by Thea Devine
And that man was itching to get his hands on her. Kyger could see it clearly, and he was closing in on her fast.
Time for action.
In this sick, slick foggy world of sevens and sin, where he had no clue and no control, he could do something about this.
It felt good to move forward with a definite goal, something concrete, something real.
Angilee watched in dread as her father and Wroth, who had now separated, circled around her. She was lost now; they'd been watching her for the good part of a half hour, waiting for the exact moment, and now—this was the end, they'd get at her, they'd take her away, they'd make her marry Wroth . ..
... maybe even tonight...
Trevor Smythe was useless; all he could do was stand there and eye them suspiciously as they came closer. He couldn't challenge them, he didn't know them or the threat they represented, and he didn't have the grace and skill to whisk her out from under them.
She was trapped—it was over ...
And suddenly, it wasn't—
Coming through the crowd, strolling between them before they could converge on her—oh, God ... the bull.
Oh Lord, oh Lord, oh Lord—
She crossed her fingers. She saw her father first, just within hearing distance . .. good—
Should she? Could she?... this was the biggest gamble of her life, right now—the bull was her only hope, her only chance ...
Her heart pounded so hard she thought she'd die. She made herself rise up from the bench where she'd been seated, made herself move forward to greet the bull with both hands outstretched, made herself say loudly, liltingly, "There you are, darling! You're just in time."
She grasped Kyger's hands hard.
Help me.
She looked up at him, pleading mutely.
Help me . ..
And then she turned to the thickset man who had come up beside him.
"Daddy—" Was that her voice, so light and carefree? The bull hadn't said a word. He looked a little dumbfounded, but he hadn't said a word.
She rushed on, "I'm so glad you're here tonight. I want you to meet my new husband."
Help me.
He didn't say a word.
"Kyger—" She was breathless now, racing to get it done before he could deny it. "—my father, Zabel Rosslyn. Daddy—" Her father looked murderous, but there was nothing he could do right here, right now. "Meet my brand-new husband, Kyger Galliard."
Chapter Seventeen
Trevor Smythe gaped.
Zabel stared at her for a moment, his face like stone. And then he said in the softest, silkiest tone, "And just when did the happy event take place, and why was your father not notified of it?"
Help me ...
He couldn't refuse—maybe he didn't want to. And there was Mrs. Geddes edging up to the group, consumed with curiosity because Zabel had deliberately kept his voice ominously low.
"We eloped," Kyger interpolated smoothly. "Three days ago, at my brother's home in the country."
"Really? Well. I should like to have some proof of the particulars," Zabel said tightly.
"And I'll be happy to call on you this week with all the proof you could require," Kyger said in kind, fully aware of the malevolent presence on the other side of him that was listening avidly to the exchange, and damned sorry one hand was so useless—a fact that wasn't lost on the man beside him.
"Wroth," Angilee said tinnily, turning to him. "You heard our
good news."
"I heard someone got married," he said edgily, "but anyone
could say that. I could say that. I could claim there was a prior contract." The threat was there, hard as a punch.
Kyger looked at him. "Disappointments sit hard, it's understandable, but it's none of our concern," he said at length. "Angilee—?" He offered her his arm.
"I was only waiting for you," she said in a cooing voice, taking hold of him as if he were a lifeline, and ignoring Mrs. Geddes' covert gestures and indignant expression. "Don't rush," Kyger whispered. "I have to talk to ..."
"No." He threw a quick look over his shoulder. They were all standing there, still dumbfounded. He saw Rosslyn say something to the dragon, and then Wroth say something to him, and Mrs. Geddes responding to both of them, but what could she tell them, since she didn't know them—nor they her, as far as he knew— .. . but... nothing was exempt from consideration . .. And then, the thought was gone as they mounted the garden entrance steps, and he turned his attention toward getting them out of there without incident. No luck there.
The Haverdenes appeared suddenly. "Leaving so soon?" Mrs. Haverdene asked sweetly. "Is anything wrong?"
