Taming the Barbarian (22 page)

“Yes,” she agreed, “Yes, it was, but there’s something you don’t know. Something…” Her voice broke. “Awful.”

“Fleur. My dearest.” He pulled her closer, letting her hide her face against his shoulder. “What is it? Tell me. Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“I don’t know,” she breathed. “I may well be.”

He drew back for a moment, glanced at her expression, then ceased his dancing and stepped toward the door. They were outside in a moment. The air felt cool and rejuvenating against Fleur’s warm cheeks.

He drew her into the shadows of a sculpted shrub. “Now tell me,” he insisted. “What is all this about?”

“I just… I tried to be a good wife. You know that, don’t you?”

Perhaps he was confused by her abrupt question, but he answered evenly. “Of course,” he said. “And you succeeded. There was never a bride so pretty nor so loyal.”

“I cared for him. Truly I did, even though…” She paused, her heart racing as she lifted her gaze frantically to Stanford’s. “I cared for him.”

“Of course you did. ‘Twas obvious in everything you did.”

“So you don’t think… You don’t think people believe his death was somehow my fault?”

“What! No.” He squeezed her hand. “One would have to be mad to believe such nonsense. Why would you even think such a thing?”

“There have been…” she began, then shook her head. “Nothing. ‘Tis nothing.”

” ‘Tis very obviously something, Fleurette. Someone has frightened you. Who is it?” His face had lost all jocularity. Indeed, gone was the innocuous Stanford she had known for so long. And in his place was a tough young man who cared deeply for her happiness.

“I don’t—”

He tightened his grip and leaned closer so that all she could see was his eyes. “Is someone bothering you?”

She drew a deep breath, steadying herself. “There is a man named Mr. Kendrick.”

“Kendrick?” he echoed.

“I met him some nights past.”

He waited for her to go on.

“He… He accosted me—”

“Accosted you! My God, Fleurette! And you didn’t tell me. Didn’t even—”

“No. No. Accosted is the wrong word. He… spoke to me, after Madame Gravier’s party. I was walking to my carriage. He introduced himself. Said he was Thomas’s cousin.”

Stanford scowled. “What nonsense is this? Thomas had no remaining cousins. I was his closest kin, and that by marriage.”

“That’s what I believed. But he said… He…”

“Did he threaten you, Fleurette?”

She managed to nod, though she could not meet his eyes, but he put his fingers beneath her chin and lifted it until she was forced to look at him.

“I shall take care of this for you.”

“How? I—”

He pressed a finger to her lips and smiled gently. “I know you think me something of a fop. And perhaps I am. After all, I do believe there are few things more important than the cut of a good coat. Unless it is the perfect cravat. But I am not entirely without influence, Fleurette,” he continued. She found no reply. He drew a careful breath. “And surely you realize what you mean to me.”

“You have been like a brother to me. I couldn’t have survived those first months without—”

“I would like to be more.”

Her world settled crazily around her. “What?”

He laughed, but it seemed to be at his own expense. “Very well then, perhaps you don’t realize what you mean to me. But that hardly negates my—”

“Stanford.” She reached for his hands. “If I’ve given you any reason to believe I wished to marry again—”

“Hush,” he said, and placed a gentle finger to her lips. Their gazes met and held. “I love you. I have for a long while. But that need change nothing. I will learn all I can of this Mr. Kendrick, and I shall put a stop to his harassments regardless of your feelings…” He smiled again. “Or lack of the same, for me.”

“Stanford,” she began, but he leaned forward and kissed her lips. The caress was as soft as a sigh, and he drew back in a moment.

She stood dumbfounded, and he laughed a little.

“Come now,” he said. “I shall escort you home.”

She shook her head, trying to think.

“There will be no pressure,” he said. “Indeed, we shall never speak of this again, if that’s your wish. I only want you to remember, if you get weary of being both man and woman, if you tire of battling the odds alone, I would consider it an honor to care for you.”

He linked his arm through hers and walked her toward her phaeton. Horace opened the door and drew down the step, then backed away respectfully.

“Thank you,” she murmured, not quite able to meet the baron’s kindly eyes. “But I… I’m feeling much better already and I need… I think I need some time to myself. To consider your words.”

