Heather and Velvet

by Teresa Medeiros

  A shadow stirred on the landing above. Sebastian’s gaze flicked upward. D’Artan stood at the curve of the stairs, smiling, his hand resting lightly on the balustrade.

  Sebastian had taken three long strides toward the stairs when the bronze door at the end of the drawing room swung open and Prudence Walker walked unwittingly into the middle of his robbery.

  Nineteen

  “Sweet Almighty Jesus,” Tiny breathed reverently, breaking his silence.

  Jamie started to cross himself, then remembered he wasn’t Catholic. His awe dampened to dread as he saw Sebastian swing away from the staircase to face the vision in the doorway.

  Time stopped. Sebastian’s finger convulsively squeezed the trigger of his pistol. Had it been cocked, he would have shot himself in the foot.

  The gilded wood of the doorway framed Prudence perfectly, like a painting by one of his grandfather’s favorite artists. Was it Gainsborough or Reynolds? A halo of candlelight stoked to life the shimmering highlights in hair swept softly from her face, then curled to frame the slender column of her throat. Light winked from the diamond brooch pinning her lace fichu at the lily-white cleft between her breasts.

  Sebastian knew the softness of that skin, knew its frailty and its grace. But this was not the prim, proud woman he had last seen in a dirty jail in Northumberland. This was the elusive creature of his fantasies, utterly lovely and alight with yearning promise. His hothouse flower had not faded, but bloomed in his absence. The realization made him feel mean and hard in more ways than one.

  Prudence peered around the room, biting her lip in consternation. She did not see Tricia. D’Artan must have escorted her upstairs after her pretty swoon. Hooded figures circled the frozen guests, sacks spread wide. What new game was this? She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to freeze in place, attempt to evade the hooded figures, or go in search of a one-eyed dwarf possessing an original Hogarth engraving.

  Devony was hovering behind a potted palm. Prudence leaned toward her and whispered, “What do we play? Statues? Blindman’s bluff? Scavenger hunt?”

  “Robbery,” Devony said between clenched teeth. “We play robbery.”

  Prudence frowned, trying to remember the rules of that game. It was nearly impossible to keep track of all their childish entertainments. She studied the room, noting for the first time the pistols shoved into the waistbands of the men with sacks.

  “Oh. Robbery.” She glanced behind her, gauging the wisdom of slipping out and running for a constable.

  It was too late. One of the robbers had spotted her and was coming her way. She tugged off Tricia’s diamond ear bobs, prepared to surrender them without protest.

  The man continued to approach, each step as measured as a waltz. A crude mask of burlap hid his face, The wide brim of his hat cast his eyes and mouth in shadow. His dingy linen shirt was stretched taut across broad shoulders. The other robbers froze, sacks spread, as his path melted the crowd between them. Prudence’s heart tripped into an uneven beat.

  He kept coming. For a breathless moment, she thought he would back her right up against the door. Finally he stopped, leaving mere inches between them. The heat of his body was a palpable thing, as masculine as the scent of tobacco clinging to his shirt. She glared at his chest, trying to control her breathing. She was afraid, but also angered by his impertinence. None of the other guests were being treated in such a callous manner.

  He shoved his pistol in his breeches and opened his sack. “Your jewelry, my lady.”

  His graveled voice sent a frisson of fear coursing down her spine. She dropped the ear bobs into the sack and drew her pearl necklace over her hair.

  The faintest breath of jasmine buffeted Sebastian. His senses reeled. He could smell her and taste her as if the months without her had driven him to the point of madness.

  “All of it. Your ring too,” he snapped gruffly.

  And your gown. And your petticoat. And your garters. And your stockings. And your chemise. His mind staggered at the fantasy of her disrobing before him, obediently casting each garment into his sack until he could ease her back against the door and finish what they had started that long-ago night at Lindentree.

  Prudence slipped off a coral pinkie ring that couldn’t have been worth more than a tuppence, then stood at a loss as he remained unmoving before her. His animosity both baffled and frightened her. His shoulders blocked out the rest of the drawing room. It was as if the whole world had narrowed to only her and this savage stranger.

