An Accidental Seduction (14 page)

T
hey were running. She was exhausted and hungry and scared. The baby wouldn’t quit crying. They should leave her. The evil thought stole like poison through Savaana’s mind. They should leave her as they had the others. Though she didn’t know where they were going. Didn’t know why they ran.

She fell, tripping on a root in the undergrowth. Mother stopped. She was panting. Dogs bayed in the distance. Mother jerked toward the sound, eyes white in the encroaching darkness. A hound howled again.

Savaana snapped her eyes open. A figure stood over her, arm descending. A sword. A giant. Fear! She rolled wildly to the left. The bedding tangled about her legs, trapping her. She shrieked a scream, but it was muffled in the pillow.

“Suffering saints, Clarette, ’tis me.”

She scooted to the far side of the mattress and turned back, muscles rigid with terror. “Who?” Her voice was as wispy as a lost child’s. A giant grinned in her mind,
scarred lips twisted, but was that a memory or a dream? Was he friend or was he enemy?

“Me. Sean Gallagher.”

She shook her head, confused.

“Wicklow,” he said, and the soft edge of humor in his voice calmed her nerves somehow, brought a semblance of clarity. “I but wished to make certain you were well.”

Her senses returned slowly, and with them a modicum of anger, which made her think perhaps she wasn’t so very different from Clarette after all. “You scared the stuffing out of me so you could make certain I was well?” she asked.

“Apparently,” he said, and smiled a little as he seated himself on her bed. There was a good yard of sagging mattress between them, but still he seemed very close in the moon-kissed darkness. “I’m sorry. ’Twasn’t me intent.”

Savaana’s dark dreams faded slowly, allowing her to catch her breath. She leaned back against the crunched pillow behind her and watched him. “So you’re not trying to kill me?”

He studied her in the silent darkness. “I admit I’ve considered it a time or two.”

She flashed her eyes to him and he grinned, his teeth cutting a swath in the night.

“But ’tis obvious, I’m not the first.”

Memories of the alley stormed back at her. What the hell was going on? Had one of the jewelers sent someone to steal the necklace? It seemed likely, but ungodly fast. She had barely stepped out the door before the brigands were on her.

“I brought Tuica,” he said and raised a small metal cup toward her.

She frowned a little. Sometimes it was damned comfortable living in Clarette’s skin. She never had to be nice. It was rather relaxing. “What?”

“Plum brandy,” he explained. “’Twas not a simple thing to find.” He was watching her closely. “’Tis made elsewhere. Romania mostly. But Delvania also.”

Delvania? What did he know of the place? she wondered, but didn’t allow her gaze to snap to his. Instead, she studied the mug in her hand. It was crafted of fine hammered steel that shone in the moonlight. The handle was made to look like a rearing horse, mane and tail flying.

“Emily said ’twas your favorite,” he said.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, finally remembering she had tasted it once and found it surprisingly palatable. She and Clarette seemed to have similar tastes. The thought made her feel a little breathless, but she set the thoughts aside. “What an unusual cup,” she said, admiring the delicate workmanship. “Where did you get it?”

He said nothing for a moment, then finally spoke. “I tired of shaping nothing but horseshoes.”

“You made it?” she asked, and did let her gaze rush to his now.

“Drink your brandy,” he ordered.

“Why? Is it poisoned?”

“I would think not,” he said. “Take it. It’ll steady your nerves.”

She scowled, wondering when he had crafted the mug. Wondering where it had been during their trip to London. In the pocket of his breeches? In his shirt against his bare skin? “My nerves are steady,” she said. Or they had been until she considered his skin.

“No truer words…” he said, and letting the sentiment dangle, drew his feet onto the mattress. Leaning his head against the wall behind him, he watched her in silence before he spoke. “You’re a spy,” he said finally.

She coughed on her first sip of Tuica and almost spat the contents onto the somewhat frayed counterpane. “What are you talking about?”

He nodded thoughtfully, still watching her. “An agent hired by the prince regent—Prinny, as you call him—to ferret out secrets.” He tilted his handsome head. “I’ve heard of such things.”

