'Winter Fire' excerpt 2
Book 6 of the Malloren Series
"A mistress of her craft, Beverley brings together characters from her Malloren and Trayce families in this page-turning, memorable story. Sensual, at times funny and witty, and deliverying some of the best inuendo-filled dialogue I have ever read, this is a holiday story for the whole year." Romantic TimesIt had not taken long to reach the Lion and Unicorn Inn at Hockham, but there'd been no sign of Mr. Dash.
It was a simple establishment, not at all like the grand ones carefully planned on their itinerary, but the early winter dark had been settling as they arrived, and the temperature plunging, and the place had rooms. Thalia had insisted that they stop for the night.
"I know you," Genova said. "You want to see the end of this story."
"Well, why not, dear? Oh, brandied tea. How very nice!"
The crafty innkeeper had done his best to tempt the rich guests and Genova had not tried to interfere. She worried about the Dashes presuming on the acquaintance, but she worried more about the tired old ladies, and it would be cruel to force the outriders to spend more time in the bitter cold.
Mr. Lynchbold showed them two good sets of rooms, but on different floors. Lady Calliope took the ground floor because she couldn't climb stairs, and in fact could hardly walk. Her menservants carried her there in her sturdy chair, her personal maid following.
Genova went with Thalia and Thalia's maid, Regeanne, up to the next floor to find a good sized bedchamber with adjoining parlor. The fires were already lit and the rooms tolerably warm, so it would do one the Trayce servants had hauled in all the old ladies' comforts.
Genova would sleep with Thalia in the big bed, and Regeanne would use the trundle bed that slid out from underneath.
Supper was promised within the hour and Thalia went back down to her sister's room. Genova felt obliged to stay and keep an eye on the maid and baby, even though the maid had nodded off under the influence of brandied tea. At least she'd put the bundled baby on the floor first.
On the short journey, they'd managed to coax names out of the Irishwoman. She was Sheena O'Leary and the baby was something like Sharleen. They had decided to call him Charlie.
Charlie Dash. He sounded like trouble and was making a good start. The sooner this pair were back with the parents, the better.
Genova put a hand to her head, which was fuzzy with brandy, and tried to think what to do.
As soon as they'd arrived, she'd told the tale, and Lynchbold had promised to send help. Had he forgotten in the excitement of titled guests? Even so, where was Mr. Dash?
Suspicions were forming like dark clouds on the horizon, and Genova was not one to twiddle her thumbs while a storm rose. She wrapped her warm shawl around herself and headed off to sort things out. She was almost at the head of the stairs when an icy waft of air told her someone had just arrived.
"Ho, there! Innkeeper!"
Cold air blended with the pure energy of that authoritative male voice. It reminded her so much of her father issuing orders from the bridge of one of his ships that she halted for a moment in wistful memory. Then she walked onto the landing to look down.
Could this be Mr. Dash at last? It was not the sort of voice she'd expected.
Below, in the darkly wainscotted hall, a tall man stood with his back to her in front of the blazing fire. He wore a long cloak, no hat, and tousled dark hair simply tied back. Even from that she hummed to herself with approval. She did love a vigorous, virile man, and it rose off him like the steam from his cloak.
He'd stripped off his gloves and as he turned long hands in the warmth, green light flashed from a ring. Genova's brows rose. An emerald of absurd size? It must be. This man would not wear glass.
A vigorous, virile lord, then. Where was his entourage?
Servants burst into the hall and flocked toward him, eager to make up for any lack. No wonder. Inn servants made most of their money from the vails of rich guests, and this one looked good for guineas.
Still facing the fire, he unfastened his cloak and pushed it back with remarkable faith that someone would be there to take it. A manservant rushed to gather it in, staggering slightly under the weight.
It looked like leather lined with fur. Thick gray fur.
Wolf?
What decent Englishman used wolf fur to line a cloak?
One thing was certain. This was not plain Mr. Dash.
Another was that he was gorgeous.
Genova hadn't seen his face yet, and the clothes beneath the cloak were ordinary -- leather breeches, plain brown jacket, and high riding boots. All the same, everything about him, from cloak, to ornaments, to bearing, spoke of a truly gorgeous specimen of manhood.
Genova had never been reluctant to enjoy a show of masculine delights, so she leaned on the railing and watched, pleasantly aware of faster heartbeats and deeper breathing.
Turn around , she thought at him. I need to see your face.
It would be a disappointment. There was always a flaw in the package.
He turned to the right, speaking to a maid, and she saw a flash of gold. An earring! Better and better. She knew they were fashionable among the wilder set of young gentlemen.
He turned a bit more revealing a promising profile and jewels catching fire in the lace at his throat. Lud, had the man been riding around in the dark loaded with treasure? He was either magnificent or a fool.
Feeling as if she watched a play, Genova saw Lynchbold appear from stage right, bowing. "Sir! Welcome to the Lion and Unicorn."
The man inclined his head the slightest degree. "I'm here to meet Mrs. Dash. Lead me to her."
Genova straightened. Impossible!
Many of the elite were plain Mr. and Mrs., being a generation or two removed from their titled ancestors, but this man was not a suitable mate for Mrs. Dash. She, though finely turned out, was a common vixen. He was a king of wolves.
In her fanciful imagination, anyway. Ah well, the moment had been pleasant while it lasted. Her king of wolves was just another spoiled lordling, title or not, and she had better deal with him.
Before she could move, Lynchbold said, "I wish I could, sir. As soon as the ladies told me of your wife's accident, I sent help. But my man found no coach."
