Ian felt unwilling to disturb that charmed circle from which he was so obviously excluded. That circle that held so much attraction and yet so much danger for him. Danger in the form of these stealthy emotions that seemed to be seeping beneath his hardened armor, leaving him with this unwelcome sense of confusion.
He started to slip away, but his boot heel snapped a twig, and a glad cry ripped through the silence.
"Uncle Ian! Uncle Ian!" Lucy bounced to her feet and raced over to him in a flurry of white skirts, her eyes shining. "I have been waiting for you forever, but you did not come! You will never guess what the lady did for me today."
Nonplussed, Ian stared down at the winning little creature. "You mean what Mrs. d'Autrecourt did? You must be polite and call her by name."
"It's a terrible waste of time learning governesses' names," Lucy said with a breezy wave of her hand. "I'm so bad they never stay very long. They go away, and then I have to remember another one. I gave up trying... oh, years ago, when I was six."
"I see." Ian tried to suppress a smile, his imagination filling with visions of Lucy enthroned in a nursery somewhere, a line of governesses entering the front door and then fleeing through the back way as quickly as they were able.
But that amusing image was banished when Lucy cried insistently, "You must come! Look!" The child caught at his hand. Ian stared at her, stunned, then let his long fingers close about her small ones, surprised at how little her hand felt, how warm and soft and fragile.
He let himself be led to where Emily sat, her cheeks the color of the most delicate roses, her lips trembling just a bit, as if she felt ill at ease. Shyness stole across features that were as dainty as a cameo's, and Ian was struck by the memory of the night before. The way her hands had stripped away his clothes and her eyes had skimmed over the skin she had bared.
Was she remembering how her attentions had affected him in the most physical way possible?
Did she have any idea what a tempest of desire she had stirred in him? Could she know how damned hard it was for him to keep it at bay?
What the devil was the matter with him? Ian wondered. He had been naked with women before, but never once had he felt such irritating embarrassment afterward. Never once had he been at a loss for words the next time he met a woman.
He tried to think of something light, something easy to break the tension. But before he could, Emily gave him the tiniest smile, her cheeks darkening, her eyes hidden beneath thick lashes.
"Her Royal Highness here has been a very busy young lady, sir," she said. "We've been discussing at length the virtue of patience."
"Patience! Bah!" Lucy protested. "I hate patience! It makes my head ache and my nerves get all jiggly. Uncle Ian, we got up very early and you were gone, and the lady made Joab drive us to her shop so that she could get her clothes and things and hire a new seamstress to keep the shop open while the lady takes care of me, and I got to pick out anything I wanted." Lucy barely stopped to draw breath. "You know, you were very boring before, but now you'll be quite handsome, even if your bottom tooth is crooked. She fixed me up my very own basket because she doesn't think little girls are clumsy. And you'll never believe the best thing of all!"
The swirling undercurrents between Ian and Emily ebbed in the wake of the child's chatter, and Ian grinned at the little girl, totally enchanted and thoroughly confused.
"What won't I believe, Lucy?"
"I have my own cunning little scissors now!" the child announced, beaming. "She gave them to me!" Lucy scooped up a small split-oak basket and thrust it hard against Ian's midsection. He looked down to see an array of sewing utensils, most prominent among them a pair of scissors in the shape of a golden heron.
"My dear Mrs. d'Autrecourt, do you mean to tell me that you have willfully armed this child with scissors?" Ian held up his hands as if to ward off the evil eye.
"I did," Emily attested, the nervous light in her eye fading, leaving tenderness and satisfaction. "I gave her quite a lot of other sharp instruments, too, so you'd best be warned. I would be careful if I were you."
Lucy gave a snort of disgust. "I'm not cutting things up anymore, Uncle Ian. That was very wicked of me. And besides, it takes a long time to sew them back on."
"Sew what back on?"
"Don't be stupid. The buttons, of course." Lucy dived for the basket at Emily's feet and dredged out one of the waistcoats the child had savaged the day before.
