Siren

by Melissa Lynne Blue

  Phoebe rolled her eyes. “I’m glad Sarah’s wedding plans kept me detained today.”

  “He passed along some information that I found quite distressing.”

  “Does he believe the second coming is imminent?” Phoebe quipped lightly, laughing at her own joke.

  Edward’s stern glare did not waver, and Phoebe’s playful spirits faded. “What is this about, Edward?”

  “The reverend told me that you’ve been keeping company with James Witherspoon.”

  Blast Reverend Alistair! Her palms slicked. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She turned to the books lining Edward’s shelves, running her fingers casually along the spines. “The colonel was at Sarah’s engagement party. The reverend merely saw me ask him where he came by his horse. The animal is positively magnificent.” She chanced a glance back to her brother. “Come, Edward, you know how eccentric Alistair is.”

  Edward’s blue eyes narrowed on her. After a moment he shrugged, seeming appeased by her explanation. “I suppose.” He reached over his desk and lifted the quill, wordlessly dismissing her.

  Holding her breath, Phoebe forced herself to walk unrushed from the room.

  “Phoebe?”

  She gulped again. “Yes, Edward?”

  “Where did he come by the horse?”

  “Lord Banion,” she replied smoothly.

  “I see,” the duke replied, still gazing down at his ledgers, systematically tapping the end of his quill on different points of the page. Just as Phoebe began backing toward the study door, Edward’s cold eyes snapped upward, freezing her in place. “I will not tolerate tales of you consorting with him further, Phoebe. You know perfectly well why we do not socialize with the Witherspoons.”

  Patrick. Guilt and worry ate at her stomach, sobering her spirits. “Edward—”

  “Do I make myself clear?” His tone brooked no room for argument or question

  “Perfectly.” She nodded, casting her eyes downward.

  “Good.” The stone in Edward’s eyes softened slightly. He set his quill aside, leaning back in his chair. “I must travel to London on business. I leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? How long will you be gone? What of Sarah’s wedding?”

  Edward’s face darkened, taking on a worn, tired expression. “I have matters far more pressing than a country wedding to attend.”

  “What matters?”

  “They are none of your concern, Phoebe, I—”

  “Not my concern? Edward, Corsair is very much my concern. I have—”

  “Regardless,” he interrupted. “You are allowed a great deal of freedom here in the country, probably too much freedom.” Phoebe ground her teeth, resisting the urge to argue. In the absence of a current duchess Phoebe had taken on the responsibility for many of the important traditions and duties performed by the ducal family. “I’ve never had reason not to trust you implicitly, but, so help me Phoebe, if I come home and receive news of you consorting with the Witherspoons, I will lock you up until we return to London for the season where I will marry you off to the first rich fop that offers for you.”

  Phoebe nodded stiffly, knowing better than to try his temper. “I understand.” She backed slowly from the room, absorbing his threats.

  A sensible woman would cease seeing James Witherspoon at once, but she didn’t believe for a moment he’d murdered Patrick. James was far too fun loving and carefree to have such a secret hindering his conscience. Guilt of such a dark nature blackened the soul. All this hatred between the families was not healthy. Phoebe had no idea who’d murdered her brother fifteen years ago, and she’d likely never know, but of one thing she was certain… until someone mended the rift between the Landons and Witherspoons it was only a matter of time before someone else wound up dead.

  * * * *

  Concentrating on the tiny portraits before her, Phoebe snatched the straw hat off her head and threw it onto the blanket beside her. To the devil with freckles. The blasted hat was interfering with her light and she only had until Saturday to finish these paintings. As a wedding gift for Sarah and Nicholas, Phoebe was creating miniatures for each of them to carry while Nicholas was away on duty.

  Phoebe nibbled her bottom lip, brushed poised over her color palette, trying to recall the exact color of Nicholas’s eyes… Blue? Or green? She’d never paid particular attention in the past.

  “Ho, there, Siren!”

  Startled, Phoebe nearly dropped her brush and snapped her eyes upward. A grin instantly split her face.

