Tempting the Wolf (8 page)

“Ahh…” The boy looked pained. “Sorrel, you say. Well…” He glanced in the direction his companion must have taken. “Master Edwards wanted his gelding brought ‘round soon. ‘Praps I should—”

“What the devil’s wrong with you, boy? Fetch—”

O’Banyon cleared his throat. “Southren, is it?” The boy flitted his gaze to him and away. His hair was as red as a sunrise. Freckles stood out in bold relief against his pale skin.

“Aye, my lord.”

O’Banyon nodded. “Tell me, lad, did she tear the flesh?”

The old man looked bemused.

The boy glanced toward his employer and back. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir. But she near took my head off.”

“Bite ye, did she?”

“Kicked. Both hinds. She’s God awful fast for such a whale of a beast.”

“Aye.” O’Banyon sighed. “She is that. Fetch me a shank will ye, lad, I’ll see to her meself.”

The boy nodded gratefully and disappeared into a nearby room. He was back in an instant, bearing the leather strap like another might carry a serpent.

O’Banyon took it from him, then marched down the aisle toward the last stall. The Dutch doors were closed. He opened the top one and peered inside.

Luci stood with her tail toward the door. Bending her heavy-crested neck, she gazed at her would-be master through a forelock that reached the curling summit of her nostrils. O’Banyon had at first thought the long, golden foretop made her comely and coy. And perhaps at times it still did, but mostly she appeared malevolent and maybe demonic. Following their second fateful ride together, while waiting for his wounds to heal, he had named her Lucifer. But her shifting moods had assured him of her sex. Luci she remained.

“I hear ye be causing trouble again, lass,” he rumbled, testing the waters. ‘Twas best not to take too much for granted until he’d determined her current mood.

The animal switched her tail with slow disinterest and cocked a gigantic hip. Her hide glistened red-gold and healthy from the light through unshuttered window.

Down the aisle, the second lad had reappeared on timid feet. The three hostlers were absolutely silent.

O’Banyon gave them a grin. “Latch the door behind me,” he ordered. “And if I be yet alive when she’s done with me, fetch a priest to read me me last rites,” he said and stepped into the stall.

In the aisle, Southren rushed to close the door. Then the threesome remained perfectly still, listening. Inside the stall, something hit the wall like a loosed battering ram. Southren jumped back. The mare screamed. A feral growl answered. Another blast shook the stable. There was the sound of rustling straw. Hooves struck the floor, rattling the very earth beneath their feet. And then silence.

The trio glanced at each other and shuffled forward a few tremulous steps. Inside the stall, nothing stirred.

“Are you quite well, my lord?” called the old man. “Or shall I fetch the priest?”

No one answered. The boys glanced at each other, breath held.

“My lord?” he called again.

“Aye,” came the growled response.

More glances were exchanged. More breath was held.

“Aye, you are well, or aye, I should fetch a—”

A growl sounded again.

Bailey swallowed. The old man crossed himself.

“Good sir?”

Silence echoed like thunder around them. Reaching carefully forward, the gaffer unlatched the top door, then stepped cautiously back.

“All is well,” O’Banyon said, appearing in the doorway. His hair was standing a bit on end and his eyes held a strange glow, but otherwise he seemed quite whole. He smiled. “I need but a moment to calm her.”

They blinked at him. “Right sir. Of course, sir.” The old man bobbed a nod. “Shall I have Bailey fetch your saddle, sir?”

“That would be much appreciated,” O’Banyon said and swung the door closed again. “Methinks she missed me.”

***

Near an hour had passed before the mare was saddled and O’Banyon threw the stall doors wide, but all three horsemen still remained, industriously scrubbing at tack that already gleamed with cleanliness.

The Irishman grinned as he led the cantankerous mare down the aisle. The steed’s iron-shod hooves met the cobbles like the slow, heavy strike of a smithy’s hammer. “There be times when wee Luci here can be a mite fractious,” he said. “But she’ll na harm ye.”

“Of course, my lord,” said the old man.

