Tempting the Wolf (3 page)

“Have ye another bride?” O’Banyon asked, still skimming the crowd.

The Scotsman was as tense as a battle ax, a condition which was generally followed by men fleeing like doused rats in every possible direction. Also something to keep in mind. “What did ye speak to her aboot?”

O’Banyon nodded to a dark-haired maid who gave him the eye as she was wheeled away by her partner. “Who?” he asked.

Hiltsglen was gritting his teeth now. O’Banyon could tell without turning toward him. The Scotsman was not a handsome man even when jovial. Anger made him look like a gargoyle with a toothache, but he had been feared from Amman to Luxemborg. A little something to recall.

“What did ye speak to me wife aboot?” he asked again, his voice growing deeper by the moment.

“Ahh,” O’Banyon said as if just remembering, though it was damnably difficult to keep his grin at bay. “We were speaking aboot tonight. She said she would dearly love to meet me in—”

“Good sirs.” Hiltsglen’s wife appeared suddenly beside her oversized husband. O’Banyon should have seen her coming, of course, but the Scotsman oft tended to block the approach of anything smaller than a war horse, which she was.

“Me lady,” he said and gave her an easy bow. She looked to be a wee bonny piece of fluff, but circumstances had proven otherwise. In fact, she had once threatened him with dismemberment. He contained his chuckle at the memory.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.

“Certainly not. Indeed—” O’Banyon began, but Hiltsglen broke in.

“Irish here was just aboot to tell me where ye agreed to meet him this eventide.”

The lady’s eyes widened slightly, then lifted to her husband’s. Their gazes met and melded, before she visibly relaxed.

“Ahh,” she said and reaching up, rested a small hand on the Scotsman’s bulging arm, “and yet the hound still breathes. ‘Tis good of you, my love.”

“I had na wish to disappoint ye,” rumbled Hiltsglen. He was as big as a damned castle, and yet he seemed to blush like a dairy maid as he turned his adoring attention upon his bride. ” ‘Tis the only reason the cappernoited nidget be still upright.”

O’Banyon could contain his laughter no longer. ‘Twas a habit that had gained him more than a few scars. “Ye speak as though ye’ve been spewed from the days of yore, Scotsman.”

Hiltsglen turned his darkling gaze toward O’Banyon. “Why the devil be ye here, Irish?”

O’Banyon shrugged. “Well, ‘tis a long and winding tale, but if ye’ve an hour and a good ale close to hand I shall enlighten ye with a story of witches and warlocks and evil curses cast upon innocent—”

Hiltsglen snorted as though the word “innocent” had tickled his dubious sense of humor. “Why are ye here at the Regent’s grand ball, ye daft callifudger?”

“Ahh, Lady Evengard had the good graces to invite me,” Banyon said and lifted his glass in a sort of salute to a stodgy dowager who gossiped to a group of her aging peers. Her gown was powder blue, not so vastly different than her hair, which was piled a good ten inches atop her head and sported a miniature ship in full sail—a style reminiscent of bygone days, if tales be true. “She said I have old-world charm and boyish dimples. I believe she may have her eye on me for her goddaughter.”

“What you have is a pirate’s black heart and a hunting wolf’s morals. She would be wise to deny ye access to so much as her dancing slippers.”

O’Banyon laughed again. Sparring with Hiltsglen was always lively sport. If they couldn’t clash with broadswords and brawn, conversation would have to do. “As it happens I have na interest in her dancing slippers.”

Killian was watching him. “What happened to yer bonny face, lad?”

“Me face?” he said, then remembered the particularly close contact he’d had with Joles’s weapon. The stringy miscreant had plied a hammer like a Saracen might swing a scimitar. “Oh, aye, ‘twas naught but a rousing game of cricket.”

“Cricket, ye say?”

“Aye. Played in the back alleys of this fair city.”

Something glowed in Killian’s eyes, something hard and dangerous and not quite tamed. So the bright baroness had not completely gentled the Celtic beast. ‘Twas a good thing to know.

“I wasn’t aware you played cricket,” Fleurette said.

“Oh, aye,” O’Banyon assured her. “A man must have his interests.”

Killian was still watching him. To look at the old Celt’s face, one could easily underestimate his wit. More than a few had regretted that mistake. “And what of the other players, Irish?” he asked. “How did they fare?”

