Lois Greiman (26 page)

“Was it all a lie?” he asked again, his voice barely audible in the waiting silence.

Princess Tatiana, sovereign ruler of Sedonia, had found love with Teleere’s notorious pirate lord. An unknown little minx had won the jaded heart of Lord Nicol of Newburn. But Will was yet alone, and even now Shandria lay with another.

“Yes,” he said, and grasping the smooth neck of the bottle, raised it to his lips. “It was all a lie.”

“Put it down, lad,” someone rumbled.

Will turned. Scotch sloshed against the bottle’s smooth sides. The Highlander stood but a few short paces away and reached out now to steady himself on a nearby wall. They’d given up on finding a suitable shirt for him, and the cords in his bulging forearms danced with muscle. But his legs trembled at the same time.

“You’d best lie down,” Will said. “Lest you crack the damned floor when you fall.”

“Ye’ve had enough, lad,” he rumbled, his voice deep as the night.

Will tightened his grip on the bottle. It felt smooth and solid against his fingers. A solace. A balm. If they’d just leave him to it.

“And why the devil would you care how much I had?” he asked.

“I don’t,” said the Highlander. “But the lassie does.”

William glanced toward the doorway, aching to see her, to feel her, to hear the dulcet sound of her voice. But she wasn’t there. She was with another. With a man she should detest but refused to leave.

“She cares, does she?” Will asked, and swirled the enticing drink. “Truly?” Then why did she stay with the bastard? Why did she not at least try to fight? he wondered. But in his tattered heart he was certain he knew the truth, had seen it a dozen times. She loved him. Despite his acidic cruelty, or maybe because of it. “And how would you know that, Uncle?”

“I’m sober,” he said.

Will nodded steadily, but his hand shook. “I tried that.”

“Not long enough.”

He squeezed his eyes closed, and though he attempted to hold back the words, he could not. “She’s with him.”

“Aye,” agreed the Scot, and drew a few steps closer.

“And she’ll stay with him, lad, if you can’t so much as control your own hand.”

Will glanced at the bottle. Power was there. Strength. “Damn him,” he gritted.

But the Scotsman shook his head. “You’re not ready yet, boy,” he said, and shuddered.

“I’m steadier than you, old man. And I’ll be steadier still. After a drink.”

The giant shrugged. Muscles rippled through his shoulders like windswept waves. “I’ve heard that before, lad,” he rumbled. “Said it meself, in fact.”

“You make your choice, Scotsman. I’ll make mine.”

Gem appeared in the doorway and crossed the floor on silent feet. Standing beside the giant, she looked as slim and fragile as a spring blossom. But it was all an illusion. Life was a sham. Little Gemini was as tough as hammered steel. She would be fine on her own. They all would. And yet, she reached out, and seemingly without thought, took hold of the giant’s arm. His muscles bunched like sailor’s knots beneath her hand, and he bent his broad neck to scowl down at her. She raised her worried gaze to his. Something passed between them. Something indefinable, then the Scot looked up again, his battered face set in new signs of determination.

“Aye,” he rumbled, and sighed as he braced his gigantic feet. “’Tis your choice, laddie. You can set the bottle aside or you can wish to hell you had.”

Will raised his brows and didn’t bother to stifle his laughter. “Are you threatening me, old man?”

“Naught but stating the truth, lad.”

“I’ve not claimed to be a fighter,” Will admitted. “But I might point out that you can barely stand.”

“’Tis true,” agreed the other. “But this I tell ye, me
young buck, the day I can’t best a drunken sot, is the day they’ll put me in the ground.” The room went silent for a moment. “’Tis not that day, lad, and you’re not that sot.”

But he wished he were. Wished to God for the oblivion he used to know, but somehow he feared that he would never experience that dark solace again. It would never be the same, for he had learned too much. Had felt too deeply. He tightened his grip and stared into the yawning neck of the bottle. If the answers lay there, they were lost beneath the surface of the amber liquor.

He could feel Jack’s gaze on him, could feel the boy’s troubled thoughts, but he had no answers, no solace, no hope.

“I’ve a task to perform tomorrow,” he said, avoiding all eyes, but not quite able to lose the weight of the souls around him. “I’ll be gone some while…” He couldn’t quite seem to force out the rest of the words.

“I’ll be here, lad. As will they.” The Highlander nodded to indicate the youngsters who stood beside him. “Whole and hale unless I’ve breathed me last.”

