Highlander Undone (22 page)

She dimpled. “Are you not afraid I am as competent in dance slippers as I am in skates?”

“Not at all,” he said smoothly. “Should the need arise, I can always carry you.”

His tone was light but his gaze was hot. The tactile memory of his strong arms lifting her effortlessly, his body, hard and warm, pressed against her, flooded her thoughts. He held out his forearm.

“Shall we?”

She placed her gloved hand on his forearm, stunned by the electricity that shivered through her at such casual contact, even through so many layers of cloth.

He clearly felt the attraction, too, for he kept his gaze riveted ahead, escorting her wordlessly through the churning crowd. The lights from the electric sconces, shimmering off his golden hair, touched the scar at his temple. At the ballroom, he took her hand and turned her to face him.

And then they were dancing, swirling in graceful rhythm through a clutch of Cleopatras and Harlequins, Little Bo Peeps and Bonapartes. Jack never looked away from her. His attention was focused entirely on her.

The intensity of his regard made her heart pound madly, out of tempo with the music. She cast about for something to say. Something that would allow her to catch her breath and buy time for the blood to retreat from her overheated cheeks.

“Mr. Wilde is here tonight,” she said.

“Yes?” he murmured.

“Have you ever met him?”

“No.”

“He’s quite a nice man. Very witty.”

“Oh.”

“But he does rather like to tweak society’s cheek. Have you seen what he is dressed as?”

“No.”

“A sunflower.”

He took a misstep. “You are teasing.”

She grinned. “No. He really is. A big yellow and green sunflower with huge, floppy petals ringing his neck.”

Jack threw back his head and laughed. It was a booming sound, relaxed and genuine.

“I would have thought you would seek his acquaintance. Ted says many of your
bons mots
have been pilfered from Mr. Wilde’s plays.” She peeked at him from beneath the fringe of her lashes.

“Ted is right.” There was no apology in his voice. He smiled. “But the very best
bons mots
were mine.”

“Of course,” she said, responding to his good humor. “Still, I am surprised you haven’t sought him out. I can arrange an introduction.”

“That isn’t necessary. I’m sure he’s excellent company. But there is only one person in this room I want to talk to and be with and that is you.”

His voice had grown husky, the flavor of his Scottish accent pronounced. She could not answer the silent demand in his voice with words. Instead, she moved a shade closer to him to bask in his heat, to pretend that the arms so carefully holding her had forgotten restraint and were crushing her against him. With a sigh of pleasure, she let her eyes close and drifted, the music and the sense of being in his embrace working an intoxicating magic on her.

They executed a quick turn and the couple behind them bumped against Jack’s back. He caught her close and she opened her eyes,
surprised by
a strained, hungry expression on Jack’s face.

“We have to leave,” he said tightly, doing nothing to reinvent the proper distance between them.

“But, Jack—”

“I cannot do this any longer. Addie, you have to come with me. Now.” The tension was palpable in the lean body pressed close to her.

She nodded. He let loose the breath he’d been holding and, taking her hand, led her off the dance floor.

“We must thank Lady Merritt before we go, Jack,” she said.

“What? Yes. Yes, of course.” He craned his neck, looking around for their hostess. He shouldered his way through the crowd, drawing her gently after him to Lady Merritt’s side.

Her ladyship smiled vaguely past them, her gaze traveling restlessly over the crowd, searching for someone until, with a start, her gaze swung back to them. She stared in horror at Jack’s garb.

“Jack? How could you?” she demanded in a fierce whisper.

“Could I what, ma’am?”

“Wear . . . that!”

“It was all I had to wear, ma’am.”

Darting quick, displeased looks about her, Lady Merritt leaned forward. “No, no. You don’t understand.
Merritt has returned
. He is to be here. Tonight! He sent a message. Though why he should feel this urgent need to see me after all these years . . .” She trailed off, her cheeks turning a brilliant crimson.

Beside Addie, she saw Jack tense. “My felicitations on your imminent reunion. But what has my great-uncle’s arrival to do with my wardrobe?”

“Don’t be willfully obtuse, Jack.” Lady Merritt’s brows lowered ominously. “You should be dressed differently. As something else entirely. Like a . . . a lily.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You should be dressed in the mode of Mr. Wilde. It’s what I expected. If Merritt sees you dressed as some Highland savage, he’ll assume—It will rob us of the element of surprise! Damn. He’ll be here at any moment.”