“Good eventide,” he said to a tall matron who twirled past, then, “They may refrain from sport for a short while.”

“Until their bones knit?”

O’Banyon shrugged. “If they be weaklings.”

“I’m going to pretend we are truly talking about cricket,” said the baroness, and turned with aplomb to a richly attired trio that approached from their left.

“Lord and Lady Batterling,” she greeted.

 Introductions were made all around.

“And this is our lovely daughter,” said the matron. A young woman stepped forward. She had a pleasant face, regal bearing, and a good stone of pearls about her neck. “Eleanore. ‘Tis her first season.”

“Eleanore,” Fleurette greeted but the girl didn’t seem to hear.

“Sir Banyon is it?” she asked, eyes wide as a doe’s in her plump face.

“Aye.” O’Banyon bowed and took her hand. “And never has me name sounded so fair as when spoken from yer lovely—”

But suddenly he noticed a flash of white. He raised his head and caught his breath, for it felt suddenly as if he had been grasped by the throat. Across the ballroom, he glimpsed a flowing, ethereal vision in white—the lady from the dark alley. He knew it somehow. Simply knew. She had appeared and then she’d been gone, like a vision, like an angel. Yet here she was again.

“O’Banyon?” Fleurette said.

Hiltsglen rapped him solidly between the shoulder blades, bearing him smartly back to the present. “Irish, what the devil be wrong with ye?”

O’Banyon realized suddenly they were alone, that the elegant Batterlings were gone, which was odd, because he’d been holding the girl’s hand just moments before. Holding her hand and flirting, but he found that he failed to care. “Who is that?” he asked, peering through the crowd.

“Who?”

“The an…” He caught himself. “The maid in white.”

The baroness craned her neck. Hiltsglen scowled across the heads of the crowd.

“I see no one in white.”

“Might you mean the countess of Colline?” Fleurette asked.

“I dunna ken,” O’Banyon said and not waiting for more information, strode into the crowd.

A flash of white caught his eye again. He moved toward it, drawn in. The lass turned and with her movement, the world seemed to take on a slow richness, a magical cadence. Her face was a pale and perfect cameo against a backdrop of color, her emerald eyes a feline slant as their gazes met.

“Sir O’Banyon. Sir.”

He was tugged from the trance. Two women stood at his elbow. But they seemed strangely vague and nondescript, barely visible in the face of such white-hot intensity.

The world settled unevenly around him.

“Are you well, sir?” asked the nearest of the two.

“Aye.” He drew a careful breath, trying to catch his balance, to focus.

“Are you certain? You don’t look quite yourself.”

“Oh?” He managed a smile. “What then, do I resemble?” And what the devil was this girl’s name?

“I fear our last conversation was cut rather short by my aunt’s untimely chill.”

Rosanna Rutledge. The name came to him on a burst of relief. He never forgot a woman, not her scent, nor her voice, nor the feel of her skin against his. Bowing, he reached for her hand. Only the slightest shiver coursed through him, allowing him to maintain contact, to enjoy the feel of her skin against his. “And how fares Mrs. Murray, lassie?”

Her lips had parted, but for a moment no sound came forth. He realized dimly that he was caressing her knuckles.

“Rosie,” said her friend. “Rosie, I’d like an introduction, if you please.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, of course,” said Rosanna. “Good sir, this is Miss Sophie Pilter.”

He loosed her hand, but found for an instant that it remained clinging to his.

” Tis so good to meet you, sir,” said Sophie. Rosanna moved aside, possibly due to the jab of the other’s elbow in her ribs.

“Sophie,” he said. “A name as comely as yer smile.”

She giggled. He felt the tingle of it in his gut.

“Girls.” Mrs. Murray approached from behind. “I do hope you’re not being wearisome.”

“Wearisome?” He straightened and tried for just an instant to find the lady in white. But she was gone. “Nay indeed. Cold be the day that a rough-haired Irishman be not warmed by a maid’s fair beauty.”

Murray watched him for a prolonged moment, then, “Rosanna dear, I fear I feel a draft. Would you be a love—”

“I brought your shawl with me, auntie,” Rosanna said and dragging it from some unseen source, draped it unceremoniously across the matron’s back.

“Oh, well, aren’t you a dear?” said the other, but her eyes suggested otherwise.