“Unless ye come within striking distance,” Banyon added, and leading the beast into the open air, slipped the reins over her head. The sorrel shifted an evil eye toward him.

O’Banyon growled. Luci flipped her tail and turned away, casual as a turnip. “Good day to ye,” Banyon said, and mounting, reined the mare onto the thoroughfare.

Hacks clip-clopped past. Luci pinned back her oversized ears and shook her head.

An open curricle spun by. Two identical young women, dressed in identical gowns, with identical expressions of glee, sat across from a scowling matron. They giggled and whispered something behind their identical ivory fans. O’Banyon gave them a grin and a truncated bow.

Borough Market’s costermongers were in full cry. Milkmaids ambled by with placid cows. Tradesmen hawked every conceivable skill. Baked apples and jellied eels were sold in concert with ice blocks and live rabbits.

But O’Banyon soon left the hustle and bump of prosperous London behind. East End looked different in the light of day, but he had no trouble finding the hovel where the countess had stopped just the night before.

Issuing a terse warning, he dismounted distractedly and led the moody mare to the door. The portal was warped and slanted, set askance on bent hinges. He rapped once and waited. Down the street, a boy appeared, eyes wide in his dirty face.

“Lad,” he called. “Might ye tell me who lives here?”

The child remained frozen for an instant, then turned and ran, dirty feet flying beneath tattered breeches.

O’Banyon rapped again. Footsteps sounded from within, and finally the door opened on rusty hinges. An old woman stood there, bent and gnarled.

“Yer pardon, mistress,” he said, “I believe an acquaintance of mine was here last eventide.”

The old woman gave a jerk of her head, eyes bloodshot and beady in her creased face. “And who might you be?”

He gave her a bow. “Me name be O’Banyon, lass, of the fighting Irish. ‘Tis pleased I am to meet ye. Do I have the proper house? Did a lady come by during the night just past? She is—”

” ‘E’s dead,” she croaked.

O’Banyon felt the air escape his lungs. “Yer pardon, mistress.”

“Cush is dead. Dead and gone. She’ll get nothing more from ‘im,” she said and closed the door in his face.

O’Banyon strode down the uneven street toward the livery. The stately stores that lined Cavendish Square were placid compared to the bustling open shops of Borough Market, but his mind was still whirling. What the devil was happening? Why had the countess visited the hovel in East End? What had she done there? He’d spent a poor night wondering just that… and dreaming, dreaming of an ethereal lass with sable-dark hair and fairy-green eyes. But well before dawn the apparition had changed into something horrible and beautiful. Something he could not fight, could not hope to conquer. And yet he
had
fought, had battled as if his very soul were at risk. For indeed, it was. He’d awakened in a cold sweat, breath rattling in his lungs, fingers clinging to his scattered bed sheets.

It had taken him some time to calm his charging senses and realize all was well. He was whole. He was free, not forever trapped in ancient stone and misty shadows. Not doomed to an eternity of nothingness. But neither was he in his own time and place.

Hiltsglen had been given a mission, a quest to right a supposed wrong done centuries past. And that quest had drawn him unscathed from dark curses cast long ago.

But what of himself?

Rising from bed, he had prowled the confines of his townhouse, his mind racing.

Some hours later, striding past a plumassier’s shop, he was still plagued with questions.

Why was he here? Oh, aye, he knew why he had been cursed; no woman likes to be turned aside— especially if she is powerful and vain and the
only
maid he had ever refused. Indeed, he knew why he had been
twice
cursed—bad luck there. He should not have been so close to Hiltsglen when the dark master sought revenge for the Celt’s betrayal.

But why had he arisen from the darkness precisely when he had? Was his awakening simply in concert with Hiltsglen’s quest, or had he too been appointed a task?

And what of the white countess? Why did she travel alone to dark sections of the city only to leave death behind? And why did she avoid his touch? ‘Twas unnatural. Oh aye, some would have said
he
was unnatural. Indeed,
all
would have said he was unnatural if they knew the truth of his strange double life, but even so, maids were still drawn to him.