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you and that my appearance has proved inconvenient. So you’ll be happy to know that Addie and I are leaving. Now,” Jack said roughly.

“You are?” Lady Merritt’s heavily rouged cheeks fell and she drummed her fingers impatiently against her steel breastplate. “Yes. Yes. I suppose that’s best. We’ll just have to wait until later. Well, Jack, be quick about it! Begone! And wear velvet knee breeches tomorrow.”

With no need for further encouragement, Jack ushered Addie away. Each moment the urgency that drove him seemed to grow. At the front door he barked out an order for her cloak to be fetched and a cab to be called. He waited impatiently, her hand still held tightly in his, only relinquishing his hold to wrap her tenderly in the thick, velvet folds of the cloak before leading her to the waiting carriage.

In the dark interior of the cab, he settled her on the overstuffed leather seats. His face was turned and she indulged herself by studying his fallen-angel profile: the firm cut of his lip, the strong line of jaw and throat, the high slant of cheekbone, and the intriguing bump on his formidable nose. He caught her looking, turning suddenly so that their eyes locked. Without volition she swayed forward, wanting to test the texture of his lips. His jaw snapped shut and his throat worked. With a strangled sound, he dropped into the seat opposite her.

Without hesitation, Addie crossed the short span of the carriage and settled in next to him, snuggling close. Their breath, in the chill, dim interior of the hansom, mingled like phantom spirits. He groaned. She smiled. What chance did his noble intentions stand? She was, after all, the woman he loved.

I
t was going to take far too long to reach Addie’s townhouse, but then five minutes would have been too long. He couldn’t speak here, now. It wouldn’t be fair to confess his duplicity where she could not send him away. And regardless of all his hopes, that was exactly what he expected her to do.

But the warmth and weight of her body nestled intimately against him; the cool silken texture of her hair on his cheek was undoing his best intentions.

It was more than a physical craving: He wanted all of her. Forever. The self-confidence that had been growing in her for months had burst into full bloom tonight. Open and warm, brave and canny, exuberant and more than a shade mischievous, she was absolutely irresistible.

He’d watched her deal with Paul Sherville, hovering in case he’d spied any sign of distress. There had been none. She had been poised and disdainful.

Her new-sprung certainty was playing havoc with his heart and soul. She had the manner of a woman who knew she was loved. Her eyes glowed, her laughter was infectious, and when her hand sought his, it was without hesitation, eroding his principles.

His fingertips betrayed his honor, turning her hand over and tracing patterns on her palm. She laid her head on his shoulder, rubbing her cheek against the wool fabric covering his chest.

“Am I shameless?”

“Aye. Shameless.”

“And you are a fake!” she chuckled.

His body, already strung tight, went rigid. She didn’t seem to notice, because she went on in her husky, mellow voice. “You play at being one of John Ruskin’s followers, and I have heard you rather vigorously defend women’s suffrage, yet you resist the concept of”—here her head dipped lower on his chest—“free love.”

“There is no such thing as free love, Addie,” he muttered, brushing his lips against her temple. “Good God, it is anything but free.”

She angled her head to look up at him, her hand creeping up to his neck. “Semantics,” she whispered. “I am just trying to reassure you. I want you to make love to me. That is what you want, too.”

His laugh was tinged with desperation. “Oh, yes. I want. God knows. But you—”

“You have always respected my intelligence, my right to make my own choices. Will you gainsay me now?”

“Lord, Addie. Just a few miles more, a quarter of an hour, and I’ll stand—or fall—before any choice you make.”

“A quarter of an hour? At my home?” She smiled, delighted, and tugged his head down toward hers. When he resisted, she frowned. “Won’t you kiss me, Jack?”

A kiss. Perhaps the last kiss he would have from her?

In answer, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap. The cashmere blanket bundled around their legs as he crushed her against him, finding her mouth. She opened her lips for him, sweetly, hungrily.

Her lips were heated and her cheeks were chilled and he kissed her as though he would never stop kissing her: warm, deep, wet kisses. He held her face between both hands as he kissed her and she wriggled on his lap, twining her arms about him, sighing softly into his mouth, touching him, stroking him.