Will glanced at the bottle. It still called, but its allure was weakening, drowning in the need to protect. “Very well then,” he said, and set the Scotch ever so carefully upon the sideboard before turning his gaze to the giant. He looked old and tired, like a weary lion. “I believe I’ll spare you the pleasure of thrashing me.”

The Highlander nodded. “’Tis just as well, lad. I was hoping for a wee nap,” he said, and turned toward the door. But in that moment his legs buckled. Gem grabbed him about the waist. Her hands slipped against his bare skin, and the giant closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as if her touch were an irresistible torture. “I can make it on me own, child,” he gritted.

She was pressed against him, her bosom crushed to his bare skin, her narrow fingers splayed across his abdomen. “I’m not a child, old man,” she rasped, and William nearly laughed out loud.

Holy hell. And he thought he had troubles.

S
he was dressed in a high-collared ivory gown with her hair swept up and her hands clothed in sky-blue kid gloves. She wore a cloak of sapphire velvet with a hood that covered her soft wheaten curls.

Will’s heart stopped at the first sight of her. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

She gave him a curt nod and turned toward the landau. “Poke insisted that I accompany you.”

So she would be in danger. Again. As would his heart. “Why?”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her etched ivory face perfectly serene in profile. “’Tis impossible to tell my master’s wishes.”

He almost swore, almost snatched her to him, insisting that she was no man’s slave, that she was free to do as she pleased, but he did not, for he knew better. He had made love to her, after all, had held her in his arms, had felt her quiver with passion and more—at least for him. For him it had been so much more, an eternity of emotion, a wealth of brimming need. And yet she stayed with a man who would abuse her. Why, but for love, or a dark facsimile of the same?

He watched her mount the single step, and he could do
little but follow suit. The carriage jostled into motion. He carefully kept himself from touching her.

Evening descended. They rolled along the streets, through the ruts that finally made way for cobblestones, and on, into open countryside. But Will saw little, for she was there, stealing his breath, jumbling his thought. Feeling her gaze on his, he turned finally. Their eyes met with a jolt.

“What if they recognize you?” she asked.

Poke had given him a charcoal tailcoat to be worn over a ruffled white shirt. His black trousers were a bit loose around the waist and a tad too short, but he had worn much worse when he was acknowledging his title, the shabby lord of Landow. Who was he now? Who but a fool?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and watched her.

She didn’t turn away. “I can do this job better without you.”

He shrugged. It was difficult to breathe when she sat so close. Impossible to think of anything but the feel of her skin against his. “As can I.”

Denial crossed her face, though she didn’t voice it. Glancing out the window, she watched the world roll away for a moment. “Tell me what it is you want.” She fell into silence, then turned to him again, her glorious face solemn. “Tell me why you came.”

But they were two entirely different things. He had come for answers, for revenge, for foolishness. He wanted her. As simple as that. And yet impossible.

“I imagine I want the same things you want.”

Something shone in her eyes, before she switched them back to the window. “Did I take something from you, Dancer? Did I wrong you in some way?”

Aye, she had stolen his heart, and she would not give it
back. He stared at her, as regal as a princess, as sad as eternity.

“Is it revenge you’ve come for?” she asked. Raw emotion shone in her eyes for one flashing second, bewildering in its intensity, but she blinked it away, found her cool equilibrium, and guessed again. “Perhaps it was Poke. Did he take something you cherished?”

Was that it then? When she had protected him, when she had kept him safe, was it really only a ploy to spare Poke? Did she think, perhaps, that Will might have some power to harm him?

“’Twill be a bit before we reach Shirlmire,” he said. “You’d best rest.”

“You know the way to Lord Tambrook’s.”

He almost smiled. He would be daft to think he could fool her.

“We’ll arrive late. ’Twill be dark.” He paused, thinking. Was there any reason to believe they wouldn’t recognize her? Any reason to think she wasn’t of noble blood?

“And what of you?” he asked. “Will they know you?”

“As I’ve said, Dancer, I am naught but the daughter of the Rom.”

“And yet they call you Princess.”

She glanced out the window again. “’Tis simply what Poke calls me,” she said, “to help him forget what he cannot have.”

He knew he should keep quiet, gritted his teeth in an attempt to do just that, but he failed. “’Tis difficult to believe that even a bastard like Poke could refuse to see your quality.”

She skimmed her eyes to his. “Leave it be, Dancer.”