Where the tasteful matching buttons had been sewn on the cream-colored brocade there was now a row of blue velvet buttons, set just a trifle unevenly. Ian took the garment from Lucy's hands and stared down at it. He frowned at the workmanship then raised his eyes to Lucy's expectant face.
"Do you mean to tell me that you did this yourself, young lady?" he demanded in ominous tones.
"Yes!" Lucy said, not at all intimidated. "And I only stuck my finger and bled on it once. Lady said you wouldn't mind."
Ian broke into a wide smile. "How could I mind when you've improved the waistcoat a hundredfold? I am vastly in your debt." He sketched the delighted child a bow.
"No, I'm in her debt. I'm stitching seams to earn back all the buttons I threw away. It takes a very lot of seams to earn all these buttons, Uncle Ian."
"You're... what?" Ian glanced from Lucy to Emily. "You mean you are making the child work to replace the buttons? I'm a wealthy man, Mrs. d'Autrecourt, and can stand the loss of a few buttons, I assure you. It is hardly necessary for Lucy to replace them."
"No! Don't say that!" Lucy protested vehemently. "You'll ruin everything! I want to do it! I always wanted to sew, but my mama said that sewing wasn't for clumsy little girls who get jam all over the pretty things and can't get their stitches straight."
She grabbed up her sewing basket again, cradling it against her like a treasure. "Of course I never understood how I would get my stitches straight if I never got to try it. Lady says it doesn't matter if my stitches are awkward at first. She says that all little girls and little boys should learn how to sew—even big men like you! Then someday, if your buttons get cut off, you can fix them up yourself. Isn't that right, lady?"
"Yes, it is." Emily smiled and revealed a small dimple, and Ian felt a tug down deep in his chest.
He fought back the memory of her fingertips upon him, the hundreds of little flames that licked at his skin where he had felt her touch. He battled the memory of the way her eyes had looked, half hidden by her lashes as she spoke. Spoke with those lips that had been so yielding against his own, so filled with sweet promise.
Oh, blast, Ian thought, a little desperately, how could she sit there and smile at him? She was so damned beautiful. Like a flower tucked away in the garden behind the stone walls that would keep her safe. Safe from devils like him.
"Do you know how to sew, Uncle Ian?"
Lucy's demand made him stiffen and force a smile to his lips. "No. I can't say that I do."
Eagerness twinkled in Lucy's eyes. "That is the most wonderful news! I've been wanting and wanting to teach someone since the lady showed me. I'll show you how. It's easy."
Totally off-balance, Ian held up one hand. "Lucy, I don't think... I mean, I—"
"Here. First you must sit down." It was not a command. It was a royal decree. But there was something totally captivating about this benevolent golden-haired tyrant. Ian didn't want to be the one to bring the darkness back into the little girl's eyes.
Heat stole into Ian's cheeks, but he allowed himself to be tugged down onto the stone bench. Lucy thrust the piece she was working on onto his lap.
"I only have one more button to go. They were terrible hard to get on," the child explained, "but when they're finished, you'll just sparkle and sparkle. Everyone will look at you!"
He glanced down at the garment, and his eyes widened as he saw his best black breeches. They were all but unrecognizable because of the decorations stitched to the rich cloth. True, most of the buttons had been replaced, but not with the discreet black butto
ns that had been there before.
No. Each of the buttons stitched so carefully onto the rich fabric held a chunk of crystal as big as a shilling. The glittering facets caught the sunlight and fractured it, sending rainbows of colored light scattering across the garden.
Hellfire, Ian thought, unamused. The child might as well have stuck beacons on his breeches and been done with it! By God, Lucy was right about one thing. Whenever he wore these things, everyone he met would gape at him!
"Lucy insisted on picking out most of the buttons herself," Emily's voice intruded softly. "It seemed to mean so much to her. I assure you that most of your other garments are not quite so... unique."
"Unique?" He looked up at her, fully intending to explain quite logically why the buttons would have to be replaced. But at that instant he caught a glimpse of Lucy's upturned face. Her eyes were brimming with pride. The mouth that had been pursed up with fury or frustration or stubbornness ever since she'd arrived at Blackheath Hall was curved into a beatific smile.
