Countess of Scandal (5 page)

Was the old Will under there somewhere? Was her laughing, lighthearted friend hidden beneath the uniform?

She wanted to drop the knife, to run into his arms and hold him so tightly he could never escape her again. To feel his lips on hers again and meet him as a woman now and not a foolish girl.

But even as tears pricked at her eyes, she knew she
could
not
He
was her enemy now, and she would not sacrifice her work, the freedom of a whole country, for lust

"We cannot trust anyone these days," she said, thinking of the brittle, frantic fear that overhung all of Dublin like a smoky pall. "Why have you come here, Will?"

"I don't think I can speak rationally with a knife pointed at me," he answered. "Even if it if a penknife."

Eliza glanced down at the blade in her hand, half surprised she still held it It
was
a puny thing, and he could surely wrest it from her in an instant

"I merely came to return this" he said, holding out the fan she lost at the assembly. "That is all. See, I'll just put it down right here..."

He made a move to place the fan on her desk—the desk where the notes for her newest "seditious" pamphlets were piled. He could not see
those.
Eliza dropped the paper knife as she dove for the fan, snatching it from his hand as she landed hard atop the desk, sitting on those incriminating papers.

"Very well," she said breathlessly, trying to cross her legs as if she hadn't a care in the world. "You have fulfilled your errand."

He gave her a coaxing smile. "Aren't you even going to thank me?"

"Thank you."

She studied him carefully in the firelight, the sudden glow in his eyes, the warming of his smile. He looked more like the old Will now, and she didn't want to think about that at all. Why would he not just go?

"Oh, Eliza," he said softly, as if speaking to a skittish horse. "Can we not sit down and talk, just for a moment? For old times' sake?"

Suddenly weary of acting, of her armor, she pushed back those papers before stalking over to the brocade chairs grouped by the fireplace. The flames flickered weakly against the cold night outside.

She wrapped her dressing gown closer, not looking directly at him but at the orange simmer of the fire. Yet she was achingly aware of him as he sat down across from her, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her.

"Well?" she said again. "Why are you really here?"

His smile dropped. "I came because you would not listen to me at the assembly rooms," he said, his voice low and solemn. "You were quite right, of course. A crowded party is not the place to speak of such things."

Eliza curled her fingers over the arm of her chair, grasping so tightly the gilded wood bit into her palm, pressing her wedding ring deep into her finger. "What sort of things?" she said dismissively. "Here in Dublin, we don't have the social delicacy of London. I hear people discussing such things as birching their servants, starving out tenants' children when they don't make the rent, nailing up the doors of Catholic chapels—right in the middle of fine banquets."

Will slumped back in his chair, shaking his head in exasperation. His dark gold hair, streaked almost white in places by the tropical sun, gleamed in the firelight It all made her ache with sadness for what could have been—for what could never be.

"Eliza, you are more stubborn than ever," he said. "But I fear your stubbornness can't save you from what is coming. You play a dangerous game, and people know about it"

She grasped the chair's arm even tighter. "So you
are
a Castle spy."

"I am a spy for no man!" he scoffed.

"Then what 'people' do you speak of? What do you think is coming that I must be protected from?"

"Eliza, please, don't play games. Not with me. You and your friends the Fitzgeralds may enjoy playing at revolution. Maybe you both think your family and position will protect you. But nothing can protect you, or anyone, if Ireland explodes."

"I do not play games, Will." She stood up, unable to sit still any longer, and leaned against the carved fireplace mantel. She stared down into the dying fire, but what she saw was her beloved country in flames, the green fields scorched. Herself, her family and friends, Will—all of them consumed.

She feared it, yes. How could she not? She lived and breathed for Ireland, for what it meant and what it could be. She worked so hard for change and for justice. She had to keep believing, no matter what Will said.

"Then you should secure your house better, Lady Mount Clare," he said, coming to stand beside her. He stood very close to her, the warmth of his body, the clean scent of him, and the memories of his touch reaching out to wrap around her senses like an alluring caress.

She closed her eyes against it, but it just made the longing worse. She had been alone for so long—for always, it seemed. She had missed Will for so long, and now he was here, so close she could reach out and touch him.

But they were different people now, and she had to remember that Forgetting could be fatal

"Anyone could climb up that ivy, just as I did," he went on, leaning closer. His sleeve brushed her arm, and she opened her eyes to stare at him. He did not look at her,
though; he studied her mantel and the objects clustered there. A Sevres clock flanked by a shepherd and shepherdess, a pastel portrait of her and her sisters, and a pile of books.

He ran his fingertips over the leather bindings. "But they might not be after your jewels, either."

"What would they be after, then?" she whispered.

"Your papers and letters, Lady Mount Clare. Fugitives. Seditious books."

Eliza frowned, thinking of Mr. O'Connor in the cellar. "They will find nothing of the sort."

"Are you quite sure of that?" He plucked a slim volume from the stack of books, turning it over in his hand. "Priestley's
An Essay on the First Principles of Government, and the Nature of Political, Civil, and Religious Liberty.
Interesting reading indeed for a countess. Where did you get it?"

She snatched it away from him. "Perhaps you think I should confine myself to romantic novels, like Anna."

"Not at all. You were never the novel-reading sort, were you, Eliza?" He reached out to trace the line of a dark curl that lay against her neck, twining it around his finger to gently tug her closer. "It was what I always liked about you."

She stared up at him warily, poised to break away. "What was that?"

