by Lori Devoti
“Then take my hand because I ask it.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She was right. There wasn’t much space between them for him to reach out and take her hand. He also took the books and folded them into the free hand, making her stack look tiny. He then compounded everything by planting her against his side with little more than a hairsbreadth of gap between them. The contact sparked. Engaged. Flared. Nobody had warned her of Scotland’s humidity problem. Or maybe the heat in these old buildings to blame. It was clear she should have splurged and bought conditioner for her hair and a huge vat of lotion for her skin as well.
“How do you move so quickly?”
He smiled down at her as if she were a child and should already know. “The same way I do everything. Come. Your chariot awaits.”
“Chariot? A real chariot?”
“Verra well. ‘Tis actually a Rolls.”
“You have a Rolls…Royce?’ Her voice was missing on the second word.
“I have several. I brought the Phantom tonight. Does that make you more amenable to sup?”
“Which…version?”
“Of what? Sup?”
“Phantom.”
“I think it’s the third. I liked the lines.”
“No way. That’s from 1936.”
“Mayhap.” He shrugged, moving her with the motion. “I’d have to check.”
“That’s the one with Suicide Doors, isn’t it?”
“I believe it’s called a coach body. You like motor cars?”
“You’re joking.”
“I never joke.”
“You’re lying, then.”
“Oh! What a tangled web we weave. When first we practice to deceive.”
“You’re quoting Scott? How trite.”
“You ken your Scott?”
“Doesn’t everyone?” she replied acerbically.
“Yet Clare’s sharp questions must I shun. Must separate Constance from the Nun.”
“You do know the poem.”
He opened the library’s front door for her, having walked them across the entire span of floor from the table to here in mere moments. Without thought of a step, either. Not one. Jolie frowned slightly at how that could be possible and then caught her breath in absolute wonder.
“Your chariot, Miss Jolie.”
The duke said it with another grand arm gesture toward the drive below them, holding her books out as if they weighed nothing. His action was a clue for the driver dressed in nondescript dark clothing to get out and hold open the back door. The car had suicide doors all right. It was just like she’d always dreamt.
“That’s…a real Rolls Royce Phantom. Looks like 1936. Maybe 1937. In mint condition.”
“It is?”
“Of course it is. And you know it.”
He turned her to face him with a move of his hand. Or pivoted to face her without any move at all, and breathed down on her evenly for several counts until she looked up. Such a thing as being mesmerized in place was totally unacceptable. His chauffeur was watching. The entire world was probably keeping tabs through cameras, and all she could see was silver-hued eyes and perfect features. She was totally afraid he’d kiss her. Right there. In front of everyone. And wondering why she wanted him to.
“I have lots of cars.”
“Like that one?” It was a gasp.
“Aye.”
“Wow. I mean…wow.”
“If I’d known it took a recitation of my belongings to get your acquiescence, I’d have started sooner. Much sooner.”
Cold water could’ve been tossed one her with that statement with the same effect. Jolie stiffened, putting her sweatshirt and jeans clad form against solid mass of man.
“Nice try,” she managed between set teeth.
“At what?”
“I’m new to this country but even I recognize a world class playboy, although I never thought I’d be bothered by one. You can take your belongings and—just what do you think you’re doing?”
They were at the open door of the car, stopping her words mid-sentence, and then he maneuvered her into a large, plush back seat. And he’d joined her, shoving his sword down his shoulder and dropping her books on the floor at the same moment the door closed.
“That’s it! I’m screaming!” Her voice was at that level now, but the plush interior seemed to just swallow it. She was also mentally castigating herself for not replacing the mace they’d taken from her at Airport Security.
“You needn’t bother. Barnes is deaf.”
The chauffeur got in the front seat and cocked his head. She watched him listen to the destination, although it came in a strange language. Then he shut the glass partition and turned forward again, starting the engine.
“He’s not deaf,” Jolie remarked without inflection.
“Oh. Except to my voice. Did I forget to mention that part?”
“You’re a duke, right?” Jolie put her fingers to her temples. “And you’re a gentleman. Gentlemen don’t kidnap women. Especially gentlemen that look like you. They don’t have to.”
“This is nae kidnap.”
He was still calm-sounding. There wasn’t a hint of major exertion from struggling with her. Jolie massaged her forehead. She’d struggled, hadn’t she? What had she done other than been easily lifted and transported? Without one bit of fight. She moved her hands away and scooted to the side, right next to the padded door that had real wood inlaid in it. She ran her hand along it. No handle. The man was not only a kidnapper. He used a stalker vehicle. Then she remembered. The handles would be at the front of the door…because his car had suicide doors.
“Would you like some champagne?”
“I’d like out.”
He’d leaned forward on the seat, scraping steel with his sword hilt on the side she couldn’t see, as he opened an ice bucket. He scooped out a bottle and a glass and then looked over at her, making her heart swoop to the pit of her stomach.
“Nae,” he said finally, and popped the lid of the bottle off.
“Why not?”
