Lady of Seduction (16 page)

Their connection felt deeper than before, and the pleasure of that knowledge washed over her like a hot, engulfing wave. He
tilted his hips for a better fit, and she rose up and slid down, again and again. She found the rhythm she sought, and he
found it with her. She rode him harder and harder until that now familiar burst of orgasm broke over her and made her cry
out.

He shouted out incoherent words mingled with her name, his arms pulling the bonds taut. Caroline collapsed on top of him as
she struggled to breathe. The air was humid and heavy with their lovemaking and with the aftermath of the storm, both so elemental
and unstoppable.

“You’re right,” Grant said hoarsely. “Belonging to you would not be so terrible, if
this
is what that means.”

Caroline slowly raised herself up to stare down at him. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving as if he, too, couldn’t catch
his breath. He was vulnerable to her now, as she was always so vulnerable to him.

She leaned over him and held on to his bound wrists. “Grant,” she whispered, “tell me why those Frenchmen are really here.”

She felt his relaxed body grow tense. His eyes opened, and he looked up at her with a glittering stare.

“This hardly seems the moment to talk about them,” he said. “Aren’t we supposed to be murmuring endearments to each other?”

Caroline shook his hands in frustration. “There’s no time for that now! Morning will be here soon, and I’ll have to see LaPlace
and the others.”

His lips tightened. “You could stay in here, like I told you in the first place.”

“That won’t work now, if it ever would have. They
know I’m here, and LaPlace doesn’t seem like a man to give up—no matter how
jealous
you are.”

“Oh, and I am very jealous indeed, Caro my dear, as you’ve found out.” He flexed his body against hers suggestively and laughed
when she moved away.

She caught his shirt up off the floor and pulled it over her head before turning back to face him. The soft linen folds fell
around her body, and she stuffed her feet into her slippers. “Are you in some kind of trouble?” she asked. “Do you owe these
people something?”

“Not exactly.” Grant sighed and added, “Can you possibly see your way clear to untying me? This is not the best position from
which to converse.”

Caroline nodded. “If you won’t run away and lock me in again.”

“I doubt I could
ever
run away from you,
gaolach
, no matter how hard I try,” he said ruefully. “And obviously locking you in does no good.”

She untied the bonds with difficulty, as their strenuous activity had pulled the knots tight. Once free, he found his breeches
and put them on. Rubbing his wrists, he sat down beside her on the edge of the bed.

“You won’t like it,” he said.

“I think I can safely anticipate that you’re right about that. But I want to know anyway. I’m already involved, so surely
I would be safer if I knew.”
If
his goal was indeed to keep her safe, as he said. She could never tell what he was really about.

Grant gave a brusque nod. “Very well. The vicomte is here to try and buy
The Chronicle of Kildare.
”

“What!” Caroline did not expect that. LaPlace and his glowering kinsman Michel, not to mention the glamorous
mademoiselle, hardly seemed the scholarly sorts. The vicomte, while certainly interesting and charming, seemed too quiet and
sickly to be the true reason for this visit. And he had not been in the library with Grant when she overheard the snatches
of their conversation.

But when would she ever remember the hard lessons learned in the past? Appearances meant less than nothing. The truth was
always hidden.

“Surely you have guessed in your conversation with him,” Grant said. “His father was the French nobleman who once owned one
of the three copies of
The Chronicle,
until his library was destroyed and he was sent to the guillotine.”

“Yes,” Caroline answered, remembering her talk with the vicomte after dinner. “He did say he was trying to rebuild his family’s
library.”

“
The Chronicle
was a great treasure of the collection, or so the vicomte says. He is willing to pay a very high price for it and claimed
he could not wait any longer.”

Caroline jumped off the bed and spun around to face him, her hands planted on her hips. “You cannot sell it!”

Grant shrugged. That blank, cold look that she hated was in his eyes again. “I have many responsibilities, Caroline.”

“But
The Chronicle
is Ireland’s treasure. It must stay here in Ireland.” Appalled that he could even think of selling that book, which stood
for so very much more than old vellum and ink, she took a step toward him. “It is your heritage.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “Not mine, I fear. When my uncle turned my mother away from Adair Court, he said that in marrying
a wastrel Englishman she had made her choice, and my choice, too. She turned her back on
her Irish Catholic family and everything they stood for, fought for. And they turned their backs on her. So surely Kildare
is not
my
heritage.”

Caroline shook her head. In his old life, Grant had professed not to care about the McTeer family, indeed to hate them so
much he tried to destroy them. He lived his life as an Ascendancy gentleman, more English than Irish.

But she had seen his library. She had looked at his books on Ireland and had seen how they were well-read and lovingly cared
for. Grant lived on this rugged island amid Irish fishermen. Surely that all meant something? Surely he could never completely
abandon his identity with the land, just as she never could?

Her sisters had fought for Ireland, and she fought now to record and save its histories and precious stories.
The Chronicle
was such a part of that—it couldn’t be lost. Grant couldn’t be lost.

She carefully studied his face, but he gave away not a hint of his emotions.

“If you do need money,” she said slowly, “perhaps you could sell the book to Conlan.”

“I doubt my dear cousin could pay what the vicomte offers,” Grant said. “Plus that would entail him dealing with
me,
which I am sure he would never do.”

“Then you could sell it to me!” she cried. “I have some money of my own from my marriage settlement, and I could raise more.
You can’t let
The Chronicle
leave Ireland, Grant!”

He caught her hands in his and pulled her against his chest. She fought at first, too furious to accept the touch she had
craved so much before. But he held on, gentle but implacable, and she went still. She had to calm down if
she was to make him see. Her emotions, so distant from the rest of her life, always got the better of her with him.

“How do you know the book wouldn’t be safer away from here?” he said. “The vicomte would care for it, and it couldn’t hurt
anyone there.”

