Tempting the Wolf (18 page)

“If ye are breeding, lass…” he said, his words level as he reached casually for his stout, “you can tell me true.”

Her eyes opened wide, and for a moment he thought she would jump to her feet. But she overcame the urge—whether by training or some innate quality, he could not say. “I did not know you were such a comic, sir,” she said instead. “Truly, your talents are wasted short of the theater.”

He shrugged. “I can but try to entertain on the vast stage of life,” he said and found that his hands were gripping his mug with ferocious force. “Who be the father?”

Her face was perfectly back in order, her eyes steady, her lips suggesting just the slightest trace of amusement, as if she found him only mildly interesting. “If I were… as you so indelicately put it… breeding, do you think, for one moment, that I would tell you of my circumstances?”

“I thought mayhap the bairn might need a da.”

The world went absolutely silent. God’s breath, what had he just said? Had he lost his questionable mind?

No one breathed. Their gazes were welded tight, neither moving, neither flickering away.

And then she laughed. Not a ladylike snicker or a girlish giggle, but a great blast of shocked amusement.

O’Banyon stared at her, watched her swan-elegant neck arch, watched her fair cheeks dimple, and anger ticked softly into his soul—yet another emotion he had rarely met.

She bunked, calming herself, but still smiling. “Just to be perfectly clear, sir,” she said, “might you be offering your services as a father to my fictional unborn, or is this simply a new ploy to coerce me into sharing your bed?”

He wanted to grab her, to kiss her or shake her or… something. He wasn’t quite sure what. And that uncertainty was different too, for he always knew what to do with women. “It may surprise ye to know, lass,” he said, “but never have I found the need to coerce a maid into sharing herself. Never in all me years.”

She tilted her head at him, still dimpling. “And tell me, good sir, were many of your conquests coherent at the time?”

He gritted his teeth. “Tell
me
, lass,” he countered, “did yer bridegroom truly succumb to consumption or might he have simply preferred death to the sharp edge of yer tongue?”

A flash of emotion shone in her eyes for an instant, but it was gone before he could identify it, leaving her fair countenance back under careful control. “Forgive me if I’ve been uncharitably harsh,” she said. “Perhaps in your homeland women enjoy being accused of fornication and pregnancy beyond the bonds of marriage.”

He squirmed a little in his chair. Mayhap he had been something less than charming in this particular circumstance, but if the truth be told, she was driving him mad. “I was na accusing, lass,” he said. “I was offering me…” What? What the hell had he been offering? Surely not marriage. The last few… centuries… had been confusing, but he was not addled enough to consider pledging his troth to a woman who turned his guts inside out, whose barbed tongue bit him at every turn. Not to mention the fact that she may very well be a witch! God’s balls. “I was merely offering me assistance,” he ended badly. “Should ye have a need.”

One damned, regal brow rose again. Her lips twitched the slightest degree. “Indeed?”

“As a da,” he said. “To the wee one. Na as a bed mate—lest ye misunderstand.”

“I shall try to contain my burgeoning hopes then.”

He scowled. “In truth, lass,” he said, “there have been more than a few who thought I would make a fine da.”

“Well then,” she said and shrugged. “I am truly sorry.”

He narrowed his eyes and tried to avoid the obvious question, but curiosity won out. “And for what do ye apologize?”

“For those wayward ladies who showed so little sense and so much optimism,” she said and tugging a linen from the bed, wrapped it about her to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Now, good sir, if you will fetch me my clothes, I shall leave you to your imaginings and…”

“Who would ye choose then to help raise yer bairn?” he asked.

She looked for a moment as if she might spit at him. In fact, he rather wished she would. It would be no bad thing to push her past her damned cool demeanor.

“As I believe I may have mentioned, there is no child.”

Was she lying? He watched her face. Her expression didn’t change a whit, which made him feel utterly daft. He had no reason to think she had conceived. No reason to believe she would even share her bed with a man—any man. Mrs. Murray had said she’d never touched another living being. So why had he jumped to such an illogical conclusion?

