Taffeta & Hotspur (25 page)

“
No.” Myriah frowned. She
had quite convinced herself that she needed to stay for at least a
week, thinking she was already in so much trouble, what was another
week? In fact, perhaps her father would be so worried he would no
longer be furious, only concerned and happy to have her back safe
and sound.

“
No?”

“
What I mean to say … what I
have to tell you … well, I suppose only the truth will do. My
father wishes me to marry a man I do not love …”

“
I see, and you … cannot
like the match?”

“
I do not wish to marry at
all, but unfortunately my father discovered us … kissing … and
believes that my honor is at stake, which of course it is not. For
goodness sake, why should I be forced to marry someone over a kiss?
’Tis nonsense.”

“
And you think to hide from
him here? Eventually, you will need to go home.”

“
Yes, but time … often fixes
things … don’t you think?”

“
Time can also work against
you, my dear.”

“
Please, my lord, just
another week?” Myriah pleaded.

He frowned and then sighed. “I can’t
very well throw you out. You have saved my brother’s life and have
played nursemaid to him … right then, one week, Miss
White.”

“
Thank you,” Myriah said,
feeling wicked about keeping her true identity from him while she
remained in his home.

He got up. “I think I’ll visit that
scamp brother of mine.” He inclined his head. “Till later
then.”

She watched him go and sighed. It was
time to go to the kitchen to visit with Cook and pick up some more
information about Lord Wimborne!

* * *

The cook greeted her warmly and asked
how the young master was. Myriah smiled. “I am sure he will be
calling for a man’s dinner this evening. In the meantime, I thought
I would fix some tea and biscuits and take it up to him in a
bit.”

“
How kind of you, Miss,”
Cook said, beaming.

“
Oh … and I have taken a
guestroom and polished it up, but I need some fresh linens and
another blanket for the bed. I looked everywhere but couldn’t find
them.”

“
Lord love ye,” clucked
Cook, “that was a job for m’lads, that was. I’ll have them take up
what ye need.”

“
Thank you,” Myriah said
over her shoulder as she put a kettle on the fire.

“
Wasn’t expecting his
lordship back so soon,” Cook said, obvious looking to gossip. She
put a stack of sweet tarts on the tray Myriah had set on the
table.

“
Yes, Mr. Wimborne was
surprised as well—oh, and those look good.”

“
They be young Wimborne’s
favorite.”

“
Have you been with them at
Wimborne long?” asked Myriah.

“
M’mother was cook at
Wimborne before me … ’tis a shame what hard times will do to a
place.”

“
And they have fallen onto
hard times?” asked Myriah.

“
That they ’ave … we used to
have quite a staff running about … then something went wrong jest
this past year—just after his lordship come home from fighting the
Frenchies in Spain. All but me and my boys were let go.”

“
How dreadful! Those poor
people—did they find work?”

The cook cast her eyes away from
Myriah’s face and suddenly busied herself again. “Oh, as to that …
they make out all right.”

Odd, thought Myriah. Why had the woman
become suddenly secretive? She took up the tray, marveling to
herself at its weight, and made her way to young Wimborne’s
room.

Without knocking at the open door, she
sauntered in, placed the heavily laden tray on a stained wood
table, and pulled it to the bed. Exclaiming disapprovingly, she
made her way to the long window-hangings and opened them. “There,
that’s better!” she said, hands on hips. There wasn’t much light
from the dismal day, but it was better than total
darkness.

“
Oh God, she’s back!”
groaned young Wimborne. Myriah said nothing to this but went to his
water pitcher, poured some of the cool water into the basin, and
brought it to the bed. Dipping a washcloth in the water she moved
it over her patient’s face and neck, then left it in his free hand
while she brought him a towel.

“
There,” she exclaimed with
approval. “Now don’t you feel better?”

“
She-devil, move aside and
let me eat!” retorted her patient.

She laughed, drew up a chair for
herself, and placed a tray of delectables on his knees. “Eat,
puppy. I am told the strawberry tart is your favorite.”

“
Aye, so it is.” He smiled
widely.

“
Sip your tea first,” she
said, placing them out of his reach.

“
Fiend!” He snorted but took
up the cup and did in fact sip with a sound of pleasure.

She sipped her own tea and slid his
tart to him. Watching him eat with relish, she thought he was well
on the mend. When he had finished, she poured him another cup and
handed it over, spilling a bit as she did so.

“
Careful, chit!” admonished
Mr. Wimborne, grinning.

“
Ungrateful scamp! Be
satisfied it was not dropped on your head!”

“
And is that how you treat
your benefactor, Billy my lad?” said a male voice from the
doorway.

“
Back, Kit? Have some tea
and one of those tarts, and aye, ’tis only what she deserves. She
is a fiend.”

“
Would you like some tea, my
lord? I’ve brought an extra cup,” Myriah said, feeling for no
apparent reason a sensation very much like shyness.

“
Thank you, Miss White,” his
lordship replied quite formally. Myriah peered at him, wondering if
this tall, honey-haired man was indeed the same one who had leaned
over her last evening. He seemed so distant and … cold.

His imposing figure loomed above them
as he came over for the teacup. He took up a chair and sat across
from her with the small table between them, and Myriah decided to
ignore him by sipping her tea.

“
Drink up,” Myriah ordered,
returning her attention to Billy, who was staring out the window,
his cup in mid-air.

“
Fire-breather … no need for
you to order me about—I was just about to,” returned Mr. Wimborne,
grinning.

Lord Wimborne laughed, sat back, and
relaxed as he watched the lively exchange between the two. He
wondered about Miss White, as she called herself. She looked and
behaved every bit the spoiled lady—certainly her clothes had come
from none other than Madame Bertin’s Salon.