  She flinched and closed her eyes as he dropped the sack and buried his hands in her hair, ruthlessly stripping away the silver pins.

  Sebastian did not want her hairpins. He simply couldn’t resist the temptation to immerse his fingers in the silky cloud of her hair. He cast the pins in the sack, then let his gaze wander with arrogant boldness to where her breasts swelled against her lace and silk fichu.

  Heat flooded Prudence’s cheeks. She struggled with her brooch, trembling not in fear now, but anger. The pin snagged in the silk, then drew a thin crimson line across one breast. A small sound of pain escaped her. Then he was there, his warm hands displacing hers as he worked the pin from the delicate material with surprising patience. His hands lingered. His callused knuckles grazed the sensitive skin between her breasts with shivering delicacy. A curious knot tightened in her stomach. She studied the sandy hair scattered across the backs of his hands, too shaken to risk looking up.

  A shudder passed through his rigid body. He gave the brooch a careless tug, shredding the precious silk.

  As he turned away, dismissing her with humiliating swiftness, she cried, “Wait.”

  The crowd gasped as he pivoted on one heel, a faceless, wary figure.

  She snatched off her spectacles and jerked the gold chain over her head. Her eyes blazed and contempt was written in her every word. “Don’t you want these? They’re real gold. They’re not worthless like a bit of coral or a handful of hairpins. They should fetch you a fancy price.”

  She faced him proudly, hair tumbling around her face, her torn fichu fluttering in the wind that blew through the open windows. The thief’s fingers brushed hers as they folded around the gold spectacles. He took them from her and gently slipped them over the bridge of her nose.

  She blinked at him, mystified by the unexpected kindness.

  He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her ear. “Keep them, Miss Walker.” The prick of his heathery burr lifted the hair at the nape of her neck. “The gold suits you far better than steel.”

  Then, with an imperceptible signal, he was gone and the others with him. A sheet of icy rain pelted the marble floor by the windows. As the drawing room exploded into movement, Prudence Walker slid to the floor in a puddle of cranberry satin.

  A callused hand smoothed the hair away from her face. Prudence nuzzled her lips against it and murmured, “Sebastian.”

  The hand withdrew, and she became aware of an awkward silence. Slowly she opened her eyes. Killian MacKay gazed down at her, his kind eyes crinkled in careful assessment. Horror flooded her as she realized what she had done.

  Her gaze darted around the bedchamber, finding Tricia mercifully occupied with Lady Campbell and Devony. A maid was draping her gown over the back of a chair. “… simply scandalous,” Tricia was saying, her pale hands fluttering like birds. “Do you know she tossed my favorite ear bobs into his sack as if they were mere trinkets?”

  With a worried glance at the bed, Lady Campbell wrung her own plump hands. “I do hope she recovers. Such a shock for a delicate young girl. I feel so responsible. Two houses across the square were robbed earlier this week, but I never dreamed they’d attempt us. Why, my Dempster is a member of the parliament!”

  “She’s awake, mum,” the maid pronounced, sliding a hot brick wrapped in flannel beneath the counterpane at Prudence’s feet.

  They gathered around, peering down at her like curious moons in a canopied galaxy.

  Tricia puckered up and kissed the pillow next
to Prudence’s cheek. “You gave us quite a scare, young lady. When Laird MacKay discovered you had collapsed, he was kind enough to carry you here to your chamber.”

  “Your body was blocking the door,” Devony added, giving the impression that they might have left her there had it not inconvenienced the other guests. She shivered delicately. “I can’t blame you for swooning. You should have seen that scoundrel tear the pins from your hair. We thought he was going to throw you over his shoulder and carry you off. Or ravish you right there against the door.”

  Prudence’s color fled anew at the memory of Sebastian’s rough mastery. Laird MacKay dampened her brow with a cloth and gave Devony an icy stare from beneath an oddly boyish fringe of snowy lashes. Lady Campbell’s bottom lip quivered.

  “I’m quite embarrassed,” Prudence said. “I’ve never swooned before.”

  MacKay’s lilting burr flowed over her. “No need for apologies, lass. You’ve suffered through a terrible experience.”

