by Julia London
“I ble rydych chi’n mynd?” he said, his voice sharp.
Greer suppressed a shudder and swallowed hard before glancing warily at him from the corner of her eye.
He spoke again to the dogs, who moved instantly at his command and disappeared through the door into the room behind him. Still, the prince did not move, but squinted at her, taking in her gown and the shawl that had fallen from one shoulder to her arm, her slippers, and her hair as he drank. When he lowered the bottle, he met her gaze. “I know who you are, you know,” he said. “What are you about?”
“I was…” She thought twice before telling him she was restless and fearful and had to quit that small room before she went mad. “I am lost,” she lied.
“Lost,” he repeated, his gaze lazily skimming her body. “You’ve never been lost.”
His response confused her. “I, ah…” She glanced down the corridor she had just walked. “I wanted some water,” she said, seizing on a random thought—any thought—to explain herself. “I was looking for the butler. I must have taken a wrong turn.”
The prince pushed off the doorjamb, his gaze steady on her bosom, his legs less steady. “Didn’t you think to use your magic?” he asked, wiggling his fingers at her. “Or at least the bellpull?”
The bellpull. She hadn’t even looked to see if one hung in her room. She did not respond, just watched him move toward her in his uneven gait. The man had obviously fallen deep into his cups, and God only knew what he was capable of under the influence of drink. A jolt of panic overwhelmed her; Greer glanced frantically down the corridor again and contemplated running from him.
But he was upon her, and Greer swallowed down her fear and instinctively stepped back and away from him, bumping up against the wainscoting.
Any number of things went through her mind as he looked at her, his gaze hard and ravenous. She could smell whiskey mixed with a spicy cologne, could see the dusting of a beard on his square jaw.
He stared down at her, his gaze dipping to her lips. “Beth ydy’ch enw chi?”
Greer blinked and held her breath.
He lifted his gaze. “Are you not Welsh?”
She did not dare respond.
The prince dropped his gaze to her bosom again, and a heat fired deep inside Greer, creeping out to her limbs.
He cocked his head slightly and sighed. “What is your name?” he asked. “Your given name,” he added, lifting his gaze to her eyes once more. She was startled—she hadn’t noticed how vividly green were his eyes, the very color of spring. But those eyes were scrutinizing her every move, almost seeing through her, and her heart began to pound with fear. What did he see? What did he think to do with her?
He lifted a thick brow, waiting for her answer.
“Greer,” she said, her voice damnably weak.
“Greer,” he repeated softly, and continued his perusal of her—the top of her head, the hair tied at her nape and hanging over her shoulder. He lifted his hand as if he meant to stroke her hair, and Greer instinctively closed her eyes and turned her head.
But the prince didn’t touch her hair, as she expected—he touched her. He brazenly touched her, his fingers skating across the flesh of her bosom. Her eyes flew open. “My lord!” she gasped loudly.
He ignored her. He was holding the charm she wore around her neck, studying it intently. It was the one Aunt Cassandra had given her years ago, a cross embedded in three circles. Greer tried to move away from him by pressing her back against the wall, but he shook his head, silently warning her against it. He held the cross in his big hand, his fingers thick and dark against the smooth pale skin of her bosom.
Her breathing was coming in gulps now; a fountain of panic had welled in her and was threatening to erupt into hysteria. She madly debated striking him, pushing him away, screaming for help—but she felt paralyzed, unable to scream, unable to find her voice. She couldn’t seem to do anything but stand there with her fists clenched at her sides, her head turned to one side as he studied the cross.
“It is Welsh,” he said. “An amulet.” He dropped it; his fingers brushed against her skin like the lick of fire. Greer covered the necklace with her hand. “I hardly think so,” she said hoarsely. “It was purchased in London, I am certain.”
“It is Welsh,” he repeated. “I know you. I know you seek to haunt me,” he breathed, his eyes almost blazing. She could not look at those eyes and not be drawn in, and she turned her head again, but he put his hand to her jaw, ignoring her whimper of fear, and forced her to look at him.