He didn’t know how long he would have kissed her thus. Time seemed to slip by in a sensual rush, longing and gratification hopelessly commingled. But the cabby was suddenly pounding on the top of the carriage and from the sound of it, had been doing so for some minutes.

Gently, Jack lifted her from his lap, taking a second to brush a loose strand of mahogany-colored hair from her eyes before opening the door. He leapt out and tossed the grumbling man a half crown, then turned.

Addie stood at the doorway, her eyes languid and content, her skin rosy beneath the lantern’s light. He lifted his hands and she came to him with such grace, such trust, it nearly broke his heart. He clasped her narrow waist and lifted her to the ground, holding her against him for too brief a second.

“We’re home,” Addie said happily.

“Yes.” The dread and hopelessness that only her touch had kept at bay returned in full force. With leaden feet, he escorted her to the front door.

“I don’t have a footman, just Partridge, and he’s waiting for Ted at the Merritts’,” Addie said in answer to his silent query. “I told the housekeeper to take the night off. The parlor maid is gone, visiting her sister.”

“What a democratic employer you are.”

“It’s de rigueur in artistic spheres to cosset one’s servants.” She hesitated. “But then, of course, you know that.” Ted was right; at some level, Addie knew he was a fraud. She just refused to acknowledge his duplicity.

He took a deep breath, unlocking the door and pushing it open. He followed her in, the click of the closing door echoing in the silent, dark hallway.

“Won’t you please wait for me in the sitting room?” she asked, the sweet touch of formality in her voice the only thing betraying any uneasiness. She slipped her cloak from her shoulders and tossed it onto a table. “There is some brandy, upstairs in Ted’s studio. I’ll be down directly.”

He nodded, watching what little light there was catch and release the shimmering embroidery on her gown as she hurried up the stairs.

No battle he’d ever been about to join had ever caused him so much anxiety. He steeled himself, heading into the room she’d indicated and looking around. Addie’s hand was evident everywhere.

The sitting room was done up in burnished bronze and pale peony pink, bare of all accouterments save those that were comfortable and pleasing to the eye. There was a deep bronze and shell-pink striped divan set between two armchairs. A single parquetted table held an enormous glass bowl stuffed with huge pink hothouse tulips.

He picked up the book that lay open on one simple mahogany end table.
É
mile Zola.

Such literature, he thought with renewed despair, could only confirm Addie’s lessons about male brutality. And now he would teach her another lesson, this one about male duplicity. He set the book down, raking his hand through his hair.

He stalked back across the room, heading for the hallway and the confrontation he knew would end in his permanent banishment. Why wait here? Why not save himself some steps?

He had just entered the hallway when he heard her scream.

J
ack vaulted up the stairs as Addie’s scream was abruptly choked off. At the top, he snatched the
sgian-dubh
from its sheath and sprinted toward the open door to Ted’s studio.

And stopped.

Two men were in the room: One, short and stocky with slack lips and beetling brows, held Addie, a beefy arm wrapped around her throat, his dirty paw covering her mouth. Above the gag of his hand, Addie’s eyes were wide with terror. The other man was younger, wiry, with pomaded hair and quivering with rabid intensity. Jack spared him no more than a glance.

“Any move, gov, and I snap ’er pretty neck,” the man holding Addie said. “Now, puts down the sticker and we’ll all make nice.”

“Let her go.”

“Not bloody likely. We’ll just get what we come for and maybe a few mementos of Her Ladyship here and then we’ll see about leaving. Now, put down the knife before someone gets hurt!” For emphasis, he yanked his arm tighter around Addie’s neck. Tears sprang to her eyes as she stared at Jack in mute appeal.

“Stop!” Jack barked, dropping the blade and kicking it a few feet in front of him. “It’s dropped. Now let her go!”

“Pick it up, Joey,” the heavy man ordered. The skinny younger man darted forward and scooped up the blade. Smirking, he feinted the deadly blade at Jack’s belly, laughing as the razor-sharp steel slashed through his plaid.

Jack ignored him, his attention riveted on the man holding Addie.

“There’s no one else in the house,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory. “She could scream bloody murder and no one would hear. There’s no reason to hold your hand over her mouth. Let her breathe.”

“Maybe I likes the feeling of her kissing me palm.” The heavy man snickered.

“You said no one would get hurt.”

