Tempting the Wolf (27 page)

“Lass,” he breathed. “Ye are returned.”

She blinked. Her brow furrowed slightly as she glanced about her. “Why are you here?”

“What has happened to ye?”

“Nothing.” She tried to sit up, faltered. Minetta rushed to the opposite side of the bed.

“Can I help you, m’lady. Can I—” she began, but Antoinette gave her a weak smile and shook her head.

“I am well, Minny. No need to worry.”

“He was waiting,” Whitford rumbled and cast a dark glare at O’Banyon. “When we arrived here.”

His tone was guttural and deep. “Skulking in the garden.”

She turned her gaze toward O’Banyon. There was something in her eyes. Perhaps the merest flash of amusement. “Skulking again were you, sir?”

He squeezed her hand, drawing in her beauty, leaning into hope. She yet breathed. Yet spoke. The sun would rise again. “As I’ve said afore, lass, a knight never skulks,” he said.

Her lips tilted up the slightest degree.

“I tried to keep him back,” said Whitford. His breathing was harsh in the room. “I failed.”

“No.” She shifted her attention toward the driver. “Never that,” she said softly. “You could not fail me, Whit.”

The hunchback’s face contorted with emotion, and for a moment O’Banyon thought he might drop to his knees with the force of his feelings. But he remained erect.

“You must do as I ask now though,” she said.

Whitford nodded once, his jaw set in a hard line of determination as he stepped forward.

“See that Minetta gets safely to bed.”

“My lady—” whispered the maid.

“Nay,” Whitford rasped.

“Aye,” commanded the countess, her voice stronger. “Go now. There is nothing for you to do here.”

“But what of—”

“And do not worry on my account,” she added. “The Irish Hound is not a danger to me. He is only… irritating.”

They seemed neither amused nor soothed, but finally Whitford took the girl’s hand in his. She raised her limpid eyes. Their gazes met like a stroke of velvet and then she followed him slowly from the room. The door closed with seeming reluctance behind them.

O’Banyon tightened his grip on Antoinette’s hand and looked into her eyes. “I can but wish I had known such a lady as ye in me own youth,” he said.

She gave him a quizzical glance.

“To send me to a bonny lass’s bed.”

She stared at him unblinking. “There is truly something wrong with you, Irishman.”

His soul felt strangely light. “I know, love,” he said, “but what of ye?”

Her lips lifted slightly and for a moment he thought she would avoid the issue, but she lied instead. “
I
am but tired.”

He searched her face. “How can it be?”

She scowled.

“That ye have lived for more than a score of years and ye are yet such a poor liar.”

She shifted her gaze away for an instant. ” ‘Tis the truth.”

“And I prefer lads to lassies.”

She jerked her attention to him.

He cleared his throat. ” ‘Tis the most outrageous thing I could think of on the moment. What happened to ye, Mab?”

“My name is not Mab.”

“Oh?” he asked and skimming his hand up her arm, tugged at the end of her glove. There was little more than a tingle of magic this night.

She tried to draw away, but he held her hand firmly in his own.

“What has weakened ye so, lass?” he asked, slipping the glove slowly from her arm. Feelings bloomed like fragile roses at the touch of skin against skin.

She scowled, watching his movements. He skimmed his fingertips along the crease of her arm. She shivered and tilted her head weakly back against the pillow.

Pleasure threatened to drown him in warm waves, but he held tight against the gentle undertow. “Did ye…” He narrowed his eyes, concentrating. “Did ye touch someone what was ailing?”

Something sparked in her eyes.

” ‘Twas Amelia, was it na?”

She shook her head, but he ignored the lie.

“There is something about her that drains ye.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her glove was rumpled against the delicate skin of her wrist, leaving her forearm bare to his touch. Reaching out slowly, he wrapped his hand about her elbow and eased it toward her hand.

She closed her eyes against the rush of feelings. He felt her pleasure almost as sharp as his own.

“The young baroness takes yer strength,” he said. “While I…“He stroked her arm and watched her head fall back in ecstatic pleasure. “I would like to say that me slightest touch affects all women this way, lass,” he said, abandoning her arm and gripping her gloved hand again. “But ‘twould be a foolish lie.” Her eyes seemed somewhat glazed. “Why can we na touch without these feelings be-twist us?”

