Taming the Barbarian (18 page)

She raised an imperious brow at him, completely nonplussed by either his scowl or the fact that he outweighed her by a good five stone. He could lift her with one hand, could carry her from the room that very moment whether she wished to go or nay. Why did that not occur to her? Why the devil did that not concern her? He’d once faced a dozen brigands unaided. They’d been armed to the skin and in no mood for defeat, but in the end, they’d turned tail like a pack of cowed curs. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Killian then,” she corrected evenly. “Are you hoping to change the subject?”

“Now why would I be wanting to turn the peat?” he asked, and darkened his glower. She raised her chin a notch. Hmph. “Surely ye are not the sort of maid to use a man’s words against him.”

“Turn the peat,” she said, and laughed. The sound was sweet and quiet, like the soft ripple of water in a friendly garden fountain. “Tell, me Sir…”

He darkened his glare.

She brightened her smile, her anger seeming to be all but completely spent. “Killian,” she said. “Do you invent these quaint phrases on the moment, or do you lie awake at night thinking them up?”

He watched her, though there were a host of other things he longed to do. “Me nights are spent in naught but sleep,” he said, but it was a lie, and he was certain it showed on his face, for many long hours passed while he did nothing but grind his teeth and think of her.

She watched him, her lips parted silently and the barest blush of color brushing her cheeks. But in a moment she cleared her throat and spoke again, as her lashes fluttered downward.

“So you still have not answered my question. What is this O’Banyon to you? A relative? Or perhaps someone with whom you do business?”

“Tell me, lass, is it common amongst ladies of your ilk to consider business and naught else?”

“Ladies of my ilk?” She gave him another smile, but there was some steel to it now. If it was a true expression of happiness, he would eat his sword, hilt and all.

“In me own time, lassies such as yerself would have had other things to occupy their days.”

“Your time,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “And when was that, sir?”

Caution coiled in his gut. Damn him. He knew better than to spar with the likes of her. He did not have the Irishman’s gift of gab, nor was he accustomed to idle banter with a bonny lass who could twist a man’s guts about like sailors’ knots.

“I meant me
place
,” he lied. “Me homeland.”

“The ungilded Hiltsglen,” she said.

He forced himself to hold her gaze, to refrain from shuffling his feet. Though they hurt, bound as they were in the foolish shoes he had purchased some days ago. Was there not a man in all of London who knew the value of a well-worn pair of boots? “Aye, Hiltsglen,” he said.

“And how do the fair lassies of Hiltsglen spend their days?” she asked. She’d put a wee bit of a brogue into her speech, and though he knew she mocked him, the sound was yet sweet to his ears.

“The maids of me homeland are a gentle, bonny lot,” he said. “Quiet and respectful to the men to whom they pledge their—”

“Respect!” Her eyes sparked with sudden anger. “I would be respectful, too, if I found a man who deserved such a thing.”

He watched her in surprised silence, his brows raised in wonder.

She held his gaze for some seconds, then cleared her throat and shifted her eyes rapidly away. “What I meant to say…” she began, and cleared her throat again as if embarrassed by her sudden outburst, “is that some of us are not so fortunate as to have a man to see to such mundane details as putting bread on the table.”

Was that what she had meant, he wondered. She lifted her gaze back to his, but if there had been any embarrassment there, it was gone. Replaced with a spark of challenge.

He almost smiled as he nodded toward the crowd that milled about them. “Surely there is one man amongst them willing to take on the likes of ye.” But would any man survive the wedding night? If their time together in his cottage was any indication, she would be no docile kitten in the bedchamber, but more a wildcat, clawed and untamed and dangerous. The image drove him to new pangs of agony, but he refrained from shifting uncomfortably. “Even in this weak-kneed crowd of will-gills,” he added.

She stared at him for a moment, then fluttered her eyes in mock flirtation. “I am ever so flattered that you think me capable of snaring myself a gentleman, good sir, but perhaps you overestimate me.”

He shrugged one shoulder and watched her eyes spark. “Ye managed to find yerself a husband in the past.”

“Perhaps he was terribly desperate.”

Desperation he could understand, he thought, and felt his cock buck insistently against his belly.

“Dunna sell yerself short, lass,” he said, and let his gaze skim to her bosom. ” ‘Tis certain you have something to offer a man.”

