Moonglow
Page 3
The woman was above, getting bathed by Tuttle. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the gentle tinkle of water and smell the fragrance of his bath soap enveloping her.
He blew out a breath and plopped down in his chair by the fire. Grabbing his glass from the side table, he took a hearty swallow before scowling down into the amber liquid.
The woman. He had exactly one glimpse of her pale throat before Tuttle had shooed him away.
“I’m a physician,” he’d protested, when an implacable Tuttle had batted him back from undressing his patient.
“Oh, are ye?” Tuttle’s expression had been dubious. “I thought ye’d given that all up.”
Fine, he hadn’t practiced since 1865 but the knowledge was still there. “Cheeky woman, do not split hairs now. I’ve seen countless nude females in that capacity, and it doesn’t affect me in the least.”
“Aye,” Tuttle had snapped back. “An’ when ye can look at her with the detached politeness of a healer and not leer like some randy lad, I’ll let you examine her. Until then, out you go.”
This is what he got for treating his staff like pack instead of servants, and while he craved the close familiarity of others, now wasn’t one of those times. “Blast it, woman, I need to ascertain whether she is injured.”
“Ascertain, eh?” She shoved him toward the door. “Is that what you’re callin’ it now?”
With only a harried assurance from Tuttle that she’d check the lass for damage, he’d been banished from his own room as though he were some deviant incapable of basic professionalism.
A grumble sounded in his breast. Very well, he could admit that part of him had been looking at the woman with the interest of a man, and damned if he knew why. The poor thing had been covered in blood, and in all likelihood, was traumatized. That his breath had begun to quicken as his hands undid her top buttons suddenly made him feel small and wrong, a right cad.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered and took another long drink. The liquor sent a pleasant path of warmth down his throat and into his twitching gut. But it did not calm him. The silence in the library irritated the hell out of him. It struck him that silence was fast becoming his constant companion. Certainly he heard many things, talked to people on a daily basis, but on the inside he was alone.
Ian sank farther into his chair, and the twitchy, itchy weight of his situation intensified. As he looked at the door, his ears pricked up at the sound of the woman’s tread coming down the main stair, and his heart kicked within his chest. A pleasant jump along with a tightening of his gut. Although he hadn’t felt the sensation in months, years really, Ian realized the feeling for what it was: anticipation.
A sense of the surreal settled over Daisy as Tuttle led her through Northrup’s elegant town house. She ought not be walking. She ought to be dead. That she lived, breathed, felt the slip and slide of silk over her legs with every step was at once so normal yet so abnormal that she almost laughed. Her friend was dead. And her own would-be lover? She was prepared to shag him, for really she couldn’t call it making love, and now the man—whose name she still could not remember—was gone, slaughtered.
Temptress of man. Harbinger of a man’s lust and destruction.
God help her, her late husband’s words rang too close to the truth. Were it not for her going into the alleyway with that poor man, he might still be alive.
Her heartbeat sped up as Tuttle opened the door to a cozy library and ushered Daisy forward. What had her rescuer seen? Her steps faltered because suddenly she resolutely did not want to know.
As soon as she stepped into the room, he rose up from the leather wing chair by the fire in one fluid move. His eyes narrowed, taking her in just as she studied him.
Her breath gave a little catch as she moved closer. Most certainly, this was not the elderly Lord Northrup, but perhaps his heir. Good God, but this man was beautiful. Distractingly so. His was a masculine beauty that artists often replicated. Lean of face, saved from femininity by the sharp V of his jaw and the strength of his chin, with high cheekbones so defined they might have been cut from marble. Only his mouth was soft. Soft and mobile, the corners twitched as if wanting to smile.
However, there was nothing soft about his eyes. Deep set under dark brows that were currently slashed in a scowl, they pierced into her, their light color indistinguishable until she came close. A chuff of air escaped her. “Azure.”
One brow lifted a notch. “Pardon?” His voice was at once lilting and light, yet rough. Silk over gravel.
