The Defiant One (20 page)

Gareth merely glared at him for a moment; then he, too, spun on his heel and left the room.

Unlike Charles, he didn't even bother to say goodnight.

~~~~

Celsie awoke to the gentle patter of rain outside.

It was not yet dawn.  She lay there in the gloom, listening to the peaceful sound of water running down the windows, trickling down the eaves.  As per habit she stretched her feet out, seeking Freckles, but the bottom of the bed was empty.  Celsie came fully awake, feeling oddly lost, ill-at-ease.  For as long as she could remember, she had slept with a dog or cat or both.  But of course, there were no dogs or cats here.  She was at de Montforte House.  In a room that smelled, lingeringly, of roses.

Probably Lady Nerissa's.

She pulled the covers up over her shoulders, snuggling down beneath them and thinking that she really ought to get up now, and find her way to her own London townhouse before the duke's servants woke.  She didn't need any more stains upon her reputation than she already had.  But oh, it was so warm and delicious under the blankets . . . she'd sleep for another ten or fifteen minutes.  No more.  Then, she would leave.

But something besides the rain had woken her.  She opened her eyes and gazed about the slowly lightening room.  At the tall rectangles of the windows, aglow with grey light.  At the furniture just taking shape from out of the darkness.

At the tall figure of a man leaning negligently against the door frame.

She stifled a scream.

"Sorry," said Andrew, straightening up.  "It's only me."

"Damn it, you're enough to scare the courage out of a Great Dane!" she sputtered.  "How long have you been standing there?"

"I don't know.  Twenty minutes.  Two hours.  A long time."

She sat up in bed, pulling the covers with her.  "What do you want?"

"Company."

"I thought you wanted to be left alone.  You made that perfectly clear, earlier."

He stepped into the room, clad in nothing but a long white shirt which covered him down to mid-thigh.  His hair was loose about his shoulders, dark and wavy in the half-light.  His feet were bare, his calves long and powerful.  The sight of him, tall, slightly disheveled, and nearly naked, was enough to make Celsie's throat go dry.  He looked better than breakfast.

Better than another few hours of sleep.

Better, even, than the thought of leaving.

"I want to apologize for my bad behavior last night," he said.

"Now?  Couldn't this wait till morning?"

"No."

"Very well, then.  Now that you've apologized, why don't you go back to bed."

He shrugged.  "What's the sense?  I've got too much on my mind to sleep."

"Well, why don't you go design another flying machine, then.  Or something to help the turnspit dogs so they don't live such horrible lives.  Or better yet, a potion to render yourself invisible.  I find it most disconcerting to awaken only to find a man staring at me."

"I can't help staring at you.  You . . . you're beautiful."

The quiet, matter-of-fact way he said it sent a lightning bolt of feeling straight into Celsie's heart. 
You're beautiful.
  No one had ever told her that before.  No one.  She didn't know how to react to it.  Feeling suddenly confused, vulnerable, and more than a little flustered, she pulled the coverlet higher.  "And now I'm embarrassed."

"You shouldn't be.  Besides, I'm just making an observation.  Nothing more."

"I think I'd prefer that you contain your observations to science, not women dressed in their nightclothes and trying to get some sleep."

"Do you realize, Celsiana, that if we don't find a way out of this marriage, the first thing we'll see when we wake up every morning will be each other?"  He bent his head and rubbed his toe against the door jamb.  His hair fell over his brow, one eye, obscuring his expression.  "It's baffling, but for some strange reason, I don't find that a particularly repulsive thought."  He lifted his head, looking as vulnerable as Celsie felt.  "Do you?"

"No.  I suppose you
are
a little better-looking than Freckles."

"Listen, Celsiana —"

She tensed, holding the sheets tightly around her.

"I'm sorry I was such an ogre last night.  I'm sorry that I allowed you to go away thinking that I was angry with you, when indeed, I was not angry with you, but with the fates that have made me what I am."  He took a deep breath.  "And I'm sorry that if you end up having to marry me, I'm going to make the most abominable of husbands."

