Moonglow. Part 13

"I shall be the soul of discretion," he promised.

"Well"-she nibbled her bottom lip-"Mrs. Armitage, the housekeeper, says it's consumption, but Hanna, the one maid let into his rooms, says he suffers from the French Pox. An' something terribly at that." A little shudder wracked her frame. "Him being twisted and crippled beyond recognition."

Syphilis. A lover's disease. Winston would bet his next week's pay that Miss Lucy Montgomery now suffered from the same illness.

The girl leaned closer. "In truth, sir, the staff has taken to wonderin' if he's even alive any longer."

"Why do you say that?"

"A few nights ago, just before Lord Ranulf returned from Scotland, a large state coach pulls up and they made to bundle the guest into it. So he could rusticate, says Mrs. Armitage and Mr. Timms, the butler. Only the fellow got into a rare state of rage. He tore out of the coach and ran off into the night. No one saw him return."

Winston handed the maid his card. "Give this to Mr. Timms. I shall talk to him and Mrs. Armitage now, if they have a moment." And if they didn't, he'd talk to them anyway.

The maid eyed the card as if it were poisoned. She licked her dry lips quickly. "Sir..." A noise from within the house made her jump and her breath shorten. When she spoke again, it was a rush of words. "They won't answer you. Not truthfully. It isn't allowed."

"Even to the CID?"

A sheen of perspiration was apparent on her brow. "Most especially to them." She glanced over her shoulder and tensed. "I've got to go now."

He wanted to push but knew it would be futile. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, as his superiors liked to say. He started to put his notebook back in his pocket but stilled, a cold realization washing over him as his mind played back what the maid had told him. "I'm sorry, but you say you've repeated this all before?"

"Aye." She nodded vigorously, her mobcap in danger of falling down. "To the gentleman who was just here." Her brown eyes narrowed. "Come to think on it, he said he was a Yard man as well." She shook her head as if pitying. "You fellows really ought to get your ch.o.r.es straight now, hadn't you?"

Chapter Nineteen.

When the light of the sun crested over the sharp edges of London's horizon, Ian went down to breakfast. The slight quickening of Daisy's breathing told him she would soon wake, and he didn't want her to find him sitting outside of her door, guarding as he had done for the remainder of the night. Already, she was withdrawing from him. He did not blame her, but given the fact that a werewolf had nearly killed them both, he had to find a way to keep her with him. Blasted, hardheaded woman would probably fight him at every step.

Try as he might, he could not block out the memories of Daisy's eyes when he had come to his senses last night. On a groan, Ian sank his head into his hands and shuddered. Christ, he had lost control. He could not blame the drug entirely. He'd scented her fear. Mixed with the luscious perfume of her flesh, it had been irresistible.

"Jesus." He swallowed several times, fearing he would be ill. His hands were steady as he looked at them, but inside he shook. He'd seen his hands changing during his fight with the were. Too far. Nails had turned to claws, long and deadly, bones had distorted, fur taking over skin.

Control. It was a lycan's curse. All that inner power, and yet the constant struggle to keep the wolf in check. He had failed last night, too driven by rage over the werewolf and too desperate to touch what he should not.

Daisy. She'd looked at him as if he were a monster. And she would be right. In his youth, he had reveled in his wolf, drawing it out until they were nearly one. A deadly dance to be sure. Such power and wildness. Ian blinked down at his hands. The longer he remained in Daisy's presence, the more he felt.

Inside, his wolf whined, a placating sound, as if to remind Ian of what they once were and how good it felt to have that strength pushed to the limit. A helpless laugh left him. Aye, but he loved the beast, and that was the stink of it. Love and hate. Two sides of the same coin.

He caught her fragrance, warm, clean, and lush, just before he heard the slight swish of her skirts on the stairs. A ghost of a smile haunted his lips. She would never be able to catch him unaware. He had her scent now, as surely as if he owned it. The smile faltered when she entered the room, because while he might have her scent, he would never have her. Manners and honor demanded that he rise and greet her, and yet he could barely make his limbs obey. He did not want to see the disgust and fear in her eyes again.

"Good morning." His words sounded thick, as though filtered through water, and he fought for a lighter tone. "Would you care for breakfast?"

She hovered in the doorway, her eyes so weary that his heart grew leaden. He spoke to fill the awkward pause. "I have sent a man out to get your clothing." She was wearing the same gown she'd worn last night. Though tattered and dirty, it clung to her abundance in a loving embrace and shimmered as she moved.

She cleared her throat, a delicate yet awkward sound. "You needn't have bothered. It is easy enough for me to return home to change."

