A Well Favored Gentleman

by Christina Dodd

  “I’m well!” A blob of perspiration swallowed his eyebrow. He raised his wrist to wipe it away, but dropped his arm back down to his chair as if it were too heavy.

  The dog growled again.

  Alanna stepped back, and back again when Leslie looked at her.

  Hell simmered in those red-rimmed orbs. “Where have you been, Alanna of Fionnaway?” Leslie asked. “Tell us where you’ve kept yourself these years.”

  “Aye, Alanna, tell us,” Edwin said softly. “You’ve changed, and we’d all like to know why.”

  Proudly she lifted her chin. “I never left Fionnaway.”

  “You heard about the scene by the well this morning.” Ian wanted to laugh at Edwin’s incredulity, at Brice’s confusion. “She was masquerading as the witch, but the truth was always there for those who came for more than to count Fionnaway’s assets.”

  Brice rose and shoved his chair back. “You dare to speak to me of this. You, a Fairchild, spreading your vulture wings over half the earth!”

  Leaning his knuckles on the table, Ian said, “My vulturous money can save Fionnaway. What can you do but wring it dry?”

  Wilda whimpered, and Alanna took pity on her and said, “Gentlemen, this is not fitting dinner conversation.”

  Ian and Brice would probably have paid her no heed, but Damon growled and Leslie chortled. The combination of those two wicked voices brought silence to the chamber.

  “Mr. Fairchild, we should get you to bed.” Alanna’s voice carried the authority of the lady of Fionnaway, and of the healer she had been for so many years. “You’re overexerting yourself.”

  “Not nearly enough.” Leslie’s heavy-lidded gaze examined Alanna, then went to Ian. “Have you told her yet?”

  Ian’s heart began a slow, hard thumping. “Told her what?” There were so many things he didn’t want her to know. So many dark secrets his father would relish exposing.

  “The truth. Have you told your bride the truth about you?”

  “What truth?” Brice asked. “Shouldn’t we all hear this truth?”

  Ian looked across the table at Alanna and wished he stood next to her. Then he could clap his hands over her ears, pick her up and run off with her, remove her from this presence which would poison them with fact.

  “It’s an old secret.” Leslie grimaced. “One that does me no honor, I fear. But a bride should surely know of her groom’s ancestry.”

  Ian knew now, and he closed his eyes in anguish.

  “He’s my son, I don’t deny that,” Leslie said. “But as for the rest—he’s half selkie.”

  Despite all the warnings from the selkie elders, despite all the harshness of the air environment, still many a callow selkie rises from the waves, hoping to find a human mate.

  For there is a tradition among selkies and men alike; that when the right human and the right selkie meet, and mate, they create a passion unlike any other. They glow, they burn, they love time and again until nothing matters except that they be together. It is a love, they say, to bring tears to the eyes.

  What they do not say is that when the wrong human and the wrong selkie meet, and mate, the results are tragic and everlasting, and the tears that fall then are not tears of joy, but tears of sorrow, fear—and vengeance.

  Chapter 14

  A moment of stunned silence followed Leslie’s announcement.

  For Ian, the dining chamber was shapeless, filled with auras that swirled with emotion. Incredulity, amazement, amusement, cold calculation: Ian saw them all from a distance. His body remained, but he’d slipped away, joining the other world that waited just out of sight. He hovered, so light he floated on air, waiting in anguish to hear what Alanna would say.

  Instead, a man tittered with laughter. “You tease us, sir!”

  The room shifted. Forms took shape.

  “Indeed,” another man exclaimed. “Selkies! A silly legend.”

  Edwin. And Brice.

  “Heard of it!” Leslie slapped his open palm on the table. “I tell you, I bred with one.”

  Ian’s vision cleared further. He’d been lost in the enchanted world…and he’d come back again. He’d made it back again, and no one had noticed his absence.

  Edwin looked embarrassed. Brice worked to contain his amusement.

  Even Wilda mumbled, “Uncle Leslie!” in tones of chagrin.

  But Alanna still hadn’t spoken, and Ian risked a glance at her.

  She scrutinized him. Had she seen his form waver in the winds of magic?