“You haven’t had champagne yet.”
“You can’t kidnap American citizens. Someone will look for me. I have to check in for class. You can’t just—”
“Who said anything about a kidnap?”
“Abduction then. But that’s splitting hairs.”
“I’m na’ abducting you, lass.”
“What do you call it?”
“A verra difficult supper date. Thus far.”
Jolie snorted. She couldn’t help it. This was a dream of some kind. It had to be. Any minute she’d awaken atop the library table and find reality. She’d be back in the hallowed halls of the medieval literature section, trying to keep her mind on words while love passed her completely by. As usual. Nothing in her life was remotely romantic. She should be used to it by now.
She’d landed at Heathrow last Saturday and taken the train to Glasgow - sleeper car. Then she’d booked herself into the dorm with her luggage. All by herself. Following that, she’d met Janet Fitzby, her roommate. And that was followed by meeting one of Janet’s men. That was on…Monday. On Tuesday, she met another one of Janet’s men. Last night…which would be Wednesday…she met two more men friends; one on the heels of the other. Tonight it was Kelvin. All of them men friends with fringe benefits. Nowhere in the paperwork that Jolie signed to get here was it mentioned that her roommate was easy. That jarred with every bone of Jolie’s body. She wasn’t prudish. Not…exactly. She just wanted the right man. One she cared about. And one who cared about her. One who wouldn’t force—
“Here. Cease the recriminations and enjoy the eve.”
It was the deep bass voice of her abductor. Jolie shook her head to clear it. “You’re unbelievably arrogant, Thoran.”
“As you’ve already brought forth. Try the champagne. ‘Tis ‘68.”
“Of course it is.”
“What?”
“The champagne. I’m not surp
rised you stock that year.”
“I doona’ as a matter of course. Barnes procured that particular bottle for me. He knew you’d like it.”
“I don’t like anything about this.”
“Trust me. You will,” he replied and handed her the champagne flute.
Chapter Two
There was nothing about the woman to attract him. Absolutely nothing.
Actually…
Thoran tilted his head to one side and regarded her. She didn’t truly qualify as a woman yet. There was something untouched about her. Although she looked full grown and well-developed. Her attire of tight jeans and t-shirt proudly emblazoned with “Alaska Grown” across it clearly demonstrated maturity, but she still seemed more a lass. Fresh. Young. Vibrantly alive. Witty. And incredibly naïve. It was beyond comprehension why it was her.
He could be with anyone and yet he pursued a tot. In a hoodie.
He watched her carve another slender bite from her over-done steak, take it to her mouth and chew, as though the morsel still possessed taste and tenderness. She’d ordered it well-done. To the “nth” degree, which was another bit of slang he’d have to decipher and evaluate for future use. The meat delivered to her didn’t look like it actually started as flesh after the cooking and drying effects of her order. No wonder the chef sent his apologies.
“You’re not eating.”
She finished her bite and gestured to his plate to where his order of steak tartare rested, pooled in its own blood. Thoran moved the wine goblet from his lips where he’d lifted it for effect.
“I’m replete,” he answered.
“Hmm.”
That being an answer, she carved off another sliver of meat and placed it on her tongue. With the way she was slicing her meat, she wasn’t exactly eating either. Merely tasting. Thoran put the goblet down and motioned with his hand.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Sharp eyes, this one. Sharp intellect. Very witty. All oddities on one so excruciatingly young. There wasn’t one reason she intrigued and unsettled him. Nor was there any reason she’d been doing it for over five days now. He’d known the moment she stepped foot on Scot soil. He’d awakened that evening with a tremor unlike anything he’d felt in years. He’d held back for a reason. He didn’t believe the proof before his senses.
“Signaling the orchestra.”
“Orchestra?”
He’d given the lass time to settle, and get her heart-rate and intellect back to what must be normal. He’d felt the shock with her over the roommate’s activities, had followed her driven nature for knowledge. He’d overseen her parsimonious ways with a shilling at the market without interfering. Listened to her reiterate over all the rules she had to learn from her University enrollment brochures. He’d been there, observing her without anyone the wiser. Pondering. Feeling the unease and odd sense of tingling just by being near her. And she thought he used cameras?
He despised them, as well.
Her mouth parted slightly and her eyes widened. He could get used to the little glimpses of surprise she gave before immediately stifling them. As if it spelled weakness. Frailty. Making her easy prey and just as easily dominated. All the while hating any hint of it.
“This hotel has an excellent orchestra.”
“Right.”
“And every instrument needs tuning for optimum sound.”
“It’s one o’clock a. m.” She shoved at a sleeve on one arm and checked her watch. “Make that a quarter to two. In the morning.”
“So?”
“I don’t happen to believe orchestras are sitting about waiting for you to signal them to tune up and play.”
The answer was a solid bit of string tuning happening from the blackness on the other side of the dance floor.
“I don’t believe it.”
“Why na’?” he asked, in a conversational tone.
“What orchestra plays this late? And just for you?”