He looked immediately worried. “I don’t believe you should be alone, Fleurette. Not tonight.”

“But I won’t be. Not really.” She forced a smile and found that she did feel somewhat better. “Horace will be here.”

He glanced worriedly at the driver, who gazed carefully into nothingness.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she said. Reaching out, she touched his cheek again. “And ‘tis because of you. You have my thanks, dearest Stanford.”

He grasped her wrist and turned her hand so that he could kiss her palm. Not a flicker of feeling sparked through her.

“You are most welcome,” he said, and handed her into the carriage.

In a moment, it was moving. She gave Stanford a wave and watched him slip from sight as her phaeton trundled away.

But a scratch of noise distracted her. She turned to the left and gasped just as Killian of Hiltsglen settled onto the seat opposite her.

“D
unna scream,” Killian warned.

But the lady’s mouth was already open in shock and dismay. Thus he snatched her onto his lap and pressed his palm against her succulent lips.

She jerked toward him. Her eyes were as wide as forever in her pale face. The beveled lantern swayed from the carriage’s corner, casting shadows and light across her startled expression. He remained silent, allowing the fear to leave her eyes and the anger to settle in. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Are ye calm now?” he asked.

Her eyes snapped like green flames in the candlelight, and despite the roiling emotions that thundered through him, the storm in her bottle green eyes almost made him smile. Even so, he removed his hand with some misgivings.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Her voice was raspy, her cheeks diffused with rosy color.

“I’ve but come to ask ye a few questions, lass.”

Her brows lowered angrily, making him wonder if, once again, she failed to realize the disparity of their size and strength. “Then you should have scheduled an appointment at my office, Sir Killian, or—”

“This be a matter that begs some privacy,” he rumbled.

“I’ve but to scream, and Stanford—”

“Stanford,” he repeated, and though he saw nothing comical in the situation, he snorted a laugh. It sounded harsh and low against the sharp click of her grays’ steady trot, but he hardly cared. “What might ye think your bonny Stanford would do for ye, lass?”

Her lips twitched with suppressed rage. “I think he would come to my rescue if ever I needed—”

“Huh!” He could not help the derisive laughter anymore than he could contain the stir of desire against her taut bottom. Mayhap he had thought too highly of his own self-restraint when he had settled her upon his lap, for he now found it difficult to think. “Ye would be far more likely to save a milk-fed weakling like the baron than the other way about.”

“That shows what little you know. He has come to my rescue on more than one occasion.”

“Has he now?” Killian rumbled. “And what dire troubles assailed ye at the time, lass? Had yer hound gone astray? Or mayhap yer
foeniculum vulgare
was na blooming to yer satisfaction.”

“
Foeniculum
…” She shook her head with manic frustration. “I’ve no idea what you’re—”

” ‘Tis the Latin name for fennel. If ye were na forced to labor like a penniless crafter, mayhap ye would ken something of the plants what grow in yer own—”

“Plants!” She skimmed his chest and arms with a derisive glare. “How the devil does a battle-scarred knight of the realm know so much about plants?”

He tried not to redden. Tried not to shift uncomfortably against the sweet curve of her bottom. “I’ve spent some days in the garden near—” he began, then deepened his scowl and turned the peats.

“The point be this, lass, your puny baron is na man enough to—”

“Lord Lessenton is gentle and kind. That does not make him weak.”

“Nay. Methinks ‘tis his lack of strength that makes him so.”

“Power does not make a man a man,” she hissed, turning more fully toward him.

Her hip pressed firm and intimate against his arousal.

Lust smote him like a broadsword, hard and low, stopping his breath, stealing any trace of civility. “In truth, lass,” he rasped, “I believe it be the stones what makes a man a man. Does yer bonny Stanford have any, do ye suppose?”

She was momentarily silent, then. “He is more the man than you shall ever be.”

He could not help the emotions that burned through him like a pitch fire. Neither could he stop his words. “Because he has lovely golden locks and dances divinely?” he asked.

“Because he has no need to overpower those weaker than himself.”

“Mayhap that is because he canna find another to fit that description.”

She growled as she jerked from his lap and turned about to face him from the opposite seat. He winced, maybe at the jab against his nether parts as she departed, or maybe simply because she was gone, lifted mercilessly from his lonely lap.

