by Jess Russell
He didn’t want it. He wanted to be whole.
As he faced this girl, this woman, with her earnest eyes, he so wanted to trust her. And to have her trust him. Please don’t let her be simply Hives’ puppet.
Her unflinching gaze flayed him open surer than any surgeon’s knife, but instead of guts and pulsing organs, she went right for his soul. He shifted again, feeling like a table with three legs.
Could Anne Winton fill the vast emptiness within him? By God, this little brown owl might have that much power over him. More than any drug.
He shook his head. Stop. He was too damaged, too jaded for this girl-woman. He was not capable of love.
“I envy you, Anne.” It was the first real thing he had said to her all evening.
She blinked. “Why?”
“You are good and true. You are a clean open book and must be eager to add to your pages. Your story is not written yet, it is still full of promise.”
She did not reply. But finally shut the book.
“You do not agree?” He pressed. “Surely you would not want to trade places with me?”
She hesitated. “No,” she said softly, yet firmly. “I would not want to be you.”
“You are wise beyond your years,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “And fortunate.”
She looked up sharply as if he had suddenly grown two heads.
“What? Have I offended you?
She shook her head, but he was not sure it was in answer to his question.
He waited—something he was not used to doing.
Finally the weight of this heavy pause tipped the scale in his favor.
“I live because someone—your father, I suppose—gives me shelter. I am not low-born, but I am as friendless as if I’d been born to a chimney sweep.” She touched the edge of her Bible, tracing the worn leather. “Women are prized for their ability to bear children yet I will likely never even marry. What lies before me is a long road of service.”
She sat up straighter. “I had hoped to be allowed to participate in the therapies here at Ballencrieff, but I was naïve. Thus far Doctor Hives is not convinced of the value of my opinions or talents.”
Yes, her hands. He wished she might tell him of her gift.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, her hands gripping the book. “On second thought, perhaps I would change places with you.”
“We are a pair.” He smiled to cover his disappointment, but she had turned away.
He leaned toward her, wanting to bring her back to him. “Where did you find The Song of Solomon? That book is cut out of every Bible I have seen in this place.”
She smoothed her hand over the cover. “Lady Tippit.”
“Ah, I must remember to thank her.” He smiled again, but she only looked down. “And why did you choose to read it to me today?”
She glanced sideways at him as if she were peeping through the crack in a doorway, not knowing what lay beyond. “It is beautiful,” said with such sweet simplicity.
“And that is the only reason?”
She was going to shut this particular door, he was sure of it. Still, he waited.
“No.”
He should let it lie. She would be in over her head with him. Or maybe he was really the one in trouble? “Could you elaborate?”
She stared out into space as if the answer might be somewhere in the air. “It is like music. And as an artist, I thought you might like it as well.”
Oh, to be free to walk to her and gather her in his arms. He could, his chain would stretch that far, but he wouldn’t. No, she would have to come to him or not at all.
She set her book on the table, and then smoothed her skirts and stood.
He rose right along with her, as if they were already one.
Then she turned away, reaching for the candelabra.
His heart dropped into his belly. She was leaving him. He squeezed his eyelids tightly. The little owl was wise after all.
The faint light behind his lids plunged into total darkness. Confused, he opened his eyes.
The space between them had disappeared along with the light.
She stood directly in front of him.
****
Anne stood still as stone.
He did not move either. Though she would swear he surrounded her, rushing over her, to swirl into every crevice. The pulsing hum of him buzzed the tips of her breasts, her eyelids, cheeks, and lips. Even her back. She had not been so near him since that first day. The day he had cut himself. If she reached down, would she feel that heavy ridge of his manhood?
She was playing with fire. She had told herself she would read to him, fulfilling her duty, and then go.
Still time to step away and stop this madness. Still time to take up her Bible and return to the safety of her dull life.
But even as her head lambasted her heart with its cold, hard facts she stepped closer still. She could touch his fire, if she were brave enough. Here in the dark of his cell, the world seemed so very far away, as if God had cupped His hands around them, and nothing could touch them.
The Almighty had not given her the gift of beauty. He had made her to heal. That ability gave her peace when she had seen other girls go off into the world beyond Ardsmoore where they might marry and hold their child.
She had wrapped herself in her gift of healing. It had to be enough. But now, with this man filling her senses, she dearly wished for beauty.
“Anne.” He breathed against her temple. “Anne.” His lips hovered over her brows. She blinked as the air hit her lashes. “Anne.” Breath skated over her cheek, hovering on the edge of her mouth. Her name, a deep refrain, so beautiful on his lips.
Please, yes. Not knowing quite what she wanted.
She swallowed and her toes curled in her boots, her hands fisted by her sides.
A fan of warm breath escaped his parted lips. No name now. Just breath. And a faint smell of cloves… She opened her mouth to draw in that breath—to take him inside her.
Please, yes. The humming within her grew. She trembled with it.
“Please, James,” his name escaped on a whisper. And like a key opening a door, his lips touched hers.
