A Lady's Guide to Skirting Scandal (9 page)

“You look thirsty.” As if by magic, a full cup of liquid sloshed to the table in front of him.

Startled, he looked up, only to be presented with a view of stunning breasts. They were full and firm, straining against the fabric of a poorly laced bodice, and despite the fact that they were not entirely in focus, his body reacted with reprehensible speed. He reached out, intending to caress the luscious perfection before him, only to snatch his hand back a moment later when sluggish honor demanded retreat. Mortified, he dragged his eyes up from the woman’s chest to her face, hoping against hope she might not have noticed.

He should have kept his eyes on her breasts.

For shimmering before him was a fantasy. His fantasy. The one he had carefully created in his imagination to chase away the reality of miserable marches, insufferable nights, unspeakable hunger, and bone-numbing dread. Everything he had hoped to possess in a woman was sliding onto the bench opposite him, a shy smile on her face. And it was a face that could start a war. High cheekbones, a full mouth, eyes almost exotic in their shape. Pale hair that fell in thick sheets carelessly around her head and over her shoulders.

He opened his mouth to say something clever, yet all his words seemed to have drowned themselves in the depths of his drink. He cursed inwardly, wishing for the first time in many months he weren’t drunk. She seemed not to notice. Instead she cheerfully raised her own full pot of ale in a silent toast and proceeded to drain it. At a loss for anything better to do, he followed suit.

“Thank you,” he finally managed, though he wasn’t sure she heard, as she had somehow procured two more pots of ale and slid another in front of him.

“What shall we toast to now?” she asked him, her brilliant gray-green eyes probing his own.

Frantically Jamie searched his liquor-soaked brain for an intelligent answer. “To beauty,” he croaked, cringing at such an amateurish and predictable reply.

She gave him a dazzling smile anyway, and he could feel his own mouth curling up in response. “To beauty then,” she said. “And those who are wise enough to realize what it may cost.” She drained her second pot.

Jamie allowed his mind to slog wearily through her cryptic words for a moment or two before he gave up trying to understand. Who cared, really? He had a magnificent woman sitting across the table from him, and another pot of ale had already replaced the second one he had drained. This was by far the best thing that had happened to him in a very long time.

“What’s your name?” Her voice was gentle.

“James. James Montcrief.” Thank the gods. At least he could remember that. Though maybe he should have made an effort at formality? Did one do that in such a setting?

“James.” His name was like honey on her tongue, and her own dismissal of formality was encouraging. Something stirred inside him. “I like it.” She gave him another blinding smile. “Why are you drinking all alone, James?” she asked.

He stared at her, unable, and more truthfully, unwilling to give her any sort of an answer. Instead he just shrugged.

“Never mind.” She tipped her head back, and another pot of ale disappeared. Idly he wondered how she still remained sober while the room he was sitting in was beginning to spin. She tilted her head, and her beautiful blond hair swung away from her neck, dizzying in its movement. “You have kind eyes.”

Her comment caught him off guard. He did not have kind eyes. He had eyes that had seen too much to ever allow any kindness in. “I am not kind.” He wasn’t sure if he mumbled it or just thought it. Inexplicably, a wave of sadness and loneliness washed over him.

“What brings you here?” she asked, waving a hand in the general direction of the tavern.

Jamie blinked, trying to remember where
here
was, then snorted at the futility of the question.

“Nowhere else to go,” he mumbled. The accuracy of his statement echoed in his mind. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be. No one who cared. Least of all him.

“Would you like to go somewhere else, James? With me?” Her words seemed to come from a distance, and with a frantic suddenness, he needed to get out. Out from the tavern walls that were pressing down on him, away from the smells of grease and bodies and smoke and alcohol that were suffocating.

“Yes.” He shoved away from the table, swaying on his feet. In an instant she was there, at his side, her arm tucked into his elbow as though he really were a duke escorting her across the ballroom of a royal palace. He could feel the warmth of her body as it pressed against his and the cool silk of her hair as it slid across his bicep. Again he wished desperately he weren’t so drunk. His body was dragging him in one direction while his mind flailed helplessly against the haze.

“Come,” she whispered, guiding him out into the cool night breeze.

He went willingly with his beautiful vision into the darkness, dragging in huge lungfuls of air in an attempt to clear his head. He pressed a hand against his temple.

“Are you unwell?” She was still right beside him, and he was horrified to realize he was leaning on her as he might a crutch. He straightened abruptly.

“No.” He concentrated hard on his next words. “I don’t even know your name.”

She stared at him a long moment as if debating something within her mind. “Gisele,” she finally said.

He was regretting those last pots of ale. Thinking was becoming almost impossible. “And why were
you
drinkin’ alone, Gisele?” he asked slowly.

The sparkle dimmed abruptly in her face, and she turned away. “Will you take me away from here, James?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon?” His mind was struggling to keep up with his ears.

She turned back. “Take me somewhere. Anywhere. Just not here.”

“I don’t understand.” Blade-sharp instincts long suppressed fought to make themselves heard through the fog in his brain. Something was all wrong with this situation, though he was damned if he could determine what it might be. “I can’t just—”

Jamie was suddenly knocked back, tripping over his feet and falling gracelessly, unable to overcome gravity and the last three pots of ale. Gisele was yanked from his side, and she gave a slight yelp as a man slammed her back up against the tavern wall.

“Where the hell have you been, whore?” the man snarled. “Like a damn bitch in heat, aren’t you?”

Jamie struggled to his feet, fighting the dizziness that was making his surroundings swim. He reached for the weapon at his side before realizing he couldn’t recall where he’d left it. He turned just in time to see the man pull back his arm to slug Gisele. With a roar of rage, Jamie launched himself at her attacker, hitting him square in the back. The man was barely half his size, and the force of Jamie’s weight knocked both men into the mud. A fist caught the side of his head in a series of short, sharp jabs, only increasing the din resonating through his brain. Jamie tried to stagger to his feet again, but the ground shifted underneath him and he fell heavily on his side.

“Don’t touch her,” he managed, wrestling with the darkness crowding the edge of his vision. Usually he welcomed this part of the night, when reality ceased to exist. But not now. This couldn’t happen now. He had to fight it. Fight for her. Fight for something again. He pushed himself up on his hands and knees. He looked up at the figures looming over him. Strangely, Gisele and her attacker were standing side by side as if nothing had happened. The buzzing was getting louder as Gisele crouched down beside him, and he felt her cool hand on his forehead.

“So sorry,” he mumbled, his arms collapsing beneath him. “I couldn’t do—”

“You did just fine, James,” she said. And then he heard no more.

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