Daisy stopped and let her gaze travel from the tips of his polished shoes, over his lean form dressed to perfection, and up to those azure eyes that now danced with amusement. She would have remembered this man had she seen him before. “You are too pretty to be a noble.”
A bark of a laughter shot out, and Daisy felt a quirk of irritation. Damn her loose tongue.
Lord Northrup stepped closer, bringing with him the heady scent of vetiver and clean male. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty before, lass.”
Very correctly, he caught up her hand and bent over it, his lips brushing her knuckles. His dark hair was the one wrong note in his otherwise flawless attire. It flowed in shining waves to the top of his shoulders. Barbaric. “If you’re not careful,” he said, “I’ll soon be blushing.”
Neither of them wore gloves, and his skin was dry and very warm. A stir of feeling wisped through her insides, and she fought the urge to back away. “I doubt that. I am certain you are quite used to such accolades.” She gave a careless shrug as she retracted her hand. “In truth, I should take care not to stand too close or risk being eclipsed by your splendor.”
He flashed a quick, practiced smile. “Oh, I don’t know.” He reached out and tugged a curl dangling by her cheek, the action making her insides jump. “You exude quite a shine yourself.”
No, she would not blush. Daisy never blushed. Not over a man’s attention. Yet her cheeks felt suspiciously warm as she turned away from him and wandered around the room. “Nonsense.”
He strolled near. “Ah, but sometimes speaking of nonsense is the best cure.” The gentleness in his tone made her heart skip a beat. He knew what she was about. He knew she strove to ignore the panic welling up like acid in her belly.
“Pay no mind to me, sir. There are times when my mouth and brain forget to hold a conversation.”
His mouth quirked, true amusement making him appear almost boyish. “Happens often, does it?”
Cheeky sot. Daisy gave him a repressive look from over her shoulder, and he chuckled, clearly unperturbed by her annoyance.
“I see you are quite well, physically, at least. But let us sit.” Catching hold of her hand once more and ignoring her murmur of protest, he tugged her gently toward the settee by the fire. He folded his long length next to hers. “I’m intrigued. If not by beauty, how then does one spot the garden-variety nobleman?”
He was too close, his gaze too warm for her comfort. Sliding her clenched fists under the borrowed dressing gown, she shrugged.
“Easily,” she said. “One need only look for the promise of beauty not quite fulfilled, a nose too large, eyes a bit too close together, or ears ready to set sail.”
Northrup’s head snapped back, his eyes widening. “You, madam, are a snob.”
She bit back a laugh. “Oh, to be sure. As I am certain you men are not cataloging a woman’s every feature from the moment she steps in the room.”
He grinned with the ease of a man who did so often. “As you did with me, you mean?”
Her lips tightened. “Pray, do not hold your tongue on my account.”
“Said one spade to the other.” He was smiling again, leaning in as if he might gobble her up. Damn the man, he had an infectious smile. She resisted the urge to return it.
Among the ton, Lord Northrup’s type of charm was as prevalent as weeds in a meadow. Light, amusing, and devoid of any true meaning. She used to long for such interactions. But after tonight’s horror, even that small amusement had lost its flavor. Yet she appreciated his efforts to distract her. Despite the bath and the bracing effect of the brandy, residual shivers of panic clung to her. She wanted to rub her arms until the feeling was gone.
Northrup rested an elbow on the seat back, and the light reflected in his long hair, turning it auburn. Wine and chocolate. Delicious. The look in his eyes said he had at least some sense of her line of thoughts.
“You wear your hair longer than fashion,” Daisy blurted out. “Why?” The question was in poor taste, but the cornered often react in haste. At least that was the reasoning she used on herself as she felt her cheeks prickle with embarrassment.
Obviously as surprised at her bluntness as she was, he took a moment to address her. “I’m in mourning for my father.” The corners of his lush mouth turned down as he glowered at some unseen thing before his expression cleared. “It is the Ranulf custom for a man to let one’s hair grow for three years after the death of a close family member.”
“Oh, I had no idea.” Her discomfort grew.
“How could you?” he answered with unexpected kindness.
