Tempting the Wolf (19 page)

He drew back.

Her neck felt strangely weak. She could barely draw a breath, could barely remain on her feet. Feelings tore at secret places inside her very soul.

As for the Irishman, he seemed temporarily stunned, his lips slightly parted, his eyes half mask.

“Lass,” he murmured and reached for her again, but she managed to skitter shakily away.

“Don’t touch me,” she breathed.

“Is that how it feels for ye each time?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Aye, ye do, love. I speak of magic.”

She laughed, but the sound was wild. “You flatter yourself, sir. Just because you have a winsome face and—”

He touched her arm. Her head jerked back. Her body ached with need. ‘Twas too much to ask of her. She’d been too long alone, too far from humanity and hope and light.

He drew her toward him.

“Please,” someone whispered.

Was it him? Was it herself?

“Please what?” He whispered the words against her face.

Fire sung in her veins.

“What kind of magic do ye possess, lass?”

She shook her head. He touched his fingertips to her face, smoothing back her hair. Need ripped through her. She was breathing hard.

“Surely it does na always feel thus.”

She licked her lips. His hand was warm and firm against the back of her neck, imprisoning her, burning her alive, making her want and need and dread.

She should run, she should scream. But he called to her, pulled at her, drew her like the doomed moth to the golden flame. She could do naught but kiss him. Naught but slant her lips against the paradise of his.

Magic engulfed them, burning on contact, throwing them high, near ripping them apart.

“Mary and Joseph,” he murmured. For a moment, she almost thought he would loose her, but instead he drew her closer, so close in fact, that their thighs brushed, their bellies lay flush, one against the other.

Colors sprang alive in her head, a wild kaleidoscope of painful pleasure.

“Is this love then?” he breathed.

She watched his lips move, watched him watch her, and she kissed him again, because she could not resist, because she was weak beyond words, lost and hopeless.

It was false what they said about lightning. It did indeed strike twice. Her lips burned with it, her body trembled.

“Because I dunna…” He paused, looking shocked and weak and disoriented. “I dunna ken if I can survive it, lass.”

“Try,” she whispered and let the sheet fall away like water between them.

His gaze was like a crash of thunder on a darkling night. Like the taste of rain against her parched lips.

“Sweet Mary,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse and parched, his gaze unblinking.

Silence settled around them, hot and breathless. His nostrils flared like a wolf on a scent, like a wild beast testing the breeze, searching for its mate.

Lifting his hands with slow reverence, he smoothed them down her arms. She shivered violently in their wake and dropped her head back, closing her eyes, letting the feelings take her. When she opened them, she saw that he was watching her again, his gaze as sharp and clear as daylight.

“Hiltsglen told me ‘twas like this,” he said and skimmed his knuckles across her belly.

Feelings clamped up hard, curling down to her very toes.

“You discussed this,” she murmured, barely able to force out the words as she reached for him, “with the Scotsman?” Her fingers trembled when she touched his chest.

He moaned deep in his throat. The sound called to the deepest part of her.

He was gritting his teeth. She slipped her hand across the hard velvet of his chest. His muscles jerked tight beneath her fingers, as if she burned him, as if he were branded by her touch. She ran her fingers down the hillocks of his ribs and for a moment the world seemed faint, but she found that her back was against the wall now and that he supported her, one hand on each side of her body, holding her still, holding her up.

She rested her head against the wall, breathing hard. Just breathing, watching him.

“You are beautiful,” she whispered.

He laughed. The sound was little more than a growl of feral longing. “You think so now,” he murmured, but the sound seemed broken, almost pained. His arms trembled beside her. “But if I dunna leave soon, I fear—”

“You?”

He watched her from inches away and it seemed almost that she could read his mind, could feel the thoughts unfurl inside his head.

“I do not believe you fear anything,” she said and leaning forward, kissed his chest with a tenderness born of wonder.

“Lass, I must leave—”

She kissed him again. The world crumbled beneath them.

He opened his eyes slowly.

“But I fear I canna.”

