Black Falcon's Lady Page 9

  Tade's lips clung to hers just an instant as the footsteps stopped outside the door, then he ripped them away and lunged toward the window. He swung his lean legs over the sill, then lowered himself until only his head and shoulders were visible in the moonlight.

  "Maura, I want you to know. Dev, he's no murderer, no thief." The scrape of the bolt being thrown back made Maryssa shove at Tade's shoulders in desperation.

  "Go! Just—"

  "Maura, Dev is a priest."

  The crystal green of Tade's eyes probed hers for just an instant. Then he was gone. A hundred nightmare visions of priests hunted, tortured, and killed flashed through Maryssa's mind, horrible deaths described by Ascot Dallywoulde with fanatic glee in a dozen different drawing rooms.

  She wheeled and shoved Tade's neckcloth beneath the pillow as the bedchamber door slammed open.

  Chapter 6

  A dozen blazing candles spilled light from the drawing room onto the marble tiles of the hall outside, the bubbling laughter and snatches of lively chatter beyond the arched entryway seeming to tumble past the stone griffins as well, making Maryssa want to flee from the shelter of the corridor back to the safety of her shadow-veiled room.

  She peeped through the doorway, her face hot with dread and discomfort as she glimpsed the room beyond. It was as if the scene had been torn from the sketchbook of some elegant miss; the slender woman within might have been drawn from some young swain's ideal. The pink satin and silver lace robing the young woman's delicate form rustled appealingly from the velvet-covered stool before the harpsichord, which was just visible in the center of the room. Powdered curls bobbed enchantingly above fingers that had just finished a lively fugue. And as the strains of a minuet filled the room, laughter trilled from lips as red as ripe cherries.

  Maryssa's hand fluttered up to the garish handkerchief knotted at her breast, its pumpkin and pink stripes making her feel like an overblown poppy in a field of pristine lilies.

  She tugged at her quilted petticoat, wishing she could pluck one of the fat violet feathers embroidered across its front and sweep away the sly-faced peacocks that spattered the skirt. Their sharp beaks parted to mock her, the orange eyes seeming to gloat that even Lady Dallywoulde's exclusive coterie had been unable to clothe her suitably.

  She winced inwardly as her father's gruff voice cut into the strains of music, but the woman's laughing reply was lost to Maryssa as the brusque rejoinder was eclipsed by the memory of his words the night before.

  She had quaked in the breeze from the open window, terrified that Tade Kilcannon's presence in her chamber had been discovered, or that at the very least, the fiery blush of her cheeks would stir her father's keen suspicion. But Bainbridge Wylder had not spared her a glance, merely stalking to the fruitwood wardrobe along the west wall and flinging it open to eye its sparse contents with contempt.

  "It seems I have no choice but to allow you to make a spectacle of yourself tomorrow," he had snapped. "Dalton Marlow's son is dragging his bride over to make your acquaintance, there being a shortage of suitable companions hereabout for chits of your station. Not that Christabel Mar- low will accept you as any but another clumsy wench she must suffer, once she sees you."

  He had yanked out a gown the color of rotting squash, clumps of silk violets clinging to its bodice like plump beetles. With an oath, he had spun around, jabbing the gown in Maryssa's face.

  "God's teeth, you label this monstrosity fit garb? My coin would be better spent if I pulled a crofter's daughter off my lands and sent her to the most costly dressmaker in London!''

  "No doubt her tastes would run more pleasing than Lady Dal—" Maryssa had bitten off the retort as her father threw the offending garment to the floor and yanked the few remaining gowns from their pegs.

  "Damnation! These rags are fit for nothing but the fire!" He had bent over, fishing the peacock-fouled gown from the pile on the rug. "I suppose Miss Christabel will be forced to meet you when you look like you've just battled the aviary at Saint-Denis," he had said. "You will don this thing and join us in the drawing room tomorrow promptly at two. See that you give me no cause to hide my head."

  The final flourish of the harpsichord jerked Maryssa to the present, a round of enthusiastic applause from somewhere in the room making the pink-clad woman sweep gracefully off the stool into a curtsy. The sound of Bainbridge Wylder's clipped praises mingled with a young, hearty laugh, nearly drowned out yet another voice, its tones vaguely familiar, and somehow disturbing. She searched her memory for where she had heard it, but as the young woman beside the harpsichord turned, all thought of the others in the room fled. Maryssa's nails dug into one hideous peacock's neck as Christabel Marlow's dimpled face came into view above the foil of silver lace gracing her pale green underbodice. Maryssa started to stumble backward, wanting only to retreat, but the round blue eyes in that perfect face caught hers, the bowed pink lips tipping into a smile.

