The Pride of Lions

by Marsha Canham

  Faversham reddened painfully under the silent glares of the men. “I only meant to imply that if they have made a vow to return the Stuart monarchy, it should not be taken lightly.”

  “And I state plainly and clearly, here and now, that the whole of the Scottish rabble assembled together could not pose enough of a threat to dampen my collar. They have no regular army, no guns, no artillery, no navy. Only bagpipes and swords to send against the most powerful, well-disciplined, well-equipped military nation the world has known.”

  Saying this, the lieutenant turned his back on Faversham, rudely dismissing him as a nuisance. The gentleman darkened to a throbbing shade of crimson as he started to slink away, and was as surprised as the rest of the company to hear a voice come to his defense.

  “I myself have always been of the opinion that it is healthier to take precautions against an enemy than to underestimate him completely.”

  In the sudden silence that followed, Hamilton turned slowly to address this new, quietly spoken challenge. The man was a stranger to the group, a business associate of Damien’s up from London.

  Garner’s jade-green eyes narrowed. “Montgomery, isn’t it?”

  “Raefer Montgomery,” the man acknowledged with a slight bow.

  “And you share Faversham’s opinion that the Scots pose a real threat to the safety of the English monarchy?”

  “The opinion I share is that I would not want to be too hasty in dismissing them as inept savages. They have, after all, managed to keep their own borders relatively sacrosanct for the past thousand years or so. Not even the Norman conquerors dared to invade in any force.”

  “Possibly because there was nothing across their borders to merit conquest,” Garner said evenly. “The land is barren, the weather unpredictable. You would have to be as thick-skinned as the savages themselves to survive there any length of time.”

  Montgomery smiled. “Yet we pay prime prices for their beef, mutton, and wool, not to mention the thriving black market that deals with their finer … uh … liquid spirits. Unless my palate has grown rusty on French wine, I detected a distinct Caledonian musk to the whisky we are enjoying this evening.”

  Sir Alfred cleared his throat noisily and started to splutter some hasty excuse, but no one was paying heed. All eyes were intent upon Montgomery and Hamilton Garner.

  “Might I ask your business, sir? And if I may be bolder still, your accent eludes me.”

  Montgomery swirled the contents of his glass in his hand. “I grew up on the Continent, Lieutenant: France, Italy, Spain. As to my business, it is import and export, and to that end I travel extensively in search of interesting and profitable acquisitions. My interest in politics—assuming that to be your next question—extends only insofar as it affects my profits and losses. However, like Mr. Merriweather, I enjoy examining both sides of an argument … and like Mr. Faversham, I am able to keep a relatively open mind during such examinations.”

  Lieutenant Garner studied Montgomery as closely as if he were studying an imminent opponent. The exquisite cut of the merchant’s indigo-blue frock coat, together with the silvered blue waistcoat and breeches, reeked of money and easy living, yet there was nothing soft or negligent in the strong, tapered hands or the broad, heavy shoulders.

  “Accepting your declaration of neutrality for the moment,” he mused, “and acknowledging that your interests are purely financial, you must agree a stable government would be more to a shopkeeper’s liking than outright war.”

  Montgomery absorbed the thinly veiled insult with a slight deepening of his smile. “On the contrary. If I were strictly a profiteer—hypothetically speaking, of course—I would be extremely anxious to see the two countries go to war. There are always incredible sums of money to be made in chaotic situations, just as wars undoubtedly provide grand opportunities for ordinary, mundane soldiers to hack a bloody path to prominence and promotion.”

  Garner stiffened visibly. His hand slid up to rest on the filigreed hilt of his dress sword, and the skin across his cheeks and over the finely chiseled flare of his nostrils paled with tension. “I would hardly equate the two professions, since the one exists to defend life and liberty, while the other … the other was created by parasites to feed on the spoils of defeat.”

  Damien Ashbrooke was the only one to gasp out loud, but his surprise was obviously shared by the others as they waited, expectantly, for an explosion of violence to erupt between the two men. It was, however, an explosion of a very different kind that burst into their midst. An explosion of color and laughter and soft swirls of silk.

