Page 10 of Lie Down With a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den)

D áire could see the wheels of her mind grinding against each other.

She was debating how to leave him. He’d expected that. But he predicted she would not wish to remain away from all she knew.

Whatever she chose, he had means to help her set up a new life. Money. Connections. Even properties around the country. None were grand, but he’d gladly give her anything to help her recover from this. If it also assuaged her anger and his guilt, so be it.

He’d offer whatever he had to her to escape the consequences of a foiled marriage…and the notoriety of his abduction. She might refuse all his help. He understood her inclination to do that. But he was an expert at deception. Was renowned for it, actually. And she knew his name, so she must have some knowledge of his good works, if not his reputed bad ones.

What most said of him was wrong. Completely false.

But his name also received accolades from many who benefited from his actions. Still her father had the wrong impression of him…and why not? Rivers had no friends or associates in common with Dáire. Those whom Dáire caught in heinous acts would not praise him. And those were the ones Rivers would revere.

Dáire shifted in his seat and brushed a hand down his fine lawn breeches. Casting his gaze over his captive, he could not ignore his appreciation of her face and form. How Rivers had sired such an elegance mystified Dáire.

She locked her eyes on his, then turned away. She’d nearly done so without reaction, too, but the shiver that shook her lithe body and quivered the tops of her bounteous breasts told him she was affected by his appraisal. If his eyes could touch her, and his hands could inspire her, and his kiss could make her moan, then in a portion of her soul, she liked him. More than liked him. Even if it did him no good.

She’s not for you.

Never was.

And that, boy-o, is what this is really about. He could save her from a disastrous marriage; he could help her to create a new existence for herself, and set her free from all she despised. And that included him.

“Do you like the sea?” he ventured long minutes later. They had to become better acquainted, didn’t they? He could not sit here and pine for her. She could not sit opposite and silently fume at him.

“I do.”

“What of it?”

“The salty air. The sounds of pounding of waves upon the shore.” She inhaled. “The views down the beach on clear days—the vista serene, but primal, with all those clouds and birds rushing to and fro on the gusts.”

“Would you live on the coast permanently?”

“I never asked myself that. But now…I might.”

“Where would you live?”

She smiled, but only briefly. “Curious, aren’t you, now that I cannot go home again, not to anything or anyone I know?”

He swallowed the sting of her accusation. “I plan to prove to you that marriage to Henry Mercer was a questionable thing. But a marriage to the man your father sent to the church would have been a nightmare.”

She lifted her chin in defiance. “I await that evidence with an eagerness that fills my every moment.”

Three hours later, both of them silent as a tomb inside the cab of the luxurious landau, they arrived outside Brighton at the thatched-roof cottage the Earl of Carlisle had so graciously offered Dáire days ago.

Carlisle had given use of it as a place of rest from work and cares. But Dáire took it now as a sanctuary and a hideaway from the heinous man who was his darling Blanche’s ignoble father.

The cottage struck Blanche with its charm. From the coach window, she saw that the wattle and daub that looked in excellent condition. The precise laying of the thatch on the roof. The fronds hanging over the eaves that rustled in the offshore breeze, sounding soft and sweet.

She’d expected a small abode. But this was wide, denoting such breadth she questioned how someone could heat such a vast room. However, three chimneys told her she must not fear. The house was fit for more than one, perhaps for two or more.

The wind, her silent partner in her love of the sea, picked up her hair as she accepted Dáire O’Neill’s hand to alight. Her hat long gone in the melee in the churchyard, her curls flew wild. She smiled at the refreshment of wind and sun driving away some of her anger.

Around them, the coachman and footman carried in the hamper from which they’d chosen refreshments. It occurred to her that neither Dáire nor she had any clothes. Not a hairbrush. No tooth powder. How would they get on?

Beneath her feet, the earth was uneven and she wobbled. O’Neill grabbed her hand, and she allowed it. His touch was firm, gentle, and she resented that he’d caught her. But she welcomed his assistance to the bright emerald-green door.

Lifting a flowerpot to the right, he scratched the earth and produced a large iron key. One quick turn and he pushed the door open and extended a hand to her to cross the threshold.

At once, she was in awe. To the right was a large, open room with a huge rock fireplace and far too many chairs, settees, and chaise longues. Beyond, toward the back, she glimpsed hanging herbs, a huge, standing wooden butcher block, and the edge of yet another fireplace.

“The house is owned by a friend of mine who has offered it to me for as long as I wish.”

“It is lovely.” She would give him that. Even the accommodations to the left were more than adequate. These were sleeping quarters with two wide beds, and beyond, against the far wall, stood a ladder up through the roof. So sleeping quarters were available in the loft too.

“Let me take your shawl,” he offered, walking forward, as politely as any well-trained butler.

Which, of course, had her smiling at him, if only fleetingly. Still, she shrugged out of it herself, unwilling to allow him to touch her and douse the dying embers of her vexation.

“Come, walk about,” he said, his appealing lips curving at the corners.

She strolled into the great room, the flames from the fireplace drawing her into an acceptance of things she could not change. Yet.

“Who set the fire?” She nodded toward the gathering room, where a blaze had taken any chill from the wood and stones.

“The caretaker. The owner, the Earl of Carlisle, said in his note that he sent a messenger quickly down here. He employs a man and his wife to care for the house and keep it always well stocked and clean.”

She glanced about, taking in the china teapot and its matching cups and saucers, the numerous thick-knitted shawls and blankets thrown over the backs of furniture.

