Island Flame (49 page)

He opened the door. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Astonishment kept him silent; it was hard to believe his eyes. Donovan was flush-faced, his white hair in a mad tumble, the tails of his black coat flying. His portly, giggling wife was—well, drunk. Every one of the thirty-odd people in the room appeared to be drunk. They were dancing wild Irish dances, with much foot-stomping and hand-clapping. A rag-tag band of minstrels played long and hard. The hand-loomed carpet was rolled up; the blue salon’s elegant furnishings were pushed haphazardly into corners, leaving room for the dancers to twirl madly about the center of the oak-planked floor.

Unnoticed by everyone, Justin leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest, the better to observe this foolishness. A sardonic smile played about his lips as he waited for his servants to become aware of his presence.

The musicians played a fanfare; a space was cleared in the middle of the floor. A round table was pushed into that space, a beautiful Oriental table of teak with marble inlay, and a young woman was lifted to stand in its center.

“To our guest of honor!” Donovan cried, leading a round of huzzahs. The woman, slender yet shapely, laughed and bowed in response. Then, at a signal from Donovan, the musicians struck up again; the tune they played was a rollicking Irish reel.

“Give us a dance, missy!” Donovan’s jovial entreaty was joined by a chorus of other voices. The woman on the table tucked the hem of her blue dress into her sash, displaying a froth of ruffled petticoats and slender, white-stockinged legs. Kicking up her blue-slippered heels, she complied with a gaiety that brought a glint of appreciation to Justin’s eyes. Still unnoticed by all, he admired the girl’s truly lovely legs, which were on view up to the lace-edged hems of her pantalets.

Her hair, beginning to slip from its pins to cascade down her back in a tangle of waist-length curls, was crow black. He stared. Something tugged at his memory. She swung around to face him. He saw a willful little chin, laughing, rosy lips, a small elegantly carved nose, skin as pale and silky as a virgin’s wedding dress—then his gaze rose to meet head-on eyes as purple as pansies, set at a slant under straight black brows and fringed by incredibly thick lashes. Those same eyes widened to the size of saucers as they met his; recognition hit Justin with the force of a poleax. He straightened abruptly away from the doorjamb, an oath rising to his lips, while his ward—
his ward!
— stopped dancing with all the grace of a marionette with its strings cut.

“Get down!” he roared, striding forward to make sure she stopped her disgraceful exhibition before it could go any further. She didn’t wait for his assistance, but hopped nimbly down from the table before he could reach her, prudently skipping around behind it so that its bulk stood between them before stopping to stare at him with a mixture of unease and defiance. At Justin’s bellow, the music had come to a crashing halt. As he stood glowering at the shameless minx, he became aware of twenty-nine pairs of eyes regarding him with varying degrees of horror. A thick silence descended over the gathering. Opening his mouth to favor Megan with a scathing appraisal of her performance, he recollected their audience and temporarily swallowed his words, although from her expression she was in no doubt of his sentiments.

“I will see you in the library in one hour!” he told her, the words forcing themselves out from between clenched teeth. She said nothing, but her chin lifted defiantly. He swung away from her before his temper could get the better of his self-control, his eyes sweeping the assembled company in a way that made them cower before him.

“My—my lord!” Donovan, trying vainly to restore some semblance of order to his person, was hurrying toward him. Mrs. Donovan, chewing nervously on her lower lip, was right behind him. The other servants gratefully yielded to the pair’s seniority, looking very much as if they wished to become invisible. “We—we didn’t expect you, my lord!”

“Obviously.”

“My lord, we—I…” Donovan was stuttering as he tried to find a way to explain the unexplainable. Justin ruthlessly interrupted his faltering efforts.

“I require a bath in my chamber within ten minutes,” he told his perspiring butler in a tone that boded ill for everyone. “And something in the way of dinner precisely twenty minutes after that.” His eyes moved beyond Donovan to fix on his unhappy-looking wife.

“As for the other,” Justin’s gaze flashed to the rest of the group. “I will have something to say to you— all of you!—tomorrow. For now, you will go about your business!”

“Yes, my lord,” Donovan murmured unhappily. Justin did not wait to hear more. Instead, he turned on his heel and strode from the room.

