Taming the Barbarian (10 page)

“Of course.” She strengthened her smile, hoping to hold his attention. “Lord Bayberry, I fear this bit of foolishness is entirely my doing. I was not thinking properly. Indeed, ‘twas I who startled your poor mount,” she said, and motioned toward the stallion. The steed tossed his lengthy forelock and bared yellow teeth. God above, what an animal! “I did not immediately realize his high spirits.” The horse pawed angrily, his shod hoof striking the cobbles like a smithy’s rounding hammer. Sparks scattered like falling stars. “Stallions can be troublesome, and perhaps you have no wish to deal with his moods. Indeed, maybe a quiet gelding would better fit your needs. I have several fine hacks I could trade for him if such—”

“I’ll give you four gold coins,” interrupted the barbarian.

The owner jerked his watery gaze from Fleurette to the Scotsman. “What?”

Fleur gritted her teeth.

“Four,” Hiltsglen repeated.

“That is very—”

“Eight hundred pounds,” Fleurette countered, jerking in front of the Scot, as if she had any hope of blocking the towering gargoyle from sight. “Payable here and now.”

” ‘Tis solid gold, fair won and hard kept,” vowed the Highlander.

Fleurette gaped, then spun her attention back to the aging gentleman. “Please, Lord Bayberry you should know that I have the bloodstock to put your stallion’s fine qualities to good use. While Hiltsglen here…” She tried not to snarl as she jerked her head in his direction. “He has not even a stable in which to house the poor animal. Surely you must take your horse’s well-being into consideration and—”

“I’ll give double what ye paid for him and deliver the sum to yer door at dawn’s first light,” Killian said.

“I’ll not press charges,” Fleurette rasped, suddenly cradling her arm and making her eyes go wide. A few tears would be a nice effect, but that kind of far-fetched dramatics took time and time was of the essence, for the towering Scot was all but breathing down her neck.

Still, the gentleman seemed convinced, for he gasped as if wounded himself. ” ‘Tis ever so kind of you to grant me forgiveness, madam. I am hideously sorry to have caused you such grievous distress when—”

“Then ye will na wish for it to happen again,” Hiltsglen said.

The gentleman snapped his damp gaze back to Fleur’s tormenter. “What?”

“The poor wee lass here be already wounded,” Hiltsglen rumbled, and though he didn’t shift his deadly dark eyes to Fleur’s, she knew he was being cruelly sarcastic. “What worse might happen if she took such a braw animal to her own estate?”

Bayberry opened his mouth as if at a loss for words. His eyes went round in abject terror.

“You’ve no need to worry on my account,” Fleur hissed, then unclenched her jaw and gave him another smile. “I’ve a good deal of experience with horses. Indeed, I have been astride more than afoot since the day I was born. You must not judge my skills by this one silly mistake. “Us simply that I was not thinking properly, and—”

“And there lies the truth of it,” said Hiltsglen, stepping around her and taking Bayberry by the arm. He loomed over the aging gentleman like a giant over a midget and only spared Fleur one dark glance. “She is naught but a poor simple maid and
oft
does na think proper.” He canted his head. Bayberry glanced at Fleur wide-eyed. “The next time she may na be so fortunate as to have someone close to hand what can snatch her from harm’s way.”

“Damn you, you conniving son of a—” Fleur snarled, but Bayberry already seemed to be imaging the worst.

The merest hint of a smile played around the corners of the barbarian’s lips. “Ye dunna want such a wee gentle maid’s blood on yer hands, do ye now?” he asked.

“Lord Bayberry—” Fleur began, but it was already too late. He was shaking his head and waving his hands frantically in front of him of if to wash away the entire situation.

“Take him, sir! Take him straightaway,” he insisted, gazing up at Hiltsglen. “Before someone else gets hurt.”

The barbarian growled some sort of idiotic response, then it was over.

Bayberry mumbled a disjointed apology and disappeared like a shaky wraith into the crowd.

Fleurette dropped her hand away from her injured arm and tightened her fists. Hiltsglen stared down at her, and though his lips no longer quirked upward the slightest whit, she realized he was smiling, in his own barbaric way.

“Are ye na going to congratulate me, lass?” he asked. His eyes were gleaming and his right brow, bisected as it was by some fool with a damnably faulty aim, lifted the slightest degree. “On me own new purchase?”

“Well, I would of course,” Fleur said, and primly brushed at the mud that stained her skirt. “But I find I would much rather stab you in the eye with my hatpin.”

