D2D_Poison or Protect Read online

  Preshea said, without inflection, “In case you hadn’t noticed, we are short a horse and the captain is injured. Someone must keep him in the saddle. What if he becomes dizzy from blood loss? Since I applied the dressing, it should be me. Unless the duke wishes to do the honors? Lady Violet is certainly not an appropriate choice. Are you offering, Lady Blingchester? I should struggle with your horse – too much mettle for me – but if you insist. Although I’m the least likely to be an additional burden to the captain’s animal.”

  Gavin was impressed. She’d complimented Lady Blingchester on her riding and insulted her weight in the same breath.

  Of course, his wonderful Rusticate, being a gentleman steed, would not protest any added burden – even as much as Lady Blingchester might entail. And Gavin had not lost that much blood. But he dared not open his mouth to protest her scheme. After all, it would net him Preshea in his arms for the entire ride back.

  He was in luck. With no further objections, the duke assisted Preshea to mount before Gavin. She perched there, stiff. He held Rusticate back to take the rear of the party.

  Once the others were far enough ahead, she allowed herself to relax against him. He pretended it was out of affection, although it was likely so they could talk quietly and not be overheard.

  “I intended no insult, Captain. I know you could stick your horse, but this seemed the easiest solution. I’d like the duke back at the house quickly.”

  “So, you are here to protect him.”

  “You too, I take it?”

  He nodded. “Fenians.”

  “Reform League is what I was told.” She leaned her head back against his collarbone, on his uninjured side. He rested his cheek against the crown of her head.

  “What’s daft is that Snodgrove is na the worst to stand against them. In February, he spoke for leniency. He’s a moderate.”

  “Can one really be progressive and a Tory?”

  “The duke’s a special breed of bagpipe.”

  He could feel the movement when she shrugged.

  “Perhaps it’s a violent faction of the League? He was seen lunching with Adullamites.”

  “Careless lad.”

  “Very. And he is too good a speaker. My sources tell me it is his rhetoric they fear, not the man himself. We should send someone after the attacker.”

  “Aye. I’ll put Mawkins on it.”

  “Your batman valet?”

  “Aye.”

  “But won’t you get awfully scruffy without him?”

  She was teasing; how fine a thing. He was not above teasing back. “You ken I need a shave of an evening?”

  “I ken no such thing! I meant scruffy in terms of wrinkled coattails and ill-tied cravats.”

  “I can shift for myself if left clear enough instructions.” Gavin brushed his chin against her glossy hair. It was braided and looped for riding, soft against his skin. “You lost your hat.”

  “That happens when one launches oneself off a horse at a duke.”

  “We shouldna have left without looking for it.”

  “It is of no consequence.” She tilted her head even farther back and brushed the tiniest of kisses on his chin. “Stop mussing my hair.”

  “’Tis remarkable. I didna think tresses could be so black outside the West Indies.”

  “Are you likening my hair to that of a heathen?” She pretended offense.

  “And your eyes are blue.” He couldn’t stop his tone from sounding petulant.

  “Well, yes, yes, they are.”

  “’Tis disconcerting.”

  “Sorry if the color offends – not a great deal I can do about it. Yours are blue, too, you do realize?”

  “We’d make beautiful blue-eyed bairns.”

  “What a thing to say!” She twisted in token protest, but not so much as to jostle his injured arm, which he’d rested about her waist. ’Tis the most comfortable position.

  Rusticate twitched an ear at their antics but kept plodding along. The horse was keeping the others in sight but had allowed distance to develop, as if aware of his master’s desire for privacy.

  Preshea changed the subject. “Remarkable beastie, this gelding of yours. Doesn’t look like much, but he’s a work of art underneath, isn’t he?”

  “Aye.” Gavin’s affection for the woman in his arms expanded. The way to Gavin’s heart had always been through praise of his mount. Weel, and dainty sandwiches.

  She quieted a moment and then said, very softly, as if to herself, “Quite the opposite of me.”

  “Now, lass, I’m thinking that’s somewhat for me to find out on my own.”

