Moonglow

by Kristen Callihan

  He strolled near. “Ah, but sometimes speaking of nonsense is the best cure.” The gentleness in his tone made her heart skip a beat. He knew what she was about. He knew she strove to ignore the panic welling up like acid in her belly.

  “Pay no mind to me, sir. There are times when my mouth and brain forget to hold a conversation.”

  His mouth quirked, true amusement making him appear almost boyish. “Happens often, does it?”

  Cheeky sot. Daisy gave him a repressive look from over her shoulder, and he chuckled, clearly unperturbed by her annoyance.

  “I see you are quite well, physically, at least. But let us sit.” Catching hold of her hand once more and ignoring her murmur of protest, he tugged her gently toward the settee by the fire. He folded his long length next to hers. “I’m intrigued. If not by beauty, how then does one spot the garden-variety nobleman?”

  He was too close, his gaze too warm for her comfort. Sliding her clenched fists under the borrowed dressing gown, she shrugged.

  “Easily,” she said. “One need only look for the promise of beauty not quite fulfilled, a nose too large, eyes a bit too close together, or ears ready to set sail.”

  Northrup’s head snapped back, his eyes widening. “You, madam, are a snob.”

  She bit back a laugh. “Oh, to be sure. As I am certain you men are not cataloging a woman’s every feature from the moment she steps in the room.”

  He grinned with the ease of a man who did so often. “As you did with me, you mean?”

  Her lips tightened. “Pray, do not hold your tongue on my account.”

  “Said one spade to the other.” He was smiling again, leaning in as if he might gobble her up. Damn the man, he had an infectious smile. She resisted the urge to return it.

  Among the ton, Lord Northrup’s type of charm was as prevalent as weeds in a meadow. Light, amusing, and devoid of any true meaning. She used to long for such interactions. But after tonight’s horror, even that small amusement had lost its flavor. Yet she appreciated his efforts to distract her. Despite the bath and the bracing effect of the brandy, residual shivers of panic clung to her. She wanted to rub her arms until the feeling was gone.

  Northrup rested an elbow on the seat back, and the light reflected in his long hair, turning it auburn. Wine and chocolate. Delicious. The look in his eyes said he had at least some sense of her line of thoughts.

  “You wear your hair longer than fashion,” Daisy blurted out. “Why?” The question was in poor taste, but the cornered often react in haste. At least that was the reasoning she used on herself as she felt her cheeks prickle with embarrassment.

  Obviously as surprised at her bluntness as she was, he took a moment to address her. “I’m in mourning for my father.” The corners of his lush mouth turned down as he glowered at some unseen thing before his expression cleared. “It is the Ranulf custom for a man to let one’s hair grow for three years after the death of a close family member.”

  “Oh, I had no idea.” Her discomfort grew.

  “How could you?” he answered with unexpected kindness.

  Daisy found herself reacting to it. Her hand settled on his forearm for a brief moment. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  He looked at the spot she had touched. “Thank you. Your concern is unnecessary, but kind.” He went back to studying her, and a look of bemusement wrinkled his brow. “You remind me of someone. Though I cannot place it.”

  The feeling was mutual. He seemed at once utterly familiar yet completely foreign to her.

  His look of concentration grew. “But I have never seen you before tonight. I would have remembered.” His tone was soft now, a confession that moved beyond small talk.

  She had to smile at that bit of odd logic. “Certainly.” She meant to say it lightly yet her voice caught and faded as she met his gaze. Everything within her stilled and warmed. As if similarly affected, his smile slipped and his expression grew unguarded. Daisy’s breath hitched, for she saw in the depths of his eyes something that looked like longing.

  It mirrored feelings she’d rather not think on, and so she sought to turn the conversation back to the benign. “Were you living in Scotland before the previous Lord Northrup’s passing?”

  His straight brows drew together. “How did you know that my grandfather passed on?”

  It was Daisy’s turn to frown. “Your title… Was Lord Northrup not your father?”

