Nightingale (2 page)

“Your point is valid,” she answered crisply, “and I may be an even greater idiot for venturing here this night.”

Her honesty was rewarded by the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. She took hope. The man she had once loved would understand why she was here . . . or at least she prayed he did.

She took a step closer to the tight circle of light surrounding Dane and his desk. “Cris was well into his cups this evening. He has had a chance to reflect upon his actions and wishes to retract his harsh words.”

Dane smirked. “What? Has he no male companions with enough respect for him to run this errand? Or the courage to come here himself?”

Jemma knew only honesty would do. After all, isn't that what she owed Dane? “In truth, Cris doesn't know I'm here. At this moment he is, uh, sleeping off his excesses of the evening—”

“He's passed out, drunk,” Dane corrected quietly, and she heard the unspoken censure.

“His friend Oliver told Mother and I what had happened, and it was decided one of us should discuss the matter with you.”

“You mean, your
mother
decided
you
should approach me,” he interpreted, “with the hopes I'll spare your wastrel brother's life tomorrow.”

Jemma didn't deny his words. Instead, now that her purpose was out in the open, she felt free to take another step forward, sweeping aside all pride. “Please, Dane, you must,” she pleaded. “He is all we have. I know he provoked you beyond reason, and if half of what Oliver has told us is correct, you have every right to run him through. But I beg of you, withdraw the challenge. We'll see that his path never crosses yours again. This I promise you.”

The touch of desperation in her voice embarrassed her. This was not the first time she'd stepped in for Cris, but it was certainly the most grave, and she knew he would not be grateful. Since their father's death, he had changed.

Dane leaned back in his chair, his hand on his desk, his long, tapered fingers an inch away from the document he must have been studying before her visit had interrupted him. He'd been drinking. The stopper lay beside the decanter and the level was low, his glass empty. A hint of whiskey fumes perfumed the air.

Jemma waited for a response, her heart beating in her throat. His silence was unnerving.

The man she had once loved would not leave her to twist in the wind this way. He'd been generous and always forgiving—but then, she had forfeited all that, hadn't she?

He spoke. “You wish me to call back the challenge?”

She hesitated, then confessed, “I do.”

Dane made a soft, self-derisive sound and shook his head. “Will you always be his dupe?”

“He's my brother,” she answered tightly.

“More's the pity,” he returned without expression, and Jemma knew her fears had been well grounded. If Dane and Cris met, her brother would die.

She spread her hands, her palms open, aware that she was asking much—she was asking for his honor. “Dane, I know I am the last person you would want to please or even help, but I beg of you to withdraw your challenge. I'm the one you are angry at, the one on whom you want vengeance. Do not make Cris pay for my sins.”

“You flatter yourself, my lady,” Dane said, rising to his feet, his eyes angry glints. “I have no need for revenge. In fact, you did me a favor years ago when you discarded me for something as insignificant and hollow as a title.”

The words
No, that wasn't how it was
were on the tip of Jemma's tongue, but she swallowed them back.

Because, in truth, she had chosen another over Dane. She had betrayed their love and the promises that had been between them. Promises that still, after all this time, seemed etched in her soul.

“Please,” she said, not knowing what it was she was asking him for. To please understand? To please honor her wishes?

To please forgive her?

Dane shook his head. “You have wasted your time and mine, Lady Mosby. The challenge is not mine to withdraw. Your brother claims to be the offended party.
He
challenged me and I will
not
back down from meeting him. I have no quarrel if he wishes to withdraw, but I will not sacrifice my
honor
and my
reputation
on the likes of him.”

“He challenged you?” Jemma repeated, astounded.

“Yes.”

“But why—?” she started, then stopped. Why did Cris do anything? She had thought he was growing out of his wild stage. It had been a long time since he'd been rash and foolish, but the possibility was always there, bubbling beneath the veneer of manners. All it took was a little drink. . . .

At her abrupt silence, a muscle tightened in Dane's jaw. In three long strides, he crossed to the door behind her and opened it. “Go home, Jemma. I can't save your brother from himself any more than you can. And I'll be damned before I sacrifice my pride for him.”

Or for any of them.

Jemma nodded to herself. He was right . . . and yet, what would become of her family? Cris was the last of their line, a line that stretched all the way back to Normandy, to before the Conqueror. Duty, honor, and obligation to her name had been drummed into her from the cradle. Dane had been her one defiance, and in the end, she had done what had been expected of her.

Just as she would do what she must now.

She'd already suffered through Mosby. She hated the pitying looks she now received because her husband had been unwise. If something happened to Cris on the morrow, what would become of her? She'd surrendered so much of her life already. To let Cris go would be the same as saying her sacrifice had been in vain.

She faced Dane. He stood much closer than she'd thought, his hand on the door handle. A draft from the hall flickered the candlelight, shifting the circle of light. Beyond it, around them, all was dark.

And she knew with a woman's sense that, no matter how harshly he spoke, Dane was not completely immune to her. Nor was she to him.

This was Dane. This was the only man she'd ever loved.

She could shut her eyes and breathe in the scent of him. The years had changed both of them . . . but some things were the same. He wore an expensive sandalwood fragrance that in no way detracted from his masculinity; however, beneath its tones, she could smell the scent of fresh air and promises, of warmth and safety, and of
everything
she'd once thought of as Dane.

For a second, she was tempted to place the palm of her hand on his chest. When they'd been together, she'd done that often because she'd liked to feel his heart beat against the hard muscles of his chest. The years had been good to Dane. She had no doubt he was as strong as he'd been the last time they'd been this close.

And there was something else here, too. Something that had always been present whenever she'd been near him: Passion. Desire. Hunger.

“Jemma.”

The hoarseness in his voice surprised her, and she realized she'd been staring at his shirt front in the area of his heart. She blushed, both embarrassed and confused. “I never meant to hurt you.”