Daisy found herself reacting to it. Her hand settled on his forearm for a brief moment. “I am sorry for your loss.”
He looked at the spot she had touched. “Thank you. Your concern is unnecessary, but kind.” He went back to studying her, and a look of bemusement wrinkled his brow. “You remind me of someone. Though I cannot place it.”
The feeling was mutual. He seemed at once utterly familiar yet completely foreign to her.
His look of concentration grew. “But I have never seen you before tonight. I would have remembered.” His tone was soft now, a confession that moved beyond small talk.
She had to smile at that bit of odd logic. “Certainly.” She meant to say it lightly yet her voice caught and faded as she met his gaze. Everything within her stilled and warmed. As if similarly affected, his smile slipped and his expression grew unguarded. Daisy’s breath hitched, for she saw in the depths of his eyes something that looked like longing.
It mirrored feelings she’d rather not think on, and so she sought to turn the conversation back to the benign. “Were you living in Scotland before the previous Lord Northrup’s passing?”
His straight brows drew together. “How did you know that my grandfather passed on?”
It was Daisy’s turn to frown. “Your title… Was Lord Northrup not your father?”
The current Lord Northrup’s look of confusion faded. “Ah,” he said with a little smile, and then sat a bit straighter. “My father was Lord Alasdair Rossberry. It is a bit of a muddle, I grant you, but he and my grandfather both passed”—a strange look flashed in his eyes before he continued—“around the same time. Thus I inherited two titles.”
The tips of his ears reddened as he grimaced. “I beg your pardon for not making a proper introduction. Ian Alasdair Ranulf, previously known as Viscount Mckinnon, at your service… Hell, I haven’t even asked your name.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “I’m usually much better at this sort of thing, only I confess—”
“I distracted you,” she finished wryly, but her heart had started to pound. Mckinnon, the name was familiar. Why? Alarm bells clanged within her tender skull.
“You’re very good it,” he admitted in a low voice.
“Only when I’m trying.” Daisy licked her dry lips and inclined her head. “Daisy Ellis Craigmore.”
Whatever she expected of him, it wasn’t the sudden shock in his eyes or the way he straightened and stepped away from her. “You are Miranda’s sister.”
Apparently shock was catching. All the warmth within her left as though she were caught in a draft, and then she knew. “You!”
Northrup’s slanting brows furrowed, but his tone was light when he spoke. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”
Daisy’s elbow slipped a bit as she scrambled to sit up straight. “You’re the beastly man who tried to poison Miranda’s mind against Archer.” Miranda had told Daisy all about it months ago, how Mckinnon had tried his best to convince Miranda to carry on an affair with him. And now Daisy was sitting in the parlor with the vile man.
He scowled. Whether it was toward the veracity of her statement or the fact that he’d been caught out, Daisy couldn’t be sure. The only certainty was the feral gleam in Northrup’s eyes and the way it made Daisy feel unaccountably nervous. However, having lived with much worse, intimidation did not easily cow her. She returned his look pound for pound, and his irritation seemed to grow.
“ ‘Beastly’ is it?” he all but growled. “I’ll kindly ask you to remember who took you in and saw you set to rights.”
A qualm of guilt lit through her, and he must have seen it for he stepped closer to loom over her in righteous indignation. “And I don’t recall you thinking me so beastly a moment ago.”
No, she’d rather liked him, damn the man. It made her cheeks burn to realize he had noticed this as well. In the heavy silence, she heard the clatter of a carriage pulling up beyond the front windows. A coach door opened and shut. Northrup’s nostrils flared as if catching a scent, and a strange look passed over his features. “Well, won’t this be cozy?” he said, as he straightened his coat. “I believe the lady in question has come to call.”
Chapter Three
She was here. Miranda. He hadn’t seen her in months. And then it had been only a glimpse at some ball. He had wanted to speak to Miranda one more time. To apologize. Not for warning her about Archer—the bastard had no right to marry a woman without telling her the truth of what he was—but for putting the wariness in her eyes whenever she looked his way. Despite what others thought, Ian did not hold with frightening women. He had played out his dance with Miranda poorly.
