Tempting the Wolf

To Karen Kay,

road warrior and friend.

I’ll remember our book tours

 with trepidation and laughter

for years to come.

“They call you the Irish Hound,” she said. Her face was illumined and shadowed, cast gold by the dancing flames and etched to stunning perfection.

O’Banyon shrugged as he watched her. She was the enemy, but the enemy was comely, and as darkly alluring as sweet sin. “Meant as an endearment, I am certain,” he said.

“Are you?” She raised one fair brow. Her face was magic sung aloud, a light in a dark place. “Perhaps whilst you yet lie in their beds, my handsome hound, but after… when your eyes have roved to another?” She paced away from the fire, but the light seemed to follow her, playing across her silken gown like music, glimmering like jewels in her loosened hair.

“I’ve taken naught but what they’ve willingly offered, me lady.”

“Willingly.” She tilted her head slightly, watching him. “Aye, I would imagine there have been more than a few maids willing indeed. But perhaps they thought you might remain in their arms for more than a scant hour’s time. I am told, in fact, that there have been a few who hoped to bind you to their sides forever.”

He spread his hands. “As ye have already said, me lady, I am called the hound. They knew thus when first they met me. I made no pretense to be a house dog, content to lie upon their laps forever-more.”

She laughed. The sound was enchanting. There was a reason her men followed her like sheep to battle, a reason her holdings grew larger by the year. “Have you not heard that women love a challenge, Sir O’Banyon?”

“Aye, I have that,” he said and did not attempt to stifle his grin, though it too had been called enchanting by more than a few. “And I have na desire to condemn any woman to unhappy tedium.”

“Thus you supply the challenge.”

“Just so, lass.”

She nodded. “Very well, then, my good knight, if you are eager for a contest, I shall suggest one.” She moved again. One could not quite call it walking, for she seemed to glide across the floor, her simple ivory gown caressing her barely hidden curves.

He held himself steady, waiting, though his body felt tight and hard with anticipation. Rarely had he been called a patient man, but he would not rush a woman, adversary or no, regardless of the rumors that washed about her like potent wine. “A contest, me lady?”

“Aye,” she said and took the few short steps that separated them.

Her fingertips were soft against his face. His skin seemed to catch fire beneath them. His body galvanized instantly, but he managed to hold steady, to speak with a modicum of normalcy that belied his aching need. “Surely any match between meself and such renowned beauty as yours is a welcome one indeed,” he said, but he wondered if perhaps the gossipmongers spoke truth this time. Perhaps she truly was a sorceress. And perhaps he should turn tail and run like the cur some thought him to be, but indeed, he too loved a challenge—and women. God’s truth, he loved women.

The golden lady was silent, slipping her fingers down his throat and lower. It took all his dubious self-control to stop the tremble, to hold himself still, to await her pleasure.

She arched a slanted brow. “Might the rumors be true, I wonder?”

He forced another shrug, but even that simple movement was difficult, as though his body was turning by slow degrees to polished marble. “Are they rumors of me skills as a lover?” he asked.

“Aye, they are.”

The smile came easier, though flame danced in concert with her fingertips against his chest. “Then I fear ye musts be the one to decide.”

“You wish to lie with me?”

He laughed. The sound was low, rumbling quietly in her cavernous bed chamber. “I am quite certain ye ken the answer to that, me lady. In truth, ‘tis said ye can read a man’s thoughts.”

“Indeed?” she asked. The corners of her mouth curled up, but her gaze lowered, skimming his body to settle beneath his belt, where his desire reared, hard and steady against his straining plaid. “Foolish rumor, of course,” she murmured and reaching up, brushed her knuckles absently across his nipple.

He jerked against the impact and curled his hands into fists, holding himself steady. She watched with a tilted smile.

“But in any case, the gift of sight is hardly necessary where you are concerned, my good knight.” Her hand drifted lower, down his abdomen and across the throbbing head of his straining member. The force of her was a physical blow, and in that moment he would have fled if he could. But he was transfixed, planted firm and eager before her, breathing like a winded destrier, flushed like a lovesick lad.

“I would ask a favor of you,” she murmured.

He felt himself nod, though he had no intention of doing so.

Her gaze held him steady. “You shall rid me of Hiltsglen,” she said.

Her words barely made a ripple in O’Banyon’s consciousness. For at that moment, she was everything, all consuming. “Rid?” he asked, his own voice barely audible in the melee of his desires.

She shrugged. “He has proven difficult.”

O’Banyon frowned. Reality seemed hazy, a fragile vessel on a misty sea. “Ye wish for me to slay him?”

Her lips curled up the merest degree. Her hand moved knowingly against his plaid. “You are a mercenary, sir, and he is no friend of yours. Indeed,

I am told you have oft been opponents on the field of battle.”

“But for now, we stand together.” Forcing out the words was near more than he could manage. Indeed, the strain made his mind weary and his limbs as heavy as molten iron.

