by Anne Stuart
She viewed her smooth, perfect complexion with a sigh. “As long as it is only my soul that is old and wizened, I am content,” she purred. “To what do I owe the honor of such an early visit? I do hope you’re not going to plague me with one of your nauseating attempts to beget an heir.”
“I had no idea you found my attentions so tiresome, my pet.”
“Your forays into traditional sex are tedious in the extreme. It’s your creative alternatives I find . . . entertaining.”
Francis’s pale, thin mouth quirked in a chilly smile. “Always glad to be of service, my precious, but I’ve not come for recreation. We have a problem.”
“Indeed? None that we can’t easily circumvent, I’m sure. You are soooo inventive, darling.”
“That idiot Durham has taken his family off to London without the slightest bit of warning.”
Delilah turned her back on the enchanting prospect of her mirror, facing her husband in dismay. “How dare he?”
“Indeed. Unfortunately he didn’t see fit to consult with us,” he said ironically. “I wish fate would stop attempting to plague us. Just when things were going so very well indeed.”
“He took his impossibly silly children with him, I suppose?”
“Would I be complaining if he left them behind? Vapid, innocent Miss Edwina Durham is safely in London. We’ll simply have to set our sights on an alternative prospect.”
“No one who smells of the shop, Francis,” she warned. “This gift must be absolutely perfect. A proper, innocent young female of respectable birth. Someone who is cherished. Someone who will be missed.”
“But it makes things so much more dangerous, my dear,” he complained lightly.
“But that makes it even more satisfying, my dear,” she replied. “You don’t like things to be too easy, do you?”
“You know me too well, Delilah.”
“That’s why we’re so perfectly matched.”
“Except for your inability to provide me with an heir.”
“I rather thought it was your inability,” she cooed.
“If you were quicker to conceive, we could have handled it properly.” There was no missing the sulkiness in his voice. “You don’t like it any more than I do.”
“Nor do I like the notion of spoiling my looks with a great swollen belly. We’ll have a child in good time, Francis. We will have everything we want.”
“Not if we don’t find a suitable sacrifice.”
“Gift, Francis. She’s a gift to Belarus. Sacrifice sounds so . . . so pagan.” She turned back to twine her fingers through her silky black hair. “Tell me, did he take his elder daughter with him? Dear Jane?”
“I doubt it. I also doubt a Long Meg such as she would be much of an offering.”
“At least there’s no doubt she’s a virgin,” Delilah said with a throaty laugh. “Who would want such an overgrown creature?”
“What about the red-haired bitch who was with her? Much prettier, though a bit too spirited. She could do with a taste of the whip.”
“A taste I’m sure you’d be happy to provide. There, you see, problem solved. We have two well-bred virgins, left behind without any sort of protector.”
“You’re forgetting Gabriel. You think he’ll sit by and let us sacrifice his own sister?”
“Perhaps not. But he doesn’t have to know, does he? After all, he’s kept his distance from us. Even if he decides to join us, we don’t have to tell him everything. I doubt he has more than a passing sentimental fondness for her, if that. I doubt she’s even his flesh and blood.”
“You may be right.”
“As for the other one, she’s hardly his type, do you think? If he can resist me, what could he possibly want with a plain little creature such as her? With such distressing hair?”
Francis took her hand in his soft, limp grip and brought it to his lips. “As always, my dear, you are a font of cold-blooded wisdom. I salute you.”
Delilah smiled up at him, her full red lips curving in delicious anticipation. “I do my humble best.” And she let out a small squeal of pleasure as his teeth sank into her hand, hard, drawing blood.
IT WAS A VERY large house to be quite so empty, Jane thought wearily as she trudged up the back stairs, a canister of hot water in her hands. She’d greeted the departure of her family with well-concealed relief, but twenty-four hours later she would have welcomed a bit of company.
Sir Richard’s tight-fisted ways ensured that only the barest of staff was left on at the manor, consisting of one elderly manservant, George, who could only manage to bring wood to the first floor, and even that was taxing the poor old thing, and two scullery maids who bordered on the half-witted and whose thick Yorkshire accents were barely intelligible even after Jane’s lifetime in the north. She was on her own, as she had been before, but this time she had a sick young woman relying on her, and she had no notion of just how ill Elizabeth truly was.
A doctor had been sent for, but since Sir Richard felt it beneath his dignity to pay a physician for his past services, it seemed unlikely Dr. Thompson would come. In the meantime Elizabeth slept and woke and dreamed and thrashed, and for all Jane knew she was close to death.
She didn’t even dare leave her to find help. The poor maids, the Twickham sisters, were utterly useless, and old George was too feeble and too superstitious to find his way through the woods to Gabriel’s tower. And she hadn’t seen any sign of Peter since she’d left him in the stable.
He had to be somewhere around, but he was making himself scarce. Sir Richard would have no qualms in dismissing the house servants for a fortnight or more while the important members of his family were in London, but he valued his horseflesh, and the stables would be properly attended.
Unless, of course, he took Peter with him to drive the coach. It hadn’t happened yet—Peter had always declared his disdain for southern ways and cities, but one could hardly say no to an employer. Perhaps he’d abandoned her as well, Jane thought, moving up the narrow back stairs at a snail’s pace.