  “All this serious talk and all these serious scowls,” Catherine scolded prettily, “on my birthday? Shame on you, Hamilton. And you too, Damien. Poor Harriet and I were beginning to feel as neglected as one of the potted palms.”

  “Mistress Ashbrooke!” William Merriweather bowed flamboyantly over her hand. “And Mistress Chalmers. Have you truly been feeling neglected, or do you say it simply to tease these poor ravished heartstrings?”

  “Positively perishing of boredom,” Catherine insisted. “But for that charming bit of gallantry, you may claim the honor of my birthday dance.”

  Her violet eyes flashed toward Hamilton to mark his reaction at being passed over for the privilege—but her gaze did not make it past the gentleman standing beside her brother. His face had been partially turned away in profile, but at the sound of her voice he had turned, and at the first glimpse of those dark, penetrating midnight eyes, her breath became trapped somewhere between her throat and her lungs.

  There was no mistaking those eyes, no misreading the slight curl on his mouth that took another subtle stretch upward when he saw the shock register on her face. For despite the formal attire and neatly bound periwig, it was the same rogue who had accosted her in the forest that morning.

  3

  Catherine stared at the stranger for what seemed like half an eternity. Her reaction did not go unnoticed; Damien, for one, saw the flush flow into her cheeks and the violet of her eyes darken with outrage, and if he had not known better, if he had not known that Raefer had arrived from London only that afternoon and had never met any of the Ashbrooke family before, he would have sworn his sister was regarding him as she would a life-long enemy.

  Acutely aware of the strained relations between Montgomery and Hamilton Garner, Damien attempted to cover the awkward silence with introductions.

  “Raefer Montgomery, I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my sister, Catherine.”

  The tall merchant stepped forward and bowed politely over her hand. “A very great pleasure indeed, Mistress Ashbrooke. And my warmest felicitations on your birthday. I arrived rather unexpectedly, and Damien was kind enough to invite me to stay for the party—although he neglected to mention he had such a lovely sister.”

  “I’m so glad you could join us,” she said frostily, her eyes flicking to her brother with a promise of retribution.

  “Er … and Mistress Harriet Chalmers,” Damien added lamely. “Mr. Raefer Montgomery.”

  Montgomery’s smile widened and changed from one of amusement to one of genuine pleasure. “Mistress Chalmers. I have indeed looked forward to meeting you. Damien has spoken of you many times, but if I might be allowed to say so, his descriptions have not done you justice.”

  “Why, thank you, sir.” Harriet blushed furiously, conscious of Catherine’s black glare.

  As to the latter, she was fighting hard to control the indignation coursing heatedly through her veins. She had come perilously close to slapping the sly grin off Montgomery’s face, and certainly would have if not for the presence of her father and Colonel Halfyard. That and the fact she could not afford a scene tonight, of all nights.

  “I do not recall my brother ever mentioning your name, Mr. Montgomery. But then I suppose some lawyers prefer to keep their … um … less palatable clients anonymous. You aren’t, by chance, a murderer or a highwayman?”

  Damien was horrified, but Montgome
ry only laughed—the same deep, resonating sound she had heard following her out of the forest. “Rest assured, Mistress Ashbrooke, I call upon your brother’s expertise for purely financial matters.”

  “Raefer owns a shipping venture based in London,” Damien explained quickly.

  “Slaves or black market?” she inquired sweetly.

  “At the moment … ladies’ petticoats,” Montgomery replied, not the least perturbed. “The market is extremely lucrative in the present climate for anyone able to carry cargoes of silk, lace, and brocade. With trade to France cut off, goods from the Orient are commanding top prices.”

  “How interesting,” Catherine declared, opening her fan with a bored snap. She turned to William Merriweather and favored him with a devastating smile. “I believe I hear the orchestra tuning for the next set.”

