Bound by Your Touch (11 page)

At that realization, something opened within her. And his mouth opened, too, so the kiss became complex, dizzying. It spilled through her like music, like the vibration of an orchestra. She could not follow it in her head, but she was kissing him back now. How? This was a part of her she had forgotten, given up on. I
will never kiss a man again
—so many rimes she had thought it, alone, in the dark of her bedroom, feeling angry and wrong even as she mourned. It wasn't as if her first experience had recommended itself. But she was kissing a man now and it was
something else entirely.
With dim astonishment, she observed that her skill seemed more than adequate to the task; he made a little sound of pleasure and used his lips to open her mouth wider.

Amazed, she let him. The way their mouths moved together filled her brain like a puzzle, a map whose outlines were hot and ever expanding, spilling routes of warmth down her breasts, her stomach, the backs of her knees. As they unfurled, they summoned unmentionable places into awareness. She opened her mouth to it; she marveled at it; she was allowed to do so, just this once. What a bizarre, amazing thing this was, that his mouth was teaching her! A
real kiss.
A first-rate one. Oh, she had not known!

He broke off suddenly. His chest moved in a deep, fast rhythm. There was a peculiar look on his face. "Well done," he said, as if she'd just taken a trick at cards. "Not at all naive. Tongue and all."

Tongue and all! What power, in three small words. The sound of them moved through her, as overwhelming as his touch.

His eyes narrowed on her face. He reached for her. He was going to kiss her again.

But—she had no excuse for it.

She jerked away. For a long moment they stared at each other. Oh, he was beautiful—his face narrow and chiseled, his cheekbones and jaw so firmly defined. He would have modeled for icons had he lived in the Byzantine Empire. Silver for his irises, topaz for his hair. She felt drunk on his face. He was—

He was a bottomless, flashy butterfly, full of empty attractions. About as trustworthy as a snake. And this charm of his was like an unguent. She would slip on it into her doom if she did not step away
this moment.

She retreated a pace. The larger room, the commonplace furnishings, invaded her awareness. A weird bewilderment filled her, that the world did not seem changed. To think that she would have gone to her grave with only that pathetic memory of George— "You will send the stela to me?" Her voice sounded breathless, like a debutante with her first
parti.
She felt dizzy. She felt overturned.

"Ah." He blinked. "Yes."

Against her will, she turned to go, realizing as she did that his arms had settled again to either side of her, caging her against the bookcase. He seemed to like this position, the way it held her immobile. She put a hand on his forearm, testing it. For a long moment she simply stood there, looking at her fingers against his sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cloth—until she realized that what was stopping her: she was
flattered
'by this. Oh, dear God. Her pride had better things to fasten to, surely!

On a sharp breath, she ducked out to freedom. At the door, though, she could not prevent herself from peeking back. He was still standing in that peculiar way, as if he were the only thing holding the bookcase up. His expression was puzzled.

The sight settled her. How often had she seen similar expressions on the faces of her father's colleagues, or the men in her audiences?
Men are trained to discount women in any number of ways, Lydia.
Papa was right: they never knew what to do, when one exceeded their expectations. She was not flattered by his interest after all. She simply felt glad to have unsettled him—and, of course, to know now what kissing should properly be like.

Feeling better, she took a moment to smooth her gloves. When she looked up, he was watching her. His bemusement had disappeared; in its place was a sardonic smile. "All straightened out?" he asked.

"I believe so."

"Would never do to appear in public looking less than neat," he said solemnly.

"My thought exactly. Viscount, I told you at the dinner that I did not have enough information to classify you."

His brow cocked. "And?"

She nodded. "I think I have gathered it now. You are suffering from an acute case of boredom-induced paranoia. No one is out to cheat or swindle you. And as for your bizarre idea that Lord Moreland was somehow involved in this mix-up—well, I expect he has more important things to do than conspire with ladies to play tricks on his son."