  The current Lord Northrup’s look of confusion faded. “Ah,” he said with a little smile, and then sat a bit straighter. “My father was Lord Alasdair Rossberry. It is a bit of a muddle, I grant you, but he and my grandfather both passed”—a strange look flashed in his eyes before he continued—“around the same time. Thus I inherited two titles.”

  The tips of his ears reddened as he grimaced. “I beg your pardon for not making a proper introduction. Ian Alasdair Ranulf, previously known as Viscount Mckinnon, at your service… Hell, I haven’t even asked your name.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “I’m usually much better at this sort of thing, only I confess—”

  “I distracted you,” she finished wryly, but her heart had started to pound. Mckinnon, the name was familiar. Why? Alarm bells clanged within her tender skull.

  “You’re very good it,” he admitted in a low voice.

  “Only when I’m trying.” Daisy licked her dry lips and inclined her head. “Daisy Ellis Craigmore.”

  Whatever she expected of him, it wasn’t the sudden shock in his eyes or the way he straightened and stepped away from her. “You are Miranda’s sister.”

  Apparently shock was catching. All the warmth within her left as though she were caught in a draft, and then she knew. “You!”

  Northrup’s slanting brows furrowed, but his tone was light when he spoke. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”

  Daisy’s elbow slipped a bit as she scrambled to sit up straight. “You’re the beastly man who tried to poison Miranda’s mind against Archer.” Miranda had told Daisy all about it months ago, how Mckinnon had tried his best to convince Miranda to carry on an affair with him. And now Daisy was sitting in the parlor with the vile man.

  He scowled. Whether it was toward the veracity of her statement or the fact that he’d been caught out, Daisy couldn’t be sure. The only certainty was the feral gleam in Northrup’s eyes and the way it made Daisy feel unaccountably nervous. However, having lived with much worse, intimidation did not easily cow her. She returned his look pound for pound, and his irritation seemed to grow.

  “ ‘Beastly’ is it?” he all but growled. “I’ll kindly ask you to remember who took you in and saw you set to rights.”

  A qualm of guilt lit through her, and he must have seen it for he stepped closer to loom over her in righteous indignation. “And I don’t recall you thinking me so beastly a moment ago.”

  No, she’d rather liked him, damn the man. It made her cheeks burn to realize he had noticed this as well. In the heavy silence, she heard the clatter of a carriage pulling up beyond the front windows. A coach door opened and shut. Northrup’s nostrils flared as if catching a scent, and a strange look passed over his features. “Well, won’t this be cozy?” he said, as he straightened his coat. “I believe the lady in question has come to call.”

  Chapter Three

  She was here. Miranda. He hadn’t seen her in months. And then it had been only a glimpse at some ball. He had wanted to speak to Miranda one more time. To apologize. Not for warning her about Archer—the bastard had no right to marry a woman without telling her the truth of what he was—but for putting the wariness in her eyes whenever she looked his way. Despite what others thought, Ian did not hold with frightening women. He had played out his dance with Miranda poorly.

  He heard Miranda’s voice in the hall, sharp with worry as she asked his butler Diggs where to find Daisy. How she knew to come here Ian did not know, but her presence plucked at the nerves on the back of his neck. Ian closed his eyes for a moment and pictured Miranda, golden-red hair, her long, wil
lowy form, and alabaster skin.

  At one time, he’d fancied himself in love with her. And now? Seeing her was the last thing he wanted. He was thoroughly tired of redheaded women.

  Beside him, her sister gathered herself together. She looked nothing like Miranda. Curling hair of morning sunlight mixed with polished gold. Enormous doe eyes, not the color of celadon but of summer skies. Daisy. A preposterous name. Frivolous. And yet he could not think of her as Mrs. Craigmore. The name did not fit.

  Ian’s gaze slid lower. The unfortunate dressing gown she wore, a sad little orphan of some long-ago mistress’s wardrobe, did not fit but most certainly highlighted her undulating curves and that plump arse that practically begged a man to take hold of it. She surely was built for frivolity.

  Ian resolutely tore his eyes from her lush form as the door opened and Miranda appeared, so beautiful it made a man’s chest hurt to look upon her. She spared him but a glance before rushing to her sister’s side.

  “Daisy!”

