Tempting the Wolf (16 page)

“Truly?” Winters asked. “You don’t strike me as a military man.”

” ‘Twas a long time past,” said the Irishman. “It seems a hundred years at least.”

“We did indeed battle old Bony for a long while. Did you fight under Wellington?”

For a moment something danced in the Irishman’s eyes, then, “Nay,” he said. “Mostly I fought for me life and the coin me sword could bring me.”

A mercenary? Antoinette thought.

Lady Trulane’s pet glared malevolently out from behind her mistress’s arm at the Irishman. “I met Bonaparte once,” she said. “Do you know he’s the approximate size of a spring radish?”

“We have common antecedents,” said Winters.

The company turned toward him in surprised unison.

“Surely you jest,” said Lady Trulane, hating to be bested.

“Nay,” he said. “My family was not always as poor as church mice, you know.”

“I had no idea.”

“Aye, we were once as wealthy as…“he paused. “Field mice.”

“Well,” said Lady Trulane, raising her cordial. “Here’s to a reversal of fortunes then.”

“Here here,” said Winters and clicked his fluted crystal against the other’s.

“To loving someone enough to lay down your life for her,” said Lord Hendershire, raising his glass, then gazing into his bride’s gentle eyes.

“To loving someone,” O’Banyon agreed and let his attention flicker momentarily to Antoinette’s.

She lifted her glass to her lips. It bobbled slightly between her fingers. She hated sherry. It burned like banked fire.

But so did the Irishman’s eyes—burned with promise and challenge and the heady suggestion that love could indeed conquer all.

Images raced through her mind. Images of them together, firelight flickering across his skin as they shared secrets and laughter and more.

God’s truth, she thought, feeling panicked, she should not have come. She should have spit in his eye and told him to tell the others whatever he wished.

But that would not have quite fit the image she had tried so desperately to convey for the past twenty some years.

She almost smiled at the thought of their surprised expressions. The elegant Lady Colline, always refined, always controlled. Surely they would think she had lost her mind. It would almost be worth it to see the look on O’Banyon’s face as spittle dripped down his damnably handsome cheeks.

But she would not be so foolish, of course.

Nay, she would remain firmly in control, quieting the tattered little girl in her soul, battling the images in her mind, living a lie.

“To life,” she said and emptied her glass.

There was truly very little to do in the colonnaded, moldering elegance of Bath. Very little… except to watch the white lady.

In his mind, O’Banyon did not call her Lady Colline. Nor did he call her Antoinette. For neither address quite suited her. Indeed, sometimes it seemed to take her a moment to even recognize the name. As if it didn’t belong to her. As if she were someone else entirely.

She sat now at a table in Spring Gardens speaking to an elderly woman and ignoring her sherry.

“So you’ve still not tested the waters?” the old woman was saying and took another sip of her drink.

“No, I fear I have not,” said Antoinette. She was dressed in a white gown shot with pearlescent strands. Her gloves extended well above her elbows, almost reaching the delicate silver tassels that hung from the center of her capped sleeves. Her eyes were shaded by the wide brim of a lacy bonnet. “Do you find them to be as spectacular as everyone suggests?”

“Well, I have bathed in Queen’s Bath innumerable times and drank enough water from the Pump Room to float His Majesty’s man o’ war, and yet…” She paused long enough to drain half her libations. “I am still old. But on the other hand, I am still alive… I believe.”

The countess smiled. “Sometimes that is the best any of us can hope for.”

“True indeed,” agreed the other, but suddenly her brows lowered. “Oh hell’s wrath, there’s my daughter,” she said and draining the remainder of her liquor, hobbled to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I go to be berated. Though how I raised a prude, I’ve no idea.”

O’Banyon approached the countess a moment later. An old man with a gnarled staff gave him a nod and a smile, but O’Banyon barely noticed for the countess was all he could see. Setting a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table, he settled into a nearby chair, poured a measure of jewel-bright wine in each, and took a seat.

