by Lois Greiman
“Lord Tilmont, I presume,” said the Irishman pointedly, and stared hard at the other man.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I’m Lord Tilmont.” He grinned a little. “And who might you be, good sir?”
“Sean Gallagher, at your service, my lord,” he said, and bowed stiffly. “Gregors hired me to see to Mr. Underhill’s duties while he recovers. I’ve driven your lady wife here to London to see to some shopping.”
Tilmont looked momentarily confused. “And what of the task I—”
“Driving your lady has kept me well occupied,” Gallagher said, interrupting smoothly. A muscle jumped in his jaw. Savaana jerked her gaze from him to Tilmont and back. What the devil was all this about? Did these two know each other? And if so, how? “I’ve had time for naught else.”
“Ahh.”
Gallagher nodded again. “I thought I heard a noise and came to make certain your lady was well.” He glanced toward Savaana. She jerked from her thoughts.
“Oh. Yes,” she said. “I assure you I am quite well.” She cleared her throat. “My husband must have awakened you. My apologies.”
“’Tis glad I am to know he’s here…to keep you safe.” His tone was peeved, his body stiff.
Savaana refrained from wringing her hands, from drilling him with a hundred steaming questions, from throwing a shoe at him. “Thank you, Mister—” she began, but Tilmont interrupted her.
“Yes, well, I don’t believe we’ll be needing your services any longer, Mr. Gallagher.”
“What?”
“What?” They said the word in unison.
The baron grinned and raised his brows at the Irishman. “I’m certain Mr. Underhill will be right as rain in no time. What happened to him anyway?”
“I believe he was injured by the gelding,” Gallagher added.
“Ah yes, the gelding.”
“He’s a handsome animal. You’ll look quite rakish riding him of a fine morning, my lord.”
Tilmont scowled, thinking. “I will rather, won’t I?”
Savaana narrowed her eyes. What was the Irishman’s game?
“A few more weeks of my time and I’m certain he’ll be serviceable for you.”
“You think you can have him ready so soon?”
“I am ever hopeful,” Gallagher said, and glanced irritably at Savaana.
“Good, good,” Tilmont said, and seemed to immediately forget his intentions of sending Gallagher away. “You’d best hasten back to Knollcrest first thing in the morning. Until then I don’t believe we have any more need of your services. Do we, my dear.”
“No,” she said, and wondered if she was going to pass out in earnest this time. “No, but…I have had a rather trying day.” And needed to have a few moments alone with Gallagher. “Might you be willing to fetch me a bit of brandy to calm my nerves?”
“Brandy. Of course. A bit of the bingo. I should have thought of that myself,” Tilmont said, and bowed slightly before turning. “Gallagher, old sport, see to it, will you?”
Savaana gritted her teeth, then smiled wanly when the other swiveled back. “Perhaps you’d like a little something for yourself as well,” she suggested to Tilmont.
“I think I will at that. See if you can find me a bottle of ruin.”
A muscle jumped in the Irishman’s jaw, but he bowed. “Certainly, my lord.”
“There’s a good fellow,” Tilmont said, and turned dismissively back toward his supposed bride. “How very kind of you to think of me. You seem rather…” He shook his head, searching for the proper words.
Savaana kept her gaze carefully on Tilmont’s face as Gallagher stepped from the room. “Rather what, my lord?”
“Changed,” he said.
“Well, we haven’t seen each other for quite some time,” she said, and looking for something with which to busy her hands, retrieved her shoes from the floor near the bed, then hustled toward the wardrobe that stood near the corner.
“Too long,” he said, and nodded. “Far too long. But perhaps we could make amends for that so I might get to know who you truly are.”
She glanced quickly back at him, wondering what he meant. “I would dearly love to hear of your adventures since last we were together.”
“You want to hear about me?”
Reaching inside the wardrobe, she set her shoes on the wooden floor. “It has occurred to me that I know entirely too little about you, my lord.”
“And I too little of you,” he said, watching her, eyes bright. “It seems you’re full of surprises.”
