Oath

by K. J. Jackson

  His hands still clasping the fabric together, trapping the bird in the pouch, Tieran lifted the cloak. The pouch wiggled, the bird clearly agitated. “Why did you have a bird in your cape, Liv?”

  “It thumped into a window by my head, fell, and then it couldn’t get out of the snow. So I went outside to help it.”

  “And decided to keep it?”

  Her eyes went to the ceiling. “It couldn’t fly, Tieran, so I brought it in to warm it.”

  He lifted the cloak higher. “It just flew without any trouble in the hallway.”

  “Yes, well, it appears I have already fixed it, then.” She pointed at the window. “Here. Let us set it down—carefully—on the sill and it will be able to fly away.”

  She rushed over to the window, grunting as she pushed upward on the pane with no success. She banged on the windowpane several times to crack the frozen layer holding it closed. Pushing again, the window opened and a blast of cold air whipped into the room.

  Tieran waited a step behind her.

  She moved to the side. “Careful—set it on the sill, and we will peel open the cloak, and it can fly off.” Her hand flew up. “But careful. It’s so little. Maybe I should do it.”

  “I’m not going to crush it, Liv.” He gave her a sideways glance as he set the pouch of the cape on the windowsill. “I can manage to control my strength, you realize.”

  Her mouth clamped shut. She had just been entirely rude to Tieran, and about the very thing that he had always been self-conscious about. People were afraid of him. Afraid of his size.

  Had she forgotten that fact?

  She settled the bulk of the cloak on the ledge as he held the wrapped bird in place, half of the cloth draping outside the window, the other half draping inside. Slowly, Tieran loosened his hold on the pouch of fabric, letting it slowly fall from around the bird.

  They both stepped back from the window. Now free from the cloak, the sparrow righted itself on the ledge, shook, fluffing its brown and white feathers, its head swiveling around at its surroundings.

  It looked outside. It looked inside. It didn’t move.

  Liv waved her fingers at it. It didn’t twitch. It just looked at her with its black eyes, its brown and white head crooked.

  She leaned toward Tieran. “Why is it not flying away?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s hurt.”

  Liv leaned forward, fluttering her fingers at it again. It hopped along the cloak, still looking up at her.

  “It is cold out there,” Tieran said. “I guess I would choose in here, where it is warm, if I were a bird.”

  Liv laughed, turning to look up at him. “You are thinking like a bird now?”

  He smiled at her, his head slanting to the side. “I do possess an imagination, Liv.”

  “So did you imagine you were going to be doing this today?”

  Tweet.

  The bird jumped upon the moment when all eyes were off of it and flew in and across the room, landing on the carved wooden scrolls framing the top of a tall armoire. Both Liv and Tieran turned, staring at the bird.

  Tieran was the first to laugh. His body next to hers, vibrating in mirth, made Liv join in within a second.

  He looked down at her, the smile wide on his face. “It would seem you have gained yourself a sparrow, Liv.”

  “It would seem I have. You don’t think catching it will be as easy the second time, do you?”

  Still chuckling, Tieran looked up at the bird. “I doubt it.”

  She laughed, waving her hands in the air as she looked to the bird. “Then it can stay. I was going to hide it in here anyway.”

  His voice soft, warm, he stepped closer, his arm brushing hers. “I had forgotten what a tenderheart you always were for wounded animals, Liv.”

  She watched the sparrow hop along the top of the armoire as a smile from memories past lined her lips. “And what a tenderheart you always were for helping me help wounded animals.”

  Her eyes on the bird, she didn’t see Tieran descend on her. Didn’t see his body align with hers. Didn’t see his hand lift, slipping along the back of her neck.

  But the force of him hit her before his lips made contact.

  Just enough time to part her lips. His mouth was on hers, hot, instantly demanding. He had never eased into his want of her. Never subtle, he charged, volatile. For an instant, his lips on hers were foreign, something she did not recognize.

