The Black Angel (The St Ives) Page 7

  As Julian turned, he met her eyes with a forced smile. "You needn't look so doomed, Riana. We've known it would come since we arrived. Better to get it over with."

  "I just did not expect…" She sucked in a breath. "I did not expect the summons to come so quickly."

  "Nor did I," he admitted, and for a moment the gray eyes turned silvery hard. "But we'll set out tomorrow. Sooner tended, sooner done." He offered his arm and gave her a smile, lifting his chin in an exaggerated way to encourage her. "All that's to be done is to put a good face on it. We don't want to worry the girls, now do we?"

  "No. Of course." She took his arm and let him lead her back into the room, but she perched uneasily on the edge of the settee, trying to breathe, while he made light of the summons to the others. In a moment Ophelia took up a ballad of lost love, as if to express the unspoken.

  The melancholy tune triggered a wild emotion in Adriana. Not the lost love, only the sad, sad sound of the notes, a sound that reminded her of all the long days she'd missed her brothers. Now here they stood: safe and whole and unbearably dear, but only for tonight. In the morning they would depart for London, and their fate.

  Between one moment and the next, a violent mix of thankfulness and regret rose in her throat and she stood up in a panic, excusing herself hastily as she blinked back tears. She slipped through the long doors to the east, out to a small promenade that lined that side of the house, and took in a great gulp of cool air, struggling to rein in the overwrought tears.

  Too much. There had been too many surprises the past two days. That's all it was.

  A booted heel on the stone promenade alerted her that she was no longer alone. "Are you ill, my lady?" Tynan asked in his soft brogue.

  Brushing her hands over her cheeks hastily, she turned and smiled brightly. "Oh, no! I'm fine, thank you."

  He lifted a thumb to wipe away the tears she'd missed. "Weeping for joy or sorrow?" There was in the gesture such gentle soberness, such unthreatening kindness, that Adriana felt the tension in her neck ease suddenly.

  She sighed. "A little of both, I'm afraid." Shivering in the chill air, she crossed her arms and focused on the shadows of the hills surrounding them, and the heavy cloak of stars above them. "I am so grateful that they've returned home safely to us. It's been so very, very long. And yet, if not for my foolish actions, they'd never have had to flee at all." She looked at him. "How does one undo such a wrong?"

  His voice was low. "I have no answer for that."

  "An honest answer, at least."

  "Do I strike you as a dishonest sort?"

  She raised her eyes, and after a moment, shook her head. Rake or no, he struck her as a man who spoke his mind.

  "A beginning, then."

  Adriana heard a soft rustle, and then he settled his coat about her shoulders. It was warm from his flesh and smelled almost overpoweringly of that distinctive scent of him, coriander and male and the faintest touch of something she could not name. "You'll be cold," she said in faint protest.

  "Not at all," he said, offering his arm. "My blood is quite warm in the presence of so alluring a woman." His eyebrows rose. "I'd suggest if you'd like to be a help to your brothers, you'll leave that gown at home when we depart for London."

  "This?" Adriana asked, looking down. "Is it too much?" She brushed her hand over the skirt, loving the feel of the watered silk. "I had not thought it any more so than most of my evening wear."

  He made a noise, half laugh, half sigh. "Perhaps I'd best examine your wardrobe before we embark, then, if you're so ill-equipped you cannot discern the difference."

  "I do not think that will be necessary." They strolled toward the gardens, and Adriana considered the matter of her evening clothes. Had she not admired the way the dress fit her, the way it made the most of her bust and skin? Still, he did not need to know that. Now that she thought of it, she ought to be embarrassed that she'd bothered.

  No. Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. "All right, I knew it was a rather more flattering gown than some others I might have donned."

  "Dangerously so."

  She smiled. "Perhaps."

  "I suspect you are a more dangerous woman than most credit you with."

  "Ah, no," she said with a sigh. "Indeed, it is quite the reverse. Cassandra's little set think I'm marvelously heedless, when in truth what I said to her this afternoon is quite true: I only wish to have an ordinary life."

  "Mmm."

  She raised her head, and again she was impressed by his height. "You sound as if you do not believe me."