  “If you must.”

  * * *

  Preshea had to accept that they were on the same side, which made the big Scotsman an ally of a kind. I can no longer avoid him. How very vexing. Why hadn’t Lord Akeldama said he’d double-booked? Unless Gavin represented a different interest. The werewolves, perhaps? Immortals, always mucking about in mortal business.

  To Preshea’s annoyance, the rest of the afternoon was spent fussing.

  The Duchess of Snodgrove fussed over her husband. Lady Flo and Miss Pagril fussed over Captain Ruthven. Preshea retreated to her chambers for a nap, claiming fatigue over the excitement of the afternoon.

  She watched a man who must be Mawkins (he was riding Rusticate) depart the grounds. He galloped back a good while later, empty-handed. The duke’s attacker had escaped.

  Preshea did not return downstairs until well after the dressing bell chimed.

  She was never alone with the duke long enough for him to interrogate her, which was perfectly fine with Preshea. It was most likely that, having tried and found Snodgrove well protected, the enemy would not try again during this house party. Certainly, the duke would not take another silly risk.

  Preshea sighed as the maid helped her into a grey dinner gown. The rest of my stay is going to be awfully dull. Unless, of course, I do something to liven it up.

  Gavin had made an offer. The question is, do I take him up on it? Preshea had never engaged in a dalliance before. At least, not one of this particular nature, with no ulterior motive. I would be pursuing nothing but my own pleasure. I would be using him. That’s appropriate for a woman like myself. She tried to console herself by reasoning away her desire.

  Would the experience be good for me or ruin me in some way? If I found I liked it, or liked him, more than I thought myself capable, will it destroy my future plans?

  Oh, really, Preshea! she reprimanded herself. What plans are those? She’d served out her indenture to Lord Akeldama. She’d done her work for vampire and by royal decree. I’ve killed for them both and been well compensated for my trouble.

  In truth, she’d given little thought to her future. I could retire to the country. And do what? Take up bee-keeping? She shuddered. Perfect my badminton game? She shuddered again.

  Is that all that motivates me now? Boredom?

  The idea was appealing. It implied that she was attracted to Gavin not for him but for lack of something in herself.

  Except that it was him. The size of him. The easy way he rode. The comfortable nature of their discourse. He’d never questioned her actions, not once, during that fight. He’d been a partner. It had been easy. Too easy. And he was easy to trust, and lean against, and caress. Too easy there, also.

  There was Miss Pagril to consider. Was she trying to catch him? She was a pretty girl, vivacious, exactly innocent enough to tempt a man to marriage. She would make him the perfect wife.

  Preshea was never one to let another lady win, no matter what the prize.

  Boredom. Attraction. Curiosity. Competition. Do I really need a reason to take to his bed? What am I actually afraid of?

  That he will change me. That he will make me regret my choices. That I will hurt him simply by acting as I have always acted. That in letting him love me, I become responsible for his emotions.

  For some reason, the large, amiable Scotsman was the first man Preshea had ever met whom s
he did not wish to break.

  Terrifying thought indeed.

  * * *

  Preshea left her room to make the rounds early that night. The house was silent and still, everyone abed. All the windows were shut. She encountered Formerly Connie in the drawing room, the fire cooling in the grate.

  The ghost nodded to her. “Can’t sleep?”

  “Yes. Then I remembered that my scarf was down here.” Preshea had taken to leaving accessories behind of an evening, with this excuse in mind.

  “Try a glass of hot milk,” suggested the ghost, floating serenely.

  “Do you find yourself calmer now than when you were alive?”

  “Naturally. Not a great deal to worry about, you understand? Already dead.”

  “I do understand. Thank you for the advice. Good night, Formerly Connie.”

  “Good night, Lady Villentia.” The ghost drifted away.

  Not so bad for a dead thing, as dead things go.

  Preshea paused on the stairs when she heard the whisper of cloth. Someone else was awake and about. Someone else living, to be precise.

  Preshea melted into the shadows.

