The Sword of the Banshee (41 page)

She looked away, saying nothing. When he finished smoking, he flicked his tobacco, straightened up and faced her. “India,” he said, gently turning her toward him. “This must happen.”

India’s heart began to drum in her chest. Reluctantly, she looked at him, and she swallowed hard.

Quinn pressed his lips together a moment before saying, “I know—I understand and my touch will be gentle.” Ever so slightly he felt India move away from him. Her eyes had suddenly turned dark. “You must know,” he said quickly, “that I will stop anytime you tell me.”

She studied his face. Fear and memories were consuming her. Yet she longed so for his touch.

Slowly, Quinn raised his hand and stroked her cheek, holding her eyes. “Tell me when to stop.”

He slid the back of his hand over her cheek and took her chin, ever so slightly touching her lips with his own. A light breeze moved the trees and blew India’s hair across her shoulders and breasts.

“Continue?” he asked in a whisper. When she did not protest, he put his hand behind her head and kissed her, gently easing her lips open. India opened her mouth slowly allowing him to kiss her fully.

He stepped back and took a ragged breath, fighting the desire. He licked his lips and without taking his eyes from her face, he slipped his hand very lightly under her wrap and ran his fingers over her breasts. All the time he burned a look into her with his dark eyes.

India’s lips parted, but she did not stop him. Biting her lip, she swallowed hard as he caressed her. Now more than ever Quinn looked like a gypsy to her, there in the darkness stealing intimacies from her.

“Tell me when to stop,” he said in a husky voice. She said nothing.

Untying the front of her wrap, he reached in and ran both of his hands down her waist, gently pulling her body to him. His self control was waning, as he ran his lips gently down her neck.

India started to tremble. He moved to her ear and whispered, “Stop?”

India shook her head. Quinn closed his eyes again, his breathing quickening and his jaw clenched. He ran his hands down the small of her back and over the curve of his hips. Quinn thought he would go mad with desire.

At last, India allowed the passion to take her, and she leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She pressed her breasts against his thin shirt and whispered “Now.”

Without hesitation, Quinn scooped her into his arms and carried India into her bed chamber.

*           *            *

At dawn the next morning, Quinn was standing in his breeches on the gallery outside India’s room. He was barefoot and without a shirt.

India slid out of bed and put on her wrap, standing next to him. Her hair lay in tangles over her shoulders as he put his arm around her. Quinn looked down at her and smiled. He had never seen her eyes such a bright blue.

He finished his tobacco and sighed, looking at the clouds gathering on the horizon. “It may storm,” he said.

India could feel Quinn struggling with something. Just as he had given her time last night, she would give him time this morning. At last, he said, “There are several things of which we must speak.”

India swallowed hard and looked at him.

“You know there have been women.”

“Yes,” she said.

He clenched his jaw, looking out at the lake instead of at India. “But there has never been love--” He stumbled on his words. “Until now--there has never been a love for me.” He looked at her and asked, “Do you fully understand this?”

She dropped her eyes. Her stomach churned, and she clenched her fists. “I understand,” she murmured, but she could not say what he wanted her to say.

He waited, for what seemed like an eternity, then letting out a gasp of frustration; Quinn turned and grasped the railing of the gallery “We are very different, you and I, Lady Allen.”

Still she could say nothing. She could not tell him that she loved him.

Hurt and anger burst forth and Quinn snarled, “Is it me or are you just incapable of love!”

The moment he said it, Quinn regretted it. His mouth dropped open in horror at his own words. India stiffened, and her eyes became hooded.

“Incapable,” she said flatly. “I’m quite sure.” She turned into her room and shut the French doors behind her.

*           *            *

Enraged, Quinn returned to his room, dressed and headed to the stables. He saddled one of the horses and headed down along the river for a ride. The wind blew the trees and thunder rumbled, but he didn’t care. He welcomed it. He hoped the violence of a storm would be cathartic, and the rain would cool his anger.

Why this woman? Out of all the women I have known, why must I love someone who does not love me? What a cruel joke life had played on me.

As he tore down the road, the rain started to splatter the path and turn it to mud. He slowed his pace, water running down his face and soaking his shirt. He remembered his first wife. He had not cared two pence about her, and she cared not for him. His second marriage was of convenience, nothing more, nothing less; he was the highwayman, she was a fence. Yet there were others after that that he had treated unfairly. Quinn wondered if retribution was being visited upon him at last.

  Suddenly, his horse shied and began to sidestep. “Whoa, what is it? Steady now,” he murmured, struggling to control her. Quinn spied a burlap bag on the riverbank not far from the path. It was moving.

He frowned, looked at the mare and said, “No wonder you were spooked.”

Dismounting, Quinn approached the bag. It was quiet, so he nudged the lump with his boot. It squirmed about again and started to whimper. The mare snorted and jerked on the reigns. Quinn reached down and pulled the corner of the burlap bag and out tumbled a puppy not three weeks old.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Quinn said. “They must have forgotten you when they drowned your siblings.”

It was small brown puppy with large floppy ears. It started crying and sniffing around for its mother. “There, there,” Quinn said tenderly. He reached down, picked the little creature up and tucked it in his coat.

The horse rolled her eyes nervously at Quinn. “You’ll live,” he said to the mare, getting back in the saddle.

*           *            *

India sat for a long time on the edge of a chair in her bed chamber, her back rigid and staring straight ahead. She searched herself, looking for some shred of emotion. Years of cold objectivity had taken its toll.
The very quality that set me apart as a leader has destroyed me as a woman. But am I that cold? Did I not rage, then grieve silently for my babies? Have I not worried and protected Phineas like a mother with a child? Why, yesterday, I even laughed.

