"We didn't agree on anything," Juliet insisted. "You started bellowing orders. I was merely gathering up some fairyfingers for Mr. Rutledge's tea."
Adam slanted the man a mocking grimace. "Haven't you ever heard of cream and sugar, Rutledge? There's nothing so unsightly as a fairy flitting around with little bloody stumps."
"That's disgusting!" Juliet shuddered. "It's a plant, for heaven's sake." She gestured to the stalks bearing clusters of cornucopia-shaped blossoms she held cradled in her arm. "Foxglove. Sometimes called fairyfingers. Mr. Rutledge has palpitations of the heart and the tea brewed from these plants eases it."
Adam should have felt chagrined at the mention of the man's supposed illness. Or at the very least chastened by the blatant disapproval in Juliet's features. But he fought back the tide of red threatening his cheeks by taking refuge in his most favored mode of defense—a biting wit. "I'm certain the fairies will be most relieved."
"Miss Grafton-Moore, forgive me, but what is this person doing on the grounds of your establishment?" Rutledge demanded, stiffening his meager shoulders beneath their sheath of oversize frockcoat. "He's most dangerous, I can assure you!"
Adam took unholy pleasure in piercing that waxy skin with a glare. "I live here."
"L-Live... no! That's impossible!" The last drops of blood seemed to evaporate from under the scrawny man's skin.
"Adam!" Juliet wheeled on him, looking as if he'd just described in detail their bedchamber arrangements— adding a few embellishments to the kiss they'd shared. The temptation to follow through with it was almost more than Adam could withstand, but he managed to leash his tongue with great effort.
"I'm here as a guardian angel of sorts until these threats die down," he said with a mild arch of one dark brow.
"You? Serving as guardian?" Rutledge challenged, incredulous. "Isn't that like having the king of thieves guarding the crown jewels? Miss Juliet, I must insist you listen to me! This man is a reprobate! The worst sort of scoundrel! I encountered him in the worst sort of tavern in London. A veritable den of iniquity."
"The two of you have already met?" Juliet asked, dazed.
"The night your friend Percival broke a chair over my head," Adam said. "Of course, I had no way of knowing I'd entered such a degenerate tavern. I was a stranger in town, merely quenching a hellish thirst in the first establishment I ran across after my encounter with that mob." Adam turned to flash a glare at his outraged rival. "Perhaps a more interesting question is what were you doing there, Rutledge?"
The pawnbroker fairly swelled with indignation. "I— how dare you question me! Miss Grafton-Moore knows the mettle of my soul, sir. But you are nothing but a stranger preying upon her innocence!"
Adam felt a dashed uncomfortable twinge of conscience.
Rutledge raged on, imploring Juliet. "You cannot tell me you've allowed him into your home! It is that—that insatiable baggage Millicent who has preyed upon your generous heart to gain entry for him! Or Violet or any of the others! You cannot let them corrupt you! How many times have I pleaded with you to be on guard against their licentious influences?"
Frost crystallized Juliet's smile, turning it brittle as a rose petal glazed in ice. "I have warned you before that I will not have you speaking of the ladies in that tone, Mr. Rutledge. As it happens, you accuse them unjustly. I am the one who asked for Mr. Sabrehawk's help."
Rutledge staggered back as if she'd booted him in the solar plexus. "You? I don't believe it!"
"Mr. Slade was a friend of my father's. And—"
"Your father? The Vicar of Northwillow befriend a scoundrel like this man? Impossible! No man of God would lower himself to consort with such sin-begotten filth! How could you believe such a thing for a heartbeat?"
Adam started to rap out a sharp-edged jibe, but stopped himself, as he saw Juliet bristle. "Mr. Slade helped my father when he was dying of fever. He aided a complete stranger lost by the side of the road, gave him comfort, when heaven only knows how many people had passed by, terrified for their own skins."
A swift stab of pleasure jolted through Adam at her defense.
"By whose words were you told such a thing?" Rutledge argued. "Your father's? Or this lying scheming womanizer's?"
The truth flashed across Juliet's face. "I received letters from Mr. Slade and he returned mother's necklace," she insisted, flustered. "Mr. Slade sent Papa home to Northwillow."