O’Banyon smiled. There was little as exhilarating as a bit of feminine battle centering around him. Indeed, now that he thought on it, he couldn’t think of a single situation that could compare—

A flash of white accompanied a strange spur of sensation in his gut. And for just a moment, for one brief heartbeat, he saw the gleaming apparition again.

He never remembered stepping into the crowd. Never noticed the angry stares of the three women who watched him go, for the light of the white lady blinded him to all else.

Her back was to him, and yet it was as if he could see her face, had already memorized every glowing feature in his mind. He moved toward her as though she were a beacon. She spoke to a tall woman who watched him approach, and yet it seemed almost that he could imagine the white lady’s countenance better than he could envision the one facing him. He concentrated, moved closer until he could all but touch her.

“Lady Anglehill, is it na?” he asked.

The stately woman smiled, and the lady in white turned toward him, her lips lifted in a slight bow, her eyes an unblinking, earth-shattering green.

“Sir O’Banyon,” greeted the countess of Anglehill.

He focused hard, drawing himself from the vision in white. “Me sincerest apologies regarding yer friend,” he said.

She scowled. “And what friend might that be, sir?”

“Hiltsglen’s fair bride,” he said. “I tried me best to distract your Fleurette from the barbaric Scot afore ‘twas too late and she succumbed to his plea of marriage, but alas…” He shrugged.

Lady Anglehill laughed. “Well, if you couldn’t manage it, I’m certain no one could.” She pulled her gaze from his, resting it momentarily on her delicate companion. “I’d like to introduce you to the Right Honorable Countess of Colline. Antoinette, my dear, this is Sir O’Banyon. Some call him the Irish Hound, I believe,” she added, but he barely heard her for the lady’s name was singing in his veins.

Antoinette. He turned slowly toward her, lest the shock be too much for his strangely fragile heart.

Her skin was ivory smooth, her chin was peaked, and her cheekbones high, but it was her eyes that transfixed him. Tilted like an inquisitive cat’s, they were a green so lively, it all but stole his breath.

“Me lady,” he said and prepared to reach for her hand, only to realize that hers were gloved and well occupied. One with a punch glass. One with a fan. “I believe we have already met.”

He waited for her to agree or disagree or speak in any manner. She did not, but watched him in silence.

“Last eventide,” he prompted. “When yer serving girl was set upon by Aldgate brigands.”

The world dredged by in slow motion. She blinked once, her heavy lashes a lush fan over her mesmerizing eyes.

“Surely ye dunna disremember,” he said.

“I fear you are thinking of another,” she said finally.

Her voice, when he first felt it against his quivering senses, titillated him. It was rich and earthy, not at all as he had expected, and drifted through his blood like dark wine, scrambling his thoughts, tilting him off balance.

Pulling her gaze from his, she gave her companion a smooth nod. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Anglehill.”

She was leaving. “Do you say yer lass was not troubled by miscreants just this night past?” he asked.

She stared at him, a sleek tigress with secrets that will not be spilled. “I do not have a
lass
, good sir. And if I did I very much doubt she would be
set upon by Aldgate brigands
, as you say. But I fear I must be off as I promised a dance to Mr. Finnegan.”

O’Banyon watched her walk away from him. Indeed, it may well have been the first time since boyhood that a woman had done so.

It was Lady Anglehill’s laughter that drew him out of his misty quagmire.

“Surprised, Sir O’Banyon?” she asked.

A thousand questions roared through his mind. “Why—” was the best he could come up with.

“I don’t believe she likes you,” said the countess.

“But how—”

“I don’t know actually. I find you rather charming, and I detest everyone.”

“Where—”

“Gone, I believe,” she said and rising onto her toes, strained to gaze above the heads of the swirling mob.

“I—“he began.

“Should go,” she finished.

And he did so, hurrying through the crowd like a smitten pup. But she was gone, vanished. He turned a tight circle, scowling.

“Out the south doors, lad,” rasped a voice.

O’Banyon glanced down. An old man squinted up at him, gnarled hands brown as acorns atop a twisted staff.

Misty memories flitted like fireflies through his mind—the heady fragrance of roses, the gaffer’s distant voice, the dark drape of days beyond count. “Who—”

“Never mind that, now, or you’ll be losin’ her. South doors, white carriage.”

O’Banyon stared.

“Off ye go, boy,” he ordered and O’Banyon went.