“Well now, I ain’t never been known for me truthful ways. And it appears Joey has taken a dislike to you, gov,” the beefy man said. Joey nodded in menacing agreement and proceeded to flicker the dirk closer and closer to Jack’s throat. “Seems you might get hurt.”

Addie’s muffled cry cut him more sharply than any blade could have done.

“Tha’s right,” mumbled Joey. “Bad hurt. I don’t like namby-pamby boys. Specially ones what wears skirts.”

“That ain’t no skirt, Joey. That be a kilt. Scots regiments wear ’em. You know that!”

“I say it’s a skirt, Hal! And lookit ’is hair! Ain’t it pretty?” Joey moved closer and flicked Jack’s hair back with the blade, scoring his
cheek in the process. “Any man wears a skirt like that doesn’t have the
right to call himself a man.” An evil grin slowly spread across his vulpine
face. “If he is a man. Maybe we oughta have a look?”

“Ow!” With an oath, Hal snatched his hand away from Addie’s mouth.

She took advantage of her sudden freedom, dropping heavily to
her knees. In that instant, Jack seized Joey’s forearm and yanked it sav
agely behind him, hearing it break with an audible crack. Joey howled
in agony and Jack snatched the blade from him, wheeling about in time to see the beefy man raise one huge hand to strike Addie.

“Bitch.” His fist swung down toward her unprotected head.

“No!” Jack’s bellow reverberated through the room as the dirk flew from his nerveless hand, impaling itself in the meat of the man’s shoulder.

Jack followed the blade’s trajectory, launching himself across the room and hitting the man low in the gut. Together they fell, crashing into the floorboards.

Jack twisted, pulling Hal beneath him and straddling his thick chest. He thrust his knee into Hal’s throat to hold him down so he could pummel the face of the animal who’d threatened Addie—something crashed into his injured shoulder and lights of pain rocketed across his vision.

He fell sideways, half off Hal, dazed. Joey held the broken leg of a chair in his good hand, waving the makeshift cudgel threateningly. Until he saw Jack’s eyes. He backed away.

Hal took advantage of the brief distraction, knocking Jack the rest of the way off of him, kicking him in the gut before climbing to his feet, the blade still buried in his filthy shirt.

“Knocker it, Joey!” Hal shouted, clawing the blade free. It fell, staining the carpet with blood.

The scrawny youth was already gone, leaving his mate to bolt after him.

Jack lurched heavily onto all fours, his head lolling forward, gasping for air. Addie could have been hurt. She might have—

A hand touched him. With a roar, he surged to his feet, seizing the wrist on his shoulder and dragging his assailant around—

He held Addie’s wrist in a death grip. She crouched at his feet, her elegant coiffure tumbled down her back, the strap of her gown fallen from one shoulder. She stared up at him, amber eyes stark in her pale face.

“Addie!” He fell to his knees beside her, lifting her upper arms, trying to read her expression. “Are you hurt?” He gave her a little shake. “Are you hurt?”

“You fought him,” she whispered incredulously. “You threw that blade like an expert. Oh, God! You are an expert, aren’t you?”

“Addie—”

“Answer me.” She didn’t wait but continued speaking in a low, bleak voice. “You aren’t an artist or a craftsman or even a dilettante. That uniform. It isn’t a costume; it’s yours. You’re a soldier.”

“Addie, I tried to tell you.”

“You’re a soldier. Like Charles.” She twisted free of his grip, sinking to the floor, crumpling beneath the weight of her emotions like an orchid in a deluge. “You lied to me. To all of us.”

“Please!” The word was torn from his mouth, echoing in his heart, his soul. “For God’s sake, Addie, listen to me. Please.”

“Please?” A sudden thought occurred to her and she slowly straightened, horror replacing the pitiable desolation in her eyes. “Did you know Charles?”

“Addie, you have to let me explain,” he begged.

“Did he get drunk some night and tell you about what he did to me? About how much I hated him and what he did? Did he tell you about the inheritance I would come into? Was that the inspiration for your charade?” Her voice had risen.

“No, Addie. I never met Hoodless. I knew nothing about you before I came to my uncle’s house. This has nothing to do with your inheritance.”

“Oh, God. Jack, how could you?” The anger broke for a second, revealing the anguish beneath it.

“I felt I had no choice.”

“No choice?” Her expression had taken on a dazed quality. “No choice,” she repeated forlornly. With each passing moment, she was being lost to him.