  "No." He glanced down and grinned. "No. I rather fancy you more as a lady pirate."

  She laughed. "You would!"

  "That gown is more to the taste of a lady pirate than a lady about town."

  "Perhaps." She smiled and inclined her head, unable to resist a small bit of banter. He'd raised her spirits with his attentions, letting her lose her regrets for the moment. "There is a bit of me that longs to be the pirate, I suppose. We do not entirely ever leave our childhoods behind us, do we?"

  "If we are fortunate, we do not."

  They paused on the edge of the garden, Adriana because she didn't wish to go into the depths of that scented darkness with a man who moved her far more than he should have. And perhaps Tynan sensed that, for he released her and captured his hands behind his back, standing a respectful distance from her.

  "Pirates seem popular with the lot of you."

  "I suppose they are. We were terrified of them when we were children—they were known to sail the islands, looting and killing and…" She did not finish.

  Tynan lifted one arched, dark brow. "And ravishing unsuspecting women asleep in their beds?"

  "Well…" She shrugged lightly. "At any rate, we found the tales of them romantic. Gabriel swore he'd known a famous one as a child, and wears a necklace the man supposedly gave him. He fed our imaginations with tales of dashing sword fights and women swooning for the virile criminals."

  "And you, Adriana, did you swoon?"

  "Oh, no!" She drew herself up and took a fencing stance. Swiping the air with an imaginary sword, she said, "I preferred imagining myself in trousers, with a red scarf tied about my head."

  "Indeed," he said dryly.

  "Is that shocking?"

  He shifted, inclined his head. "No." The vivid eyes met hers. "'Tis only my rogue imagination that makes it so."

  Realization dawned. "Oh! I'm sorry."

  He laughed. "Do not be. It was a rather… delicious picture."

  How did they seem to find themselves wandering this path over and over? She cast about for some way to shift the conversation.

  "Are you a swordswoman, Adriana?" he asked.

  She straightened. "A bit. My father was quite liberal when we lived in Martinique, and my brothers were mad for it. Gabriel is a master. No one can best him."

  "And Julian?"

  The lump of regret and worry that had landed in her belly at supper now returned. "He preferred pistols, always." She sighed and moved away a little. "I fear he is much changed."

  "Aye. There is grief there."

  "Yes." And she remembered now the darkness on Tynan's face when he'd spoken of his twin this afternoon. "You recognized it, owning it yourself, did you not?"

  It was his turn to shift his face away. In his waistcoat and shirt, he presented a profile as lean and graceful as a cat, and Adriana found her gaze sliding with approval from the broad shoulders down his long back to the finely made hips. When she realized what she was admiring, she jerked her eyes back to his face. "It has only been months since my own brother died," he said.

  "Your twin."

  A nod.

  Adriana clasped her hands below her chin, wondering suddenly if it were wise to follow this path now. He was dangerous enough—how much more so would he be if she learned the shape of his heart?

  The sleeves of his coat brushed her chin, and without thought, she bent her head a little more so she could put her nose close to t
he wool, to breathe that scent in more closely. It was done without thought, the way she would pluck a rose to breathe its perfume, but Tynan chose that moment to turn, and Adriana knew her error in an instant. It was part of her failing that she could not seem to resist smelling, touching, tasting with vast enjoyment, and there was something about it that captured a man's attention.

  Just as Tynan's sensuality over dinner had captured hers. A sense of danger rose in her, but with a wild rush of heedlessness, Adriana didn't move.

  There was a sudden, taut attention in his form, a poised awareness that needed no motion to express it. And indeed, he moved not an eyelash as he watched her slowly lower her hands until they were loose at her sides. His eyes were fixed hard upon her, on her face, and upon her mouth, and lower still, to the display of flesh above her bodice.

  When she'd seen desire on him before, it had been edged with humor, with the teasing lightness of a rake who could always find another pair of lips to kiss, another beauty to warm his bed. But now she sensed a much darker edge to him, one that conversely alarmed and exhilarated her. She simply stared up at him, aware that her breathing had suddenly become shallow.

  He took a step and then another, until he stood before her, a hand span apart, so close she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.