  Then her eyelids slid downward. It rushed at her in a great crashing wave, shoving all conscious thought into blackness as her heart swelled, her body falling into tingling madness. His lips. His breath. All she could feel, all she could think.

  The kiss echoed of long ago—how he had always kissed her. Like he was going to devour her, slowly, deliberately, making sure every bit of her body felt pleasure as he was doing so. A promise of ecstasy. A promise of gratification, of worship.

  And she wanted more. She had always wanted more. And had never been satisfied.

  A rush of cold air hit her, and Liv opened her eyes to find she stood alone in the middle of the room.

  Tieran had broken the kiss and now stood by the door, his hand on the knob. Both horror and confusion twisted on his face. “No. I did not mean to do that. It is not why I’m here. You…”

  It took her a long moment to draw breath into her lungs. “I what, Tieran?”

  He straightened, his hand smoothing the front of his dark jacket as composure returned to his face. “You just looked like you once did. Alive and bold and mischievous like you were getting away with something. Youthful indiscretion. Like you used to be. Like we used to be. And I forgot myself.” He gave a slight bow. “You will pardon me, Lady Canton.”

  Before she could respond, before she could move her body, he was out the door.

  She stood rooted in the middle of the room, staring at the thick oak door.

  The kiss still sending vibrations through the pounding blood in her veins, she attempted to right her mind—right the facts she knew in her head. Tieran thought she was a trollop—a wretched harlot. He had made no secret of that. And he had not denied he had always thought that.

  So why had he appeared here at Mortell Abbey—days away from London and in the middle of a snowstorm?

  She doubted it was Lord Shepton that had brought him here.

  Did he imagine to finally fulfill what he had wanted eight years ago—to have her in his bed without having to marry her? She was a widow now, and as such, the freedom to discreetly move amongst beds was not unheard of. That couldn’t possibly be what he was planning. Could it?

  Liv drew a deep breath into her lungs, her chest lifting high.

  If it was, he was about to be immensely disappointed.

  The bird chirped.

  Her gaze lifted from the door to look at it.

  Exactly, little bird. Agreed.

  Tieran had no idea who he was now dealing with. Not the innocent girl he had once left crying in the countryside. That girl was a shadow, a wispy rainbow that had no chance at existing.

  And she would be sure to show him exactly who she was now.

  Her lips drew tight, bolstering her resolve, but as they pulled, she realized how swollen they were. How raw.

  Damn him…

  There was one problem. If that kiss was any indication, she was a harlot, just as he believed. For he could have gotten her to do anything he commanded to in that moment.

  She needed to harden herself.

  But how could she harden against the one thing she had always wanted?

  { Chapter 7 }

  Liv stared up at the face of the longcase clock in the corner of the music room. She knew her eyes had landed on the creeping minute hand and stubbornly refused to move away when Lady Mortell cleared her throat.

  “Lady Canton, did you have an answer?” Lady Mortell asked the question with politeness, as a well-bred hostess ought to, but Liv heard a distinct undertone of crispness in her voice.

  Liv had to forcibly c
lose her eyes to break her own stare. “I apologize, Lady Mortell, I did not hear your question. I find myself overly tired tonight. It must be the grey skies of the day.”

  Grey skies. Humorous. Her weariness had nothing at all to do with dour skies, and everything to do with the dour disposition fixed upon the one gentleman steadily sending shadows over her spirit.

  “I asked if you would like to play the harp for us? It would be a pleasant diversion since Oracy and Juilet have gone through their entire selection of sonatas three times now in the past four days.” Lady Mortell sounded as weary as Liv imagined her daughters were.

  Three times? Liv had apparently stopped paying attention on the second go-through. It wasn’t that the girls weren’t talented. They were. It was more the perfection that they played with. Precision that bred unremarkable. Not that Liv could condemn them for it—she herself had played with that same meticulousness when she was their age.

