Highlander Undone (8 page)

She was nearing desperation when he’d been killed.

Small wonder she did not wholly welcome the resurrection of the carefree, impulsive girl she’d been or thank Jack Cameron for reviving her.

“Odalisque.”

As if in answer to her thoughts, she heard him speak. His voice—husky, unique—made the word an endearment. She didn’t open her eyes, but thought back over the past few minutes.

Slowly, she slit her eyes open, looking at him from beneath the thick brush of her lashes. Jack stood in the doorway, unaware he was being observed. For a brief instant, his pose was uncontrived. He held himself taller, his shoulders squared, his body poised with supple grace. His face was taut, his expression defined by some inner extremity.

Then, he realized he was being watched. His shoulders slouched, his eyelids drooped, and the beautiful mouth twisted into a moue.

“I should have guessed you were awake and alert. Harem women are notorious for their intrigues,” he drawled, leaning back against the doorjamb and crossing his arms over his chest.

She opened her eyes. For some reason unknown even to herself, she did not scoot upright as she ought, but instead stayed lying as she was. “How would you know what harem women are known for?”

“I was quite a pet of the seraglio.” Though his tone was light, his gaze kept moving away from the sight of her as though he found it . . . unsettling. Did she unsettle Jack Cameron? The idea was electrifying.

“Have you been using mineral spirits in your toilet, m’dear? What an interesting concept. Declare your aesthetic tendencies with an aroma. All the professional beauties will be clamoring for an
eau de palette
.”

“With very little further effort you might yet achieve offensiveness,” she said, robbing the words of censure with a fond smile. “I was stenciling leaves on the wall. And what ‘seraglio’ would that be?”

“My second cousin’s. Did I not mention he was a pasha?”

“I thought you were Scottish.”

“Oh, we quite keep our less conventional connections buried deep in the old skeleton closet.”

Addie laughed and pushed herself to a sitting position.

“No,” Jack said abruptly, coming across the room. “Please. Stay there. You look like an elegant little cat waiting to be stroked.”

“And are you going to stroke me?” She didn’t know what made her say the words. He stopped short.

She thought she heard the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath. She’d shocked him. She shouldn’t have teased him like that . . .

“I’m sorry,” she said. But she didn’t feel sorry. She felt something exciting stir her blood.

He looked down at her. “No more than I,” he whispered.

D
espite having arrived in London just that morning, Jack had already found an excuse to be with Addie, and now here she lay at his feet, luxuriating in the light, her slender, naked calves glazed golden, her narrow feet bare, asking if he was going to stroke her.

God.

A taunting gleam appeared in the pooling darkness of her eyes and then was gone. She bit her lower lip. Her gaze sidled away.

He nearly swore. He wanted back the wanton who’d betrayed herself an instant before. He stood tightly strung as a bow, quivering with longing and desire that he couldn’t act on. Not now. Yet, he could not deny himself the opportunity to steal just a few more precious seconds beneath her guard.

He reached down, offering her his hand. She accepted it easily. Her fingers felt strong yet delicate, like a swift’s fine-boned wing. He pulled her up and she rose as gracefully as a ballet dancer. Slowly, he released her hand. It slipped from his grasp with something like reluctance. She did not move.

He was so close he could see where the overstarched lace on her collar had chafed her neck.

Wariness and curiosity warred in her gaze as he leaned forward, dragging the sun-sweetened scent of her skin through his nostrils. He didn’t touch her but she must have felt his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at her temples, the banked heat of his gaze sliding over her lips.

He fully expected her to withdraw as he bent nearer, but she didn’t. With the slightest twist of his head, he could kiss her. He was that close. A matter of inches. A sigh. No more.

Her lips parted. He could just make out the bottom of her front teeth, pearly white behind the rosy curve of her upper lip. See the darker hue of her tongue. He shifted, bringing himself nearer still, the advance of a hunter, an oblique predatory approach.

The lace covering her bosom shivered in response to some interior agitation. Her breath grew staggered, a tiny pant. Of what? Alarm? Anticipation?

Closer still.

Where could this lead?
he wondered angrily. His body was reacting in defiance of his mind. Yet still, he found himself committing to memory the fine texture of her skin, the faint remembrance of summer’s freckles across the bridge of her nose, a tiny crescent-shaped scar on her upper lip.

He opened his mouth to taste her very breath and closed his eyes, angling his head a hand’s span from her neck. A wave of physical desire welled up, drowning his senses. It was an intimacy she hadn’t offered and yet from which he hadn’t withdrawn. It was not nearly enough and he had only to move that final space to touch her mouth with his, but to risk further . . .

