Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) (43 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

      
Beth was left breathless by the force of his glare, but the gasping sounds emitted by Quinn quickly reminded her that it would be wise to get away from the corsair...and probably her husband as well. “Please don't create a scene, Derrick,” she said as he grabbed her hand and pulled her behind him, facing Quinn, who now had managed to stand upright once more.

      
“I will deal with you later,” he told Beth, advancing on the big red-haired man as several of the guests, hearing the altercation, approached the alcove to watch.

      
“Ah,” Quinn coughed, then continued, “you are the colleen's earl, I presume?”

      
“And you are the walking dead man who dared to put his hands on my wife.”

      
“Not nearly so effectively as where she placed her knee on me, alas,” Quinn said with an insolent grin. “I am Liam Quinn, but whether or not you shall be able to kill me remains to be seen.”

      
Derrick stiffened, stunned to see his wife's abductor in the flesh. “I've often dreamed of killing you, but I never imagined you'd make it so easy.”

      
Beth watched the deadly adversaries circling each other like two great jungle cats. Blood lust was thick in the air and the audience stood back, fascinated. No one would dare to interfere. She knew Derrick was skilled with knife and pistol, but Quinn was a renegade who would stoop to any depravity to survive. “There's no need for this,” she said to her husband. “I have already dealt Mr. Quinn's pride a severe enough blow—not to mention certain sensitive portions of his anatomy,” she added sotto voce.

      
Without ever taking his eyes off the Irishman, Derrick replied furiously. “No need? You've amply illustrated how little value you place on your honor, but you are the Countess of Lynden and, as such, my responsibility.” To Quinn he said, “We will settle this matter between us on the morrow.”

      
“Lady Holland has my direction. You will have no difficulty finding me...only killing me,” the Irishman added with silky menace.

      
Derrick had a steel grip on Beth's arm as he strode past the guests. A distraught-looking Bertie tried to remonstrate with him, but Derrick only snarled, “Stay out of this, Coz, or it will go ill with you.”

      
Beth nodded to him. “I shall be all right,” she said, even though she had considerable doubt.

      
Derrick escorted her to the carriage waiting in the street, practically throwing her onto the cushioned seat, then taking the reins and driving as if he were a madman escaped from Bedlam. By the time they reached the residence on Pall Mall, the matched bays were winded and sweating in the cool night air. Beth was freezing, having been dragged from the soiree before she could retrieve her cloak. She sat stiffly, her back pressed against the squabs, her fingers embedded in the cushion edges to keep her seat during the wild ride. Her husband leaped from the carriage as a groom approached, then reached up and lifted her to the ground.

      
As the rig was led toward the stables, they walked silently into the house. He headed straight for the library, closing the heavy walnut doors behind them with an ominous whoosh. Beth moved to the center of the room and turned to face him. “I had no idea Quinn was in London. You must not challenge him, Derrick. He's—”

      
“Tis a bit late for that,” he interrupted curtly, “since I found him pawing you as if you were his slave.” The instant he said the words he regretted them, but the fury churning in his gut gnawed at him.

      
“Tis quite a bit too late to undo what is past, Derrick. I was his slave...and you can never forget it—or forgive me for it.”

      
“You give me little help in that endeavor when you persist in behaving as if you were still in Naples. I specifically forbade you to attend Lady Holland's salons, yet you went.”

      
“Why should I not? What further disgrace can come to me after Binghamton's denunciation?”

      
She looked defiant yet so vulnerable that it hurt him. His anger began to lessen as he struggled to regain some semblance of control over his temper. “When you refused to retire to the countryside, you laid yourself open for just this sort of pain, Beth. At the Hall you could paint and enjoy a measure of freedom—dress as you like, take Percy with you. It may not be Naples, but 'tis better than London.”
And safer
. “You would have none of the social duties you find so onerous.”

      
“And you would be free to pursue your social duties unencumbered by your wanton American countess—even if it meant dying senselessly in a duel with Quinn.”

      
“Your concern for my life is touching,” he replied with a tight smile. “Leave the corsair to me.”

      
“You can't undo what happened to me by killing him—if you can kill him.”

      
“Whom are you more concerned for—me or him?” he snapped.

      
She snarled a ripe Neapolitan oath, then said, “He sold me into that hellish place where you found me and you dare ask that!”

      
Derrick's shoulders slumped and he combed his fingers through his hair, exhausted and dispirited. He'd spent half the preceding night hashing out a compromise bill in Parliament to prevent the worst abuses in the workhouses, then met in the afternoon with the overseer from Lynden Hall, who had come to the city to explain discrepancies in the bookkeeping.

      
By the time he'd returned home and found her message it had been near midnight. He'd been furious with her for acting with such reckless irresponsibility, then insanely jealous when he found her tussling with that big red-haired oaf. Leave it to Beth to come out the victor, even against a cur like Quinn. Her gown had been torn, her hair disheveled...and she'd never looked more alluring to him, damn her!

      
“All we do is tear at each other, puss. We cannot go on this way.”

      
“Then let me go, Derrick,” she said quietly. “Divorce can create no greater scandal than what has already transpired. You will be vindicated if you—”

      
“No!” he roared, past all patience. The idea of losing her tore at his soul. Why was this her constant refrain? “You are my wife and I will not relinquish you. There is but one way to prove it...the same way I made you mine that very first time...” He advanced on her.

      
Beth stepped back. “No, Derrick. This will settle nothing.”

      
“It will settle the fire in my blood...in yours. I remember when you first came to me, so bold yet virgin.” He reached out and grazed her cheek with his fingertips, tracing the furiously beating pulse from below her ear to the base of her throat.