They stood almost toe to toe, their gazes locked, her face turned up to his, her breathing harsh, his calm. “I know what you want…but you will not succeed,” he murmured, and then, to her horror, he kissed her. His lips were warm and wet, moving seductively over hers. His hand touched her neck and she had the sensation that he could strangle her with one large hand if he so desired. His hand then slid to her shoulder, and to the swell of flesh above her décolletage, his light touch unnervingly arousing.
He was, incongruently, gentle and demanding in that kiss, tasting her, nibbling at her, and extraordinarily erotic. Her body was reacting in a way that surprised her, heating beneath his touch, resonating with desire.
Just when she believed she might faint, he suddenly broke away and staggered back. His mouth curved into a dangerous smile and he raised his bottle, took another drink, then pointed the bottle’s neck at her. “You will not win,” he said. His gaze raked over her once more. He took another healthy swig from his bottle, then turned unsteadily and limped back to the room from which he’d come.
When he disappeared inside, Greer gasped for the breath she had not dared to draw, put her hand to her mouth, and slid down the wall to her haunches, completely spent. It was several moments before she could stand. She grabbed up her shawl in one hand and strode back the way she had come, swiping up the candelabra she had left at the end of the corridor, lighting only one candle so that she might retreat as quickly as possible from the mad prince in the middle of absolutely nowhere.
In his study, the prince took another swig from his bottle, emptying it, and resumed his place on the settee. He tossed the bottle aside, scratched the head of the one dog that had raised his head from slumber, and then put his hand on his knee. He began to rub vainly against the pain, giving up quickly and falling back against the arm of the settee. He slung one arm over his eyes and waited for sleep to relieve his agony, knowing it would not be enough.
Four
G reer hardly slept at all, waking with every sound and the storm’s every hurly-burly, fearing the prince would appear at her door with that wildly savage look about him. And she feared her reaction to him if he did. She’d been so shocked, so frightened, and so astoundingly aroused—and that disturbed her more than anything that had happened to her thus far.
And so she awoke with a start the next morning when someone tweaked her toes. She bolted upright, pushed her hair from her face, and gaped at the girl standing at the foot of her bed.
“Wh-who are you?” she asked.
The girl, a slight thing, stared back at her with dark eyes as big as marbles. “I am Lucy, mu’um. But most call me Lulu. I’ve been sent to tend you.”
The girl’s plain English surprised Greer and she eyed her suspiciously, jerking her feet away from the girl’s fingers and encircling her arms around her legs. “Where did you come from? You don’t sound Welsh.”
“Oh no, I’m not, mu’um. I’m from Shrewsbury.”
Shrewsbury was at least on the right side of the border, and Greer let down her guard a bit as she swung her legs off the side of the bed. “And how did you find your way to Llanmair?” she asked wryly. “Hired coach?”
“Oh no, miss. My father brung me so I might work.” She gestured toward the basin. “I’ve brung you water. His lordship bids you breakfast in the main dining room, then come to his study when you’ve finished.”
Greer colored slightly at the reference to the prince; she avoide
d the girl’s gaze by standing up and walking to the basin. She splashed ice-cold water on her face to help her wake. When she turned around, Lulu had opened the drapes and sunlight was pouring in through the window.
“The rain has stopped,” Greer muttered, more to herself than to Lulu.
“Aye, it has indeed,” Lulu said with a cheerfulness that seemed out of place in the dreary little room. “It’s a bonny day, to be sure. Shall I help you dress?” she asked, picking up a soft amber morning gown Phoebe had fashioned for Greer from one of Aunt Cassandra’s discarded gowns.
“Thank you…but I will need a traveling gown,” Greer said. “I’ll be leaving Llanmair today.”
Lulu nodded and returned to the trunk. She found a rose-colored gown, the fabric of which was far too light for this country, but it was all Greer had. Lulu carefully laid it across the arm of a chair, admiring it.
