The wind ripped between them, taking her words with it. For the longest time he looked at her, his features slowly bleeding of all expression. “My apologies, Miss Parkes.”
Her jaw dropped. An apology? Really?
“The danger is such that I did not curb my tongue as I should.” Appearing decidedly uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. “Again, I apologise”
Oh. Well, that was…Oh. “Yes. Thank you. Your Grace.”
Clearly still ill at ease, he inclined his head.
She studied his profile, carefully turned so she couldn’t see the scars. Only the black band of his eye patch crossing his forehead hinted something was not quite right. He did seem as if he’d rushed, his hair askew and his boots muddy, while the line of his jaw was clenched and the knuckles clutching his cane were white… Was he in pain?
Guilt stirred within her. She’d never meant to cause him pain and now that rage had run its course, she must have sounded the veriest harridan. “Perhaps it wouldn’t be so dangerous if someone guided me.”
Clearing his throat, he turned his contemplation toward the tor in the distance.
Disappointment flooded her. Was he never going to talk of their letters?
“You slept well?”
His question broke her thoughts. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“After you left the library. Did you sleep well?” With his attention still on that distant tor, it was almost as if he’d not spoken at all.
“Oh. Yes. I did.” Well, she had slept well, once she had finally fallen asleep. “And you? How did you sleep? Your Grace,” she hastened to add.
“I slept tolerably.” He lapsed into silence once more.
Oh, Lord, could this get any worse? It was he who had written the letters, she was almost certain of it. Why else react with embarrassment when she alluded to their correspondence? Why else bring her here to his estate in the middle of Devon on what could only be a pretext? Later, perhaps, she would admonish him over interfering so wholly in her life, but for now...for now, she wanted to converse with her friend.
Though every part of her screamed apprehension and uncertainty, she lifted her hand toward him and, oh-so-lightly, placed her fingers upon his forearm. “Could you... That is, will you describe them to me? The moors, I mean?”
He did not soften, remaining as unyielding as the rocks before them. “They are there before you, Miss Parkes.”
“I know, but...” In for a penny... “You described them so beautifully in your letters.”
His head whipped around, and his single eye held an astonishment he quickly shuttered. She swallowed, but she would not look away.
“My letters?” he asked carefully.
She nodded. “I used to love your descriptions. I’d read them over and again, and they’d make me feel as if I were actually there.” She laughed, and even to her, it sounded a little desperate. “Or, I suppose, here.”
The wind rushed to fill the silence that fell between them.
“I enjoyed writing those descriptions,” he said softly.
Elation came over her, and relief, and apprehension, and a strange kind of fear. It was he who had written her.
“I often think the rocks look like alters.” His gaze locked on the formation before them.
She couldn’t tear hers from him. “How so?”
“A few have tops flattened by the vagaries of nature. I can imagine a priestess of a thousand years gone kneeling atop them, face turned to the harsh clime as the wind whips her hair about her. Her hands would plunge into the trickle of water gathered in the crevices, and she would beseech her gods for a break in the weather, for the sun to appear after an age away.” Leaning heavily on his cane, he turned to her. “Can you not see it?”
She could, now that he’d described it. The rock before them became a place of worship, a monument to religion and belief.
“Do you think they really did worship upon it?” she asked, her voice a hush.
Cocking his head, he said, “I’ve no idea.”
For the longest time, they stared. Terribly aware of how close he stood beside her, Gwen linked her fingers and tried not to think on how little effort it would require to lay her hand over his. “Do you think we should investigate?”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then the strangest expression came over his face. Like a shutter, his features closed. “We should return to the house.”
Disappointment crashed over her. What had changed that he would remove himself from her so?
“Come, Miss Parkes. The day is wasting, and there is work to be done.” He held out his right hand.
Throat working, she stared at his offered appendage. He wore no glove, his palm smooth and unblemished. His coat and shirtsleeves rode up a little, displaying the vulnerable skin of his wrist with its faint tracery of blue veins.
She hadn’t worn gloves either. Hesitantly, she slid her hand in his.
Warm and strong, his fingers closed about hers. Her breath stuttered in her chest, and she could not remove her gaze from their joined hands. It seemed to her even the wind had ceased, the whole of the world focused on her hand in his.
Then he took her hand and placed it on his left forearm. Loss filled her even as she told herself it was ridiculous to feel such.
“Miss Parkes—” His voice cracked. Red collared his ears as he cleared his throat. “Let us walk.”
Nodding, she allowed him to lead her over the terrain, his footing sure even as he leant on his cane. They spoke not at all, and when they returned to Sowrithil, he led her to the study and began a dictation almost as if they’d never been on the moors.
Then he kept her too busy to think of anything but the paper before her.
Chapter Four
ABSENTLY MASSAGING HIS LEFT, Edward stared into the fire. The flames licked at the tumble of logs, turning the wood to glow scarlet. Intense heat battered against his face, pushed deep into his muscles and bones, giving some relief from the dull throb running the left side of his body.
