H
arlowe’s fingers itched. Yet he had no desire to paint. He needed something to do rather than lying abed hour after hour, day after day. The problem was that he was still in the throes of battling the opium shoved down his throat the last ten months or so. And as much as he was glad he had those of Rory’s and Casper’s bulk about, he much preferred his new dragon. Those eyes of hers had a slight entrancing tilt, but he hadn’t seen her in the full light of day to determine their exact color. It seemed a simple enough mystery, one that shouldn’t overtax his beleaguered brain.
He glanced over at Rory. The man looked about to slide to the floor from exhaustion.
“Go get something to eat, man, then grab some sleep in a decent bed,” Harlowe told him. “I’ll live for a few hours without you. If it bothers you bad enough, send Casper up.”
Rory’s weary and wary gaze met his.
“Go. It’s an order.”
There was a tap at the door and, to Harlowe’s surprise, it was not the dragon, but his avenging angel, complete with cherub on her hip. “Good morning, Lady Irene.” A wariness of his own took hold. “What have you there?”
“Good morning, my lord. This is Nathaniel. I thought you might like a visit while he was somewhat calm.” Lady Irene Ennis was of slight build and hardly looked capable of holding a sturdy boy who must be half her weight. She hefted him to her other hip.
Rory, who had stood and prepared to depart, slowly eased backed down into his vacated chair.
Harlowe couldn’t bring himself to make the man leave now. Nathaniel was a bundle he hadn’t quite been able to come to grips with as yet.
“Perhaps you should sit,” Harlowe said to Irene. “So as not to, er, drop him.”
“Oh, I won’t drop him, my lord.” Irene studied Harlowe with an unsettling intensity, then looked at the baby and back. “He resembles you.” She set Nathan on the bed where he immediately bounced on his derriere and clapped his chubby hands, full of resplendent squeal, he happily let loose.
Harlowe did his best not to flinch.
Nathan attempted to stand and immediately fell on his backside, laughing with sheer joy.
“He won’t bite, my lord.” A frown marred Irene’s brow. “Not intentionally. He does have most of his teeth and I have witnessed a few marks on Celia’s arm. Since she didn’t complain overly much, I maintained that the bites weren’t lethal.”
Harlowe narrowed his eyes on her, looking for any sign of amusement. There was none. She was completely serious. He thought back to those harrowing nights in the ship’s hold. Most were a blur, but two in particular stood out. The first of which was when a small, filthy child had been tossed in alongside him. A boy who had spoken a peculiar baby-speak vernacular Harlowe had been hard pressed in deciphering. He vaguely recalled the imp attempting to feed him. When those efforts failed, as Harlowe had not the strength to lift his own head, the boy released a string of epitaphs that would make a lady’s toes curl if not outright faint dead away.
The second memory had been of Lady Irene hovering over him while the boy pronounced Harlowe already dead. It had been very nearly true. He remembered her matter-of-fact facade and put it down to the situation, but watching her now, he was struck by the solemnity of her manner. Hers was an old, old soul.
“I see,” he returned with grave sincerity. “I shall take great care in keeping my fingers from his mouth.”
The crack went over her head. She just nodded her approval, tracking Nathan’s movements in case he teetered backwards off the bed and landed on his head. The Persian rug on the hardwood mightn’t be enough to keep him from breaking his skull.
Although Harlowe was confident enough to know that it would take a lot more than a fall on the head by an heir of his to put his heir out of commission. If anyone had reservations, all they had to do was look at what Harlowe had survived in the past year.
A head of contained coiled braids appeared in the arch. What had appeared as carrot-orange the evening before, today, resembled the color of intense copper. “What goes on here?” Her eyes lit upon Nathan, wreaking havoc among Harlowe’s huge bed, and widened.
Their color hit him with the force of a wave from the Mediterranean Sea. Aegean blue. How did he even know that color? Ah, the artist in him. His fingers itched again with the sudden urge to pick up a brush.
“Good morning, Lady Alymer.” Irene’s watchful vigilance never wavered from her charge, who was crawling from the bottom corner of the bed to the other.
Nathan tumbled over and out of sight.
Irene’s terror-filled cry, and Lady Alymer’s horrified gasp, stopped cold when Rory’s monstrous hand lifted with Nathan sprawled on his stomach, kicking his feet and laughing uproariously. He handed Nathan off to Irene. “Mayhap he’s ready for a rest, milady,” Rory said to her.
“If he is not, I certainly am,” Irene retorted tersely. “Come, you little terror. You are far worse than Celia.”
“Good day, Lady Irene. Nathan,” Lady Alymer said to Irene’s disappearing head. She glided in the room, with ever the confident bearing he’d witnessed the day before. She glanced at Rory. “Good heavens, sir, you must be dead on your feet.” She frowned at Harlowe. “He is a human being, my lord. Everyone needs food and rest.”
“How remiss of me. Rory, you are hereby dismissed until you are fed and well-rested,” Harlowe said with a smirk.
The man ignored him, inclining his head as he made his escape past the indomitable lady.
She turned back to him, smiling, and took up the chair she’d occupied in the wee hours of the morning. She pointed to his emptied plate of coddled eggs and toast he’d devoured before Irene’s visit. “No ill-effects I take it?”