Aye, he would say no more. “He treats you like a beast,” he said, his gut wrenching tight. “Worse than a beast.”

“Shut up,” she said.

He smiled. “And yet you cherish him.”

“I’ve a knife,” she hissed.

“Aye, you do,” he admitted. “But you’ll not use it. Not on him. For despite everything, you cannot live without—”

“I would kill him!” she hissed.

Will rasped a sharp breath, trying to formulate a question, but she was already speaking.

“I would kill him if I could,” she said, calming herself.

“Then why—”

“Because I can’t,” she said, and continued smoothly on as if she’d never spoken. “I suspect you will refuse to leave, even if I promise to do the same after the documents are delivered.”

He almost laughed out loud at the ridiculous idea that he might be foolish enough to believe her again.

She pursed her lips and glanced away. “Nevertheless, I will leave if I can. If you choose to tell Poke…” She shrugged. “So be it.”

“You think I will betray you?” he rasped.

She shrugged. “I would suggest you leave first,” she said.

“Before you.”

“Yes.”

He chuckled as he shook his head and fought down the churning emotions. “You keep me guessing, lass. I’ll give you that.”

She didn’t respond, but turned to gaze out the window again. And his mind spun away. Might she be telling the truth? Did she have a reason to lie?

“Why now?” he asked again.

“This document…’tis of the utmost importance to him. He will be well distracted.”

“Distracted.” He glared at her, trying to reason. “He
was gone for days. You could have left a dozen times during his absence.”

“No,” she said, “I could not.”

“Why?”

“I cannot say.”

“Cannot—” He snorted a laugh. “And yet you ask me to trust you?”

“No,” she said, “I don’t. I ask you to leave.”

There was no sense. No understanding. But maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she would leave. The idea made him feel all but giddy. “So…” he said, forcing his tone to be light and desperately needing time to think, to work things out in his mind, to find a moment of normalcy. He exhaled carefully, trying to relax, watching her. “You are the duchess of Blackfeld again?”

She glanced up at him. “Is there such a place as Blackfeld?”

“If you live there and still don’t know…” He shrugged. Why now? Why would she leave now? “How will others?”

“I don’t live there.”

He studied her in the failing light. Her dialect suggested English bloodlines, but the delicate height of her cheekbones and autumn wheat hair gave her a look of Scandinavia. “Blackfeld,” he said, “of Finland.”

She tilted her head at him. “I’ve not been to Finland.”

“Who has?”

“The Finns, I suspect.”

He must keep his wits, give himself time to think. Keep the tone casual, lest he fall on his knees and beg her to leave immediately. Before it was too late. “But how many Finns have you met at a masked ball?”

She glanced out the window again, lost in thoughts she would not share. “None recently.”

“There you have it then.”

“So I am—”

“Lady Rosalind, the young, recently widowed duchess of Blackfeld, of course.”

“And you?” She said the words almost breathlessly. “What are you? My brother?”

“No!” He said the word too quickly, but did not try to retract it.

She watched him in silence, and he finally spoke, for there was nothing else to do.

“You can surely make them believe you’re a duchess. Hell, if you wish it, you could convince them you’re a witch or a street urchin or a foreign heiress. But they’ll not believe you’re my sister.”

She didn’t ask why, for the answer was certainly as clear to her as to anyone who might see them.

“Who then?” she asked, her voice soft in the falling darkness.

“Your lover.” He didn’t try to stop the words, though he knew he should.

“Dancer—”

“A baron,” he said, striving for insouciance again.

“Far beneath my own esteemed status,” she countered. “Why would I consort with such a lowly gentleman?”

“Because I’m a fabulous lover.”

She almost smiled. “Are you?”

“I’m penniless.”

“So poverty improves your skills?”

“Naturally. And I’m a poet.”

“Ahhh. Of course. Do you have a name?”

“My intimate friends call me Ben.”

“How many intimate friends do you have?”

“One,” he said, and though he tried to draw his gaze from her face, he could not.

“I’m honored.”

The carriage pulled to a halt. The footman opened the door. Will handed Shandria down. If she was nervous, he couldn’t tell it, unless there was the slightest bit of tension when she took his arm.

But in the end it was ridiculously simple to gain access to the house. She was the duchess. The word circulated quickly, though it was hardly necessary, for it was obviously true, despite the fact that she wore a simple catlike mask to hide her beauty. He was her companion, dressed in charcoal tails and a mask like a dark swan. It was laughable really. But he didn’t laugh.