The countess raised a brow at him. “As you can see,” she said, “I’ve not yet finished my refreshment.”

“Nor shall ye,” he said. “Tell me, lass, why have ye come here?”

“To Bath?”

“Aye.”

” ‘Tis a place of some repute.”

“Oh aye,” he said, “I can see ye are enjoying its rejuvenating waters.”

She smiled wryly. “Perhaps I appreciate the relaxing atmosphere.”

“In truth, lass, I dunna believe ye can relax.”

True, to the casual observer, she might well seem content, at ease. But he was not a casual observer. He was, as Lady Anglehill had so astutely suggested, a man obsessed.

So be it.

“Whatever are you talking about?” she asked and settled back into her chair slightly, as if she were reclining to study him. ‘Twas a sign of increased tension and an increased desire to prove the opposite.

He watched and wondered why. Truth be told, most women liked little better than to speak of themselves. Which was most probably also true of men, though he’d never cared enough to find out for certain. “Ye are na comfortable with these companions of yers,” he observed.

“Indeed?”

“In truth, the only person you seem at ease with is the wee lass ye call Sibylla.”

“I do so hate to argue, sir,” she said, her voice subtly suggesting otherwise, “but you are entirely mistaken.”

He smiled, loving her. “And ye dunna like sherry,” he added.

She swirled the amber liquid. “Perhaps I am simply not a great believer in drunkenness.”

He drew back as if shocked and offended. “Whatever do ye find amiss with drunkenness?”

“Forgive me,” she said, her tone dry. “I forgot for a moment that you are Irish.”

He laughed. “Well, dunna do so again.”

Silence settled between them for a moment, almost comfortable, seeming so, if he did not know better.

“Tell me, lass,” he said, “what be yer true name?”

She watched him, her brows rising. “Tell
me
, sir, might you be inebriated even as we speak?”

“Yer
Christian
name,” he explained. “The one your mum called ye when she put ye abed for the night.”

Her expression didn’t change, exactly. Indeed, to another, perhaps she would have looked entirely the same. But there was a difference, a shift, though O’Banyon himself could not have said exactly what it was.

“She called me Antoinette,” she said.

She was lying. Banyon could not help but wonder why. What would the countess of Colline have to hide from a lowly knight with but one fractious steed and fewer prospects?

“Yer da then,” he said, watching her quietly and pretending to believe. “He must na have been so… distant.”

“You are wrong,” she assured him. “We were not particularly close, my father and myself. That is to say, he was kind enough. He simply was not lavishly demonstrative as you Irish tend to be.”

Truth to tell, he simply liked to hear her speak. To watch her lips move, to feel the nimble direction of her mind. “Aye, we sloppy Irish,” he said, “Na a’tall like ye stodgy French.”

She shrugged the slightest degree. “My sire’s uncle was the earl of Bayard.”

He whistled low, still watching her.

“You are unimpressed?”

“Nay, lass. I am speechless with admiration.”

“I doubt you are ever speechless,” she said and lifted the sherry to her lips, but in a moment she set it back onto the table with no apparent reduction in volume.

“So then, lass, do ye have sisters?”

“No.” She glanced toward the west, where the sun would be setting beyond Bath’s stately columns, as if she wished to be gone from such nervous restfulness. “I was their only child.”

“And the illustrious earl’s nephew did not bounce ye on his knee?”

“Did I not mention he had German blood?”

“Surely he told ye frightful stories at bedtime then.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand the stoic Germans.”

“He was yer da. Ye were a wee bonny lass, given to him like a rare gift from the heavens,” he said, watching her. “I shall never understand.”

She sat very still, smiling slightly, as if she found him mildly amusing. But there was something else in her eyes. Something carefully hidden. Something that had been hidden for a long while. Something that broke his heart.

“Mab,” he said.

“What?” Her voice sounded hoarse suddenly. Her brows lowered the slightest degree over the lush promise of her eyes.