  It seemed he would only stand there looking at her for the longest time, while color rose in her cheeks and spread heat to the tingling tips of her ears. "When you appeared in this gown," he said at last, and his words were rougher than any she'd heard from him, "it came to me that squandering my remaining kisses upon your breasts would be well worth the cost."

  Her breath disappeared entirely, lost in anticipation. The square of flesh exposed above her bodice seemed, suddenly, to be acutely sensitive, for she felt a cool breath of wind cross it, and mingled in that wind, the short burst of his breath. It seemed she could even feel his eyes.

  He edged closer still, and his voice dropped to a low, lilting murmur. "But we said nothing of touching, did we, my lady? So my bargain is not broken if I simply—" He raised his hand and brushed his fingers over her neck. "—touch you."

  Some voice in the back of her mind gave a thin shout. It urged her to move, to duck away, to run—run far and run fast. And yet she did not move. Her gaze caught on the spiked shadows of his lashes, shadows that hid his irises, and she thought absurdly of an enchanted rose thorn hiding some witched being.

  But when his hands moved, so very, very lightly, she closed her eyes. Only the tips of his fingers brushed her, tracing the edge of her bodice, over the rise and fall of her breasts, then sliding upward, to her shoulder, the side of her neck. Light as a breath his fingers moved, to her jaw, her cheek, over the bridge of her nose. In his trail he left flesh rippling and tingling, as if she were imprinted with the reflection of her lust.

  At last those skilled fingers edged her lips, one, then two, whispering over her mouth. A bolt of unbridled yearning struck her hips, and in alarm and shame Adriana jerked away, nearly stumbling on her skirts in her need to retreat. Only his strong hand, snaring her elbow, saved her from an undignified sprawl. "Don't," she cried softly.

  "You are my wife!"

  She fought free to free herself, but his grip was powerful. "Please." A wave of despair crashed over her, and with her free hand she covered her face. "I cannot… do not ask me to give that." Her voice sounded broken to her own ears when she begged, "Please."

  Abruptly he released her, and Adriana had been pulling so hard she nearly sprawled again, but righted herself by stumbling a few steps sideways.

  Then, acting on pure instinct, she lifted her skirts and ran. Ran into the cold shadows of trees, where the only dangers were lurking wild animals.

  When at last her breath deserted her, she halted, leaning on a tree. The lining of his coat stuck to the perspiration on her back, and air touched the dampness on her chest and forehead. She stripped off his coat in furious haste, as if it was the thing that had cast a spell—not her own wanton senses. Even so, she could feel the burning imprint of Tynan's fingers, so light and skilled, moving on her flesh. She felt that if she looked in a mirror, the trail would be burned scarlet on her.

  In despair, she cried out—then covered her mouth with her hand. Five years she'd been virtuous! Now, in twenty-four hours time, she was already falling to the temptations of a rake no better than the first who had seduced her.

  No, that was a lie. Even in a day's time she sensed the difference between Malvern and Tynan, one a boy, the other a man.

  Still, five years! Five years in a world of calm, where nothing untoward leapt from the shadows to lure her into a trap of her own hungers. But in all those years, she had not allowed a test. She'd hidden away here at Hartwood Hall, venturing out only to Cassandra's little salons once every quarter or so, and even then, only when she cloaked herself in invisibility, in the blacks and browns that were so unflattering, in fabrics that did not cling, in gowns cut to give the impression of pudginess rather than voluptuousness.

  She had not allowed a test, fearing what now proved true: that she was weak. That she seemed to have missed some essential moral imperative that other women held as a matter of course. For years she'd blamed it upon her childhood in Martinique, but her sisters had also lived there, and they did not struggle with such temptation.

  No, it was not her childhood. It was not Martinique or the loss of her mother so young, or anything except a fatal flaw in her own makeup. She was a slave to the pleasures of her senses.

  And where had it led? To the death of a man whose only mistake had been to cast her off. To the exile of her brothers, where both had undergone trials she would not have wished for them. To misery for her father, who had missed his sons until the day he died.