She ran her knuckles down his abdomen. He quivered against her. She shivered in return. “Stop me,” she pleaded.

He laughed again, his eyes wild with emotion. “Naif it kills me.”-

Fear trembled through her. She caught her gaze with his. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she breathed.

“God’s truth, I would na care,” he gritted and crushed her with a kiss.

The world exploded. She didn’t know when their lips parted. Didn’t know how he became naked, but suddenly he was, as naked as she, as beautiful as a symphony, as warm as sunlight against her skin.

“Stop me,” she breathed.

“Stop
me
,” he begged, but she could not, would not. She had waited a lifetime, had lived it alone, had been cautious, wise, hiding, waiting.

For what?

For this?

This moment when life exploded.

They were on the floor. It felt cool against her back. Heat flared inside her. Need reared like wild horses in her soul. Her wrists were trapped in his hands. His thighs, bunched with corded muscle, were between her own.

She moaned.

“Sweet Mary,” he groaned and reared over her. She held her breath.

“Hello,” someone called and pounded on the door.

Antoinette snapped in a breath. O’Banyon growled low in his throat.

“Hello. I am ever so sorry to wake you, sir. But I search for the countess.” It was Mr. Winter’s voice. “I fear she’s gone missing.”

They were staring into each other’s eyes, inches apart, inches from ecstasy.
Ten
inches, to be precise.

She opened her mouth, perhaps to speak, perhaps to shush him, she didn’t know, but he was already shaking his head. His single braid brushed his jaw. Something like pain showed in his expression. Something like dread.

“I am mad with worry.” Winters pounded again. “Open up, sir. I must speak with you.”

O’Banyon lowered his head. She could already feel his kiss, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was lost, but her lips parted at the last instant.

“Please,” she whispered.

He stopped. Feelings sizzled like pitch fire along her nerve endings. The world waited in silence, and suddenly, as lithe and smooth as a hunting beast, he rose to his feet.

She lay alone on the floor. He burned her with his eyes, and she let him, let him fill himself with the sight of her. Indeed, she may have arched like a wanton feline, may have flushed beneath his heated gaze, but finally he reached down. Their hands met, fire on fire. He gritted his teeth against the pain and drew her up beside him.

His desire brushed her thigh. She felt the burn of it to the core of her being and shivered at the contact, but he was already handing over her gown, motioning her behind the door. It physically hurt to move away. Something ached deep inside when he pulled the sheet about his waist.

They stared at each other, and for one sparse second she almost flew back into his arms, but she did not. It seemed like a death march across the floor to the wall.

“O’Banyon,” Winters called again.

“A moment.” The Irishman’s voice was deep with desire, low with impatience. Muscles bunched hard and eager along his forearm as he gripped the sheet near the rippled strength of his waist.

He yanked the door open.

Mr. Winters gasped and drew back, then laughed with nervous relief at his own skittish-ness. “Oh!” Antoinette could see him through the crack of the door, watched him flicker his gaze toward the candle. “You’re awake.”

“Aye.” O’Banyon’s voice, usually so glib and congenial, was rough edged and hard.

Mr. Winters glanced about. “I’m sorry to wake you. Might I come in?”

“Nay.”

“Oh.” He seemed immediately flustered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… That is to say. Bad timing on my part, I’d say.” He reddened.

“Is somemat amiss?”

“Yes. Yes, indeed. ‘Tis the countess. Lady Trulane went to her room but she was not to be found and…” He stopped abruptly, his eyes going as wide as his mouth. His gaze darted to the side, and for one panicked moment Antoinette was sure he could see her, flattened as she was behind the door. “Oh dear,” he said. “I… That is to say, I didn’t realize the two of you—”

“Did you check her carriage?” asked Banyon.

Silence for a moment, then, “What?”

“The lady seemed distraught,” said O’Banyon. “Mayhap she traveled home already.”

Winters paused. “Umm.”

“I left her in her room sometime hence.”

No one spoke for several seconds.