  With an artful sweep of her wide skirts, she accompanied Merriweather to the dance floor, where other partners were forming two long lines. The music was a minuet, elegant and stately, the steps executed with precision and grace. Catherine determinedly avoided looking in Montgomery’s direction, though she was aware of his dark gaze following her through the intricate pattern of steps.

  “Such an odious man,” she said conversationally when she and Merriweather closed together to turn a pirouette. “Ladies’ petticoats indeed. I’ll wager he does not waste the sail to bring goods all the way from the Orient. I’ll wager he smuggles them from France despite the embargoes.”

  “Rather too brusque a character for my liking,” Merriweather agreed. “Yet he does have a certain boldness. Not afraid to speak his mind at all; he and the lieutenant were warming to each other just before you arrived.”

  “Really? About what?”

  The lines parted and the dancers traced through several stations of the dance before coming together again.

  “What does anyone argue about these days?” Merriweather sighed. “Politics, of course. I admit to a certain penchant for poking the odd hornet’s nest meself, but our bold Mr. Montgomery came right out and whacked it with a stick.”

  “He advocates war?”

  Merriweather pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Dash me if I know what he advocates. Or for whom.”

  Catherine frowned and stole a peek over her shoulder. Montgomery had detached himself from the group somewhat, though whether it was by his choice or a subtle move by the others to close ranks against him, she could not tell. Either way, he did not seem overly concerned. He had enough to hold his interest, what with every female eye in the room vying to catch his attention.

  Despite her intense dislike for the man, she had to admit he presented a strikingly handsome contrast to the shorter, less muscular guests who were either bewhiskered members of the local gentry or scarlet-coated officers who all tended to blend together in form and features after a while. He stood half a head taller than most of the men in the room—Hamilton being the immediate exception—and she knew for a fact that very little of the shaping beneath the indigo frock coat was due to the skill of a tailor with cutting and padding. Further, there was an indefinable air of self-assurance about him, as if he knew he was the subject of most of the whispered conversations in the ballroom but couldn’t care less. In addition, Hamilton’s back was as stiff as an iron rod, and he was glaring at the merchant as if he would like nothing better than to bare his fists and finish their interrupted conversation.

  Catherine moved instinctively through the final routines of the dance, her mind racing well ahead of the music. Hamilton’s vanity had already been pricked once by the stranger; could she use it to her advantage? A casual flirtation might just be the motivation her lieutenant needed to spur him into an impassioned proposal. She would have to be careful, of course. Montgomery had been boorish and unforgivably rude this morning, and she did not want to fuel his arrogance with any false impressions, but midnight was fast approaching and she could not afford failure where her own vanity was concerned.

  The minuet ended on a trickle of applause, and Catherine was escorted back to her father’s group.

  “I thank you, Mr. Merriweather,” she said with a smile and released his arm. “You have managed to quite steal my breath away. Hamilton—” She glanced up at him from beneath the thick fringe of her lashes. “Might I impose upon you for a glass of cool water?”

  He bowed curtly. “Of course you may. I won’t be but a moment.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and Father … I believe Mr. Petrie is looking for you.”

  “Petrie?” Sir Alfred perked up like a hound scenting blood. Hugh Petrie could always be counted upon, on any occasion, to dispense with the nonsense and frippery and get down to the more serious business of whist and backgammon. “Well … er … harrumph! Lawrence—what say we look him up and see what he is wanting? Something that warrants our immediate attention, no doubt.”

  “No doubt, no doubt.” The colonel nodded and was rapidly ushered away. Merriweather lingered a moment longer, but the temptation of a rousing good game of cards was too much to endure and he made his excuses as well, leaving Damien and Harriet and Raefer Montgomery.

  Catherine caught Harriet’s eye. “A gavotte,” she said, tipping her head toward the music. “One of your favorites, is it not?”

  Harriet’s eyes widened, but she slipped her hand through the crook of Damien’s arm and won an invitation to join the dancers. Catherine watched them until they were out of earshot, then turned to Montgomery.

