The Defiant One (13 page)

"Somerfield nearly killed me, Lucien nearly killed Somerfield, and you threw yourself into the fray as some sort of sacrifice on the altar of our mutual freedom, that's what happened."

"I'm not talking about that."

"Then I don't know what the devil you
are
talking about, except that whatever it is, I
don't
want to talk about it, is that clear?"

"No, it's not."  She searched his face, undaunted by his anger.  "I just don't understand any of this . . . such as why you fell out there on the field in the first place.  One moment you were toying with Gerald, allowing him his pride and dignity, and the next, you were —

"Nothing happened," he said savagely.

"But —"

"I said,
nothing happened
."

"It looked like he must have hit you, stunned you, when I wasn't looking.  Except I
was
looking — I mean, I couldn't help but look.  Is that what happened, Andrew?  Did he stun you with the hilt of the sword or something?"

"Yes, that's exactly what happened, so now that we've got that clear, let's talk about something else, all right?  Better yet, let's not talk about anything at all.  I'm sick of talking.  Just leave me alone."

His abrupt and angry dismissal stung.  Reality began to press in on Celsie like frozen hands thawing after a snowball fight.  Except it wasn't her fingers that were thawing.  It was her head.  Her heart. 
Oh dear God, what have I
done
?
  She had just committed herself to marrying this man, that was what she'd done.  She had just ruined both his life and her own.  And as the layers of protective shock faded, her emotions surfaced:  disbelief, guilt, grief, anger, humiliation, denial; they were all there.  She wanted to curl up into a little ball and shut everything out.  She wanted to run away and never stop until she reached the ends of the earth.  She wanted Freckles.  What she
didn't
want was marriage to this man.  To any man.

So why did the bitterness in his eyes, his all-too-obvious resentment, hurt so much?

"Andrew," she said tentatively, "I know you're angry, but just because I said I'd marry you doesn't mean you have to marry
me
."

"And how do you think that will make me look in front of three hundred witnesses, eh?"

"I wouldn't have thought you cared."

"Well I do care.  Besides, my brother obviously wants this marriage, and it's quite clear to me now that he's been wanting it from the moment we met at the ball, if not before.  Now that he's got what he wanted, don't think he won't blackmail us both if either of us tries to back out."

"He has nothing with which to blackmail me."

"Oh?  Do you mean being found on the floor with me in the final throes of passion isn't enough?"

Celsie blushed.  "He wouldn't . . ."

"Trust me, madam, he
would
.  And as for me, all he has to do is say one word to the right people and my chances of getting into the Royal Society are ruined.  I can't risk the scandal, and if you want to continue to move in high circles so that you can beg the plight of your precious dogs, neither can you."

Celsie pressed her lips together in rising anger.  He was the most impossible man, equally given to flashes of temper and random gestures of kindness.  Just when she was starting to warm up to him, he turned on her like a badly bred cur.  She was getting tired of his short, one-word answers, his ill manners, his brusque treatment.  She knew he was capable of being nice; she'd seen glimpses of it in his laboratory, when she had taken an interest in his work and he'd shown her the drawings. 
That
Andrew was a whole lot easier to handle than this hostile, bad-tempered, bristling one. 
That
Andrew was actually quite pleasant and engaging.  This one . . .  She knew German guard dogs with better temperaments.

"There has got to be a way out of this predicament," she said.  "If you're going to sit there and sulk, at least do something.  You're the intellectual here.  Why don't you put that superior brain of yours to work, sir, and engineer a plan to save us both from a fate that neither of us wants?"

"I can assure you, madam, that I have been putting my so-called superior brain to work on that very problem since we entered the coach, and so far it has yielded nothing of value."

"Ah.  So you can design flying machines and double-compartmented coaches and write complicated mathematical formulas that no one but yourself could ever hope to understand, but you cannot outmaneuver your brother."

"That is because it is far easier to design flying machines and write complicated mathematical formulas than it is to outmaneuver my brother."