He stopped. She stared up at him and he could read her alarm in the pulse beating at the base of her throat, see her confusion in the agitation stirring the lace covering her bodice.

She shifted but, rather than distancing them, the small movement brought her closer. Color crept into her pale cheeks. Her chin angled higher. Her gaze met his.

He wasn’t going to steal the kiss she bravely offered.

He had already stolen the unpalatable facts of her marriage to Charles Hoodless without her consent, eavesdropping, but since then had discerned much worse through what he’d observed: the fleeting expression of fear and the unconscious manner with which she rubbed her arms whenever her husband’s name was mentioned, as though soothing a bruise.

Small wonder Addie feared a certain type of man.

It made Jack profoundly grateful for Hoodless’s death. Because he had the overpowering conviction that if Hoodless were still alive, he would have killed him.

But now, apparently, Addie had embarked on a course of eradicating her apprehension. And what better man, thought Jack, to practice being fearless with than him, the most harmless and negligible of males?

The thought was sadly amusing. He almost wished he could resent her experimentation. But he could not. Having already compromised his integrity by using her in order to serve the debt he owed his men, he found “masculine pride” easily abandoned.

Lord, he admitted ruefully, he would have offered his body, his heart, and his soul to any of her uses. And still he wanted more. But he had at least a shred of decency left. He wasn’t going to use his disguise to purloin her kisses . . . Or was that pride speaking?

She was regarding him with puzzlement, a touch of hurt in her amber eyes as she fell back a step and, just that quickly, the moment had passed, and she was turning from him. She wandered away from his side, her hand idly grazing the tops of her paint pots and brushes, lost deep in thought. He watched her move away, torn between regret and relief.

“Jack?” she finally said, her voice tentative.

“Yes?”

“Is there . . . is there anything . . . singular about me?”

Singular? “Everything.” His intensity caught her off guard.

She looked up sharply at that, catching her lower lip between her teeth. “Irregular?”

“Why do you ask?” he asked.

“No reason.”

“Come. When one makes such inquiries there is generally a reason. You aren’t applying for a position as headmistress at some girls’ school, are you? Because they shall never hire you. Never.”

His teasing revived her sense of humor, albeit in a tremulous form. “Because my behavior is so singular?”

“Behavior? Pish. You have perfect manners. Considering your upbringing.”

“Thank you . . . I think.”

He waved away her gratitude. “No, Addie. It is your appearance that is singular. Your coloring. Your . . . form.” Damn it, he could feel his body clenching again.

“I see.” She spoke too quietly.

He tried a different tack, one that would not lead to declaration and admissions. One a fribble would take. “You are quite too singular looking to be entrusted with the likes of girl-pups. They might try emulating your style. I do not think London is prepared for a Season of debutantes wearing that atrocious color of gray. No, no. You’ll have to seek other means of satisfying your creditors, should the need arise.” He paused and tapped his forehead as if with sudden inspiration. “I know! Have Ted hire out as a housepainter.”

“Oh, Jack.” Addie laughed. “I’m quite solvent. It’s that . . . well . . . I have not consciously put myself forth, but Mr. Lafayette has approached me.”

Jack’s urbane manner slipped. “Really?” he said. “And who, pray tell, is Mr. Lafayette?”

“I made his acquaintance last week. He is a friend of Gerald’s. A photographer. He has a studio off of Prince Street.”

Jack didn’t say a word. Addie shifted on her feet, blushing profusely. He waited. Only the tiny tick of muscle in his jaw betrayed the effort his silence cost him. What did this man mean to Addie? What did she mean “approached”? All his
protective and, sadly,
possessive, instincts thundered to life.

“He is a very good photographer.” She sounded defensive.

“Doubtless,” Jack murmured, tugging on his shirt cuffs and trying not to betray his fervent need to know why this man had the power to make Addie blush. “But what has that to do with you?”

“Other people have had it done. Perfectly respectable people. Jennie Churchhill and Miss Churchhill. There is nothing about his request that is, in and of itself, unsavory.” She fidgeted. “Is there?”

Jack left off fussing with his cuffs and frowned. “Forgive my obtuseness, but I haven’t the least idea what we are discussing. Have what done? And what request?”

“Mr. Lafayette asked me to pose for a studio portrait. He sells them. To the general population.”

Jack could not help his feeling of relief. “I see. And how does Mr. Lafayette’s request tie in with your singularity?”

“I am at a loss to explain why he felt free to approach me. Do I . . . do I appear the sort of person who would welcome public attention?”

Good Lord, she sounded guilty! Had Hoodless berated her for some imaginary immodesty? Had her intelligence and
exuberance
threatened him so much he’d bullied her into questioning her natural vivacity? Damn the man to hell.