  Miss Pagril was creeping along the hallway, a candle held low, the light shielded with her free hand. Fortunately, she was not heading downstairs; instead, she hurried into the south-facing wing where the family slept.

  She moved badly, like one mocking stealth. Although Preshea supposed that was how laymen did it.

  Miss Pagril paused at a door and then let herself inside. Whoever it was must be expecting her, for the door was unlocked.

  Preshea frowned. Whose room? Ah. Lady Flo’s. Very interesting. She shook her head in wonder. Young girls these days are getting very bold. It put the iron into her. If Miss Pagril can do it, so shall I!

  Preshea glided down the north-facing hallway and then stopped as Miss Pagril had, in front of a room not her own. It also wasn’t locked.

  Gavin was awake and waiting for her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Scotsman Without His Banyan

  “I was hoping you might come.” There was a hint of surprise in his voice.

  Good, I shouldn’t want to be predictable. Preshea locked the door behind her. To keep others out or to prevent herself from fleeing, she wasn’t certain which.

  She hesitated, watching him. He was sitting on the edge of a bed as big as hers. He’d one of the lamps lit for reading. It cast a gentle light over the room. His fire was built up, cutting through the night’s chill. It was all quite welcoming. Comfortable. Which made her uncomfortable.

  He gave a tentative smile. His chin was shadowed by a day’s growth of beard. He was wearing that banyan again, looking like a laird from olden days in some Highland castle portrait. It had slipped again, too, showing his chest almost to the bottom of his sternum. It stopped at the exact spot where she’d been taught to wedge a knife. There had been a deal less muscle on the mechanical construct she’d learned on. Really, what right had any man, even a Scotsman, to that much muscle? His chest hair glinted golden in the lamplight. The quilted fabric of the banyan, thin with age, draped intimately against his thighs. The sash about the robe held it closed, but not so well when he was sitting; it parted over his knees. He clearly wore nothing underneath. Barbarian.

  She did not move, frozen with her back to the door. This was not something for which she’d been trained. Not exactly.

  “You’ve done this before, aye?” He patted the bed next to him.

  Preshea remained motionless but for her mouth. “Four husbands, remember?”

  He stood and came to her. His legs were no longer visible, but that chest… The chest was advancing. She forgot to breathe a moment, riveted.

  Slowly, softly, he took her small hands into his large ones. “Yet you’re shaking, lass.”

  His thumbs caressed the backs of her wrists in small circles. She was still wearing her gloves, but the skin underneath tingled from his touch. It was an odd sensation – both comforting and exciting. She breathed in shallow sips of air, for he smelled too good, all warm spices like a ginger honey cake.

  Preshea considered how she would answer him. With this man, perhaps honesty might work? “I never wanted it with any of them.”

  “Oh, lassie.” There was a world of understanding and, oddly, pain in his response. “In truth, we men take too much, too often. It need not be so.” He rotated her hands, palms up, so he could begin unbuttoning her gloves. Before he did, he caressed the undersides of her wrists with one finger. He looked into her eyes then, asking permission. She swallowed and nodded. Then watched the tiny buttons in his big fingers, mesmerized. He was so very delicate and careful about it.

  “Perhaps someday you’ll keep them on for me? But na tonight. No barriers between us tonight, eh, lass?”

  “Already, you believe you will get a repeat performance? You must have great faith in your persuasive abilities.”

  “Aye. I’m a gruesome optimist.” He tugged off the first glove and began working on the second.

  “All men, I think, are takers.” She pulled her hands away, liking it too much, and removed the second glove herself.

  He loomed over her, as comfortable in his skin as he had made the room. He did not press or crowd her in any way. She wanted to pet his chest, following the opening made by his robe. She wanted to press her lips into his hand, to test the meat of his palm with her teeth. She wanted – so badly, she actually ached with it.

  Instead, she moved away to sit at his dressing-table, busying herself with taking down her elaborate hairstyle from dinner. So many pins.

  “Some of us would rather be taken, lass. I hope so, at anyroad. I canna be the only one. Here, let me.” He knelt behind her. He was so tall that when she sat on the low stool, he was of a height to still reach her hair.