“One I own, of course.” Thoran appreciated the gasp she gave and lifted the goblet again.
“Where are we?”
“Hotel Brigan-Gownie. On the river Clyde.”
“You own an orchestra?”
“I own the entire hotel, love. Na’ just the musicians.”
Strands of music came floating across the floor, and then the chandeliers sparkled to life high above them, glinting off highly polished floor before going to a dimmed state, creating havens of shadow everywhere.
“That’s why they serve you sup at such a late hour. Without complaint.”
“I also give bonuses,” he replied.
“I don’t want to know.”
He pretended at sipping his liquid. Swallowed. Smiled slightly. “You ken how to waltz?” he asked.
“Of course. It’s easy. I learned it in grade school.”
“In that event, I’ll lead.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You wish to lead?”
“No. I wish to return to my dorm room. While I still have a few hours.”
“For what?”
“Studying.”
“Such…a waste of time.”
“No. Being with you is wasting time. I could be sleeping.”
“Sleeping is more intriguing than me?”
The sparkle of her eye gave away the lie. And the way she struggled against smiling. Thoran regarded her for several moments while waiting for the slight hint of anger within his chest to subside. And wondering yet again why it was this particular girl that had this effect on him. It didn’t make sense. “Come. Dance with me.”
“You’re dense.”
“‘Tis the last time I’ll ask.”
“I know that I shall meet my fate.”
“Ah,” Thoran placed the goblet on the table where it caressed his plate. “You’ve decided to test me.”
“Yeats,” she replied.
“Somewhere among the clouds above,” he answered easily.
She frowned and quoted more verbiage from a different poet. “Not suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed.”
“Keats,” he informed her before finishing the verse. “By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine.”
“Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be.” She rifled the words at him with clear intent and nothing poetic in the enunciation.
“An echo and a light unto eternity! I thank you, Lass. I’m rather fond of Percy Shelley. And na’ just his wife’s works.”
“First he wrought, and afterward he taught.”
“Chaucer,” Thoran replied. Watched her eyes go wider with the surprise before he finished it. “He was very fit, gentle knight. Love is blind.”
He lowered his voice to a whisper at the end and watched her cheeks pink with a flush. Young…and able to blush? He’d not run across that in more time than he could remember and yet here it was; calling to him.
“That fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers. And Blue eye, Dear and dewy.”
“And that infantile fresh air of hers!”
Thoran finished the Browning quote with a bit of amusement. He couldn’t help it. The words were perfect, as if written for her. He smiled, revealing more than he wished to. He watched her glance to his mouth before fitting his lips back over his canines and pursing back into a kiss-pout shape.
That had been stupid.
He couldn’t help it. She affected him. Avidly. Reverberating pure want through him with strength he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten it. Every contact with her caused more of him to awaken, spark, electrify. Stimulate. He couldn’t understand why. Why this lass? And why now?
“How…do you know all that?”
“I ken legions more, lass. Legions.”
“But how?”
“Years of study.”
“You’re not that old. Perhaps…twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five?”
She made it a question. Thoran blinked slowly before refocusing on her. “Did I pass?” he asked.
“It’s…not possible. It isn’t.”
“All things are possible. Just watch.”
Thoran pushed his chair back, settled the sword against his back so it wouldn’t interfere, and moved to her side. All the while working at controlling his movements and modulating his steps, but failing, since he was on the opposite side of the table one moment, and the next bowing before her and lifting her hand to his lips.
“I’m not dancing with you,” she informed him.
“I’m na’ asking.”
She was light on her feet. Small. A glance showed canvas shoes peeking from beneath her denim trousers as he pulled her to him, holding her for several seconds while her breathing got faster, making his match it. He wondered if she’d notice that particular affliction.
She may have thought of struggling, but Thoran’s left arm about her kept the urge at bay. He simply gained the dance floor, right as a waltz started.
“I can’t believe you.”
She hissed it at his chest, cursing him with the feel of warm breath. That sent a tremor clear to his boots. Thoran looked to where she seemed rooted, forcing him to slide her feet along the floor in a poor imitation of his rhythm. Silly girl. As if that would stop him. He deflected her intention by lifting her, making their contact even more intimate and unavoidable.
“Really?”
He asked it unconcernedly, moving his gaze to the far side of the hotel ballroom, penetrating the dark with a quick look for hunters. By instinct. It also kept his attention from wandering to the rapid, thick pulse hammering right below her ear; the one that ran her throat…attracting and tempting. Drawing him. Exciting him. Dragging a hint of passion from his depths where it never bothered him and stirring the unease into a cauldron of interest. He waited as it shifted to want. And then to absolute craving.
Thoran licked his lips. Trembled. “You need to give it more sway. One, two three. One, two three. Relax a bit. You’ll enjoy it more.”
“You have some gall.”
“Why? I gave fair warning. You failed to listen.”
“Do you always get your way?”
“Of course.”
“By force?”
“That wasn’t force, lass. This is.”
