by Elisa Braden
He’d walked away that day, leaving her reeling.
But the effect of the wolf’s presence hadn’t left her. Not later that evening as she’d rushed to Berne House to warn Phineas. Not in the following days as her brother had battled to defend his innocence.
Nor any other day.
The wolf had entered her life, tempting and challenging and wanting. He’d risked his life for her, ridden to Dorsetshire like a man possessed while bleeding from wounds her enemies had caused. He’d nearly died. To warn her, protect her.
And if the real man with real hunger in his eyes hadn’t terrified her down to her craven soul, she would have made that wolf her own.
Instead, she’d made him hate her.
Now, here in Grimsgate Castle’s grand gallery, she turned and found silvery eyes devouring her as though not a day had passed, let alone a year, since she’d watched him climb into a coach and disappear from her life.
She felt the same. Skin lifting and glowing. Heart reaching and pounding. Fear rising and choking.
She saw her wolf—ragged, dark, hungry—and wished with all her heart she could be different for him. Better.
But she couldn’t. So, instead, she did what she’d always done when the fear took hold. She turned and walked away.
*~*~*
Jonas was well accustomed to shaving his own whiskers. But he had to admit having someone else perform the task was one luxury he didn’t mind.
Still, he would have preferred a woman.
“There you are, sir.” Lord Wallingham’s valet, a tidy little man who smelled like a French perfumery, dabbed at his jaw with a towel. “A fine improvement, indeed.”
Lord Wallingham—the dragon’s son—had lent Jonas both his clothing and his valet. What the marquess thought of dressing up a Bow Street man in a dandy’s garb and parading him around like a girl’s pet pony, Jonas couldn’t say. He assumed the dowager had methods of pressuring her son that didn’t require explanations.
The valet retrieved a length of linen and wrapped the thing around Jonas’s neck in an elaborate series of puffed folds he insisted were certainly not a bow. Next came the coat—snug through the shoulders, but lightweight and comfortable. Jonas and Lord Wallingham were similar in height and frame, according to the valet.
All in all, he found being trussed and brushed, pampered and primped like a princess’s pony not altogether unpleasant. When a bottle of perfume appeared, however, Jonas drew the line. “No scent,” he said. “The shaving soap was bad enough. I’ll not trot about smelling like a whore’s corset.”
“Oh, but, sir—”
“Brindle—”
“It is Wendell, sir.”
He braced a hand atop the valet’s shoulder. “Right. Some men fancy a strong scent.” Angling his head to catch the shorter man’s eye, he grinned. “Disguises a number of sins, eh? A decaying tooth. A fondness for cognac. A recent tryst in the larder.”
The valet’s eyes grew wider with each passing sentence. On the word “larder,” his throat bobbed on a swallow.
Jonas patted his shoulder. “Other men—me, for instance—prefer our disguises less aromatic. You understand.”
“H-how—how did you …”
He straightened and searched for his coat. The valet had stashed it in a chest of drawers. “Your jaw is swollen on one side. I noticed while you were shaving me.” He dug through his old coat’s pockets for his notebook and pencil. “The cognac I could smell on your breath. Have a fondness for the stuff, myself, though not the coin to afford it.” He searched his borrowed coat’s interior for pockets. Only one. Blast.
“A-and the … larder, sir?”
He tucked away his notebook and pencil in his single measly pocket then strode past the valet. “Bit of a guess, that one.” Opening the bedchamber door, he grinned back at the man. “Though, you may want to dust the flour from the front of your trousers before his lordship notices.”
Jonas left the valet frantically swiping while he found his way along the corridor to the grand staircase. The dragon had put him in one of the guest chambers, a large room with a large bed and large swaths of brown velvet and blue silk. He still did not know why she was treating him as a guest. Just as he did not know why fate had put him in the path of Hannah Gray again.
Damn and blast, he needed to forget her. This was about finishing a job. That was all.
He found his way to the dining room as footmen carried trays of sliced meat out of the room and toward the gallery. Nash stood in the doorway, directing his troops.