She fixed him with a direct glare.  "Are you trying to get into my bed, Lord Andrew?"

He looked up, surprised.  "Do you
want
me in your bed, Celsiana?"

"Of course not.  It would be unseemly."

"Yes.  Yes, I suppose it would be."

She curled and uncurled her toes.  "On the other hand —"

He raised his brows.

"On the other hand, I must confess that this is the first time since I can remember that I've slept alone.  I guess I miss Freckles."

"And I'd probably make a poor substitute."

"Yes.  I daresay you would."

Silence.  An expectant, waiting, hopeful silence.

"I suppose I'll go back to my room, then," said Andrew, with a faint smile.  "Unless you decide you want me to be Freckles for the rest of the night, in which case I'll gladly crawl under the covers with you."

"Why should I let you do that?"

"Well, first there is the fact that I'm having trouble sleeping, knowing that you're — well, here.  Secondly, there is the fact that if we're going to end up being married, it doesn't really make much difference what our current sleeping arrangements are.  And thirdly . . ."

"Thirdly?"

He grinned a little sheepishly.  "I'm cold."

She sighed and levelled a flat look at him that belied the way her heart was suddenly beginning to pound.  "Do you
have
to be so damned charming?"

"Sorry.  I am not trying to be charming."

"That's precisely why you
are
so charming."  She flipped back the coverlet.  "Very well, then.  Join me if you like.  But . . . no touching.  Just sleeping."

"You cannot mean that."

"I do mean it."

"Do you honestly think that I can come over there, join you in that bed, and
not
touch you?"

"I think you can try."

"This might be beyond my capabilities."

"Then maybe you ought to go back to your own bed," she said, wondering why she suddenly hoped with all her heart that he would not.  "Really, I can't understand why it should be so very difficult.  If you can design flying machines and incredible inventions, surely you can lie in this bed without touching me."

He padded across the floor toward the bed, smiling faintly.  "Why is it that I'm perceiving this as some sort of a challenge?"

"Is that how you perceive it?" she asked, sliding over to make room for him.

"Well, how else would I perceive it?  You invite me into your bed but won't let me touch you — and this after we've already made love not once, but twice.  Why deny our desires now?"

"Because it's not even light out and I would like to go back to sleep.  You can either stand there and sulk, or get into bed.  Now
I'm
getting cold."

He joined her, of course.  She never had any reason to think that he wouldn't.  Oh, if he could be like this
all
the time — charming, witty, at ease with himself and with her — instead of turning into a bad-tempered dragon whenever the fancy struck him!

The mattress sagged a little as he climbed up.  Celsie, moving as far to the edge of the bed as she could without falling off, tensed, her skin from ear to toe prickling in anticipation of an accidental touch.  He pulled the coverlet up and scooted down beneath the weight of it and the blankets.  The pillow sighed as it took the weight of his head, and the blankets gapped around her knees and shoulders, letting in a faint draft where his body lifted the covers from her own.

They lay there for a few moments, each stiff and expectant and feeling slightly awkward.  Celsie was keenly aware of his size, his virility, his very
maleness
in this rose-scented, femininely appointed room.  Now she was
really
wishing that Freckles were there.  Having the big dog's body between herself and Andrew would go far toward ensuring there were no . . . accidental touches.

Maybe a pillow would work —

"So tell me about these turnspits," he said, his deep voice only a foot from her ear.

She lay as stiff as a dog's hackles, arms down at her sides, barely daring to breathe.  "What's there to tell?"

"I want to know why their plight is so important to you.  What you intend to do to help them."

Now,
this
was a safe topic, and one that she could thoroughly exhaust — probably enough to send him off to sleep, if she was lucky.  After all, it seemed to bore most people; why not Lord Andrew, whose interests seemed to revolve around science and extraordinary inventions and being in a bad mood?

Somewhat despairingly, knowing she'd soon lose her audience, she said, "Have you ever been in the kitchens of Blackheath, Andrew?  Or any kitchen, for that matter?"