  If anything, Liv should be at her most attentive in the music room. For once in the past two days, Tieran was not in the same room as her. It was the first time she had been able to breathe properly since he had appeared at Mortell Abbey. Lady Mortell had been conspiring for the past two days to place Liv in close proximity to Tieran, and Liv had been suffocated by his presence because of it.

  She understood Lady Mortell’s intentions—what better way to pass time when snowbound than to try and create a love match with a widow and handy widower. What better success could come forth from a house party in Yorkshire? Lady Mortell would be able to utilize the tale of it throughout the entire next season.

  So Liv had suffered the dinners and the drawing room and the library and the card room all positioned within an arm’s length of Tieran. Close enough to hear every comment, every chuckle, every sigh under his breath, every bite of food he took, every sip of port he imbibed. Close enough to catch whiffs of his scent that had not changed in eight years—leather mixed with late summer heath topped with spiced liqueur.

  Exhausting.

  Liv offered Lady Mortell an apologetic smile. “If I could beg for your understanding, I actually would like to retire. My head has gone to aches, but I do promise to relieve the girls of their duties tomorrow.”

  Lady Mortell folded her hands in her lap, giving Liv a slight nod. “Of course. Be well, Lady Canton.” Not able to fully stifle her sigh, her attention went to her two daughters.

  Liv stood and exited the music room before she was intercepted by one of the other five ladies in attendance at the house party. She had chatted for hours with all of them—including Lord Shepton’s wife—and each was pleasant, congenial, and only mildly tolerant of Liv’s presence.

  At the base of the grand staircase, Liv stopped with her foot on the bottom step. She wasn’t exactly tired, nor did her head pain her in the slightest since escaping the music room. What she was, was hungry. She hadn’t eaten but a bite at dinner, so consumed she had been with trying to ignore the man seated next to her.

  Her slippered foot dropped from the step, and she veered to the right, making her way through the many tight corridors and stairs of the abbey to the kitchens. She had already wandered down into the kitchens three times, and Cook nodded at her when she opened the massive larder and nabbed an apple.

  Lord Mortell’s cook was a simple woman, somewhat worn thin, but she did have an admirable talent with how to serve the local grouse. Outside of Lady Mortell’s watch, Liv had made sure to befriend Cook on her first day at Mortell Abbey, as was her habit at any new place she visited for a length of time.

  Liv had learned early in her marriage to Lord Canton how valuable staff could be. His staff had become her most important ally in protecting her new husband from his cousin. Their butler, cook, and driver had interceded on numerous occasions when her husband’s cousin provoked “accidents” meant for Lord Canton. They had saved her life, even. The staff had become so integral to her life, that she had brought all of them with her when she moved to the dower house after Lord Canton died.

  It was a lesson she learned well—to be prepared for anything and to have allies, even if they were in people others generally disregarded.

  With a nod to Cook, Liv left the kitchen, green apple in hand, and slipped back up the stairs. She only needed one last thing before retiring to her chambers, and she quietly moved along the shadows to the library.

  It was empty, only a small fire lighting the tomes lining the walls, but Liv wasn’t particularly picky—she just needed something to draw her mind away from Tieran.

  If she could stop thinking about him—at least for an hour—she could reset her priorities. She was here to destroy Lord Shepton, and obsessing on Tieran got her no closer to that goal.

  Her head slipped to the side as her fingertips ran along the titles opposite the fire. The sudden click of the library door made her jump, dropping her apple.

  The fruit hit her toe and rolled away from her, straight in the direction of the door. Straight in the direction of the intruder.

  Tieran stood by the door, watching her. One side of his face was alive with shadows from the fire dancing along his distinct jawline. The other side of his face sank into the shadows, offering no clue as to what he was thinking.

  And just what was he thinking? He had gone from dismissing her as a harlot at Wellfork Castle, only to appear directly in front of her in the middle of Yorkshire, in the middle of a snowstorm.

  And then he had the gall to kiss her.

  She was here for a reason. He was here for a game. It was the only valid conclusion.