Ian knew he scowled. b.l.o.o.d.y woman. Did she not realize there was no going back? Not anymore. Oddly, his frown seemed to buoy her. She took a good look at him and then strode forward as though determined to make the most of a bad situation.

Silence became a thick shroud as they sat opposite of each other and picked at their breakfast. Daisy helped herself to a piece of b.u.t.tered toast. Neat, white teeth bit into it with a crisp sound.

G.o.d, it almost felt domestic, sharing a meal with her as if she were a proper wife. Save there was nothing proper about the way he felt watching that little pink tongue of hers sneak out to lick up an errant, b.u.t.tery crumb resting on the corner of her mouth. He shifted in his chair, and she caught him looking. Frowning, she lowered the toast and stared at it as if she didn't quite recognize it.

Her voice was rough with regret when she started to speak. "Northrup-"

"I don't know how to apologize," he said. "Not in any way that can make things right. I can say that I wasn't myself, but it wouldn't be entirely true. That was me last night. A great part of me, at any rate." Shame rolled within him. "I try to control it, but the beast is always there, wanting out."

Daisy looked away, her fine brows knitting. Sunlight, pouring in from the tall windows, gilded her in tones of silver and gold, and he fought the urge to reach out and draw his fingertip down the small slope of her nose.

"At the very least, you know who you are." Her gaze returned to him. "There are days when I look in the mirror and don't even recognize myself. I've become merely shapes and colors. In truth, I hardly know who I am anymore, or if I was ever anyone at all."

I know who you are, he wanted to shout. You are brave, funny. Fresh air in this smothered town. And utterly blind if you cannot see what I am. Ian owed it to her to make it clear. "Then I envy you," he said. "For I've had lifetimes to learn each line and plane of my face, and I can't stand the sight of it."

Her lovely eyes creased at the corners as though his words hurt her. He could not account for it, nor the rawness in her voice when she asked, "Why?"

Ian wanted to look away, but he would not. Not with her. "I look like my father, before he was burned. I look like every lycan male in the Ranulf line. Every time I see this countenance, I remember what I really am. A monster." He made himself smile, laugh at himself as he always did. "A monster hiding behind a pretty face."

She did not smile with him. "You are not a monster."

"How can you say that?" His voice had gone raw, weak. "After what I've done?"

"And what have you done? Saved me? At great personal risk." Daisy spoke on. "You warned me to stay away. I did not listen."

When he began to protest, she shook her head slightly and the golden curls at her temples trembled. "I know who the true monsters are. They are ordinary men who do terrible things."

"What do you know of monsters, Daisy-Meg?" Who was it that terrorized her?

She looked at him with eyes wide and pained, and the very air seemed to still about him. "Enough to know that you are not one of them."

The temptation to tell her everything was so strong that, for a moment, he could not breathe. n.o.body knew him, not wholly, but in pieces that he rationed out like a miser. He reached for her, ready to let it all out, the pain and the loss, but she jerked as if she feared he might attack. It was a small movement, and one she might not even know she'd made. But he was too attuned to her to miss it.

The gesture hurt. More than he'd imagined it would. You ruin everything, Ian. You and your beast. Ian stood with an easy grace he did not feel. "Well, then," he said as best as he could manage. "I'll leave you to your breakfast." He strode out of the room without looking back.

Daisy stared at the empty doorway through which Northrup had just made his hasty exit. She had hurt him. She didn't know how or why, but she felt that tangible emotion roll off him as he quit the room. And it did not sit well with her.

"Blast," she muttered, and then went to find him.

He was in his library, sitting on the bench before the empty fireplace. He visibly tensed when she entered.

"Do you need something?" His voice was light, unaffected, but he didn't look at her. As good a sign as any of his distress, for Northrup always looked a person in the eye.

"Yes." She came farther into the room. "I want to know why you left me just now."

He made a sound of amus.e.m.e.nt. "Left you? How dramatic. I was simply finished with breakfast." Still he would not turn.

Slowly she walked toward him, noting the way his body seemed to twitch with every step she made. "Do you know," she said, "that I can tell when a person is lying?" She stopped. "It's quite a useful trick. Drove my sisters mad."

He frowned down at some invisible spot on the carpet. "Daisy... It was a long night. Now go on with you. I fear I am not of a mood to parry."

She ought to know better than ignore his request. Last night was proof of that. But this Northrup was not on the verge of violence. No, this was something darker. Closer to despair. She knew that emotion well. So she did not move away. "Tell me what I can do to help you."