Surely he wasn’t jealous.

“Then who
would
ye choose,” he asked, “if circumstances be different?”

She narrowed her eyes a little, examining him. “Might you be mad?” she asked. Her tone was conversational, without infliction or emotion and echoed a similar query in his own stuttering mind.

He remained exactly as he was, thinking that through, but he couldn’t help noticing that her small, bare feet were just visible past the edge of the bed sheet. For reasons entirely unknown, he wanted nothing more than to kneel before them and take them in his hands.

Aye, he may very well be mad.

“Shall I assume ye are telling the truth then, lass?” he asked.

“In actuality, sir, I care very little what you assume.” She smiled but there was the flash of heat in it, and in that instant he remembered the feelings that flared through him when they touched.

“Tell me, love,” he said, watching her carefully. “Why do ye do it?”

She fussed with her blankets. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Oh aye, she was bonny. But she was also lonely. He could sense that suddenly. Could see it as easily as a tangible wall. Lonely and afraid. But afraid of what?

“Mayhap ye think yerself superior to me,” he said. “Mayhap ye dunna even like me. But there seems little reason to pretend ye are na attracted.”

She stared at him for several breathless seconds, then laughed again. “I have heard that Irishmen are vain,” she said. “Indeed…”

But in that moment, he reached out and touched her cheek with his fingertips.

Feelings flashed like fireflies from her skin to his. She jerked, eyes wide. He drew away.

“Do ye pretend to tell me that thus happens with every man you meet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but her voice had gone breathy. A pulse danced wildly in her delicate throat. He found he longed to touch it, to feel the life of her there where the skin was as delicate as a swan’s. But he dare not frighten her more. Far better to engage her wits, to keep her talking, to learn.

“I speak of yer lust for me,” he said.

“You, sir, are an arrogant boar.”

“Mayhap if I kissed ye, ye would na think so,” he said, but suddenly she was on her feet.

“Don’t be a fool,” she warned.

But she was too tempting, too seductive. He rose and stepped closer, for she called to him, pulled at him, drew him like an enchanted light in the darkness.

“Lass,” he murmured and realized, rather belatedly that she had retrieved the bread knife from the loaf and was pressing it quite aggressively against the plaid that covered his groin.

“Not another step,
Irandais
,” she hissed. “Or I swear, ya’ll wish ya hadn’t been born.”

Fayette’s hand shook, but she dare not lose her weapon, dare not back away.

The Irish barbarian remained exactly as he was, clothed in little but a plaid, watching her, then, “I’ll na hurt ye, lass. Na this day, nor ever.”

She laughed. The noise sounded hoarse and broken. “Nay, ya’ll not. Not so long’s I hold the knife at any rate.”

“Who are ye?” he asked and made not the slightest move toward her.

She licked her lips. Lucidity settled in a cautious notch. The candle sputtered, casting light and darkness across his sculpted face and spectacular chest. His skin was a golden bronze above the rucked wool of his plaid.

Oh yes, he was beautiful, but perhaps others had been handsome. ‘Tis difficult to judge a man’s looks when he hopes to kill you.

“Lass?” His voice was little more than a murmured burr in the quiet room, and his expression suggested earnest concern.

She scowled. Perhaps there was no immediate danger here. Antoinette drew a careful breath. She was safe. She was well. And she was acting like a lunatic. She forced a laugh and drew the knife away. It took all of her hard-won strength to do so.

“Have you had so many naked women in your room that you do not remember my name?” she asked and sidled toward the door.

“In truth, lass, ye are the first to threaten me with me own cutlery.”

“Truly?” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, heart pounding like galloping hooves. “I’m surprised to hear it.”

Silence settled uneasily into the room, then, “What just happened, wee one?”

“I believe I just… reminded you not to take advantage of your position.”

