Taming the Barbarian (2 page)

“You’re shameless,” Amelia tsked, but laughed just the same.

“I do hope so,” he admitted, then raised his voice. “Lady Glendowne, might you at least give me a small hint who intrigues you?” When she failed to answer, he turned and found that she stood perfectly still, one palm laid flat upon the warrior’s bulging thigh. Her gaze was lifted to his granite features, and her lips were slightly parted, as though she had been just about to take a breath before forgetting her intentions.

“Well, it looks as if you have your answer,” quipped Lucille.

“Ahh, of course,” Deacon agreed, scowling in puzzlement. “But what might the question be.”

“Who intrigues
la petite fleur
.”

“No!” Deacon placed his hand over his heart as if mortally wounded. “Tell me ‘tis not so. Our little flower could not be interested in such a hulking barbarian.”

“Whyever not? He is most…” Lucille skimmed her gaze down the Celt’s gargantuan chest, bare but for the bunched strip of cloth that crossed his bulging shoulder and disappeared beneath his belted plaid. Her nostrils flared. “…intriguing. Don’t you agree, Fleurette?” she asked.

Lady Glendowne did not answer.

“Fleurette?” Lucy repeated, louder this time.

Fleur snapped to attention as if struck.

“I’m sorry. What?”

Lucy laughed. “I said, the Black Celt is quite intriguing, is he not?”

“Oh, yes, beautiful…” She skimmed the statue again as if not quite able to resist. “Artistry.”

Lucille’s eyes danced with mischief. “And he’s so large.”

“Yes,” Fleur breathed.

“It makes one wonder if he is just as impressive in other areas. Does it not?”

“Yes,” she said again, then jerked her gaze from the Celt and felt herself blush despite her advancing years and widowed state. Surely she was well past the age of such foolishness.

“No!” Deacon said, sounding aghast. “Ladies of quality could not possibly be interested in an overgrown barbarian with a fractious horse and a…” He glanced toward the hocks of the rearing steed and winced. “Is that a hound?”

“It almost appears to be a wolf,” Lucille said. “And a good-sized wolf indeed.”

“But of course.” Deacon spread his hands wide as if surrendering to the inevitable. “He would be accompanied by a wolf, would he not?” he asked, then reached out and grasped Fleurette’s hand. “But surely you’re more interested in an elegant bloke with a slim figure and ready wit.”

“Certainly,” said Fleur, and smiled at Deacon. He had a pretty face, but it was generally accepted that he was built rather like a cricket mallet. “Might you know of any such fellow?”

“How amusing. And what of you, Miss Engleton?” he asked, but she, too, was staring wordlessly at the statue.

“I am struck to the very quick,” Deacon said, and placed his hand over his broken heart once again.

“Don’t be idiotic,” Lucille said. “Elegance is all well and good for a ball at Almack’s or a nice turtle dinner. But for one mind-shattering night alone in the dark…” She paused and sighed heavily as she tilted her head toward the Celt. “There’s not a woman on earth mad enough to refuse that.”

Fleurette felt her attention tugged inexorably toward the Celt again. It seemed almost, that he watched her, that he could see her no matter where she stood. His eyes were hidden in shadow beneath his stony helmet, and his lean cheeks were mostly concealed under the tight rows of metal rings that served to protect his face. But it mattered little, for his demeanor was everything—boldness and bravery, chivalry and honor. A life that would be given without question or regret.

“That’s it then,” Deacon said. “I shall return to my room straightaway and slice my wrists. Messy, yet effective, I’m told. But wait, perhaps I should drown myself in the Seine. Ghastly inelegant, but oh the drama. Then again—”

“Oh, Deacon, do shut up,” Fleur insisted, drawing herself from her reverie.

He grinned at her. “So you do care for me?”

“Of course I care,” she said, her tone offhand.

“And you wouldn’t want some barbaric Celt in your bed?”

Her scowl was thoughtful. “I really don’t think he’d fit. His charger alone would take up the entire mattress, and the wolf—”

“Very amusing,” he countered, his tone dry and his expression nonplussed. “I meant if he were alive… and conveniently detachable from his steed.”

“Oh, well…” She glanced at the Celt again and found that he still drew her. But she pulled her gaze resolutely away. “That would make all the difference, wouldn’t it?”

He gave her a look that reminded her a bit of Henri, her overly sensitive spaniel, who was most probably still moping about being left behind in England.