Then, too, there was something in her
self-assurance—something that spoke of breeding and exposure to a
London Season. Yet he had never heard of the White family name.
Then there was her story—it seemed odd and, though he believed it,
something in her eyes had hinted of falsehoods.

It annoyed him and hovered about his
thoughts like a fretful child. He watched her get up.
Instinctively, his eyes meandered slowly over her body, but his
eyelids quickly veiled his appreciation of her form. This was one
pretty his instincts cautioned him to pass!

“
If you will excuse me,
gentlemen, I am sure you two have matters to discuss, and I would
dearly love a quick visit to the stables to look in on my Silkie,”
Myriah said, brushing a few crumbs into a napkin and leaving it on
the table.

“
But it is raining,” his
lordship offered with a frown.

“
Ha! As though that could
stop the she-devil,” teased Billy, waving her off.

With her departure Kit relaxed and
chuckled as he watched his brother devour another strawberry tart.
“Billy, you and Miss White seem to have progressed into an
extremely comfortable relationship,” he said, eying him
speculatively.

“
Hmmm … she is a top sawyer!
Don’t let her bossiness fool you, Kit. She really is grand, you
know!”

“
And how came you to this
profound conclusion about a young lady you hardly know?” his
lordship asked drily.

“
Kit!” Billy protested. “She
saved my life! If Myriah had not found me and brought me home, I
could have bled to death on the grass … or worse!”

“
Very well, we will allow
her that much. She did indeed deliver you into Fletcher’s hands
instead of hauling you off to the doctor’s … which would have been
the very devil to deal with.”

“
Aye, but, Kit,” objected
Billy once again, “she did far more than that! Lord—ain’t Fletcher
told you? He told me … fastened some sort of thing … ah, a
tourniquet that slowed my blood from spilling out altogether. And
what’s more, she never asked how I came by my bullet! Not one
question. Nor does she talk around it like some females do trying
to get you to slip up and give over …”

Kit laughed and put up his hands.
“That, of course makes her right ’un!”

“
Yes, it does,” Billy said
defensively. “She is plucky—for you must know her father has tried
to bully her into marrying some chap she didn’t take to. Up she
gets and runs away! How many females do you know have the backbone
to take such a step?”

“
She told you that, eh?” His
lordship was mildly surprised and asked, “And that step meets with
your approbation, Billy?”

“
Now, Kit, come down a leg!
Lord, it ain’t like you to get some preachy look over your face.
’Tis humbug you be pitching at me, and I want to know
why!”

“
Frankly, I don’t wish for
you to become involved with a girl of her stamp—” started his
lordship.

A gusty laugh drowned out Kit’s words.
“Involved? Egad, Kit … Myriah is a dazzler! Lord don’t know when
I’ve clapped eyes on a brighter flower. But she no more wants my
name than she wants that fellow’s she is running away
from!”

“
But what do you want, my
bucko?” Kit asked.

“
I want a fairy queen with
china-blue eyes, corn silk hair blowing soft in the breeze … and I
want her ten years from now!” Billy grinned.

Kit smiled and stood up. “All right,
lad. I’ll plague you no more—for the time being. Get some
rest.”

“
The devil I will!” retorted
his brother. “’Tis your turn now, my brother.”

“
My turn, brat?” Kit’s brow
went up.

“
Aye, what I want to know is
why are you back… now?”

Here’s a sneak preview of
Claudy Conn’s new steamy paranormal series:

ShadowLife—Hybrid

(unedited)

~ Prelude ~

Present Day,

Grampian Mountains,
Scottish Highlands

HE FEELS HIS tongue hanging between
his sharp canines, teeth that can crush through a man’s bones, as
he races with precision through the trees. The wolf in him has
taken the scent from the earth and then lifts his head to the
breeze to confirm the distance—a wolf can detect its prey in this
manner almost two miles away.

He can feel the cold wind whip at his
thick and beautiful black fur, and he loves the sensation it tracks
through his body. The last of the winter snow is beginning to melt
beneath his huge paws, and he revels in the freedom of the run
…

He is at home in these woods; the
scent of the sweet-smelling tall pines mingled with the rays of the
new morning’s sun has a soothing effect on his frazzled nerves—as
does the hunt. He has abstained long enough.

The early scent of spring is in the
air and fills his nostrils as he reaches the precipice where he can
look over his valley. He shifts into human and lands naked on two
feet.

He stands a huge, muscular man, with
his long, black, shiny hair blowing freely in the morning breeze.
The intricate tattoos on his chest and arms catch the sun’s rays as
his muscles flex and he raises his head to catch the scent of the
deer off the wind. His cock is at full attention from the
excitement of the hunt. There is an old stag he has been tracking
…

These woods have belonged to his
family for centuries—MacAdams’ Foothills they are called. He and
his father, nearly lost to him, are the last of his clan. They are
neither man, wolf, or vampire, but all three.

* * *

He had been alone and apart from all,
but at peace in his solitary existence. He was alone by his own
will, alone because society and the humans no longer held a lure,
alone after the murder of his dear mother …

He hadn’t even bothered going into the
village for more than a few errands: mail, supplies … now and then
a piece of ass. And today that particular craving made him feel
heady. He needed a woman, and the need was pushing him in that
direction, if only for a night, perhaps this night? There was
Anna—a willing and alluring playmate, ever ready and willing and
nearly (though not quite) able to satisfy his unrelenting
lust.

He was a hybrid, able to change at
will because he was born that way centuries ago. Going wolf always
cleared his head and heart, but feeding—that was quite another
thing; he hadn’t fed in the wild for so long, because contrary to
the wolf in him, the human detested killing.