      
“I am no longer that virgin, Derrick,” she reminded him, knowing full well what he believed of her, powerless to convince him otherwise. Just seeing his reaction to Quinn had proven the futility of that.

      
“How well I know,” he whispered as he wrapped one arm about her waist and pulled her to him, “and how little I care...”

      
As his mouth lowered to hers, all she could think of was that Quinn might kill him; this might be the last time he held her in his arms. Nothing mattered at that moment but that he live. She would do anything to save him...even sell her own soul.

      
They sank to the floor gradually as the kiss deepened, running their hands over each other, pulling at clothes fastenings, eager for hot naked flesh on flesh. In the fireplace across the big room a cheerful blaze danced counterpoint to the autumn chill, casting shadows around them. He leaned over her as she lay stretched out on the thick Kirman carpet, his tongue tracing a moist trail over her collarbone to her bared shoulder where Quinn had torn the sleeve of her gown. Derrick brushed a delicate kiss on the already forming bruise.

      
Beth worked the studs from his shirt and slid her hand inside to feel the solid wall of his chest, reassured by the strong beat of his heart. How she loved him! Her hands moved up to his shoulders, urging him closer as she arched into his fierce, sweet kiss. When she felt the cool air on her thigh as he pulled her gown up, she spread her legs, reaching down to unbutton his fly, her fingers clumsy with haste and need.

      
She guided his hard staff toward her, but at the last moment he shoved her hand away and plunged deep inside her with a feral cry of possession. They rode hard and fast, slick, hot and gliding in the joining, their bodies desperate as they rolled across the wide floor, alternating with him on top, then her. He cradled her hips in his hands, her gown ruched up around her waist, her hair falling like a russet curtain that shielded her face and danced with the reflected light from the fire.

      
The end came swiftly. They both gasped at the suddenness and intensity of it. She sat straddling him, her arms braced on his chest, looking down into his face. He stared back at her; their eyes locked and held for a moment.
      
“Is this all there is for us, Derrick?” she asked raggedly.

      
His hands glided up her arms, tenderly pulling her down to lie upon his chest, holding her in this most intimate of embraces, as if unwilling to let the world and all its problems come between them. He caressed her back as she laid her head against his throat. He could feel the silky wetness of her tears dropping on his bare skin. “We will survive this, Beth, somehow, some way, but it would be better if you were out of harm's way.”

      
Out of Quinn`s way
, his mind taunted, but he brushed that aside, knowing that she despised the corsair for selling her to the dey. Whatever had been between his wife and the Irishman was well and truly over. As her husband, it was his duty to protect her and keep her safe. ”I will see you safely to Lynden Hall. Please.”

      
“But you will not stay with me,” she murmured against his throat. It was not a question.

      
“I cannot. There are very important issues to be settled here in London, but I shall be along in time for the holidays. My word 'pon it, puss.”

      
Beth sighed in defeat. If she remained in London to enjoy the exciting new people she had met at Lady Holland's salon, Derrick would never forgive her, and in his mind he already had much to forgive. But there was one trump card she must play. “I shall go if you agree not to duel with Quinn.”

      
He lifted her off him and sat up. “You once said I did not lack for nerve. Neither do you, m'dear, asking such a thing of me. I have challenged him. There is no way I can renege without being disgraced.”

      
And that, of course, settles that
, she thought disconsolately. “Derrick, he is not a man who abides by your code of honor. He'll kill you.”

      
He gave her a lopsided smile, daring to believe for a moment at least that she actually might still love him. “Do you think I survived being a spy all those years abiding by the rules? I know his kind and I've dealt with them. I can handle Liam Quinn.”

      
He stood up and reached down to help her to her feet, then winced involuntarily as he pulled his injured shoulder. Beth saw him flinch and then looked at the huge dark bruise visible now that his shirt hung open. “Derrick! What have you done?”

      
“Tis nothing. I was jumping Lee's black and he unseated me,” he said, removing her hand and trying to button his shirt before she saw the extent of the injury.

      
Beth shoved aside his hands and pulled it open. “You're lucky you didn't dislocate your shoulder at the least—what were you thinking of? Jumping a horse was what killed your brother,” she said as she inspected the purpling flesh. “This will require a poultice to take down the blood. Come with me,” she instructed in her sternest nurselike tone.

      
As he followed her upstairs, he considered it fortunate that she'd been distracted enough by his injury not to defy his wishes. He would see her safely ensconced at the Hall after dealing with Quinn on the morrow. When he returned he would have to face the rest of the damnable tangles in his life. Being a spy had been considerably easier than being an earl.

* * * *

      
The next morning when Derrick made inquiries at Liam Quinn's lodgings, he was informed that the Irishman had mysteriously vacated them the preceding night. By mid-afternoon, it was apparent that Quinn, for all his braggadocio, had thought better of fighting a duel with a member of the peerage.

      
Upon learning there would be no danger from Quinn, Beth felt a slight bit of reassurance regarding her move to the Scottish border, where Lynden Hall was situated. She spent the following day immersed in packing, hoping that this exile would not be the end of her life with Derrick. Would he take mistresses and leave her to raise their child alone? She would just have to wait and see what happened when Derrick joined her at Christmas.

      
By the time all Beth's trunks were loaded into the coach, it was half past ten. She went to her studio for a final check to see that none of her art supplies had been overlooked. If she was to be banished, at least she could work. Byron's idea of doing the seraglio paintings hovered in the back of her mind. If she painted harem scenes, Derrick would be furious. Better she sketch nice, safe English subjects.

      
When all was completed, she sent Donita with the last of the boxes, then started down the stairs. Midway, she heard Bertie's voice and hastened to the door to greet him. Of course the dear man would have called to see if she was all right after the way her husband had dragged her from Lady Holland's home.