“Tell me, Sir Killian,” she snarled, “have you come here simply to boast of your fabulous strength?”

He shook his head, but she was already storming on. “Because I must tell you, I’ve had my fill of men who control others with their fists.”

He was about to speak, to defend his intentions, when the weight of her words struck him like a blow. But he kept himself absolutely still, calming his sharp-honed instincts as he studied her in the shifting darkness. As it was, he knew the moment she regretted her statement. Knew the instant she wished she could draw back her words.

Sir Killian of Hiltsglen was not a man of wild emotions. Indeed, he had found that feelings do not belong in a warrior’s world. A knight must be cold, he must be calculating in order to survive. It was entirely possible she was lying, after all. Entirely possible she’d said the words in just that manner to make him believe they had slipped out unintentionally. Oh aye, he knew far better than to believe a maid’s innocent suggestions. And yet anger rumbled through him like thundering chargers. He remained exactly as he was, holding himself steady, watching her.

“What might ye be saying, lass?” he asked.

She drew a slow even breath and raised her chin slightly, as though prepared for battle. “I am saying you are far too high-handed,” she said. “You’ve no right to decide whom I should dance with or who—”

“Did he strike you?” His voice rumbled forth like distant thunder, though he tried to lighten the tone.

“What?” She drew dramatically back, but her hands were gripping the seat as if to hold herself steady. Her knuckles looked white and taut against the patterned velvet. “Whatever are you talking about?”

He controlled the unacceptable rage, quieted the simmering wrath, and kept his tone steady. “Yer husband.” He said the words slowly, lest the possibilities spill him over the razor-sharp edge of control. “Did he hurt ye in some way?”

“No. Of course not,” she said, her cheeks ablaze with sudden color. “What would make you ask such a ridiculous thing?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watched her in ruminative silence.

She laughed, but the sound was breathy and her hands suddenly fluttery. “Tell me true, Sir Hiltsglen, do I seem the sort of woman to tolerate abuse?”

“Nay,” he said, holding her gaze “Ye dunna. Indeed, ye seem admirably strong. I but wonder what put the steel in yer spine at the outset.”

She shrugged. The movement was stiff. “I am what I am Scotsman. If that threatens you in some way, ‘tis—”

“I am not threatened by ye lass,” he snarled, leaning suddenly forward. “I am set ablaze by yer—” He yanked his words to a halt and forced himself to settle back against the cushioned seat behind him.

“Where is he buried?” he asked, his tone steady again.

She tilted her head as if amused, but her face was still pale, and her breath halted. “What?”

“Yer husband,” he said, keeping his voice quiet, restrained, lest all hell break forth and burn them to cinders. “I but wondered where ye saw him laid to rest.”

She had gone deathly still. Even her gaze didn’t flicker away. “He drowned, as I told you.” She drew a deep breath finally and glanced down at her hands, as if the memory were too much to bear. “His body was never found, as you well know.”

“Never?”

“I told you as much!” she snapped, then clasped her hands in her lap and soothed her tone. “This is not a memory I care to dwell on, Sir Hiltsglen. Indeed, I think it cruel of you to dredge up old pain.”

“As cruel as he was?”

Her gaze flashed to his, her eyes enormous in the wavering shadows, but she forced herself to relax, to breathe normally. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

He did not call her liar, though he knew she was. “Why do ye na sleep in the chamber ye shared with him?”

“What?” Her voice was little more than a hiss in the shattered darkness.

“The master’s chamber,” he explained. ” ‘Tis a fine room. Why do ye choose to occupy the one what lies at the far end of the great, long hall?”

“It’s none of your concern where I sleep.”

“And why alone?” he asked.

Her lips opened and moved. He could hear her draw a shuddering breath. “I think you should leave.”

“Surely ‘tis na because of a dearth of swains,” he said, and though he knew better, he could not help but allow his gaze to skim her bonny form. Her hair trilled down in gentle spirals to her milky shoulders. And her breasts! Below his plaid, his erection throbbed with lonely insistence. He shook his head, silently denying his own heated desires. “Even London’s foolish will-gills would na be daft enough to turn aside a woman such as yerself.”