The light brush of his mouth against her own shocked, almost hurting her with its reverence. Her naïve imaginings evaporated in the face of this visceral reality. So different from the press of her own fingers against her lips in the hushed darkness of the dormitory at Ardsmoore. Or even last night in her bed here at Ballencrieff.
His arms came about her making it real. Him real, after so many dreams. She opened her eyes, wanting to remember everything.
His kisses were a sunset of colors. First pale blue, then a whisper of pink, then bright yellow as he pressed harder, then deepest purple as his teeth caught her lip, then—
His tongue flicked out. Red and hot. She gasped as it ran over her teeth, and then plunged inside her.
Is this what lovers did? How to answer? But thought evaporated with the sudden tangle of their tongues.
Legs trembling, she reached up for his strength. His hair curled around her fingers as they found the back of his neck, so springy—so different from hers.
He cradled her head, angling it to fit her mouth more tightly against his. His tongue danced with hers; a waltz in their mouths, the humming between them providing the music.
More. Closer. “Yes,” was all she managed.
The ridge of him pressed long and hard against her belly, but she wanted it lower, deeper, in the place where the music lived. She plunged her tongue into his mouth, wanting to fill and be filled. More, I want more.
She reached down for him.
The humming music stopped. She stumbled forward with the loss of it. His chain rasped along the floor.
“Go.” The word came like a blow. He stood at the far end of the cot, his chain strained. As far from her as he could get.
Cold lanced through her body without him next to her.
She stepped toward his heat.
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“I said, go!”
She spun away, instinctively shielding her face. Her skirts tangled around her, and her hip bone cracked into the table, sending the candelabra crashing. She nearly tripped and fell to her knees as an animal—a cat—streaked past her as she flung open the door. She did not stop running until she reached the safety of her room.
What had she done?
Shame flooded her cheeks and squeezed her pounding heart. She touched her lips. They were swollen and throbbing, her breasts as well. And down below where she felt so empty.
Tears slipped over her cheeks and ran into her open mouth. She flung herself on her bed burying her face in the pillow.
He did not want her.
She pulled her legs up to her chest, but it was no good. It only made the place below more open. She clamped her hand between her legs. Still it throbbed.
Please—
She pushed a finger inside. Oh God. So wet.
Yes. Yes, better.
She arched into the fullness. Her other hand brushed her breast. She squeezed, hard.
“Yes.” Shocked at hearing her voice she stilled. But her finger was moving again as if it had a mind of its own. “Please, please, please—”
“Ahhhhh!”
It took a long moment to realize the cry was Phoebe Nester’s and not her own. Horrified, she jerked her hand from between her legs and sat up.
“Winton!”
She ran to the wash basin, shoved her hand into the frigid water, and then grabbed a towel as she headed for the door connecting her room to Mrs. Nester’s.
A reprieve this call to duty.
But as she soothed Phoebe Nester from her latest nightmare, Anne could not let go of the feelings Lord Devlin had stirred within her. Surely such an awakening could not be wicked? It seemed to hold the potential for another kind of healing. One that promised—
She did not know. But something awesome lay beyond this pulsing fullness, and she had only touched its surface. Could she let this feeling die? One complaint about her to Doctor Hives and she would be gone with no money and no reference.
No. She must quash these beautiful feelings before they ruined her. They were an indulgence she could not afford. Thank God, he had not wanted her in the end.
Tears dropped next to Phoebe Nester’s now sleeping head.
Yes, thank God.
Chapter Ten
“Ah, Lord Devlin, please be seated,” Doctor Hives said, lowering a handkerchief from his mouth and gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. Macready stood by the door, holding a brown burlap sack. Dev had not had the pleasure of seeing the keeper’s ugly face in weeks. His smirk told him to be ready for a surprise.
Something stank, and it wasn’t Macready’s distinctive odor of cabbage and farts. Dev adjusted the chair so that the door was not entirely to his back, and then sat.
Both he and Anne had been summoned from the North Tower. Austin had not seen fit to show up. Again.
After mauling her yesterday, he had expected her not to appear either, but she had come armed with more knitting and a frown fixed on her face. A stickler for routine, his Owl. Other than a nod to him and a “good afternoon” to Ivo, she’d made a bee line for her corner and hadn’t moved or looked up until Hobbs had come saying Hives wanted to see them both.
The keeper had ushered him into the office, leaving Anne outside to await her interview. Had she come to Hives with tales of seduction? Is that why they were both here now?
“Now then, Lord Devlin, the portrait is progressing?” Hives had the habit of making a simple question sound like an indictment.
Damned sure he hadn’t been summoned to wax on about the bloody portrait, he said nothing. But the possibility Hives had been spying as he and Anne kissed had him shifting in his chair.
“I am told the light in the North Tower is more suitable?” The doctor tapped the pads of his fingers together.
Such pleasantries. “It will do.”
“Painting was supposed to be beneficial. I had hoped we had begun to make some progress at last.”
“We?” What was that smell?
