Taming the Barbarian (16 page)

Damn the bed! The floor would do. He caught their weight on his shoulder.

But a shriek tore through the house, jerking them apart. They stared at each other, eyes wide, almost coherent.

Something crashed outside the window, and the mare screamed.

“
Fille
!” she cried, yanking herself from Killian’s arms and racing to the door. He stumbled to his feet, disoriented and hapless.

She was outside before he’d even marshaled his senses, but Treun’s deep-throated call, brought him around.

“Nay!” he yelled. “Stay back.” He stormed through the doorway, but one glance outside told him she was already in harm’s way, already planted like a willowy sapling between the rearing horses. The impromptu gate was on the ground. A tattered rope swung from the stallion’s head collar. The mare’s teeth were bared, her eyes rolling. “Stay back!” he yelled again, but in that instant, Treun lunged. He struck Fleurette with his shoulder as he leapt past. She was tossed aside like autumn chaff.

The mare pivoted away. Treun gave chase, trumpeting as he went.

“God’s teeth!” Killian lunged to the baroness and dropped to his knees. “Me lady, are ye well? Are ye whole?”

She struggled to sit up. He slipped an arm behind her back, supporting her. “I’m…” she began, but her words failed as their gazes melded. He leaned toward her, drawn against his will, then Treun screamed again.

“Stop him,” Fleur insisted.

But when they looked up they saw that the mare was standing perfectly still. Treun shook his head and reared, ready to mount her, but she let her heels fly. Iron-shod hooves caught him square between his hind legs.

Even from that distance, they could hear the impact, his grunt of pain. He dropped to his forefeet, nearly falling to his knees.

Fleurette yanked from Killian’s arms and leapt to her feet, but the mare had already cocked up her tail and was prancing back toward the cottage.

Killian hurried up to Treun, but the stallion barely raised his head. Instead, he merely turned tortured eyes on his scowling master.

“Aye,” Killian growled, feeling the pain in his own nether parts as he watched the baroness catch her mount. “I tried to warn ye, lad.” The maid turned toward them, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide in her perfect face. “But ‘tis bloody hard to think in the heat of battle.”

“M
r. Johnson,” Fleurette said, rising from her desk and giving her newest employee a prim nod. He was two inches shorter than she, pudgy around the middle, and, judging by his gold-rimmed spectacles, severely nearsighted. The Doderty Agency definitely knew how to pick their men. “What have you learned?”

The little man’s mustache twitched as he removed his top hat. As it turned out, he had more hair beneath his nose than atop his head. “Regarding one Sir Killian Hiltsglen of Scotland,” he said as he opened a leather-bound book and pushed up his spectacles to study his notes. “On the third day of July in the year of our lord 1817, Killian, Sir Hiltsglen, purchased one stallion of unknown lineage from a Lord Bayberry. Later that same week, he bought an acreage consisting of woodland and a small quarry. Formerly, it belonged to one Lord Gardner. Sir Hiltsglen is currently residing in the original cottage that was built upon said property some centuries past.”

He glanced up. Fleurette blinked. “Continue.”

Mr. Johnson pursed his lips. Perhaps his cheeks were the slightest bit flushed. “I fear that’s all the information I’ve been able to obtain thus far, my lady.”

She stared at him agog. “Mr. Johnson, I knew more about him at the outset.” For instance, he was a barbarian and a lout, an overgrown, overpowering cretin and a veritable thief. He also had arms the size of tree trunks and a chest like a boulder. He was as strong as a stallion, able to lift her without thought. A woman would never be safe around him, and yet, somehow, inexplicably, she had felt…

“My apologies, my lady,” Johnson said, and gave her a prim, insulted bow. “But as I told you at the start, this sort of investigation takes time.”

“I realize that, Mr. Johnson,” Fleur said. “But I don’t have much time. He has already stolen a steed and a valuable piece of property right out from—”

“Stolen?” Johnson asked, his tone clipped. “If it’s a matter of theft, you should contact the proper authorities posthaste.” He blinked, looking nervous. “As I’ve said before, I’m uncomfortable dealing with the criminal element. In point of fact—”

“I was not being literal,” she said, and resisted the urge to give him a sound knock on the side of his head. “Just… please, find out what you can as soon as humanly possible. Anything at all regarding his past… where he was born, his family life, his business enterprises, what he’s been doing these past few years.”

Mr. Johnson sighed heavily, as if he weren’t being paid handsomely to do the very things she’d just outlined, “I’ll see what I can do, my lady,” he said, and left her office.