“Is there something about me that would excite uninvited comment?” She held her breath.

Jack turned away from her so that she could not see his involuntary snarl. He faced the panels, pretending to be studying them while he collected himself.

“Jack?” Her hand brushed his coat sleeve. He hated her beggarly tone. He cast about for the right tone, the right touch.

“Of course. You are gorgeous, my dear.”

Her breath caught and he turned back to see her eyes widened with surprised pleasure.

“You needn’t look like a cat with cream, vain creature,” he said, plastering a fatuous smile on his face. “You are undoubtedly a pretty wench, Addie, but you can’t accept any of the glory for those physical attractions you possess.

“Even I, in all good conscience, must ascribe some credit to my parents for their hand in producing the masterpiece you see standing before you. If you are singular, you must blame your parents.”

But though his words had pleased her, they persuaded her.

“Give over, Addie,” he said in a far gentler voice. “Any qualities the proletariat chooses to ascribe to you just because you are a rather artful eyeful is their concern, not yours.”

He brushed a nonexistent piece of lint from his shoulder. “If they want to think of you as Bathsheba or Saint Agnes there is little you can do to alter their perceptions. And frankly, while I do not know about you, dear lady, I would rather not take any credit for the fevered imaginings of the lower classes.”

She finally laughed at that. “Jack, no one could possibly be as much of a snob as you pretend to be.”

“No?”

“No,” she avowed. “But your point is well taken. I cannot worry about other people’s opinion of me, but need only concern myself with what I know to be true about myself. Thank you.”

“Is that what I said?” Jack lifted his eyebrows. “Rather ponderous prattle so soon after lunch. I shall have to contrive some sort of penance for being so tiresome. Perhaps I’ll forgo my nap. No, no. I’ll only disappoint my dinner companions by appearing unrested . . . hm.”

“Oh, do stop,” Addie pleaded, giggling, “and tell me straight off, ought I to sit for Mr. Lafayette?”

“Become one of the so-called professional beauties?”

“I’m not comfortable with that term.”

Jack shrugged. “What does Ted say?”

“Well—”

“Ted thinks that if his little sister agrees to sit for anyone, it should be Ted.”

Jack and Addie swung to find Ted standing in the doorway behind them. There was no way to tell how long he had been there. He was leaning slightly on his silver-tipped cane, his eyes sliding lazily from Jack to Addie and back again.

“Cameron.” Nodding a greeting in Jack’s direction, Ted moved in his deliberate pace into the room.

“Where have you been, Ted?”

“Oh, hither and yon. Actually I was with a French émigré. He was telling me all about Mr. Seurat’s Société des Artistes Indépendants. I believe it has some ties with your own enclave, Cameron.”

“Really,” Jack replied indifferently. He had as much as he could do to keep hundreds of English artists straight. He knew nothing about the French.

“Tell me, are Mr. Morris’s anarchists holding a Christmas party this year?” Ted’s tone was utterly bland.

“Anarchists?” Jack repeated, uncertain of whether Ted was twitting him.

“Come now,” Ted said. “I thought that as one of Mr. Morris’s protégés you would have a near-religious dedication to social reform. Isn’t it mandatory amongst your little brotherhood?”

Bloody hell
,
Jack thought, Wheatcroft had never mentioned that Morris and his ilk were revolutionaries! Wonderful—a career soldier involved with a pack of bloody socialists.

“I have only one master and that is my art,” he pronounced.

“Very nice,” Ted murmured. “Been reading the
Le Décadent
, have we?”

“Excuse me?”

“Really, my dear chap, if you are to be successful as an . . . artisan, you must learn the cant.
Le D
é
cadent
is a review periodical. The symbolists’ forum.”

“I wasn’t aware you fancied yourself a symbolist.” His attempt to turn the conversation worked. Ted’s singularly uncommunicative face became even more shuttered.

“Oh, I’m not. I am well and truly society’s creature. My fellow artists quite shun me as the
beau monde
’s pet. I paint pretty portraits. Nothing more.”

“Self-important snobs!” Addie burst out. “Pack animals, the lot of them! They have more rules and regulations than the governments they seek to overthrow!”

“Thank you for your championship, Addie, however unnecessary. I assure you I do not feel the loss of my peers’ company any more than they feel mine. Although I would dearly love to watch Degas work . . . and this new fellow, Rousseau. Someday I must cross the Channel.” His eyes narrowed on some envisioned work for a second before his attention returned to Jack. “But you, Cameron. You must be knee-deep in all the intrigues of
avant-garde
aesthetics—moral, social, and artistic.”