He blew out a breath and plopped down in his chair by the fire. Grabbing his glass from the side table, he took a hearty swallow before scowling down into the amber liquid.
The woman. He had exactly one glimpse of her pale throat before Tuttle had shooed him away.
“I’m a physician,” he’d protested, when an implacable Tuttle had batted him back from undressing his patient.
“Oh, are ye?” Tuttle’s expression had been dubious. “I thought ye’d given that all up.”
Fine, he hadn’t practiced since 1865 but the knowledge was still there. “Cheeky woman, do not split hairs now. I’ve seen countless nude females in that capacity, and it doesn’t affect me in the least.”
“Aye,” Tuttle had snapped back. “An’ when ye can look at her with the detached politeness of a healer and not leer like some randy lad, I’ll let you examine her. Until then, out you go.”
This is what he got for treating his staff like pack instead of servants, and while he craved the close familiarity of others, now wasn’t one of those times. “Blast it, woman, I need to ascertain whether she is injured.”
“Ascertain, eh?” She shoved him toward the door. “Is that what you’re callin’ it now?”
With only a harried assurance from Tuttle that she’d check the lass for damage, he’d been banished from his own room as though he were some deviant incapable of basic professionalism.
A grumble sounded in his breast. Very well, he could admit that part of him had been looking at the woman with the interest of a man, and damned if he knew why. The poor thing had been covered in blood, and in all likelihood, was traumatized. That his breath had begun to quicken as his hands undid her top buttons suddenly made him feel small and wrong, a right cad.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered and took another long drink. The liquor sent a pleasant path of warmth down his throat and into his twitching gut. But it did not calm him. The silence in the library irritated the hell out of him. It struck him that silence was fast becoming his constant companion. Certainly he heard many things, talked to people on a daily basis, but on the inside he was alone.
Ian sank farther into his chair, and the twitchy, itchy weight of his situation intensified. As he looked at the door, his ears pricked up at the sound of the woman’s tread coming down the main stair, and his heart kicked within his chest. A pleasant jump along with a tightening of his gut. Although he hadn’t felt the sensation in months, years really, Ian realized the feeling for what it was: anticipation.
A sense of the surreal settled over Daisy as Tuttle led her through Northrup’s elegant town house. She ought not be walking. She ought to be dead. That she lived, breathed, felt the slip and slide of silk over her legs with every step was at once so normal yet so abnormal that she almost laughed. Her friend was dead. And her own would-be lover? She was prepared to shag him, for really she couldn’t call it making love, and now the man—whose name she still could not remember—was gone, slaughtered.
Temptress of man. Harbinger of a man’s lust and destruction.
God help her, her late husband’s words rang too close to the truth. Were it not for her going into the alleyway with that poor man, he might still be alive.
Her heartbeat sped up as Tuttle opened the door to a cozy library and ushered Daisy forward. What had her rescuer seen? Her steps faltered because suddenly she resolutely did not want to know.
As soon as she stepped into the room, he rose up from the leather wing chair by the fire in one fluid move. His eyes narrowed, taking her in just as she studied him.
Her breath gave a little catch as she moved closer. Most certainly, this was not the elderly Lord Northrup, but perhaps his heir. Good God, but this man was beautiful. Distractingly so. His was a masculine beauty that artists often replicated. Lean of face, saved from femininity by the sharp V of his jaw and the strength of his chin, with high cheekbones so defined they might have been cut from marble. Only his mouth was soft. Soft and mobile, the corners twitched as if wanting to smile.
However, there was nothing soft about his eyes. Deep set under dark brows that were currently slashed in a scowl, they pierced into her, their light color indistinguishable until she came close. A chuff of air escaped her. “Azure.”
One brow lifted a notch. “Pardon?” His voice was at once lilting and light, yet rough. Silk over gravel.
Daisy stopped and let her gaze travel from the tips of his polished shoes, over his lean form dressed to perfection, and up to those azure eyes that now danced with amusement. She would have remembered this man had she seen him before. “You are too pretty to be a noble.”