Greer sat at the little table and began to brush her hair. She watched Lulu as she went about tidying the room, wondering how a girl so slight could possibly live at Llanmair. Frankly, the more she thought of it, the more Greer could not curb her curiosity, and she put down her brush. “You say your father brought you to work here?”
“Yes, mu’um. It will be two years at the end of November.”
How could her father have done it? Perhaps he did not know of the prince’s reputation. Poor thing—Lulu must have been very fearful, abandoned to the household of a man whose character was as black as night. “You are a brave girl, Lulu. I am sure you were frightened.”
Lulu laughed with surprise. “Frightened? Oh, Lord, no, mu’um! If you must work for your bread, there is no better place to be than Llanmair. I considered myself quite lucky to have got on.”
The opportunities to work for one’s bread, as Lulu put it, must be quite meager indeed in this part of the world, if being sentenced to Llanmair and that wretched devil of a man was considered lucky. But Greer said nothing more and completed her toilette. Lulu helped her dress, but she had trouble putting Greer’s hair up. In the end, the girl braided it and tied it with a ribbon. “I’m sure it’s not as fancy as the hairdressings in London, mu’um, but it’s quite nice for Wales.”
Greer smiled and refrained from replying. She wondered—as she had several times since crossing the border into Wales—how she could possibly be Welsh. Everything here seemed so foreign to her. Granted, she’d just turned eight when she’d left—fourteen years ago in all—but still, she’d thought something would seem familiar.
Lulu showed her to the main dining room, where Greer was heartened to see Percy. He stood as she entered and held out his hand to her. “How did you sleep?” he asked as she slipped her hand into his. “Oh dear, by the look of it, not very well. You look quite tired.”
“As bad as that?” Greer asked with a wry smile. She was tired and cross, and the day had only just begun. “I didn’t sleep well at all, in truth,” she said. Considering the prince had kissed her so intimately. “The storm, and noises—”
“Ghosts,” Percy said solemnly.
“What?” Greer cried.
He laughed and kissed the back of her hand. “I apologize. I was teasing you. I hardly noticed the storm at all—I slept like a child,” he added with a wink. “Here—sit, sit,” Percy said sternly. “I’ll fetch you a bit of breakfast.”
Greer sat. Having forgone the fish stew last night, she was ravenous. Percy served her porridge, eggs, toast points, and coffee. As Greer ate, he sat across from her, watching her. When she gave him a questioning look, he smiled thinly. “We are to see the prince after breakfast.”
She nodded.
Percy abruptly looked around as if he expected someone to be listening, even though he and Greer were the only two in the room. He said low, “I must warn you that this is a man who knows how to get what he wants, and generally by any means imaginable. I have every expectation that he will attempt to turn you against me by accusing me of terrible acts. But they are all lies, Greer, designed to influence your good opinion of me. He will seek to divide us in order to deny our claims, mark me.”
“I don’t see how he could possibly accuse you of a terrible act after all he’s done.”
“It’s simple, really—he thinks himself above the law. I’ve seen him do it before, to others,” he continued softly. “He will stop at nothing to put you off course from seeking what is rightfully yours. He will attempt to intimidate you.”
Greer glanced at her half-eaten porridge and thought about last night, the prince’s broad hand against her skin, his gaze hot and intense, and could not imagine how he might possibly be more intimidating than he had been then. But to try and say something against Percy was ludicrous! How could he think she would believe his slander? How could he think her ignorant of Mr. Percy’s good character, having come all this way with him?
“You needn’t worry, Mr. Percy,” she said firmly. “He cannot convince me that you are anything other than what you are—a good, decent, and honorable man.”
Mr. Percy smiled warmly. “Dear Greer, how I cherish your good opinion of me—you must know it. Dare I ask…have you considered my offer?”
