What better option had I? I asked myself. My skin itched with stickiness, and there was no escaping my malodorous state. I was in desperate need of a bathe. In truth, I supposed I ought be more grateful for my employer's consideration of the situation.
"Thank you," I mumbled.
"I'll have a go at those laces, then," he said.
Pulse thrumming, I felt his fingers work along my spine. My good hand clamped against the bodice, a flimsy attempt at modesty. Within seconds, he had freed the strings; my breath should have found an easier movement, but instead it remained hitched in my throat.
"We'll have to take the splint off as well," he said decisively. His movements were so deft that I felt no pain as he released my injured arm. "Do you want help with the rest?"
"N-no." The word emerged fitfully.
He turned his back. With shock, I watched as he shed his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them carelessly upon the floor. He rolled his sleeves, revealing sleekly muscled forearms sprinkled with dark hair. He remained with his broad back presented to me, his hands upon his lean hips, a virile god even in his shirtsleeves.
"Ready?"
His deep voice held a questioning note. I realized, then, that he was waiting for me to finish undressing. Awkwardly, I fumbled to remove my petticoat, drawers, and stockings. No goddess was I, but a clumsy, one-handed ninny. When I was finished, I sat in the chair wearing nothing but my patched linen shift.
"Ready," I said.
He turned back around, and I quickly averted my gaze. I need not have worried about any impropriety on his part; he lifted me with an impersonal touch. I might have been a valise or a sack of potatoes, though I doubted his lordship had ever cause to heft the latter. He placed me carefully into the tub, and I gasped at the sudden immersion in liquid heat.
"Too hot?" he murmured, his voice close to my ear.
"N-no. It's ... perfect."
Despite the soothing lap of the water, I kept my right arm over my chest. He straightened without giving me another look. I heard his footsteps behind me, the sound of a chair scraping against tile. I turned my neck against the tub's edge; I could discern his strong profile shadowed against the intact upper portion of the screen.
"Do you expect me to stoop to peeping like a damned schoolboy?" There was wry censure in his voice. "I told you before that your virtue is safe with me. Lay your mind to rest and enjoy the bath, Abby."
Flushing, I slid further down into the tub. Of course he would not lower himself to such a thing—he was Lord Lucien Langsford, Earl Huxton, famed connoisseur of the female sex. He had no need to steal an eyeful of a servant, not when his world was populated by exquisite and cultivated blooms, all of which vied for his attention. Indeed, what interest would a plain, small weed of domestic nature hold for him by comparison?
I felt suddenly foolish and mortified at my unfounded suspicions. So as to embarrass myself further, I did as he commanded. I tried to relax. In truth, 'twas not all that difficult; the hot soak was a panacea to my stiff and aching muscles. I poured a few drops from one of the bottles; a soothing scent of lavender and lemon lifted with the steam. Sighing, I stretched my limbs as the fragrant mist enveloped me. I lost myself to the easing, luscious heat and the lulling slosh of water against the tub.
I must have come close to dozing, for Hux's voice stirred me abruptly.
"Ready for the shampoo?"
I had forgotten. "Oh, um, yes."
"You'll have to get yourself ..." Mayhap it was the position of his voice, coming as it did from behind me, but the resonant syllables seemed to falter. He cleared his throat, and sure enough there emerged the familiar authoritative tones. "There's a bucket by the stool. You may use it to dampen your hair."
"Never mind the bother," I said and slid downward to submerge my head. I came up, sputtering a little, and wiped the sweet-smelling droplets from my eyes. Resting my neck on the tub's rim, I positioned my head so that he could reach it through the cut-out in the screen. Inhaling slowly, I quelled the sudden flutter in my breast. "I'm ready."
The first touch was light. I felt a skimming over my damp scalp, a slight tugging as he worked through the snarled length of my hair. I closed my eyes and pretended it was Aunt Agnes combing my tresses out. One hundred strokes, she'd always counted, each and every night.
"Your hair is longer than the fashion," he said.