“Please tell me I missed luncheon,” Jonas muttered.
Nash raised a starchy brow. “Her ladyship has decided luncheon will be served in the garden, sir. I believe she is there now with several guests.”
His gut tightened. “Holstoke.”
“Yes, sir.”
He debated the merits of refusing to play pony for aristocrats’ entertainment. But he bloody well needed this job. So, a pony he would be, at least for the next hour.
Following a footman, he found his way outside through the gallery’s glass doors. The gardens matched the castle in scale with hedges, flowers, paths, and lawn spanning acres inside the old stone walls. A gravel path led to a large fountain where seven tables had been decorated with white cloths and flower-laden urns. Lady Wallingham examined one of the blooms through her quizzing glass while the black-haired, pale-eyed Earl of Holstoke explained its structure.
Holstoke did like his plants.
“Mr. Hawthorn?”
He turned. A pretty woman with laughing brown eyes grinned up at him. Five peacock feathers waved from her green silk bonnet.
“Lady Holstoke.” He smiled and inclined his head. “A pleasure to see you again.” It was, in fact, a pleasure. The first time he’d met Lady Eugenia Huxley, she’d strolled into the Bow Street police office, bold as you please, and pronounced herself Holstoke’s mistress, and thus, his alibi for the murder of two women. A transparent lie, of course, embellished with improbable claims about Holstoke’s stamina. But Jonas had been charmed.
Holstoke, on the other hand, had been incensed. He’d married the brazen chit with such haste, Jonas had concluded the man must have been waiting for an excuse. Later, when Jonas saw them together at Primvale Castle, his suspicions were confirmed. The Earl of Holstoke was mad for his wife.
Now, Lady Holstoke’s eyes danced as she took in Jonas’s new attire. “My, my. How dashing you look in properly fitted clothing. What would your fellow officers say if they could see you now?”
He chuckled. “Something vulgar, no doubt. We’re a rough lot, my lady.”
“Hmm. Have you spoken with my husband yet?”
“No.”
She nodded in the direction of the tables. “He will be gratified to see you looking so well.” Her eyes darted to his shoulder and leg. “When you left Primvale, we hoped your injuries mightn’t trouble you too much. But you appear to have recovered fully.”
“That I have,” he lied. The arrows that had torn apart his shoulder and thigh had been mere pinpricks in comparison to other wounds. Those hadn’t healed at all.
He glanced around the garden, noting the guests wandering toward the tables. Two young fops whose cravats nearly swaddled their ears. A tall matron on the arm of a shorter man in a bright-yellow waistcoat. A dark-haired gentleman with silver at his temples and a build similar to Jonas’s. This was Lord Wallingham, accompanied by a blonde woman who affectionately brushed lint from his sleeve.
None of them had silken hair dark as a raven’s wing. None of them glowed like moonlight on water. None of them were … her.
“… my sister, Maureen, and Lord Dunston arrive tomorrow. Mr. Hawthorn?”
He returned his attention to the woman in front of him. “Last time I saw Dunston, he was handing me twelve guineas for the pleasure of losing a wager. He might still be sore.”
“Dunston is the affable sort. Not one to hold grudges.”
“The wager involved archery an
d brandy consumption. He may have been misled as to my true capacity in both arenas.”
“Misled by whom?”
He answered with a grin.
Her lips pursed. “Hmmph.” With a glint of determination, she claimed his arm and tugged him forward. “Come. You must speak with Holstoke.”
“About?”
“Something pleasant, preferably. Be honest. But not too honest. Don’t lie. Necessarily. And do try to get on with him. Best behavior, now.”
“Hmm. Good of you to remind me. I had thought to remove my trousers and splash about in the fountain. Without a woman to manage me, ’tis a wonder I get by in polite company.”
“Oh! That’s another thing. Curtail your sarcasm. We wish for him to like you, not merely tolerate you.”
He frowned down at peacock feathers and green silk. “Why, precisely?”
She tugged harder, dragging him forward. “If the conversation takes a sour turn, ask him about plants. That should mollify him for a time.”