“There is a cold cellar beneath the wash bin in the far room.”

She admired his ability to produce shelter for them. “You provide well. One would think you kidnap many women.”

His hungry eyes devoured her. “Only you.”

“I am honored,” she said sarcastically to kill the compliment he paid her with his need. She disliked herself for her peevishness. “Have you come here before?”

“No.” He strode around, walking into the sleeping area to sit and wiggle on the bed, before returning to the kitchen area and digging through the cold cellar. “We have a good selection of vegetables to cook for dinner.”

“Comforting.” She picked up a knit wrap and flung it around her shoulders. She was not as warm as she’d thought. “Do you cook?”

“I do.”

“Odd for a man,” she shot back.

He propped himself on the edge of an armchair, surveying the cottage with a grin. “Man or woman, one must eat. It is best if it is done with skill to honor the poor plants.”

That took her down a peg. She relented. “I look forward to tasting your efforts.”

“Tonight you will do that. Afterward, we can have the caretakers cook for us. Unless”—he grinned—“you care to show us you own skills with a sharp knife and a hot fire?”

“We should allow the caretaker to gratify us first. My talents are never worthy of any praise.”

“I spy a hip bath tucked in that corner over there. I’ll fill it for you tonight and leave you to a good soak.”

She followed his gaze to a fine-looking tub. “Where will you be?”

“On a walk in the yard.”

“You’ll be cold.”

“Would you care?”

“I wish no one ill, not even you.” She narrowed her eyes at him, the luscious creature, so louche in his loosened shirt and green wool waistcoat, his legs spread before her, showing off his manly length and form. Even his brown leather coat, draped as it was beneath him, added to his piratical air. Try as she might, she could not dislodge the hunger he aroused in her.

“Are you not afraid that I will run away while you sleep?”

“You could,” he said.

“Why not?” She had to taunt him, didn’t she?

“You will not go at night. No one travels then, especially not a woman alone.”

A good point. She nodded.

“You will not go tomorrow or even the next day. I’m sure you wish to know if what I’ve said about Mercer and your father is true. If it is, it presents you with new choices for your future.”

“None of them as a married woman.”

He tipped his head in thought. “How badly did you want that?”

His vehemence took her aback. “I did. I went to Mrs. Dove-Lyon to arrange it.”

“To an honorable man.”

“Yet that did not happen. Should I suspect that you had anything to do with that switch from Mercer to that other man?”

Insult turned him to stone. His lips thinned. “Why would I?”

“Because someone hired you to ruin me?”

He barked in laughter, shot to his feet, and bent toward her. His lips a breath away from hers, he said, “What would be in it for me?”

“Money?”

“Trust me, my dear. No amount of money could tempt me.”

She was crushed. He didn’t want her…but he did? “Why not?” she whispered.

“To take you against your will?”

“No. No, I—”

“Because if I wanted you…” He let the words hang like ornaments on a tree. Temptations that blinded her. But she felt him, his breath of mint and coffee. She yearned to taste him, and he blinked, seeing her desire. Her eyes widened to regard his ardor as he reached for her and paused so close that she knew the phantom brush of his lips.

Still she felt the might of his hands on her shoulders, the strength in his arms inescapable, her need to be taken by him, reassured of his desire for her, fierce as a wild animal.

He breathed, hot and hard. “Because if I wanted you, my dear, there would be only this—and no more.”

She absorbed his anguish, equal to her own. Yet his hands still possessed her and she ached to know one more thing. “You won’t kiss me?”

“Nor will you kiss me.” His arching brows challenged her. “Why? Say it.”

“I liked you. More than that—I trusted you.” The truth was all she had this close to him. “Now I have so little.”

He released her shoulders and strode away, his back to her as he approached the door…and turned back. His gaze was a black river of regret but his jaw was set, his lips firm, when he spoke. “So to smooth our way, until we tear down this wall of distrust, we go as we were when first we met. Two who met along one path and looked not beyond it.”

Dáire moved away from the house and Blanche. But he did not rush. He fled.

Blind with fury at his impetuous behavior to run away with her, he strode down the winding lane toward the sea. The dark mist of the night shrouded him as he cursed the wrong he had done her. The clouds met the rolling horizon, blue-black above an undulating sea. He sat upon a boulder, cold, uncaring.

He thought of no way out, save what he’d shared with her. He’d not predicted how savagely he could take her, abscond with her…and even argue with her that his action was warranted. What a fool he was. He loved her. To distraction. To insanity.

He had a streak of rashness. Always had.

“You’ll pay a price for that some day, me boy.” His father’s words struck him hard as that man’s fist often had.

Since the day that man had been shackled in Waterford City gaol, destined to be put on a convict boat to Australia, Dáire had spent his life proving the man wrong. Since the age of ten, he’d worked and saved his pennies, read everything put in front of him, and jumped at any chance to make a wise choice, do a good turn, gain a friend, cure a problem.

He’d had so many successes. In Waterford. With the Marquess of Linhaven. In Dublin. With that man’s two notable friends. His move to London after his mother died, taking his two young sisters and finding clues to muddles and crimes that no one—not lord or lady or Bow Street runner—could untangle. Building a name for the unusual, a notoriety for the righteous outcome, a reputation cloaked in discretion. One valued by those in need of redemption and restoration, but misinterpreted by those who knew him not. Like Jonathan Rivers.

Now for that man’s daughter, the woman he loved above all others, Dáire challenged himself to fix this mess he had created and do it soon. He must.

Else, how could he live with himself?