"He likes it! See? I told you he would!"
Ian glanced at Emily and sensed that she was waiting, holding her breath. He grimaced inwardly. What the hell could he say when they both looked at him like that, all big eyes and smiles?
"They are... quite the most remarkable buttons I have ever seen," Ian said with heartfelt honesty. "I'm certain no other man in Virginia has any like them."
Gratitude shone in Emily's eyes, washing over him in a warm violet tide that made his mouth go dry. The corners of her lips curved in a smile that warmed parts of him he'd never allowed any woman to touch.
The wariness that had been so obvious in her face vanished, and he knew she was trying to hide the laughter that sparkled in her delicate features. Ian found himself allowing his own amusement to dance in his eyes. If Emily d'Autrecourt had pressed her hand against his heart, he could not have felt her touch more deeply.
"So, madam"—he forced a teasing note into his voice—"you believe that men should know how to wield a needle. Is that so?"
"Indubitably," she said, her own fingers flying as she basted silver lace on a petticoat for Lucy. "Unfortunately, not many men are equal to the challenge of such a demanding task."
"Wielding a needle can't be so much different from using a sword," Ian said with a shrug. "Both implements are made of steel, both have sharp points, and both make holes in clothes when used with any skill. Of course, these garments don't have your enemy's body beneath them, so stitchery is a good deal less messy, I suppose."
Lucy laughed uproariously at his grisly humor.
"Lucy, you must help me show the lady just how skilled this particular gentleman can be," Ian said.
"Thread a needle for him, lady!" Lucy commanded.
Emily let the silver lace fall into a pool upon her apple-green petticoats and took up a shiny bit of steel and a length of thread.
It was such a simple, common thing, this rite of feminine sewing. But Ian watched, transfixed, as Emily slipped the end of the thread between those tantalizingly full lips to moisten it. His own imagination stirred with images of dampening her lips with his own kisses.
Her hands were deft as she eased the thread through the eye of the needle, and Ian shivered inwardly as he imagined them at other tasks—loosening the ribbon that bound the queue at the nape of his neck, slipping her fingers through his hair.
She had the hands of an angel—hands that should not have had any task heavier than lifting a teacup to her lips or tracing maddening patterns on some besotted man's burning flesh. But as she put the needle in his hand, Ian felt the small calluses on her fingertips and saw tiny cuts where needles had pricked and shears had nipped and thread had bitten deep.
And he had to stifle the urge to lift those fingers to his lips and smooth soft kisses across the evidence of the harshness life had dealt her.
"You don't hold a needle like that, Uncle Ian!"
Relief raced through him at the distraction of Lucy's disgusted cry.
"Here! You must take it and—"
The bit of steel slipped as she attempted to maneuver it in his hand, the point sticking his finger. Ian focused on the tiny, stinging pain, driving away his thoughts of Emily by force of will.
Lucy pulled his hand into the light, examining the drop of blood with great interest. "I didn't mean to do it on purpose," she informed him gravely. "I would have told you if I did."
Ian managed a crooked smile. "I am certain you would, and with great relish. That is one thing I admire about you, Miss Lucy Dubbonet. You are totally open about your skullduggery."
Lucy preened at the compliment then hustled him about his business with a brisk command. "Here, now. Take the needle. And the button..."
Minutes passed as Ian propped the breeches against his leg and labored to attach the button. But it was difficult to concentrate, between Lucy's somewhat muddled directions and the distraction of feeling Emily's eyes on him time and time again.
After a long struggle, in which he swallowed more swearwords than could be heard on a fleet in a week's worth of gales, he tied off the thread in a knot, and snipped it free.
"There," he said, shooting her a grin laced with relief. "Are you satisfied now, Madam Emily Rose?"
"Not completely." She caught at the corner of her lip as if attempting to stifle another of those heart-wrenching smiles. "But I will be when you stand up."
"Stand up?" He set the needle aside and grabbed the breeches with his other hand, starting to stand and put the garment back in the basket. But the breeches wouldn't budge from where they lay against his thigh. They were stitched to the leg of the breeches he was wearing.