“I jest of course,” she said. “It’s the nineteenth century, Deacon, and I’ve no wish to abandon my freedom. Not that I wouldn’t do anything to have Thomas back, of course.” She paused as a pang of memory smote her. “But I could hardly give up holidays such as this for a man with bulging biceps and a snarl.”

“Even if he has a wolf?”

She laughed. “Even if,” she said, but as they traversed the mossy trails toward the garden’s trellised entrance, she could not help but turn to take one last look. The Black Celt stood alone, rearing above the heads of mortal man, alone, dark, and shrouded in purpose.

“B
ut you must come see the Pantheon with us,” Amelia argued. “Tell her, Antoinette.”

Antoinette Desbonnet was a countess, a widow, and the woman with whom they were staying while in Paris. Her rambling estate offered a distant view of the Jardin Des Tuileries and the ancient palace that accompanied it. She was also, very possibly, the most beautiful woman Fleurette had ever seen.

“
Oui, certainement
,” she said. “How could one live without seeing a cluster of moldering graves?” She said the words with absolute sincerity, yet managed, somehow, to convey the exact opposite attitude. The Comtesse de Colline was the epitome of pedigreed class. Always dressed in immaculate white, her wardrobe was flawless, if monochromatic. Her coiffure was
au couture
, and her complexion glowing. She should be an easy woman to hate, and yet Fleur had not been able to manage it.

“Yes,” Lucille agreed. “You should definitely come. We’ll not see a single thing without you there to distract Deacon. He may even become so desperate as to believe
I
might wish to marry, if he doesn’t have you on whom to concentrate his attentions.”

Fleurette forced a smile. “I am so very sorry. But I fear my headache is worsening.”

“
Mon dieu
,” said Antoinette, lifting a slim hand. Her gloves were made of white kid. Not a single speck of dirt dared show against the pristine leather. “I shall order up a tonic straight away.”

“Yes,” Amelia agreed. “In a matter of minutes you’ll be right as rain.”

“Thank you,” Fleur said, fighting her conscience. Had she not known better, she would have thought she had pummeled the damn thing into submission many long years ago. “But I fear I didn’t sleep well, and I am mad to spend the day abed.”

“Oh dear.” Amelia’s expression turned from enthusiast to worried in a matter of seconds. “Was it talk of Thomas that disturbed you?”

“Perhaps,” Fleurette admitted, then touched her young friend’s arm and gave her a brief smile. “But you needn’t worry. I shall be fine if left to my own devices.”

“I am so very sorry,” Amelia said, covering Fleur’s hand with her own and gazing into the other’s eyes. “Lord Lessenton means well, you know.”

“I do know,” Fleurette agreed, doing her best to lighten the mood. It seemed to work, for Amelia sighed and gave her an optimistic smile.

Since her engagement some weeks before, Amelia tended to see the world from the rosy precipice of impending matrimony. “You must miss Lord Glendowne so. I know if anything happened to my Edward…” She paused, unable to go on.

“There now,” said Lucille, coming up from behind and patting the girl’s arm. “Edward is as healthy as a hound.” And looked similar by all accounts, despite his impressive bank account. “You needn’t worry. But we must rush on now. I promised your
mère
that you would return to London as cultured as a marchioness.”

Amelia shifted her wide-eyed gaze from one to the other. In reality, she was no more than a few years younger than Fleurette, and yet, at times, the difference seemed vast indeed. “But surely we cannot leave Lady Glendowne unattended.”

“I think she can brave a headache,” Lucille said, and, fetching their shawls, draped an Indian silk across the girl’s shoulders. “Come now.”

Amelia scowled but allowed herself to be herded relentlessly toward the door. “Are you certain there is nothing I can fetch you? A cup of tea? A cool cloth for your brow?”

“You are kind,” Fleur said. “But truly I am quite well. Just fatigued. I am sorry,” she said again, and after she’d repeated that sentiment several times, Amelia relented and stepped outside, followed by the comtesse, holding her immaculate skirt just so.

But Lucille stopped in the doorway, her shrewd eyes somber as she rested her hand on the latch. Their gazes met. “I am told repeatedly and emphatically that they are not all alike.”

“Who?” Fleur asked.