For one elongated moment, he continued to stare at her; and then he laughed. The sound was like the distant rumble of thunder. Something coiled up tight in her belly. She scowled at him. Hate, she thought. It must be hate she was feeling.

“Well, I’ll say this about ye, lassie,” he said, still grinning like a fool. “Ye may be as snooty as a prize sow at spring festival, but I’d na care to face ye in a pitched battle.”

She gave him an arch look, the same one that had set the duke of York back on his heels. “Had I any idea what you were babbling about I would respond in kind,” she said.

“He means you’re a lively opponent,” Lucy explained, and stepping forward, lifted her hand toward the barbarian. “Lady Anglehill,” she said. He swallowed her fingers with his own and bowed shallowly, his damned eyes still gleaming. “My friends call me Lucille.”

“And the high-and-mighty lass there…” he said, canting his head toward Fleur but not shifting his gaze from Lucille’s. “Might she be a friend to ye?”

“Generally,” said the other. “But I dare not cross her.”

He nodded solemnly. “What might a hatpin be?”

Lucy watched him for a moment, then smiled. “I am having a modest gathering at my estate a week from this Friday,” she said. “I would very much enjoy your presence.”

He shook his head a little, so that the cords in his broad throat shifted slightly. “I fear I am na the sort to do well in genteel crowds, me lady.”

“Truly?” Lucille’s eyes were narrowed now, her expression thoughtful. “What sort are you, sir?”

He shifted his gaze to Fleur.

“Mayhap I be the sort to be speared in the eye by a wee lassie’s hatpin.”

“Aye, well,” Lucy said, and smiled as she turned away. “Seven o’clock at my estate then. I shall make certain our little Fleurette comes bareheaded.”

“W
hat the devil were you thinking?” Fleurette demanded.

They’d returned in utter silence to Lucille’s spacious home, and though Fleur’s growling anger had lost a bit of its biting edge, it continued to gnaw at her guts. Damn the barbarian to utter darkness!

“Thinking?” Lucy asked, and, handing her newest chapeau to a maid, sauntered into the parlor.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Fleur hissed, following testily in the other’s perfumed wake. “Why in heaven’s name would you invite him to your house?”

“Who?”

Fleurette gritted her teeth and counted to ten. This was exactly why she was so fond of hounds and horses. They weren’t so convincing when they acted dumb. “The barbarian,” she hissed. “The damned…” She tried to continue but ran out of words and found herself waving wildly as she searched.

“The Scotsman?”

“Yes the Scotsman! Why did you invite him here?”

Lucille shrugged lazily. “I find him intriguing.

“Have you lost your mind?” Fleur stormed, and found to her consternation that she was pacing the room like a caged cat.

“You don’t find him the least bit fascinating?”

“I find him rude, overbearing, irritating, and damnably egotistical.”

Lucy canted her head and took one of the tiny raspberry tarts offered to her by a blank-faced manservant. “I fear I shall have to assume that is a no.

Fleur abandoned her pacing, coming to a shuddering halt. “Have I done something to upset you, Lucille? Have I wronged you in some unfathomable way?”

“As a matter of fact you have,” Lucy said.

Fleurette felt her jaw drop. “Truly?” She was immediately sorry. Lucille was an anchor in the turbulent sea of life. A friend when troubles rained down on her like volcanic ash. “What have I done?”

“You refuse to wed.”

“What?” Fleur asked, drawing back abruptly. “What are you talking about? You’ve been widowed longer than I, and you’ve yet to do so much as consider matrimony.”

Lucille took a delicate bite of the tart and set it aside. “But I remain alone for entirely different reasons.”

“That is neither here nor there, Lucille, and you demmed well know it. I am a grown woman, well able to make my own decisions, and if I decide to—”

“Yes, you are able to make your own decisions, but when you make a foolish one I shall ever be irritated by it.”

“Foolish!” Fleurette spat “You can’t be suggesting…” She hacked a laugh. “You
can’t
be suggesting that you think that…” She waved her hand rather wildly in the general direction of her latest confrontation. “That odiferous cretin might be marriage material.”

“Well,” Lucy said, her tone agreeable. She shook her carefully coifed head. Tightly curled ringlets danced against her neck. “He is not very fashionable. I shall grant you that.”

“Fashionable!” Fleur snorted. “He’s barely human.”

“His clothing is a bit rustic.”

