Taming the Barbarian (17 page)

Lucille was absolutely silent, but turned with glowing eyes on the gigantic Scot. His smile was as predatory as a wolf’s.

“Ladies of quality…” he paused and bowed slightly… “such as yer ladyship, dunna usually lower themselves to visit a mere knight such as meself. ‘Twas a great honor for me to welcome ye to me humble abode.”

Damn him to hell. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

Lucille was laughing again, the sound low and quiet. “Why, Sir Hiltsglen” she said, “I do believe I owe you an apology.”

He turned slowly toward her. “I am certain ye are wrong,” he said. “For ye have shown naught but good manners and fine breeding.” A muscle ticked in his lean jaw. “Indeed, the same canna be said of all present.”

He didn’t turn an accusatory glance on Fleurette, but it was not difficult to catch his meaning. Damn him.

” ‘Tis ever so nice of you to say,” Lucy twittered, “but you are a guest in my home, and I fear you’ve been abused.” She, on the other hand, did cast an accusatory glance at Fleurette. Damn her. “Whatever can I do to make amends?”

He bowed and extended a hand. It was the approximate size of a draught horse shoe. “Might I accompany ye to your tables, Lady Anglehill?”

“Most certainly.” Lucille had once complained that her hands would dwarf a blacksmith’s, but her fingers looked as delicate as a fairy’s in the Scot’s gigantic paw. ” ‘Twould be my pleasure.” She lifted her chin. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Glendowne.”

Fleurette watched them go. Lucille was cackling like a demented laying hen. The Highlander was silent, possibly because he hadn’t yet mastered the nuances of the spoken language. But he leaned close to Lucy’s ear finally, causing the countess to laugh again, and despite Fleur’s venomous mood, she could not quite manage to deny that they looked rather handsome together. Damn them. They were both tall and stately, both masterful, yet oddly elegant in their finery. Lucille’s gown flared from an unseen draft, brushing delicately against the Highlander’s muscular legs. Even with Lucy, he looked unreasonably tall. Ridiculous even, Fleur thought uncharitably, and watched as they swept through the crowd like hawks in a flock of pigeons.

“They look quite grand together.”

Fleur turned with a guilty start, smoothing the frown from her face. The man who stood at her elbow was tall and lean. His hair was the color of autumn wheat. Long as a horse’s mane, it boasted a braid at each side of his face and hung loose against the golden skin of his throat. He wore no cravat, but it was difficult to fault him for such a faux pas, for his eyes were all entrancing, as blue and enchanting as a summer sky. “I… I’m sorry,” she said, realizing she was staring like a flummoxed milkmaid. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

“Nay,” he said and bowing with graceful panache, reached for her hand. Her breath caught as his thumb brushed her knuckles with intimate tenderness.

“The fault is entirely me own,” he said, and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. Sensations scurried up her arm like fluttering butterflies. “I am Sir O’Banyon of the Northern Celts. But me friends call me naught but Nairn.”

“Nairn,” she breathed.

“Banyon,” someone rumbled.

Fleur glanced up to find Hiltsglen and Lucille had returned.

O’Banyon brushed his thumb across Fleurette’s knuckles once again and raised his gaze to Hiltsglen’s. “Killian,” he said. ” ‘Tis good to see ye fit and…” He shifted his summer blue eyes to Lucille. A smile flickered across his stunning face. “Well occupied.” Abandoning Fleur’s hand with seeming regret, he bowed to Lucy. “Me lady,” he said, “I fear I owe ye me apologies.”

Lucille seemed to be speechless for the first time in her life. Indeed, her lips moved, but no sharp witticisms came forth. For a moment, Fleur wondered if the world might actually be coming to an end.

But the Irishman bowed and flashed a smile as he kissed Lucille’s hand. Had the countess been made of softer stuff, she might very well have hit her knees.

“Good Christ,” she murmured to Fleurette, then, slightly louder, “an apology?”

“Aye.” He had a dimple in his left cheek that curved with rapscallion grace around his satyr’s mouth. “I fear I have taken the opportunity to enter yer home uninvited.”

When Lucille failed to answer, Fleur gave her friend a nudge.

“I’m certain you had good reason,” said the countess finally.

O’Banyon’s smile brightened like the sun. “I was na told that London women be so understanding,” he said. “Nor so bonny.”

