Marco rubbed his neck and looked around the nearly empty work shop. His work was done. The fireplace surround had been installed, and needed only a little plaster to fill in the few cracks where the marble met the wall. Then, the real work would begin when he and Charlotte faced their families and began their life together as—
He frowned. I didn’t ask her to marry me. That is what she wants, isn’t it? God knew, it was what he wanted. He’d assumed she would wish to marry, but Charlotte was full of surprises and he knew not to take anything for granted.
Distracted, he went to shut the door, his mind twirling around plans involving rings and surprises, when a light caught his eye.
He stepped into the blackness of the stable yard where, in the distance, a lantern bobbed across Nimway’s dark lawn, carried by a person dressed in a long cloak who moved with a telling limp. Where are you going at this time of the night, little one?
Wherever she was going, she wasn’t going alone. He picked up the lantern hanging over his work table and set off after her, his gaze glued to the bobbing light. Please don’t go into the woods. Of the places I don’t want to be at night, these woods would top the list.
But as usual, she didn’t listen. She took the main pathway into the forest. Marco, muttering under his breath about women who wouldn’t listen and crazed owls and the deadly danger of uneven pathways, followed. These woods would be the death of him. What had the groom told him? Ah yes. Evil fairies. Who doesn’t enjoy the company of evil fairies?
Damn that woman! Well, wherever she was going, she was about to have a companion, whether she wanted one or not. Scowling, he found the path she’d taken and followed, his footsteps swallowed by the blackness of the forest.
The tiny lights sprinkled, shimmered, and preened, always just far enough ahead to keep her hurrying, almost running. Panting, she hopped across a fallen branch, holding her skirts higher so they wouldn’t drag in the damp grass.
Her half boots thudded in the soft forest floor, crunching on sticks as she went, branches grabbing at her skirts, her lantern swinging wildly. The scent of crushed grass and damp night air wafted through the air as she hurried on. In the back of her mind, she could almost see Caroline doing the same thing – hurrying after the light, following it into the wood . . . Was that what happened?
But Caroline had been on a horse. Perhaps she’d thought she would be safer on a horse? Or maybe the light had moved too swiftly to catch on foot?
The light danced way ahead, seeming to balance on the end of leaves and on the tips of blades of grass before diving in a twinkle to the base of a tree. Charlotte hurried on, following the twisting path until, at a turn near a gnarled oak, the lights disappeared as suddenly as they appeared.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” She whisked around the path, and came to a halt so fast, her skirts swung forward as she looked around. She’d never seen this particular glen. It was beautiful, a small round clearing in the middle of gentle, swaying trees. The bright moon sparkled on a small silvered pool filled with swaying cattails. In one corner, almost hidden from view, was a thatched crofter’s hut that leaned to one side. Inside the windows, lights sparkled and then disappeared, only to sparkle again. Oh Balesboro, you do like surprises, don’t you?
She walked toward the hut, her boots crackling on fallen twigs. What could be in the—
“What in the hell are you doing?”
She dropped the lantern, the light extinguishing as it hit the ground. Hand over her thundering heart, she wheeled around.
Marco stood at the edge of the clearing, glowering as if he’d caught her stealing. His dark hair was mussed, his shirt torn at one elbow, a vivid scratch glistened on his forearm.
She frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to keep you from being injured.”
She noted where a slow line of blood was soaking into his torn sleeve. “I’m not sure who should be protecting who,” she observed.
He didn’t so much as smile. “What are you—"
A rustle in the trees made her turn. Marco was instantly at her side, his arm around her waist. She clung to his arm, her cheek pressed against him.
No other noise followed, and finally, she stepped away from him and gave an unsteady laugh. “It’s far less friendly here at night.”
“Unfriendly? It’s dangerous.” He growled the words.
“As my sister discovered.”
He winced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.” He lifted the lantern and looked around the small clearing. “Is this where the accident happened?”
“I don’t know. I never asked. To be honest, I didn’t want to know.”
“That’s understandable. I’m not sure I’d want to know, either.”
She sent him a curious look. “How did you know I’d be here?”
“I saw your lantern, and I worried you might come to some harm. What are you thinking, running into the woods at this time of the night?”
“I saw lights. Dancing lights. Like . . . fairies, or—” She shook her head. “I don’t know what they were, but they came this way.”
He raised his brows. “Do you see them now?”
“No, but they were in the crofter’s cottage when I arrived.”
He bent to pick up her lantern. He peered at it and then set it back on the ground. “I was hoping we could relight it, but the cage is bent.” He looked past her to the cottage. “Maybe these dancing lights will stay long enough to show you what they want you to see.”
She looked at him, surprised. “You believe in fairy lights?”
“You and Nimway have taught me that the impossible can happen.”
Her heart warmed, and she slipped her hand in his. “We should look in the cottage and see what’s to be found.”
His hand tightened over hers and together, they walked to the cottage.
Marco wished the little building wasn’t tucked into the corner of the glen, far out of the natural spill of light. He glanced at the trees where they waved overhead, noting that several branches looked at if they might drop at any minute. He sent them a significant glare. Don’t even think about it, he told them.
