Fallen Angel (7 page)

In the week since her father's funeral, she had bottled her emotions—and such emotions—dark, turbulent passions which were strange to her, and frightening in their intensity, all the more so because she hid them from the world behind a tranquil facade. With Malcolm, there was never any need of pretence. He was never shocked by the secrets she revealed, never put out by any of her perplexing questions, and there had been many of those in the last years as she had grown to womanhood. His calm good sense was as dependable as the Bank of Scotland. Even before her mother's demise, it was always to Malcolm she had turned. He was only a little older than she, but his knowledge and experience of the world far surpassed hers.

"Oh Malcolm," she sobbed on a shaky breath. She drew up the cowl of her mantle to protect her face and she dug her heels in, urging the mare forward in the direction of the sand dunes. Banshee snickered then threw back her head and howled like one of the creatures of the night she was named for, and she stretched out her long smooth limbs to eat up the three miles between Drumoak and Inverforth.

If they followed the shoreline of the River Forth's broad inland estuary, even in a snowstorm, it was highly unlikely that any harm would befall them. Maddie salved her conscience with the thought that Janet and Duncan between them would be able to convince Aunt Nell that she stood in no danger, since horse and rider were used to traversing every hill and hollow around Drumoak even in the most inclement weather.

As she came round the corner of Inverforth's squat, red brick tollbooth at a slow canter, Maddie caught sight of him.-He was a hundred yards ahead of her, on the main thoroughfare, almost level with the iron gate that gave entrance to the parish church. As he passed the lighted window of one of the cotter's houses, his fair hair seemed to burn like the halo of one of the angels she had once seen in a Rembrandt painting. She almost threw herself off Banshee's back and went stumbling after him.

"Malcolm!" The wind tore the cry from her throat. She clutched her cloak more closely to her and ran after him. "Malcolm!" she called again, this time more desperately.

Deveryn heard the muffled sound and turned on his heel. The lantern over the wrought iron gate which gave onto the church yard was behind him, but its light did wonderful things to the face of the young woman who stood trying to catch her breath only an arm's length away.

It was only a trick of the light, only a trick of the light, his brain told him dispassionately, that gave her such an otherworldly appearance; only a trick of the light that turned her dark eyes to pools of mystery with the look of desperation he had sometimes seen in a deer just before the hunters closed in- for the kill. Her cheeks were wet with tears, or snow, he could not say which, and her lips, so soft and vulnerable, trembled with the effort to regulate her breathing. It was only a trick of the light, his brain told him, but his heart constricted uncomfortably in his chest.

She straightened and made a pathetic attempt at a smile, then she walked straight into his arms as if she belonged there.

"Malcolm, oh Malcolm, I have needed you so," she said softly into his throat, and Deveryn thought that Malcolm, whoever he was, must be the luckiest man in Christendom.

Her head lay against his chest, the snood of her cloak just brushing his chin. Her arms went round his waist. For a moment, he did not know what to do with his hands. He rested them lightly on her shoulders. To hold her thus seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

With something close to reverence he moved his hands, sliding them slowly from her shoulders, testing every small bone in her straight spine, leisurely stroking the hollows of her waist, moulding the soft flare of her hips.

She tipped her head back and the snood of her warm, woollen cloak fell to her shoulders, uncovering her hair. In the dim light of the lantern, it had the rich tones of copper; in the light of day, he thought, it would brighten to warm sherry. He itched to bury his fingers in the fiery depths of those silken tresses.

"Kiss me, Malcolm, and make everything better. Just like when we were children."

He wondered how Malcolm would kiss her, but it never occurred to him to enlighten her about his identity. He brought his lips to within an inch of hers and he could feel her breath, sweet and warm, mingling with his own. He held back, forcing her to take the initiative.

Her lips were cool and dry, and quite without passion, their touch as light as the snowflakes which melted against the heat of his skin. From a woman who was no relation to him, it was the most chaste kiss Deveryn had ever received in his life. At the first touch of her lips, his senses came fully alive. As that cool, dispassionate kiss lingered, he felt the heat of it, scorching, racing like liquid fire from his lips to his loins.

In the space of a single heartbeat, Deveryn lost his bearings. He was no longer aware that he was in the middle of the high street of some obscure hamlet with a turbulent breeze whipping at his coat and" forcing wet snow down his collar. Cynthia was forgotten, as was his purpose in being abroad on such a wild night, and if such things had occurred to him, he would have consigned them all to perdition. In that moment, the only reality he was conscious of, wanted to be conscious of, was the Tightness of the small warm body which was pressed so closely to his own. It was as if every fibre of his being, every solitude in his soul, instantly recognized the woman and responded to her in welcome. The cynical turn of his mind, which was almost second nature to him, might never have existed, so little impact did it make on the wave of wonder that swept through him.

"Open your mouth," he whispered, and she obeyed him without question.

The tip of his tongue, slow and persuasive, traced the outline of those inviting lips, then he gently moulded them to his own. He felt her stiffen slightly, but she made no move to draw away, and it registered in his mind that her confidence in Malcolm was something quite out of the ordinary.

He could taste the innocence on her tongue. That she was so totally ignorant of a man's passion and the ways of love brought a surge of tenderness and—he could scarcely credit it in himself—a fierce possessiveness that he recognized as primitive in origin. It was a new experience for Deveryn. As the kiss continued, he savoured the novelty of emotions he had scarcely believed existed.

When he felt her trembling in his arms, he slowly brought the kiss to an end. That he should let her simply walk away, out of his life forever, was unthinkable.