Did she blush? Did Lucille Bevre, the reigning countess of Anglehill, who had carelessly brushed off kings and dignitaries, blush? “I’m happy we could enlighten you, Sir—”

“Nairn,” he corrected and stepping forward, pulled her hand into the crook of his arm. “Might I beg a favor of ye, me lady?”

Lucille shifted her eyes momentarily to Fleurette’s. Lust shone as bright as a promise there before she dulled the flare and turned back to the Irishman. “I’m afraid my firstborn is already spoken for.”

His laugh was a low rumble of pleasure. “Might ye honor me with a dance then?”

They were gone in a moment. Fleurette stood breathlessly watching them, until she realized the Scotsman was doing the same. She turned, reminding herself to breathe. “A friend of yours?” she asked.

“Friend?” His voice echoed from the depths of his Herculean chest, and his eyes were deep and dark as they followed the couple onto the floor. “Aye. As the wolf is friend to the lambkin.”

“Oh?” Fleur raised her brows. “And tell me, Hiltsglen, which of you is the wolf and which is the innocent?”

L
ady Glendowne lifted her gaze to Killian’s. He clenched his fists and held himself at bay. He was not such a fool as to tempt fate again. Aye, she’d nearly been his undoing when she’d visited his cottage some days before, and though he would like to think it was naught but lust that drove him, he feared it was more. There had been a vulnerability to her that day, a sadness that haunted him, and he’d wanted nothing more than to put things right, to see her smile, to hold her close.

But he had no way of knowing if it was all a ploy. So, he would be more careful henceforth. He would not stand so dangerously close, would not let himself breathe her garden-fresh scent, and would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to be alone with her. Still, even with a roomful of strangers, he found he wanted nothing more than to pull her to his chest and demand favors he had no right to demand. Or perhaps, if the truth be told, he might very well whimper and beg for her attention just as Treun had at the departing swish of the bay mare’s tail. Pride was a slippery thing when one’s wick was up. He glanced down into the warm, smiling face of cleavage. God’s balls. He clenched his teeth and tightened his hand on his cup.

“Well?” she said, and he just managed to raise his gaze to hers. There was nothing coquettish about this lass, at least not with him. She met his eyes full on. A challenge of sorts. A call to battle. And God help him, he’d been born to fight.

She had the face of an angel, the body of a goddess, as slim and sculpted as a statuette’s. Mayhap the fashion of the day leaned toward plump women, but Killian favored a firmer form. And this one was as sweetly curved as a Grecian urn. But there was steel to her, like the hard-edged blade of Caraid.

“Sir Hiltsglen?”

He snapped his attention back to the conversation at hand, though he was not a man for idle banter. Nay, he was a man of deeds and little else. “Killian,” he rumbled, and held her gaze in a hard clasp.

“I beg your pardon?” She tilted her head slightly so that a curled tendril of hair caressed her kitten-soft throat. His body yanked up hard at the sight, though he could not begin to guess why.

“Me name,” he said, and though he knew better, he took a step toward her, drawn like a trained destrier to the cry of the battle horn. ” ‘Tis Killian. Not Scotsman. Not Hiltsglen. Killian.”

She raised one brow as if amused. “Killian,” she repeated. Her eyes were as green as the valleys of his homeland. Her throat was as long and slim as a royal swan’s. “You’ve not answered my question. And now I wonder, might you be the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

“I think it should be clear enough that I am na a wolf. Indeed, I am naught but what ye see.”

“And what might that be, good sir?”

“A man na overfond of foolish questions.”

” ‘Twas not I who made the reference at the outset,” she reminded him. “But never mind. Perhaps you can answer this query. Where is this Hiltsglen from which you hail? I’ve not heard of such a place.”

Aye, she was bonny, but like many bonny things, she was also deadly. Even now, she laid a trap for him. He could smell it though it was diffused by the wild scent of her. The scent that curled like sweet opium into his mind.

“Hiltsglen would hold no magic for ye, lass,” he said, and watched her with narrowed eyes. “For ‘tis a plain place. Without the gilt ye are accustomed to.”

The corner of her lips twitched up the slightest degree. A single brow rose with it. “Do you presume to know what I find magical and what I find mundane, Sir—?”

“Killian,” he finished. She held his gaze with steady interest, as if his every word was somehow important. Why? Might she find him the least bit appealing? But nay. He dare not hope for that. Indeed, he dare not forget how she had looked at Banyon only moments before. How every woman looked at Banyon. He forced his gaze away, finding the man who was sometimes his friend, often his adversary He was laughing, as was the maid with whom he danced. Indeed, there seems to be a gaggle of women gossiping together as they watched the pair.

