Angel's Fall

by Kimberly Cates

  In the end, her gaze flicked to the bruise beneath his eye, the cut on his lip. Blood and thunder, if he'd known they would get this much reaction from her, he'd have been tempted to break a chair over his own head.

  "All right," she said, drawing in a shuddery breath. "You can stay."

  It was all Adam could do to stifle a war-whoop of triumph.

  "But there are conditions you must meet."

  "I understand," he managed solemnly.

  "I'm certain that Fletcher will respect the fragile state of my ladies if I explain it to him. I know he'd do nothing that might harm them."

  "Without a doubt." But the boy would be in absolute agony in the meantime. Adam grimaced. Obviously the naive Miss Grafton-Moore had no idea of the volatile relationship between a sweet-faced youth and the demon he kept tucked beneath the flap of his breeches.

  "You, however, pose a—a dilemma of sorts." Rose bloomed in her cheeks, her fingers plucking nervously at the wilted ribbon-tie that streamed in a blue river between the swells of her breasts.

  "A dilemma?" Adam echoed hoarsely.

  "You must understand that I cannot put the ladies at risk. They have worked so hard to put their pasts behind them, and your reputation is most disturbing."

  "Would it be enough if I pledge you my word that I'll not be the fox that raids your hen house?"

  "No." She frowned in concentration. "There is only one way to be certain nothing can happen."

  Adam would bloody well like to hear it.

  "You will take the bedchamber that adjoins mine."

  "Yours?" Adam choked out.

  "You recall my suite of chambers?"

  He did. And it was no grand suite. More like a linen box tacked onto a child's room.

  "I can sleep out in the room where my desk is, and you can have the smaller chamber. That way, there is no way out or in except by passing me."

  Adam remembered all too clearly the cozy nook where her virginal bed had been tucked. But the idea of sleeping in there, with the scent of her all around him would be pushing the bounds of temptation too far. He'd been without a woman for—hell, who knew how long. And heroic self-denial had been more his honorable half-brother's trait.

  "I don't think—I mean, I..." His blood was heating at the mere memory of what had occurred in that room hours before, the yielding of her breasts against his chest, the hot gasp of her breath captured in his mouth as he kissed her— and the instinctive reaction in that most masculine part of him, a hardening of need, a hungering for more.

  "I assure you, I am a very light sleeper," she said. "I awaken at the tiniest sound."

  "Juliet, I—after what happened between us..." He started to protest, knew he was on dangerous ground. He'd been angling for hours to be allowed into Juliet Grafton-Moore's inner sanctum. The woman had agreed to let him into the house. What was he doing? Trying to get her to boot him out the door?

  "You only kissed me as a ploy. It's not as if you were attracted to me that way." She said, and he knew in that instant how reprehensible he'd been when he'd done it. That he'd bruised a tender corner of the woman she kept hidden behind the guise of angel. The problem was, he had been so attracted to her his whole body burned.

  She crossed to the fire, and Adam groaned inwardly as fireshine shone through the delicate fabric of her damp nightgown, outlining the delicate shape of her body with its glow. A tiny waist, hips full enough, womanly enough to cradle a man, slender legs that seemed to go on forever, and breasts with rosy tips pressing kisses of temptation against silvery embroidery.

  "What about your reputation?" he asked quietly.

  "Everyone knows that I have no interest in—well, in carnal relations. I mean, I'm certain they are lovely in the bonds of marriage. Papa always said so. But—" She stumbled to a halt, her cheeks flooding with an especially kissable shade of pink. "I have my mission here, and it is the most important thing in my life. I would never allow anything to endanger it."

  She gestured toward the corridor beyond. "I'll get you settled for the night. I'm certain you are anxious to get out of your clothes. I certainly want to get out of mine."

  Color flooded her cheeks yet again.

  "I mean—because they're wet," she choked out. "It's only natural to want to be rid of them." Then she glared at him, a stern line between her finely drawn brows, a dimple peeking from one cheek as a smile darted about the corners of her mouth. "Don't you dare laugh at me."