“Rustic! Rustic!” For a moment Fleur could think of nothing else to say. “The man looks as if he stepped out of the Middle Ages. I’ll wager he doesn’t even own a cravat.”

“Not at all like Thomas then,” Lucy commented. “Remember how fastidious he was about his stocks? Each one embroidered with his initials and guarded like the crown jewels.”

Fleurette fell silent.

“I imagine our Scotsman would look rather out of place at one of Prinny’s garden parties.”

“Absolutely,” Fleur said, but thoughts of her deceased husband had blasted the wind from her sails. “Like a bear at a tea party.”

“More concerned for that abominable beast of a stallion than the fit of his breeches.” Lucy sighed. “I imagine you’re right, Flurry, he is neither shallow enough nor effeminate enough to be a fine gentleman of the
ton
. But he would be quite perfect for a few hours alone in the dark.”

Fleur glared at her.

“Admit it,” Lucille said. “He is rather appealing in a baser instincts sort of way.”

“He couldn’t be less appealing if you doused him in pig manure and dressed him in cornstalks. He’s an irritating, overbearing—”

“I believe you said as much earlier.”

“Oversized, egotistical—”

“Oversized is new.”

“Daft—”

“Yes well…” Lucy interrupted and yawned as she waved a perfectly manicured hand. “That’s all very interesting, but I must ask you to excuse me now. I am really quite exhausted. You don’t mind seeing yourself out do you?”

Fleurette knew exactly what Lucy was trying to do. Sitting in stony silence, she stared at the brocade seat opposite her as her phaeton rolled smoothly toward Briarburn.

Oh yes, she knew. Lucy spoke of independence and personal freedom, but perhaps when it came down to it, she was the same as any halfwitted ninny who felt a woman needed a man to make her complete. To make her whole.

Well, Fleurette had had a man, and she was in no great rush to have another. Especially one who would feel it was his God-given right to order her about from morning till night.

The carriage slowed and bumped. Beneath her, the springs moaned. Fleurette scowled. Such a heavy vehicle might well benefit from a hardier suspension system, she mused. She must see what could be done to hasten the arrival of the new Cadway springs. And perhaps she would try them in the viceroy model as well.

She continued her ride home and finally descended from the carriage with some relief. She, too, was tired, and yet, as Horace turned the grays toward the stable, she wandered down the cobbled path toward the gardens.

Once past the rose-shrouded arbor, the world seemed a different place. A better place. The scent of warm earth and ripe blossoms filled the air, but it was the Celt that drew her.

He loomed in the misty moonlight. She glanced up at his face, wishing almost that she could see his eyes, that she could know his thoughts. And then she laughed at herself. He had no thoughts, of course. He was nothing but a statue. And yet… Reaching up, she placed a hand on his knee. The stone still retained the heat of the sun, and the rock was smooth from years of wear. It almost felt real, almost alive, as if he had charged through the centuries to be at her side.

Fleurette all but rolled her eyes at her own fanciful musings, but though she reminded herself of the penalties of such girlish foolishness, she could not quite leave the Celt alone, and so she sat in the quiet darkness, letting the solace of the garden soothe her soul.

It was sometime later that she entered her house. Henri rose from his place near the door and trotted over, tail wagging. It seemed dark inside, despite the lamp Mr. Smith had lit in the entry. Handing her shawl to him, she finally ascended the stairs to her bedchamber. Candlelight flickered across the pictures on the walls. She stepped into her room, feeling the quiet of the place, the hominess.

“My lady.” Tessa bobbed as she hustled through the doorway. “You’ve had a successful day I hope.”

“What? Oh. Yes.” Fleur felt better now, soothed, despite her ridiculous confrontation with the towering Scot. “Successful enough I suppose.”

” ‘Tis late,” said the maid, unclasping her mistress’s gown in the back. “You must be exhausted.”

Fleur glanced over her shoulder at the young woman’s cheery face. ” ‘Tis no later for me than for you,” she said.

“Well, I never have thought of it in just that light,” Tess said, her quick hands pausing on the endless row of wooden buttons. “God’s truth, I must be exhausted.”

Fleurette laughed, feeling the last of her tension slip away. “How many years have you been here at Briarburn, Tessa?”

“Near eight I suspect.” Bending, she retrieved the shoes Fleur had just abandoned. “Why might you be—” she began, then stopped and turned suddenly, her eyes huge in the flickering light. “You’re not thinking to be rid of me are you, my lady?”