"You cannot know for certain how that all came about! For all we know, Slade might have trampled the vicar with his own horse and attempted to hide it with lies. The one thing I know for certain is that your father would be rolling in his grave if he suspected this depraved cur was anywhere near you! Think, Miss Juliet! You already walk a dangerous path and Slade's presence can only make it more perilous. There are those just waiting for you to make a misstep."
"There are a hell of a lot more ready to shove her off a blasted cliff if they get the chance," Adam snarled, but the man ignored him.
"With a man like Slade in your household, people will believe this is no more than another brothel."
Every ridge in Juliet's spine seemed to straighten, the fetching straw hat taking on the militant angle of a colonel's plumes. "Mr. Rutledge, you're overwrought," she said in precise accents. "I don't care what such people think. I know the truth, and so do the ladies. It's vital that I protect them."
Rutledge blustered. "You know exactly how I feel about your work, my dear. It's admirable, no matter how ill-advised. A gesture made because of a misguided passion for these women's redemption. But you might as well sweep the corners of hell itself, trying to reclaim souls shattered beyond repair. Consorting with such sinners will only put you in danger, soil your very soul."
"We sinners take special care to wipe our boots before we trample on her angel s wings," Adam muttered.
"Make a mockery of this, you spawn of Satan! She'll be the one to pay for your stubbornness. Is that what you want?"
"What I want is for you to take your fairyfingers and go before I boil you into tea, Rutledge." Adam threw the pieces of latch onto the ground, damned well ready to fling the insufferable vulture out of the gate bodily.
"That is enough, both of you!" Juliet cried, brandishing the stalks of pink and gold foxglove.
But Adam closed the space between himself and the toes of Rutledge's scuffed shoes. "Let me just say one last thing, Rutledge," he warned. "I am here to guard Juliet. Nothing—not these ravening masses you threaten her with, no, nor Satan and all his fallen angels—will harm her while I am at her side. You profess such devotion toward her, such fear at what she faces, that I have one question. When those cowardly sons of bitches were shattering her windows and that ugly mob was battering at her door, where the blazes were you? Hiding under your bed?"
"Adam! Adam, please!" The flowers fell in a cascade from Juliet's grasp, and she caught the rigid muscles of his forearm in a pleading grip.
"Arrogant fool!" Rutledge flung out. "Do you believe something so crude as one sword can stand between Miss Juliet and disaster? Her enemies will go to any lengths to drive her from this place. Aye, and so would anyone who truly cared about her!"
"I haven't noticed you mounting any campaigns to get her to leave."
"I did not offer her a sword. I offered her my name." Rutledge's lips twisted cruelly. "But then, for all your arrogance, that is one thing you could never give any woman."
Something dark and deadly hurled itself against the bars of Adam's soul—rage that this man would dare to even think of Juliet as a wife, and more infuriating still, a swift jab of self-loathing that he—Adam Slade—was jealous for just one instant, coveting anything belonging to a witling like Rutledge. Coveting the one thing Adam could never have—an honorable name.
But Adam would sooner have plunged his own sword in his chest than allow the man to see how well his blow struck its mark.
Adam looked down at Juliet, saw her face go scarlet, her eyes wide with distress. And he wondered if—even just for
an instant with the mob swelling in the street and fear rising in the back of her throat—she'd considered becoming Rutledge's wife. The possibility sawed at some raw place inside him like a dull blade.
"It's hard to imagine any woman rejecting a fine specimen of a man like you," Adam sneered silkily. "But then, I'm forgetting. Like Juliet says, you're not a man."
"I never said any such thing!" Juliet sputtered. "This is abominable! Both of you should be ashamed!"
Veins bulged against Rutledge's white-marble skin, his eyes pits of loathing. "Laugh, you insolent bastard. Laugh. You have no idea what you are unleashing upon her head!"
Adam crossed his arms over his chest. "I fought off a hundred of England's finest soldiers at Prestonpans. Surely I can thwart a half-dozen London street ruffians."
"Whatever happens, the two of you will stop this bickering. Mr. Slade is residing at Angel's Fall for the time being. And Mr. Rutledge has been one of my few friends since arriving in London. I'll not tolerate this nonsensical masculine butting of heads between you. Is that understood?"
