Some Like It Wild

by Teresa Medeiros

  “I hear she weighs fifteen stone and can twist a chicken’s head off with her bare hands.”

  Brodie’s grin turned into a leer. “I always did love a lass with a strong grip.”

  Connor clenched and unclenched his fists, fighting the urge to demonstrate the impressive strength of his own grip by fastening his hands around his friend’s throat and squeezing the life out of him.

  Before Connor had time to avert his eyes, Brodie rose from the bath. The sight of his hairy, dripping body displayed in all of its naked glory effectively spoiled Connor’s appetite. The serpent tattooed on Brodie’s massive deltoid seemed to be winking at him.

  “Would ye mind handin’ me that towel, laddie?”

  “Oh, not at all,” Connor replied, snatching up the linen bath sheet draped over a nearby stool and tossing it directly over Brodie’s head. “Is there anything else I can do you for you while I’m here? Polish your boots? Starch your shirt? Braid your back hair?”

  Brodie tugged the towel off his head and rubbed it over the curling hair that furred his massive chest. “Well, now that ye mention it, I could use some help trimmin’ me toenails before they send up yer tailor. The puir fellow’s already been waitin’ for an hour, but this one toenail has been rubbin’ against the top o’ me boot for—”

  Connor would never learn how long the pesky toenail had been plaguing Brodie because at that precise moment he grabbed Brodie’s arm and hauled him right out of the tub. He dragged him across the bedchamber with Brodie sputtering, swearing and dripping all the way. Connor threw open the door, shoved him into the corridor, then slammed the door in his ruddy face.

  As Connor leaned against the door, blockading it with his body, he heard a maidservant’s shrill scream and a loud crash, followed by Brodie’s jovial, “Why, hullo there, lass! Would ye like to see my snake dance?”

  Connor shook his head, hoping for the poor maidservant’s sake that Brodie was talking about the serpent tattooed on his upper arm.

  “Now don’t go runnin’ away like that, lass! I do believe I’m goin’ to need a bigger towel!”

  Connor quickly discovered that one of the benefits of being a marquess was that you were allowed—and perhaps even encouraged—to keep people waiting. He rang for a fresh bath and breakfast before informing a footman to send up the tailor.

  He also discovered that having his bath and breakfast pilfered by the most shamelessly incompetent valet in all of England was the least of the indignities he would be forced to endure that day. The tailor spent hours poking and prodding him and showing him bolt after bolt of fabric, all of which looked identical to him. While the man chattered on and on about the benefits of nankeen over merino—names like Byron and Beau Brummel tripping from his nimble tongue—his assistant climbed all over Connor with a measuring tape, cooing in admiration over the breadth of his shoulders and the circumference of his forearms.

  When the assistant dropped to one knee at Connor’s feet and pressed the tape to his inner thigh, rolling his eyes in near ecstasy, Connor decided he’d had quite enough of being jabbed with pins and groped by strangers for one day.

  Gripping both the tailor and his assistant by their high starched collars, he ushered them toward the door.

  “But, my lord,” the tailor protested in dismay, his skinny arms filled with bolts of cloth, “how are we to carry on? We haven’t even decided between the superfine and the kerseymere yet!”

  “Surprise me,” Connor snapped. “Or better yet—I’ll take them all. Just send the bill to the du—to my father.”

  Pleasure suffused the tailor’s long face. “Oh, yes, my lord! It would be my great honor to—”

  Connor slammed the door in both their faces, cutting off their fawning bows in mid-motion.

  He was still slumped against the door, savoring a precious moment of peace, when a footman’s brisk voice informed him that the hatter had arrived.

  It turned out the tailor was only the first in a long parade of London merchants eager to use their wares to transform him into an elegant gentleman worthy of his title. Connor was forced to look at so many different incarnations of the beaver hat he decided it would almost be easier to wear an actual beaver on his head. The hatter was followed by a haberdasher with a dizzying array of handkerchiefs, stockings and ivory-handled walking sticks, a stationer with reams of expensive parchment and vellum, and a jeweler with a gleaming display of crested rings and silver snuff boxes.