  The apple rolled to a stop halfway between them. Liv looked up from the fruit to meet Tieran’s piercing gaze. He made no motion to move from the door.

  “Why are you here, Tieran?”

  “In the library? Can I not borrow a book from our host?”

  “You may, but I doubt you are in here for literary pursuits.” Her hand slid over her belly, unconsciously smoothing the front of her black wool gown. “At Mortell Abbey, Tieran. Why have you come here?”

  “As I said, I have business to attend to with Lord Shepton.”

  “Do not mistake me for daft, Tieran. I have just as much wits about me as I once did. More so now, unfortunately.”

  “You believe I am here for you?” His face turned slightly away from the fire, sending his look into even deeper shadows. But his eyes stayed riveted on her.

  “Yes. But it is the why I seek an answer to. You expressed at Wellfork Castle—in no uncertain words—what you think of me. Harlot.” In the last weeks, she had gotten comfortable enough with the word repeating in her head that her voice didn’t flinch when she spoke it. “Harlot is what you said. So I should hold no more interest for you. You have conveyed to me all you need to.”

  His chin dropped, his voice low. “Maybe I am here to understand.”

  Liv nodded, her eyes lowering to the apple on the floor between them, its stark green a contrast to the dark wooden floors. She knew she had baited him at Wellfork Castle by mentioning the list. By mentioning his friend, Lord Lockston, was on the list. And now he was here to collect answers.

  If only she had kept her mouth closed. If only that moment of leaving him speechless at Wellfork Castle had not been so tempting—and so delicious to deliver.

  She was paying for that moment now.

  Curiosity had always been Tieran’s weakness. And his curiosity could very well mean her own downfall. He wanted to understand what the list was about so he could stop her. For that fact alone she needed to get rid of him.

  She took a step toward him, staring at him, searching her mind. When she was young, when he had been her betrothed, what had he respected most about her?

  Her honesty. That she didn’t pander about topics. That she didn’t curb her tongue for politeness or to spare feelings—her own or others. That she didn’t have the wherewithal for duplicity.

  Such simple days those were. Innocent.

  She inhaled an aching breath. Honesty. It had been a long time sin
ce that trait was useful. But she had always preferred it.

  “There is nothing here that you need to—or are willing to—understand, Tieran. So I would prefer if you would remove yourself from Mortell Abbey.”

  “Why?”

  “This is too hard for me.” She leveled her gaze at him. “You. Being near you. Having your eyes on me. Condemning me. Have you not already judged me enough to last your lifetime? Or do you prefer to torture me as well—vengeance in whatever form you can manifest it?”

  “Why is my presence torture, Liv?”

  She took another step, stopping just before the apple. “You know why. You know exactly how I still look at you, and you have shown very little mercy in how you have treated me in every one of our recent interactions.”

  His eyes flickered, unprepared for her answer. “How do you look at me, Liv?”

  Her mouth opened, almost answering. With love. With love that had never wavered over the past eight years. She knew it. And he damn well knew it as well.

  Her jaw clamped shut, her teeth clacking together.

  “I judge because I am attempting to understand, Liv.”

  “Did you kiss me in an attempt to understand as well? Or was that just to explore how much of a harlot you can treat me? To finish what you started eight years ago—to finally bed me and be done with me?”

  “Liv, I apologized for calling you a harlot—I was only attempting to make an impression upon Lord Lockston and I never meant—”

  “You didn’t apologize, Tieran.”

  “I did.”

  “No, you said it was unfortunate that I heard you use that word.” Her hand came up, palm to him. “I will not quibble on it. You do not need to hide what you think of me, Tieran. I am well aware.”

  For a reason she couldn’t discern, her words spurred him into motion, and he pushed from the door, walking slowly toward her. Almost the stalking of a wild cat on prey in the darkest hour of the night.

  The air around him—the force of him that she always felt just before his body brushed hers, enveloped her.