“Did you paint yesterday?”
“Why do you bother asking?” He glanced at Macready. “You know I did not.”
“How did you fill your time?”
He slid back in the chair. “I meditated on several Bible verses.”
“Bible verses? Really?”
He flexed his hands imagining them squeezing Hives nonexistent neck.
“Then how do you explain this?” The doctor gestured to Macready who eagerly stepped forward, ever ready to play his part. He jerked open the mouth of the sack and thrust it under Dev’s nose.
He recognized the smell now. It was the putrid smell of death.
A large cat lay in the bottom of the bag. Its belly had been cut open to expose the internal organs and a number of small matted balls. Her kittens.
Bile rose in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut. A white featureless face filled his brain. No, not now. You must not come now. I promise I will deal with you later. When I am alone.
He made himself look. He was stronger now.
Penny. Ivo had named the cat Penny. He had been trying to tame her for weeks. A feral scrap of hissing, matted fur that had nearly devoured his beloved mouse, Pocket. But rather than see the cat as evil, he had tried to make it a friend. The cat often hid in Dev’s room where Ivo tried to tempt her with bits of food.
Penny’s frozen, dull eyes stared up at him. Dear God. Only a monster would do such a thing.
The doctor held his handkerchief in front of his mouth and nose, his watery eyes stared directly into Dev’s. “Do you have anything you wish to tell me, your lordship?”
He made himself breathe. “Poison, I would say.” Macready, his twisted lip glistening, never flinched under Dev’s accusing glare. “A few weeks back I might have supposed she’d gotten into my dinner.” At least Hives had the decency to look away, if not precisely guilty. “I should not like to be so much as shaved by this butcher. Whoever did this did not know a hawk from a handsaw.”
The doctor pursed his lips in utter disapproval. Apparently quoting the mad prince, Hamlet did not sit well with the good doctor. After what seemed an infinite amount of time, Hives waved the henchman away. “All right, you can bury the thing. And Macready, I will speak with you later.”
The servant made a show of tying up the bag and then giving Dev a smirk before closing the door with a heavy click.
When first coming under Hives’ care, Dev had tried to rile the doctor just to see if he could make a dent in the man’s implacable façade. Over the months he learned the punishment was not worth the little discomfort he produced. He’d counted a total of four expressions—well, once he had seen a fifth, but that was only because his hands had been wrapped around the doctor’s neck at the time.
Number two was in place now: his eyebrows drawn up in a sort of startled surprise, as if he could not quite believe he had to endure whatever was going on. Hives took up a pen and began to write in a notebook. Another similar journal lay on the corner of his desk. A red flare of panic speared his gut. Anne Winton had a book much the same. Did this notebook contain a neatly penned tale of seduction? The skritching of the doctor’s pen against the paper made his teeth grind.
At last Hives closed the book.
“The cat seemed to be looking for a spot to have her kittens.”
The white face rose again, floating in the middle of the black hole of his memory. He swallowed. I will get through this. I must. I am better now.
“Penny, her name was Penny,” he ground the words out.
“Yes, well, someone said.” Hives’ hand strayed to the second notebook. “The cat was last seen near your room.”
“Who? Who said?” The words came out too forcefully.
The doctor’s eyes narrowed—expression four—as he looked down his negligible nose.
“Not my brother,” he made his voice light, almost cau
sal and not a question. “And never Ivo. He wouldn’t—”
The answer was clear even before his ridiculous process of elimination, but he did not want to see it. She had been by his room—in his bloody room yesterday. Was his ego so inflated by this smitten girl that he was blinded by her calf-love of him? He felt supremely stupid. The girl was only doing what she had been asked to do: her duty. One fumbled kiss did not shift alliances. Anne Winton was not his.
Perhaps their kiss been only mere curiosity on her part. A dare. Another test. Could something he had thought so beautiful be so ugly?
He did not know anymore. Like any caged animal he had only his instincts to guide him. It had been so very long since anyone had touched him out of kindness much less with passion… She had called him James. He had tossed in his bed remembering her ‘doves eyes’ and his name on her lips. He’d spent himself over and over thinking of her mouth on his—
“The cat was discovered in your room, by the niche near the window. Along with this.” The doctor held up a sliver of broken glass. He turned the shard to show a bit of blood and yellow fur.
He made himself say the words. “And who flew to you with this juicy tidbit? Did this person suggest this butchery was my work?”
Again, the doctor said nothing, only sat forward in his chair.
Dev felt as if they were about to play a game of chess where the checkmate may decide his freedom or doom. If it was Miss Winton, why could she not lie about seeing the cat? About the glass? Apparently Miss Anne Winton did not lie.
“Contrary to popular opinion, I am not convinced you were the cause of this poor creature’s demise. At any rate, I need to believe you did not perform such a heinous deed. We are running out of time, Lord Devlin. We both stand to benefit from your recovery. However, your year is almost up.”
Yes, his year to reform himself. To recover his lost memories and deal with them. To become heir material.