  No. She didn’t look frightened. Only grave and thoughtful, as if she were weighing the possibility he might truly be a freak.

  Brice laid a hand on Wilda’s arm and spoke softly. “Don’t distress yourself, my dear. We have our daft kin here in Scotland, too. We understand.”

  Ian could see Leslie’s rage expanding and contracting with each breath he took, and for good reason. He was known as a liar as well as a louse. He hated being treated like an insignificant old man, dismissed and ridiculed. “I saw. I know!” he insisted.

  “Shut up, old man,” Edwin said in a low, vicious tone. “You’ll ruin everything for your stupid revenge.” Rising, he circled the far end of the table to receive his share of Wilda’s attention. “There, there, dear.” He knelt beside her. “Pay him no heed.”

  Leslie sputtered, “How dare you sit in my home and doubt me? How dare…” Then he saw the way Alanna considered Ian, and he stopped.

  The chamber, the people, everything came back into focus when Ian concentrated on him. That other, enchanted world disappeared…for the moment. Bitterly Ian said, “You’re satisfied now, aren’t you, Father?”

  “The girl should know the truth.” The words were righteous. The tone was not.

  “You wouldn’t know truth if it raped you.”

  Leslie tried to retort. Tried again.

  Ian leaned forward, unsure whether his father feigned incoherence for its dramatic effect or if he truly could not speak.

  Leslie drew one of those deep, watery breaths; a tremor shook him. “It’s time for me to sleep,” he said hoarsely. His head dropped to his chest; his eyes closed.

  Alanna stepped forward. On the other side of Leslie, the dog growled deep in his throat. She stopped, but Ian said, “He won’t attack you. Just move slowly.”

  She glanced at him, startled by his certainty, but she believed him and gingerly pressed her fingers against Leslie’s neck. Damon didn’t leap, but he kept his teeth bared. “His heart still beats,” she reported.

  A gurgling snore escaped Leslie’s parted lips.

  “Obviously.” Keeping an eye on Damon, Ian signaled the footmen. “Pick up the chair. Carry Mr. Fairchild to his bedchamber. And for God’s sake, don’t make any sudden moves. If you are careful, the dog won’t attack.”

  “Aye, but what about the man?” one of them asked, white-faced and shaking.

  Ian didn’t laugh. The footman obviously knew where the real danger originated. “He’s asleep.”

  The men circled Leslie, torn between their fear of the old man and their fear of the dog. Ian watched as the dog circled, too, daring them, and when one of the men lunged toward the chair, Damon lunged back. The footmen ran, yelling. Wilda screamed and the cousins shouted. The butler crawled onto the liquor cabinet, sending glasses and goblets flying. Chairs hit the floor among the shattering glass.

  Damon whirled, looking for prey. And with a huge, echoing bark, the four-legged servant of the devil flung itself at Alanna.

  Ian didn’t remember moving, but he found himself on the other side of the chair and in the air. With the weight of his body behind him, he kicked the dog in the head.

  Snarling, the beast rose again, stalking him as if the man were a trifling prey he would rend at his leisure.

  “A knife,” Alanna whispered. “Use a knife off the table.”

  Ian ignored her, standing perfectly still. The mastiff prepared to leap. The silence in the room hummed with tension as Damon focused its savage attention o
n Ian’s eyes.

  On his eyes.

  Damon froze, stiff-legged, hackles raised.

  Ian watched him. Softly, gently, he coaxed, “Down. Lie down.”

  Still growling, the dog slipped from an aggressive, forward tilt to a defiant sit.

  “That’s right.” Ian spoke right to the dog’s feral, twisted soul. “You can trust me. Lie down.”

  Damon’s ears drooped. Shutting its serrated black lips, it covered the teeth that shone so menacingly.

  “I won’t let him hurt you anymore.” Ian squatted so he was on eye level with the animal and made him a promise. “You’ll be my dog now.”

  Looking dazed, Damon slid into a quiet recline. It huddled down, its sad gaze fixed on Ian.

  Ian laid his hand on the gigantic head. “Good boy.”

  The animal rose and, with the peace of a babe, lay by the fire.

  Everybody remained silent, watching the dog, then staring at Ian. He shifted uncomfortably and wondered what the devil they had expected him to do. Let Damon savage Alanna?