“You cannot best me,” she said. “Not with all your dark master’s might behind you. You know that in your heart.”

He did—felt it suddenly in his soul.

She smiled and stepped back a pace. “Do as I ask,” she said and reaching up, tugged loose the silken cord that held her gown in place. It floated to the floor, a gossamer dragonfly, leaving her naked at its departure.

Her gilded ivory skin gleamed, every curve as precious as gold, and he wanted nothing but to reach for her, to take her, to lose himself in her magical beauty.

“Me lady.” It hurt to speak, ached to do aught but touch her, but he kept his hands welded at his sides. “Killian of Hiltsglen, while terrible irritating, be a friend of sorts.”

She smiled and stepped closer. “With me as your friend, you will not need another.”

He felt hot yet chilled, frozen and molten, but managed just barely to shake his head. “Me regrets,” he began, “but I canna—”

“I am the golden lady,” she said, and suddenly the world seemed bathed in white light, blinding him. “You are my hound of war. Kill him, or you shall surely wish you had.”

London, 1818

Women. Nairn O’Banyon loved them with every inch of his being.

He loved the look and feel and sound and taste of them. Loved the way they thought and laughed and glanced at him from the corners of their long-lashed eyes.

Two were watching him even now. He could feel them peruse him from behind. Could sense their interest and so much more. One was young. One was middle-aged. They were both lovely, regardless how they looked.

“Sir O’Banyon, isn’t it?” called the older of the two.

He turned at the sound of his name and was not disappointed. The sweet, heady scent of them tickled his nostrils.

“Aye, me lady,” he said and bowed. The tail of his brown cutaway coat brushed his boot tops, and the ivory buttons on his fawn-colored waistcoat gleamed. ‘Twas a silly costume. ‘Twould be no good a’tall in the heat of battle, yet the snug buff breeches accentuated the muscles of his thighs to full advantage, and did no small favor to some of his other attributes. And though the hilt of his ancient blade caused a slight rumple in the fabric at the small of his back, he was forever loath to set it aside, for in his experience, there was no friend so trusted as the dagger he called MacGill.

The women approached, pastel gowns rustling against the cobbled walk, frilled parasols tilted just so.

He filled his senses with them. Through the dark years behind him, ladies’ costumes had changed, but the essence of a woman had not. ‘Twas one of several things for which he would be eternally grateful.

“Mrs. Murray,” he said, and reaching for the older woman’s hand, kissed her knuckles. The titillation of skin against skin caused a prickle of sensation to quiver across the back of his neck.

Cecilia Murray gave him a flirting smile. “We missed you at Lord Bayberry’s ball yesterday eve, sir.”

Her gown was mint green, made of a kindly fabric that seemed to show every swell from toe to bosom, where it gathered lovingly to display a wealth of dove-white breast.

Feelings sharpened, scraping like fingernails down his spine. O’Banyon drew his hand cautiously away. “Then I must surely be absent more oft,” he said, “if I be missed by such a bonny lass as yerself.”

“Lass?” she said and laughed huskily but her cheeks flushed and her eyes shone. “You, sir, are a terrible tease.”

“Na a’tall,” he said and held her gaze, “I am but an Irishman. And we take lovely lassies verra serious, indeed.”

Her hand fluttered to her bosom. His gaze followed it. His senses sharpened, his nostrils flared, and for a moment he feared he had gone a bit far, but in that instant the younger woman stepped forward, distracting him.

“Sir,” she said, extending her hand, ” ‘tis such a pleasure to meet you. I am Rosanna Rutledge. Aunt Cece has mentioned you on more than one occasion.”

There was little he could do but take her hand. Anything less would have been considered rude. And he was never rude… not where women were involved.

Her fingers felt soft against his palm. Her scent was sweet and heady. His body tightened another notch. “Then ye have me at a disadvantage, lass,” he said and kissed her knuckles. Sensations crowded in, feelings as sharp as knives. Images of pale skin, succulent bosoms, long limbs tangled, hot and sweaty, about his.

The bed in his rented townhouse was surely large enough for three. But there were problems…

Releasing her hand, he stepped back a pace and put the thoughts behind him—where they tingled along his backside like a wanton caress.

“A disadvantage?” she asked.

“Aye. For I dunna ken if I should deny yer aunt’s words aboot me or swear they be true.”

The girl gave her head an inquisitive tilt. “She said you were the most alluring man in all of London.”

“Did she now?”

She held his gaze with bold tenacity. “She did indeed.”

“Aye well,” he said and turned toward the aunt. “It seems the truth will out then, little matter how I try to hide it.”

The widow laughed low in her throat.

O’Banyon tightened his defenses against the rousing effects.

“She also informed me that you were quite vain,” said the girl. Her tone was cool, as if impatient at his lack of attention.

He turned slowly back toward her with feral slowness. Their gazes met. Her eyes widened the slightest degree, and her breath seemed to stop in her fragile, white throat.