“Hardly that,” she said, and eased out of the corner before he could trap her there. “I’m a simple woman. Boring really.”
He stepped quickly to the side. “I rather doubt that,” he said, and slipped his arm about her waist.
“My lord!” Gallagher’s voice seemed strangely loud in the room. Savaana jumped. Tilmont turned with ragged precision. Gallagher was scowling even as he bowed. “I’ve brought you the requested libations,” he said, and lifted the two bottles he held in his right hand.
“Good God,” Tilmont said, and laughed. “However did you return so quickly? And with so much gin?”
“The cellar wasn’t locked, my lord.”
“Good thinking, Gallagher,” he said, and stepped forward to take a bottle from him.
“Thank you, my lord,” said the Irishman, and scowled at Savaana. She raised a brow at him.
“But wait,” Tilmont said. “I have no glasses.”
“Ahh, my mistake,” Gallagher said. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I shall remedy that situation immediately.”
“I was actually thinking of finding my bed,” Tilmont said, and slanted a suggestive glance toward the nearby mattress.
Savaana smiled wanly. Gallagher’s expression darkened.
“But you’ve no manservant,” said the Irishman. “Have a seat, and I shall assist with your boots.”
“Very well,” Tilmont said, and turned gracelessly toward the chair, bottle in hand.
Gallagher glared at Savaana. She made a “what?” motion with her hands as Tilmont settled into the narrow wingback with a sigh.
“It does feel good to sit,” he said, and let the bottle tumble unharmed to the floor. “When I heard of the attack on my wife, I dashed across town quick as a ferret.”
Gallagher had already lowered his gaze to the bottle that remained in his hand and was working at the cork. “If I may ask, sir, how did you hear of her troubles?”
“The usual gossip at Almack’s,” he said, and Gallagher nodded as he handed over the gin.
“It must have been quite a shock for you.”
“I dare say,” said the other and took a swig straight from the bottle.
“Well, the gin will calm your nerves. Sit tight,” Gallagher said, “while I fetch a glass.”
Tilmont nodded and drank again.
Savaana watched, breath held.
“Where are my manners?” Tilmont asked, glancing up. “My father would be sore disappointed. Would you like a drink, my dear?” he asked, and held the bottle toward her.
“No. That’s very kind of you, but—”
“Of course, you requested brandy,” he said, and already the Irishman had returned, glass in hand as he stepped into the room. If his ploy to see the baron unconscious was any clearer, even Tilmont would realize it.
“It seems you’ve neglected the lady’s drink,” said the baron.
“Oh, aye, my apologies,” Gallagher said, and retrieving Tilmont’s abandoned bottle, uncorked it before pouring enough to drown a camel. Savaana raised her brows as he handed it over. Gallagher gave her an irritated glance, then bowed. “If you’ll excuse me again, my lord, I shall fetch your lady’s drink.”
Savaana all but rolled her eyes as the Irishman stepped from the room.
“You’re certain you won’t join me, my lady?” Tilmont asked.
“I believe I’ll wait for the brandy.”
“It seems rude to drink alone.”
“V
ery well, then, I’ll have to accompany you,” she said, and lifting the bottle from the floor, pressed the green glass to her mouth without taking a drop. “I like to see a man enjoy his drink.”
“Truly?”
“Yes,” she said, and pretended to drink again.
“I didn’t know that about you.”
“There is much you don’t know,” Savaana said, and tasted a droplet of gin.
“But I’m eager to learn.”
“Are you?” she asked, and glanced at him through her lashes. “In the past, you’ve seemed…rather uninterested.”
“Uninterested? No,” he said, then shook his head as if to belay his own words. “Well, I’m…To speak the truth, in the past I’ve thought you…” His voice trailed off.
“What?” she asked.
“A bit harsh,” he said.
She lowered her eyes. “Sometimes I can seem that way when I’m nervous.”
“I make you nervous?”