  Then Leslie snorted and snored.

  “My God.” Brice sputtered. “How did you do that?”

  “Isn’t it wonderful? Ian has always had a way with animals,” Wilda said. “Why, I remember one time when there was this horse at the Fairchild stables—”

  Edwin interrupted her without compunction. “Maybe this lad really is a half-breed.” He laughed, then stopped. “How disgusting,” he murmured.

  No one else laughed. No one ever laughed when Ian proved he was different. So normally he took care never to show his abilities. And when he did, even now, even in the saving of Alanna’s life, he knew he would be punished by coldness, fear, disdain.

  The footmen edged away from him. The butler crawled off the liquor cabinet and glared as if the broken glass were Ian’s fault. In the doorway, a goggle-eyed maid watched, then whisked away to carry the tale to the rest of the household.

  And as always, Ian wore his detachment like a shield, not responding to the wonder or the distaste or the amazement. He let the gossip wash over him without a quiver, with squared shoulders and shuttered expression.

  Indifference. It was the only way to survive.

  Then someone tugged at his elbow. Alanna. He waited for her denunciation, too.

  “Ian, you saved my life.” She gathered her skirt in one hand, and holding her other wrist in a graceful arch, she curtsied like a grateful subject to her king. “Many thanks to you.”

  He couldn’t believe it. Had she…had she deliberately saved him from being shunned? Her servants watched her closely, taking their cue from her and smiling. Her cousins shuffled as if embarrassed that a mere woman would have courage where they did not.

  And for once, Ian found himself at a loss. He knew how to counter rudeness. He knew how to handle spite. But how did a man thank a woman for treating him as if he were human?

  She didn’t seem to expect an answer. She simply turned toward the footmen. “Do as Mr. Ian ordered now. Take Mr. Fairchild to his bedchamber.”

  Still keeping an eye on the quiescent dog, the men hustled over. Each grasped a chair leg and carried Leslie’s wobbling figure toward his room.

  Alanna and Ian followed through the dim corridors.

  Ian wondered what to say. Should he lie? Should he try to reassure her? Or should he demand she recall what had happened between them, demand she admit he was a man in the ways that count? Unfeeling society had labeled him: bastard, demon, beast. But he was more than that, and she knew it. If she would just remember, she knew it.

  Outside the door, she stopped him with her hand on his arm. “Your father’s a sick, foolish old man. I’m smart enough to discern the truth about you.”

  She didn’t sound repulsed. Her hand lay on his arm. She’d touched him without fear. She watched him gravely, her eyes big and solemn.

  But it’s true! Just once, he longed to speak the truth. It’s true! My mother was selkie. Accept me as I am.

  But shadow and candlelight softened her sharp, intelligent face, and he wanted her. Wanted her, and remembered the Quaker girl with her fears and the abhorrence she could scarcely contain.

  He should tell Alanna the facts. He should force her to believe. It wasn’t fair that she should have to wed a half-breed. A monstrosity. But it was too late for her. She was his. He’d made her his.

  Only now she didn’t seem to know it. She seemed to think she had a choice.

  Sliding his hands around her waist, he drew her toward him.

  Her hand flew to his chest and she braced herself against him. “Too much stands between us,” she protested. “My lands, my past, your greed, your father.”

  “Your lands I want, I freely admit that, and if that makes me greedy, so be it. But your past…I care nothing for your past. And I warn you now”—he spoke so softly she leaned closer to hear him—“I’ll not let the memory of my father and what he tried to do four years ago strip the joy from today.”

  “You demand I forget how helpless he made me feel?”

  “When I hold you, you’re omnipotent.” He held her arms and let her hold his. “Feel it. Feel the mastery you hold over me.”

  Uncomprehending, she tried to jerk away. Or, more likely, she feared such power—and feared him.

  “Alanna.” Her name rasped from his throat, emblematic of everything he wanted to say and could not. He wanted to thank her for being openly grateful he’d saved her life. He wanted to thank her for hiding any dismay she might feel at his background. But the delight of her body against his pushed him beyond civilized behavior, and he nudged her toward the wall. After all, she expected no less. He was a beast, wasn’t he? And a bastard. God, he ought to tell her that, too. But not yet…

  She turned her face away. He freed one hand and caught her neck, his fingers holding her jaw, and he kissed her.

