Taming the Barbarian (4 page)

“One moment,” Stanford entreated, but she shook her head with a smile.

“I believe I can find my own conveyance. Take care. I shall see you soon.” And with that she fled the house.

The air outside felt damp and lovely against her bare skin. Rain was brewing on the coast. Off to her right, a pair of rented coachmen smoked cigars and chatted quietly together as they waited for their masters. A horse nickered far off, and even through the darkness she could see her matched grays. They were a beautiful pair. She’d found them in a decaying hamlet in Suffolk, where they’d been bred by an aging gentleman with more debt than good sense. He’d been happy enough to part with them in exchange for a two-wheeled gig and a tractable cob. He’d even—

“Lady Glendowne.”

She started at the sound of her name and pivoted about. A man stood a few feet away, his face hidden in the shadows.

“Lady Glendowne?” he repeated.

She forced herself to breathe and straightened her back. “Yes,” she said, her voice carefully steady. “I am she.”

He stepped forward another stride. It took some power of will to resist backing away, even though she knew she was being foolish. She was, after all, in Madame Gravier’s front yard, surrounded by hostlers and her own dedicated driver.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said, and inclined his head the slightest degree. “I am William Kendrick.”

She waited a moment for him to continue, but he did not. Her heart thrummed nervously in her chest, but she dare not show it. “Is there something I can do to assist you, Mr. Kendrick?”

“You can tell me of your husband’s death,” he said, and stepped forward again.

This time she did retreat, for there was something in his tone that frightened her. Something in his looming presence. “I beg your pardon?” she breathed.

“Your husband,” he said, and gave her the ghost of a knowing smile. “Surely you remember him.”

Her knees felt suddenly weak and her chest restricted. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a terrible headache,” she said, and turned away, but he hurried around her, blocking her retreat.

“I know the truth,” he murmured.

“I’ve no idea what you speak of.”

“Then either you are not so smart as I have heard, or your memory is short indeed. Was he so insignificant to you?”

“Who are you?” It was difficult to breathe, all but impossible to keep her hands steady. “What do you want?”

“Oh, did I not introduce myself appropriately?” he asked, and bowed with sardonic elegance. “I am your husband’s cousin.” He straightened slowly. “As for what I want… Revenge would be sweet but… revenge is mine, or so saith the Lord.”

Her heart was hammering against her ribs in earnest, and her limbs felt wooden, but she lifted her skirts in a careful hand and raised her chin. “I thank you for that biblical reference. I’m certain it shall come in quite handy, but as I’ve said, I must be getting home.”

She turned away. He snatched her arm, his grip hard and unyielding.

“The wicked will surely die,” he hissed.

Anger spewed through her with unexpected vehemence. Damn him and his thinly veiled threats! She’d endured too much to allow an unknown intruder cow her with a few foolish words. She jerked her arm away with a snap and turned on him. “And the demmed meek shall inherit the earth.”

“Maybe so,” Kendrick snarled, stepping close. “But you are not the meek are you, Madame? Indeed, you are nothing more than a harlot who has—”

“What’s this then?” a burred voice rumbled.

Fleurette jerked her attention to the newcomer, ready to flee toward whatever safety he might offer, but when he stepped out of the shadows, she actually leaned away, for he was the approximate size of a seasoned draught horse. Silent and impossibly large, he dwarfed Madame Gravier’s carefully sculpted arborvitae.

But Kendrick was not cowed. “Who the devil are you?” he asked, and yanking a pistol from his vest, pointed it at the stranger.

Fleurette gasped, but the giant stood unmoved. “I asked a question of ye,” he reminded, his voice low and quiet. “I would have an answer.”

“It so happens that I have business with the lady,” Kendrick said. The gun gleamed dully in the silvery moonlight. “And that business is no concern of yours.”

The stranger stepped closer. Fleur caught her breath.

“Ladies do na conduct business with vermin.” His Highland burr was deep and quiet. “And I dunna care for liars.”

“You dare call me a liar?” snarled Kendrick.

“I dare call ye vermin.”

“Damn you!” Kendrick cursed, and raised the gun. But suddenly it was gone—snatched from his hand and spun into the darkness near Fleur’s feet. She scooped it up in shaky hands.