She should have made one of the Twickhams carry the copper tub upstairs, but they were busy in the kitchen, concocting something that was likely to be barely edible, and she didn’t want to confuse them with another order. Rose and Violet were of a very singular mind, and Jane suspected between the two of them they only shared one. She didn’t want to task them too severely.
She paused at the top of the stairs, breathing deeply. At least she’d managed to move Elizabeth out of the tiny, cold room beneath the eaves into Gabriel’s abandoned bedroom. It hadn’t changed in the years since he’d left Hernewood Manor. It was still dark, opulent, and soulless. It was also possessed of the best fire and the warmest location, and Jane could sit by the window and search in vain for her brother or Peter to return.
She started forward, but her slipper caught on the worn carpet that Sir Richard thought suitable for the servants’ quarters, and she went flying, the bucket of hot water streaming out ahead of her as she tumbled onto her face.
She’d hit her chin on the bucket and smashed her knee on the floor. She was soaking wet, exhausted, and utterly miserable. She was a woman who never cried, and yet she lay in the darkened hallway and let out a howl of pure grief and frustration that could have been heard through half the county, if anyone cared enough to listen. No one did.
She heard the footsteps from a distance, echoing on the thinly carpeted steps. Someone with a firm, measured tread, nothing like old George’s wobbly gait or the Twickham sisters’ clumsy scramble. She knew who it had to be, knew if she had any sense at all she’d leap to her feet and hide herself in the nearest bedroom.
She couldn’t make herself move. Any more than she could make herself stop crying.
He thought she was strong, impervious, unimaginative, and boring. He probably didn’t ev
en realize she was female, Jane thought miserably. She could cry as well and as loudly as any woman, and she intended to do just that, and keep on doing that, and he could approach at his own peril, damn him.
She’d cradled her face in her arms as she sobbed, but she could feel him kneel beside her, feel the warmth of his strong, rough hands on her heaving shoulders.
“There, now, lass.” Peter’s voice was deep and rumbling. “What kind of fuss is this? You’re not the sort to be weeping over a bit of spilled water, are you?”
She lifted her head and glared at him out of streaming eyes. The hallway was dark, so he probably missed the full glory of her rage and misery, but she wasn’t about to spare him.
“I’m the sort to weep about anything I damned please,” she wailed. “I’m tired. I’m wet. I hurt, and I’m alone, damn it.” She liked the sound of that word, so she said it again between hiccupping sobs. “Damn damn damn.”
His response was far from promising. She heard him laugh, deep in his throat, and then he pulled her up from the floor into his arms as he knelt beside her, just as if she were a frail slip of a girl or a weeping child. “There, there, lass. Weep if you must. They say everyone needs a good cry now and then.” Unfortunately being told she had every right to cry was the one thing likely to stop Jane’s tears. That and the knowledge that her head was tucked against Peter’s chest, and she could feel the warmth of his skin through the rough-spun cloth. Without thinking she buried her face in his shirt, blindly seeking some sort of comfort. Or something else entirely.
“You’ve had a hard time of it,” he said in his rumbly voice. “I should have come sooner, but I thought the two of you would be fine once your family left, and your brother’s been keeping me busy from morning till night. You should have sent for me, lass.”
And what would, that have done? she thought to herself, clinging to his shirt tightly. He’d have to pry her fingers loose—she wasn’t letting go until she was good and ready.
He smelled wonderful. Like the stables and warm skin and cider and leather. All the wonderful scents that made her think of Peter, and she started crying again, not making any effort to control herself.
His hand was stroking her short, cropped hair with the same gentleness he’d use on a foaling mare. “Lass,” he said, and there was a trace of desperation in his voice. “You’re breaking my heart. For the love of God, stop weeping and tell me how I can fix things.”
You can kiss me.
He didn’t hear her, of course. She didn’t dare say the words out loud. She already had the best she could hope for. Peter was holding her in his arms, murmuring soft, meaningless words as he stroked her hair, and it was enough to treasure for the rest of her endless, lonely life.
“What’s wrong with Miss?” She heard one of the Twickham girls’ nasal voice inquire.
“She needs a cup of tea, and be sharp about it,” Peter said crossly. “You haven’t been taking proper care of your mistress. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“You know Miss Jane,” the second Twickham girl said defensively. “She’s as strong as a horse. Besides, there are only the two of us and old George in the house. We can barely manage to keep the fires lit. We can’t be rushing around after Miss Jane.”
“So instead she has to carry her own bathwater?” Peter said in a flinty voice.
“It was for Miss Penshurst.” The Twickham who spoke obviously thought that was some sort of justification.
“Then why don’t you and your sister take care of that little problem while I see Miss Jane to her room and make sure she’s properly settled. And then you can bring her that cup of tea.”
“Her room?” Twickham number one gasped. “You shouldn’t even be up here, and you know it. You can’t go to her room.”
“Stop me,” said Peter briefly, scooping his arms around Jane before she could protest.