The remainder of the day went no better, and the rest of the week was singularly unspectacular. Friday arrived with alarming haste.

Fleurette stood in her dressing room, trying again to think of a plausible reason to avoid Lucille’s party. She was tired, after all, and the weather was unpleasant. The roads were in poor traveling condition after days of endless rain, and…

And Lucy would undoubtedly accuse her of cowardice if she didn’t make an appearance and face down the barbarian Lucille had so cruelly invited. The countess had sent round a note, in fact, reminding her to arrive at six o’clock sharp.

A rap on the door interrupted Fleur’s reverie.

“My lady, might I assist you with your costume?” Tessa inquired, and since Fleurette could think of no sound reason to stay home and hide in her bedchamber, she bid her maid enter.

“Oh, my lady, you look a sight you do.” Tessa sighed.

“Do you think so?” Fleur gazed at herself in the walnut-framed mirror. Her gown was made of pale yellow linen. It boasted small cap sleeves, a gathered bodice, and tiny bows strewn about the high waist. She had purchased it with summer in mind. But now—“Are you certain I’m not too…” She canted her head. “Old for such a—”

But Tessa was already shushing her. “Too old! Don’t be silly. You look lovely, so slim and elegant.”

Slim. She scowled at herself in the mirror. She had long thought slim to be a defining euphemism for underdeveloped. Turning sideways, she looked at her breasts. They were decidedly unimpressive. “Fetch the green taffeta, will you, Tessa?” she asked, and began her toilet anew.

“Fleurette.” Lucille located Fleur seconds after she entered Anglehill’s towering ballroom. “I cannot tell you how flattered I am that you were able to tear yourself away from your busy day just for my little gathering.”

Fleur took a glass from a passing servant and waved to Antoinette. Newly arrived from Paris, the
comtesse
was, regardless of travel and fatigue, perfectly groomed and impeccably coifed. Dressed in pristine, glowing white, she was surrounded by suitors. Fleurette turned her gaze back to her hostess.

“I’m sorry I’m tardy.”

In fact, Fleur was well over an hour late owing to her own idiotic uncertainties. As it turned out, the taffeta hadn’t seemed quite right either.

“I hadn’t noticed. I’m certain it’s well before midnight.”

Fleurette took a sip of punch. It was sharp and crisp, suiting Lucille’s personality perfectly. “You could simply chastise me and have done with,” she suggested.

“Chastise you,” Lucy said, grasping Fleur’s elbow and steering her into the crowd. “Whyever would I do such a pedestrian thing? You’re my best and dearest friend. I am certain you would have arrived on my doorstep precisely at six to ease my tattered nerves if you could possibly have managed it.”

Fleurette gave her a look. Lady Anglehill didn’t have nerves.

“You look delightful by the by,” Lucy continued, and glanced at the tiny rosebuds that edged the bodice of Fleur’s lilac-colored frock. It was gathered snug at the bust, which had the desired effect on her bosom, but did hideous things to her ability to breathe. It also made it difficult to look anyone in the eye without blushing. It had taken her two hours and fifteen minutes to choose this gown. The idea appalled her. She had spent less time on business acquisitions. “Is this a new purchase? It’s lovely. So delicate. Oh, and look, it has matching ivy at the hem. How charming. You must—”

“Lucy,” Fleur said, and drew the other woman to a halt. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Lucy stood with her mouth open for a moment, then, “Well, you demmed well should be,” she said. “I’m your best friend. In fact,” she said and scowled dramatically, “I may be the only person in London who doesn’t think you’re sleeping with your accountant.”

“My accountant is a woman.”

“It only makes the gossip that much more delicious. They also think you’ve propositioned your overseer.”

“Benson is seventy years old and married to the most cantankerous woman in all of England. I’d have to be daft or suicidal to—”

“There’s Lord Gardner, of course—but that’s acceptable, since he’s a peer of the realm,” Lucy said, and steered Fleurette toward the refreshment tables. They spread the length of the ballroom and, as far as Fleur could decipher, contained every delicacy known to the civilized world. She chose a glazed apricot and nibbled at it. The taste was perfect, sweet but tangy. “But it’s the idea that you’re sleeping with your little redheaded stableboy that has the
pink of the ton
absolutely agog.”

Fleur slanted a jaded glance in Lucille’s direction. “Gannon O’Malley is not yet fifteen years of age. No one could possibly believe I’m sleeping with him.”