His smile turned thoughtful. "Are you throwing down the gauntlet, Miss Boyce? I'll gladly take it."

Wrong, very wrong, that the prospect should send a thrill through her. "No," she said, with more force than perhaps was necessary. "I simply wish to express that—that these pranks of yours are the most
childish
things I can imagine."

"Then your imagination wants exercise, darling." More softly, he added, "Perhaps I'll be the one to provide it."

She had no doubt he could do an admirable job of it. The thought disconcerted her; she blew out a breath to dispel it. "Or perhaps I will simply take it on a stroll through the park." Dropping him a mocking curtsy, she exited into the hall.

Chapter Five

Pain, like music, had its own rhythms.
Piano:
the glancing tap of a fist off the jaw.
Stacatto:
knuckles, jabbing one-two-one-two into the flesh of a muscular gut.
Forte:
the blow that took James in the nose and sent him stumbling backward in a spray of blood.

Hands smacked into his back, halting his retreat. The support kept him from stepping over the chalk line. There were few rules in this dark, smoke-filled place, but crossing the chalk would disqualify him. The crowd did not want that. There was nothing more popular in this pan of town than the chance to see an English lordling get beaten to pulp by a man from home.

James's ears were ringing. He shook his head, and his teeth seemed to rattle in his gums. His opponent was a strapping Irishman, fresh from Cork, renowned for his ability to lay men flat—occasionally snapping a neck in the process. As James had ducked down the stairs into the ginnery, the proprietor had taken his arm and pulled him aside. "Go home," he'd said. "Not tonight, m'lord. I can't have a nob beat to death in me place. I'd be transported faster'n you could spit."

News of a worthy opponent had cheered James. In the quiet, well-appointed clubs of Maiden-lane, Queensbury rules prevailed; one might as well be boxing puppies. Here in the East End, where the only law was to avoid murder, he generally had an unfair advantage: a lifetime of steady meals and good medicine put him hands and stones over the competition. But this Irishman, judged from across the room, looked tall and thick, able to crush rocks with his palms. At any rate, there were worse ways to die than by a broken neck. One could rot slowly, locked away in a sanitarium in the country—or be smothered to death by feudal obligations.

A fiver had soothed the proprietor's worries. The crowd had yelled its approval.

Two rounds gone by now, and no murder yet. James was growing bored. The Irishman relied too heavily on his size. He had no speed, and his right hook left his flank exposed. Perhaps he was a late bloomer? As the man pulled away from his cohorts, his meaty fist delivered a very promising smack into the palm of his other hand. "C'mon, your lordship," he sneered, and crooked a beckoning finger. "Taste a little Irish justice."

James smiled and shoved away from the helping hands. Every muscle in his body was warm, glowing. A feint to the left, a jab to the right. A paw caught him in the belly; the breath wheezed out of him. The Irishman took advantage. A crescendo of pain: the bones in his face might break under this sweet hammer of fists.
Fortissimo:
the singing of agony in his blood.

But it did not suffice. It never sufficed, did it? The pain was not loud enough; it could not envelop him and it did not silence his thoughts. The basic flaw remained apparent, even as he swallowed blood. He could come here and play all he liked. He could walk the meanest street at midnight, unarmed, inviting all comers. He could throw himself down the stairs, but the architecture of his body conspired against him. He had fists like hams, didn't he. He had height, and muscle, and training. It would never be the same. He had defenses, and she hadn't. He would never forget having seen that knowledge in her face—the fear created by her own helplessness—how small she had been in comparison to Boland—

Anger ripped through him. His fists felt now like meteors, swift and dense, afire. An uppercut knocked the Irishman back.
"Hit
me," he screamed. Four jabs took the man to his knees. "Is that all you have? Stand up, goddamn you!" Spittle, blood—the warmth of it dripping down his face did not faze him. He barely felt it. His skin had gone numb. One small aim realized.

