He said no more but froze. Daisy turned back in confusion. His expression altered to one of such pain that her breath left her.
Chapter Eleven
Memory was a cruel thing. It could attack without warning. All it needed was for the scene to be laid, a seemingly random sequence of events, a certain combination of scents, the quality of light hitting the street just so. A sound, a touch, if set just right, could suddenly fell a man and bring him to his knees.
As it were, such events conspired against Ian as they turned a corner. Hitting the precise note in the landscape of his mind, the sensation opened hidden corridors he’d rather keep closed. The scent snared him first, the slight breeze touched with the warmth of fried haddock mixed with the buttery sweet note of toffee that the vendors hawked along the square. Then the light of the lanterns, misty blue-green in the fog, and a woman’s laugh, holding the same overloud trill. It was all the same, as it had been decades ago.
“Da, why d’ye suppose that fellow’s teeth all fell out?” That small hand, how it fit so well into his own larger one. “Well now, Maccon, I suppose he ate only toffees and not his parritch. Let it be a warning to you, lad.”
Ian’s step faltered. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t. He wouldn’t picture him. But it came, the sight of those eyes, deep brown and shining, like sunlight in a tidal pool, and his little nose wrinkling with disgust.
“Go on with you, Da! You’re just trying to get me to eat parritch.”
“There’s a smart lad. But how else are you going to grow big and strong like me, I ask you?”
A black hole opened in his chest, and by gods, it hurt. It hurt so that he could not move. Street traffic buffeted him as he stumbled to a stop and tried to breathe through the pain. A scream of frustration built behind his clenched teeth, for nothing on earth could bring back what was lost. Someone banged his shoulder, the bloke muttering in irritation. Then a different touch, soft and smooth over his fingertips, brought him back.
“Northrup?”
Out of the black misery, her face came into view, her blue eyes narrowed, that pouting mouth a flat line of concern. “Is something amiss? You look ill.”
He could only blink down at her as his throat closed. Loneliness, need, and despair made him quake. A flash of something darkened her eyes as she looked him over, understanding, pain that was her own, and then it was gone. If she treated him with pity, he’d howl and leave her standing alone on the street, but her pert chin merely lifted. “If you’ve plans to swoon simply so you can look up my skirts, I’ll kick your head and leave you where you lie.”
She grabbed his empty hand, filling it with her warmth. “Come along and cease your dramatics.” She proceeded to tug him down the street with cool efficiency, her hand staying in his, holding it firmly. Warmth spread along their connection, up his arm and into the gaping maw of his chest. His feet worked to keep up, despite his longer stride and the mincing steps forced on her by her skirt.
“I don’t know whether to be insulted or amused at such a blatant attempt.” The sound of her snappish voice was a balm. She glanced over her shoulder at him with an assessing eye. Whatever she saw in him did not meet full approval for she tugged harder, her look turning saucy. “I expected more creativity from you, Northrup. This is your idea of a chase? It’s pathetic, really.”
The painful lump of emotion in his throat softened and turned tender. Lightness bubbled up from within as her barbs continued. “You can do better, I’m sure. In the future—”
He stopped short, using their momentum to whip her about. His free arm snaked around her neat waist to hold her against him. And his mouth came down upon hers.
He meant it to be a peck, a lighthearted thank-you for seeing his pain and offering diversion instead of pity. That was what he had intended. But the moment his lips touched hers, his body decided on a different course. On a breath, he tilted his head into the kiss and fitted her closer.
Sweet mother, her mouth was as hot and delectable as he dreamed. He kissed her as if he’d done it a thousand times before, opening her mouth, shaping her lips with his as if he owned them. Shock made her rigid for just a moment, and then all that tightness turned to soft warmth and pressed into him, forcing a pained groan from his mouth. Her free hand fisted his lapel, and then she was kissing him back.
Jesus, she knew what she was about. Heat shivered over his skin as her tongue tangled with his. Coming up on her toes, she angled her head and suckled his lower lip with a little greedy noise. His fingertips sank into the soft curve of her cheek as he held her still and gave her what she wanted.