  By the time another footman arrived to inform Connor that his fencing master was waiting for him in the ballroom, he was more than ready to run someone through with a sword, preferably himself.

  Eagerly excusing himself from the crestfallen young man appointed to help him pick out the perfect toothpick case, he hurried down the stairs, thinking a little swordplay might be the very thing to soothe his temper.

  “Bloody hell, man, you don’t honestly expect me to fight with that thing, do you?”

  As that familiar roar reached Pamela’s ears, she froze in the middle of the deserted corridor, cocking her head to listen.

  “I might be able to darn my stockings with it, but it’s not good for much else. Unless, of course, you’d like me to shove it up your arrogant—”

  As that threat met with a virulent outpouring in fluent French, Pamela lifted the hem of her gown and took off at a dead run, following the clash of those raised voices. She didn’t have to lift her hem much since it was already four inches too short. Having exhausted her own supply of suitable frocks, she’d been reduced to commandeering Sophie’s favorite morning gown—an act that had left her sister weeping piteously into her pillow and muttering unkind remarks about strained seams and overstuffed sausages.

  Remarks which seemed only fitting with the bodice stays of the gown digging deep into Pamela’s ribcage, making each step a misery. By the time she flung open the tall double doors at the end of the corridor, she was gasping for breath and dangerously close to swooning—a condition that was only aggravated by the sight that greeted her.

  Connor stood at the center of the cavernous ballroom, facing a slender, effete Frenchman who had a long, thin sword in his hand and a murderous gleam in his eye. The man was still spewing out a torrent of French, most of it, mercifully, incomprehensible to Pamela’s untrained ears.

  Connor might have been unarmed, but he still towered over the sputtering Frenchman by half a foot. He was dressed as simply as a highwayman posing as a gentleman could be—in black trousers and a white lawn shirt with full sleeves and flared cuffs. He wore no waistcoat and his cravat was knotted in a simple loop at his throat. A black satin queue secured his gleaming hair at the nape.

  It should have been illegal for a man to look so good without even trying, Pamela thought, biting her lip in consternation. Or at least immoral.

  The enraged fencing master spotted her first. He spread his arms in a dramatic appeal, the waxed ends of his thin black mustache quivering with indignation. “Do you hear the words of this barbarian, mam’selle? He dares to insult the size of my sword!”

  As he brandished the long, thin blade of the delicate epee at her, Pamela had to choke back a snort of laughter. It wasn’t that difficult to imagine Connor darning his stockings with it.

  “That is not a sword.” Glowering at them both, Connor marched over to the wall and swept down one of the massive broadswords displayed next to an empty suit of armor. He strode back to the fencing master, wielding the enormous blade with one hand. “This is a sword!”

  “Ha!” the Frenchman barked, dismissing the weapon with a flick of his hand. “Only if one has no skill! No grace! No honor! That blade is fit only for digging your grave after a French foil pierces your cowardly heart.”

  “Oh, really?” Connor took a step forward, the menacing gesture wiping the sneer right off the Frenchman’s face. “Then perhaps you’d like to match your blade against mine and we’ll just see whose grave we’ll be digging come sunset.”

  As the fencing master lowered his sw
ord and went skittering backward in alarm, Pamela boldly stepped between the two men.

  She flattened her palm against Connor’s chest, giving him a beseeching look. “Now, darling, you know I faint at the mere mention of blood, much less its sight. There’s really no need for such posturing. I’m sure that everyone, including Monsieur…” She gave the fencing master a questioning look.

  “Chevalier,” the Frenchman offered with a toss of his head and a sulky flare of his nostrils.

  “I’m sure that everyone, including Monsieur Chevalier, would agree that your blade is superior.” She drew even closer to Connor, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “As well as much larger.”

  Connor gazed down at her, his scowl slowly melting to an expression that was even more dangerous. At least to her.

  He covered her small hand with his, binding them together so she could feel every powerful beat of his heart beneath the thin lawn of his shirt. “If you’re so convinced my blade is superior, lass, then why don’t you give me the chance to prove it?”