"Your intelligence. Your independence. That wondrous, fiery spirit. You
believed
in things, really believed in them to the core of your heart I had never known anyone like that" His fist closed on her curl, holding it fast holding her trapped against him. "I don't think that has changed, countess or not"

"It hasn't changed," Eliza said, staring up at him. His eyes were so dark in the encroaching night; she could not read them at all. "I do not abandon what I care about"

"And do you still care about me? Just a little?"

God help her, but she did. This handsome, hard-faced stranger, all entangled with her memories of her sweet Will. Here, now, when he did not wear his hated red uniform, she could almost forget what lay just outside their fire lit circle.

But maybe, just maybe, the two
could
be separate worlds, just for a moment They could be Eliza and Will, not Lady Mount Clare and Major Dentoa

She reached up and caught his hand in hers. His skin was rough, but it could not disguise the elegance of his long fingers. She kissed them, one after the other, before pressing them to her heartbeat

His gaze grew hooded and intent as he stared down at her. She just smiled at him.

"I don't really know you, Will," she said. "Not really, not anymore. Too much has happened. And yet... yes, there
is
some connection still, I confess. Do you feel it, too?" .

Surely he could. Her heart was pounding, a thunder beat in her ears loud enough to drown out all else. To drown out any fears or misgivings, as long as they touched each other.

"Yes," he said hoarsely.

Eliza held her breath as his fingers traced that heartbeat the swell of her breast through the thin silk dressing gown. The soft fabric rubbed against her nipple, a delicious friction as he circled it with his fingertip.

His other hand grasped her waist drawing her up against him until there was not even a breath between them. Their
bodies were pressed together, hard angles against soft curves, fitting perfectly as if they were made to be just so. She felt the hard, heavy press of his erection against her belly, and it made her dizzy. As if she were falling, felling into him, where she would vanish completely.

His lips covered hers, open, hungry, and Eliza clutched at his shoulders to keep from falling.

His tongue touched hers, and she tasted wine, mint— and that sweetness that was only Will, like the darkest, richest, rarest chocolate. Oh yes, she remembered the taste of him well. But their younger selves had never kissed like
this.
There was nothing tentative, careful, or artful about their kiss. It was frantic, hungry, and passionate, full of the dreams of years, of adult need, of fear and darkness and the force of life itself.

Through the hot, humid blur, Eliza shoved his coat back from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor as she reached for the fastenings of his shirt In her haste, she tangled the lacings, breaking them, but at last she could reach between the linen edges and touch him.

His skin was hot, like heated satin over iron-hard muscles, roughened by a crisp sprinkling of hair. She touched the arc of his ribs, the line of his lean waist, greedy for more of him.

She traced the flat disc of his nipple, feeling it pucker under her caress.

"Eliza," he groaned against her mouth. His lips trailed to her cheek, her jaw, the sensitive little hollow just below her ear. His tongue swirled there, his breath hot against her, and she shivered.

"Will," she protested, shaken to the core by the force of her desire. She had never felt like this before,
had never been so close to losing all her hard-won control. She half pushed him away, but he would have no mercy on her. His open mouth kissed the curve of her shoulder, and he eased away her dressing gown, the neckline of her thin chemise, until her breasts were bare to him.

"Eliza," he breathed. "So beautiful. I dreamed of this, so many nights in the islands." Lightly, enticingly, he traced the curve of her breast, the soft skin, moving closer and closer to her aching, erect nipple, but never quite touching. Never quite giving her what she wanted.

"You dreamed of
this?”
she said, laughing shakily. "With all the dark beauties there?"

"No one has ever been more beautiful than you, Eliza Blacknall," he said, just before his mouth closed over her nipple at last.

She cried out from the pleasure of it, the hot rush of desire flowing through her. She collapsed to the floor, but he caught her, falling with her as they kissed, again and again. A wild tangle of clothes, arms, lips...

A crash sounded from outside the window, a loud, metallic clang followed by a burst of drunken laughter. It was like a sudden blast of cold rain, a storm dousing the flames of passion.

Eliza pulled away from Will, covering her face with her hands. She trembled as if in a winter wind, her mind whirling. She felt like such a great fool. All her hard work, her years of caution! Gone in a moment, because she turned back into an infatuated fifteen-year-old at the sight of Will Denton's handsome face.

But he was
not
her Will anymore, not really. That young man who had once made her feel so alive, so bursting
with joy, was gone. This man before her was a veritable stranger. An English stranger, in a red coat.

Eliza's hands slid from her eyes, and she stared at him, still amazed at her wild folly. But then, perhaps it was not so amazing after all. He was a handsome man, with his golden hair and golden skin, with his lean, hard body. And she had been alone for a long time.

He stared back at her, his eyes midnight blue, his lips parted as he caught his breath. His unlaced shirt hung from his shoulders, with his skin gilded in the firelight, like some ancient pagan idol.

Yes, her feelings were natural. It was only lust—desire and memory, all tangled up in the strain of all the endless, tense waiting. But she had to be careful—very careful— from this moment on.

Will leaned back on his elbows, sprawling on her carpet as his hair spilled over his shoulders. An unreadable little smile touched his lips as he watched her. A pagan god, indeed. A heroic legendary warrior, Cuchulainn, returning victorious from his cattle raids and waiting for his reward.

Well, he could wait until Morrigan, the death goddess, came along and snatched him away! Eliza pulled her dressing gown tightly around her and scrambled to her feet

Will's grin widened as he gazed up at her. "Now,
that
is what I call a grand welcome home, Eliza."