"You are making a terrible mistake," Rutledge said. "Send this beast away, for God's sake, before he brings out the lascivious streak in one of the women beneath your roof. Females are tragically weak!"
"Rutledge, I've fought on a score of battlefields, and witnessed the aftermath as well. This much I can tell you— if the men who fought beside me had half the courage of the women who come to bury them, I would never have had to sound retreat."
Rutledge turned to Juliet. "Do you wish to stumble across Slade and one of these lightskirts in your charge, groping in some corner? I guarantee you, he'll not be able to keep his hands off of them!"
Anger and a healthy dose of guilt seared Adam at the memory of just how full his hands had been—full of Juliet's kisses and precious tears, his arms filled with her softness as he gathered her against his chest, his mouth bursting with the taste of her as his tongue filled her mouth.
"There is not one of the women under Juliet's protection that tempts me," Adam said. It was the truth. There was only one woman he wanted—and that was Juliet herself.
His gaze snagged Juliet's for a heartbeat, and he knew the same certainty was flooding through her. She all but dove down to gather up the foxglove. When she rose again, it was with the dignity of an embattled queen.
"Good day, Mr. Rutledge," she said, putting the blossoms into the man's white hands. "I do hope you'll still come for tea as usual next Tuesday."
She invited the vulture to tea? Hell yes, and probably dosed the concoction with barrels full of sugar in an attempt to sweeten the dour idiot's disposition.
Rutledge drew himself up to his full height. "I'll not set foot in Angel's Fall as long as this man is on the premises! To do so would be to grant my tacit approval. And I withhold it, adamantly."
Did it matter to her? This caricature of a man's approval? The thought nettled Adam beyond bearing. But there was something fragile in Juliet's features as she smoothed one of her curls back inside the ruffle of lace cap that caressed her cheek. And Adam saw, with an unexpected flash of insight, a little girl with golden curls and a vicar father, wishing desperately for approval—the same way Adam had when he'd been a grubby-faced boy. Lord, what a secret poison that desire could be!
What had it cost her to defy all of London? To walk down the streets, feeling the press of loathing-filled eyes upon her? The scorn of everyone from coachmen to ballad sellers. The pointed swish of catty women sweeping their skirts away from her as they passed, so as not to be tainted by so much as brushing against her?
Something twisted deep in Adam's gut as he remembered another woman enduring just such slights, her head tilted up with pride, a smile of determined cheerfulness upon her face. His own mother...
"Whether you come to Angel's Fall or not is your choice, of course," Juliet shattered his musings, addressing Rutledge with gentle dignity. "Your place at the table will always be open. Do let me know when you need more fairyfingers for your tea. I'll be happy to gather some or you're welcome to pick them yourself." With that, she turned and walked away.
Adam stood, arms crossed over his chest, masking the astonishing twinge of pain he felt with a rascally grin of triumph. "It seems the lady doesn't give a damn about your approval, adamant or otherwise," he said, wishing to hell it was true. "Considering all the other mischief she's been up to, who would have guessed she was a woman of such good sense?"
Rutledge was trembling with wrath. "Play out whatever game you're dabbling in, Slade!" He jabbed a finger at Adam's chest. "I know what you are! A man who cares for nothing, no one but his own selfish pleasures. The time will come when you tire of this amusement. And then, you'll leave Miss Grafton-Moore alone. When that happens, I'll be waiting."
"With that wedding ring she's already rejected?" Adam was stunned by the rush of fury and futility that jolted through him. "Perhaps Miss Grafton-Moore and I will surprise you, Rutledge, and settle down with her ladies in a bouse in the country."
Who would have suspected that such simple, impossible words could make a man trip over an unexpected chasm in his own soul?
"Mock me, Slade! Mock me!" Rutledge raged. "There is only one thing I wonder—will you be still be laughing when Angel's Fall lies in ashes around Juliet's feet?"
Adam watched Rutledge storm away, Juliet's fairyfingers crushed heedlessly in his hands. A trickle of foreboding dripped down his spine, pooling in the place in his gut where his instincts lay.