  In a cloud of rustling beauty, Christabel hurried from the room, both hands outstretched to clasp Maryssa's. The wide eyes took no note of the awful handkerchief or gown, but danced an open welcome as she said in a rush, "Miss Wylder. Maryssa, you have no idea how fortunate you are! You've just escaped my plunking out the musical pieces your father requires each time I entomb myself in these dreary walls. Now, if you can contrive some way to escape performing, perhaps we can chase these gentlemen into the library to tip their bottle of brandy so we can get acquainted."

  Christabel struck the back of one hand to her forehead in a dramatic pose. "Horses and hurling! Faith, if I have to endure Reeve spouting off the bloodlines of his mares but once more, I shall be driven to commit murder!"

  "There is only one mare whose bloodlines I am interested in at present."

  Maryssa started at the sound of a voice at her side. Tearing her gaze from Christabel, she stared at the man who had drawn alongside them to slip his arm about the slim satin-robed waist.

  "Reeve!" Christabel's elbow flashed out, digging into his blue-velvet coat, her face, beneath its powdered curls, flushing beguilingly. The man, who stood a full three inches shorter than Christabel, sketched a bow, the smattering of freckles dusting his short nose spoiling the aura of solemn courtesy he was trying to affect.

  "Enchanted, Miss Wylder” Surrendering the effort, he allowed his wide mouth to split into a grin. "In case you hadn't guessed, my name is Reeve Marlow, the poor unfortunate who has taken it upon himself to keep this baggage out of mischief."

  Christabel gave him a playful shove. "I was never in any mischief until I met you, Reeve Marlow, and Mama vows that since the first time you asked me to dance I've not been out of it! Now that Maryssa is here, you may be sure I intend to lead you as merry a chase as you and your rakehell friends have led me these past months!"

  Reeve wriggled sandy-blond eyebrows at Maryssa. "You see what a termagant she is? I'm trying my best to get her with child, in hope that my sons will tame her a bit."

  Maryssa's cheeks burned, but instead of shrinking back, horrified at Reeve's bluntness, she smiled as Christabel squealed.

  "Sons, hah! With my luck I'll have a score of daughters and we'll be driven to the poorhouse paying for buttermilk to fade their freckles!"

  With a laugh, Reeve tugged on one powdered curl, leaning over to plant a sound kiss on her lips. "Daughters, sons, it matters not to me, so long as we have a dozen."

  He turned to Maryssa, his hazel eyes skimming her face. He reached out, brushing one short finger over her nose as easily and affectionately as if they had known each other all their lives. "Welcome to Ireland, Maryssa," he said, with a sudden gentleness that surprised her. "You are every bit as sweet as I had heard."

  Puzzlement stirred in Maryssa as Christabel gave Reeve a warning glance, but her curiosity was quelled by the sound of a throat being cleared in the entryway. Maryssa looked up to see the daunting figure of Bainbridge Wylder framed in the arch, his broad face wearing an astonishingly benign expression. Shock jolted through Maryssa w
hen her father's mouth almost softened into a smile as his gaze strayed to the dainty Christabel. Then he turned, glaring back into the drawing room. "Well, man? Are you going to lurk behind me all day?"

  A sick feeling knotted in her stomach as a familiar squat form stepped into the hall. Sly, beady eyes pierced hers as Colonel Quentin Rath strode toward her, pushing past the Marlows. "I advise you not heed Mr. Marlow's flattery, Miss Wylder," he said, his thick lips twisting into an ingratiating smile. "Marlow is much practiced in weaving false tales and twisting the truth to suit his purposes." Rath swept her a low bow, grasping her hand in one sweaty paw. Maryssa tried to pull her fingers away, but he tightened his grip, turning her palm upward to plant a wet kiss in its center.