  Tricia rested her fingers on his broad shoulder. To Prudence’s shaken vision, they looked like talons. “I think we’d all agree the best thing for my niece is rest. Would you care to join me for a warm toddy in my sitting room, my lord?”

  MacKay settled back in the chair and stretched his long legs out before him. “I believe I’ll sit for a while. The lass might sleep easier knowing there’s a man to watch over her.”

  Tricia’s eyes narrowed faintly as she gazed at her niece. That look meant trouble, Prudence knew. There would doubtless be a whole new parade of fawning suitors for her to review in the morning. For now, Tricia had no choice but to obey. Prudence swallowed her own protest. Laird MacKay looked as determined and immovable as a plaid mountain.

  The women slipped out, leaving the maid napping just inside the open door. Prudence closed her eyes, pretending to fall asleep, but when she chanced to look, MacKay was studying her, his hooded eyes as bright and wary as a hawk’s.

  “Sebastian’s an uncommon name for these parts, is it not?” he asked softly.

  She propped herself up on the pillows, feeling equally as wary. “I have a cat named Sebastian.”

  She leaned over and peered hopefully under the bed. Where was the furry little monster when she needed him? Someday she would learn never to depend on a male of any species.

  She straightened, her face flushed, and blew a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes. “He must be in the greenhouse terrorizing Lady Campbell’s cockatoo again.”

  “If he’s a bonny gray lad, he’s more likely next door in the kitchen of my own town house, lapping cream from Cook’s saucer and courting my Bella.”

  Prudence deduced Bella to be the owner of the incriminating cat hairs on his plaid. It was easy to imagine her—fluffy and white, a lolling pink tongue, brainless. Sort of a feline Devony Blake. “I fear my Sebastian has taken to pouncing after every set of pretty whiskers that comes along. Typical male,” she added in a mutter.

  “A bit jaded for one so young, are you not? Perhaps your aunt’s misfortune with the rake who duped her has colored your opinions.”

  MacKay’s words colored her cheeks. He smiled faintly, and she silently cursed her traitorous complexion. He looked as if he would like to say more, but at that moment the maid blew out a snore between pursed lips.

  MacKay fluffed Prudence’s pillow. “ ’Tis late, lass. You’ve had quite an evening. We can talk tomorrow.” His shuttered gaze warned her it was more than casual conversation he had in mind.

  He awoke the maid and left. As the door shut behind them, Prudence began to tremble. She arched her foot to find the warm brick beneath the counterpane. Would Sebastian come to her? Did he dare?

  She flung herself onto her side, gazing at the terrace doors. She must be truly mad. If Sebastian did come, he would probably shoot her first and exchange pleasantries later.

  How could she have been so blind? The crude mask might have hidden the sheen of his hair and the smoky steel of his eyes, but her madly beating heart had tried to warn her. Even in his dingy garments, Sebastian had commanded the cream of Edinburgh society like a robber prince, a pirate king of the drawing room. In a few brief moments, he had stolen far more than costly baubles. He had robbed her of her precious sophistication, the cool aloofness she had fostered these many months to keep her from feeling anything at all—not grief, not regret, and not the overwhelming guilt that threatened her now. The rapacious heat of his hands had brought her every nerve tingling to life and rendered her as witless as Devony Blake.

  How he must despise her! She had robbed him of all his fine plans, betrayed him to a man he held in the deepest contempt. But how to explain the fleeting moment that evening when his fingers had grazed her skin with aching tenderness? That instant when he had set her spectacles on her nose with the same gentleness he had once shown a flour-speckled girl in the ruins of Tricia’s kitchen?

  Prudence burrowed deeper into the sumptuous blankets, shivering in her thin chemise as the icy rain shifted silently to snow.

  Sebastian’s boots made wet prints across the terrace. The snow sank through the cracks in the leather, melting when it touched his woolen stockings. The heavy, wet flakes fell straight down, covering the bricks, clinging to the holly trees that bordered the terrace, and casting a net of fluffy white across Sebastian’s hair.