  “Tell me, sir, do they teach music appreciation in poaching school?”

  “Dance appreciation too,” he said, offering his arm. “May I?”

  She studied the rakish grin a moment before accepting. She was aware of the heads swiveling to follow them as they walked past a row of whispering matrons, even more conscious of a pair of jade-green eyes spearing them from across the room as they merged with the dancing couples.

  Montgomery’s movements were fluid and assured, amazingly light and graceful for a man of his size. She did not anticipate so strong a reaction to the feel of the steely muscles against her fingertips or the memory that came flooding back of him stripped to the waist, his black hair dripping water onto his naked flesh. She did not expect the liquefying reaction in her own body each time he took advantage of the music to draw her boldly into his arms.

  “I must apologize for being so abrupt this morning,” he said, leading her in a delicate circle. “I had been riding all night and was suffering a general lack of patience, having lost myself several times on the forest paths.”

  “Apologies hardly suit your character, Mr. Montgomery. But why did you not say you were a friend of my brother? It would not have excused your abominable behavior, but it might have helped explain it.”

  “He counts poachers and highwaymen among his friends?”

  “I have been to his offices in London. I have seen some of the company he is forced to keep.”

  They parted, exchanging steps with other partners in their quadrangle before dancing together again.

  “An apology from you would not be remiss either,” he said thoughtfully.

  “An apology from me?” She tilted her head up with a frown. “Whatever for, may I ask?”

  “Creeping up on me unawares. Standing in the shadows watching me bathe.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “I certainly was not watching you, sir. Had I known there was anyone bathing in the clearing, I would not have gone within a hundred yards of it. I was merely attempting to water my horse and—” She stopped and clamped her mouth shut. The maddening, all-knowing smile was back on his lips, encouraged by the distinct gleam of amusement in the blue-black eyes. “Please take me back now. I see Lieutenant Garner has returned with my refreshment.”

  “My dear Mistress Ashbrooke—” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed the heat of his breath against her gloved fingers. “It has been many long months since I have held such an incredibly lovely woman in my arms, and I am loath to forfeit the pleasure just yet. I’m afraid the lieutenant will hav
e to wait.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Do I still frighten you? Even in a crowded room?”

  She caught her breath and stared up at him. Hamilton was moving toward the edge of the dance floor carrying the tiny crystal glass of water. The orchestra was playing and couples were moving all around them. Montgomery was smiling, challenging her, calling her bluff.

  She raised her hand and settled it around his wrist. She felt his hand tighten on her waist again and imagined she could hear the swelling of whispers that rippled around the room as she accorded a second dance to the stranger from London. It was scandalous behavior, as scandalous as the way his midnight eyes held her, demanding her full attention, relegating all else—the music, the laughter, the buzzing of conversations—to the distant background. She was only dimly aware of the flashes of colored silk that passed them, of the brilliant splashes of candlelight that reflected off the panes of the windows and doors. She was not sensible at all to the fact that he whirled her away from the close confines of the ballroom and danced with her out onto the terrace, around and around, swirling her away from the lights and the noise until they had only shadows and the dusting of starlight overhead.

  Drawing her closer, Montgomery embraced her in a way that made her feel molded to the hard contours of his body. The circles they inscribed became smaller, their footsteps slower, until they were barely moving at all, hardly swaying to the strains of the music. Catherine felt a mindless drumming in her blood and knew he was holding her too close. The night was too dark, the air too fragrant with the scent of roses. She lowered her gaze a fraction and it was no longer his eyes that held her transfixed, but the sensual curve of his mouth—a mouth that was descending toward hers even as his hand slid up from her waist to cradle the nape of her neck.

  His lips touched hers, and the shock trembled through her body. A feeble protest shivered free on a sigh, but she could not even summon the strength or wit to make it sound convincing. All of her senses became centered around the feather-light pressure of his mouth, on the teasing, taunting dalliance of his tongue as it sampled, tasted, prepared her for the bold intrusion that followed.