The ballroom was filled to overflowing. Will escorted her to the refreshment tables, crowded with silly foods and expensive wine. He caught her a cup and declined any for himself.

“A poet who doesn’t drink?” she asked.

“I’m intoxicated by your beauty,” he said.

“Of course,” she answered wryly, though his words were true.

“Your Grace.”

They turned in unison. She said nothing, but stood as straight and slender as a willow.

“Your Grace.” The speaker was a squat little man with a balding pate and a mustache that sat slightly askew on his whisky-flushed face. “I am Lord Donnett. I have been told you are from Finland. I spent some time in Turku while conducting business there.”

She merely stared, her brows arched regally above the silly mask.

“Does…ahhh…the duke wait there for you?”

“My apologies,” Will said, “my lady does not speak Sedonian.”

“Ahhh,” said Donnett, switching smoothly to French
and keeping his gaze on her. “I understand. I but wonder if your husband—”

“Or French,” Will added.

The little man scowled, then rallied before turning to her again. “May I—”

“Or English.” Will bowed. “If you’ll excuse me. This is our special song.” Lifting her hand, he led her onto the dance floor.

“We have a song?” she murmured.

“I’m a poet, remember?” He was a fool. He knew it for a fact, and yet his heart felt light. Maybe it was true. Maybe she would leave Poke. Maybe the document was some sort of catalyst he couldn’t understand. “Certainly we have a song.”

“And you dance.”

“I believe I told you that from the start.”

“I assumed you lied.”

His heart clenched as he turned her to face him, as he took her hand in his and felt the slim, tight curve of her waist.

“And as I told you before,” she said, her voice low, her gaze askance, “
I
cannot dance.”

“I assumed you lied,” he said and drew her close. She felt so right there, so slim and strong and carefully carved, if a bit stiff.

“Relax,” he suggested, and whispered a brief explanation of the waltz as they swayed across the floor. But it did no good. Her legs tangled with his. She hissed an apology, and though it intrigued him, he refused it. “What are you thinking, lass? You can fool a host of thieves, but you can’t best the gentry?” She straightened immediately, and though he would have sworn it couldn’t be done, she forced herself to relax, to move with him, to sweep across the floor as if she’d done so a thousand
times. When the waltz ended, he led her back to the refreshment table and leaned close to whisper his congratulations.

She gave him a sidelong glance, then looked about the darkened room. A gentleman with a beard and curling side whiskers said something to a companion and turned as though to approach them. Will had little choice but to lean in and kiss her.

She drew in her breath and he smiled. “There are few things that discourage conversation more than seeing another man kiss the woman with whom you’d hoped to converse.”

She stared at him blankly and he turned his eyes to indicate the man behind him. She raised a brow. “The fellow who’s taking drinks back to his wife?” she guessed.

He waited a few seconds then turned. The gentleman did indeed seem to be well occupied. “One can’t be too careful,” he hedged. “I’m fast running out of languages you don’t speak.”

“I can’t dance either, but that didn’t seem to deter you.”

He brushed her chin with his knuckles, needing that simple touch. “No, you can’t,” he said, “but the duchess did tolerably well.”

“Perhaps I’d be insulted,” she said, “if Mr. Slate weren’t such a pathetic burglar.”

“Touché,” he said, and though everything about her stole his breath, he did his best to appear nonchalant, unmoved, sane. She would leave the Den. He believed it in his soul. He must. It was that or return to the man he used to be. The man without hope.

“Well,” she said, “we’d best be about our task.”

“One more dance,” he insisted, struggling to delay the night.

“I must not,” she said. “Where do you think we’ll find the—”

But he kissed her, for life was short and deadly dangerous. She drew away with a soft hiss.

“I’m merely attempting to blend in,” he explained, but it took all his strength not to drag her into his arms and beg for the truth, for assurance. She would leave Poke. She must. Instead, he nodded casually toward a couple cozied up behind a potted fern. “But I’m more likely to get arrested if you look at me with such panic.”

“And how should I look at you?”

“As if you care for me.”

Something sparked in her eyes, but she doused it in a moment. What did it mean?

“Perhaps they will merely think I have some decorum,” she suggested.

“’Twill never work,” he said, and slipped his hand up her back, assuring himself she was still safe, that there was yet hope.