moved to a nearby high-backed chair.

The marquess leaned over and sniffed Cait’s hair.

“
What is it
with the sniffing?” Rhiannon cried. That blasted vampyre had sniffed her, too. “Is it something that innocent women are no’ apprised of? That men like ta sniff ladies?”

“I feel certain there are quite a few things that go on between married couples of which you have not been apprised,” the Lycan chuckled.

Again Rhiannon felt heat creep up her cheeks, though she had set herself up for that one.

“Do you want an answer to your question?” the marquess asked softly.

“Would I have asked if I dinna?” she tossed back at him with more bravado than she actually felt.

“Extraordinary beings…” he began and tapped his puffed-out chest.

Rhi snorted. “Is that what ye’re calling yerself, now?” she teased.

The marquess’ amber eyes twinkled with mirth. “Extraordinary beings, such as myself—and yes, Miss Sinclair, I am quite extraordinary—often have heightened senses. We can smell things other beings cannot.”

“Like perfume?” Rhiannon asked.

“Doona ye dare say it, Dashiel!” Cait cried, shaking her finger at him.

The marquess chuckled again. “Yes. Like perfume. And fear. And other emotions that heighten the body’s responses.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “Did someone sniff
you
, Miss Sinclair? If so, please tell me so I might have a word with him.”

“Lord Blodswell sniffed ye?” Cait gasped. “Ye dinna tell me that part.”

“This from the all-seeing member of the coven,” Rhiannon grumbled as she sat back with a huff.

“Blodswell, eh?” the Lycan asked with a frown on his face. “He has some nerve.”

“Doona get yer hair standin’ on end, Dash,” Cait said calmly. “I’m certain his lordship meant no harm. It’s no’ everyday one encounters a witch in the middle of a storm.” She shot her gaze to Rhi. “Ye were in the middle of it, were ye no’? Probably stompin’ yer feet and causin’ the devil of a ruckus, if I ken ye.”

“That was
you
?” Eynsford asked as he sat forward. “I was on the way home, and my driver had to stop and wait for the storm to pass.”

“It was me,” Rhiannon mumbled, quite embarrassed for herself. It was one thing to throw a temper tantrum. It was quite another to be caught at it.

“Blodswell has no idea what he’s in for.” Cait laughed. She got a faraway look in her eye and then laughed a little louder. “Absolutely no idea.” She was obviously seeing visions of the future. And would torment Rhiannon to no end with them.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I never have ta see him again,” Rhiannon grumbled.

“Oh, ye’ll see him tomorrow night.” Cait sat back with a satisfied grin.

“What did I
just tell
ye about gettin’ involved in my future?”

“Takin’ a peek and gettin’ involved are two very different things,” Cait said primly. “Ginny will be at Lady Pickering’s ball. And so, I assume, will ye also.”

“I suppose that means we’ll be attending as well?” the Lycan asked.

“Oh, I wouldna miss the events of the ball for anythin’ in the world, Dash,” Cait said, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Rhiannon, do ye remember the time ye blew my skirts up in front of all the lads at that picnic?”

Did she ever. Cait had been fifteen years old and being a brat of the worst sort. Rhiannon had taken it upon herself to put her friend in her place. Cait had been mortified. And had never forgiven Rhi.

“Revenge is sweet, Rhiannon dear. So, so sweet.” Cait’s tinkling laughter sent shivers skittering across Rhi’s skin.

What
could
Cait have possibly seen? Letting Ginny attend one ball without her would be all right, wouldn’t it? Certainly Aunt Greer couldn’t get Ginny attached to some smelly, old Sassenach in one night, could she? “I doona believe I brought anythin’ appropriate for a London ball.”

“Nonsense.” Cait grinned. “I have dressin’ rooms full of gowns of every color imaginable. Ye’ll look stunnin’, and I canna wait ta see the look on yer aunt’s face.”

There was no getting around this infernal ball. “Every color imaginable?” Rhi echoed on a sigh. And the gowns were certain to be the height of fashion, every last one of them, if she knew Cait.

Eynsford winked at Rhi. “I do love to spoil her.”

Rhi suppressed a snort. Every man who had ever met Cait loved to spoil her. How did some women get so fortunate?

“Oh, Dash,” Cait tapped her husband on the arm to get his full attention, “ye must ask yer brothers ta join us.”

So that whatever disaster awaited Rhi could be witnessed by all and sundry.

The marquess laughed. “I hardly think they would attend a marriage-mart ball at
my
request, lass. You are the one who has them all wrapped around your pretty little finger. They could be a little less wrapped, by the way.”

Cait leaned up and kissed his cheek. “What fun would there be in that?”

In all honesty, Matthew couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a headache. The details of events became a little hazy after reaching one’s 650th year on earth. If he remembered correctly, however, the last one had happened somewhere around 1190 in the Holy Land, back when he was still human. But serving as a mentor to the newly reborn Alec MacQuarrie had brought about a thumping within his skull that was even louder than Miss Sinclair’s storm.