"Malcolm?" she queried, and he heard the confusion behind the word.

"Come." He gave her no chance to deny him. One arm slid around her shoulders and he turned her head into his chest to protect her from the elements. She followed his lead blindly, and he half-dragged her at a run through the iron gate and up the stone flags to the great door of the church. He pushed it open and they entered the narthex. The lights from the sanctuary scarcely penetrated to their lair. There wasn't a soul in sight. It suited Deveryn's purpose admirably.

He turned her in his arms and said simply, "Kiss me again."

"Malcolm, no." He could tell that she didn't want to hurt Malcolm's feelings. The darkness hid his smile.

His hands tangled in her hair and he brought her face up. "Kiss me," he repeated softly, with a little more force behind the words.

Her hands spread out against his chest, but she allowed him to capture her lips just the same. When she melted into him, he released her and cupped her head with both hands, kissing her quickly and urgently.

He let out a shaky breath, and he laughed. "Damn if China doesn't exist after all! Who would have believed it?"

Her crop caught him a glancing blow across the chest. One backward step and she was out of his arms.

"You're not Malcolm." She spoke without heat, but he knew that her eyes were flashing fire.

He hoped she would not try to use the crop on him again, because then he would have to take it away from her, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. "I never said I was."

"You're English!" Her tone was faintly accusing.

"How can you tell? Is my accent so noticeable?" He knew that it was.

His calm, good humour seemed to infuriate her.

"No. It's your quaint way of turning the truth on its head to justify your actions. I believe it's a talent that all the English are born with."

The jibe made no impression on him. "You're English too. Though perhaps I do detect a certain softening of the vowels, now that you mention it. It's very attractive."

"Silver tongued, too. That doesn't
surprise
me." She paced toward the sanctuary, then swiftly turned on her heel. "Please let me pass. I must find Malcolm."

His back was to the door. He folded his arms across his chest and braced one shoulder against it. "I can't let you go like this. If I frightened you, I'm sorry."

"You didn't frighten me," she answered with forced calm. "Now may I go?"

At this last, he cocked one eyebrow. "Aren't you just a little bit intrigued by the man you shared that kiss with? And
such
a kiss, let me tell you. You felt it too, and don't try to tell me otherwise."

Her pacing slowed, and she looked at him as if seeing him . clearly for the first time. Even in that shadowy interior, the creature's beauty and grace were undeniable. The semi- darkness should have robbed his blond locks of some of their lustre, but the faint rays of the candlelight penetrating from the sanctuary touched his shapely head in such a way that his hair, windblown and tousled, seemed to glow with a life of'its own. It intensified her first impression that this was no mortal man but an angel. Only the sensual slant to his mouth detracted from the original impression. A carnal angel, she thought with a start, and her breathing slowed, became shallower.

"Why did you kiss me?" She scarcely recognized the hoarse voice as her own.

"What a singularly stupid thing to ask!" Though she had turned her head so that her face was in shadow, he knew that she was frowning.

"Malcolm will tell me," she answered at length, and Deveryn burst out laughing.

"Does Malcolm know everything?"

"By no means." He could tell that a ghost of a smile was on her lips. "But he understands the things that have to do with the sexes."

He was surprised at his own curt words. "And who might

Malcolm be?"

"A friend. A neighbour. I've known him for ages."

"He can't help you. You're frowning again."

"How can you tell? It's so dark in here."

In one swift push, he was off the door and had caught her by the wrist. "Let's go into the sanctuary where there's some light. No don't pull away from me. Really, I won't hurt you."

Without waiting for her reply, he propelled her through the archway and forcibly pushed her into the back pew. She moved over with only a slight show of reluctance when he made to sit beside her.

His lips twitched when he saw her eyes, frankly curious, move slowly over him. "That's better," he said. "Now we can see each other. Do I meet with your approval?"

Hectic colour heated her cheekbones, but she did not drop her eyes from his. Her chin came up and she said in a creditably cool voice, "You're not a bit like Malcolm. Only the colour of your hair is similar, though by no means the same. I don't see how I could have made such an error. You are broader and taller, and . . . ," her lips turned up slightly at the corners, "quite old."

"Oh, I'm 'quite old', am I?" he asked in an amused tone. "I'll be thirty on my birthday. How old are you?"

"Nineteen. But only just. Why?"

"That means a guardian. But we'll get to that later. What's your name?"

For the first time the girl's expression became guarded. "I'm not at liberty to say."

"Ah!" he said knowingly. "You've been well-schooled. But not well enough, or you wouldn't be here now, alone and with a total stranger. We shall discuss that later also. Tell me, have you ever been to Oxfordshire?"

"No. Why?"

"We'll be spending a great deal of our time there. How about London?" He was enjoying himself enormously.

"Yes. But I didn't care for it. Do you always speak in riddles?"

"Forgive me. Am I going too fast for you? I can't seem to help myself. Wouldn't you like to kiss me again?" "What? Here? In God's house?" She looked around furtively.

"Why not? Doesn't God approve of kissing?"

"I don't know. I've never thought about it. I'll have to ask. . ."

"Don't say it! You'll never have to ask Malcolm about anything again. You'll come to me if you want to know anything. Especially," one long finger tilted her chin up, "especially," he repeated softly, "if it concerns what transpires between the sexes. No, don't be frightened." His hand, warm and reassuring, caressed the nape of her neck. "What are you thinking?"

He thought he detected a glint of amusement in the depths of her eyes. But he might have been mistaken.