  He was oblivious to the cold. Pressing his fingertips to the icy glass of a French door, he stared into the room beyond. The waning fire cast a cozy glow across the soft form humped beneath the bedclothes. He could almost feel the fire’s warmth, even out on the chilly terrace. He felt like a child, his grubby fingers pressed against the window of a sweet shop, and he muttered an oath.

  He had never meant to see Prudence again. Not in England, and certainly not in Edinburgh. He had never thought to again feel the heavy weight of her hair against his palms, or to brush her creamy skin with his knuckles. His hands clenched into fists as he fought the tenderness that threatened to overwhelm him. Damn her! Since the night she had come to him at Lindentree, his dreams had been fired by her lissome form, her honeyed kiss. He had let her walk away from him that night, but now he swore she would not walk away from him again.

  He drew her pearls from his pocket, looping the shimmering strand between fingers cracked and stiff from the cold. They were so like her—bound by a fragile but enduring thread, cool upon first glance, but warming to his skin, coming alive to his touch with an opalescent fire.

  He turned away from the door, then stopped, driving a hand through his hair. He had cursed his own tender heart a hundred times since that night at Lindentree. Had it brought him here only to betray him again? Surely one glimpse of her misty eyes couldn’t erase the endless months of shivering in damp glens, unable to light a fire for fear of drawing the law. He had slept in a sullen knot, nursing his rage toward Prudence until it coursed through his battered body like molten flame, consuming all of his waking and dreaming thoughts with hot and inventive fantasies of revenge.

  He knelt in the cold snow and slipped one of her hairpins into the lock of the French door. Before he could turn it, though, a numbing flame seared his throat. Would he find her alone? She had worn no betrothal ring or wedding band on her graceful fingers. But how else was he to explain her transformation? There must be a man—a wealthy man, to drape her in diamonds and satin, to weave gems around her slender throat. A man sharing both her life and her luscious body.

  Sebastian’s fingers tightened convulsively. The necklace snapped, sending pearls bouncing and flying to sink without a trace into the blanket of snow.

  He straightened and threw his heaving shoulders against the wall, staring blindly at the broken thread dangling from his fingers.

  “You haven’t an ounce of grace in you, you clumsy, stupid boy.”

  Sebastian’s features hardened. At first he thought it was his father’s voice, thick with whisky, hoarse with contempt. But his father did not speak French. The falling snow frosted his lashes as he lifted his gaze to find not
the spectre of his father, but his grandfather shivering beneath a lush beaver cloak.

  D’Artan was arrogant, but not arrogant enough to come alone. Sebastian could sense the dark shapes crouched behind the box hedges.

  “I knew I’d find you here,” D’Artan said. “Your predictability is almost boring.” His thin nostrils flared. “Scenting after her like a stag after a doe in heat. You can’t help yourself, can you? You’re just like your father. It’s in your blood.”

  Sebastian refused to show D’Artan how deeply the words cut. “At least I have blood pumping through my veins. Not ice water.” He took a step toward his grandfather. “I believe you and I have business to tend to.”

  “Oui, it seems we do.”

  D’Artan’s amused gaze and a rush of warm air warned Sebastian. He spun around to find Prudence standing just outside the French doors. His oath was unutterably profane and as tender as an endearment. Christ, he thought, the little fool was barefoot.

  “Sebastian? Is that you?”

  Her voice was husky with sleep, and she was shivering in a thin silk wrapper. She looked as if she hardly knew where she was, much less whether she was awake. Snowflakes floated down to dust her dark hair. She was soft and disheveled in all the right places, a rumpled dream come to life. Even as Sebastian struggled to hate her, he moved toward her, forgetting he no longer had his plaid to wrap around her shoulders.

  Her puffy eyes narrowed as she focused on the second dark shape. “Viscount?”

  Sebastian’s cold tone snapped her to immediate wakefulness. “Go back to your room, Prudence. Now.”

  The twitch of D’Artan’s lips was more grimace than smile. “Oh, do stay, ma chérie. The party is just beginning. ’Tis only a pity it must be so brief.”

  Sebastian forced an amused sneer. “Won’t you have trouble explaining our untidy corpses on the Campbells’ pristine lawn?”