“I think you flatter your—” she breathed, but he touched her bare arm again. Feelings sizzled through them. She hissed a breath between her teeth.

He gritted his teeth, feeling life spark between them. “How do ye bear it?” he asked.

She was breathing hard, her breasts rising beneath the silver-streaked satin of her gathered bodice.

“Tell me true, lass,” he whispered, “was it this magic what killed yer husband?”

She only stared, her face pale and her eyes a wide void from which he could not escape.

“Na that I would resent me own death if the same should happen to me. But I would know, lass. Was there this fire between ye?” he asked and reaching out, cupped her cheek with his palm.

Her lashes fell closed, trembling against the delicate beauty of her cheeks. “He did not touch me,” she whispered.

He let the feelings take him, let the harsh pleasure grip him in greedy hands until the meaning of her words sunk into his grasping brain. Straightening slightly, he shook his head. “There is much I would believe if spoken from your bonny lips, lass,” he said. “But I fear this be too hard a thing to comprehend.” He skimmed his thumb across her mouth. She shivered against his touch. “No man could be near ye and na long to take ye to his bed.”

Silence entered on slippered feet.

“Truly?” she whispered.

He stared at her, certain for a moment that she must know it to be truth, but her expression was open now, open and lost and whole. “Aye, lass, it is. So I but wonder, why do ye hold yer suitors forever at bay when there be this…” He scooped his fingertips across her cheek, bracing himself, but unable to hold back the rush of pleasure that drew him down, pulled him closer until their lips were inches apart, their breath mingled like mist between them.

“No.” She shook her head. “Please. Don’t do this.”

For a moment he tried to obey, but she was more than he could withstand. Their lips touched. Passion arced between them, thrusting them together, and suddenly he was stretched out upon her mattress. Her hand was cupped across the back of his neck, pulling him closer, bearing him down, and at each point of contact, he burned. But he longed for the fire, ached for the pain.

“O’Banyon—” Her voice was a breathy whisper against his skin, her body arched like a fragile flame against his.

“Aye, lass?” he breathed and kissed her neck.

She moaned beneath his caress. “I cannot… I must not,” she said, but her grip did not loosen.

Their gazes met and burned.

” ‘Tis dangerous,” she whispered.

“I’ll na hurt ye, lass,” he vowed.

But she shook her head, her eyes troubled. “Do you not understand, Irishman?
I
am dangerous!”

And he laughed, perhaps because he was insane, had been driven mad by the ferocious intensity of his need.

” Tis not a jest,” she hissed.

“Nay,” he said and kissed her again, because he had no choice, no hope of drawing away. “Ye may verra well be the death of me.”

“Don’t say that.” Her fingers dug into his skin, her gaze bore into his. “Do you hear me? Don’t say it.”

“Lass, what is it? Is there someone else?” His stomach knotted at the thought. “
A
jealous lover. Someone who—”

It was her turn to laugh.

He watched her.

“There is none like you,” she vowed.

“So ye’ve na…” He drew a careful breath. “Ye’ve na felt this magic afore?”

She shook her head.

Peace touched him, a quiet so lovely he all but sighed. “Nor I,” he admitted.

She raised a questioning brow.

“That is to say, I have… lain with a few.”

The other brow rose.

“Several,” he admitted. “But not for a long while.”

“More than a day?” Her tone was jealous.

He felt like singing. “More than a cen… decade.”

“You jest.”

“I do na make light of such things.”

She parted her lips slightly as though breathless. His desire did an odd little jig against his abdomen at the sight, but he held himself steady.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

“We make love.”

She scowled. “I don’t think—”

“I do.”

“But what if—”

He kissed her and found the pleasure just bearable. He trembled with need and braced his brow against hers, holding himself back.

“We shall go at your pace,” he murmured.

“I don’t have a pace.”

He laughed. It sounded crazed. “Let me undress ye,” he said and skimmed his hand down her waist.

She moaned. “Can’t we… do this without trying something so rash?”

He blinked. “Without disrobing?”

“Yes.”

” ‘Twould be… unseemly,” he said and eased his hand over her buttocks.