“Then she’s not… That is to say, you haven’t…”

“The countess?” O’Banyon said, his voice rising a bit as if just now understanding the other’s meaning. “A bonny lass, I’ll admit,” he said. “But a bit cool for me own tastes.”

“Oh.”

“Mayhap I should have stayed a spell with her, but I met an eager maid earlier in the day and—”

“Oh. Of course. Yes.” Winters cleared his throat. “Then you’ve no idea where she might have gone off to?”

“Where is it ye’ve looked?”

“In truth, I came here straightaway, knowing you were the last to see her.”

“I’ve na idea where she might be. But if ye’ll wait a bit I’ll ask me… companion.”

Winters cleared his throat. “Very well. Yes. Of course. I shall wait.”

O’Banyon closed the door. Antoinette stared at him, heart pounding in her throat.

He reached for her hand. She shook her head and drew her arms tight against her chest. Emotion flared in his eyes, but in a moment he nodded and turned away. She followed behind, her gown damp and chafing where she’d scraped it over her shivering skin.

“He will be gone in a matter of moments,” O’Banyon murmured.

The world felt strangely surreal.

“I shall go with him,” he added.

She managed a nod. He turned away before dropping his blanket, but she could still see the plum-tight head of his pride past the muscled slope of his hip. She turned away, face burning as he wrapped his plaid about his waist.

“We shall search the stables,” he whispered.

She refused to look at him.

“Go to the garden,” he ordered. “Find a likely spot and settle in.”

“The garden?” she breathed.

He turned with a scowl. ” Tis the only place in all the world ye are at peace. Surely yer friends will know to look for ye there.”

She could do nothing but stare at him.

He reached for her. She watched his hand, breath held, but at the last moment, he curled his fingers tight into his palm and backed away.

The very air seemed to sizzle between them, but then he was gone, leaving her weak and trembling in his wake.

The journey to London seemed slow and torturous. Lady Hendershire sat close to her spouse, her face pale, her husband’s worried. Pryor Winters seemed almost as concerned about the young baroness. Only Lady Trulane was her usual loquacious self, telling tales of dignitaries and statesmen she may or may not have met once upon a time.

As for O’Banyon, he sat in silence, listening distractedly to her ambitious stories as his mind spun in ever-widening circles. The white countess sat directly across from him, and yet it seemed as if a black abyss lay between them, as if he had not held her in his trembling arms only hours before. As if the world was yet as it had been before they’d touched.

O’Banyon watched as Hendershire squeezed his bride’s hand and inquired quietly about her health. Amelia smiled weakly, assuring him all was well, but she was not a skilled liar. Even O’Banyon could tell that something was amiss. Each time they struck a bump, her face seemed to grow a shade paler while the hollows beneath her eyes etched deeper.

“I wish you had taken some breakfast,” murmured the lanky baron.

“Please.” His wife’s voice was weak. “I’d rather not think of food just now.”

“Perhaps it was something she ate yesterday eve,” said Lady Trulane.

“Yes,” agreed Winters, glancing at the countess and away. “That is probably all that is amiss.”

“I must admit the collared eel looked a bit suspect,” said the baroness. “Indeed, once when in Brussels I…”

O’Banyon let his mind shift away. Mayhap wee Amelia had indeed eaten some unfavorable tidbit, but perhaps it was something else entirely. Something inexplicable.

Black thoughts tangled in his mind.

Amelia, though small, had always seemed healthy—always seemed lively and bright, until the countess had touched her, until the countess had pulled her from the waters. It was at that moment that Antoinette herself had become weakened. Why? Memories stormed in, midnight dark against his soul—endless loneliness, mind-bending confusion. Sorcery was real. Sorcery was evil and terrifying. Even now he felt the blackness close in around him, as if the carriage were being crushed inward, stealing his air, drowning the light. He fought against it, but it was not so simple as battling a warrior. Even with Hiltsglen, O’Banyon had been afforded some hope, some possibility of success. ‘Twas sword against sword then, muscle and wit pressed to the limit in honest combat, but how could he fight what he could not see? What he could not understand?