Northrup's expression told no tales as he continued to sit in stubborn silence, with only the small rise and fall of his shoulders giving testament to his being made of flesh and blood, not stone. Daisy's heart constricted. Despite the insouciant facade he often presented to her, Northrup had a great capacity for caring. Likely, he'd laugh it off, should she remark upon it, but he could no longer fool her.

Clear morning light highlighted the tired lines around his eyes. The network of muscles along his back and shoulders were so tense that she could see them bulging beneath the excellent cut of his gray day coat. She moved closer, as cautious as one approaching a stray dog. The skin over his knuckles tightened, but he did not retreat from her.

His hands were finely made, elegant yet slightly rough, and so much larger than her own. She'd been held in comfort by those hands. And she'd been held down by them. The memory of his actions still brought forth a visceral clench of fear to her chest, strong enough that she'd flinched at his attempt to touch her a moment ago. Yet she had not lied to him; she knew the difference between men who hurt because they could and those who had made a mistake. She had made mistakes in her life. Not since she had lived with her sisters had anyone forgiven her for a blunder. She'd forgiven Northrup, but she had yet to show him. Daisy glanced down at the set expression on Northrup's face, and she knew she must bridge the gap between them now or it would grow wider.

The line of his jaw bunched as if to tell her he would simply wait her out until she moved off, and she almost smiled at his stubbornness. Her skirt billowed in a cloud of forest green as she knelt next to him.

When she raised her arms, he inhaled sharply and shied away. "What are you doing?"

"Taking off your cravat and collar."

From under the fan of his lashes, a painful mix of curiosity and uncertainty warred within the blue depths of his eyes. "Why?"

"You shall see."

He hesitated for a pulse beat and then lifted his chin to allow her access. Had she fully thought her actions through, she would have asked him to do the deed, for Daisy realized that she must kneel between his bent knees to reach him. Surrounded by the warmth of his body, her hands trembled as they went to his cravat. Touching him was unavoidable, and her knuckles grazed the sandy skin of his neck where his morning beard grew. For a moment, it seemed unbearably intimate, helping him as a wife might. Though he would not meet her eyes, his awareness of her betrayed him in the stiffness of his body and his light exhale with each tug of the cravat.

He was too close, his warm breath touching her cheeks. Were she to tilt her head just so, her mouth would be on his. And it would be good, so very good. She could taste him again, slowly, the way she yearned to, with deep explorations until they both became breathless. Heat radiated over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and up her neck, and the tremor in her hands increased. She felt him swallow, edge just a bit closer. She merely had to look up, and it would happen. All of her concentration went to the tie in her hands. Her finger slipped and then the knot finally came undone. The silk hissed as she slid it free, and the tension radiating from him seemed to grow.

Setting the cravat and collar aside, she stood. "And your coat."

His head bent as he slipped it off and set it aside. Daisy moved on unsteady limbs to stand behind him, then cleared her throat. "When I was a girl, there were days when my father used to come home so weary." Though she spoke in a hushed whisper, the sound of her voice slashed through the dense silence. "Some nights, he would ask me to rub his shoulders." Swallowing hard, she set her hands lightly upon the warmth of Northrup's shoulders and felt them twitch. "Permit me?"

Rigidity gathered along his muscles, turning what once felt as sinewy as corded hemp rope into tight steel bands. He inhaled and held his breath for a moment and violent tremors rippled under her palms. Then he nodded, as though having lost the ability to speak. Anxiety gathered within her breast as she began to rub the unyielding muscles. Her thumbs dug into the small hollows on either side of his spine where large knots held reign. Northrup made a noise deep in his throat. She bit her lip as her fingers worked upward, slipping over the satin of his waistcoat. With a brush of her hands, his thick hair slid forward and exposed his neck. The thick column of muscles there tensed then softened under the hard push of her fingers.

Silently she worked, easing the pained stiffness from his shoulders. Gradually, Northrup relaxed with small sighs of relief, mingled with little grunts of pain-and each of them eliciting a different sort of sweet pain within Daisy. It had been a bad idea to touch him. Her gown was too tight now, heavy and smothering against the heat radiating from her body. The desire to simply melt into him made her head light and her arms shake. Her pace faltered and then stopped, and her hands settled upon the hard caps of his shoulders as she struggled to gain purchase over her uneven breathing. She could no more move than he could speak.

A near-imperceptible shift skittered over him like a warning, or perhaps a promise. Gently, he took hold of her hand and brought it before him. The shuddering sound of her breath filled her ears as he slowly turned her palm upward and cradled it. Every nerve in her hand focused on the tip of his finger as he traced the various sc.r.a.pes and cuts she'd gained during her struggles in the cemetery, a delicate and curious touch, like a scholar intent upon translating an ancient tome.