Fingers hooked under his arms, clawed into his shirt. He was dragged up, off bended knee, away from his opponent.

The interior of the public house was thick and hot. The Irishman lay in a heap on the ground. James lifted his head to watch the smoke spiral upward in lazy blue plumes, joining the mass that roiled beneath the timbers. Old building, this. Here and there a pewter pint glass clinked against wood, or a customer whispered for a six of gin; but the crowd was largely silent. James drew a breath.

"Erin go bragh,"
he said, and let out a gusty laugh.

"Jesus, James."

He glanced up. A form was paused on the stairs, his features obscured by the light streaming in from behind him. But the low, smooth voice was unmistakable. At university, when very drunk, Phin had liked to sing. In the interim, he'd found other callings for it. Two years ago, during one of his brief stays in town, they'd met for a drink. Phin had been on the edge of what doctors would later diagnose as a malarial relapse, though he hadn't realized it at the time. A few whiskeys into the conversation, he'd said, out of nowhere, I
am a crack hand at interrogation: you would not believe the power of a warm voice speaking to you through the dark.

It had been James's first inkling of the places to which "cartography" had led his friend. I'II
keep the lights on,
he'd replied. "Kind of you to drop by," he said now.

His remark broke the spell of silence. At once, voices babbled up from every direction—victors crowing for their wagers, erstwhile adherents of the Irishman cursing his name. From the corner of his eye, James saw someone deliver the downed man a kick in the ribs.

"Julking time!" yelled the proprietor. He wresded his way through the now-milling crowd, two steaming glasses of gin in his hands. James took them gratefully. They reeked more sharply than turpentine, but went down like water.

Phin fought through the mob. "Bloody well done," he said. "Literally. You look as if someone took a mallet to you."

A throb was setting up in James's jaw. He poked his tongue back. The inside of his cheek was torn, but all his teeth seemed intact. He'd live to be pretty another day. "You wish to nurse me to health?"

"Beyond my capabilities. It's your brain that's broken, I believe."

James would have lifted a brow, but the attempt made him wince. "Don't be tiring. If I need lectures, I'll visit Moreland."

"You're lisping."

"Am I? I know just the cure for it." He waved to the proprietor. At the counter, the bird fanciers were lining up their wicker cages. Best to get in his next order before the match started. "Another glass of your best rotgut, sir. Phin, will you join? The birds tonight looked very promising. I spy a German canary in that lot."

"No, thank you. I prefer my liquor cold."

"Right. Or in a pipe, I suppose."

Phin's brow lifted. "What a clumsy way to drink liquor. Are you sure you're not concussed?"

"If not to drink or to fight, why are you here?"

"To ask for your help. But I see you're determined to be useless for the evening."

"No surprise there," James said mildly. "Although I have just finished laying out the pride of Ireland. Some would call that a national victory." It dawned on him that Phin was in full evening dress. "Coming from somewhere?"

"The Stromonds'."

Ah, yes, the annual ball. Every matchmaking mamas most prized invitation. "My condolences," he said. "They must be on you like flies to honey." He rolled his head, feeling the sinews in his neck unwind. Another drink was pressed into his hand. "Bless you, O'Malley." He sucked in a breath, then downed the mug.

When he lowered it, Phin was still standing there, his expression attentive but unreadable. "I'm concerned for Elizabeth," he said.

"Oh yes?"

"Yes. It's a nice arrangement Nelson's got, there."

James sighed. This prudish streak had first appeared at university: while his fellow students had been chasing every skirt in the county, Phineas had read poetry and sighed in chaste admiration over the wife of a local vicar. "She's a woman grown, and hurts no one but herself." On a sudden laugh, he added, "I thought the army would have cured you of this Puritanism."

The curve of Phins lips was enigmatic: a man obscurely pleased with himself. "So did I," he said. "Thank God for small favors. But you've mistaken me, James. It's Nelson I'm judging here. Although I will admit—I don't recall Liz being quite so ..."