The stranger stood inches from Kendrick, his hand wrapped about his wrist and his head lowered toward the others.

“
And
a liar,” he said evenly.

Kendrick yanked at his arm, but only his own body moved. The giant’s remained exactly as it was. Even in the darkness, Fleur could see the terror in the smaller man’s eyes. He jerked again and stumbled suddenly backward as he was abruptly released.

Catching his balance, he rubbed his wrist frantically and retreated. “I would suggest that you mind your own affairs, Scotsman,” he warned, but his voice quivered. “Or you shall surely regret the outcome.”

The Scot stepped forward, his stride long and steady. “And I would suggest that ye understand this, ye sniveling cur. Trouble
is
me affair, and I dunna fear the outcome.”

Kendrick jerked back, his gaze darting toward Fleurette. “You’ve not seen the last of me, my lady. The wicked shall surely pay,” he said, and fled into the darkness.

Fleurette steadied her hands against her skirt and turned breathlessly toward her savior. “Well, he was rather rude wasn’t he? Though quite well versed in theology.” She locked her knees and tried to see the Scotsman’s features in the darkness. “I believe I owe you—”

“Where is your master?” he asked, and stepped toward her.

She stumbled back without thinking. “I… I beg your pardon.”

“Your lord,” he said. “Why has he allowed ye to venture out unchaperoned?”

“Allowed me?” She straightened her back with a snap. “Listen! I appreciate your intervention, but as it turns out, I do not have a
master
, and I did not need your overbearing assistance. In truth—”

“What did he want?”

“I… What?”

“The well-versed vermin what spewed biblical verses like venom. Was he after coin or was it your virtue he hoped to steal?” he asked, and stepped closer still.

She crowded backward. In the diffused light of the moon, she could see that his clothes were rough and his hair unfashionably long. “Who are you?”

“Or do ladies in this place have no virtue?”

She drew a sharp breath and held her ground with hard-won determination. “What do you want?”

“Mayhap I want the very thing your quivering friend wished for,” he said, and, advancing further still, glared down through the darkness at her.

She lifted her chin and tightened her fingers on the pistol. Damn him and all his ilk. Gentleman or pauper, it made no difference. They were often one and the same. “And
mayhap
,” she gritted, “you should crawl back into whatever hole you’ve just emerged from, because I’ll be damned before I’ll give you so much as a farthing.”

He stared at her. His expression was chiseled, but his eyes gleamed like a rogue wolf’s in the moonlight. “Mayhap ‘tis not coin I’m after, lassie.”

“Then you’d best be on your way,” she said, and pressed the pistol’s muzzle against his groin. “Or you’ll never have that again either.”

He glanced down as if curious. His lips lifted the slightest degree, and then he stepped closer still, forcing her backward. She retreated, breathing hard.

” ‘Tis a strange place you’ve got here,” he mused quietly. “Where the men quiver and the women growl.”

“I’ll do more than growl,” she vowed, and though her voice shook, she pressed the gun more firmly against his crotch. “If you hope to continue your questionable line, you’ll back away.”

“As it turns out,” he said, and pushed her farther still. “I dunna.”

She jerked the gun up, planting it below his jaw. Apparently oversized Highlanders with antiquated speech patterns didn’t much care if their nether parts were blown to kingdom come. Strange. In the past, she’d found men to be quite protective of everything between their navels and their knees. “If you’ve no wish to join your ancestors you’ll leave me be.”

“Lassie,” he said, and suddenly he was gripping her hand and easing the muzzle toward the sky. “Threats of death dunna move me, but if ye canna say the same I would suggest ye find yourself a well-smitten champion to come at your beck and call. For if I hoped to harm ye…” He tightened his grip. There was only a hint of discomfort, and yet she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he wished, he could snap her bones like writing quills. ” ‘Twould be no hardship,” he said.

She opened her mouth. But whether she planned to scream or plead or pray, she couldn’t be sure, for suddenly her hand was miraculously set free. The gun bobbled in her fingers. She struggled to steady it, but the barbaric intruder was already gone, disappearing like a nightmare into the shadows.

F
leurette’s journey home was long, dark, and riddled with misgivings. Horace, her well-trusted driver, deposited her at the end of her cobbled walkway, and she hurried through the darkness, for even her own estate seemed suddenly fraught with danger.