  Adam was charmed by her humor.

  "You needn't fear, Mr. Slade. I'm certain we'll rub along well enough. After all, it will only be for a little while. Do you think you can manage to get up to my bedchamber in the dark?"

  "The dark?" he echoed, edgy with unexpected shame at the memory of how many times he'd slipped into other women's rooms—past fathers and zealous brothers and jealous lovers pure frothing for the chance to plant a sword-thrust through his heart—one more part of the sensual games they played.

  He'd always taken almost boyish delight in scandalizing prim-nosed ladies with vague allusions to his adventures. Why was it the thought of Juliet knowing his notorious past made him feel old and jaded and somehow soiled.

  "I'd light a candle, but there's no sense creating an uproar among the ladies tonight," she explained, sweeping a tendril of angel-gold hair from her cheek. "There is plenty of time for them to be astounded by the arrangement in the morning."

  "Oh. I—I think I can manage to travel the stairs without breaking my neck," Adam allowed. "Lead the way." She doused the candle he'd lit and locked the door, casting one more glance at the rear gate. From the sudden determined angle of her chin, Adam realized that battle was far from over. For a second, he half expected her to argue with him again. But she left that for another time.

  Then she turned and made her way out of the kitchen into the hallway, a slender wraith leading him up the stairs. An odd tightness bit at Adam's chest as shadow dipped its fingers into her curls, reminding him of their clinging silkiness. Ripples of angel-white floated against the darkness ahead. Once, Adam banged his boot against some object in the hall, and Juliet gasped, both of them freezing as a tinkle of prisms knocking together sounded like pistol shots in the stillness of the sleeping house.

  Juliet turned, groping along his damp sleeve, until she found his large hand. She slipped hers into the cup of his fingers, like a trusting child, or a battlefield angel come to lead a war-weary soldier to a place where there was no more blood or death or terrified men battling for their souls.

  Damn, what was he thinking such rubbish for? Adam brought himself up short with a throb of panic.

  They would only be together a little while, just as Juliet said. Then why was it that any time in her presence suddenly seemed an eternity?

  Bah! He'd just have to convince her to leave this place as soon as possible. And he'd have all day, every day to chip away at her resistance. It couldn't take that long to make her see reason, could it?

  He cursed the sudden jolt of memory regarding the last time he'd tangled his fate with a determined good Samaritan—recalling his idealistic brother, a cave in Scotland, and the highlands crawling with troops hungering for Gavin Carstares's blood. In the end, Gavin had left that embattled land only because it was the one way he could save a dozen orphans and the woman he loved.

  Hell, Adam realized grimly, he could be stuck at Angel's Fall forever! Eternally condemned to earnest blue eyes and ripe lips any man with the least vestige of honor would be a churl to kiss.

  Adam closed his eyes, remembering that long-ago night he'd stopped on the storm-swept Irish road. And he wondered if he could hear the faint sound of the vicar laughing.

  Vicar? Maybe the old man hadn't been mortal at all. Maybe he had been an avenging angel come down to get Adam to atone for his sins. And the tiny chamber in Juliet Grafton-Moore's bedroom? That would be the perfect place for Sabrehawk's own especial hell.

  Chapter 6

  There was no door.

  How could she have
forgotten there was no door? Juliet lay stiff as a victim on the rack despite the feather tick Adam had carried in to make her bed. Eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, locked on the gaping archway that served as entrance to the tiny antechamber where he had disappeared hours ago.

  To sleep—God knew, he'd probably been slumbering like Zeus enthroned upon his cloud-bed for hours now. While she had lain awake, her nerves a dreadful tangle, every fiber of her being aware that beyond that shadowy arch lay a mountain of muscle and sinew and arrogance with eyes like chips of midnight and a smile that could turn even the most staunch female heart wobbly as blancmange.

  What in heaven's name had she been thinking of, blithely inviting this man to her bedchamber? In the months since she'd come to Angel's Fall, she'd heard the ladies refer to men as beasts of various kinds—but in a world of scurrilous curs and thieving jackals and ravening wolves, Adam Slade was a mesmerizing tiger, a fierce predator, as dangerous as he was beautiful. A hunter who made no attempt to hide the latent power that was twined, not only in his corded muscles, but in the shrewd labyrinth of his mind as well.