She gritted her teeth for an instant, then forced a sugary smile. “Oh, Sir Hiltsglen.” Her eyelashes fluttered again. His erection ached in retaliation. “I fear I owe you my sincerest apologies. When first I met you I thought you quite crass.” She brightened her smile, though he would have been quite certain she could not. “But I see now that I was entirely mistaken. However did the fair ladies of Hiltsglen allow you to escape their clutches?”

” ‘Tis interesting,” he said, nearly laughing aloud at her fine performance. “Ye can say one thing with yer mouth and another thing entirely with yer eyes.”

“There you go again, sir, flattering me. I fear I am blushing.”

And actually, she was, though he doubted it was from embarrassment. Anger snapped blue-green in her eyes.

“Tell me, me lady,” he said, “did ye give yer husband a moment’s peace whilst ye shared his home?”

She took a step toward him, teeth bared. “Are you suggesting I was less than the quiet little lass you are accustomed to?”

” ‘Tis said there is no hell like an unhappy wife.”

“Tell me, Hiltsglen,” she snarled, “do you consider yourself an expert on wives, too, or just on desperate men?”

“Neither,” he said, and felt the pain of her closeness like a blade in his heart. “Merely an expert on hell.”

Her lips parted, but for a moment she did not speak, as if she contemplated his every thought.

“Since Hiltsglen seems like heaven in your eyes, I can only assume ‘tis London and my company you find offensive,” she said, and, visibly calming herself, took a sip of punch. A droplet remained on her lips. She swiped it away with her tongue.

God balls, she was driving him mad. She kept talking, baiting him, laughing at him, and yet he could not forget those moments at his cottage, when she had had better things to do with her lips. He watched them move, watched them part, watched the quick dart of her tongue against her tidy teeth.

“Hiltsglen!” she snapped, and he jerked himself from his trance.

Bowing jerkily, he straightened and backed away. “I must leave,” he said, though he knew he was a coward.

“Leave?” she said. “I didn’t mean… I don’t want you to…” She paused, her eyes wide, and began again. “You’ve not answered a single question.”

“Mayhap another time,” he said, and turned away.

She caught his sleeve and scurried around him. “Who are you?” she breathed.

“I am what ye see,” he said, gazing into her bonny eyes and wishing it were not true. “A man hard used and far from all he is accustomed to.”

For a moment something flared in her eyes, but she hid it away. “Why have you come here? What do you want? Who is this O’Banyon?”

He turned sharply toward her, emotion sparking in his gut. “He is not for ye,” he said.

Her jaw dropped, showing ivory teeth and a rose pink tongue. She shook her head, but when she spoke, her tone was stunned. “Do you presume to tell me whom I should choose?”

He had gone too far. This he knew, and yet he could not seem to stop himself and took a step toward her, so that their bodies all but touched. Still, she didn’t back away. “He will neither improve your bank account nor increase the purity of yer blood. That much I know.”

She stared at him for some seconds, then shrugged as if she had not a care in the world, as if the universe lay at her bonny feet. “Perhaps not. But as I said, he has a pretty face and might well improve the look of my future children.”

Killian tightened his fist about the punch cup and held himself carefully still.

She watched him with ungodly bright eyes, and her lips perked up at the corners as she weighed his reaction. So she was toying with him, and yet he could not quite disavow the hot spur of emotion that jabbed through his very soul.

“If I cannot have integrity, I may as well settle for handsome, don’t you agree?” Her tone was perfectly innocent, her verdant eyes as wide as the hillocks, and yet, miraculous as it seemed, he refrained from tossing her over his shoulder and carrying her to the nearest bedchamber as his heated dreams insisted.

“If the truth be known,” he said, employing every ounce of his strained self-control, “I dunna much care whether a man is pretty or homely.”

“Don’t you?” she asked and laughed again. “Well, you will certainly not fit in well with the ton then.”

“The ton?”

She looked puzzled for a moment, as if he were an interesting new specimen found amidst the muck. “The gentry,” she said, and waved her spread hand across the gay crowd. “The peerage. They spend most of their time considering looks—their own as well as others’. “

He glanced about the room. It was crowded with a sea of brightly dressed couples, laughing and dancing. Eating and drinking.