A bark of a laughter shot out, and Daisy felt a quirk of irritation. Damn her loose tongue.
Lord Northrup stepped closer, bringing with him the heady scent of vetiver and clean male. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called pretty before, lass.”
Very correctly, he caught up her hand and bent over it, his lips brushing her knuckles. His dark hair was the one wrong note in his otherwise flawless attire. It flowed in shining waves to the top of his shoulders. Barbaric. “If you’re not careful,” he said, “I’ll soon be blushing.”
Neither of them wore gloves, and his skin was dry and very warm. A stir of feeling wisped through her insides, and she fought the urge to back away. “I doubt that. I am certain you are quite used to such accolades.” She gave a careless shrug as she retracted her hand. “In truth, I should take care not to stand too close or risk being eclipsed by your splendor.”
He flashed a quick, practiced smile. “Oh, I don’t know.” He reached out and tugged a curl dangling by her cheek, the action making her insides jump. “You exude quite a shine yourself.”
No, she would not blush. Daisy never blushed. Not over a man’s attention. Yet her cheeks felt suspiciously warm as she turned away from him and wandered around the room. “Nonsense.”
He strolled near. “Ah, but sometimes speaking of nonsense is the best cure.” The gentleness in his tone made her heart skip a beat. He knew what she was about. He knew she strove to ignore the panic welling up like acid in her belly.
“Pay no mind to me, sir. There are times when my mouth and brain forget to hold a conversation.”
His mouth quirked, true amusement making him appear almost boyish. “Happens often, does it?”
Cheeky sot. Daisy gave him a repressive look from over her shoulder, and he chuckled, clearly unperturbed by her annoyance.
“I see you are quite well, physically, at least. But let us sit.” Catching hold of her hand once more and ignoring her murmur of protest, he tugged her gently toward the settee by the fire. He folded his long length next to hers. “I’m intrigued. If not by beauty, how then does one spot the garden-variety nobleman?”
He was too close, his gaze too warm for her comfort. Sliding her clenched fists under the borrowed dressing gown, she shrugged.
“Easily,” she said. “One need only look for the promise of beauty not quite fulfilled, a nose too large, eyes a bit too close together, or ears ready to set sail.”
Northrup’s head snapped back, his eyes widening. “You, madam, are a snob.”
She bit back a laugh. “Oh, to be sure. As I am certain you men are not cataloging a woman’s every feature from the moment she steps in the room.”
He grinned with the ease of a man who did so often. “As you did with me, you mean?”
Her lips tightened. “Pray, do not hold your tongue on my account.”
“Said one spade to the other.” He was smiling again, leaning in as if he might gobble her up. Damn the man, he had an infectious smile. She resisted the urge to return it.
Among the ton, Lord Northrup’s type of charm was as prevalent as weeds in a meadow. Light, amusing, and devoid of any true meaning. She used to long for such interactions. But after tonight’s horror, even that small amusement had lost its flavor. Yet she appreciated his efforts to distract her. Despite the bath and the bracing effect of the brandy, residual shivers of panic clung to her. She wanted to rub her arms until the feeling was gone.
Northrup rested an elbow on the seat back, and the light reflected in his long hair, turning it auburn. Wine and chocolate. Delicious. The look in his eyes said he had at least some sense of her line of thoughts.
“You wear your hair longer than fashion,” Daisy blurted out. “Why?” The question was in poor taste, but the cornered often react in haste. At least that was the reasoning she used on herself as she felt her cheeks prickle with embarrassment.
Obviously as surprised at her bluntness as she was, he took a moment to address her. “I’m in mourning for my father.” The corners of his lush mouth turned down as he glowered at some unseen thing before his expression cleared. “It is the Ranulf custom for a man to let one’s hair grow for three years after the death of a close family member.”
“Oh, I had no idea.” Her discomfort grew.
“How could you?” he answered with unexpected kindness.
Daisy found herself reacting to it. Her hand settled on his forearm for a brief moment. “I am sorry for your loss.”
