than a whisper. “Please.”
“And windflower,” he said, taking in another breath of her fragrance. “But a wee hint of wind-flower.”
Chapter 6
O’Banyon sat alone in the woods and watched the countess’s house. Arborhill was a fine estate. Set but a few miles west of Londontowne, it boasted a venerable stone house and a hundred hectares of rolling pasture.
The night was quiet and still around him. Somewhere in the decaying layers of fallen leaves, a mouse scurried for cover. Banyon heard its harried progress, sensed its winding course, but did not turn from the wrought-iron gates that enclosed her estate.
He was not obsessed though. Hardly that. He was the Irish Hound, the handsome beast, the golden wolf. He didn’t become obsessed.
He was simply curious.
Who was she? Why did she abhor touch? Why were her servants twisted and silent? And why in God’s name did she avoid him?
O’Banyon ground his teeth and closed his eyes. Very well then, mayhap he was a wee bit obsessed, but there was something about her… something ancient and sacred that called to the most primal part of him, and God knew that was pretty damned primal.
When she was near he felt that he was, for the first time in his life, entirely alive. As if every nerve ending was singing with full-voiced energy. He didn’t know why.
Oh, aye, she was bonny enough, but as she herself had said, London was not bereft of bonny maids. She was wealthy, of course, but if the truth be told, he had never much cared for coin. It was women he loved. Women and laughter, and curling up near a crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. He was a simple man… in a manner of speaking.
Pebbles crunched on the countess’s drive. He stood up, testing the breeze, and in a moment a phaeton rolled away from the house and into sight. Black as the night, it was pulled by a pair of dark horses.
Whitford dismounted to open the gates, then, slipping the reins from the carriage dash, urged the team forward as he walked along beside. In a moment, he’d shut the gates, mounted the conveyance and clicked the steeds into a stately trot.
O’Banyon caught a glimpse of Antoinette inside, her face a small oval in the window, her eyes wide and haunting in the narrow rectangular pane.
And then they rolled away, heading east at a smart clip. There was nothing Banyon could do but follow, keeping to the shadows and wondering about her mission. Did she go to a lover? Did he await her even now?
It was not far to London. But they did not stop at some posh estate, nor did they turn aside at an inn. Instead, they hurried through the silent night. The streets narrowed, the houses became lower and shabbier.
It was more difficult to remain hidden now, but the shadows were deep and the night friendly to one so familiar with the darkness.
The horses’ hooves clicked smartly against cobbles and then dirt, steady and unwavering—a handsome pair of matched bays gleaming in the night.
O’Banyon’s senses picked up a rap against the carriage roof. The vehicle slowed to a halt. Hidden by shadows as dark as ancient magic, he watched as the driver hobbled from his seat to the countess’s door. It creaked open and in a moment she stepped down.
Whitford’s voice was little more than a rumble in the heavy silence.
“My lady, I beg you, do not do this.”
She responded softly. From his place behind a tilted pony cart, O’Banyon could not tell exactly what she said, but her face looked cool and pale against the night, her gloved hands lost in the folds of her skirt.
The closest horse turned his head as she went past, champing its bit and nickering softly, but otherwise all was silent. Whitford hobbled around her and rapped on the door of a nearby hovel. It seemed a lifetime before it opened. Weak candlelight flickered past the threshold, and then she stepped inside, leaving Whitford bent and alone.
Time dragged past, but perhaps, in reality, only a few minutes lapsed before she
“And windflower,” he said, taking in another breath of her fragrance. “But a wee hint of wind-flower.”
Chapter 6
O’Banyon sat alone in the woods and watched the countess’s house. Arborhill was a fine estate. Set but a few miles west of Londontowne, it boasted a venerable stone house and a hundred hectares of rolling pasture.
The night was quiet and still around him. Somewhere in the decaying layers of fallen leaves, a mouse scurried for cover. Banyon heard its harried progress, sensed its winding course, but did not turn from the wrought-iron gates that enclosed her estate.
He was not obsessed though. Hardly that. He was the Irish Hound, the handsome beast, the golden wolf. He didn’t become obsessed.
He was simply curious.
Who was she? Why did she abhor touch? Why were her servants twisted and silent? And why in God’s name did she avoid him?
O’Banyon ground his teeth and closed his eyes. Very well then, mayhap he was a wee bit obsessed, but there was something about her… something ancient and sacred that called to the most primal part of him, and God knew that was pretty damned primal.
When she was near he felt that he was, for the first time in his life, entirely alive. As if every nerve ending was singing with full-voiced energy. He didn’t know why.
Oh, aye, she was bonny enough, but as she herself had said, London was not bereft of bonny maids. She was wealthy, of course, but if the truth be told, he had never much cared for coin. It was women he loved. Women and laughter, and curling up near a crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. He was a simple man… in a manner of speaking.
Pebbles crunched on the countess’s drive. He stood up, testing the breeze, and in a moment a phaeton rolled away from the house and into sight. Black as the night, it was pulled by a pair of dark horses.
Whitford dismounted to open the gates, then, slipping the reins from the carriage dash, urged the team forward as he walked along beside. In a moment, he’d shut the gates, mounted the conveyance and clicked the steeds into a stately trot.
O’Banyon caught a glimpse of Antoinette inside, her face a small oval in the window, her eyes wide and haunting in the narrow rectangular pane.
And then they rolled away, heading east at a smart clip. There was nothing Banyon could do but follow, keeping to the shadows and wondering about her mission. Did she go to a lover? Did he await her even now?
It was not far to London. But they did not stop at some posh estate, nor did they turn aside at an inn. Instead, they hurried through the silent night. The streets narrowed, the houses became lower and shabbier.
It was more difficult to remain hidden now, but the shadows were deep and the night friendly to one so familiar with the darkness.
The horses’ hooves clicked smartly against cobbles and then dirt, steady and unwavering—a handsome pair of matched bays gleaming in the night.
O’Banyon’s senses picked up a rap against the carriage roof. The vehicle slowed to a halt. Hidden by shadows as dark as ancient magic, he watched as the driver hobbled from his seat to the countess’s door. It creaked open and in a moment she stepped down.
Whitford’s voice was little more than a rumble in the heavy silence.
“My lady, I beg you, do not do this.”
She responded softly. From his place behind a tilted pony cart, O’Banyon could not tell exactly what she said, but her face looked cool and pale against the night, her gloved hands lost in the folds of her skirt.
The closest horse turned his head as she went past, champing its bit and nickering softly, but otherwise all was silent. Whitford hobbled around her and rapped on the door of a nearby hovel. It seemed a lifetime before it opened. Weak candlelight flickered past the threshold, and then she stepped inside, leaving Whitford bent and alone.
Time dragged past, but perhaps, in reality, only a few minutes lapsed before she
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