  James strode toward her, an irresistible smile gracing his lips, one arm raised in greeting. A young boy, the lad from the festival, scampered alongside him. Both wore casual clothing and clutched a fishing pole.

  Phoebe set aside her paintbrush and stood. “Good afternoon, Colonel!”

  “What a coincidence finding you out here.” James stopped before her, eyes twinkling.

  “Not terribly surprising considering you’re trespassing on my brother’s property.”

  James winked. “Don’t tell anyone, but the fattest fish lay in this part of the river. I’ve been fishing here for years.”

  “I see,” she said with a wink of her own. “Not to worry, your secret is safe with me as long as you introduce me to this handsome young man.” She turned her attention to the adorable boy accompanying him. He looked a great deal like James with Sandy hair and similar bone structure, the most striking difference were the boy’s blue eyes.

  “This,” James dropped a hand to the lad’s shoulder, “is my nephew Toby. Toby, I’d like you to meet my good friend, Lady… Lady Siren.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady.” Toby bowed his head, scooting closer to James. After a moment he glanced up, giving her a shy smile. “Would you like to join us, Lady Siren?”

  She couldn’t help but grin at his attempt at concealing her identity. “I would like nothing more.”

  The afternoon proved lovely. Watching James interact so tenderly with Toby warmed Phoebe’s heart. The three of them laughed and chatted while the men fished and Phoebe continued to work on her miniatures. James proved invaluable in helping her with Nicholas’s likeness, particularly the color of his eyes… blue.

  At one point James slipped a bit of old cheese onto Toby’s hook and joined Phoebe on the blanket with her paint supplies. He leaned close, peering over her shoulder. His moist breath whispered through her hair. Tingles prickled Phoebe’s skin in acute awareness to his proximity. Her pulse quickened and her mouth dried. She endeavored to keep her breathing normal and her hands steady as she touched the end of her brush to the canvas.

  “You are very talented,” he complimented. “Not many artists can create such accurate likenesses from memory.”

  “Thank you. I’ve always had a knack for likenesses. If I close my eyes I can picture faces perfectly in my mind.” She swallowed, fingers trembling, and finally set her brush down. His nearness affected her too much to paint steadily and she could not take the chance of ruining the miniatures. Her gaze drifted to Toby. “You are very good with your nephew.”

  James fell silent for a long moment. “The last few days have been hard on him,” he said finally.

  “Your uncle’s death you mean?”

  “Yes.” James nodded though his eyes never left Toby sitting along the bank, holding his fishing pole. “My brother died when he was two years old, and the general was a steady presence in his life.” He sighed heavily. “It will be difficult for him when I deploy again.”

  Phoebe’s heart clinched with the prospect of his imminent departure. She shifted her gaze from Toby to James. Their eyes locked. “He won’t be the only one,” she murmured honestly.

  Passion and disbelief consumed his expression. “Phoebe…” he whispered, tone straggled and vulnerable as though he couldn’t believe anyone other than immediate family would miss him. He reached out, grazing a calloused thumb across her cheek. “Phoebe…” For once no silver-tongued words flowed from his mouth. Only her name. The knowledg
e that she had that effect on such a notorious rake proved heady indeed.

  James slid his thumb from her cheek to her bottom lip, gently caressing the tender flesh. All coherent thought escaped her. Instinctively, her lips parted and she swayed closer, inviting him in for more.

  “Phoebe…” His hand shifted to cradle her face. His gaze dropped to her lips as he leaned in, his mouth mere inches from her own. His warm breath rolled over her lips, creating a rush of excitement and longing within her.

  “Uncle Jamie, are you going to marry her?”

  Phoebe and James jerked apart. Phoebe flushed, she’d been so caught up in the moment she’d actually forgotten Toby’s presence!

  Panic flipped across James’s face. “Why would you ask such a thing?” He stood quickly, rejoining his nephew beside the creek.

  “Grandmamma says you need a wife.”

  “Oh, does she?”

  “Yes. And Lady Siren is very nice.”

  James ruffled Toby’s hair. “Don’t you worry over your Uncle Jamie. I get along just fine without a wife.”