Pain bolted through him as he hit a particularly gnarled knot of muscle. Grimly, he dug his thumb into the knot, ignoring the protest his ruined flesh made. The pain spoke of the muscle’s overuse that day, of picking across the moors and undulating ground, but he counted the price his body demanded worth the time he’d spent with Miss Parkes.
With Gwen.
Closing his eye, he savoured her name as he pictured her. Gwen. She was more than he could have imagined, a mix of caution and boldness he found endlessly alluring. Her wide grey eyes, clear and direct, had studied him unwaveringly while the wisps of light-brown hair the wind had torn from the too-tight bun low on her neck haloed her face. A faint sprinkle of freckles dotted her straight nose, a particularly dark one flirting with the corner of her mouth.
He wanted to taste that freckle.
Leaning his head back, he swore softly. As if she would allow such a thing. He had handled everything badly from the moment she’d arrived at Sowrithil. He’d wanted to impress her, to have her smile and greet him warmly, and for them to find the easy conversation they’d found in their letters.
Against his misgivings— Bloody hell. Throat working, he shook his head. Speak it true, man. Against his downright terror, he’d concocted a plan to bring her to Sowrithil. In his head, it had been a brilliant idea. In his head, he’d been verbose and suave, able to speak to her with something approaching normalcy. But that had been in his head.
In reality, he’d become tongue-tied as soon as she’d entered the room. In reality, he had stood like a great lunk as her employer had mocked and insulted her, only to finally inform her she was to remain at Sowrithil. Edward had seen her shock and her dismay. He’d seen her quick glance at him as if she sought his denial or, at the least, a word of comfort. He hadn’t even offered her that.
Viciously, he dug his fingers into his thigh. Bloody hell, what a grand plan he’d had. Bring her to Sowrithil, only to destroy whatever friendship they boasted. Well
done, man.
This morning had been a disaster. He’d dressed and then stared at himself in the mirror, trying to force the first step to the study. He’d stared at the ugly twist of scars down the left side of his face, the blankness of the patch disguising the ruin of his eye. How could he present himself to her, when he was so wholly broken?
So he’d remained in his chambers, telling himself he did her a favour. Telling himself she did not wish his company, and should not be forced to such out of politeness. Telling himself this, though he only half-believed it.
He scowled at the fireplace. Damn it, he was a duke. A bloody peer of the realm. He should not be cowering in his room because he could not think of how to speak to a woman.
But it was Gwen. He didn’t want to bugger it all up.
Stretching out his leg, he buried his head in his hand. Then he’d discovered she’d ventured upon the moors, and any fear or misgivings had disappeared in the face of terror. He’d torn from the house and spent a wretched half hour searching for her, certain she was broken in a ditch somewhere, her glorious grey eyes closed forever. She’d been on the moors without escort and without awareness of the dangers she faced when he’d spent his life walking the moors, using them to build strength in his ruined leg, learning their beauty…and their dangers. His relief upon finding her had been consuming, so much so that he’d completely destroyed whatever good will remained.
Forcing himself straight once more, he dug his fingers again into his thigh and wrestled with the protesting muscle. He should have stuck to the letters. He was better amongst the rocks and the wind, and writing of both. He was better on paper. In person, things fell apart.
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
His heart seized in his chest. Gwen. He leapt to his feet, his leg protesting such a sudden move. Wincing, he offered a stunted bow, awkward and bent. “Miss Parkes. Good evening.”
Standing just inside the study door, she offered a hesitant smile. “May I join you?”
Heat rose on his neck, and his ears burned. Bloody hell, she was so pretty. “Of course.” Should he drag another chair to the fire? He only had one, and she would surely wish to sit.
“I hope I am not disturbing you, Your Grace. I could not sleep and thought to...” She held up a book.
The book she’d borrowed the other night. “You wish another?”
A frown creased her brow. “I’m not sure. I cannot decide if I enjoyed it.”
Hoping she didn’t notice, he wiped his hands on his trousers. “What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know.” Her brows drew further. “They are rather...atmospheric, aren’t they?”
“I believe that is the point.”
She made a face. “Very funny, Edward. I know that’s the point. I’m just unsure if I have the right temperament to enjoy the point. I find them a bit grim for my liking.”
His breath strangled in his chest. She had called Edward.
Blithely unaware, she continued, “Do you truly like them?”
Unable to speak, he nodded.
“What is it you like about them?”
Finally, he recovered his voice. “I don’t know. I just do.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s no reason, Your Grace. You must have a reason for liking them.”
Back to his title. He shouldn’t feel such disappointment that she didn’t use his given name. “I think...” What did he like about them? “I think it’s the terror.”
Her brows lifted. “Oh?”
“Yes.” He allowed memories and impressions of the novels to wash over him. “The way they can shorten your breath and make you jump when you read them under cover of darkness, bed hangings drawn. You hear a creak on the stairs. A chill creeps up your spine, and you’re certain someone…or something…is striding toward your room. The floorboards creak, and then the hall groans, and you are certain—you are absolutely certain—something comes for you. Something grim. Dark. Terrifying. You clutch your bed clothes to your chin, and you wait, breath strangled in your chest, for that something to approach, for it to grow close enough for you to spy its outline in the darkness, even as you dread the very same. You light a candle and the dark is banished, and you realise it was all in your head. However…the exhilaration remains, and you know you want to experience it again.” Tips of his ears burning, his voice died away. Somehow, he’d lost himself in words.