The bath materialized with amazing speed, considering that he was in Ireland. Donovan, looking suitably abashed, carried the buckets of steaming water himself. (Doubtless the other servants were quaking in their boots, afraid to face him.) While the porcelain hip-bath was being filled, Justin divested himself of his wet clothes, then sat down on the edge of the enormous four-poster bed that had cradled the Earls of Weston for generations.

“Give me a hand with these, if you please,” he said to Donovan, indicating his boots. Donovan nearly tripped over a footstool in his eagerness to obey.

“Manning isn’t with you, my lord?” the butler ventured.

Justin eyed him. “No,” he answered shortly, and thrust out a booted foot. Donovan didn’t blink an eye at the shortness of his master’s tone. Straddling the proffered leg and grasping the boot with both hands, he willingly presented his ample backside for Justin to push against with his other foot. Justin did, but the boot was wet and it was quite a while longer before it came free. When finally the process was complete, Donovan ventured to reopen the conversation.

“My lord!” he began impressively, looking back over his shoulder at Justin, whose eyes were glinting in a manner not calculated to encourage any confidences. “My lord, I should like to explain.”

“Is there an explanation, Donovan? I should be pleased to think so.”

“Oh, aye, my lord, that there is! You see, it being Missy’s birthday and all…”

“Missy’s birthday?” Justin echoed, not impressed with this argument. “Who’s Missy? One of the kitchen maids?”

Donovan looked around at him again, surprise written all over his face. “Oh, no, my lord! Miss Megan! Your ward,” he added in scandalized accents, as if Justin could possibly have forgotten the girl’s existence. “We were wishful to celebrate her birthday! It isn’t every day that a body has one, you know, my lord. Poor little soul, without no mother or papa to care! Not that you don’t, my lord,” Donovan added hastily, darting a look at Justin. “But with you being a gentleman and all, and busy, it is understandable that you don’t make much fuss over birthdays and such!”

Justin eyed his agitated butler coldly. “For your information, Donovan, my ward, Miss Megan, received a very handsome present from me on the occasion of her birthday—which was some three months ago. If she told you
today
was her birthday, then you have been hoodwinked.”

Donovan was looking wide-eyed. “You don’t say, my lord! Why…”

“Yes, Donovan, I
do
say, and I promise you I shall have plenty to say to Miss Megan on that subject— and several others—later. Now, I would appreciate it if you would light the fire, see to my things, and leave me in peace. Oh, and bring up whatever food Mrs. Donovan has prepared. I’m famished! You and I will discuss this entire matter at greater length in the morning.” Justin added this last as Donovan began to look relieved at his master’s comparatively mild tone. In truth, Justin was prepared to overlook the whole incident, now that it had been explained. But it would not do to let the servants know that too soon. The secret of managing a household in which one dwelt for perhaps two weeks out of every year was to inspire a kind of fear—no, call it awe—in the staff.

“Yes, my lord!” Donovan said glumly, kneeling to light the fire. Justin sighed, wishing himself at home in London. In Ireland, nothing worked as it was supposed to! Donovan was coughing, trying frantically to get the fire going. It smoked. Justin sighed again and told the man to open one of the long windows despite the wetness of the night. Better to catch a chill than to suffocate. Donovan took himself off at last. Justin got into the tub.

The hot water felt immeasurably good as he sank down into it. Justin relaxed against the rolled lip of the tub, conscious of the first feeling of comfort he had experienced all day. The tub was far too small for his large frame, and his knees were drawn up almost to his chest, but the warm water lapping around his legs and belly more than made up for this minor failing. He picked up the soap, carelessly lathering his arms and chest. A sudden, irresistible picture of the faces of the discovered revelers flashed before him. To his own surprise, he grinned. The whole episode was really rather funny—or at least it would have been if not for the wanton display of limbs with which his ward had entertained the company. That a lady of his family could disport herself so! Shocking! And if it were to become known, there would be no end of scandal. It was time his ward was broken to bridle. She had been allowed to run wild for too long. She must learn that his hands held the reins.