  Disappointment cut swiftly through Phoebe’s merriment. She blinked and quickly shifted her attention back to the paintings, trying to shove back the insidious regret pooling within her. She shouldn’t be upset by James’s statement, and yet… the words hurt. His proclamation was an acute prick straight through the heart. Phoebe gulped around a lump in her throat, she hated to admit the fact, but a piece of her couldn’t deny that she was falling for James. Falling hard, and fast, and unequivocally… in love.

  Eight

  James played with hellfire and disaster in courting Phoebe Landon. He knew it too. The girl was forbidden fruit, and yet, he couldn’t drag himself away. The intoxicating woman consumed him. Every thought. Every desire. Truly he couldn’t get her out of his head. They’d met for daily walks or rides every morning for the past week. He liked Phoebe. Her intelligence… her wit… In all, she fascinated him.

  Today was no exception. He reclined in the clover-scented grass, chewing the end of a long blade, watching her paint, taking in every facet of her luminescent eyes and the pale sparkle of her hair.

  “Do you know the story of the Heart of the Nile?” she asked suddenly, setting her brush down and turning somber eyes to him. “I scarcely remember what the necklace looked like, and after my brother Patrick was killed no one ever spoke of it.”

  James rolled onto his side, reaching out to snag a loose curl wafting on the breeze. He smoothed the tress between his fingers. “Ah, yes, the famed Egyptian jewel,” he murmured, drawing on long suppressed memories of the dreaded relic. “It is believed that the necklace was a gift to Cleopatra from her lover Mark Antony.” Phoebe’s eyes lit with the romantic prospect. “Shortly after Antony left Cleopatra’s side the necklace was stolen. It is said the Queen’s heartbreak and wrath cast a permanent curse over the jewel, and death is rumored to follow any who possess it.”

  Phoebe’s sultry eyes fixed on his. “Do you believe such?”

  “I believe a man makes his own destiny.” James had no desire to speak of the contemptuous gem or be reminded of the feud between their families.

  Drawn to Phoebe with ethereal force, James rose up on an elbow, dropping his palm to her shoulder. His thumb stroked the exposed flesh of her collarbone. She shivered in response, eyelids drooping to half-mast. The low burning desire in his gut flared to life. She was such a sensual creature. So responsive and warm. How could anyone in London have dubbed her an ice queen? He shifted closer, gaze dropping from Phoebe’s glittering pale eyes to the full curve of her lips. So pink… the sheerest shade of a spring time rose… He’d resisted the temptation to kiss her again since that day her horse had bolted. The restraint proved torture in the truest form, but he knew that nothing more could come of their friendship. He could never marry her. Even if their families would allow such a thing, he had no plans for a wife, he would die bloody fighting the French before he had the chance.

  Phoebe leaned in ever so slightly, the invitation to take her lips clear.

  James could resist no longer, he’d been hard for her since the day on the beach. With a barely stifled groan, he slipped a palm around the back of her neck, claiming her lips in a hungry kiss. The days of restraint proved too much, and at the first taste of her mouth, he lost all self-control. Rising to his knees, he thrust his tongue into her mouth, kissing her greedily.

  She responded in kind, tilting her chin to grant him better access, taking all of him. She matched every erotic stroke with one of her own, and wound her arms around his neck, pulling him in until her breasts crushed against his chest.

  James groaned, curling one arm around her tiny waist and the other about her neck and shoulders. He lowered her into the lush bed of clovers and settled over her, relishing the heat of her petite frame. She shivered beneath him, burying her fingers in the short locks of his hair, drawing him down for another deep kiss. James didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and he didn’t particularly care. Phoebe was perfect and responsive… everything he could imagine and more.

  He dragged his lips along the graceful curve of her neck, tasting the milky perfection of her skin, breathing deep her scent. Lavender. She must bathe in the stuff, for every silken inch of her smelled deliciously of it. Mingled with the sweet perfume of baby grass, he was consumed by springtime and passion.

  Instinct took over.