"Hmm, no."  He crossed his arms beneath his head, one elbow accidentally touching Celsie's ear.  "I can't say I have."

Celsie determined not to move, though she was keenly aware of that elbow.  "Well, if you would bother to go down into the kitchens of most great houses, you'll see an iron wheel, somewhere near the hearth where your meats are roasted.  The wheel is called a turnspit, and the little dogs that are enslaved to turn these wheels, and thus your meat so that it roasts evenly, are called the same."

"Dogs are used to turn the wheels?" he asked, the pillow shifting a little as he turned his head to look at her.

"You know, you really need to get out of your laboratory once in a while and see what goes on in the real world.  Of course they are!  Aren't all innocent beasts exploited in one way or another by the human species?"

He merely looked at her, his features barely discernible in the gloom.  But she could see his dark eyes only inches away, his lips so close she could feel his breath upon her cheek.

"I'll tell you something else, too," she said, staring up at the dark ceiling so she wouldn't have to look into that handsome, searching face.  "Not only are these poor little dogs confined within these wheels, but many cooks put hot coals on the iron tracks so that they run their legs off in a futile attempt to keep their paws from being burned."

"You're bloody joking!"

"I'm not."

"How dreadful . . . Good God, I never knew."

"It
is
dreadful, isn't it?"  She began to relax, warming to her subject as she realized she had not only his attention, but his sympathy for her cause.  "Now you know why I'm trying so hard to make people find an alternate way of cooking their roasts.  Animals have feelings, just like we do.  They're not meant to be hurt, or abused, or exploited for our sakes.  They're innocent, and helpless, and they're meant to be loved — just as we love our children."

"There are those who don't even love their children, Celsie."

"I know."

"And there are those who would say that since animals lack souls, they don't deserve to be treated any better than they are.  That it's perfectly well to treat them as expendable objects.  Not, of course, that I adhere to such an opinion . . . just playing devil's advocate."

"I know you are.  But who's to say that animals don't have souls?  I believe, with all my heart, that they do.  I believe they go to heaven, each and every one of them, because they are innocent, and therefore sinless.  And I believe that God, who created animals just as He created humans, and made them of the same exact flesh and bone and blood, loves them as much as He does us."

She felt the customary pang of frustration gripping her and swallowed hard, for she wanted to change the world, change people's attitudes, and she knew that she never could, because there would always be cruel, insensitive people as long as the earth turned.

"But oh, if I say such things, people laugh at me," she continued dejectedly.  "They smile politely, and pretend to care, but only in order to indulge me.  Funny what having money does, isn't it?  Fools.  I know what they really think.  It's a good thing I didn't live a century or so ago, or I would have been burned as a heretic.  But you know something?  Let them all laugh.  Let them all whisper behind my back.  People have enough champions; animals do not.  If something suits a purpose, exploit it.  If something gets in the way, destroy it.  It doesn't matter if it's a living, breathing creature, with a heart and feelings and ability to feel pain, loneliness, and grief just like we do.  Man's wishes are the only ones that matter, aren't they?  Man's wishes cause everything else to be stamped down, to be stamped out.  God, how I hate it!"

Her tone had become impassioned, plaintive, angry.  She turned her head on the pillow and regarded Andrew.  In the faint gloom she could see that he was watching her, his eyes thoughtful.  There was a little smile on his face.  Was that mockery she saw there?  Amusement?

"You think I'm ridiculous, don't you?"

"No.  I don't think you're ridiculous at all, Celsie."

"What do you think, then?"

Something in his gaze softened.  "I think you are a woman ahead of your time."

"You're not laughing at me, then?"

"Do I look as if I'm laughing?"

"No," she said, exhaling, the fight going out of her.  "No, you don't."

"I admire you for your courage in standing up for something you believe in so strongly.  For your courage in confessing to me something that is obviously very close to your heart."

"Yes, well, it has made me even more of an outsider than I already was.  Not, mind you, that I care one way or another."

"I know the feeling . . ."

"What feeling?"

"Of being an outsider."

"But you don't care, either."

He smiled.  "No.  I do not."