She instantly lost interest in breakfast. “Of course I owe you a response,” she said, her mind racing for a polite rebuff. “One that I have duly considered. But…but I confess that so much has happened that I’ve not—”
“Of course you haven’t,” he said instantly. “I am wrong to press you before you’ve had the opportunity to conclude your business here.” He reached across the table for her hand, taking it before she could politely remove it. “Yet I cannot let pass an opportunity to tell you how ardently I wish for your affirmative answer.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles passionately, then let her go.
He was charming, she’d give him that. But she could scarcely think of his offer, not now, not with the devil’s pall hanging over her head and lingering on her lips.
Fortunately, the butler entered the room and prevented any further talk. He said something in Welsh, to which Percy’s smile faded to a frown, and he looked at Greer. “He is waiting. Shall we have this ugly business over and done with?”
Greer fingered the cross that hung around her neck and nodded. “I am ready.”
Rhodrick Glendower, the earl of Radnor, felt much improved this morning in spite of a slight headache from all the whiskey he’d drunk. But the pain in his knee—the result, along with the scar on his face, of a fall from a horse years ago and as familiar to him these many years as his old dogs—had passed with the rain.
The pain was a dull and constant struggle, particularly in the wet months, for he refused his physician’s advice to ease the pain with laudanum—he despised the sluggish feeling the drug gave him, the sort that lingered into the next day. Whiskey was hardly a better choice, but the effects of it were usually gone by the next morning.
This morning, however, he felt more rested than he had in several days, and wanted to get on with his business, of which he had quite a lot to attend to. Unfortunately, he first had the distasteful task of an interview with Owen Percy.
A knock on the door drew him away from the bank of windows through which he could see the forest that surrounded much of his castle. He clasped his hands behind his back and unthinkingly turned his head as he’d learned to do long ago to hide his scar, and watched as his two unwanted guests entered behind his butler, Ifan.
Percy entered first, sweeping in with all the swagger of a peacock. Rhodrick was impressed with his suit of clothing—he himself did not possess such fine clothing and had only recently received two new suits of clothing from a tailor in Aberystwyth.
Percy’s coat was made from superfine cloth, the cut of it exact. His shirt and striped waistcoat were made of silk. It was obvious to Rhodrick that in the years he’d been banished, Percy had found a benefactress, undoubtedly an older and wealthy woman who would, with a bit of flattery, hand over her purse to the blackguard.
Behind Percy came the woman, and Rho
drick was once again a bit staggered by her appearance. He wasn’t entirely certain why—she was beautiful, but not stunningly so. In the gown she wore today—red or orange, he thought, although he couldn’t say with certainty—her blue eyes were the color of a morning sky before sunrise, dark and moist with the promise of vivid light behind them. Blue was one of the few colors he could see, and the blue of her eyes was so intense that it was a shock in the midst of the dull, faded colors that he saw around the room.
Her shiny, thick, ink black hair—Welsh hair—hung like a rope down her back. Her lips were full and darkly red and curved into dimples in her cheeks, and he was jolted by the memory of those lips beneath his.
Yes, she was beguiling.
An opinion that was, he told himself, the result of having gone far too long without the company of women, save a few good friends whom he viewed more as sisters. It had been long enough now that he’d forgotten how delicate a woman could be, and how a man’s body responded to such delicate beauty and the taste of a woman’s lips.
This one’s elegance was the sort to inspire paintings, and under other circumstances, he might have felt a wee bit anxious around her, for he’d never felt very comfortable in the company of beautiful women. He self-consciously turned his face away a little more, embarrassed by his jagged scar.
Fortunately, she’d be gone soon—her presence here was insupportable.
“Good morning, my lord,” Percy said, bowing low. Behind him, the woman curtsied, but she kept those rich blue eyes on him, watching him warily, as if she expected him to do something heinous. Kiss her, for example.
“Percy,” he said, shifting his gaze to his cousin’s son, his eyes narrowing with disgust. “What in God’s name has brought you to my door?”
“Your lordship,” Percy responded with insincere decorum, “I think you know very well why I have come.”
Oh, he knew all right. The scoundrel had come to bilk money if he could. “Suppose you tell me, so that we are both quite clear.”