“How much of this did
you
drink?” she asked.

“You can admit the truth,” he urged.

“Very well.” She cupped the mug in both hands, liking the smooth feel of the steel against her fingers. “I am
not
a spy. I am Lady Tilmont.”

“You can trust me with your secrets,” he said.

“How nice.” And odd. “What the devil are you doing in my room?”

“You forgot to lock your door.”

“No,” she said, and took another sip of brandy. “I did not.”

“Then the lock must be faulty.”

“Hmmm,” she said, and raised her head from the cup. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“When I was…” The memory made her hands tremble. Perhaps her nerves weren’t quite as steady as she would have him believe. “In the alley,” she said. “How did you find me?”

“Perhaps I’m a spy, too.”

She rolled her eyes. “You really
are
Irish, aren’t you?”

He watched her as if searching for logic in her oh-so-obvious statement.

“Prone to bouts of overactive imagination,” she said.

“I didn’t imagine the giant bending over you,” he said, and there was something in his face that gave her pause. An unusual seriousness. A caring.

“You stopped them.” Her voice sounded strange, almost broken.

He frowned, as if unsure how to respond, but finally spoke. “What was their intent?”

“I don’t know.” She took another sip and felt strengthened by it.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. His voice was earnest and soft. “This one truth and I shall tell you how I found you.”

For a moment she was tempted almost beyond her strength to reveal all, but she had not been raised to be foolish. “Very well,” she said. “The truth is, I spoke to two proprietors about a piece of jewelry. When I left the second one, I intended to return around the back street to the carriage. There was very little foot traffic. Very little traffic of any sort.” Her throat felt tight. She cleared it and continued. “A man approached me from behind and asked if he could speak to me about a business deal. He seemed—”

“The short man?”

She scowled at him.

“There were two of them,” he said. “One was short. The other was huge. Which one spoke to you?”

She tried to recall. Things were fuzzy in her head. “He wasn’t tall. He was…older…with gray hair. He wore a black top hat.”

A muscle bunched in his jaw, but he nodded curtly. “Continue.”

She shrugged. “There’s not much more to tell. I said
I wasn’t interested and turned away.” She didn’t mention the giant or the odd stirrings of uncertain memories that accompanied him. “That’s when everything went black.”

“That’s it?”

He looked as tense as a bowstring. Why? What was it to him? Or—

A new thought struck her suddenly. Perhaps he had somehow been involved in the act? Maybe he had known about the necklace all along. Maybe that’s what brought him to Knollcrest. Maybe that’s why he was able to find her in the alley. Because he had instigated the crime, hired the miscreants, ordered her disabled. But if that was the case, why would he interrupt the villains before they’d taken their prize? She scowled, thinking hard.

“That’s all I remember,” she said. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn to what, lass?”

“To tell me how you found me.”

“Oh.” He looked distracted. “I asked the jeweler.”

She waited. He didn’t continue.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“No. Actually I asked both jewelers. The scrawny cantankerous fellow and the woman at Smith’s.”

The scrawny fellow
had
been cantankerous, and a woman
had
worked at Smith’s. It almost made his story believable. Besides, it seemed too ridiculously simple to be fabricated.

“You’re a terrible spy,” she said, and drank again.

“I found you, didn’t I?”

She rubbed the back of her head. It was a bit sore, but nothing debilitating. If the two in the alley had meant to kill her, they were not very adept. “Perhaps next time you could do so a bit sooner.”

“You’re planning a next time?”

She gave him an irritated glance.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and reaching out, put his hand on her knee. It was pressed tightly to its mate, elevated above her bare feet, and hidden beneath two twisted blankets. Still, his touch felt strangely intimate, and he sounded so honestly apologetic that she immediately felt guilty.

“It’s not your fault.” She took another sip of brandy and glanced at him askance. “Is it?”

“I should have gone with you.”

She grinned a little over the rim of her mug. “I believe I forbade it.”

“I believe you did,” he said. “And why is that?”

“There are certain things a woman prefers to do alone?”

“Such as getting robbed?”