"So you think he's somehow behind all this, then."

"Don't you?" he fumed, nailing her with a look of hard fury.

Of course she did.  The look on the duke's face right after she had thrown herself between him and Gerald had removed all doubt from her mind that he was behind it.  Oh, what a mess this was!  If Andrew, with all his intelligence and years of dealing with Lucien, couldn't figure a way out of this dilemma, how on earth was she going to do it?

"Andrew —"

"Look, I said I just want to be left alone, all right?"

"You don't have to be so hateful.  And I'm sorry I interfered with the duel, but I had to save Gerald.  Had it been
your
brother whose life was in peril, you would have done the same."

"Depends on which brother," he bit out, his eyes hard as he glared out the window.

That did it.  Celsie wasn't going to lay here against him a second longer.  She started to push herself up on one hand, only to freeze on a hiss of pain.  She looked down and saw the bloody sleeve where Gerald's blade had caught her, a sleeve previously hidden beneath the angle of her body against Andrew's own.

Andrew saw it too.  "Devil take it," he muttered, pushing her back down onto his lap.  "Let me see that."

She snatched her arm away, covering the wound with her hand so she couldn't see it and risk fainting all over again.  "No."

"Does it hurt?"

"It does now that I've been reminded of it."

"Here, let me see it."

"Your concern is quite touching, but if you don't mind, I would prefer to have a qualified surgeon look at it, not a mad inventor."

"And
I
would prefer that you leave the 'mad' out of your estimation of me, madam," he snapped, on a fresh wave of unprecedented anger.  "I may not have had any formal training in the healing arts, but I can assure you that bandaging your arm is well within my capabilities."

"You're not a doctor."

"I am a doctor.  Just not of medicine."

"Of what, then?"

"Philosophy."

"Oh, well, that's helpful, isn't it?"

"Celsiana, let me see your arm. 
Now
."

"Oh, very well then," she muttered, uncovering her arm and looking away so she couldn't see how bad it was.  "Though what you intend to use as a bandage is beyond me."

His hands were far more gentle than his tone of voice as he caught the ripped edge of her sleeve.  "Hold still."

With one sharp jerk, he tore the shirt from elbow to cuff.  Celsie, who was beginning to wonder if she was squeamish about seeing her own blood, refused to look at the exposed wound.  Instead, she gazed up at his face, grave now as he gave his attention to her arm, and tried to take her mind off what he was doing.  Looking at his face made it very
easy
to take her mind off what he was doing.  Did he have that same intense, focused look when he was inventing something brilliant?  Did he give that same single-minded concentration to everything he did?  And oh, what would it feel like to have that powerful concentration fully directed on
her
?

In the bedroom?

Now, where on earth had
that
thought come from?

Suddenly flustered, she forced herself to think of her arm instead.  He may not be a surgeon, but he went about his task in a confident, no-nonsense sort of way that was wonderfully reassuring.  His hands were warm where they steadied her arm, his touch gentle but firm.  All too soon he was wrapping the makeshift bandage around the wound, snugging it comfortably, reassuringly, tight.  His thumb holding the ends in place, he neatly tied them off, leaving her feeling strangely bereft as he finally relinquished her arm.

"Thank you," she said, sitting up a bit and rubbing her arm through the bandage.  "It feels better already."

"Keep it clean and I doubt you'll even see a scar from it."

His gaze met hers, and something warm and undefinable passed between them.  Celsie flushed, a jolt of current leaping through her, its heat settling in her very bones even as Andrew stiffened.  They both looked away at the same time, and Celsie decided that it was long since time she got up and removed herself to the safety of the other seat.

She slid gingerly off his lap and took the seat across from him.  The space around her felt cold.  Empty.

The emotions welled up in her heart again.  She wrapped her fingers together and squeezed, hard, trying to divert the sudden sting of unshed tears.  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Andrew, who had lapsed back into sullen silence, his gaze, like hers, redirected out the window.