Blast, he had no fear that he'd protect her from Rutledge's throngs of torch-wielding cutthroats or even from Lord Darlington's minions. He'd defeated legions of such foes in the past.
There was far greater danger of leaving something else in ashes when he walked away from Angel's Fall forever—the fragile dreams he'd glimpsed in Juliet's eyes when he'd kissed her.
A shudder worked through him, so deep it shook the very marrow of his bones—a fierce, primal need Juliet had released from its cage with her soft angel's kisses and tears that had dampened the scars upon his palms and others that lashed far deeper....
Adam's jaw clenched, and he slammed the garden gate shut, locking it tight. But it didn't matter.
His most dangerous enemy was still inside—a knight's hunger for his lady fair trapped in a forgotten corner of the warrior's heart Adam had thought buried long ago.
Chapter 10
Juliet stormed into the tiny garden house and sagged down onto a cushion-strewn bench, burying her face in one dirt-smudged hand. Adam Slade was insufferable! Charging up to poor Barnabas Rutledge like one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, fire fairly shooting from his eyes, just burning to start a fight.
What in the name of heaven had she gotten herself into? she wondered for the hundredth time in the days since the confrontation in Ranelagh Gardens. Iron bars on the windows, new locks on the door. A growling bear of a man prowling around snarling out orders, and following her about as if she were a particularly troublesome meal he wasn't about to let escape him.
A wild twinge of hysteria bubbled in her chest. What was she? Someone who craved punishment? There had been enough mayhem to satisfy the most dedicated of disaster-mongers at Angel's Fall with threats flying and enraged mobs charging about. But no. That hadn't been miserable enough for Juliet Grafton-Moore. She'd had to invite Adam Slade right in the front door.
The whole situation would have been enough to drive any sane woman mad. But it seemed she'd already lost her mind, because despite all the snapping and snarling and surliness inherent in Adam Slade's residence at Angel's Fall, there was some traitorous corner of Juliet's heart that actually liked having him here.
She'd done her best to deny it, avoiding him like a skittish doe, all but diving out of his way whenever possible. But she hadn't been able to escape the gruff rasp of his voice emanating from some other part of the house as he snapped orders at Fletcher or growled something at the ladies.
She hadn't been able to keep her eyes from his rugged
features, his warrior's body, seated across from her at the long mahogany dining table. And late at night, in the darkness, she felt the soft pulsings of pain radiating from every scar that marked those powerful hands, and heard again how gentle his voice could be.
Most perilous of all, she'd relived their kiss beneath the lanterns of Ranelagh Gardens so many times that the feel of his mouth seemed branded upon hers, the places where his hands had touched her tingling and burning and aching for the return of that caress.
He'd infused lightning into her veins, an intoxicating mixture of wantonness and fear, desperate curiosity to learn more—what lay beneath that pirate's smile and those ebony eyes, to plumb the depths of the pain he'd brushed aside in his tale about his brother. And to discover the secrets of her own flesh he'd promised to unlock with his hands and his mouth, and the gruff moan of surrender that had shaken his stalwart form at the searing intimacy of his tongue sweeping against her own.
Juliet hugged her arms tight against her ribs, trembling, horrified at the impact the mere thought of the man could have upon her senses. An impact that increased a hundredfold whenever he was in the vicinity.
Most distressing, most miraculously wonderful of all was the knowledge that he had changed her forever, as certainly as the fairytale prince who had kissed a sleeping beauty awake. How many times in the months after Jenny had dashed away from Northwillow had Juliet regarded her with pity, certain that with just a little determination, Jenny could have resisted the charms of the dashing squire's son who had convinced her to run away with him?
Juliet had mourned her dearest friend and cousin, worried about her constantly. Prayed that the fairytale ending Jenny so desperately dreamed of would indeed come true. Yet now, within the shadowy musty confines of the garden house, with only discarded pots and spades and rakes standing sentinel in the corner, Juliet could admit that her compassion had been tinged with a poisonous drop of arrogance.
Juliet had been absolutely certain that she would never drift into the same treacherous waters Jenny had sailed, that no man would ever tempt her onto the rocky shoals of her own destruction.
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