  She shivered and clutched the coverlets tighter under her chin. Don't be absurd, Juliet, she muttered under her breath. He might be in her room, but there were conditions he'd agreed to abide by. He'd promised to remain what? An obedient tiger? Claws tucked cozily in his massive paws, fangs sheathed beneath that roguish smile? No small feat, especially when she knew for certain that she was the prey he was hunting, and that he'd journeyed halfway across England to find her.

  Lord above, she'd never even been able to keep a pet when she was a child—the tiny puppy she'd smuggled into the vicarage had charged through its serene confines like a pirate raiding a treasure ship. It had chewed up three of her papa's favorite books, tugged his vestments from their hook and made a puddle on them, and crept into the church and made afternoon tea out of the gillyflowers Lady Shifferby had put upon the altar in honor of her dead mama.

  As if those inquities weren't bad enough, the pup had made Juliet sneeze until the doctor and her papa had been alarmed for her health, and the mischievous bundle of fur had been banished to some other lucky little girl's arms.

  If she couldn't handle one small puppy, how could she, for a moment, hope to control a potent male animal like Adam Slade?

  She heard a rustling sound, the baritone rumble of a curse from the other room, then a guttural sigh.

  Night time had always been solitary for her—no nursery full of siblings wrestling and jabbering before they drifted off to slumber. But these two rooms were so tightly packed together she had heard the buttons of his rain-dampened breeches hit the floor when he'd stripped them away. The images that had played in her mind at the noise were so scandalous her poor papa would have been much aggrieved.

  And she had been brought to a swift, paralyzing realization of exactly what a calamity her rash impulse had plunged her into.

  Merciful heavens, there was a mountain of naked man in the next room. And that was the least of her problems. What was it going to be like with Adam Slade underfoot every hour of the day and night? His oversize boots tramping about her bedchamber, his massive shoulders crowding at the dining table, his mocking laughter and granite-tough stubbornness laying in wait for her in the drawing room and the garden, with no place she could go to escape his daunting presence.

  And why had she consented to this disastrous arrangement? Because the man—who was a master of strategy— had spun out some heart-wrenching tale about Fletcher being in danger? Since the moment she'd arrived in London, there had been nothing but trouble. And lately it seemed every time she turned around another challenge was brewing, making things even more complicated than they already were. But this time she had a sinking sensation that she'd plunged into a raging river far over her head.

  It wasn't as if she could bear-lead Adam Slade around like a governess with a particularly unruly charge. She had work to do, obligations she intended to keep. Like the one at the pleasure garden of Ranelagh tomorrow night.

  Juliet ground her teeth. Of all the irritations and inconveniences that sprang from the threats and harassment she'd had to deal with, the most frustrating thing of all was the fact that the uproar they created had distracted her from the real work she needed to be attending to. Confronting the men who had victimized these ladies. Healing the wounds and opening the door to a new chance, a new future.

  And now, with Adam Slade racketing about like a bellicose cannon, wouldn't everything be even more difficult? Six feet five inches of male bumbling around would hardly create an atmosphere that would inspire sharing confidences.

  No. Her brows lowered in determination. She wouldn't let him interfere. Especially tomorrow night. It was far too important a mission. A delicate face drifted in the darkness above her, a wraith with haunted eyes reflecting so much pain, pain too intense to be shared.

  Lord Foster Darlington and his cohorts had chosen the wrong lady to harass three days ago. It wouldn't be easy, but Juliet would make certain they were reluctant to make the same mistake again.

  Slade grumbled in his sleep, something thudding against the wall as he rolled over. Picturing the massive warrior, Juliet couldn't help a momentary twinge of pleasure in imagining the reprehensible peer's reaction if she were to approach with Adam Slade at her side.