  He worked his way down to the bow at the center of her modestly curved bodice. He pressed a soft kiss to the exposed flesh just above it, and expertly slid the gown sleeve off her shoulder, exposing the sheer fabric of her chemise. Eagerly he grazed a thumb across her camouflaged nipple. She moaned, trembling beneath him. James tensed. He could feel her everywhere. And not just her body… her heat touched him in far deeper places… his heart for one. It was an alien sensation. One he was unused to experiencing in any fashion. He always kept a firm leash on his emotions, letting them loose for painfully few, and never for a woman. But Phoebe—his siren—rendered his every defense utterly useless. He hesitated for a moment, disconcerted. Her hips shifted restlessly against him, and any hint of panic fled on a fresh wave of lust. James dropped a hand to her thigh, hauling the length of her skirts up.

  “James!” Her eyes flew open as she jerked upright against him.

  “Phoebe…” Lost in a haze, he pressed her back into the clover, kissing her collarbone, more than ready to tumble her right there in the heather.

  “We should stop,” she mumbled breathlessly. Her tremulous hands pressed against his chest.

  He stilled, dropping his face into her bared shoulder. Blood hammered in his ears and her clean, enticing scent inundated his senses, making intelligent thought impossible.

  Stop?

  Please, God, anything but that! James drew a deep breath and held it in, grappling for self-control.

  Her hands dropped from his chest as she released a shaky breath.

  Finally, he drew back, looking into her face. Heaven help him… He shouldn’t have looked. He should have rolled to the side and showed her his back. The mere sight of her golden hair spilling over the grass, her skin passion flushed, her eyes hazy and lips swollen from his kisses nearly drove him over the edge. The overpowering need to possess her griped him hard. He never wanted her to gaze up at another man with those passion clouded eyes. She was his.

  A fresh burst of panic quenched a bit of the desire coursing through him. James jerked off her and jumped to his feet, quickly distancing himself from Phoebe. It didn’t matter how far he removed himself, however, his awareness of her could span oceans. “Forgive me,” he muttered. “I should not have taken liberties.”

  Silence followed by the frantic rustle of fabric was his only response.

  James turned his head slightly. From the corner of his eye he spied Phoebe yanking the short sleeve of her gown back up. Crimson stained her cheeks and he’d swear a hint of disappointment dampened her expression. She clamored to her feet and he snapped his gaze bac
k to the front, rocking on his heels.

  “James,” she murmured tremulously.

  He faced her once more, and gulped. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep from touching her again. Lord knew if he did he wouldn’t be able to stop himself again.

  “James, what is… is—” She shook her head, breaking the contact of their eyes. “I should go.” She dropped to her knees, quickly throwing her paint supplies into the wicker basket she carried them in. The latch rattled as she fastened it.

  James stood frozen in place, watching her, knowing he should say or do something to help, but unable to move for fear of… What exactly? Fear of her? Himself? The emotions raging through him?

  He’d been with scores of women. Quick sport and nothing more. What he felt for Phoebe surpassed any measure of past lust. He and Phoebe were friends. True friends. He liked her, missed her when she left him each day, looked forward to when they’d meet again. Just yesterday he’d seen a painting of horses beside a stream and instantly wanted to tell her about it.

  Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? Consorting with innocents? He never engaged in romantic entanglements—too messy and far too many female tears—much less with virgins of Phoebe Landon’s caliber. He steeled himself. Best to end things with Phoebe now.

  “I will see you at the wedding tomorrow.”

  James snapped from his thoughts. Phoebe stood before him, the basket clutched in her hands, golden tresses floating in sultry disarray around her head. He lifted a hand, fully intending to brush an errant strand behind her ear, but stopped short, dropping his arm back to his side. “Goodbye, Phoebe.”

  “Until tomorrow, you mean.”

  “No, Phoebe,” he replied quietly, firmly. “This flirtation has gone far enough. Too far. It’s best we don’t see each other this way again.”

  Hurt and disappointment flashed in her lovely eyes. It gutted him, but really, it was for the best. He was no good for her. She tilted her chin and squared her shoulders, making solid, defiant eye contact with him. “Until tomorrow, Colonel. I wish you well.” Without another word, she spun and raced out of the grassy field.