  “Panda. Oh, God.” Daisy pulled her close and shuddered so hard that Ian feared the woman might faint.

  Miranda hugged her sister tight. “I was so worried. When you sent word that you’d been hurt…” She said nothing further but held on as if she might never let go.

  They stayed like that, their bright heads close, glowing like sunrise and sunset, their slim arms locked in an embrace. Too pretty a picture for him. Damn, but he did not want this woman to be Miranda’s sister.

  “Where is Archer?” Ian asked. The man usually hung about her skirts like an overgrown shadow.

  Miranda lifted her head. Her words came out halting and reserved. “Home. Given the way you two are apt to get at each other’s throats, I thought it best that I come alone.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh a little. “I am surprised he let you go.”

  She gave him an admonishing look that was much like the one her sister had given him earlier. “It is you whom Archer does not trust, not me.”

  Touché. He inclined his head in deference.

  Miranda turned back to Daisy. “Are you harmed?”

  Daisy shook her head, which made the wild tumble of her curls tremble. “I am well. Only frightened.”

  A pair of green eyes turned to Ian, and he found himself bristling. “Because I get such joy in frightening innocent women.”

  Miranda blanched. “Of course not. I am simply curious as to how my sister came to be in your care.”

  “Then let us sit,” he said.

  The sisters immediately curled up together on the settee, Miranda clasping Daisy’s hand in a show of comfort. Oddly, this made Ian want to smile. The temptation faded when Miranda pinned him with her green gaze. “Well then, how did you come across my sister?”

  He hesitated. Hell, it was one thing to coax a story out of a frightened young lady. It was another to give up his secrets. Archer knew them. At least some. What was not clear was how much Archer had told Miranda. Right now, she was looking at him with a mixture of weariness and impatience. As to Daisy, he rather thought that if he revealed himself at this moment, she’d up and flee the room. He would not resent her one bit if she did.

  Ian ran a hand through his hair. “I was in the area. I heard a scream and caught the scent of blood and ran to help. I found Mrs. Craigmore—”

  “Daisy,” interrupted the very woman. She glanced around, taking in their shocked looks. “Don’t go reading anything into it. Given the choice between having to hear that name in reference to me and shocking society, I’ll take the latter every time, thank you.”

  Ian admired her nerve. “For the sake of fairness, you must call me Ian.”

  Miranda’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Good. He ignored her, or did his best to appear that he was. “At any rate, I found Daisy, saw that she was overcome, and took her to safety. End of the story.”

  It was clear that Miranda didn’t believe that was all to the story, but she held her tongue, and Ian took advantage of the moment to turn to Daisy. “I am more interested in knowing what you saw, Daisy.”

  Daisy took a deep breath and her breasts strained against the tight confines of the hideous green dressing gown. Ian found he couldn’t stand the sight of the gown. It shamed him that she should wear a whore’s clothes.

  “I fear you will not believe me,” she whispered.

  “Be assured, madam,” Ian said, “I will.”

  Her bright blue eyes surveyed him as if checking for any sign of insincerity. “You seem so certain”—a bitter laugh escaped her—“when I wouldn’t believe myself.”

  Ian leaned against the settee back. “What you saw appeared as something out of a fantasy, yes?”

  “More likely a nightmare,” Daisy said with a burst of breath. But she would not continue. Her golden brows drew together as she glared down at her tight fists.

  Ian looked at Miranda. Initially, he had wished she hadn’t come. But now he wondered if her presence might help. “I do wonder,” he said to Miranda, “how close a family you are.”

  Fortunately, she read the question lurking there. Miranda touched Daisy’s hand. “Daisy, Lord Northrup knows about me.”

  Daisy’s eyes flew to Ian in horror. Indeed, what Miranda could do was equally fantastic, and Ian suspected her family had kept her sister’s secret for a lifetime. After all, what would society say if they knew the lovely Lady Archer was a fire starter?

  “And about Archer as well,” Miranda added.

  “Which is why,” Ian said, “you can tell us what you saw without fear of judgment.”