“Mollify?” He frowned. The woman was dizzying.
“Are you a good shot, Mr. Hawthorn?”
He didn’t remember her being mad. A bit unusual. Forthright, certainly. Flamboyant in her choice of headdress, perhaps. But not a lunatic. Perhaps he’d missed something.
She assessed him from beneath her bonnet’s brim. “You are, aren’t you? A superb shot. I’d stake all my red ribbons on it.”
“Lady Wallingham didn’t tell me she’d be serving wine this early. Point me to it, my lady. I could do with a glass or two.”
“How are you with blades? Knives, swords, that sort of thing.”
He stopped, which forced the lunatic clinging to his elbow to stop as well. “Are you anticipating a siege?”
“Answer the question.”
“I’m capable of slicing ham into polite pieces if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Her eyes flared when he mentioned her favorite food. “You remember?”
He shrugged. He remembered a lot of things. Too many. “If you’re thinking of hiring a runner, I recommend Mr. Drayton. I can vouch for his marksmanship, and he’s not much for sarcasm.”
“I don’t wish to hire you.”
“Then, what is this about?”
She released a sigh. “You must trust me.”
In his experience, a man’s biggest mistakes started with just such a plea. He patted the countess’s hand and gently removed it from his arm. “It has been a true pleasure seeing you again, my lady. Do give my regards to Lord Holstoke, hmm?”
He’d taken three strides back toward the castle when a shimmer of black caught his eye. It was … her.
She wore white. Sheer, white layers of muslin with a satin sash in softest green. No bonnet. No gloves. She sat on a bench near a rosebush.
And in her arms was a babe.
Freezing in place, Jonas riveted upon the sight. She gazed down at the little mite with a heart-melting smile. If the moon had suddenly turned pink and blazed brighter than the sun, he could not have felt deeper shock.
Then, he examined the babe. A few months old, perhaps. Raven-black hair. Palest green eyes. As beautiful as the woman whose love shone impossibly bright.
His legs stiffened. His gut burned.
God Almighty. Was this the secret she’d been guarding? Had she saved her heart for another? Given her body to another? Let another touch her while she shied away from Jonas at every turn?
It would explain a great deal. Her rejection. Her coldness. If she’d been carrying another man’s child a year ago, Jonas might have been nothing more than a nuisance. Merely another pathetic mongrel begging at the feet of a Snow Queen.
Everything inside him seized. He fought to remain still. Not to charge forward. Not to make demands.
She owed him nothing, for she’d promised him nothing, he reminded himself. He’d never even kissed her. Granted, he’d nearly died trying to protect her. But she hadn’t asked it of him. He’d done it because … bloody hell, he didn’t know why.
A servant—her lady’s maid, by the look of it—approached carrying a straw bonnet with green ribbons. Hannah didn’t glance up when her maid spoke. Instead, she murmured a reply but kept her eyes upon the babe, rocking gently from side to side while tiny fingers clutched her thumb. The maid placed the bonnet on the bench beside her mistress then strolled away.
Jonas didn’t know what drove him forward. He should ignore her. Getting tangled up with this untouchable woman again was pure idiocy.
His legs didn’t care. His chest burned with the need to know. To hear her voice. Perhaps snowfall would affect him differently this time.
“Miss Gray.”
Her rocking stilled.
He found himself drawing close, gazing down upon silken black and creamy white, hoping for a drift of her scent. Wanting. God, how he wanted.
Slowly, thick black lashes lifted. Stunning eyes the color of frosted leaves found him. The only sign of disquiet was quickened breathing. Otherwise, she was a seamless composition. “Mr. Hawthorn.”
He wanted to curse at his body’s reaction. It seemed snowfall would always make him burn. “I assume it is still ‘Miss Gray.’” His eyes flickered to her bare hand. “Or am I mistaken?” A babe in her arms but no ring. Had the man died? Had he been imprisoned?
If not, perhaps one or the other could be arranged.
“Why should my name be different?”
Her answer was so cool, her expression so shuttered, he thought for a moment she was mocking him. But Hannah Gray’s nature was remote, not sardonic. A small crinkle between her dark brows indicated genuine confusion.