“Do they na have better things to do with their time?” he asked.

“What would you suggest, sir? Surely you do not think they should concern themselves with…” She paused, and her eyes gleamed. “Putting bread on their tables.”

So he had been caught in his own words. He did not like to be bested, and yet there was almost a spark of satisfaction with her jab.

“Tell me, lass,” he rumbled, and stepped closer still, so that her half-bare breasts just touched his foolishly clad chest, “is there na a man amongst yer
ton
with stones enough to claim ye for his own?”

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted and moved, then…

“My apologies,” someone said from behind. “But I must insist upon a dance with Lady Glendowne.”

Killian turned slowly toward the newcomer. He was tall, bowed like a grapple, and smelled distinctly of fish oil. Killian lowered his brows.

“What say you, my lady? Might…” he began, but when his gaze darted to Killian’s he stopped in midsentence. “I… ahhh… I am Lord Lampor. And… you?”

“I am speaking with the lass,” Killian growled.

“Oh! Ahh… Certainly. The lass. My apologies,” stuttered the narrow lord, and bumbled back into the anonymity of the crowd.

Killian watched him go.

“That was…” Lady Glendowne began. He turned back toward her. Her lips moved prettily with no sound for a moment. “That was amaz…” She blinked, looking lost, then straightened her shoulders and hurried on. “Indescribably rude.”

“Not him then,” Killian said.

She reared back. “Not him what?”

“He would na be the one with the stones to claim ye.”

“Claim me!” she snarled, and suddenly she was grasping his jacket in one tiny fist. He glanced down, spellbound by the sight of it. Even her fist was pretty. “Might you think I am some…” Her teeth were gritted, her bonny bosom heaving. “Some broodmare, meant to be stabled and claimed and…”

“Well.” Lady Anglehill’s voice sounded perfectly thrilled when she appeared beside them. “I am so glad to see that the two of you are getting better acquainted.” She shifted her happy gaze from Fleurette to Killian and back. “You make a lovely couple. Don’t you agree, Sir O’Banyon?”

“Aye.” The Irishman’s tone was as dry as the dust of Israel. “But ‘tis a known fact that our Killian has a way of bringing out the best in the lassies.”

“And I can certainly see why. What with his manly demeanor and chivalrous airs. Don’t you agree, Flurry?”

Killian turned back to Lady Glendowne. Her lips moved, and he was quite certain she spoke, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand what she said, for it sounded like nothing more than a feral growl.

“What’s that?” Lucille asked, leaning closer, but in a moment the lass had forced her fingers from his jacket and pivoted stiffly into the crowd. They watched her being swallowed up by the milling mob.

“Well, that went well,” said Lady Anglehill, but at that precise moment the cup shattered in Killian’s clenched fist.

“L
ady Glendowne. Fleurette.”

Fleur stopped her mad dash toward Lucille’s front door. She saw that the Comtesse de Colline watched her from the corner farthest from the irritating Celt, but she would not explain her hasty retreat, not to a woman who understood neither troubles nor emotions. And certainly not to a woman who was drowning in hopeful suitors, Frederick Deacon amongst them.

“Wherever are you going in such a rush?” Stanford asked, hurrying up to her. “I just now realized you’d arrived.”

Fleur tried to calm her straining heart, to settle her breathing, but rage stormed through her like roiling thunder. Damn the barbarian and his oversized… everything.

“Stanford.” She tried to smile, but turned instead to stare through the crowd in the direction she’d just come. It almost seemed that she could hear Lucille’s laughter even now. But that was fine. The countess deserved the overblown cretin. Indeed, she probably deserved the cretin
and
his Irish friend. Although the one called O’Banyon looked to be tolerably well mannered. At least in comparison to—

“Fleurette?”

“Oh, Stanford.” Reaching out, Fleur guiltily touched the baron’s arm. His coat was made of finest serge and was snug against his narrow biceps. “I’m so sorry. I just… My mind was wandering.” She glanced again in the direction of the trio she had just left. “What did you say?”

He laughed and took her arms in both hands. “Are you quite well? You look terribly flushed.”

Flushed? She was about to combust. Damned overbearing Highlander with his rumbling brogue and his endless shoulders. Who the hell did he think he was, treating her like a soppy milkmaid with no more brains—