He swore as he yanked at the cloth, feeling like a perfect ass, as Lucy dissolved into apoplexies of laughter.
"I'll help you, Uncle Ian," she said at last through her giggles. "I'll take my cunning little scissors and—"
"Oh, no, you won't, you little wretch!" Ian said, with very real alarm. "I'm not letting you anywhere in that vicinity with a sharp object!"
"Coward!" Emily's laughter joined theirs, and Ian was stunned by the music in it, dulcet tones that he had never heard before, sounds that he sensed were precious, and far too rare.
"Ho, madam," Ian said, giving her a mocking glare from beneath his thick, straight brows. "I have no intention of being shorn in the way of Tony's poor stallion. Now hand over those scissors at once!"
He clipped the threads with the greatest care then solemnly handed both breeches and button to Lucy. "I bow to your expertise, Mademoiselle Dubbonet."
Lucy glowed. "Sewing is not so very hard. Really."
Ian couldn't resist reaching out to smooth his hand over that mop of glossy curls.
The touch made Lucy stiffen, and she seemed to catch herself, distrustful of her own enthusiasm. "Of course, I am only doing this because I want to," she said. "If I didn't want to, nobody could make me."
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather take a bit of a rest and go for a run through the garden?" Emily asked her. "You've been working very hard."
"No! I want to sew." Lucy's chin set at a stubborn angle, and Ian could see a wary light in her eyes. "But you can go away walking. You've been here for a very long time." Lucy shifted that dismissive gaze to Ian. "Why don't you take him with you. I like to be by myself." With that, the child turned away from both of them, shutting them out as effectively as if she had drawn an invisible curtain around herself.
Ian's brow furrowed, and he looked into the equally concerned features of Emily d'Autrecourt. There was an aching understanding in her face as she regarded the child, the emotion overlaid with nervousness, as Emily stole a glance at Ian.
If he'd had any doubts that her memories of last night were as clear as his were, they were quelled in that instant as he saw her moisten her lips, her fingers chafing the silver lace she'd been working with.
"You needn't trouble yourself to keep me company," she protested faintly. "I know you are a very busy man."
Busy
? By Jove, he'd like to be busy right now. Snarling his fingers in the fastenings of her gown, sliding the stomacher aside to reveal the ivory treasures that lay beneath...
Ian couldn't stop himself from remembering the heated trysts for which this garden had been the setting in times past. He'd never been quite as zealous in his romantic pursuits as some of his guests had been. Though he was more than willing to kindle passionate fires in the garden, he'd preferred bringing them to conflagration in the more civilized softness of a bed. Ian couldn't suppress an inward grin, remembering the raging case of insect bites Tony had gotten when he and Flavia had christened the Pennington azalea border. Ian had laughed uproariously at Tony's misery, telling him it was no more than he deserved for showing such a lack of finesse.
But as Ian looked at Emily, the thought of tumbling her back into soft pillows of blossoms was far too appealing for comfort.
Ian knew that he should excuse himself and go back into the house. Barricade himself in the sanctuary of his study or ride off to Pennington to see if Tony's temper had cooled.
But he had never been able to nobly resist temptation. And he had never seen a more exquisite temptation than Emily Rose d'Autrecourt dressed in apple-green satin.
"There is nothing I would like better than to stroll with you in the garden," Ian said. "Especially since if I stay here and continue with the sewing lesson, I will probably stitch so many things to my clothing I'll look like a washerwoman's basket. You must be merciful, Emily Rose. Save me from myself." The words were meant to be teasing. He'd had no idea how they would affect him, a strange sensation stealing over him, as if he'd asked for so much more.
"I... If Lucy is sure she doesn't need me..." Emily hedged, looking as if she very much hoped the child did.
"I told you to go away already," Lucy said somewhat petulantly.
Ian could see that Emily was wavering, most likely trying to think of some way to escape his company. He reached out and took her hand, unwilling to allow her retreat.
The Raider’s Bride Page 14