She took a deep breath and found that her hands were steadier. He’d been right about the brandy. “Not generally,” she said. “Usually that’s a social event.”

He didn’t think her particularly amusing. Which was probably best. Clarette didn’t seem like the entertaining sort. “Any idea what they wanted?”

She shook her head.

“The big one…” He paused as if composing himself. “…he had a knife.”

She closed her eyes for an instant. That much she recalled. She could see the blade gleaming dully in her shaky memory and wished now that she had not left her grandfather’s dagger at Knollcrest.

“When I saw that I…” He drew a deep breath. It sounded a bit unsteady. His face was ultra somber, which made her realize how she had come to cherish his smiles, his laughter, even his foolish jests. “He was holding your shoulder as if to turn you over.”

She scowled. “What?”

“The giant…he was touching you, and I…” He cleared his throat, then reached out and squeezed her fingers gently between his.

“You what?” she asked. There had been only a moment’s time between her awakening and her attack. She’d been entirely unaware of his presence until after the two had fled.

He watched her in silence for a moment. “I believe I threatened to kill them.”

She raised her brows. “You? Every man’s friend?”

He shrugged, expression somber. “I may have lost my sense of humor for a moment when I saw them standing over you.” He winced. “Are you expecting?”

“What?”

He raised his brows a little at the shocked tone of her voice.

“I thought, perhaps, ’twas why you swooned.”

She blinked. “I am not…” She licked her strawberry lips, embarrassed. He watched the movement, seeming enthralled. “No!”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

He studied her with something akin to relief in his eyes. “And you’re not hurt?” he asked.

“No.” How strange—his somberness was almost as appealing as his joviality. Or maybe, at this moment, she simply wanted someone to care. “Well, you know…” She glanced at the counterpane, certain he wasn’t as attractive as he seemed, somber or jovial. “Not seriously. Just a few scrapes and such.”

“Scrapes? Where?” he asked, and lifting her hand, searched it for damage. A tiny laceration had been burned across her knuckles. He kissed it.

Feelings sizzled through her, shocking her with their intensity. “It’s…it’s nothing,” she said, and chuckled nervously. “I’ve had worse on a daily—” She stopped herself just in time. His eyes were as steady as sunlight on her face.

“You’ve had worse?”

Maybe the brandy hadn’t been a great idea. “Hasn’t everyone?” she asked, and shrugging her shoulder, tried to tug her hand from his.

“Not everyone who looks like you, lass,” he said, and tightened his grip ever so gently on her fingers.

“I hardly think my physical appearance precludes me from—” she began, but he pushed up the sleeve of her borrowed night shift, found a tiny bruise, and kissed her wrist.

“Holy hell,” she breathed, and he grinned a little as he raised his gaze to hers.

“Where are the others?” he whispered.

“Other what?” Her voice was no louder.

“Scrapes and such.”

She shouldn’t tell him. She was sure of that much, but she couldn’t remember why. It had been a difficult day, after all, and a little attention would surely not be ill advised. “My elbow,” she said.

Slipping up the sleeve of her gown, he lifted her arm slightly and kissed the abraded skin.

“Where else?”

“My…my shoulder.” She could barely squeeze out the words, which was ridiculous, of course. They were just kisses, but when he slipped her gown from her shoulder, if felt much more significant. His lips were warm against the bruised skin there, his fingers like magic as they smoothed her hair aside to kiss her neck. She turned away a little, offering him greater access. He pressed the garment lower and she lifted one hand, pressing it to her bosom to keep the gown from slipping too low.

“Damn them.” He breathed the words against her skin. “Damn them for harming a hair on your head.”

She looked past her shoulder at him, really looked, studying him from such close proximity that she could all but feel his emotions. His expression was solemn, his concern earnest. And somehow the idea that he cared touched her a little too deeply, moved her a little too much. For one protracted moment she was caught in his emotion, seized by his fervor. And when he leaned in, she could do nothing but kiss him.

P
assion trembled between them. She was beauty itself. Beauty and softness and quaking desire. He felt it in her kiss, in her touch, in her sigh. He was certain of it, was moved by it. But in a moment she drew back.