They stood locked together on the street, attacking each other. He could think of no other word for the fierce biting, needy kisses, and the blinding speed of it. Their lips parted on a gasp as if they’d been struck by an electrical current.
With his arm still wrapped about her waist, he panted lightly as he stared down at her, taking in the lovely flush of her cheeks and her plump pink lips, wet now from his kiss. She blinked up at him, speechless apparently. So was he. She’d twisted him around her finger without effort, and all he wanted now was for her to twist harder. Christ, he was in a bad way. He did like her. Too much. And she was human. Destined to die someday. He couldn’t go through it again. It would kill him.
His hands shook, shook, damn it. But he played the part she expected of him and slipped one hand beneath her bustled train to give her rump a squeeze, getting a satisfying squeak out of her in the process. “In the future,” he said, straining to appear calm and unaffected, “I shall be more direct in my quest to get up your skirts, Daisy-Meg.”
Chapter Twelve
As it turned out, M. Randal was the Honorable Mr. Jonathan Randal, fourth son of the Earl of Kentwick, who, unfortunately, had not been at home. After a bit of Northrup’s not inconsiderable persuasion, they finally spoke with Mr. Randal’s valet, who had informed them that the perfume had been given as gift.
“For Miss Annika Einarsson, Mr. Randal’s fiancée,” Randal’s valet had told them. The man stood rod straight in Mr. Randal’s proper, if unadorned, front parlor. “I purchased it myself. Sent out, of course, by Mr. Randal.”
“And you decided to purchase perfume from a back-alley perfumer rather than a reputable supplier?” Daisy asked, unable to hold back her curiosity.
The valet sniffed but his expression remained implacable. “He may be the son of an earl, but he’s the fourth son. Mr. Randal barely has blunt enough to rub two shillings together.” The valet smoothed his immaculate lapels. “His father pays my salary. His mother provided the betrothal ring. Miss Einarsson is the money in this match. Can a man blame Mr. Randal for wanting to give her something on his own?”
Daisy had thought it rather lovely, actually. Northrup, on the other hand, had been impatient to track Annika down. The valet directed them to Holly Lodge in Highgate, where the couple were presently attending their engagement party.
After a quick return to Northrup’s home to ready a small and light cabriolet, they set out for Highgate. Now, on the coach seat next her, he sat in that proper yet languid way of his as he drove the cab, apparently unaffected by the heated kisses they’d shared earlier. On a public street no less. His mouth had tasted of caramels. Rich, decadent, and so delicious it made her teeth ache. Daisy always had a weakness for caramels and could most likely thank them for maintaining the fullness of her curves. In her indulgence, she’d slip one soft, sticky candy into her mouth and let it melt, savoring the flavor on her tongue, the way it tasted sweet yet salty at the sides of her mouth. A shiver lit over her skin. She wanted to dip her tongue in Northrup’s salty-sweet mouth and let his flavor wash over her again.
Northrup’s collar was slightly askew, the only sign of their exchange, and her gaze moved over the exposed bit of flesh just below the sharp curve of his jaw. A tender area, that bit of throat on a man. Did his skin taste of caramels as well? She swallowed hard, for she could imagine it did, of caramel and salt. God, she wanted to suck that spot. Heated desire tightened her skin, making her br**sts heavy and her thighs ache.
She took a steadying breath and thought of benign things such as new hats, fine kid gloves, and, no, not caramels, but perhaps that new striped parasol she coveted. Unfortunately, her gaze returned to him like a magnet drawn to its opposite.
His dark hair flowed from beneath his top hat in glossy, uncivilized waves that brushed the tops of his shoulders and glinted auburn in the coach’s lamplight. He had said he grew it long out of mourning.
“Was it your father you thought of before, on the street?” Her voice sounded thick and unsteady, as much a surprise to her as the question that had popped out of her mouth.
Northrup’s shoulders twitched just enough for her to know he’d been surprised as well, as if he’d forgotten about her presence, she thought irritably. He took a moment to address her. “No. Not just then.” His voice was thicker as well. The corners of his lush mouth turned down as he glowered at some unseen thing.
He sat straighter as he turned up the long drive to Holly Lodge, a grand estate owned by the esteemed Baroness Burdett-Coutts. “My father was a bastard most of the time. But I do miss him.” The corners of his eyes crinkled faintly. “Some of the time.”