He looked at the spot she had touched. “Thank you. Your concern is unnecessary, but kind.” He went back to studying her, and a look of bemusement wrinkled his brow. “You remind me of someone. Though I cannot place it.”
The feeling was mutual. He seemed at once utterly familiar yet completely foreign to her.
His look of concentration grew. “But I have never seen you before tonight. I would have remembered.” His tone was soft now, a confession that moved beyond small talk.
She had to smile at that bit of odd logic. “Certainly.” She meant to say it lightly yet her voice caught and faded as she met his gaze. Everything within her stilled and warmed. As if similarly affected, his smile slipped and his expression grew unguarded. Daisy’s breath hitched, for she saw in the depths of his eyes something that looked like longing.
It mirrored feelings she’d rather not think on, and so she sought to turn the conversation back to the benign. “Were you living in Scotland before the previous Lord Northrup’s passing?”
His straight brows drew together. “How did you know that my grandfather passed on?”
It was Daisy’s turn to frown. “Your title… Was Lord Northrup not your father?”
The current Lord Northrup’s look of confusion faded. “Ah,” he said with a little smile, and then sat a bit straighter. “My father was Lord Alasdair Rossberry. It is a bit of a muddle, I grant you, but he and my grandfather both passed”—a strange look flashed in his eyes before he continued—“around the same time. Thus I inherited two titles.”
The tips of his ears reddened as he grimaced. “I beg your pardon for not making a proper introduction. Ian Alasdair Ranulf, previously known as Viscount Mckinnon, at your service… Hell, I haven’t even asked your name.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “I’m usually much better at this sort of thing, only I confess—”
“I distracted you,” she finished wryly, but her heart had started to pound. Mckinnon, the name was familiar. Why? Alarm bells clanged within her tender skull.
“You’re very good it,” he admitted in a low voice.
“Only when I’m trying.” Daisy licked her dry lips and inclined her head. “Daisy Ellis Craigmore.”
Whatever she expected of him, it wasn’t the sudden shock in his eyes or the way he straightened and stepped away from her. “You are Miranda’s sister.”
Apparently shock was catching. All the warmth within her left as though she were caught in a draft, and then she knew. “You!”
Northrup’s slanting brows furrowed, but his tone was light when he spoke. “Me? Whatever do you mean?”
Daisy’s elbow slipped a bit as she scrambled to sit up straight. “You’re the beastly man who tried to poison Miranda’s mind against Archer.” Miranda had told Daisy all about it months ago, how Mckinnon had tried his best to convince Miranda to carry on an affair with him. And now Daisy was sitting in the parlor with the vile man.
He scowled. Whether it was toward the veracity of her statement or the fact that he’d been caught out, Daisy couldn’t be sure. The only certainty was the feral gleam in Northrup’s eyes and the way it made Daisy feel unaccountably nervous. However, having lived with much worse, intimidation did not easily cow her. She returned his look pound for pound, and his irritation seemed to grow.
“ ‘Beastly’ is it?” he all but growled. “I’ll kindly ask you to remember who took you in and saw you set to rights.”
A qualm of guilt lit through her, and he must have seen it for he stepped closer to loom over her in righteous indignation. “And I don’t recall you thinking me so beastly a moment ago.”
No, she’d rather liked him, damn the man. It made her cheeks burn to realize he had noticed this as well. In the heavy silence, she heard the clatter of a carriage pulling up beyond the front windows. A coach door opened and shut. Northrup’s nostrils flared as if catching a scent, and a strange look passed over his features. “Well, won’t this be cozy?” he said, as he straightened his coat. “I believe the lady in question has come to call.”
Chapter Three
She was here. Miranda. He hadn’t seen her in months. And then it had been only a glimpse at some ball. He had wanted to speak to Miranda one more time. To apologize. Not for warning her about Archer—the bastard had no right to marry a woman without telling her the truth of what he was—but for putting the wariness in her eyes whenever she looked his way. Despite what others thought, Ian did not hold with frightening women. He had played out his dance with Miranda poorly.