"No, no," Kyger said easily. "Lovely party. But—we're newly-weds, you see."
Mrs. Haverdene looked startled. "Oh, I see." She didn't see. She hadn't expected that explanation, and it showed clearly on her face.
"Exactly. So we're rather in a hurry to ... well, you understand. So thank you so much for the invitation to this lovely evening, my lady. It is time for us to go."
Angilee looked at him uncertainly. Why did it feel as if Mrs. Haverdene was not happy about them leaving? As if they both were there to detain them?
But her presumptive husband wouldn't let that happen, she was certain of it, just as he had heroically prevented her father and Wroth from wresting her away from the party.
Kyger shook Mr. Haverdene's hand, bowed over Mrs. Haver-dene's hand, and then grasped Angilee's arm.
"My dear—" He propelled her forward around the Haver-
denes, who were standing like sentinels at the gate, whispering, "Just keep going, we'll sort everything out later."
He had come by horseback; she and Mrs. Geddes had come by hired carriage. He made the instant decision to appropriate the carriage, tie on his mount, and get her to Waybury House as fast as possible—tonight.
And that with his damned useless hand. Shit—just to make things that much more difficult.
He should be used to it—nothing about this bedamned mission had been easy, so why should his escape with Angilee into the void of the night be anything but difficult?
Getting the carriage, setting up his horse, acclimating himself to the one-handed feel of the reins, wrapping them around his left leg so that he had some balance, leverage and control. Using his injured hand nonetheless, because he just had to until such time as he could give the horses their head.
Angilee didn't question him, and he wasn't after explaining anything until they were well on the road. And it was already after ten o'clock.
Hellfire.
He drove the horses cautiously through the empty streets, thankful that the clatter prevented any conversation.
And what was there to say, after all?
Everything had come full circle—his chocolate virgin was getting exactly what she'd wanted when she first accosted him: that legitimate marriage for which she could present proof to her father so that whatever the contract existed between him and the wretched Wroth, it would be nullified.
What on God's earth could Wroth have offered him that was so extraordinary he would sell his only daughter to that man?
He wheeled the carriage around a corner and down toward the empty street toward Westminster Bridge.
God, it was dark; except for the intermittent gas lamps on the bridge, and along the street, there was no light anywhere. There was no moonlight; there was no fog.
For some reason, he had expected that oppressive supernatural fog would come settling down on them at some point so that they couldn't progress another mile.
But tonight, no fog. Or maybe—if the fog were as sentient as he sometimes thought it was—it had spread over the other bridge, the one it would have been more likely for him to take. Perhaps he had outwitted the fog.
He did not think he'd outwitted Wroth or the Sacred Seven. He pushed the horses harder, using his injured hand to painfully pick up the slack. They had to go faster now, to get out of the environs of L
ondon sooner than soon. Her father could be following, or Wroth, or any of them.
There had been something so insidious about this evening. So unnerving. The white virginal whores in training. The Haverdenes stopping them by the door. They were all involved. They all knew, they tacitly participated. They all had a secret. Every one of them.
All of them? Which secret? Buyer? Seller? Brethren? Nothing is exempt from consideration . .. Holy hellfire.
There was something niggling at him about that, but he needed all his energy focused on keeping the horses in line and on track as he drove them still harder into the suburbs of London and onto the turnpike out of London.
They hadn't said a word to each other in all this time. He hadn't wanted to talk, and Angilee couldn't think of one thing to say that would explain her behavior—she'd told him all of it already, and there really was nothing more to say.
Surely his meeting Wroth made clear why she had been so desperate to escape him. But now that she had forced the very thing she hoped Kyger would volunteer to do, she was deep in distress that he had done it, as they barreled down the turnpike and into the deep, dark mysterious night.
She hoped he knew where he was going. For some reason, the night void was comforting, so dark it was like velvet, and she felt as if they were wrapped in a cool black buffer against the evil that pursued them.