She thought of her own father. Northrup might just as well have been describing her feelings. “And your mother?” she asked. “Did you lose her as well?” She ought not to have asked. It felt cruel, especially when seeing his wistful expression, but she’d been thinking of her own familial losses.
“She’s been gone for ninety years,” he said quietly.
If he noticed her squeak of shock, he didn’t show it. Sweet God, how must it feel to live so long? Daisy suddenly felt her own mortality as if it had reached out and tapped her shoulder. With cold horror, she realized that one far-off day, she might run into this man and find him unchanged, while she would be old and gray.
“She was human, you see.” Northrup shifted in his seat, yet his hands remained easy on the reins. “Call it nature’s way of culling an aberration, or sheer dumb luck, but a female lycan is a rare thing. Maybe one is born every hundred years. In truth, it is very rare for us to impregnate a woman at all.” The corners of his wide mouth curled, but his eyes held a painful hint of hopelessness as his gaze turned inward. “So rare that a man might outlive many human wives without—”
He sucked in a sharp breath, and his face went ashen. Daisy’s hand moved to take his but Northrup’s arm lifted to drive the horse around a sharp bend. His expression was easy now, back to the same teasing manner of his usual employ. “Let us simply say that you won’t find many bastard lycans.” The coach stopped at the grand entrance to Holly Lodge, and Northrup inclined his head. “We are here.”
The air was cold and wet, beading in the wolf’s fur. Fog clouded his sight, confusing him. He relied on scent to take him to her. The woman. Sweet, thick, sticky. Pollen in flowers, the smell of human female mixed with spring. He moved quickly, weaving past piles of rubbish that clogged his nose and threatened to overwhelm the scent of her.
But the woman was dead. Wasn’t she? No. No. No. Panic set in and made the wolf cower. He growled. No, it was she. Her scent. He could taste it on his tongue. He wanted to taste her in his mouth.
Beyond the press of fog, the moon was full and strong, sending power through his flesh, making his bones hum. Closer. She was closer now. His fur stood on end. She was with a man. He could scent him. Man mixed with wolf. Lycan. The human voice inside him screamed in rage, and he howled in response. The lycan could not have her.
Chapter Thirteen
Though they hadn’t an invitation, no one tried to stop Daisy and Northrup from entering the Baroness’s garden party. Indeed, many gave Northrup a diffident smile or nod of the head. Daisy ought not be surprised; he was a marquis after all. Only the man she’d come to know was not some lofty peer, sneering down his nose at her, but irreverent and playful. He was simply Northrup.
They reached the terrace that led to the wide lawn and Daisy halted. Hundreds of white paper lanterns hung from the trees to twinkle with a soft, ephemeral glow. Ladies in satin gowns darted to and fro like colorful butterflies as they mingled, their laughter light and correct, never full and bawdy.
Daisy tensed. Why hadn’t she thought this task through? To face these people once again, in front of Northrup no less, was too much. Northrup headed down the steps, but seeing that she didn’t follow, he stopped short. He studied her in silence, his expression showing nothing of what he might be thinking, which Daisy appreciated as she rather thought it might be pity; she knew her face mirrored her trepidation. Irritation washed through her. Barbed words might cut her, but she’d bleed on the inside. Never again would they see the damage they wrought upon her.
Daisy took a step and came alongside of Northrup. His warm breath touched her as he leaned in. “Good. Do not fear their censure.” A soft touch skimmed the edge of her upper arm. “I have seen generations grow from babes and then be put into the grave. And their words all lost to time.”
He was trying to comfort her, she knew, and yet when she glanced at his clean profile, so youthful and strong, she felt an ache for him. How could she fret over trivial things when he would be forever unchanging and alone as time ebbed and flowed past him? Daisy rested her hand on his forearm and gave it a small squeeze.
He placed his hand over hers and guided her through the throngs of people milling about the wide lawn. “If I remember correctly,” he murmured at her ear, causing unwanted little shivers to dance down her spine, “Randal is a lad of about twenty and two, curly-haired and distressingly cherubic in appearance.”