  He combed through it with those big fingers, finding the pins and pulling them out. Occasionally, he would pause and massage the base of her neck with his thumbs. It was glorious. She watched him in the looking-glass. It scared her, how big her eyes were and how much she enjoyed the service – so much different from when a maid tended to her coiffure. She had never before met a man who would consider doing such a thing. Yet he seemed to enjoy it, the little frown creasing his broad forehead from concentration, not distaste.

  Preshea let her head tilt forward and closed her eyes, not wanting to stare and not wanting to calculate. Simply wanting to enjoy.

  He finished and the cool weight of her hair fell against her back. He ran his hands once more through the strands, swirling against her skull. It was a glorious relief from the pressure of coils and twists. Slowly, he pushed the mass aside and over one shoulder. She felt a kiss, feather-soft against her exposed neck.

  “What do you like, Preshea?”

  “What?” The question floored her.

  He laughed – a little huff of breath against her skin. “In this, I ken you may be more experienced than I. Four husbands, remember? I dinna have any wives.”

  “But you have had lovers?”

  “Only two. I’m hoping they taught me well.”

  It was an odd thing for him to say. As though a man were to learn anything of his own pleasure from a woman. The very idea! Men were born knowing, and demanding. Were they not?

  She turned to him on a breath. “I don’t know. No one has ever asked me that before.”

  He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. It was not uncomfortable, but she felt scorched through from the heat there. “Come, then, lass.” He stood in one smooth movement, towering over her. “Shall we find out?”

  Preshea blinked at him and his proffered hand. If this was what he wanted, she would play along, attempt to fathom his reasoning. Did he desire her loyalty? Why else care for her feelings on the matter of bed-sport? She was there, willing enough; he could do as he wished. Unless she decided to practice her more deadly arts, of course.

  She placed her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. His grip was solid, more r
ough than a gentleman’s ought to be, but sure and kind.

  “You are very beautiful.” His blue eyes gleamed. She had not thought blue could be a hot color, until now.

  “I know.”

  “But, I’m thinking, damaged?”

  Preshea smiled. “Better to say deadly.”

  “Aye, that too.”

  “You are a brave man, to take me on.”

  He chuckled. “Or a bun-headed one. Maybe I’ve an overblown opinion of my own abilities.”

  Preshea cocked her head. Is that was this was about? Is he a prideful lover? That she could cultivate. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

  “Nay, little trickster. You’ll na manage me so easily.”

  That startled her. It was the first time he’d acknowledged that he saw her wiles at work. It was unbalancing.

  “Very well.” She allowed a little of her frustration to show. He still held her hand but had not drawn her against him. She wanted his warmth. “What do you desire of me?”

  He smiled and for once, she thought he might be quite handsome. He certainly wasn’t beautiful. In Preshea’s family, they were all beautiful, even her father. Gavin’s face was too harsh. But when he smiled, the white of his teeth and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes softened it to comely.

  Still he held her apart from him, as if waiting for a cue.

  “What do I do?” Preshea asked, for once in her life at a loss.

  “Be still, simply stand there a moment. I want to look at you.”

  She swallowed, nervous.

  He kissed the backs of her hands, sweet and courtly, although perhaps there was a flick of tongue. She gasped and then laughed at her own surprise. He smiled and paced about her, arranging her hair to fall back. He stroked her arms, exposed by the shorter sleeves of her dinner dress and the absence of gloves. He entwined his fingers with hers at the last, a brief squeeze of reassurance. She felt goose bumps, although she was not cold. She reached to unbutton the back of her bodice, contorting her arms, needing to do something to take back control of the situation.

  “Can I help with that, lass? Ask me and I should love it more than anything.”

  She cocked her head on a sudden understanding. Of course. It’s all my choice. That’s his point. And, for some reason, he needs it. She dropped her arms to her sides. She took a breath, slow, steadying. Her eyes had gone dry from staring as he moved about her. She blinked to moisten them and took another, deeper breath. Control is something I am good at.