curling her fingers in the robe at her throat. “I—I would never… Brian, how could you say such a thing?”
“Answer my question.” Each word was perfectly enunciated, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Ye toyed with me four years ago, and I will know if ye’re toyin’ with me now. Is this a game to you?”
Lydia straightened. “Four years ago? You actually remember our night four years ago?”
“Oh, Aye, lass, I remember. How could a man forget a shameless flirt such as yerself? I recall very well how ye smiled and winked and danced like a wanton in me arms only to find ye were promised to another. Was it always yer practice to perform for yer father’s soldiers? Is it still? Is this affair nothing more than a game to you?”
“A game?” She stood, back ramrod straight, reverting back to years of training even as tears pricked her eyes. How dare he insinuate she was a silly girl making light of their situation and throwing herself at him as a common harlot? “Being abducted and dragged halfway across England by murderers is not my idea of fun and games. It is you, sir, treating our situation as a farce. And it is you, Brian Donnelly, who kissed me. Twice . Now, I will ask you why ? And do not tell me ‘it seemed the thing to do at the time.’”
In an instant he was across the room, eyes hot with anger. “Oh, and did ye not kiss me back? I distinctly recall havin’ a bit of encouragement.” His hand caught her upper arm in a wrenching vice. “I know well how ye gentle bred ladies flaunt yer wares, lettin’ us lowborn fools know what we cannot have. Good for a roll in the hay from time to time. Is that what ye’re after? A quick toss? Would that be yer reason fer wantin’ me to kiss you?”
Crack .
Lydia’s handmade sharp contact with the side of his cheek. “How dare you speak to me that way?” A quick toss indeed! The only man she had any intention of “tossing”—as he’d so aptly described—with was the man she loved who loved her in return. A man who would share his life with her, be her equal, complete her… The type of man brave enough to forsake all and run away to Scotland with his one and only love. Was she little more than a romantic? No. She was an optimist. Could Brian become that dream man? Perhaps…
“Forgive me, my lady. ” He backed mockingly toward the door, shattering the illusion.
“Fine, leave,” she spat. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you kiss me?”
“To say I’ve personally debauched the Viscountess of Northbridge ‘twould make one hell of a drinkin’ yarn. Hell, the way things are goin’ I could even claim the next in line to inherit is my bastard.”
Lydia blanched at the vulgar words. Anguished tears swam before her eyes as she searched his hardened face. “Well, you’ve just ruined all such chances.”
His hand fell to the doorknob, his damnably handsome visage totally unreadable. “So it would seem.”
The door slammed and the tears dribbled down her cheeks. So he believed her nothing more than a spoiled rotten child and a conquest to crow about. The realization hurt. It more than hurt, it was gut wrenching. The tower of London could not have provided a more excruciating torture device. Acutely Lydia felt the very life squeezing from her. She glared at the door, willing the last moments to be sucked into oblivion, to have never occurred.
“You are pathetic, Lydia.” She flopped dejectedly onto the bed, cursing the little piece of her heart that fancied herself in love with Brian. “That—that bastard isn’t worth crying over.” Her nose began to run, she used the edge of her sleeve to wipe it away, not terribly ladylike to be sure, but none of her most recent behavior had been either. How many would be viscountess’ contemplated running away on their wedding day, or allowed themselves’ to be seduced by the fantasy of an Irish rogue.
A vision of her whimsical
“Answer my question.” Each word was perfectly enunciated, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Ye toyed with me four years ago, and I will know if ye’re toyin’ with me now. Is this a game to you?”
Lydia straightened. “Four years ago? You actually remember our night four years ago?”
“Oh, Aye, lass, I remember. How could a man forget a shameless flirt such as yerself? I recall very well how ye smiled and winked and danced like a wanton in me arms only to find ye were promised to another. Was it always yer practice to perform for yer father’s soldiers? Is it still? Is this affair nothing more than a game to you?”
“A game?” She stood, back ramrod straight, reverting back to years of training even as tears pricked her eyes. How dare he insinuate she was a silly girl making light of their situation and throwing herself at him as a common harlot? “Being abducted and dragged halfway across England by murderers is not my idea of fun and games. It is you, sir, treating our situation as a farce. And it is you, Brian Donnelly, who kissed me. Twice . Now, I will ask you why ? And do not tell me ‘it seemed the thing to do at the time.’”
In an instant he was across the room, eyes hot with anger. “Oh, and did ye not kiss me back? I distinctly recall havin’ a bit of encouragement.” His hand caught her upper arm in a wrenching vice. “I know well how ye gentle bred ladies flaunt yer wares, lettin’ us lowborn fools know what we cannot have. Good for a roll in the hay from time to time. Is that what ye’re after? A quick toss? Would that be yer reason fer wantin’ me to kiss you?”
Crack .
Lydia’s handmade sharp contact with the side of his cheek. “How dare you speak to me that way?” A quick toss indeed! The only man she had any intention of “tossing”—as he’d so aptly described—with was the man she loved who loved her in return. A man who would share his life with her, be her equal, complete her… The type of man brave enough to forsake all and run away to Scotland with his one and only love. Was she little more than a romantic? No. She was an optimist. Could Brian become that dream man? Perhaps…
“Forgive me, my lady. ” He backed mockingly toward the door, shattering the illusion.
“Fine, leave,” she spat. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Why did you kiss me?”
“To say I’ve personally debauched the Viscountess of Northbridge ‘twould make one hell of a drinkin’ yarn. Hell, the way things are goin’ I could even claim the next in line to inherit is my bastard.”
Lydia blanched at the vulgar words. Anguished tears swam before her eyes as she searched his hardened face. “Well, you’ve just ruined all such chances.”
His hand fell to the doorknob, his damnably handsome visage totally unreadable. “So it would seem.”
The door slammed and the tears dribbled down her cheeks. So he believed her nothing more than a spoiled rotten child and a conquest to crow about. The realization hurt. It more than hurt, it was gut wrenching. The tower of London could not have provided a more excruciating torture device. Acutely Lydia felt the very life squeezing from her. She glared at the door, willing the last moments to be sucked into oblivion, to have never occurred.
“You are pathetic, Lydia.” She flopped dejectedly onto the bed, cursing the little piece of her heart that fancied herself in love with Brian. “That—that bastard isn’t worth crying over.” Her nose began to run, she used the edge of her sleeve to wipe it away, not terribly ladylike to be sure, but none of her most recent behavior had been either. How many would be viscountess’ contemplated running away on their wedding day, or allowed themselves’ to be seduced by the fantasy of an Irish rogue.
A vision of her whimsical
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