  "C-Colonel Rath.” Maryssa felt her gorge rise as the blunt tip of his tongue touched her skin. She yanked her hand out of his bone-crushing grip, fighting the urge to dash up the stairs to her washbasin and bury her hand in lye soap. Grasping the embroidered tail feather of a peacock, she scrubbed Rath's spittle from her palm with the folds of her gown.

  "So you have already had the pleasure of meeting our sincere Colonel Rath?" The bite beneath Christabel's musical voice cut like a velvet-sheathed razor. Maryssa's gaze darted up, the patent dislike radiating between Christabel and the stout colonel obvious as they faced each other.

  "Charming, as ever, Mistress Marlow," Rath said, flicking an imaginary bit of lint from his violet damask waistcoat. "You may be sure I am most sincere where Miss Wylder is concerned." His eyes shifted to the kerchief at Maryssa's bosom, and she cringed as the point of his tongue peeked from between his lips. "I have merely come to request the privilege of showing her about the countryside in my carriage. But, stake me, I'm half afraid every fowl in Ireland will try to attach itself to her gown."

  Maryssa's face flamed at Rath's loud guffaw, but Christabel had already darted between them, bristling like a mother tigress. "You need not concern yourself, Colonel. Reeve and I have already asked Maryssa to join us for a drive this afternoon, and she has accepted. We intend to keep her occupied for quite some time."

  Maryssa's mouth fell open, but her stunned reply was silenced by Bainbridge Wylder's impatient voice.

  "You may occupy my daughter as much as you can bear to, Mistress Marlow, providing you teach her some manners, and"—he rolled his eyes heavenward—"please God, a trifle of decent taste! Now, if Maryssa will deign to join us, we might yet take our tea before it turns to ice."

  "I vow, I am so starved, I scarce have the strength to reach the tea cakes!" Christabel flashed Bainbridge an over-bright smile, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm. "If you will assist me, Mr. Wylder?"

  Maryssa felt warm fingers touch her sleeve as Reeve Marlow cut in front of the infuriated Rath, nearly causing the colonel to pitch over the heel of one glistening morocco shoe. Reeve grinned at her, his lips a bit more taut than she remembered. "Your father always filches my wife when we are at Nightwylde. May I have the honor?" He offered her his arm, and Maryssa laid her fingers upon his blue velvet sleeve. "You cannot imagine what a relief it will be for me to serve as escort to a lady who is not constantly chiding me to straighten my neckcloth!" he said, the freckles dashed across his nose seeming almost to dance as he bent to whisper: "And as for the drive we will take after tea—let me assure you, it will prove most entertaining."

  "Hurling? Entertaining? Pah!" Christabel flung over her shoulder. "The only thing that will make it bearable is having Maryssa along. And Reeve—your neckcloth."

  “How does she do it?" Reeve's hazel eyes widened, his other hand clamping on the lawn frills tumbling in disorder down his shirtfront. "I swear, she could hear me tip a mug of ale all the way in Derry."

  "And I could hear your bed curtains rustle if you sailed clear to Cathay." As if suddenly realizing what she had said, Christabel gave a tiny gasp, and Maryssa could see her suck in her breath until her stays threatened to burst.

  "I had quite an, er, shall we say varied youth before I met Christabel." Gold-green lights twinkled in Reeve's eyes as he caught Maryssa's gaze and nodded toward his wife's back. The delicate ivory of her neck had washed a hue more pink than her dress. Horrified blue eyes dared a glance over one satin-clad shoulder, and Maryssa saw Reeve kiss his fingertips and hold them toward Christabel as though they offered a gift. His puckish face was solemn, serious for just an instant, and Maryssa felt a jab of loneliness at the love that flowed between them.

  If Tade Kilcannon ever looked at her so, bantered with her in that bawdy, yet tender way her knees might melt. Maryssa's own cheeks flushed, the memory of his lips tasting her breasts filling her with splendorous yet terrifying wonder. He had touched the core of her with his words, awakened her body with touches that both blessed and tormented. And then he had disappeared back into the mountains from whence he had come. Never to be seen again? "Tade." Maryssa started, suddenly aware she had whispered the name aloud.

  "Did you say 'plate' ?" Rath stalked up beside her, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  "No," Maryssa stammered, fear stabbing through her. "I mean, yes."

  "Can you not see the poor girl is near wasted with hunger? It is no wonder she is begging for food," Reeve quipped. He turned to her, smiling gently. "I am afraid you'll have to wait until we arrive at the banquet, little one," he said gently.