What?
"Accident?" Mr. Dash inquired. "Ladies?"
A note of hostility sent a shiver down Genova's spine. She couldn't allow this... this wolf near the Trayce ladies. She had to get rid of him and the baby immediately.
She gathered her skirts and headed down the stairs. "I can tell you about that, sir."
She realized too late that it was an overly dramatic entrance, and that it forced her to continue down the stairs under the lordly gentleman's inspection. Face forward, his lean features and heavy-lidded eyes did not disappoint, and here she was in her most ordinary gown with her hair still disordered from the wind.
He watched in eerie stillness, dark eyes steady, but when she reached the bottom, he moved into a bow worthy of court. "Ma'am!"
The sweep of his hand from chest to elegant extension caught her eye, or perhaps it was flashing emerald flame. She fixed on that. Mr. Dash was clearly a wealthy man and it was shameful that his child and nurse be abandoned to strangers.
Genova gave him a moderate, chilly curtsy. "I was in the party that assisted your wife, Mr. Dash, and I can give you a full account. If your wife's coach has been pulled out of the ditch, I can't imagine why she's not here, but please don't distress yourself about your child. We have little Charles and his wetnurse safe in our rooms."
"Charles?" he said, in a strange tone. His eyes might have widened, but lids shielded them too quickly for her to be sure. "She brought the precious darling with her?"
Perhaps he was a better father than Genova had hoped. "Unwise in this weather," she agreed, "but the infant seems healthy."
"Then take me to him, Miss...?"
"Smith," Genova said.
She led the way upstairs wishing, not for the first time, that she had a more interesting name. In the presence of this hawk of fine plumage, Miss Smith made her feel like a house sparrow, which she most certainly was not. She hoped he was noticing that her figure was excellent and her hair thick and blond, even if straggling somewhat from its pins.
She felt a ridiculous temptation to tell him that she'd fought Barbary pirates, and won. She couldn't remember a man ever putting her so on edge, and she'd met many interesting ones.
She led him into the parlor to find the maid and baby both still asleep. Because she'd been away from the room, the smell of soiled baby and grubby nurse hit her nose afresh, but that, of course, was the Dashes' fault, not hers.
Mr. Dash strolled forward, remarkably quietly for a man in boots and spurs, to look down at the infant. "Dear, sweet, Charles. You said he's well?"
Genova joined him. "As best I can tell, sir. The maid speaks no English."
His brows rose. "What then does she speak?"
"Irish Gaelic, I gather. You are not Irish, sir?"
"No, but Mrs. Dash is." He contemplated the sleeping baby, making no move to pick him up. That was hardly surprising. Many men thought babies none of their business. Genova just wished she didn't feel that she should protest if he did.
"She has a terrible time keeping servants and must often take what she can get. She also has a terrible sense of direction. She's doubtless set off back east. I'd better ride after her."
He walked toward the door.
After a startled moment, Genova realized he was leaving. She rushed past and put herself in his way. "Surely her coachman would know better?"
"He drinks, which is doubtless how he came to leave the road."
"Then I'm surprised you haven't dismissed him."
"He's her coachman, not mine. Mrs. Dash, as you doubtless noticed, is accustomed to having her own way." Those heavy-lidded eyes held hers. "So, I might mention, am I."
His expression could be described as tranquil, but Genova's every instinct screamed to get out of his way.
He made no aggressive move, but his intent beat against her. She knew this ability men had to give off danger, but it had never been directed at her so forcibly before. She was astonished by how hard it was not to slide away and be safe.
She stiffened her spine. "You must make arrangements for the child before you leave, sir."
" Must ?" The word seemed to astonish him. "The arrangements seem satisfactory. I will, of course, pay you to continue your hospitality for a few more hours."
"I do not want pay !"
He inclined his head. "Then I thank you for your charity." He took a small, significant step closer. "Are we going to fight for the right of way?"
She made herself hold her ground. "Why should you wish to?"
"An inveterate requirement that I have my own way."
"Your marriage must be interesting then."
"A bloody battlefield -- which does give me useful skills." He put fingers on her shoulder and traced a line toward her neck. Even through the cloth of her winter gown, the invasion sent shivers through her.
"Sir!" She seized his wrist, but he broke her hold with ease and cradled her neck. Not tightly, but her throat constricted and she felt she could hardly breathe. Even so, she would not move away from the door. She would not. He could hardly throttle her, here in a public inn.
"Remove your hand, sir, or I will scream."
He pushed her back against the door, captured her head in both hands, and kissed her.
Genova had never been assaulted with a kiss before and shock held her captive for a moment as his mouth sealed hers. When he pressed closer, pressed his body against her, she came to her wits and gripped his wrists to pull his hands away.
Hopeless.
She kicked at him, but her skirts and his boots made the effort pathetic. She couldn't twist her head, and when she tried to scream, his tongue invaded. Oh, for a knife or a pistol!
Then something had an effect. He freed her lips, eased the pressure of his body....
She pushed him away with all her strength and scrambled out of reach, gathering breath to scream if he came near her again.
With an ironic, victorious bow he opened the door and escaped.
"Perish it!" She ran after, but the damnable man must have slipped the key from this side and locked the door on the other.
It took only moments to run through the bedroom and leave by that door, but by that time he was down the stairs. She arrived at the landing to hear the door slam, and reached the hall at the same time as the bewildered innkeeper.
"He's left his cloak and things! He'll freeze."
"Not him," said Genova grimly. "The devil looks after his own."
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