He rose effortlessly despite the burden of her not inconsiderable weight, and when she tried to say something he simply crushed her against him to silence her. “Get along, you silly twits.”
“Peter,” Jane said in a weak, watery voice. “You can’t . . .”
“I certainly can.” He carried her down the dimly lit hall as effortlessly as if she were a newborn colt. She’d left her door only slightly ajar, and he kicked it open with his large, hobnailed boot, moving to the chair by the fire.
She would have thought he’d set her down in it, find her a shawl to warm her, but he did no such thing. He sat down in it himself, keeping her tightly folded in his arms, and she didn’t bother to struggle.
She felt his hand reach down and catch her chin, drawing her tear-stained face up to meet his. It was brighter in her room—the light from the windows and the fire illuminating her misery far too clearly.
“Now tell me, Janey,” he said softly, using the name he hadn’t used since she’d reached adolescence and he’d grown suddenly formal. “Who’s broken your heart, and where can I find the bastard?”
Chapter Ten
GABRIEL MOVED PAST the open door as silently as only he could. Not that Jane and Peter would notice him. Jane was too caught up in a totally uncharacteristic weeping fit, and Peter was trying manfully to deal with it. As far as Gabriel could tell, he was doing a decent job of it for a change.
He shook his head as he continued down the deserted hallways of his childhood home. Life could be so simple for some people if they stopped worrying about inconsequentials. Of course, Peter would probably say the same thing to him as well. Matters of rank and station were of absolutely no importance to someone like Gabriel, the unwanted bastard of a scandalous union. He was both outside society and above it, given his whispered connections, and he could do as he pleased.
It helped that he tried very hard not to give a damn about anyone or anything, with the possible exception of the two mismatched lovers in the other room. Peter cared too much, and therein lay his problem. He needed a good dose of Gabriel’s remarkable selfishness.
He moved like a ghost through the deserted hallways. A ghost among ghosts. Not that his own personal ghosts ever journeyed to the manor. Brother Septimus and Brother Paul were bound to Hernewood Forest and the abbey ruins—they were unable to travel beyond a certain area. Though who could blame them for avoiding this cold, soulless house?
He hated this place with a fierce passion that resisted all his efforts not to care. He hadn’t always been as distant and invulnerable as he was now. And the memory of his bitter, empty childhood lived on in this place, waiting to come out and snatch at the clothes of a lonely boy wandering the cold, sterile hallways.
He knew which bedroom they’d allotted Lizzie—they always put unimportant guests in the small, chilly room under the eaves. He considered himself noble indeed to avoid looking in on her. Better to resist temptation. She had an uncanny ability to distract him even when she was nowhere around.
His old bedroom was the finest in the house, larger than all the others, including the master bedroom belonging to the Durhams. As a child he’d wondered about that. As an adult he knew the answer. Large and fine meant absolutely nothing if the room was dark and gloomy, more a spacious prison than a place for a young boy.
He didn’t need to go there, but he did, drawn by some random part of his nature that sought out remembered pain. He pushed the door open, then paused, shocked to see a bright fire burning merrily in the Italian marble fireplace.
The room was just as he’d left it. With the exception of the woman lying in his bed.
Even in the murky light he could see the bright flame of her hair spread out on the pillows. A sensible man would back away quickly, closing the door behind him before she even realized he’d been there.
He wasn’t a sensible man. He stepped inside the hated confines of his old room and closed the door behind him, leaning against it, as he surveyed his surroundi
ngs.
She made a difference in the place. The dark walls and curtains, the heavy furniture were still the same. But the fire seemed brighter, more cheerful, lighting the oppressive darkness.
She lay very still beneath the pile of covers, and her face looked pale. He wondered whether he should be concerned, go and interrupt Jane and Peter, demand to know whether a doctor had been summoned. He resisted the impulse. He wasn’t normally a man to worry over trifles, and she seemed to be resting peacefully, her breathing steady. His instincts told him she was on the mend, and over the years he’d found that his instincts were one of the few things he could trust.
There was a chair by her bed, but he avoided it, instead going to the large carved chair in the shadows cast by the blazing fire. He preferred shadows to bright light. He could watch and listen without being seen, at one with the darkness. He could sit in his old room with the ghosts of his childhood breathing down his neck and dream erotic dreams about Lizzie’s lithe young body lying in his bed.
It was a pleasant enough occupation after an unpleasant day of searching the various wood groves for animal corpses. He’d tried to keep ignorant of the Chiltons’ twisted permutations of the Old Religion, but there was no avoiding the fact that things were accelerating rapidly with the approach of May and the ancient festival of Beltane. The occasional dead animal had given way to sacrifices that occurred almost daily, and he had the wretched feeling that they were planning something particularly impressive for the coming week. The Chiltons were entirely capable of moving beyond animals into the realm of human sacrifice. The troubling disappearance of three young women still bothered him when he allowed it to, though the villagers seemed to have accepted and dismissed it as nothing unusual. And it was true; young women took off for better opportunities all the time, and the missing girls were known to be flighty. Even if he couldn’t understand why someone would willingly abandon Hernewood, he knew there were people who did.