His eyes fell to the babe in her arms. Acid was eating his insides, so rather than answer, he shrugged.
“I am … surprised to see you here,” she said. “Northumberland is a long way from London.”
“Lady Wallingham needed a hound to track her belongings.” His mouth twisted into a smile. “It seems I will do.”
The babe grew restless, grunting and waving its arms. Hannah jostled the child a bit, stroking downy black hair with delicate white hands. “You look well,” she murmured, her eyes roaming from his waist to his forehead. Not by a flicker of a lash did she reveal anything approaching interest. Yet, he sensed something beneath the surface—a disturbance she was controlling with great will. “When you left, I … well, you’d only just begun to recover.” She pulled her gaze away from his and back to the babe. “Did Phineas’s physician visit you in London?”
“Aye. Not to worry, Miss Gray. A hound’s injuries are hardly worth a moment’s thought. Ladies of your sort have better things to do than sully themselves with mongrels, eh?”
Her shoulders stiffened then, oddly, trembled. Delicate muscles along her jawline rippled. She stroked the babe’s head again. “I saw your wounds. I sat at your bedside while they tried to claim your life. Perhaps you’ve forgotten.”
He watched her reaction, confused by the tone. Her words were soft, but in anyone else, he would have sworn they were on the edge of being shouted. She had, indeed, sat with him for hours. Days. Each time he’d flickered into consciousness, she’d been there, pale and perfect. Waiting and watching.
When he’d finally regained enough strength, he’d reached for her. She’d flinched away as though scalded.
“I don’t forget much.” He gave her a grin. “A blessing and a curse, you might say.” Nodding toward the child, he felt his mouth twisting, his jaw tightening. “This I don’t remember.”
She blinked. “Oh, well, you wouldn’t. Griffin was born in March.”
He traced the lines of her waist, the soft curve of her breasts, both unchanged since the last time he’d seen her. “You, too, appear well recovered.”
“Recovered?”
“Who is the father?” The question escaped without his consent. He shouldn’t be asking. He had no rights to her. She’d made that clear.
“I’m not sure I understand your question.”
“Where is he
now?” He should shut his mouth. He should walk away before he made a fool of himself again. But he wanted to know. Burned to know. “More to the point, where is his ring?”
Those extraordinary eyes flared. “Are you—are you implying … that Griffin is mine?”
“Isn’t he?”
The child began squirming. The little face scrunched. Then, he let out a squawk, several grunts, and a full-scale wail.
Jonas frowned. That had turned rather quickly.
From behind him came a feminine chuckle. “Heavens, it appears Griffy the Fussbucket would prefer to dine earlier than the rest of us.”
Lady Holstoke slipped past him to claim the baby, who calmed as soon as she scooped him into her arms. She brushed her nose against the boy’s then tickled his belly with her finger. “Griffin Brand, you are your father’s son.” She laughed then grinned at Jonas. “I must feed him or we shall all suffer his wrath. But you and I did not finish our conversation, Mr. Hawthorn. When I return, I expect we will do so.” With a pert nod, Lady Holstoke carried the black-haired infant away, cooing and calming in a motherly fashion.
Because she was his mother.
And Phineas Brand was his father.
And Hannah was his aunt.
Blast, it hadn’t taken long for Jonas to play the fool again, had it?
Hannah rose from the bench and calmly donned her bonnet, tying the green ribbon beneath her chin. “The assumption was natural,” she said. “He has my coloring. You saw me holding him.” She focused upon him with a level stare. “And we haven’t seen one another in some time.”
She was right, but he still felt like an idiot. He rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. “A year,” he agreed.
“More.”
He frowned.
“A year and thirteen days,” she clarified. “You look well, Mr. Hawthorn.”
She’d already said so. Was her breathing faster? And had she been counting the bloody days? He was the fool who did that. She was the one who’d sent him away, refusing to look at him as he’d climbed into the coach.
He moved closer but stopped when her neck stiffened. “The coat is borrowed.”