And Wroth would come after them; he was that kind of man.
She huddled in the corner of the carriage and shivered. She had no wrap, no clothes, no ring, no license, no assurance that the bull would even follow through on his promise to present proof of their union to Zabel within the next few days.
What if, when they arrived wherever he was taking her, what if he backed away? What if he felt tricked and trumped? What if he hated her for coercing him so blatantly?
He was driving so recklessly, she thought the carriage would overturn a half dozen times, because his one hand was limp, and his whole body was straining to simultaneously control the horses and whip up their speed.
She thought he hated her; she felt as if he couldn't wait for them to arrive where they were going so he could get rid of her..
She hung on, crouched low, and kept quiet, letting the night air wash over her, and hoping for the best.
They came to the gates of Waybury as the first fingers of dawn light streaked the sky. They had stopped twice to rest the horses, never with a word, as if any sound breaking the dark silence would unleash the unspeakable evil.
He had to despise her for what she'd done. And she had to trust him.
Did she trust him? A hired penis who frequented a brothel and allegedly had a fortune in diamonds and a house in Belgrave Square?
Did she trust him? She'd longed so hard for him to provide the solution to her problem that now it was a fact, she didn't quite know how to feel. She knew how he made her feel, in bed, between her legs, mounted over her and riding her hard. But that wasn't the same kind of trust—or was it?
But really, it was too late to think about trust when the thing was already done and he was slowing the carriage down as they approached an iron fence centered between two stone columns. He turned in through the gate and onto the crackling oyster-shell drive and closer and closer to the looming dark shadow of Waybury House.
"My brother's house," Kyger said. His voice sounded rusted even to him. His hand was a fiery mass of nerve endings, and every muscle ached from the strain of controlling the horses.
But they were there; they were safe.
"It's so early," Angilee murmured. She still was at a loss what to say. This man was going to marry her. Be her husband. Stand up to her father. Defend her. Take her to bed. Make love to her.
She shuddered. The end was coming. She just never expected that it would be in a dark carriage in front of a dark house in the middle of a dark nowhere with the dark man she'd paid to take her virginity and tried to bribe to marry her.
No bribe needed after all. Just imminent danger compounded of an angry father and a thwarted would-be fiance.
She'd have to remember that for later. After the divorce.
Kyger came around to her side of the carriage. "Let's get you inside."
"But we'll wake them ..." "That's why there are servants."
Oh, she liked that comment. She allowed him to help her down from the carriage and to the front door. One peal of the doorbell. A moment later, the door opened.
"Mr. Kyger." A deferential footman. A beautiful entrance hall. Maids scurrying immediately to turn on the gaslight, light the fireplaces, and welcome them into the parlor. Kyger settled her on a sofa near the fireplace. A few moments later, the butler—Phillips, was it?—appeared with a tray of sandwiches. "Tea is imminent, Mr. Kyger. And I've sent for Mr. Lujan."
"Thank you, Phillips. And a blanket for Miss Rosslyn as well, please."
Phillips returned with that in moments, with Lujan hard on his heels, and Emily pacing curiously behind him. "Jesus, baby brother, what the hell—?" "Good morning to you, too, old son."
"So what's to do? Did Phillips go for tea? Good. What happened to your hand? Hold on for a minute—I'm starving. You can't wake a man up in the middle of the night, for God's sake, and expect—well, I don't know what you can expect..." Lujan bit into a sandwich just as Emily said, mrrrowow. "Blasted cat. Jancie's coming, honest to God." Emily paced over to where Angilee was sitting. Oww. Short, sweet. Approval? Disdain? No way to tell: Emily was reserving judgment, settling down on her haunches to wait and watch.
"All right. Ah, here's Phillips. Clear the table. Right there, then, my man. Excellent. You might get a cold compress for Mr. Kyger's hand. And perhaps your guest will pour?"
"If you'd stop babbling for three minutes," Kyger said dryly. "This is Angilee Rosslyn, We are married."
Lujan started, nearly dropped his sandwich.