“I shall call ye Mab. The queen of the faeries.”

She had mastered her brows; they were arched over her ever-clear eyes again, and her tone was perfectly modulated, but her right thumb jerked slightly where her hand lay on the table. “
I
am not a faery.”

He leaned forward, studying her, trying to understand. “Then what is it aboot ye lassie?”

“Nothing. There is nothing about me.” She laughed a little. The tone was light, her expression amused. Her thumb jerked again. “Nothing unusual.”

“To a fool or a blind man, mayhap,” he said. “But if one looks closer…” He did so now, gazing into her eyes, searching her soul. “Ye are magic itself. Ye are—”

But suddenly she jerked to her feet, bumping the table. The wine he’d brought spilled blood red across the linens. “I must go,” she said.

“Where?”

“Where you are not,” she said and fled.

***

‘Twas less than an hour later that Antoinette stood in the waters, letting them wash, warm and restless around her. She had vowed not to do so, for she had no wish to expose herself in the flimsy dressing gown the attendant had given her. It had been all she could do to keep said attendant from stripping her bare, but she had finally convinced one and all that she was quite capable of disrobing and dressing herself. Minutes later, she had ventured unassisted into Cross Bath, refusing the bulky sedan chairs available to tote her into the spring-fed pool.

She longed desperately for her bonnet and gloves to keep the world at bay, but this seemed to be the only place the Irishman had no intention of venturing. The only place she was safe from his heaven-bright eyes and disturbing questions. Who was he? Had someone sent him? Did he know… things he should not know, things that must remain hidden?

“Countess,” someone called.

Antoinette jerked toward the sound, chiding herself for her jittery nerves. It was only the baroness of Hendershire who approached, wading laboriously through the steaming waters.

“I am so glad you have decided to join us,” said Amelia.

“Well, I could hardly travel all these many miles and fail to enjoy the reputed waters, could I?”

“Indeed not,” agreed the girl. “And how do you find them?”

Confusing. Disturbing. Terrifying. She could feel emotions swirling around her like wild dervishes. “Interesting,” she said. “And quite unique.”

Amelia laughed. “You would have made my mother the happiest woman in all of England.”

“Indeed?”

“She so wished for a perfect daughter. One who was forever tactful and elegant and beautiful.”

“Then she was lucky indeed.”

Amelia shook her head. ” Tis just what I mean,” she said. “You forever know the perfect thing to say. You’re always perfectly groomed and perfectly—”

“My dear,” called her husband, walking along the stone deck toward them. “I was worried about you.”

The girl turned, her eyes immediately lit from within. Edward was a simple man, not handsome or witty or particularly charming. But if he loved his wife any more the condition might very well be fatal. Antoinette could see the adoration in his eyes.

Interesting, she thought. She herself may be perfect, but Amelia was loved.

“Worried?” The young baroness reached up, touching him as he squatted beside the pool. Antoinette watched the caress and felt her heart squeeze tight as their fingers entwined in a simple caress. “I am sorry indeed. But you were sleeping so peacefully. I had no wish to wake you.”

He laughed. “My apologies. I did not mean to fall asleep so—” he began, but Mr. Winters interrupted.

“What’s this tripe?” he asked. “We are at Bath. Half the beauty of this place is that there is nothing to do but sleep. I do have a question for you, though, Lord Hendershire, if you’ve a minute.”

“I’ll try to stay awake,” Edward promised and glanced back down to his bride. “Don’t stay too long will you, my dear. The waters can be powerful, they say.”

“I shall be out shortly,” she vowed. Her husband moved away. Her gaze followed him. A sigh parted her lips.

“Something is amiss?” Antoinette asked.

The baroness laughed. “No. Forgive me, please. I am being foolish.”

“Are you?”

“I’m just…” She laughed again. “As you said we’ve only been married a very short while. But he would make such a wonderful father.”