“Ye were na yerself,” he said softly. “Indeed—”

“Indeed,” she interrupted, ” ‘tis hardly acceptable for a lady of my position to be alone in an Irish wolf’s—”

“Hound’s.”

“Bedchamber. Now, sir, if you’ll kindly hand me my clothing—”

He shook his head as if befuddled. “Na a full minute ago ye threatened me manhood with a kitchen knife, and now ye request yer garments as though this were naught but a sunny spring morn by the burn?”

She tried a smile. If felt wobbly at best. “Perhaps you spend your
sunny spring mornings by the burn
naked as a newborn, but I can assure you—”

“Ye threatened me with a kitchen knife,” he repeated, exasperated.

She opened her mouth to reprimand him further, then glanced toward her hand and found it was still wrapped around the very knife of which he spoke. It shook. She pressed it to her thigh. “Perhaps apologies are in order,” she said and he laughed.

“Indeed ye
should
apologize,” he said. “If ye are aboot to make a threat, ye should find a more likely weapon, for ‘twill surely take more than a table utensil to keep men from yer beauty if they be bound to take ye.”

She stared at him. There was confusion in his eyes. But there was more—admiration and worry and something else she could not quite identify.

“As for me, lass,” he added, “I’ll na lie with ye…” He tilted his golden head. Candlelight glistened on his hair, on his teeth, on his chest, broad and hard and liberally scared. He looked like nothing so much as some ancient warrior come to collect the spoils of war. “Not until ye be well ready.”

She felt strangely breathless. How would it feel to be those spoils? To feel his hands against her skin? “I fear you may not live that long,” she said, her voice cool once again.

He glanced toward her hand. “Because of the butter knife or because of yer standoffishness?” he asked.

She almost laughed, for it occurred to her suddenly that he would have no trouble disarming her. He may flirt like a court dandy, but he was built like an ancient sculpture, as hard and etched as polished granite.

“I think, perhaps, Sir O’Banyon, I am not the sort of woman you are accustomed to.”

“I admit that most dunna threaten me with castration when I suggest a kiss.”

She felt embarrassment flush her cheeks. “How many then?”

“What?”

“Not most,” she said. “But a few.”

Humor danced in his blue devil’s eyes. “In truth, lass, ye are the first.”

“Are you going to tell me again how women swoon and fall over themselves when you are near?”

“Mayhap I shall save that tale for a later date,” he said, “as the story did na seem to impress ye overmuch.”

She glanced toward the door, feeling foolish, for she too had learned to flirt, to flit away foolish hours with foolish men. But somehow she had suddenly forgotten all. Was it something about him that brought out these strange primal instincts? Or was it something else, some danger she could not quite see. “My apologies,” she said. “I do not usually—”

“I dunna mind yer anger,” he said, sober suddenly. ” Tis yer fear I canna abide.”

She turned her gaze fretfully toward the door again, feeling the terror well up again.

“Ye are na strong enough to best me in a foot race, lass,” he said softly. “Na whilst wrapped in those linens leastways. Thus, we’d just as well sit a bit so that ye might tell me true what ye be afeared of.”

“Afeared?” she asked, and tried quite desperately to imbue her tone with hauteur. She barely managed audible.

“Someone wounded ye,” he said. “I but wonder who it was? And why.”

She stood frozen, struggling against memories seeped in age and pain. But she drew herself straighter and pulled the sheet more tightly against her body. “No one wounded me, Irishman. I am simply not accustomed to finding myself without my clothing…” She gave him a single nod. “In a virtual stranger’s bed chamber.”

“There is na need to fear me,” he repeated.

“So you have said, and I assure you, I do not. Indeed—” She stepped forward, and in that moment he did the same, and suddenly they were inches apart.

Reaching out, he slipped his hand behind her neck.

Life came to shuddering halt, trembling on a breath, and then his lips met hers. Feelings soared like loosed doves, circling wildly. Thunder clapped. Lightning struck.