“Men,” Lucille said. Her husband, the aging earl of Anglehill, had been bent, bald, and as cantankerous as a toothache. But despite it all, Fleurette suspected at times that Lucy still missed him, regardless of the cavalier front she so carefully maintained.

“Go now, Lucy,” Fleur scolded. “The others are waiting. Hurry along, or you’ll be late.”

Lucille shook her head, sighed, and drew herself to her full height. She stood five-eleven in her silk stockings, a daunting height for any man. The earl, riddled by rickets and a number of other ailments, had never reached the five-six mark. He’d resented it deeply. “There is no such thing as being late when one is on holiday. One is either spot on time or early for the next engagement.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Fleur said, and smiled at her departing companions. But as they traipsed down the steps to the cobbled street, she realized her hands were shaking. Pressing the door shut, she retreated to the parlor and assured herself that all was well. The nightmares were nothing new. They were only dreams conjured up by a foolishly overactive imagination. All was as it should be. She needn’t worry.

But she dare not return to bed. Neither could she eat, though the breakfast she had ordered waited on the sideboard.

She tried to read, but the words swam before her eyes, and dark images crowded in. Finally, vexed and restless, she donned her favorite riding habit and wandered alone to the comtesse’s stable. The buildings were immaculate, as were the steeds. Although Antoinette had never been known to ride, she kept several fine hacks. Requesting a leggy bay be saddled, Fleurette finally rode the wending streets of Paris alone.

It was nearly dusk when, to some surprise, she found herself at Jardin de Jacques. Fond memories of the day before drew at her until she left her mount with a squire and wandered the mossy paths. It was not long before she came once again upon the statue of the towering Black Celt.

The sun was low in the sky and cast a gentle glow on the upturned blossoms of the nearby roses, but it did little to lighten the Celt’s granite face. Instead, he stood imposing and dark, as if the light never quite reached him. As if he stood perpetually alone despite the many visitors who stopped for a moment, then bustled past.

He was not entirely unlike herself, Fleurette thought, then laughed at her melancholy mood. In that instant a shadow loomed over her. A scythe swooped down. She gasped and jerked about, but the shadow materialized into nothing more deadly than a wizened old man bearing a gnarled staff.

Fleur pressed a hand to her pounding heart and sought to calm her breathing.

“Me apologies, lass.” The old gaffer was dressed in rough garb, his knobby hands bent with age and placed one atop the other on the curve of his cane. “I did na mean to frighten ye.”

Fleurette pinched back harsh words. Fear tended to make her sharp-tongued. “No. No.” She forced a weak smile. “The fault is entirely mine. I must have been daydreaming.”

“Aye. ‘Twill happen.” He returned her smile, showing stained teeth and a kindly temperament. ” ‘Tis easy to do in the shadow of the braw Celt.” He nodded toward the statue. “One tends to remember things long past and sometimes things best left forgot.”

She watched him, wondering what he meant, wondering if he could read her thoughts, could guess the images that haunted her nights. Or did he have dark memories of his own that came tumbling back in the Celt’s stony presence?

“Are you the keeper of these gardens?” she asked.

“Me? Nay,” he said, and gave a gravelly chuckle. “I am na but an old man what comes to visit the Celt now and again.”

“An admirer of ancient art?” she guessed.

“I would na say so,” he said, eyeing the statue. “But more an admirer of ancient times.”

She turned her gaze toward the venerable sculpture. It seemed to watch her even now, its thoughts unspoken, its purpose suspended, but only for an abbreviated moment. “When was he sculpted? Do you know?”

“Sculpted?” said the old man and gave her a glance from the corner of his rheumy eye. “Have you na heard the tale, lass?”

She smiled. “Surely you don’t believe that foolishness about his being cursed,” she said, though she admitted to herself that in the lengthening shadows of the Celt all things seemed possible.

“A sensible young maid are ye then?” he asked, and canted his head at her.

She laughed. “Sensible yes. Young…” She shrugged, and he chuckled.

“The Celt lived back when the world was new. When druids roamed the Highlands and chanted beneath an ancient moon. Even ye are probably young compared to him, aye?”

“Fourteenth century?” she guessed, studying the chiseled links of the warrior’s lower helmet.

The old man cocked his head as if impressed by her knowledge. “Ye ken yer history.”

“I am fond of ancient artifacts. Indeed, I collect some pieces from that era and before.”

“Do ye now? And what of the dark Celt here? Does he strike yer fancy?”