“Unseemly?” She was breathing hard. Her eyes were closed.

“Aye.”

She opened her eyes slowly. “Would it be more seemly, if you were naked?”

He thought for a moment. “Decidedly.”

Her lips quirked up a quarter of an inch. “Very well.”

His desire jerked up hard against his belly. She slipped her hand from his neck. He eased back a few scant inches, watching her, waiting for her. She reached for the buttons on his shirt. The anticipation made his chest ache, or perhaps it was her nearness, her beauty, the power that was hers alone.

Her fingers fumbled on the little wooden spheres.

“Mayhap ye should remove yer gloves,” he suggested, but she shook her head and eased the first little orb from its hole.

He almost fainted. “Verra well,” he said, seeing the wisdom of her prudence.

She raised her gaze to his. “Are ye well?”

“I shall survive.”

Her eyes laughed. The next button fell open and the next until his chest was bare.

Their gazes met with a warm clash of feelings and then she reached out to brush his shirt aside.

Emotions quivered through him like an intoxicant. He closed his eyes against the hard pulse of need but held steady.

“You are beautiful/’ she whispered.

He opened his eyes, and bracing himself against the fireworks, reached out to touch her face. She felt tense.

“Ye have na even seen me verra best parts yet, lass,” he whispered.

She huffed a laugh, relaxing marginally. Something bloomed inside him. A fragile blossom of joy so painful it was nearly his undoing.

“What ails you?” she asked, worry in her eyes.

“Naught. Tis naught.”

“Tell me,” she said, “or I’ll not continue.”

He drew a careful breath. “This love,” he said and swallowed hard. “I did na expect it to be so wondrous painful.”

For a moment she only stared at him, and then she leaned forward ever so slowly and kissed him. Perhaps he died in that moment, perhaps he even saw a glimpse of heaven, but when he next opened his eyes she was scooping his sleeves down his arms.

He sat up, allowing her to slip the shirt down his back and away.

She kissed the tensed muscle of his shoulder. He shivered down to his soul.

“Take your shoes off,” she whispered and kissed him again. “So I may see your best parts.”

He chuckled.

Her eyes laughed. He kicked off his shoes and stood facing her. She sat up slowly, her legs brushing his. He gritted his teeth against the sensations. Skimming her knuckles down his ribs, she bumped them across the expanse of his scarred abdomen to the clasp that held his trousers.

“O’Banyon—” she began, but he touched her face, halting her words.

“I’ll survive,” he said. “This I promise.”

And he did, even when she loosed his desire, even when she skimmed her hands down his hips, baring his all. He stood before her, hot and hard, waiting, breathless for her pleasure, his desire pressed eagerly against the taut muscles of his belly.

She stared, and then she raised her eyes slowly to his.

Their gazes met. The world went still.

“Say something, lass,” he said.

She blinked. “
Incredible
?”

He could not help but laugh, and taking her hands in his, drew her to her feet. Feelings shimmered like desert heat through him, but they were bearable.

“Take off yer gloves,” he whispered.

Her body tensed. She shook her head.

“Yer gown then?”

She blinked. “Very well.”

“Strange lass,” he murmured and turning her about, placed his fingers on her first button. “But me…” The first tiny sphere fell open. He continued to breathe. “I have always liked the unusual.” He kissed her neck beside the tiny tendril that curled lovingly against her nape. Another button fell free, then another, until her back lay smooth and soft to his gaze.

He drew a careful breath and slipped his hands against her shoulder blades.

Her shoulders felt like rose petals beneath his fingers, her arms like the delicate stems of lilies.

He undressed her in silence, until she was naked before him, bare to his gaze but for her gloves crumpled against her narrow wrists.

Then he stepped back a fraction of a pace. She tried to go with him, but he held her in place so that he could skim the fragile length of her. She was like a fine piece of art, a porcelain vase so perfectly made that he barely dare touch it.

She shivered in the wavering candlelight.

He felt his nostrils flare at the sight, felt a thousand emotions blaze like firelight. Desire, protec-tiveness, love.

“What now?” she whispered.

“We make love.”

“I don’t—”

“I do,” he said and taking her hand, led her back to the bed. Placing one knee on the mattress, he lowered himself onto it, pulling her with him.