Why was she not? Why—

Might she be the reason he had been called to the here and now? Black magic had brought him here. Mayhap it was his task to see that that same sorcery never harmed another. Could
she
be the quest? Might he have been brought here to prevent some terrible evil?

Perhaps her bonny face hid a black soul. It had happened aplenty in years past. Indeed, he thought, but his troubled musings skittered to a halt as a narrow wisp of a girl flitted down the stone-laid walkway. Her frock was ragged, and a stubborn streak of dirt marred her cheek, but her eyes were gleaming as she slowed beside a nearby carriage. Stepping onto the busy thoroughfare, she approached the dark cob hitched to the conveyance, then opened her tiny hand to expose a plump root.

The mare tilted her elegant head to gaze at the girl from behind rectangular blinkers then nipped the fat tuber from her shrinking palm. The child wrinkled her turned-up nose, and it was not until that moment that O’Banyon was sure of her identity, for none but wee Sibylla made him smile just to look at her.

“Lass,” he called, keeping his distance lest she shy away.

She glanced up, startled, and stepped closer to the mare.

O’Banyon winced. “Ye must na stand too near the steed, lass,” he warned. “It may strike out.”

She blinked, eyes wide in her gamin face, one hand curled tight in the mare’s black mane. It was then that he noticed her bare toes, curled only inches from the horse’s iron-shod hooves.

“Careful lass,” he warned, but in that moment, the animal turned and lapped the girl’s cheek with her tongue.

Lifting one tiny shoulder, Sibylla giggled, and it was that noise, that sunny ray of glee that stopped him in his tracks, for it was the very essence of unfettered happiness.

Worries crept a little further toward the back of his mind. ‘Twas difficult to fret in the light of such a wee pixie’s joy. “I’ve rare seen such houndish affection in a steed,” he admitted, “but still, ye must be cautious, lass. The beastie may yet misstep and land on yer feet.” He strode forward to whisk her from harm’s way, but in that instant, the girl shimmied sideways. Grasping the mare’s hame with grubby fingers, she hooked her toes atop the wooden shaft and scrambled upward. In less than a heartbeat, she was perched atop the animal’s back like a Moroccan’s pet monkey, her scathed, knobby knees just visible beneath her rumpled hem. Her hair was knotted and her gown rent, exposing one skinny arm. And yet, despite her shabby appearance, she looked, he thought, just as he imagined a wee fairy might, bright eyes gleaming with mischief and hair… well… instead of being adorned with fair blossoms, there seemed to be a twig sticking out at a jaunty angle. Strangely, it made her only more appealing to an Irish rogue so far from home. Indeed, it made his chest ache at the beguiling sight of her.

“Or mayhap ye’ll trod on her toes,” he said and gave her a tilted smile. “Tell me yer tricks, wee one, for I’ve a surly mount yonder what needs a firmer hand than me own.” He nodded toward Luci, who flipped her flaxen tail in irritable agreement. “If I feed her plump roots from me hand do ye think she will lap me cheek like a much-loved pup?”

The girl’s eyes were round when she shifted her gaze to his fractious destrier, rounder still when she turned back to O’Banyon with a slow shake of her elfin head.

He grinned. “Mayhap ye be right. I shall save the treats and me fingers with them. And methinks I shall retain the charm I wear just to be safe.”

She blinked at him, uncertain.

“Ye see,” he said, raising his arm to show the braided horsehair that encircled his wrist. “I have crafted a circlet from her tail.”

The girl’s eyes got rounder still as she stared at the simple bracelet.

“She be the fiercest beastie I know. It seems but wise to keep a bit of her power on me own person.”

Sibylla rubbed her own tiny wrist.

” ‘Tis clear though that ye’ve already harnessed the power of the steed,” he said, indicating her sturdy perch. “But tell me, lass, do ye oft venture into Londontowne of yer own accord?”

Her toes curled, finding a firm resting place above the tug buckle. Her cherub’s mouth hitched up a notch. She shook her head.

“Nay? So this be a rarity,” he said as if musing. “Mayhap ye have run short of pipe tobacco and have come hither to—”