  In that moment the fencing master was forgotten. The two of them might have been all alone in the ballroom, engaged in their own private dance. A dance he had started last night, but she had not had the courage to finish.

  She drew in a shaky breath rich with his scent, which now included the enticing aroma of bayberry soap. “As Monsieur Chevalier has just reminded us, one careless blow can destroy even the most steadfast of hearts.”

  “But just how cowardly is the heart that won’t even risk that blow?”

  Before Pamela could respond to the blatant challenge in Connor’s eyes, the temperamental fencing master blew out a disgusted “Pfft!” and sheathed his sword in the scabbard at his belt. “It’s obvious my talents are being wasted here. Please give the duke my regrets.” He tossed Connor one last sneer. “And my condolences.”

  Snatching up the rest of his equipment, he went storming toward the French windows along the west wall of the ballroom that had been propped open to welcome in the afternoon sunshine and balmy spring breezes. Only then did Pamela realize they’d never been truly alone. They’d had an audience all along.

  Crispin was lounging against the wall between two windows, lazily swishing the graceful epee in his hand back and forth. As the fencing master marched past him and disappeared into the garden, he ducked his head and offered Connor a sly grin. “Hello, cuz. You seem to have lost your fencing partner. Mind if I step in?”

  Chapter 15

  Dread quickened in Pamela’s heart as Crispin came sauntering across the parquet floor. The blade of his epee, graceful and deadly, glinted in the sunlight streaming through the French windows.

  She turned back to Connor, her whisper low and urgent. “You mustn’t do this.”

  “And why not?” Connor responded, an all too familiar gleam in his narrowed eyes as he watched Crispin approach. “I thought we’d already determined my blade was up to any challenge.”

  “You know very well why not. If he’s the one who murdered my mother, then you couldn’t give him a better opportunity to finish you off. You heard the duke last night at supper. He called him one of the finest swordsmen in London.”

  “I’m not from London,” Connor reminded her.

  She dug her fingers into the front of his shirt. A few more steps and Crispin would be within earshot of her frantic whisper. “You didn’t see the look in his eye last night when I was taunting him. You mustn’t do this! Please, Connor, I’m begging you!”

  Connor gazed down into Pamela’s imploring eyes, wishing he could have heard those very words tumbling from her luscious lips when he was holding her in his arms last night. Then he could have given her everything she wanted…and more.

  Ignoring a pang of regret, he gently disengaged her fingers from the front of his shirt and set her away from him. “Don’t fret, lass,” he said, raising his voice so that it could be clearly heard. “I promise to go easy on the lad for your sake.”

  Crispin barked out a laugh. “Don’t make any promises you can’t keep. Because I’ve no intention of going easy on you, not even for the lady’s sake.” He turned his brash smile on Pamela. “If you don’t wish to watch us make fools of ourselves to impress you, I’d advise you to go. There must be a piece that requires practicing on the piano or a sampler that needs stitching.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Pamela replied, her tone so frigid Connor wouldn’t have been surprised to see icicles sprout from the chandeliers. “I can assure you that I’ll be here to witness every parry and thrust.”

  Crispin shot Connor a bemused glance. “That doesn’t surprise me. It’s been my experience that the female is frequently the more bloodthirsty of the sexes. Not that any blood will be shed today, of course,” he hastened to add.

  He strode over to the tall cherrywood cabinet on the other side of the suit of armor to retrieve a fleuret, the knob used by fencers to blunt the deadly points of their swords. When he turned around, the delicate fleuret was already fastened to the tip of his blade. “You’ll find I’m not as squeamish as Monsieur Chevalier. You’re welcome to use the weapon of your choice.” He gave the massive broadsword in Connor’s hand a derisive look. “Even if it does put you at a disadvantage.”

  Connor said, “I would think the disadvantage would be yours since there’s no way for me to blunt the edge of my sword.”

  Crispin gave him another of those shameless grins. “Ah, but you’ll have to get close enough to me to use it first.” A thoughtful look crossed his face. “There must be something we can do to make this contest even more enticing—a prize, perhaps?”