  She was human enough to know the dark part of her would enjoy seeing fear flicker into those exalted eyes. To see Darlington and his cronies stumble over each other to extricate themselves from the situation without seeming to be what they were: Bullies and cowards with no will to fight with someone who might be a match for them in a battle of swords or of wits.

  Juliet shook her head, blotting out the appealing image, knowing how dangerous and seductive it was.

  Her independence had been far too hard-won. And Slade wouldn't be at Angel's Fall forever. The most important lesson she wanted to teach these women was that they could handle any situation themselves, that they didn't need to rely on a man's intervention or protection. But she couldn't help smile at the image of her own guardian tiger, one who would charge out to do battle, right the wrongs that had been done to those more helpless than he.

  A hero.

  Even she was not naive enough to believe cynical Adam Slade could fill such a role. The mere notion of it would probably send him into gales of laughter. That or make him demand to know how much she'd pay him for his services.

  She kicked at her coverlet in frustration, the restlessness that possessed her all but driving her mad. Throwing the bedclothes aside, she clambered up to her feet and jammed her fingers back through the tangled masses of her hair.

  "Oh, Papa. What have I done now?" she murmured. "Worst of all, I lied to him, and to myself. I'm no light sleeper to stand guard over him. I doubt I'd awaken if he and Isabelle tipped over my dressing table on their way to an assignation. And I have to be awake to deal with that monster, Darlington, tomorrow night."

  When it came right down to brass nails, how could she even be certain Slade wouldn't do what he had to Fletcher, nail her in a keg or roll her up in a rug and carry her out of Angel's Fall over one broad shoulder?

  She jumped as a low growl came from the adjoining room, one that made her think of a tiger anticipating his next meal.

  Saints alive, she had to think of some way to get through the rest of this eternal night. A method that would hopefully cleanse away the redness from her eyes, the grogginess from her brain.

  What should one do with a tiger, once you got it in your room? she mused. Feed it. The thought sprang to her mind. But she didn't even want to think what Slade might be hungry for.

  No, the most important thing with a tiger, she supposed, was to make certain it remained in its cage. They were prone to such nasty surprises if allowed to run wild. But how could she achieve that?

  A sliver of moonlight streamed through the opening between her damask draperies, snagging on the array of articles arranged with such precision atop her dressing t
able. A veritable feast of metal and glass, objects that could make noise enough to wake the dead.

  Grabbing up a heavy blue sash, she crossed to the table, slipping the thick length of ribbon through the handles of her sewing scissors, knotting the sash around her letter opener and a porcelain bell painted with violets, attaching the top of her ink bottle and the silver handle of her brush, all so close that stirring them would make a deafening racket. Then, she set the crowning jewel into her makeshift alarm. She tied the handle of the small iron Japanware tray on which Elise had brought up her tea that afternoon.

  Juliet surveyed her work with some sense of satisfaction. Now the question was how to string it across the door. She grabbed two spindle chairs and arranged them against the wall, one on either side of the arched opening of Adam Slade's quarters. Then, with the greatest care, she strung her alarm between them, tying each end of the sash to one of the spindles. For a heartbeat, she was afraid the weight of the tray would overset the chairs, but after a moment, she heaved a sigh of relief.

  "There. That should keep the tiger in its lair," she said, satisfaction stirring in the exhausted reaches of Juliet's mind. "Or at least, alert me when it comes stalking.

  She crossed to her pallet, rejoicing in the fact that she'd somehow regained control of the situation. It seemed even Sabrehawk was no match for her after all. Sinking down into the feathertick, she was smiling just a little as she drifted off to sleep.

  Light. It pried through the crack in the blue damask curtains. It wedged brilliant splinters under her eyelids and pricked at her with a dozen needles, alarm spilling in their wake. She was late. What was it she was supposed to do today? Prune back the roses? Mulch the healing herbs in the garden? No—it was her turn to stir up breakfast. If she were late, she'd never get the other ladies to do so on time.

  She scrambled to her feet, rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, vaguely aware of her desk, the hearth. What had she done? Fallen asleep over some accounts? It wouldn't have been the first night she'd done so.