There, she'd said it.

Years ago, she'd not had the opportunity. Her father had packed her off to London to marry Mosby posthaste. He'd told her Dane would forget her easily. He'd told her she would forget Dane.

Now she knew her father had lied.

She expected Dane to reject her apology. It was only what she deserved. She could not meet his eye . . . and realized the longer she prolonged leaving, the more difficult it would be for both of them.

Jemma started to take a step back, but then he leaned forward, slightly closing the door and barring her way.

Surprised, she raised her head and found him staring at her lips with an intensity that increased her own pulse. Her breasts grew full, her nipples hard.

He seemed to know exactly what effect he was having on her. Slowly, he raised his gaze to hers. Gone was the glittering hardness, and in its place was a sure intensity that made her knees weak.

Dane smiled, and her toes curled in her shoes, just like they used to when they were younger.

Her toes had never curled for her husband. Ever.

Dear God, what memories this moment brought back! What bright promises had she once shared with this man? They had both been so young and so in love.

And then his smile changed. He became more knowing, more predatory.

More intriguing.

He leaned even closer and in a low voice that hummed through her asked, “Why did you really come here tonight, Jemma?”

D
ane wondered what madness he practiced.

He should ring for a servant and have Jemma summarily escorted from his house. He didn't trust himself to do it. Not while he stood so close to her that he could feel the warmth of her skin.

And he had the urge to touch her.

Too clearly, he remembered a lazy summer afternoon when they'd both fallen asleep on a blanket after a picnic. He'd woken first. The others in their party had been exploring some ruins, their shouts far in the distance. The horses had been grazing nearby. He could still recall the exact sound of them moving through the grass and the hum of bees busy chasing buttercups.

He'd turned to see if Jemma was awake and, for the first time, had been struck by an awareness he'd not had before. They'd always been childhood friends; however, he'd just returned from his first year at Cambridge, a confused student without thought of direction or purpose, while still thinking himself a man of the world.

She was seventeen and becoming a woman.

He'd always thought Jemma attractive, but now, lying beside her, he'd suddenly discovered her to be beautiful. Her nose was up tilted and her chin too sharp, and yet the combination of the two gave her face character.

Then, there was her glorious hair. It was the color of mahogany, a rich, vibrant brown with gold and red woven through it in a way only God could master. He'd yearned to touch it, to see if it was as silky as it looked. . . .

He'd clenched his fist and focused on the other things he liked about her—like her laughter. And her dogged determination to see the best in the world no matter how bleak. Certainly, she had her share of troubles. No one could stand her father. He was overbearing and rude, and her mother was the most grasping creature in the county.

Around them, Jemma shone like the rarest jewel. Everyone liked her, and, in spite of the precarious fortunes of her family, she was always included in outings like today.

Furthermore, Jemma had presence. He always knew when she was about. He could sense her. Maybe it was the vital scent of roses that lingered in the air around her, something reminding him of the exotic. Perhaps it was something else . . . something he could not name—yet.

That afternoon, Dane had begun to ache in ways he'd never known before. It had been a need inside him. A hunger.

Almost shyly, he'd given in to impulse and lightly run his finger over the curve of her cheek. Her skin had been downy soft—softer than he could ever have imagined—and unlined by the cares and worries of the world.

She'd wrinkled her nose in her sleep, stretched, and curled toward him while opening her eyes. Smoky eyes. Sometimes blue, sometimes gray, but always expressive beneath their heavy fringe of black lashes.

Jemma had smiled at him then, pleased he had woken her. . . . and in that moment,
Dane had fallen in love.
The horses, the bees, even the calls of their friends had faded from consciousness. All he'd ever wanted had been centered here, with this woman. The realization had been so sudden and so certain that he'd been surprised he hadn't been struck blind like Paul on the road to Damascus.

A more incredible miracle had been that Jemma had returned his regard. She'd fallen in love with him in spite of his imperfections and doubts. Through her, he'd begun to believe in himself. He could have scaled mountains, fought dragons, found the Holy Grail.

They'd spent the rest of his holiday completely involved in each other. She had encouraged him to follow his calling to the Church. With her love to brace him, he'd found the backbone to inform his father of his vocation, and he'd received his approval. Dane had returned to school a new man, one with goals and the desire to forge a good life for Jemma.

He'd believed she'd shared his hopes and dreams.

He'd been wrong.

Before Michaelmas, she'd married another. A man with a title and wealth. A man twice their ages. A man who'd gained the right to touch her and see her wear her hair down.

Dane had hated that man without ever knowing him.

Rightly, Jemma had refused to see him when he'd stormed Mosby's estate to demand answers. He'd been out of his mind, sick with jealousy and a rage that had frightened even himself.

He'd begun to be the butt of jokes from his comrades. He'd acted the part of a lovesick fool until no one had wanted any part of him. That's when he'd decided to leave. He'd taken a clerk's position with the East India Company and had left for the Orient.

Now, he was discovering that those smoky eyes that had intrigued him in his youth still had the power to beckon him. But this time, he would make the rules of the game.

“What did you
really
want by coming here?” he repeated, angry now by her silence and the flood of memories that reminded him of how vulnerable she'd once made him feel.

“I don't know what you mean,” she whispered, her brows coming together in confusion—and yet he knew she was not impassive to him.

The signs were there. The parted lips, the shallow breathing . . . the tightened nipples that pressed against the thin material of her bodice. Had she deliberately dressed to provoke his desire? He wanted to believe so. In this moment, he wanted to believe so
very
much.

He leaned closer, shutting the door. His chest was mere inches away from her breasts, from those tight nipples, and he caught the scent of the soap she'd used. Not something heavy and cloying but light, fresh, and as fragrant as fields on a sunny day.