“No.” The word was barely a whisper. She twisted away. He kissed the corner of her mouth with desperate longing, forgetting himself, forgetting his objectives. She tilted her face toward him, almost returning the kiss, but then shook her head. “No,” she said again. “I cannot.”

“Why?” Frustration stormed through him. For a moment he had actually forgotten why he was there. But now he remembered all. She wasn’t some innocent maid not to be deflowered. She was a fraud, a liar, the woman who had ruined his family. Had given his father hope only to steal it from him.

“Why?”
She breathed the word with soft exasperation. “Because we’re not mar—” she began, and stopped herself abruptly.

“Not what?”

“What?” She turned her eyes toward him, succulent lips parted.

“We’re not what?”

“I’m,”
she corrected, and stopped again.

“You’re…”

“Married.” She breathed the word as if she herself had just now remembered, and perhaps that was the case, for she seemed strangely discombobulated, her pupils swallowing the mesmerizing blue of her irises.

And suddenly he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t coax her, or defame her, or compromise her.

“Very well…” Perhaps his tone sounded childish or churlish or obnoxious. But if so, who could blame him? He had vowed vengeance, only to realize that the woman he had sworn to defile was desire personified. And now, here he was, in bed with desire personified in his arms, only to find he could do nothing about it. “Very well, then,” he repeated, and took a fortifying breath. “But might I…could I remain here a short while?” Holy saints, he sounded like a fawning child. Like a callow youth besotted by his first love.

She lifted a half clothed shoulder. Her peaked chin brushed her naked skin. “It’s not…it’s not that I don’t want you.”

Her voice was butterfly soft and utterly honest, stirring something in his soul he thought long dead. Or perhaps had never lived. Some had suggested he had no true
emotions where women were concerned. Perhaps they were right. He was a man who had struggled to restore his family’s holdings, then labored to hold his family together. Perhaps that was why he had chosen women who would not complicate his life with love or commitment. Women who all but bored him in everything but a physical sense. This woman did
not
bore him. She did, however, drive him mad.

“I do. You are very…” She breathed the words and lowered her gaze to his lips. “…
extremely
appealing. And I want to…I
long
to…” She raised her eyes again. They looked bottomless in the moon-shadowed room, bright with desire, deep with yearning. “But I cannot. ’Twould be wrong.”

He could press her. Could convince her. He knew that suddenly, as all men do, but now he didn’t wish to, for to see her guilt-ridden might well break his heart. He nodded, then slid farther onto the mattress, stretching out on his side against her back.

He kissed her neck, not with any plans to go further, but because he couldn’t help himself. She felt so right against him that he could think of nothing else. But he forced himself to do just that. Remembering how she had looked, helpless and broken on the cold ground of the alley.

“Tell me of your training,” he said, and with one lucky arm against the sharp curve of her waist, tugged her just a little closer.

She turned her head. Her hair was kitten soft against his cheek. “What?” she asked, and seemed almost disoriented. Was it because of him? Because of his touch? His kisses? The idea was hopelessly flattering.

“In the alley.” He remembered the fear he felt finding her there. The anger. The willingness, nay, the
eagerness
, to kill if she were harmed. Surely he would not wish to take advantage of a woman so recently accosted. But certain body parts suggested otherwise. “You fought them like a tiger.” He frowned, thinking uncomfortable thoughts. “An acrobatic tiger. I’ve not seen the like.”

He felt her body tighten the slightest degree under his arm. Ahh yes, her skin was as soft as a lover’s sigh, but beneath that satiny surface, her muscles were intriguingly sleek and firm. Why was that?

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “It’s happy I am that you did. Indeed, if they had harmed you I would have…” He drew a steadying breath. “Tell me where you learned those tricks.”

“What tricks are those?” she asked, and glanced guilelessly through her lashes at him.

Their gazes met, and though the bodice of her gown had surrendered another half an inch, he kept his attention firmly on her face.

“Lass, you kicked the giant in the jaw.”

“I did?” she asked, and blinked, her expression puzzled, her lips parted as if in surprise.