She shrugged. Best to keep him talking…and drinking. “You’re a powerful man, my lord. Surely you can see why I might feel the need to put up barriers between us.”
“There will be no need for barriers tonight,” he said, and prepared to rise, but Gallagher all but leapt into the room.
“My lady’s drink,” he said, and presented Savaana with a thimbleful of the Tuica he’d found earlier. She refrained from raising her brows at the minuscule amount.
“Now, my lord…” Gallagher said, striding to the baron. “Drink up, then I shall remove your boots.”
Tilmont laughed as he gazed at the tumbler. It was still half full. “You must think me quite a lush if you believe I can finish this so quickly.”
“Not a’tall,” Gallagher said.
“Oh no,” agreed Savaana. She could feel the Irishman’s harsh gaze on her, but she continued, unabashed. “You’re simply sophisticated.”
“Sophisticated is not quite the term my father uses,” Tilmont said, and chuckled. He sounded sleepy. Thank God. And Gallagher, she supposed.
“A sophisticated man is expected to drink a good deal,” Savaana said. A muscle jumped in Gallagher’s jaw. “To maintain his standing in society.” Ignoring the brandy, she pretended to take a deep swig from the bottle.
“Yes but…” Tilmont began and made to rise.
Gallagher rushed forward, already squatting to pull off his first boot. “There now, my lord, you must be exhausted after your fright.”
Tilmont scowled. “I am a bit fatigued. And my shoulders ache something dreadful.” They sagged as he leaned back. “The mare father gave me is naught but a screw.”
“Yet another reason to train the gelding quickly,” Gallagher said, slowly slipping the boot from the baron’s foot. “His paces are quite smooth.”
“It can’t be soon enough, then,” Tilmont said, and sighed. “It does little for my reputation when others see me riding such a bone setter.”
“Of course not,” Gallagher agreed, and moved on to the second foot. If he moved any slower the leather would disintegrate and fall aside on its own, Savaana thought, but finally the boots were placed side by side next to the chair.
“Well, then…” Tilmont said, and shifted, but Savaana hurried across the floor.
“Let me attempt to ease your ache, my lord,” she said, and stepped behind him to set her hands to his shoulders.
Gallagher rose to his feet, eyes snapping, but she ignored him as she massaged gently.
“Ahhh,” Tilmont said, rolling his head to the side. “That does feel quite lovely.”
“Try to relax,” Savaana said.
“Let me pour you a little more gin,” Gallagher insisted.
And finally, after they had schemed and massaged and cajoled, Tilmont fell asleep, his head slumped against his chest like an overused doll of rags.
Chapter 20
They stared at each other over the baron’s slumped head.
Let me ease your ache? Gallagher mouthed the words.
Savaana shrugged, a lifetime of frustration and anger showing in her sharp expression. But he felt the same emotions.
“Just what kind of ache did you have in mind?” he rasped.
“Well, it was successful, wasn’t—” she began, then stopped abruptly. “He’s my husband,” she hissed.
“Is he?” Gallagher began, but then Tilmont rasped a staccato snore, causing them both to start. Grabbing her arm, Sean pulled her toward the door. Opening it a crack, he glanced left and right, then tugged her into the hall. In a moment they were inside his room.
“Who are you?” His voice was raspy.
“Me!” she growled, and twisted from his grip. “How did he know you?”
“What?”
“The baron…” She waved wildly toward her own room. “He knew you before you were introduced.”
“You’re deluded.”
“He was about to call you the Irishman.”
“I am the Irishman.”
“He—” she began, then changed tactics abruptly. “How did you know he was my husband?”
“He was pounding on your door, calling your name. I only hope there aren’t a host of others who feel they could do the same.”
She thought about that for an instant, then shook her head. “You knew before. You knew his voice.”
“And you did not,” he said. For a moment he thought she blanched. “You are not Clarette Tilmont.”
“And you are not sane,” she said, leaning toward him for emphasis. “Of course I’m Clarette.”
“Then why aren’t you with him?”