  “What sort of prize did you have in mind?”

  Crispin slanted Pamela a provocative look. “Since I sincerely doubt you’d be fool enough to wager the dukedom, how about a kiss from your lady?”

  Pamela gasped, outraged at his audacity. She crossed her arms and tapped her foot, waiting for Connor to inform the scoundrel that her kisses were not cheap favors to be rewarded to the winner of some ridiculous contest.

  “A kiss it is,” Connor agreed.

  Pamela’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. As the two men lifted their weapons and began to warily circle each other, she backed away from them until she felt her shoulder blades hit the wall. Crispin’s attempt to dismiss her had only fueled her suspicions. Although she would have liked nothing better than to flee the ballroom with her hands over her eyes, she had no intention of leaving Connor at his mercy.

  When it came to size and strength Connor had every advantage, but Crispin was quick and light on his feet, anticipating each of Connor’s moves with the elegance and poise of a dancer.

  It didn’t take Pamela long to realize that Connor was also surprisingly light on his feet. He moved with the feline grace of a predator—all muscle, stealth and power. When Crispin feinted, he dodged, using the broad blade of his sword to parry each of Crispin’s thrusts.

  Crispin danced around him, taking great care to stay out of his impressive reach between attacks. Both of them knew that one sound blow from Connor’s sword could cut the delicate blade of the epee right in two.

  “You’re a far more worthy opponent than I’d supposed, Cousin Percy.”

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Connor replied, using the flat side of his blade to strike a savage blow that left the finely honed steel of the epee singing in Crispin’s hand.

  “What would you prefer I call you?” Crispin bared his clenched teeth in a smile. “Bart? Reggie? Cecil?”

  “I was called Connor in Scotland. But since I’m going to be a duke and you never will be, you might try simply addressing me as ‘my lord.’”

  Pamela gasped as that single, well-executed blow drew first blood. Crispin’s smile vanished. His dark eyes flashed in his pale face as he lunged forward, doubling the ferociousness of his attack.

  “And what should I call you?” Connor asked. “Cuz?”

  Backing toward the French doors, he
neatly blocked each of Crispin’s blows, his own lazy smile deepening.

  As Crispin’s upper lip curled in a snarl, Pamela realized Connor was deliberately baiting him, seeking to taunt him into making a mistake, perhaps even into revealing his part in her mother’s death. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that mistake wouldn’t be fatal for either one of the men.

  Her eyes flew open at the shrill clash of steel on steel. Gripping the basket-hilt of his sword in a white-knuckled hand, Crispin had launched into a vicious sally, leaving Connor with no choice but to continue his retreat. Pamela flinched as Crispin lunged, his blade narrowly missing Connor’s ear.

  Crispin’s forward momentum caused him to stumble. He quickly recovered his balance, but the ragged rasp of his breathing had deepened. Sweat darkened the back of his waistcoat.

  The men circled each other again, reversing positions. Pamela realized that Connor hadn’t been retreating at all, but simply biding his time while Crispin wore himself out. Now he pressed his advantage, swinging the blade of the mighty broadsword in one relentless arc after another, driving Crispin right out the open French windows and into the garden.

  Pamela snatched up her skirts and followed, her heart pounding in her throat.

  As the two men abandoned the flagstone path for a grassy clearing flanked by a sweeping pair of willows, Pamela spotted the duke and Lady Astrid taking tea on an elevated terrace just off the drawing room.

  Lady Astrid froze in the motion of pouring her brother another cup of tea. Was that fear or excitement glittering in her eyes? Pamela wondered, her sense of foreboding deepening.

  There was no mistaking the sparkle of glee in the duke’s eyes. He put aside his tea and clapped his wiry hands, leaning forward in his wheeled chair. “Why, look at this, Astrid! You didn’t tell me you’d arranged for an afternoon entertainment! How grand!”

  Although the footmen stationed on either side of the terrace did not dare to relax their rigid stances, their eyes eagerly followed the contest taking place in the clearing below. The grunts of exertion and the ear-jangling clang of steel against steel drowned out the peaceful burbling of a marble fountain.