The Irishman lifted his gaze, catching the attention of the ethereal woman dressed all in white. For a moment the maid’s eyes widened, then she disappeared into her crowd of admirers. Killian almost grinned. Women were rarely discerning enough to escape O’Banyon’s questionable charms. Indeed, if Lady Anglehill had the brains of a peahen, she would pelt the damned Irishman with rocks and bolt for the hills. Although it would probably do her little good. O’Banyon could run like a spurred charger if he put his heart into it. And for a bonny lass, he would do just that. His heart and a number of other body parts.

“Is that where you met the wolf there?”

“What?” He snapped his gaze to hers.

Her brows rose sharply. “If you are the innocent, then I must assume your friend there is the wolf,” she said.

Killian drew a careful breath, calming himself. She was no fool, that much was certain, but she was, as of yet, unaware of the unearthly forces at work. “Ye speak of the Irishman,” he said.

“O’Banyon wasn’t it?”

Indeed it was. And who else might she be considering? Even the Golden Lady of Inglewaer had been intrigued with him, though she had been careful to prove her interest in none but Killian himself. Oh yes, he remembered her now. She had come to him in a dream just three nights before, as lovely and melancholy as when he’d first met her. Her fingers were like satin against his fevered skin. Her voice had been that of an angel.

He’d awakened in a cold sweat.

From across the cavernous room, Killian heard O’Banyon laugh. He turned toward the couple that swayed about the dance floor. Ironically, it had been the Irishman himself who had warned against trusting the golden lady. A strange thing, since Banyon had forever been besotted by one maid or another. He’d always been as discriminating as a hound, or so Killian had thought, and yet the other had seen through the lady’s deception. But by then it had been too late. Far too late for either of them.

And Lady Glendowne was still watching him, as though she could discern secrets best left hid.

“Or do you call him something else?” she asked.

“He’s been called a host of names,” Killian said, remembering back to a distant time, before the darkness, before his fatal mistake. “In an assortment of languages.”

“Truly? He seems quite charming.”

How many times had Killian heard those words, or a variation of the same? He felt irritation tickle the back of his neck as he watched the other glide past. Lady Anglehill was still laughing. The Irishman had once partnered the princess of Teleere. She had begged him to run away with her the very same night, “As can a serpent,” he said, turning back toward Fleurette. “But it is rarely wise to befriend one.”

She was watching him again, though Banyon was still visible through the crowd. Which was strange. But for the delicate maid dressed all in white, every other woman present seemed transfixed.

How many moments would pass until the baroness turned back toward the Irishman? Not that Killian cared, of course. She could be besotted by whomever she chose, even if he was a womanizing hound.

“Shall I assume you do not care for him?” she asked.

” ‘Tis the maids what are ever agog when he is near.”

She nodded, but frowned a little, as if puzzled. “Maids… women…” she corrected, “are often fools.”

He could not have been more surprised if she had spat in his eye. Indeed, he would have hardly been surprised at that a’tall. But to think she did not find O’Banyon appealing, was beyond belief. “Are ye saying he holds no allure for ye?” he asked.

She laughed a little, making him wonder if his expression proved his disbelief. “He has a pretty face,” she said. “I’ll grant you that.”

“And a smooth tongue.”

She shrugged and took a sip of punch.

“He dances well. The lassies adore him.”

She laughed out loud. ” ‘Tis little wonder with you singing his praises as if he were a champion roadster.”

He deepened his scowl. “I but wonder if ye lie, or if he truly holds no charm for ye.”

She looked him in the eye. “The truth is this, I’ve little use for flowery speech or fools who dance divinely. Indeed, I’ve had both and found them of little value.”

He was momentarily speechless, then, “Ye jest.”

Anger flashed in her eyes like summer lightning. “Is it so difficult to believe that I would value honesty and strength of character over a pretty face, Scotsman?”

He was astounded. And flattered, and dangerously hopeful, which made him as irritated as hell, for he had no way of knowing if she spoke the truth. If, perhaps, there was a chance that she could cherish him despite his homely face and distinct lack of panache. “Is there some reason ye canna use me proper name, lass?” he asked. ” ‘Tis Killian, God damn it. Killian.”