Caroline shook her head, baffled. “How can it possibly hurt anyone?”

“Oh, Caro. If you only knew…”

A terrible scream echoed outside the chamber, shrill and full of raw panic. Grant’s arms tightened around her, and his head
went up. There was another scream and another, coming closer.

“Fire!” a woman cried. “Fire!”

“Mollaght,”
Grant muttered.

Caroline looked up at him, remembering the flames that destroyed his face and forced him out of her life all those years ago.
Was it happening all over again?

He suddenly let her go. He caught up her dressing gown from where she left it on a chair and tossed it to her. As she wrapped
it around her body, the noise outside grew louder. French words, full of confusion, were loud and insistent.

Grant quickly put on his boots and slid his coat over his bare chest before grabbing her hand. “Stay close to me,” he said,
and threw open the chamber door.

LaPlace and Mademoiselle Victorine were out on the landing, along with a few of the servants, but Monsieur Michel and the
vicomte were nowhere to be seen. Maeve had collapsed on the steps, sobbing into her apron. Her cap was gone, and her pale
red hair was tangled on her shoulders, her dress damp and streaked with soot.

When she looked up and saw Grant, she let out a wail. “I saw smoke, sir! Clouds and clouds of it.”

“Where?” Grant said tersely.

“At the bottom of the old tower. Monsieur Michel sent me to fetch more coal for the lady’s fireplace, and I had to pass outside
on the walkway. It was coming through the arrow slits.”

“That’s not possible,” Grant said. “No one goes there.”

“It was the ghost!” Maeve sobbed.

Grant turned to one of the footmen who hovered nearby and said quickly, “You get the others together and organize a bucket
brigade as fast as you can. Make sure everyone stays far away from the tower.”

“Oh, we will die here in this terrible place,” Victorine moaned. “I knew we should not come!
Mon dieu.
”

Victorine fell into LaPlace’s arms as she started to cry, and he absently patted her shoulder. His celestial blue eyes glittered
with excitement at the prospect of destruction, or so it seemed to Caroline. Probably being sent on a voyage to fetch a book,
however perilous, hadn’t been interesting enough for him. A fire promised to liven things up.

But Caroline couldn’t shake away the memories of the warehouse, the sizzling heat of the flames licking at her heels, the
acrid stink of smoke in her throat. The horrible crash as the roof caved in—with Grant beneath it. She never wanted to see
such a thing again.

“Don’t worry, mademoiselle,” Grant said. “These old stones are thick, and the rains will quickly extinguish any flames. If
there’s really a fire at all.” He turned to Maeve. “Maeve, go tell Mrs. McCann what is happening and have her ring the bell.
She’ll know what to do after. And take Mademoiselle Victorine with you. The kitchens are far from the tower; she’ll be safer
there.”

Given a firm order, Maeve was able to collect herself,
and she nodded as she rose to her feet. “Yes, sir. Follow me please, miss.”

Mademoiselle Victorine, to Caroline’s surprise, meekly went along with Maeve. Her thin white silk robe, trimmed with fur and
swansdown, trailed behind her like she was the ghost.

Grant glanced at Caroline and said, “I suppose it’s no use asking you to go with them.”

Caroline shook her head. “I won’t be in the way. I’m useful in a fire, remember?”

“Unfortunately I do.”

I
t was the ghost.

The maid’s fearful wail echoed in Grant’s mind, but he was quite sure she was wrong. Whatever havoc was afoot on Muirin Inish
tonight was entirely man-made.

No one spoke as they made their way down the narrow, dark halls of the oldest part of the castle, and yet he was achingly
aware of Caroline directly behind him. He heard every breath she drew, every swish of her dressing gown, the slosh of water
in the buckets they carried. He had seen the flash of fear in her eyes as she remembered that terrible night in Dublin, but
she had quickly collected herself and followed him.

His Irish warrior-ess. Fear never stopped her. And that was the thing about her he admired most—except for her gorgeous long
legs, of course. She would stop at nothing to find out the rest of the half-truth he told her.

He couldn’t think about that now, though. He had to stop the castle from burning down around their ears. The servants fetching
buckets weren’t enough.

As they approached the tower, the smell of smoke grew
sharper, and he could hear the crackle of flames mix with the clatter of rain on the ancient stones.

“Stay back,” he ordered Caroline, and tested the thick planks of the door that led from the end of the corridor into the base
of the tower. They weren’t hot and neither was the heavy lock, but it
was
unlocked, which it was never supposed to be. He had the only key.

He opened the door, and a cloud of thick gray smoke billowed out. He could see no flames, but the smoke seemed to be coming
from below in the dungeon.

“Help me!” he heard a weak voice cry out.
“Aidez-moi.”

“Someone is in there, damn it,” Grant said. His stomach clenched as he remembered how it felt for heat and flames to close
in, and he knew he had to get the poor fool out of there. Even if that fool was intruding illegally in his home.

He held his handkerchief over his nose and dove inside. The cries, fading now, came from the dungeon, which could only be
reached by a narrow, twisting old stone stairwell. High above, the ramparts opened up to the cloudy sky and fresh air, but
below it looked like hell.

He ran down the steps, keeping close to the rough granite wall to keep from losing his way in the smoke and plunging to the
flagstone floor below. Caroline and LaPlace were right behind him until they found the wide-open door of the dungeon. Smoke
poured out of it, and he could see the red-gold glow of fire.

They burst in, throwing the contents of their buckets on the fire, which seemed to be engulfing stacks of old crates and driftwood
piled along the walls. Caroline stripped off her robe and beat at them with its smothering folds. The flames turned out to
be more smoke than anything, and
eventually died down, leaving the small, enclosed space filled with ashy, stinking gray clouds.