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Authors: Laura Kinsale
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his own damned symphonies. And a French chef…all the soft white rolls a man could consume. He could sleep in soft white rolls. He could seduce women in soft white rolls. He gazed at Julia's bosom, overlaying that image with the floury sweet warmth of baking bread, and found himself chuckling giddily. He heard the crazy note that vibrated beneath the laughter and caught his breath. He managed to silence himself.
"Julia," he said. "Julia. You wouldn't lie to me, love? Not about this."
She shook her head. There was a peculiar tightness around her mouth, but he discounted that as jealousy. Why should she lie? He had a light-headed magnanimous impulse and blurted, "You can live here. Not here , that is—I'm going to demolish this granite horror. I'll build you a lodge off somewhere that you'll like, and you can live there the rest of your life, I promise you."
In the midst of that pledge he realized just what he was saying. The last thing he wanted was an aging whore anchored around his neck, particularly one who would happily slide a knife between his ribs the moment she saw some fun and profit in it. He knew well what Julia was, beneath that veneer of motherly sympathy.
But what of it? Promises were as free as air. And she still had a few good romps left in her, that was certain. He grinned and held out his hand. "We owe you that much, the old man and I."
She did not take his hand. She simply stood watching him. A trickle of premonition seeped in his belly.
"Deal?" he asked, still offering his hand.
She smiled, that dry curl of her lips. The trickle became a flood. Sheridan dropped his hand, suddenly smelling one of his father's jokes so strongly he could have choked on the stench.
"What is it?" he said suspiciously.
She wet her lips, a cat licking cream.
Between one instant and the next he lost himself. The wolf sprang alive, snarling for blood; the battle-fury rushed through his brain like a high wind. "Damn you— where's the catch?" he roared.
She took a step backward, her thick lashes going wide. She seemed to shrink a little, flinching away from him as her glance went warily and instinctively to his fists. Sheridan knew that gesture; had seen it a thousand times in whorehouses and back alleys and on waterfronts all over the world. She thought he was going to hit her.
As if a monstrous wave had washed him and passed on, the madness evaporated. He stared at her, breathing hard, feeling queerly fragile. For one horrible instant he thought he was going to break into tears.
He grabbed the decanter and aimed it at her head, giving her plenty of time to duck. It hurled past and shattered all over the damask wallpaper behind her with a satisfying crash.
She stood straight, only trembling a little. "Are you finished?" she asked when he made no other move.
He walked around her, keeping his face impassive to hide his shaken wits. He made a slow, considering circle. When he was satisfied that he was in full control of himself again, he came to a stop behind her and waited, watching her spine grow tense. Then he lifted an inkpot and dropped it on the bare floor.
She jumped like a cat at the sound.
"Perhaps I'm finished," he said softly. "Perhaps I'm not."
She took a deep breath and turned sharply to face him. "Have your fun," she hissed. " Hero . Maul me if you will. Kill me. And see what it gets you."
Idiotic baggage. She was damned ready with stupid invitations. He watched her narrowly, sniffing at the trap.
"What's the catch?" he said. "Do I have to marry you?"
She laughed at that, archly. "Would you?"
He looked at her, at the way she stood straight in spite of her wariness, and recognized from long experience the posture of someone who was certain they held all the cards. "I can think of worse fates," he said with a little shrug, and then added a nice touch by reaching out and stroking his finger down the line of her cheek. "Far worse," he said softly.
Her eyelashes lowered. She went still for a moment. He
"Julia," he said. "Julia. You wouldn't lie to me, love? Not about this."
She shook her head. There was a peculiar tightness around her mouth, but he discounted that as jealousy. Why should she lie? He had a light-headed magnanimous impulse and blurted, "You can live here. Not here , that is—I'm going to demolish this granite horror. I'll build you a lodge off somewhere that you'll like, and you can live there the rest of your life, I promise you."
In the midst of that pledge he realized just what he was saying. The last thing he wanted was an aging whore anchored around his neck, particularly one who would happily slide a knife between his ribs the moment she saw some fun and profit in it. He knew well what Julia was, beneath that veneer of motherly sympathy.
But what of it? Promises were as free as air. And she still had a few good romps left in her, that was certain. He grinned and held out his hand. "We owe you that much, the old man and I."
She did not take his hand. She simply stood watching him. A trickle of premonition seeped in his belly.
"Deal?" he asked, still offering his hand.
She smiled, that dry curl of her lips. The trickle became a flood. Sheridan dropped his hand, suddenly smelling one of his father's jokes so strongly he could have choked on the stench.
"What is it?" he said suspiciously.
She wet her lips, a cat licking cream.
Between one instant and the next he lost himself. The wolf sprang alive, snarling for blood; the battle-fury rushed through his brain like a high wind. "Damn you— where's the catch?" he roared.
She took a step backward, her thick lashes going wide. She seemed to shrink a little, flinching away from him as her glance went warily and instinctively to his fists. Sheridan knew that gesture; had seen it a thousand times in whorehouses and back alleys and on waterfronts all over the world. She thought he was going to hit her.
As if a monstrous wave had washed him and passed on, the madness evaporated. He stared at her, breathing hard, feeling queerly fragile. For one horrible instant he thought he was going to break into tears.
He grabbed the decanter and aimed it at her head, giving her plenty of time to duck. It hurled past and shattered all over the damask wallpaper behind her with a satisfying crash.
She stood straight, only trembling a little. "Are you finished?" she asked when he made no other move.
He walked around her, keeping his face impassive to hide his shaken wits. He made a slow, considering circle. When he was satisfied that he was in full control of himself again, he came to a stop behind her and waited, watching her spine grow tense. Then he lifted an inkpot and dropped it on the bare floor.
She jumped like a cat at the sound.
"Perhaps I'm finished," he said softly. "Perhaps I'm not."
She took a deep breath and turned sharply to face him. "Have your fun," she hissed. " Hero . Maul me if you will. Kill me. And see what it gets you."
Idiotic baggage. She was damned ready with stupid invitations. He watched her narrowly, sniffing at the trap.
"What's the catch?" he said. "Do I have to marry you?"
She laughed at that, archly. "Would you?"
He looked at her, at the way she stood straight in spite of her wariness, and recognized from long experience the posture of someone who was certain they held all the cards. "I can think of worse fates," he said with a little shrug, and then added a nice touch by reaching out and stroking his finger down the line of her cheek. "Far worse," he said softly.
Her eyelashes lowered. She went still for a moment. He
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