“That’s because I haven’t yet started the rumor,” Lucy said, and Fleur laughed, but her amusement was cut short, for through the crowd she caught her first glance of Killian.

Her breath stopped in her throat. Gone were the rough plaid and battered belt. In their place was a black cutaway jacket and breeches that hugged his bulging thighs like a second skin. His snow-white shirt seemed to gleam against the contrast of his broad, dark-skinned throat, and the shoulders of the jacket looked endless. His cravat was tied just so and his hair almost restrained by a silver clasp. And yet, despite all the polish, he did not manage to look quite tamed. His fingers appeared broad and ridiculously capable against the cut crystal of the glass he held, and his eyes, dark and deadly, scanned the crowd with something akin to feral wariness.

“And now I think I shall not have to,” Lucy said.

Dear God, he looked like an untamed wolf amongst panting lapdogs. Like a—

Lucille’s laughter cut her thoughts short.

“What’s that?” Fleur said, forcing a smile and turning, heart thumping, toward her friend.

“I’ve just now thought of a worse punishment for you,” Lucy replied, her words low and her eyes gleaming as she steered Fleurette toward the towering Scotsman.

In a moment, they were standing before Hiltsglen, and just as suddenly, Fleur felt ridiculously undressed.

His gaze, dark as midnight, fell to her breasts, and his nostrils flared the slightest degree, like an untamed stallion testing the breeze.

“I assume you remember each other,” Lucy said. She couldn’t have sounded happier had she just been declared queen.

“My lady.” Hiltsglen’s voice rumbled through her soul.

Fleurette remembered the feel of his chest against hers, but it was the memory of his words that burned brightest in her mind; “
I would that ye be happy
.” Why did he wish for her happiness? Not everyone did, of that she was certain, and yet she was sure he had not lied. Indeed, he might not even be capable of such a thing.

The idea made her nervous, for she herself could never be so honest. It was difficult to resist the aching urge to look away, but she managed it and gave him a prim nod. “Sir Hiltsglen.”

Lucille laughed as though she’d just been privy to a most amusing jest. “Well, this is absolutely magnificent. I hear the two of you are neighbors now.”

Fleur gritted a smile and shone it with malevolent distaste in Lucy’s direction. “Good news travels quickly I see.”

“Indeed, yes. Are you truly living in that ramshackle cottage near the ancient quarry Sir Hiltsglen?” Lucille asked, apparently unimpressed by Fleur’s rising wrath.

He nodded, but didn’t quite manage to force his gaze from Fleur’s. “I am na accustomed to such luxurious conditions as ye have here, Lady Anglehill. ‘Tis na hardship living as I do.”

“Lord Gardner says you are single-handedly putting the cottage back to order.”

He didn’t respond. Lucy pulled her gaze from his with a seeming effort. “Fleurette, have you yet seen his progress?”

Memories stormed in on Fleur. Gentle words, strong arms… She could feel her face flush with hot embarrassment, but she refused to glance away She was certain Lucille knew nothing about the debacle in the woods, but she fully intended to flog her to death at the first possible opportunity anyway. “In fact, I visited Sir Hiltsglen some days ago,” she said.

“Oh?” If Lucille got any happier, she would certainly die of the condition.

As for the Scotsman, he was watching her like a hunting hawk, his dark brows low over brooding eyes.

Fleurette cleared her throat. “I thought it only… civilized… that I welcome him to the area,” she said, and took another sip of punch.

“Is that what ye were about?” Hiltsglen asked.

Fleur’s heart thumped to a halt. Her cup froze halfway down from her parted lips. “What’s that?”

“Did ye plan to welcome me?” he asked. “For if that be the case, our methods are a bit different in me own part of the world.”

Although she desperately tried to lock away the shameful memories, she could not forget how her lips had clashed against his. How her hands had trembled against his belt buckle. Like a stag in rut. Like a mare in season. But no. Much worse, for at least
Fille
had had the good sense to maim and flee. The only way Fleur could have wounded the towering Scot would have been if she’d thrown him to the ground with too much force when she was having her way with him. And—Oh God, they were waiting for her to respond, waiting for her to come up with some kind of coherent rejoinder. She could literally feel her heart pound in her breasts. Could feel a flush heat them to their peaks. Damn him for his unchivalrous ways! She was going to have to come up with a response before… “And what do they do in the caves where you crawled from, Sir Hiltsglen?” she asked, preening a smile.