He stared at her in silence, studying every sweet nuance. The blushing cheeks, the wide eyes, the summer berry mouth.

In the end it was the softly parted lips that brought him back to himself. That forced familial obligations to the forefront. That fired up his cynicism. For her act was just a little too perfect, too soft, too helpless. Lady Tilmont, or whoever the hell she was, was about as helpless as a she-wolf.

“Aye, you did, lass,” he said, and in light of her stellar performance, found he no longer felt the need to refrain from kissing her shoulder. Then lower. The gown gave way with generous aplomb. Apparently the lace tie at the front had come undone. How fortunate. “You flew at him, end over end, and knocked him back a good three paces. I cannot help but wonder how a lady such as yourself…” he began, but suddenly he saw something in the shadowy night. A dark mark against the smooth skin just below her scapula. “What’s this, then?” he asked, touching it with a finger. It looked to be in the shape of a crescent moon.

She shrugged, moving her silky skin luxuriously beneath his hand. “As I said, I met the little man in the top hat. Then everything went black. I know nothing more than what I’ve told you.”

He frowned, fingers frozen on the little moon. “Are you speaking of the time in the alley or this mark?”

She turned her head, eyes luminescent in an errant shaft of light. “What mark?”

“This spot on your back.”

“Oh. That,” she said. Her voice was casual, but there was something a little off, an increased tension in her glorious body. “I’ve always had it. Was born with it.”

“It’s rather bonny.” He was trying to match her casual tone, but could not quite force out his breath. “Like a tiny star.”

She turned again, resting her chin atop her lifted shoulder, eyes wide and gleaming.

“Is it a birthmark?” he asked.

“As I’ve said…” The satiny shoulder shrugged a little. “It has always been with me.”

He kissed the edge of it. “It looks almost like a tattoo.”

“A—” She stopped herself, then continued smoothly. “Obviously I cannot see it myself.”

“You’ve not seen it in a mirror?”

“Do
you
often gaze at your back?”

He didn’t allow himself to be distracted by her chiding tone. “But surely others have mentioned it, lass. Your bridegroom, for instance, what did he think of your little star?” It was foolish, of course, idiotic, but even as he tried to trick her, to goad her into spilling a tiny bit of truth, the thought of her husband made him feel tight inside.

“He said it was not my best feature.”

“And the other men in your life?”

She twisted around, facing him, eyes half-mast. “I believe they were not thinking of stars when we were alone together,” she said, and smiling with sultry allure, leaned toward him.

Their lips almost met, and then he spoke. “’Tis not a star, lass.”

“What?” She breathed the word against his skin.

“’Tis not a star,” he said, and drew abruptly away, hurrying to his feet before he became lost in her eyes. “’Tis a moon. As clear as…” He pointed angrily out the window. “The
moon
. And you know nothing of it?”

She sat up. The goddamn gown sloughed like a wanton over her breathtaking breasts. “That’s not what I said.”

“I realize that. But your words claim you were unaware of it until the moment I mentioned it. How can you be totally oblivious to such a mark? How could your husband not have noticed? How could—”

Her sultry expression was gone, overshadowed by looming anger. “Lord Tilmont has other things on his mind.”

“Other things than…” He motioned erratically toward her. The blue laces that should have bound the gown lay intimately against the thrust of her nipples, stealing the breath from his lungs. “Other than
you
?”

“Yes,” she said. “You know ’tis true. We’ve been wed
only a few months, yet he’s gone. He left me, too.” Her voice softened and her expression became distant, as if she were seeing things long past. “Why do people leave me?” she asked. Her tone was soft and vague, her expression immeasurably sad. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing.” The word was drawn from him against his will, for she looked like perfection in the diffused moonlight.

“You lie,” she said.

“Well, you’re…” He grinned a little, remembering a dozen scenes from their recent past. “…a bit opinionated at times, I suppose, but ’tis not something one would hold against you. Not when you’re—”

“You’re right.” She looked utterly solemn, sitting perfectly straight in her tangled covers. “I’m selfish. I always have been.”