Thunder cracked, breaking the spell. India looked around the room as if coming out of a trance and stood up. Back to business, she said to herself tucking her introspection into a box and locking it away.
I will no longer think of Calleigh and his schoolboy games.

India dressed and went downstairs to start her day. She gathered papers, books, maps, notes and returned to her room where she wouldn’t be disturbed. Prudence and Penelope were visiting their cousin in town, so the likely hood of interruption was slim. The rain stopped by afternoon, followed by bright sun.  India rose from her desk and opened the French doors. She worked for hours undisturbed until she heard shouting outside. It was Quinn’s voice.

“Phineas! Damn it lad, where have you been,” he called. “Come here!”

India could hear Phineas reply, but it was indistinct. She sighed, annoyed and went back to her work. Just as she started to write, Quinn bellowed again. “No, don’t bother with that come over
here
!”

Sighing, India raised her quill in an exaggerated fashion and dropped it on the desk. She pushed herself up from the desk, scowling and went to close the French doors. Just as she put her hand on the doors, she stopped. She spied Phineas running up to Quinn who was standing on the lawn. Quinn was grinning. She could not hear what they were saying, but Quinn appeared to be playing a guessing game with Phineas. He would ask him something, the boy would answer, and Quinn would shake his head, laughing.

At last, Quinn opened his jacket, pulling out a little brown puppy. She could hear Phineas squeal with delight. The boy cooed, “Oh!”

Ever so gently, Quinn handed the little creature to Phineas, speaking in low instructional tones. Phineas nodded his head.

India stepped forward, her eyes wide.

Quinn reached out with two fingers, and gently stroked the head of the puppy, as it sniffed and squirmed next to Phineas’ shirt. He continued to instruct the boy, as he cradled the puppy.

So taken with them, India did not realize, she was walking to the railing.

Phineas looked up at Quinn with the eyes of one who adores a parent and smiled. India could see him mouth the word, “Thanks.”

Quinn nodded his head, returning the same expression of sincere affection.

Something moved inside of India as she watched the tenderness in Quinn. A breeze blew her hair and suddenly a wave of emotion flooded her. Her face flushed, and her eyes filled with tears. A current rushed through her like a river washing over its banks after a hard rain. It followed long forgotten paths, giving movement and vitality to channels which had long since dried up.

Sensing something, Quinn looked up. He drew his eyebrows together, confused. He saw India, standing at the railing, staring at him with tears running down her face. She locked eyes with him, and her lips parted.

At that moment, he knew.

Quinn moved toward the gallery stairs, still looking up at her. Then his pace quickened, and he began to run. Taking the steps, two at a time, he bounded up to her, gathering her into his arms. He looked down into her face, streaked with tears.

India nodded. “Yes, I love you,” she whispered.

Chapter 34

Sheer curtains on the French doors were blowing gently in the late afternoon breeze as Quinn and India lay in the large mahogany bed. Light netting to shelter them from mosquitoes was hanging from the bed posts, draping around them like a veil.

With his back resting on the headboard, Quinn was stroking India’s hair as she dozed in his arms. The house was silent, and he listened to her breathing. He loved watching her sleep. When she lived in the Brandywine Valley, he would go to her window at night and watch her slumber. It was intimate and strangely erotic to be near her when she was most vulnerable. When she was awake, Lady Allen was capable and independent, even fierce, but when she slept, she was defenseless, and he could protect her.

He moved a bit.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” she murmured.

“Because I am invigorated after our lusty interlude.”

“Lusty interlude,” she mumbled. “Is that what it’s called?”

“I need to get up,” Quinn said, squirming under her and sliding toward the edge of the bed. “I’m hungry.”

He eased her down onto the pillow and stood up, pulling on his britches and shirt. “I am going to see Odette. You and I are taking supper in bed tonight.”

India fell back to sleep, and when Quinn returned, he had a loaf of bread, a basket stuffed with fruit, cheese and chicken legs with a bottle of wine under his arm. India rubbed her eyes and sat up as he snapped a tablecloth over the bed and climbed on top of the coverlet, crossing his legs.

“Wine?” he asked, opening a bottle and pouring India a glass. She took it, smiling, waiting for what was coming next. He opened a napkin and reached toward her breast, as if to tuck it in an imaginary bodice and said, “Oh, my word, no clothes.”

India pulled the sheet up to cover herself, with another smile.

“Chicken?” he said, handing her a drumstick.

“Thank you.”

Licking his fingers, Quinn cut a chunk of cheese, eating it off the knife.

“What did Odette say when you told her about our indoor picnic?

“She wasn’t there,” he said, chewing. “I helped myself.”

India’s brows shot up. “Well, there will be hell to pay for that.”

“Aye.”

They stayed in the room all evening. India had never known such delight. Quinn was not only a competent and experienced lover, but he was fun. He laughed and clowned at unexpected moments, surprising her repeatedly with his quick wit and keen sense of humor. Then, without warning, he would turn serious and take her with an intensity that almost scared her.

Most important of all, India was in love. For the first time in her life, she felt fully alive. No longer was her world a dull gray, punctuated with melancholy yellow. Now it was splashed with color, brilliant as the emerald and sapphire colors of a gypsy’s scarf, or soft and soothing as the rose and saffron of a watercolor.

In spite of it all, India tried to return to the familiar. On several occasions, she rose to attend to things at her desk, but Quinn would pull her back to bed saying, “None of that now.”