  Regret burned in her for all that she'd done. Somehow she had to find a way to put things right again, to make it up to her brothers, her family. It was too late to make it up to her father, but perhaps he would see her good intentions from where ever his soul resided.

  Feeling calmer, she pushed away from the tree and walked back toward the house. Her truest, deepest flaw was this heedlessness, and whatever it took, she had to resist it. She would not fall prey again. Tonight, some madness had led her to don this wanton's gown, but henceforth she'd become invisible. Tynan—no, Lord Glencove—had had no desire for her when she'd worn the invisible bombazine. If she donned such a cloak every day, he'd forget his desire for her. He'd wonder whatever had captured him for even a moment.

  Breathing in the cold night air, she resolved to be the perfect, cool, moral wife to the Irish earl, so demure and proper she'd make a vicar's wife envious of her virtue. Her step picked up. Yes. It would even, she thought, give credence to the story Tynan said the public would need to believe if her brothers were to escape serious punishment—that she was an honorable and virtuous young woman of good family who'd fallen to the seduction of a notorious rake.

  Yes. That would do.

  When she returned to the house, she skirted the music room and headed up the back stairs to her own chambers, in order to arrange the details of her plan. There was a brown wool traveling coat that should do nicely for the journey to London, and a singularly unflattering gown of the same fabric. When she arrived in town, she would have some new things made. Maybe even something in that peculiarly awful shade of yellow that made her look as if she were dying any moment.

  Heartened, she pursed her lips, feeling tension drain away from her. Brown, yellow, black, perhaps a few pallid pastels, just to throw off the game. And in them she would disappear, become invisible, and Tynan would tire of his wish to seduce her. And when he returned to Ireland, as he surely must, she would again be free.

  After all, if temptation never presented itself, she would never have to grapple with her response. And if she never grappled, there was no danger of another fall.

  * * *

  Tynan watched her run into the shadows, then grimly turned toward the house, striding quickly to burn t
he heat from him. What a maddening female! Why did he bother at all?

  As he approached the wide promenade that ran the length of the back of the house, a shadow broke from the deeper shadows clinging to the stone wall. Tynan halted as Julian strolled toward him, cloaked in that aura of tense danger that only a man who'd known battle carried.

  Warily, Tynan eyed him, gathering clues. A bit foxed, he thought. And haunted by whatever he'd left behind. In the darkness, the hollows below his eyes were exaggerated.

  Tynan took the offense. "Are you going to warn me that you'll kill me if I wound her?"

  A slow, silent shake of his head. "I expect I'm only required to down one. Were I you, I'd take care with my sister herself. She's an excellent shot."

  "Hmm." Tynan found himself glancing over his shoulder, a wee bit concerned for her in spite of himself. "She told me about the swords, not the pistols."

  "She's better at swords. Deadly with a dagger." Julian lifted his glass, sipped from it slowly, lowered it again. Tynan waited, poised, unsure what this scrutiny meant. "I would ask your intentions."

  "Intentions?" Tynan echoed. "I married her!"

  "So you did. And I must ask why."

  Why? Had he a sister, Tynan supposed he'd ask the same question. "Because your father asked it. Because I would like to secure political connections in England. Because it was time to take a wife." He shrugged. "Marriages have been made on worse."

  "True." Julian raised his head toward the sky. "I suppose we'll wait and see how you redeem yourself. And perhaps my sister, as well."

  "Redeem." Tynan repeated the word very quietly, his nostrils flaring. His hands fisted at his sides and he forced himself to bite back the wave of anger the comment raised in him. "I've no need to prove anything at all to you, St. Ives."

  The cool gray eyes noted the fists with a flicker. "Don't you?" He lazily lifted his glass once again. "I rather assumed this whole charade was for benefit of proving yourself."

  As a charm against his anger, Tynan called up a memory of his brother, cloaked in his cowl, joyously celebrating a forbidden mass in a glen guarded by the burliest men in the village. He breathed in, thinking he could even smell the incense that clung to those black robes, and it gave him the courage to release his clenched jaw, to open his hands and let his fingers hang loosely at his sides. "I've no need to explain myself to you," he said, pleased at the faint hint of arrogance in his words. "And your sister has no need of redemption."