Reality was bad enough.  But God help her, this punishing silence, this awkwardness, was downright unbearable.

"Where are we going?" she finally asked.

He kept his gaze directed out the window.  "Where would you like to go?"

"Anywhere, except back there.  What about you?"

"Anywhere, except the altar."

"You really
don't
want to marry me, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Which proves that you really
don't
want me for my money."

"No offense, madam, but I really don't want you at all."

Though Celsie didn't want to marry him either, no woman wanted to be rejected so bluntly, especially when the one doing the rejecting was without doubt one of the handsomest men in all of England.  "Well, I can't blame you there," she said breezily, though there was a hard edge to her voice that she couldn't quite conceal.  "I suppose the idea of marrying an heiress must be quite appealing, but even a fortune could never make up for the fact that you'd have a wife with no tits."

His head snapped around.  "I
beg
your pardon?"

"You heard me.  I know you men all like to compare attributes and acquisitions, and my diminutive chest would be a constant source of embarrassment to you, to be sure."

"Your language, madam, leaves much to be desired."

"So does my chest, if most men's opinions are to be believed."

He flushed angrily.  "I could care less about most men's opinions.  And for what it's worth, I happen to think you are most prettily endowed."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"And why the blazes wouldn't you believe me?"

"I know what men say about me."

"Do you, now?"

"I do.  And I am utterly convinced that I do not measure up, if you know what I mean."

"No, I do not know what you mean, and I can assure you right now, madam, that the absurd subject which we are currently discussing has no bearing whatsoever on my reluctance to take you to the altar."

"Oh, so you're afraid of choking on a pea, then."

"I am
not
afraid of choking on a pea.  I do not even
like
peas.  What I
do
like is the complete freedom to live my life as I please, without feminine encumbrances of any sort, be they mistresses, admirers, or God forbid, wives.  I have work to do."

She met his gaze, glare for glare.  "Well,
I
have work to do, too.  I have a network of shelters throughout Berkshire that need constant upkeep, funding, and attention so they can continue to take in unwanted animals.  I'm fighting for the turnspits.  I have instituted a program to teach the young people in my village how to properly care for their dogs and cats so they learn that animals are for
life
, just like children, and are
not
expendable objects to be given away, killed, or otherwise disposed of simply because they've had an accident on the floor or are no longer as cute as they were when they were puppies and kittens.  Like you, I do not need encumbrances of any sort.  So you see, Andrew,
I
have no wish to get married, either."

He stared at her.

"Besides," she continued, "I have yet to find a man who loves dogs as much as I do, who would not only condone but assist me in my efforts to help them, and would also let them sleep on the bed."

He shrugged.  "I let Esmerelda sleep on my bed."

"You
do
?"

"Yes," he said impatiently.  "What's so extraordinary about that?"

She stared at him, his candid admission defusing some of her anger.  "Nothing, except that you are the first man I've ever met to admit to such a thing.  Ha, maybe marriage to you will be tolerable, after all."

"You'll be miserable, I can guarantee it.  As would any woman with the misfortune to be tied to me."

"What compels you to say such a thing?"

"The fact that I can think of no female who would willingly and uncomplainingly share her husband with his obsessive pursuit of science."

"Well, I can think of no man who would willingly and uncomplainingly share his bed with his wife's dog, so I guess we're even."

He just looked at her, an odd expression in his eye.  "Very funny."

"Well, I thought so," she returned, pleased that she'd managed to break the ice a little between them.  "Oh, Andrew.  What are we going to do?"

"I don't know."  He sighed and leaned his brow into his hand, rubbing it as though he was infinitely tired.  "We could always quit the country in order to avoid this deuced marriage.  France . . . America . . . no, neither is far enough away from Lucien.  By God, the Arctic is beginning to look quite attractive."

"Yes, but you have to admit, it would be an awfully cold place to build a new laboratory."