  Maryssa's gaze dropped to the carpet in embarrassment, but not before they noticed something odd in Reeve Marlow's face. The boyish hazel eyes had not been bent upon the table, groaning beneath its platters of steaming cakes, but rather had looked outward to the wild, sweet Donegal mountains that whispered fey secrets through mullioned windowpanes.

  * * *

  Maryssa sank back against the cushions lining the Marlows' open cart, feeling very like a piece of paste jewelry suddenly thrust into the company of a diamond chain. The interior of moss-green velvet, jealously tended yet still whispering of its age, only served to make Christabel glitter more brightly as the miles rolled away beneath them. Her sincere, winning smile and affectionate ways caused Maryssa to envy the easy self-assurance that allowed this young woman to laugh aloud, to bandy words with Reeve. And when Christabel scooped up Maryssa's hand, squeezing it in delight as she gestured to a tawny-gold doe bounding through the trees, it was not at the deer Maryssa stared, but, rather at the first girl of her own age who had ever offered her friendship.

  As envy prickled Maryssa it dissolved back into gratitude, for with each loving gibe, both Marlows took care to draw her into their banter, bidding her take their part in outrageous mock quarrels, listening intently to each comment she dared offer, surrounding her in their welcoming laughter.

  In spite of herself, Maryssa kept watching Christabel's animated features, waiting for some subtle sign of the disdain she had experienced from the bevies of haut ton belles she had met in her months with Lady Dallywoulde, but there was an almost pugnacious acceptance in the face shadowed beneath Christabel's bobbing hat brim, as though she dared the wind itself to cut through the protective shield she was weaving about Maryssa.

  Even the landscape that had once terrified Maryssa now held fascination for her, its jagged rocks and untamed hills a dangerous, beckoning beauty—as dangerous and beckoning as the man who had torn her from its deadly grasp only two days before. Tade. Her hand tightened in the folds of her gown, embarrassment firing her cheeks as she felt her lips tingle in remembrance of his kiss.

  "And just what or whom are you thinking of, Maryssa Wylder?" A sprig of leaves plucked from a low-hanging branch plopped into her lap, and Maryssa glanced up to where Reeve sat perched on the cart seat. His eyes twinkled, his imp's face more boyish than ever as he thrust his chest out with an air of wounded dignity that sent Christabel into a fresh spate of giggles. "Ever since we passed that bend in the road, you have been staring into the wilds as though you expect Brian Boru himself to dash out on a destrier and carry you away," Reeve complained. "And here I have been trying to instruct you in the finer points of hurling.”


  "No wonder Maryssa has been staring off into the woods! Heaven knows I would sooner watch a spider's web catch dust than listen—"

  "To the greatest hurler ever born recount his feats of daring?" Looping the reins around the whip socket, Reeve scooped up the heavy curved stick he had nestled so carefully beside him and brandished the hurley as though threatening an imaginary foe. Maryssa braced her feet against the floorboards, her fingers clenching on the cart's black-painted rim as the bay mare missed a step, ears flattening back in the age-old sign of equine displeasure. But instead of bolting pell-mell into the thinning woods, the beast merely shook her trappings, trotting on as though well accustomed to her master's antics.

  Maryssa pulled her eyes away just in time to see Christabel wrinkle the end of her pert nose. "The greatest hurler ever born, is it?" she teased. "I shall be sure to insist that your opponents treat you with more respect from now on. I am certain that last week when you were sprawled on the ground—"

  "That great clumsy oaf! Ran right over me. But this time the blackguard will regret his carelessness!"

  Reeve parried with the hurling stick, wielding it with all the dash of a cavalier facing off in a duel. He swept Maryssa a deep bow, arching one brow in roguish expectation.

  She smiled. "I must confess, I almost feel sorry for whomever you intend to-to hurl with that thing."

  Christabel dissolved into fits of merriment. Reeve, scarcely able to speak through his laughter, scrubbed tears from his eyes with the edging of lace at his cuff. "Oh, Maryssa," he gasped. "You are a joy. The wretch I intend to 'hurl' is a black-hearted scoundrel I've been plagued with since we were scarce breeched. But after today"—Reeve smacked one palm with the seasoned curve of ash-wood—"I vow the rapscallion will never take to the field again."