  Daisy cleared her throat, and as she recounted her tale, rage and the urge to do violence tumbled about in Ian’s chest. Hells bells, he knew too well the terror of confronting a fully turned werewolf. That this woman had faced one made the hairs rise upon the back of his neck and gave him an unsettling sense of helplessness. Yet he remained outwardly calm.

  “I did not get a long look at it,” Daisy said, finishing her tale. Her eyes squeezed shut. “But that muzzle, the fangs, and the claws. It was a wolf. And yet it moved in an almost human way…” With a grimace, she shook her head and went quiet.

  Ian sighed and told her the truth. “A werewolf is what you saw.”

  It was almost comical the way her mouth opened and shut as if trying to form words and failing. All the color leached out of her soft cheeks. Her mouth kept working as she looked from Miranda to Ian and back around again. A little laugh escaped, but it died when she swallowed with visible effort. “A werewolf.” Her tone was scathing. She laughed again. “Right, then. A werewolf. Some fantasy beast of lore.”

  “You think those claws and fangs nothing more than an elaborate costume, do you?”

  “No! Although I… I suppose it is what I had hoped.”

  “Unfortunately,” Ian said, “hope and reality are often at odds.”

  The words settled like a shroud over the room. He regarded them for a moment. “I must ask a favor of you, Daisy.”

  Gold curls coiled atop of her shoulder as she tilted her head. “What, pray tell, do you want?”

  Ian crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I want you to refrain from telling anyone else what you saw.” He gave Daisy a small smile. “Given your reluctance tonight, I gather that you aren’t likely to say a word, but I need to be sure.”

  “Consider yourself assured,” Daisy said with a touch of asperity. “I have no desire to be pronounced a raving lunatic.”

  Her candor made him want to chuckle, and he wondered if this woman would ever hold back her opinion. “That is most sensible of you, madam. I have no doubt you would find the accommodations in Bedlam beneath your standards.”

  Despite the insults she’d hurled his way earlier, Daisy slanted an amused look from beneath the bronze fan of her lashes, which set off an answering stir within Ian’s gut. Beside her, however, Miranda’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Ian fancied he could see the cogs turning in her brain.

  “I well understand why Daisy would be reluctant to
speak,” she said, “but it seems to me that your concern goes a touch beyond casual.”

  Beneath the fold of his arms, his hands curled to fists, but he answered her easily. “Were the good people of London to hear that a werewolf is roaming the city, there would be panic. I don’t believe any of us want that outcome.”

  “Understandable,” Daisy agreed, but she was frowning. “Only, well… ought they not be warned? What if it…” Her pretty lips parted on a strangled breath and she went pale. “What if it bites someone, and… well, turns them into one too?”

  Myths indeed. His mouth twitched but he kept a straight face. “You cannot be infected by a bite, luv. A man is either born with the capability to become a werewolf or he is not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He could see the questions forming on the sisters’ faces; they gathered and brewed like clouds over a darkening sea. Ian stood, needing to quell the storm before it broke. “Look,” he said. “Go home, get some rest. All will be well. I swear to it.”

  Daisy did not look so sure. Miranda, however, nodded as if his word, while not good enough for her, would have to do for now. Ian rather thought she would like to get as far away from him as possible. He did not like the Ian Ranulf that Miranda saw, but he had been that man for so long that he almost forgot who he had been before. The suffocating feeling was back, threatening to swallow him down. Because he did not know how to climb out of the abyss and walk with the light steps of his old, true self.

  Miranda’s skirts rustled as she stood. “Well, then, thank you, Northrup, for looking after my sister. It was good of you.” Steeling herself, she offered him a hand in friendship.

  Between her haughty look and Daisy’s earlier disdain, the devil in Ian could not resist coming out to play. They thought him a cad, did they? Then he would be one for them. He clasped Miranda’s hand and pulled her close. “Will you not call me Ian?” he murmured, bending over her hand to lightly kiss it. “After all we’ve been through? Together?”

  He could hear her back teeth meet. He ignored it and leaned in until her scent surrounded him. A familiar, pleasant scent but surprisingly not enough to excite him anymore. “You know, the hero usually receives a boon in such circumstances. A kiss perhaps?”