Matthew rubbed his temple, hoping to assuage the bloody pain, as he looked at Charlotte, the last Cyprian he’d seen his charge with. She was now lounging across the bed as though she hadn’t a care in the world. “What do you mean he went out?”

The blond tart shrugged, and one strap of her sheer chemise slipped down her shoulder. She made no move to straighten her clothing and only shot him a vague look of annoyance. “He said something about a fireworks display.”

New Spring Gardens… er… Vauxhall Gardens. New Spring Gardens was the original name. What the devil was wrong with him? It had been called Vauxhall much longer than New Spring Gardens, certainly long enough that he should remember the damn name. Headaches apparently made his memory faulty. Matthew glowered at Charlotte, not that MacQuarrie’s inept decision to leave the club was her fault. Still, there was no one else to glower at, so Charlotte would have to do.

“How long has he been gone?” Matthew threw the question over his shoulder as he started for the corridor. If he was fortunate, he could reach the reborn Scot before he could create any havoc.

“I’m not really sure, sir. How long were you gone? He left fairly quickly after that.”

Damn it all to hell.

Matthew barreled out
Brysi’s
ornate doors and quickly hailed a hack. He could have run much quicker than he could ride, but
that
would most likely catch someone’s attention, something he tried desperately to avoid, if possible. Although with MacQuarrie loose in the city unchaperoned, Matthew’s concerns about detection were nothing more than a futile attempt at normalcy. The Scotsman had a way of drawing attention even when he was behaving himself, which he didn’t do all that often.

Once he was on his way, Matthew rested his head against the battered squabs as the rickety conveyance rambled from the Covent Garden district toward Whitehall. With his head pounding, he closed his eyes, which apparently was a mistake.
Her
vision instantly appeared in his mind. Drenched from her own storm, her gown clinging to her every curve. Her ebony hair falling over her shoulders. Her soft hazel eyes, which made her seem as vulnerable as a newborn kitten, blinking at him with innocence. Matthew’s eyes flew open. What the devil was wrong with him?

The hack finally stopped at Whitehall. After Matthew handed the fare and an extra coin to the driver, he descended the stairs and boarded a small ferry across the Thames to Vauxhall Gardens. The thump of the orchestra and the raucous clatter of applause reached his ears before he had even disembarked. Bloody wonderful! The place was teeming with people, not that he was surprised. Still, that would make locating MacQuarrie all the more difficult.

He clasped his left hand over the signet ring on his right pinkie and started to close his eyes to focus on the infernal Scot. But he stopped himself, remembering the last time he’d closed his eyes mere minutes earlier. The last thing he needed was to see Rhiannon Sinclair’s perfect, heart-shaped face again. He’d never find MacQuarrie if he allowed himself to get distracted.

So he did the next best thing and closed
one
eye, which he was certain made him look utterly ridiculous, and tried to seek out his charge. MacQuarrie was most definitely in the pleasure gardens. Matthew could feel the Scot’s restless spirit among the humans who milled about. The question was
where
? He ambled along the path toward the supper boxes. After all, Charlotte had said MacQuarrie mentioned fireworks, hadn’t she?

“Blodswell!” came a jovial voice from behind him.

Matthew turned to find the aged Sir Ralph Smyth following him down the path, relying heavily on his cane.

“Sir Ralph, how nice to see you.” And it was. Two generations ago, he and Sir Ralph had been great friends. But Sir Ralph had aged, while Matthew had not. The passage of time made it difficult to maintain close friendships.

The old man smiled warmly. “I never do get over the resemblance. Such a shame your grandfather didn’t live to see you, my boy.”

How Ralph would be surprised to know Matthew
was
his own grandfather. But it was part of the ruse. Spending one generation in London and then one in Derbyshire to keep people from realizing he never aged. “So you often say, sir.”

“I am glad to see you.” Sir Ralph’s gnarly hand squeezed the rounded tip of his cane. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Blodswell.”

That sounded fairly enigmatic. Matthew stiffened, preparing for the worst. “Yes, Sir Ralph?”

“Well, with your grandfather gone, and your poor father, who I do regret I never got to meet, having both passed, I feel I should step in on their behalf.”

“Step in on their behalf?” What the devil was Ralph going on about?

“You’re not getting any younger, you know. If you don’t find a wife soon, there’ll be no heir. No one to pass your holdings to. Your family line will end.”

Despite Matthew’s headache, he felt the overwhelming desire to laugh, though he held it in check. Still, the irony was almost too much to bear with aplomb. Ralph had fought the parson’s noose like nothing Matthew had ever seen before. The man had been well past forty by the time he finally married, and even then he had grumbled the entire time, or so Matthew had heard as he had already retired to Derbyshire by that point.

“I’m sure I have plenty of time to find a wife.” Not that he had any plans to do so, but there was no need to voice his intentions.