  Even the touch of her mouth was good. Even the sample of her firmly closed lips enticed him. But mostly, her resistance fed his ire. He angled his face to hers. “Open,” he muttered.

  She did—to bite him. Her teeth nipped his lower lip—almost.

  “I’ll spank you,” he threatened, and swept inside.

  He tasted surprise, indignation. Then he tasted her. If he were given a blindfold and a hundred women to kiss, he would always know Alanna. Tart, frightened, excited against her will.

  He held her firmly, but he kept the kiss gentle, coaxing.

  Until she began to respond. Then the blood rushed in his veins, surging like the tides. God, she was sweet. Small and sweet and beneath it all, passionate. He’d proved that last night, and again today. The drug had helped him, lowering her resistance, lulling her fears, and she’d given in to desire with so much confusion and delight he’d had trouble maintaining his control.

  Control. Her breath caught now, and she moaned, a little sound he caught and savored. He leaned into her, pressing her harder against the wall, using his weight to master her. One hand stroked her bare throat. One hand molded her curves, moving from hips to ribs and back again.

  Lifting his head, he looked down at her. Her eyelids fluttered as if they were too heavy to lift. Her mouth was damp, swollen, and the skin around it was slightly reddened from the scrub of his beard. She nudged her bottom lip with her tongue, and he swooped down and met it.

  This time when he lifted his head, she looked at him, dazed with the same sensuality that shook him.

  “Leave your door unlocked tonight.”

  Those green eyes dilated, and she tried to escape him by flattening herself against the wall. As if he couldn’t just lean harder.

  “You can’t come to me without the wedding!” she whispered.

  “I’m half selkie. Remember?” He never thought he would brag about it, but he did now. “I’m magic. I can slip through your window on the breeze, lay hands on you with my thoughts, enchant you with a spell…”

  She melted, misty-eyed with the longing he induced in her.

  Then he saw logic snap i
nto place. Her mouth firmed. Her eyes flashed. And the glow of passion died and was replaced by the color of reason. “If you’re the wind, then I don’t have to leave my door unlocked for you, do I?”

  He smiled, slow and sure. He was the wind, and he would be with her. Carefully he placed his thumb on her forehead, right between her eyebrows. Looking into her eyes, he pressed and commanded, “Dream of me.”

  When selkies rise from the wave to walk the land, they entice the unwary to follow them. For selkies, when they take their human form, are as beautiful as the night, with dark eyes that flash with silver highlights and black hair that shines like sable. When a human man sees a selkie woman, he feels an enchantment grow on him, and he would do anything to possess that selkie forever.

  And when a male selkie wishes to possess a human female, he uses all his skills to captivate the woman, taking her on a journey of such delight she never again desires another.

  Some humans, disgruntled by others’ happiness, call this use of selkie magic unfair.

  Selkies say something entirely different. It is the equivalent of the incantation—“All’s fair in love and war.”

  Chapter 15

  Ian came to her like a mist, materializing out of the dark like some phantom of pleasure. “Alanna.” His warm voice vibrated with reprimand. “I told you to leave your door unlocked. Every night for the last seven nights I have told you, and still you disobey me. How shall I punish you?”

  Clutching her bedclothes close to her chest, she defied him as she had every night for the past week. “You have no right to command me, or to punish me.”

  His figure glowed with a light of its own as he placed his knee on the mattress beside her hip. With the care of a sweetheart, he uncoiled her fingers from the sheets and flung the muslin toward the foot of the bed. “I take my rights. Don’t you remember that night in the witch’s hut?”

  “I don’t. I swear I don’t.”

  “Let me remind you.” His hands slid into her hair, and he held her still as he brushed her cheeks with a closemouthed kiss.

  The sweetness of it brought tears of joy to her eyes. This kiss was the composition, a masterpiece, one of nature’s most exquisite blossoms. Each graze of Ian’s lips brought the blood leaping to her skin, and she wondered—if this was her punishment for locking him out of her room, what would be her reward for letting him in?