“I am a captain in the Gordon Highlanders. Was a captain,” he
amended. “I was injured and sent to Gate Hall’s dowager house to
convalesce. But just before I was injured, I received information about
a traitor in the Black Dragoons. I had to try and find him, and I
knew
making queries as an officer would put the traitor on his guard.

“Then I overheard Lady Merritt talking about your brother having received the commissions to paint the Black Dragoons officers and I formed a plan. In the relaxed atmosphere of your brother’s studio, as an inconsequential artist hanging about the fringes, I would be invisible and thus privy to the confidences men exchange in unguarded moments. I thought in that way I might discover some clue as to the traitor’s identity. So I could avenge the men he betrayed.

“It was my duty, Addie. My obligation to those men who died or were hurt because of this officer’s treachery. As God as my witness, Addie, I did not mean for you to be involved!”

A burble of hysterical laughter struggled free from her throat. She bit it back, staring about her wildly.

“I love you, Addie. You have to believe that. I know this is appalling. That you feel betrayed—”

“Yes!”

“Listen to me, Addie! I never meant to hurt you—”

“Too late!”

It was true. All he could think to do was reassure her about tonight’s threat. “I know you don’t think you can forgive me now, Addie, but at least let me assure you that you have nothing to fear from those men. I will never let anything hurt you again. I’ll do whatever is necessary, everything in my power to protect you. I’d give my life—”

“No!” The passionate denial erupted from her lips. She stared down at him, panting and wild-eyed. “Take it back! I don’t want your death or your blood!” she cried. “Take it back!”

But he couldn’t.

“How can I? Anything, anyone who threatens you, Addie, is not safe from me.”

“And me? Am I safe from you? What happens when you decide my own judgment threatens me?” she asked hoarsely. “Maybe it begins with a horse you decide isn’t safe for me to ride, or a carriage that you deem sprung too high. You’d keep me from those? Because they ‘threaten’ me!”

It wasn’t what he meant. But she was relating a history she’d never spoken of before.

“I’m not Charles.”

She ignored him. “Sooner or later, I take what you consider one too many drinks, or a brother’s behavior ‘taints’ my reputation, or you say a pet dog bared his teeth. And drink is banned, the brother eschewed, the dog destroyed. And then what is left? Nothing but the endless waiting. To see what next you might take from me.”

“Addie—”

“I don’t want your protection.”

“Addie. I love you.” He had only one other weapon to use in the battle for her heart, one thing more. He used it now. “And you love me.”

She did not deny it. She simply closed her eyes while a single tear raced down her white cheek.

“Addie, you love me.”

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at him. “I loved him, too.”

He took her words like a physical blow, lifting his head to face her scorn full on.

She met his gaze, quivering, implacable. “Stupid heart,” she said bitterly. “Twice deceived. Ignorant, callow organ. But I won’t be ruled aga
in by its destructive blindness. No. Twice deceived but not twice destroyed.”

“I am not Charles. I will—”

“You will go!” she said. “If you have any portion of the affection for me you claim, you’ll leave. Now!”

“Addie, I can’t. Those men may come back!”

“Go,” she sobbed, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking. “Oh, Jack,” and now she was begging him, “please go.”

He longed to gather her to him and cradle her in his arms and convince her of his love, but he could not force her.

And so, weary and despairing, he left.

Four hours later, Ted climbed out of the carriage and started up the steps. Jack, abandoning his post in the deep shadows of the alleyway, called out.

“Cameron, what are you doing out here?”

“Two men. Thieves, I think. They were in the house when we arrived.”

“Is Addie all right?” he demanded urgently.

“She wasn’t injured.”

“Where is she?”

“Inside. I think . . . she’s asleep. Her light went out an hour ago.”

Ted peered through the mist at him. “Good God, man. Were you hurt? You look awful!”

“I’m fine. I just didn’t want to take the chance that they might return. I’m not sure . . . Something one of them said. They might be more than simple cracksmen.”

“Why the hell didn’t you stay inside?”

“Couldn’t. She wouldn’t . . . I have to go. I might be able to find out who . . . if . . .” He knew he was barely coherent, but he’d had four hours to stand in the bleakness of a London midnight, each minute an isolated instance of loss, an interminable reminder that he had forfeited an irreplaceable love.

Only his resolve to find out who threatened Addie offered any solace. “I have to go.”