He suddenly realized she was watching him, a smile curving her mouth. “What?”
“You’re afraid of Balesboro.”
“I am not.”
She pursed her lips, still looking far too amused.
He scowled in mock outrage. “This wood will not best me. I—”
An owl hooted and he whirled toward the sound, searching the dark branches overhead.
Her chuckle brought him up short. Slowly, he turned back to face her. “I won’t do anything to you here, in this dangerous situation. But once we are safely home, you will pay for every laugh and every giggle.”
Her lips curved intro a smile, and he admired the way the moonlight sparkled over her long hair. She hadn’t taken the time to put it up, and it hung about her face in loose waves, making her appear even younger.
Still smiling, she continued toward the crofter’s cottage. Marco followed, holding the lantern high.
As they neared the cottage, he was unhappy to see that it was far more ramshackle than he’d thought. The shutters hung at drunken angles from their hinges, two of them were missing. The front door was cracked as if someone had kicked it in, and gaping holes showed in the thatched roof. “Are you sure you want to go in there?”
“I have to.”
“What? Why do you have to?”
“I’m the guardian now. And I think those lights may be what drew Caroline into the woods.”
“I see.” That explained so much.
“But . . .” Charlotte frowned. “I can’t see her following lights the way I did. She was like you, and Balesboro made her uncomfortable.”
“I thought you said it protected those from Nimway?”
“It does. It never attacked her the way it does you, but she didn’t like to be here alone.” In the distance, crickets chirped, and toads sang, but it was quiet here in
the glen. “I’ll never understand what drew her here. She was afraid of the dark. If she decided to venture into the woods at night – which she would never do – she would have asked me to go with her. Our rooms were right beside each other because sometimes she’d have a bad dream and—” Her voice faltered.
“She’d come to you.”
Charlotte nodded, the moonlight rippling over her loose hair. “She was the pretty one, but to her, I was the brave one. She believed I could do everything she couldn’t.”
“Like ride horses.”
“Which is yet another thing that makes no sense.”
“Do you know what I hear? You have a lot of good reasons to investigate the crofter’s hut, but it’s dark and late.”
Her eyes lifted to his face, almost black in the moonlight.
“You won’t find answers in the middle of the night. Come. I’ll walk you back to the Hall and we’re return tomorrow and face whatever’s here together, in the light of day.” Marco slid his arm about her shoulders and tugged her closer.
“You think that would be best.”
“I do.” He turned, but she didn’t move.
He stopped and looked down at her. “Charlotte?”
“I’m not the brave one.”
The words were whispered, but he heard them as clearly as if she’d yelled them. He was so surprised that he couldn’t speak. She was many things – sharp witted (painfully so), independent, frustrating, and unequivocally brave. “Ah, my love, you are indeed brave. You just don’t know it.” He pulled her closer.
He hadn’t planned on kissing her. He’d just thought to ease the emotion he saw darkening her face. But when he pulled her into his arms, she looked up at him.
He could do many things, but resisting her wasn’t one of them. Not if he tried a thousand times over. She looked so damn appealing, so sensual, and he bent to place his lips over hers—
Bam! The sole hinge holding the door to the cottage broke and sent the broken wood tumbling.
For a long moment, they stared at it.
Charlotte straightened her shoulders and wiped her hands on her skirt. “I’ll be back.”
“But—”
She was gone. In two quick hops, she’d leapt over the broken door and disappeared inside the dark cottage.
Cursing, he started after her, but before he could take more than a step, she’d returned. She stood in the doorway, her hands crossed over her chest. At first, he’d thought she might have injured herself, but as she came closer, he realized she was hugging a small book.
When she reached him, she held it out, the moonlight shimmering on gilded letters embossed on leather. With hands that trembled, her eyes shiny with tears, she said, “It’s Caroline’s diary. Now we’ll know why she was in the woods the night she died.”
Chapter 14
A short time later, Charlotte and Marco slipped into Nimway Hall and silently made their way to the sitting room.
Marco closed the door and placed his lantern on the small table before the fire, watching Charlotte with a concerned gaze. She’d said very little after finding her sister’s diary. Her face pale, she perched on the edge of the settee, the book on her knees.
He waited, wondering if she would read it now, but instead she stroked it slowly, her eyes filled with tears.
Marco stirred the fire back to life, and added some wood, careful not to let the poker clang too loudly when he returned it to its hook. When he turned back, Charlotte was hugging the book as if it were a child, rocking slowly back and forth, tears streaming down her face.
He thought of his own sisters and how protective he’d felt of them and how his own heart would break if something happened to them. Never had he felt so helpless.
A sob broke from her and he hurried back to the settee and gathered her to him.
Holding the book to her, she burrowed against him and wept. She wept until his shirt was soaked with her tears, until she could cry no more, until she’d broken his heart with her own.
Her cries subsided into shuddering sighs and, finally, into soft sniffles. Marco didn’t know how to comfort her, so as time passed, he rubbed his cheek against her hair, and whispered to her of his own family, of his sisters and brothers, of the funny stories, and the painful ones. It worked. Her weeping ceased, and she listened, even giving a watery giggle at one point.