Henri met her at the door, bounding ecstatically about her feet. She stroked his ears as Mr. Smith hurried up, apologizing profusely for his tardy greeting. But she wanted nothing more than the safety of her private chambers and hurried up the stairs, Henri in her wake.

Tessa, sleepy-eyed and quiet, was there in a moment to undo her mistress’s upswept hair.

“Did you enjoy the party, my lady?” she asked, then hung away her gown.

“I’ve a bit of a headache,” Fleur lied. “I fear it ruined the evening for me.”

” ‘Tis a shame,” proclaimed the maid, but immediately launched back into her usual merry mood. “Oh, I almost forgot—the strangest thing ‘appened today. Did—”

“Forgive me,” Fleur interrupted, and rubbed unsteady fingers over her eyes. “But might it wait until the morning?”

“Certainly, my lady,” Tessa agreed. “My apologies. Shall I get you a tonic?”

“No thank you. I just need to sleep,” Fleur assured her, but after the maid’s departure, the room seemed unnaturally quiet. Which was silly, because Fleur enjoyed the silence. Indeed, she reveled in solitude. After Thomas’s death, she had moved from the master’s chamber into smaller quarters. She was unsure what others made of her decision, but neither did she care. She loved her own private space. Oil paintings of bucolic tranquillity graced the walls. An ancient tapestry hung in a place of honor near the lone window, and an intricate figurine of Pegasus resided on a small commode near the door. But despite the time and funds she had expended on her precious art, it was the bed’s shabby coverlet that she cherished the most. Tattered from her childhood, it draped her each night in kindly memories, and even now, with her nerves raw and tattered, it worked its usual magic when she pulled it close to her chin and bid Henri good night.

Morning found her rested, her mood restored and her nerves soothed. Outside, the sky was washed blue and the sun peeped merrily over the eastern woods. Rising from her bed, Fleurette wandered toward the window that overlooked her gardens. But she had not yet pulled on her robe when she stopped dead in her tracks. For there, looming above the fawning flora, was the Black Celt.

“Tessa!” Fleur yelled.

Henri scurried under the bed.

The maid appeared in a heartbeat, her eyes wide as she rushed into the room.

“What’s wrong? What—” she began, but Fleurette was already motioning toward the window.

“When—How—”

“Oh! I tried to tell ye last night. Isn’t it grand?” Tessa breathed, joining her mistress by the window.

“Why?” Fleurette turned woodenly back toward the statue. It loomed above the nodding roses as if accepting their blushing obsequiousness with silent dignity. “Why is it there?”

“I thought…” Tessa turned to her with wide eyes. “I thought you purchased it while in Paris. The gentleman said—”

“The gentleman. What gentleman?”

The maid scrunched her face in thought. “He was smallish. Old. Irish maybe. Or—”

“The old gaffer came here?”

“So you do know him. I thought…” Tessa began, but Fleurette was consumed by the statue.

Snatching up a robe, she hurried down the stairs and outside. The stones on the path felt cool and rough against her bare feet, but she barely noticed, for the Celt was there, silently gazing down at her.

She reached up to tentatively place a hand on his thigh. It felt warm and solid. “What are you doing here?” she breathed.

And though it did not answer, its very presence seemed to speak of guardianship. Of honor and bravery and courage long dead.

It was some time before Fleurette was able to tear herself away. Even longer before she forced herself into her study to rifle through the paperwork her overseer had delivered during her time in Paris. But she could not concentrate. She wandered out into the garden again, and in the shadow of the dark Celt, the world seemed quiet and serene. She gave herself a mental shake. It was only a statue, after all, a slab of stone and nothing more, no matter how well crafted.

Why it had been delivered to her, she could not guess, but that hardly gave her an excuse to dawdle the day away. She had work to do. And yet, she could not seem to force herself back into her dim study. Thus she determined to pursue another effort.

Ordering her mare saddled, she changed into her riding habit, settled the matching chapeau upon her head, and mounted the restive bay. Beneath her,
Fille de Vent
pranced as they turned from Briarburn’s sweeping drive onto the humble thoroughfare. London was some miles to the north, but Fleurette had no interest in that bustling metropolis. Instead, she turned the mare’s elegant head toward the west and pressed her into a rocking canter.