[Samuel Barbara] The Black Angel(Book4You) (11 page)

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 the 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."

"In her eyes, she does."

Tynan raised a brow. "We're none without sin."

"Ah, but woman's sin lies more heavily upon her." Julian sounded inexpressibly weary. Almost to himself, he breathed, "How very little it has changed!"

Curious now, Tynan crossed his arms and leaned negligently on the stone balustrade. "This scandal," he said, "how severe was it?"

"Malvern was not only a rake, he was a braggart," Julian said, and his jaw tightened. "And my actions only inflamed it."

Tynan narrowed his eyes. Adriana and Julian each blamed themselves, as Tynan and his mother had each blamed themselves for Aiden's death. His mother had grieved so desperately she'd grieved herself into the grave, doubling Tynan's burden of sorrow.

Standing now with his wife's brother, he remembered his own resolve when he'd put her body down, and he reached into his waistcoat and drew out the ring. He held it out to Julian. "I bought it from a peddler."

"Strike me blind." Julian took the ring and narrowed his eyes. "You thought me dead, then."

"I did."

Julian swore again, in some wonder. "It was washed from my hand in that shipwreck we spoke of." He put it on his finger. "What are the chances it would arrive in your care?"

"Larger than you might think." Tynan lifted an expressive shoulder. "It washed ashore in Dingle, and a peddler found it. There's none for many counties who'd pay for such a bauble, or could afford the price he asked. I am known in my country, and it was delivered to me."

"And you knew the crest, and knew me dead. And saw all of this," he stretched out an arm, "as your own."

Tynan lifted one brow, and a shoulder to go with it, unapologetic.

"Does my sister know?"

"She does." Tynan saw no need for subterfuge here. "I needed me an English wife. And I admit the pleasure of being Earl of Albury in all but actual title would have suited me," he said. "But I'm willing to work to clear your name, if you'll lend your assistance to my purposes when you are cleared."

"Work to clear my name? You?"

Tynan lifted his head. "Are you testing me, sir?"

"If you've a temper, sir," Julian responded, "you'll never weather what's waiting for you in London."

Just so. "Will you help me or won't you?"

"That," he said coolly, "remains to be seen." He pushed away from the wall. "But I've one warning to offer: play the rake with my sister and I'll see you ruined. Not only here, but in Ireland, too."

Tynan clenched his fists. "We understand each other."

"Yes," Julian said coolly. "We do."