"Or will be," Kyger amended. "I need your help."
"And I need some tea. How do you do, Miss Rosslyn. I think you're crazy. He's as unreliable as a sieve. Pour the tea, would
you?"
Angilee poured, at a loss how to take that comment. The two of them were doing just fine without her response, handing off quips like they were music hall comedians. And they looked so alike, especially around the eyes, but it was obvious Lujan was the voluble one, the one to whom everyone would gravitate in any social situation.
He just had a knack. He made her feel immediately at ease, and as if she'd known him for years. He grinned at her, and she smiled back.
"Very nice, brother mine."
"This," Kyger said dryly, "is, if you haven't guessed, my reprobate older brother, Lujan."
"How do you do," Angilee murmured.
"The question is, what can / do for you?" Lujan asked.
"Here's the thing," Kyger said. "Angilee is in a situation where it would be better if she had been married three days ago. Legally and legitimately. To me."
"Oh. All right." Lujan took another sandwich. "So we'll do that."
Kyger looked at Angilee. "There you go. All right and tight. And when can we get that done?"
Lujan waved his sandwich. "Elsberry will do it. This afternoon. I'll arrange the rest."
"Perfect."
"What's perfect?"
Jancie, standing on the threshold of the parlor. Something within Kyger constricted. Beautiful just-out-of-bed Jancie probably doing exactly what he imagined she had been doing with Lujan ... that was her life now, and he had loved her, and he wasn't going to feeJ guilty for bringing Angilee home to marry
her.
Emily got up and walked toward Jancie. Mrrrroooww. He's
going to marry her.
Jancie looked at Angilee, all wrinkled perfection in a Parisian gown of tulle, silk and crystals, and she didn't know what to say. She looked at Kyger, who in her eyes was the same wonderful brother-in-law that she had relegated him to be, and he looked just a little sad, because he'd have to let go of the past and make a future with Angilee if he truly m
eant to marry this gorgeous creature.
His gaze caught her eyes. And she saw the truth: he meant to marry the creature. Whatever the reason was.
She suddenly felt rumpled, tousled and disheveled in her robe and gown. But so would the creature if she had just been summarily awakened from a deep sleep.
And she herself had no room for any feelings of envy. She had what she had always wanted—Lujan, a home, a family. She shook herself out of her reverie and extended her hand. "Hello. I'm Jancie," "I'm Angilee."
Now they heard the soft, slurred American accent. "Oh, my," Lujan said. "I thought there was a story, but now I see that there's a story. Sit down, stop pacing—you, too, Jancie. This we have to hear."
"I'll give you the short version: Angilee's father, an American investor from the South, contracted an alliance with a titled gentleman here in London which turned out to be totally repellent to her. She needed a husband to forestall the would-be fiance's claims, and I volunteered. Last night, we were at an event where the same said gentleman and her father were about to corner her in a most unpleasant and public way and force her compliance, so we told them we were already married. Which we will be this afternoon, by your word."
"Oh, that's excellent, baby brother. Concise to a coin. What are you leaving out?"
"Everything else," Kyger said.
That made Jancie smile.
"Nothing important," Kyger amended. "More importantly, Angilee is about to fall over. She needs a bed, a bath, fresh clothing, which I know Jancie will help her with, and Lujan and I need to make some plans."
"Of course," Jancie said.
"Too kind," Angilee murmured. "I am tired." "And there's so much to do," Lujan said briskly. "Take her off, my dear. Take the cat. I'll take my brother, get that hand fixed up, and then we'll figure something out and we'll reconvene here for late breakfast—ten o'clock, let's say—to see where we are by then."
Lujan was a miracle worker. They came down for breakfast to find a sideboard groaning with everything from broiled grapefruit, oatmeal, toast, three kinds of eggs, bacon, ham, and kippers to kedgeree, beefsteak and kidney pie, biscuits, muffins, scones, jams and butters, fruit, tea, chocolate, and coffee.