Hand tucked under her chin, Gwen regarded him with something akin to fascination. “I should never have thought such a thing of Gothic novels.”
“No?” Now the rest of him was uncomfortably hot as if his burning ears saw fit to consume him whole.
“You have such a way of describing things. You know, I should never have wanted to visit the moors if not for your descriptions.”
Of course his head immediately emptied of anything intelligent to say.
“Truly.” Removing her hand from under her chin, she placed it on his forearm.
He looked down. Gloveless, her fingers were stained with ink, and they looked small and capable against the sleeve of his jacket. Raising his gaze, grey eyes captured his solitary one, such that he could not tear himself away.
It could have been a moment or it could have been a hundred before she broke their gaze, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “How was your evening, Your Grace?”
Bloody hell, his head was still empty. “I had paperwork,” he finally managed.
“You must have been busy. You weren’t at dinner.”
“Yes. I was. Busy” Pulse a thunder in his head, he wiped his hands on his trousers. Again.
Smile dimming, she studied him. “Dinner was an interesting experience. I thought my bedchamber was cavernous, but the dining room puts it to shame.”
“Yes.” Again he lapsed into silence. What was wrong with him? Why could he not string two words together to form a complete sentence? Damnation, he was so much better with paper. Put a quill in his hand and a sheet of paper before him, and he could eventually come up with words that seemed as if someone with a brain had written them.
Playing with the fabric of her skirt, she said, “Should I go?”
“What? No.”
“Are you certain? You do not seem of a mind to converse.”
“No, I—” Desperately, he racked his brains. She couldn’t leave. “Let us talk of…” A sudden thought hit him. “Your employment. Let us talk of the law.”
Her face drained of expression. “Your Grace?”
Bloody hell, he’d said the wrong thing. “The law. You said... You wrote of it in your letters. With interest. Passion.”
Face pale, she looked at him.
He cast about for things to say. “You said you’d learned of estate law through your scribing. You said you had scribed for an interesting estate? The one with the missing heir?”
“The Rogers-Wyndham estate,” she said.
Relief flooded him. “Yes, that was it. Did they discover the heir?”
She shook her head. “It’s all moot, anyway.”
“Why?”
“I think there’s another heir, one with a greater claim. The will specifically names a great-niece in Scotland, but the lead solicitor believes her claim to be invalidated by a codicil.” Animation entered her face as she spoke. “The problem is the codicil has been worded in such a way that either stance could be taken, and the intent has been lost. There is a letter from Rogers-Wyndham that could clarify matters, but Mr. Hargraves will not even look at the letter—”
“Mr. Hargraves?”
Disgust darkened her features. “The lead solicitor.”
“Oh.”
She then proceeded to launch into a damning indictment of this Hargraves. Edward wasn’t certain of the particulars, and her speech descended into legal technicalities he could not hope to follow, but her love of the law shone through.
“Why do you not say something?” he said when she paused.
She made a face. “Lord Beecham does not wish to hear from me
. It’s only through grace and good luck I’m even peripherally involved in the profession.”
“Your position is tenuous.”
“Yes. Of course.” She smiled bitterly. “I am female. It is an offence to Lord Beecham I continue to be employed, and so I make sure he does not often encounter me. Then he can pretend I don’t exist.”
“And I have made him aware of you.”
“Yes.” She lifted a shoulder. “But you weren’t to know.”
He should have known. Bloody hell. He should have. That hadn’t been his intention. He had made her life precarious when all he’d wanted… He’d just wanted to talk with her. To see her expression as she said the things she thought, to know what colour her hair, what shade her eyes. Well, now he knew her hair to be a light brown and straight as a pin, and when the wind picked at it, it became a halo around her head. He knew her eyes were grey, the same grey as the sky and just as changeable. He knew these things, and all this knowledge cost was increasing her uncertainty in her employment.
Well, he would fix it as best he could. “If there is trouble, you will tell me.”
A strange smile twisted her lips. “And what will you do, Your Grace?”
Ignoring her sarcasm, he straightened and adopted his most ducal expression. “They will not refuse the Duke of Sowrith.”
“No.” Another bitter smile. “However, I am not the Duke of Sowrith.”
“But you will have his support, and that is the same. Hear me on this.” Catching her gaze, he did not waver. “You have no need to worry again.”
The bitterness bled from her expression. Grey eyes captured him, drew him, and he willed her to believe his resolve and his dedication. He would not waver.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said quietly.
The air thickened between them. His fingers twitched, wanting to cup her face and draw her mouth to his. He wanted to mark that freckle at the corner of her mouth with his tongue, learn the taste of her skin. He wanted to feel her body against his, her softness cradling him as he speared his fingers into her hair, destroying the tightly coiled bun. He wanted to claim her mouth with his.
Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3) Page 4