“Not selfish, lass,” he said. “You’re simply strong willed. Perhaps some men aren’t able to accept your—”

“No.” She was shaking her head. Her hair, long, dark, and glossy as a wet seal, fell across her shoulders and pristine gown. “I drive others away.” Her mouth trembled with sadness. “I drive them all away.”

Could this, too, be an act? he wondered. But in that moment a crystalline tear slipped from her eye and rolled with heartrending slowness down her sweetly sloped cheek.

“No, lass,” he said. “Don’t cry. ’Tis not true.”

“Even my mother.” Her words were whispered now. “I can barely remember her.”

He eased onto the mattress. “I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes I try. Sometimes in the small of the night I can almost see her face. Can almost hear her voice. But then I remember…” She swallowed.

He reached for her hand. “Remember what?”

“She didn’t want me. That’s why I make up tales about her. That’s why I try to believe I’m something I’m not. That I’m more than I am. Some say I put on airs. But really I just pretend…to be loved. To be cherished. To be special. So I don’t feel so alone. But I am.”

“No.” He didn’t know what to say, what to do. Broken sadness shone in her glimmering eyes and cracked the rough edges of his heart. “You’re not alone, lass.”

“She left me.” The words were little more than a sigh in the night. “I was not yet five years of age when she abandoned me to strangers.” Her slim throat constricted as she swallowed. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” he said, and pulled her into his arms. “I’m certain you did nothing wrong. No one could ever wish to leave someone like you.”

She stared at him a moment, then winced. “I lied,” she said. “I know my error.”

He shook his head in bemusement.

“I wanted her to leave the baby.”

“Baby?”

“We were running. Hiding. I don’t know why.” She smiled a little. “I like to believe it was because we were ungodly rich. That we were heiresses and others wanted our wealth, but…” She shrugged.

“We?”

“As I’ve said, I had a sister.” Her voice was soft, whispered, entirely at odds with her usual bravado. Indeed, if he did not know better, he would think she was another woman altogether. “I believe she was my sister. But she was loud. Crying. And she slowed us down.”

He stroked her hair, feeling her honesty to the core of his soul. “What happened?”

She shook her head. A glistening tear slipped toward her perfect nose. “Mother left me. Took the baby. I never saw them again.”

Sadness swamped him. His own family had its share of troubles, but he
had
a family. And they cherished him. “She didn’t leave because of your faults, luv. I’m sure of it. She was trying to save you.”

She grimaced as if holding back tears. “You don’t know that. You don’t know
me
.”

“But I wish to,” he said.

“Do you?” She drew back. Her lashes sparkled with tears. Her full mouth trembled. “Are you certain?”

“More than anything,” he said, searching her eyes. They were filled with quaking sadness.

“I’m so lonely,” she breathed.

He stroked her cheek, watched her close her eyes, felt her tremble beneath his hand.

“But I…I dare not get too close.”

“Too close to what, luv?”

“To people.” She lifted her gaze to his. “To you.”

“That’s why you’re short with them. That’s why you push them away. To save yourself the hurt.”

She swallowed and glanced down. The soft curve of her cheek was strangely irresistible. “Everyone leaves.”

“I’m here,” he said. She raised her gaze slowly to his, then lifted her hand to his face.

“I owe you my life,” she whispered. “Yet I’ve been dishonest and cruel.”

“You were frightened.”

“Always,” she said. “Always frightened.”

“Not now. You don’t have to be frightened now,” he said, and kissed her.

Without thought, he eased her back onto the mattress. She sighed as he swept her hair from her face. Lowered her lashes as he kissed the trembling corner of her mouth.

“You’re beauty beyond words, lass,” he said. “But I’ll not press you if you don’t wish me to.”

For a moment he held his breath, and then she reached up and undid the top button of his shirt.

“Lass—” he began, but she kissed his mouth, hushing him.

“Give me this moment,” she pleaded.

He wanted to. He wanted to give her everything, but he‘d been despicably dishonest and she was baring her aching soul. He was sure of it. “There is something you should know.”

“Probably several things,” she said, and managed a wobbly smile. Her fingers never stilled. Beneath her hand, his flesh tingled with hope.