She nearly flinched when his silk-sand voice broke the silence. "Hear me, Daisy-girl. By my vow, on the grave of my father, Alasdair George Ranulf, and on the blood of Clan Ranulf that flows in my veins, I will never hurt you again." The warm puff of his breath heated her palm as he lifted her hand to his mouth. "I will keep you safe till this business be done. Or die trying. This I pledge to you."

He pressed a kiss into her palm's center, and her heart skipped a beat. Northrup groaned softly, his teeth sc.r.a.ping over the sensitive skin before his tongue slid out to lick her. With a gasp, she wilted against him, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressing against the hard line of his back. Soft lips skimmed along the length of her finger and her breath grew rapid, antic.i.p.ation hammering against her throat. He paused at the tip for one agonizing moment and then drew her finger into his warm, wet mouth and sucked it.

"Oh, Christ..." Her free hand clutched his arm, the tense heat at her center tightening to near pain. His tongue enveloped her, pulling and sucking. And she uttered a muted cry. She could not think clearly, nor find the will to move away. Her head fell to the solid strength of his shoulder. On a smooth glide, Northrup released her finger and pressed her knuckles to his lips.

For a moment, they simply breathed, then Northrup's raw voice broke over her. "I cannot think."

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the cool feel of his shirt against her hot cheek. "Why?"

"My mind is filled."

Her free hand, heavy with languor, drifted along his arm and he trembled softly.

"With what?" she whispered.

"You. All the time. You." He sighed. "Daisy has taken up residence here." Yet it was to his heart he pressed her hand, to feel its pounding. "How to keep you safe. How to keep you out. How to keep... you."

His grip tightened a fraction. "It is madness. I want..." His breath hitched when she turned and pressed her lips against the back of his neck.

"What do you want?"

Before he could say a word, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and he eased away to rise. His voice was the beast's as he looked down at Daisy.

"Whatever may happen, do not run from them."

Chapter Twenty.

There were four of them. Tall, well-dressed, and rather attractive men who entered the large front hall to face Northrup. The physical gracefulness in which they moved, and the slightly wild gleam in their eyes, mirrored Northrup's mannerisms in such a way that Daisy knew they must be like him. Lycan. She had no doubt that they'd sensed the very moment she'd snuck into the corridor to watch them. Daisy cursed herself for not staying in the library.

Northrup appeared calm, yet she did not miss the way his eyes took in their every move.

A ginger-haired man spoke up first. "We've come to take you to The Ranulf. Presently."

"A formal invitation," Northrup said. "I am all aflutter. Let us proceed." He moved to take his coat from his butler, who like all good servants appeared as if out of the ether with Northrup's hat and coat in hand.

The ginger man stepped into Northrup's s.p.a.ce. "We'll be taking the la.s.s as well." A pair of amber eyes focused on Daisy with stunning accuracy, and she sucked in a sharp breath. d.a.m.n.

The very air about Northrup seemed to shift and boil as his body tensed. Though he spoke calmly enough, no one in the room could have missed the steel behind his words. "She's not important."

"That is for The Ranulf to decide."

"The Ranulf does not rule my home."

The three other lycan men shifted their stance as Ginger slowly unfurled a predator's smile. "Thought you might say that." He scratched the back of his neck as he eyed Northrup. "Give you ten seconds to change your mind, you being MacRanulf an' such."

Northrup's teeth bared, gleaming white and alarmingly sharp. "Don't need it."

The fight happened with such speed that they were a blur of white shirts and the length of trouser-clad legs. Northrup used the momentum to his advantage and rolled one man over with a snarl that sent chills skittering down Daisy's back. In a flash, Northrup swung out, slashing at a dark-headed man. Crimson blood sprayed Northrup's face. That was all she saw before the moving ma.s.s of men converged on Northrup, and he disappeared beneath them.

She could not see what was happening but she could hear the sickening sounds of flesh being pounded and skin being torn. The floor swayed beneath her feet as the memory of that night in the alley came back. Flesh ripped open by long black claws, the metallic scent of blood soaking the air.

Daisy slumped against the doorway. She knew that smell, mixed with something wild and rangy. Wolf. Her muscles seized, her breath ratcheting as the urge to run consumed her. Do not run from them. He'd commanded it of her when they'd come. And she knew to the depths of her marrow that he'd been literal in the directive. She was not to run, or her life would be forfeit. Despite instinct, she trusted him more, even if the memory of death made her knees shake.