It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.
Finally, much later, his stories done, he began to yawn. She pulled away and placed her hand on his cheek. “I’m going to read this now.”
“Very well. I’ll—”
“No. I need to read it alone.” She kissed him tenderly. “Please.”
“Of course. But I’m not leaving your side.”
She nodded.
He piled pillows in one corner of the settee, and sat down, tucking her against him. And then while she read, he slept.
“Good God!”
Marco opened his eyes, aware of three things at once.
First, Charlotte was in his arms, her warm bottom pressed comfortably against him. What a lovely way to wake up in the morning.
Second, someone had thrown open all of the curtains and the sitting room was now flooded with light, which made it hard to see the third thing.
Which were the four faces now staring down at him over the back of the settee.
He squinted against the light, trying to figure out who had disturbed his sleep.
One was a distinguished gentleman with graying auburn hair, and a pair of suspiciously familiar dark blue eyes. The man looked alarmingly ready to kill someone. Mr. Harrington.
Beside him was an older, but still attractive woman dressed in the height of fashion, her still-blonde hair elaborately coiffed, jewels glittering at her ears and throat. Her gaze was pinned on Marco with such intensity that he could feel it sticking him in the ribs like a sword. Mrs. Harrington.
To the other side of the woman was a young, dark-haired, slender, well-dressed man, whose expression could only be described as ‘confused.’ Is this John, the brother? Somehow, Marco didn’t think so, for there was no family resemblance. Wait. You’re the abominable Roberto, aren’t you, my friend.
It took some effort to keep his scowl to himself.
The last face Marco knew. Lady Barton, as plump and bejeweled as ever, wiggled her fingers at him in greeting. Her eyes brimmed with merriment, her cupid’s-bow lips curved in a delighted smile. She said in a spritely tone even though she whispered, “Hello there! Fancy meeting you here.”
Mr. Harrington glared at her. “Damn it, Verity, this is not the time for levity—”
“Oh hush, Jack.” Lady Barton sent him an annoyed look. “And lower your voice. Charlotte’s asleep.” Lady Barton turned her smile back to Marco. She bent over the back of the settee and whispered, “Mr. di Rossi, would you like some breakfast? Simmons had just informed us that it was ready when one of the footmen discovered you here.”
Charlotte stirred in his arms, murmuring in protest at the noise. Her lashes fluttered open as sleep left her. He knew the second she saw the faces above her, for her eyes snapped open and she scrabbled to her feet, swaying at the sudden movement, the book tumbling to the floor at her feet.
“Good morning, child.” Lady Barton beamed as if Charlotte had just done the most amazing thing. “Sleep well?”
Mrs. Harrington favored her sister-in-law with a chilly gaze. “Verity, you have failed as a chaperone.”
“You think so?” Lady Barton’s gaze traveled slowly over Marco. “I was thinking I did rather well.”
Charlotte was frantically trying to set herself to rights, tugging on her skirt, smoothing her straying hair, and in general trying to make herself look less ‘slept upon the settee.’ “Mama! Papa! When did you get in? I—” Her gaze fell on the young man, who had yet to say a thing. “Robert?” Her voice cracked.
Marco decided it was time he joined the fray, so he stood, only to discover that his shirt had bunched up and had rolled h
igh under his arms. He tugged his shirt back into place, aware that Lady Barton’s eyes followed his every move, showing her approval with an enthusiastic nod.
For all the approval Lady Barton was showering on him, Charlotte’s ex-fiancé was dousing Marco with a scowl. “You, sir, will answer for this!”
Marco was more than willing, but Charlotte sent him a warning look and then stepped in between them. “Robert, I assume you received my letter.”
“I did.” The young man dragged his gaze from Marco and turned to Charlotte. Instantly, his face softened. “Charlotte, please! You must rethink this. Everything you said was right. I left as soon as we became engaged, and that’s my fault, but—”
“Robert, don’t. As I said in the letter, we were never meant to be. And you know it, too.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Mrs. Harrington said stiffly. “Charlotte, this is ludicrous. What are you thinking? That man is nothing more than a common sculptor and—”
“No.” Charlotte slipped her arm through Marco’s. “He is not a common anything. He’s an exceptional sculptor, and soon he will be an exceptional husband and, then, an exceptional father.”
Husband. Father. Marco had to fight the desire to sweep her off her feet and give her a kiss she wouldn’t soon forget. Sadly, given the circumstances, all he could do was cover her hand with his and squeeze her fingers.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Harrington had paled at Charlotte’s words, while Robert flushed a deeper red, his hands fisted at his sides.
Lady Barton clapped in delight as she beamed at Charlotte. “You’ll have children! How lovely!” She leaned toward her brother. “They will be beautiful. I mean, just look at them.”
Oddly enough, Mr. Harrington was no longer looking surprised, nor even upset. Instead, he now watched Marco with a cool, calculating gaze that made him wish he’d worn his court clothing.
Lady Barton beamed at the small group with all of the pleasure of a hostess greeting her guests at a party. “May I suggest that we retire to the breakfast room? I, for one, am famished. Perhaps some food would not be amiss before we have The Discussion?”
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