She hesitated for an eternal breath of time. Her eyes flashed but her face looked pale and earnest. “Perhaps it is because I wish to be with you.”
The world stood still, waiting. And damn him, he wanted to believe. “Is that the truth?”
“Yes.” Her voice was throaty, her eyes sincere, but he wouldn’t be a fool.
“Swear it on your mother’s life,” he demanded.
“I swear it,” she whispered, and suddenly nothing seemed to matter.
He kissed her, her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. She moaned.
“I have to go,” she breathed, but he couldn’t let her.
“He’ll sleep,” he vowed, and dropped his forehead against hers, feeling the agony of their impending separation like a hot iron against his soul. “Stay. Just a minute.”
“I can’t.”
“But you want to?”
“More than anything,” she said, and they were the sweetest words he had yet heard. So sweet that he couldn’t help but kiss her one more time. Slowly now, reverently. And then it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to cup her breasts. He felt her sigh in the very depths of his being and slipped his thumbs over her nipples.
“Wicklow,” she gasped, and he smiled as he tugged up her gown.
“Perhaps you could call me by my name just this once,” he said, and kissed her nipple through the fabric.
She jerked as if burned. “Holy hell, when you do that I don’t even remember your name.”
“Sean,” he said.
“Oh…” She exhaled heavily. Her fingers had become tangled in his hair. “That’s right.”
“What’s yours?” he asked, and kissed the underside of her jaw.
“Who cares?” she rasped, and suddenly she was tearing at his belt. He tried to keep his head, to hold his line of questioning, but there was no hope. In an instant his breeches were open, his erection straining toward her.
She swore like a mule driver when she saw it. He pushed her up against the wall, and though he would never be certain how it happened, she was suddenly wrapped around him, her legs strong and supple, her heels digging into the small of his back. One breast was bare, and his cock was flirting with heaven.
He scrabbled for thought. It was slippery but important. He was sure of it. “Are you who you say you—”
“Shut up!” she hissed, and rounding down to meet his lips, she kissed him.
&
nbsp; There was a moment of indecision, a moment of fumbling, and then he was inside.
Heavenly saints, it was utopia. He eased into her heat, trying to savor the moment, but she was already arching against him, sliding around him, squeezing him. He grappled with her weight, holding her up. She ripped his shirt open, balanced on the sinewy strength of her legs alone and sucked his nipple into her mouth.
Fire exploded in his chest and raced toward his cock. He growled, she hissed. He moaned, she swore. They grabbed greedily for satisfaction, then stiffened in unison moments before she dropped her head against his shoulder.
Sean straightened slowly, legs trembling as he carried her to his bed. Setting her carefully on the mattress, he eased down beside her. She scooted over weakly, gown rucked about her thighs, breath coming hard. He followed as best he could, barely able to move, entirely unwilling to think about anything but how she had looked as she found ecstasy. Her head thrown back, her face alight.
“You’re beauty beyond words.” His voice was raspy, his strength almost too depleted to reach out and touch her cheek.
Her eyes were closed. She turned her face to kiss his fingers. “I have to go.”
He pushed the hair behind her neatly scrolled ear. “Tell me your true name.”
“Clar—” she began, but he put a finger on her lips.
“I know you lie.”
Her sapphire eyes were haunted when she opened them, her mouth tremulous, but she shook her head. “No, you don’t.”
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he no longer knew anything but what he wanted to believe. What his body insisted he believe.
“I must return to him.”
His stomach clenched. “Tell me one thing…one truth…” They were face-to-face, inches apart, breathing the same air. “One truth and I’ll let you leave.”
She scowled, no less beautiful for the harsh expression. “If he finds me here—”
“You’re not who you say you are.”
“I never meant to hurt you. Never wanted to disappoint you.”
“You’re not married.” He felt desperate. Frantic. “You weren’t a courtesan.”
“I can’t change the past. I can’t make this right.”
“Then what of the blood?” Anger and frustration bubbled inside him like a boiling toxin.