Of course, the servants had no business carrying on in such a fashion in his house, but it wasn’t their fault, not really. Ordinarily, it never would have occurred to them to behave in such a way. Oh, no, his little witch of a ward had cozened them into it, and it was she who must bear the full weight of his wrath.

When he joined her in the library, as he would do presently, he was much inclined to dispense with talking altogether and lay his riding crop about her backside. Perhaps that was what she needed to make her behave as a lady should.

There was a discreet tap at the door. “Come in!” Justin called, rightly supposing it to be Donovan with his supper tray. It was. Donovan placed the tray on a small table near the bed. The man’s movements were so quiet that they served as a silent reproach to Justin’s bad temper. He was tempted to assure Donovan that he did not, after all, hold him or his wife responsible for the events of the evening. But then he decided to hold his peace until morning; it would do the staff no harm to reflect on their transgressions for what was left of the night.

After casting several unhappy looks at his master, Donovan finally tiptoed from the room. Justin resumed the business of getting clean. Then he lay back and closed his eyes.

He heard the door click open again. Donovan, he thought, not bothering to open his eyes. The man had forgotten something or come back with further apologies. The door closed and Justin heard the soft pad of feet across the carpet. Really, the man’s attempts at being quiet were more annoying than anything else.

“Donovan  .  .  .” Justin opened his eyes wearily. What he saw caused him to sit bolt upright in the tub with a suddenness that set the water to sloshing. Then, remembering his nakedness, he sank down again, cursing inwardly at the absurdly small tub which provided very little in the way of cover. He could feel his face and neck growing hot with a combination of outrage, anger, and yes, hang it, embarrassment. Because instead of finding Donovan, he found himself looking into a pair of willful violet eyes. Beautiful eyes, but far from friendly.

CHAPTER
2

“I want to talk to you!”

She was standing perhaps some five feet away, near the end of his bed. Her arms were crossed over her breasts and her voice was truculent. In truth, she sounded very much more self-assured than she felt. Megan had never seen a man in such a state of undress, and she found the sight oddly unnerving. But having gone this far, she was resolved not to be routed until she had had her say, and it was no part of her plan to let him get the upper hand, as he inevitably must if she revealed her ridiculous attack of shyness by blushing, or leaving the room, or doing any of the hundred and one other things that young ladies were popularly supposed to do when confronted with a naked man.

Her guardian was staring at her, a dumbfounded expression on his face, which she noticed with some surprise was much more attractive—and younger— than she remembered it. As she returned his stare with a haughty look of her own, she became aware of the hot flush in his naturally swarthy face. His lordship was every bit as embarrassed as she was! The realization eased her own tension a little. Perhaps bearding the lion in his den had not been such an ill-considered idea after all! Sheer temper had driven her to it; she felt guilty that her friends should be made to suffer because of her selfish desire to have a party. But she had never had one before—and where was the harm? Besides, who could have foretold that her guardian, the inaccessible Earl, would come after her, in person, and burst in upon what had promised to be no more than an evening of innocent fun.

“May I ask what you think you’re doing in here?” His voice, now that he had recovered the use of it, was positively arctic. Megan eyed him in a calculating manner, no longer put out by his nakedness. She was beginning to perceive that she had gained an unlooked-for advantage by bursting in on him in such an unconventional way. He was clearly off-balance, and Megan suspected that it wasn’t a condition that afflicted him often.

“I told you, I wanted to talk to you,” she replied with an insouciance that was far from feeling, and sat herself down on the corner of his bed as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Deliberately she let her eyes run over him, surprised at such muscular breadth of shoulders and smooth, bronzed skin in someone she had long considered an old man. He looked ridiculous sitting all scrunched up in that tiny tub, his face beet-red under the two days’ growth of stubbly black beard. His eyes, a curious tawny gold color, regarded her with sheer amazement; then the look became a frown.

“You will please me by taking yourself out of this chamber, and waiting for me in the library, as I originally instructed!” The iciness of his tone was at variance with the glint in his eyes. Megan looked at him meditatively, deciding that strong men must tremble and scurry to do his bidding when he spoke to them like that. Well, her guardian had yet to learn that she was made of sterner stuff. She had embarked on this mission, and she would see it through.