So much for pretending; the masculine tones bore no resemblance to my aunt's crisp contralto. I could not help but stiffen at the implied criticism. Though my charms were small and few, I had numbered my hair amongst them. When properly combed, the brown waves fell in a glossy curtain past my waist.
"My aunt taught me function over fashion," I said primly. "'Tis easier to keep it in a braid and tucked up this way."
"Ah, the inestimable Aunt Agnes. I wondered when she would shower her pearls again. No, no, don't take offense." His fingers delved gently against the back of my head, urging me to relax. A tingle ran all the way down my spine. "I'm merely jesting. And I like your hair. Old-fashioned, but it suits you."
Wonderful. So now I was outmoded as well as my hair.
"Are you almost finished?" I asked.
"No." I heard him tinker behind the screen. The air filled with a fresh scent—lemons again. Without warning, he began a strong stroke against my scalp; a sound flushed from my throat. I had to bite down on my lip to contain a moan of pleasure. Oh, his fingers ... they were sinful, magic. I had never felt anything half so good in my life. My neck went limp as he massaged my scalp. Everywhere he touched, he winnowed away tightness and tension, replacing it with pure bliss.
"You're strung tighter than a violin." I could barely attend to his words. His thumbs had found a place behind my ears that sent ecstatic pulses over my skin. "That's better, isn't it."
The noise I made was not quite a word. He did not seem to notice. His fingers continued to work their enchantment, finding and working sensitive spots. When he began kneading the rigidly held muscles of my neck, I gave over completely. My head resting quiescent in his palms, I closed my eyes, my mind lost to the pleasure of his touch.
"Abby." His thumbs circled beneath my jaw, melting away the stiffness.
"Mmm," I mumbled.
"Tell me what you saw." His voice lulled in rhythm to his strokes. Deeper and deeper he pressed, loosening my muscles from their guarded state. "What frightened you so, little one?"
"Not ... frightened."
And I wasn't. There was no fear here, only warmth and safety. I sighed as firm pressure eased away knots in my shoulders.
"Not now. But before. Tell me, sweet—what made you run?"
Run. I did not want to run, not any longer. My voice emerged, blurry, soft, as if from another's throat. "I want to stay here."
"And so you shall." Blissfully, I turned my head, my cheek cupped by a strong, clean-smelling palm. "But first, tell me what you saw. What happened at Mrs. Cunningham's?"
Mrs. Cunningham. The image pierced my reverie. Lips. A red circle unwinding in darkness, falling to the ground in a coil of deadly satin. The faceless man, the fetid stench of his breath, his arousal as he watched behind the hole. Any minute now he would see me, reach for me—
"No. Don't touch me. Get away!"
I fought with all my strength. I pushed against the iron bands that trapped me, kicking, clawing against the captivity. A merciless shake loosened a scream from my throat.
"Abby, stop it. Abby. Damnit, it's me."
My eyelids snapped open. My vision was blurred, distorted. A great dark shape resided next to me; I knew it instantly. With a sob, I huddled against the solid warmth.
"Hux," I cried.
"Be still, Abigail, you are safe."
He held me cradled upon his lap. But I could not stop shaking. The shadows hovered, even as my sight cleared to the sight of the empty tub, the water puddling over the tiles. Panic continued to drive my breath. My nightmarish fear. Oh God, what if one day the darkness did not dissipate, if I became
trapped in a world of madness forevermore—
Strong fingers pushed my chin up. I caught the flash of silver in blue, the warning before a storm, and his lips descended to mine.
FOURTEEN
Stilled by shock, I could not move. The mouth touched to mine was firm, yet gentle. The pressure exerted was soothing, sustaining. I felt my head begin to spin, my thoughts stumbling as darkness gave way to light. Heat spread over my lips, my skin. The taste of him permeated my senses. Like coffee or chocolate, the flavor was dark, stimulating—I wanted more, something I could not voice. My lips parted.
I heard my name, a resonant growl, sensation flooding as the kiss deepened. As nameless desire transformed into a reality sweeter than I had ever imagined. He was inside my mouth, a place no other had been, and the hot intimacy blazed awareness over my breasts, my belly, shooting deep into the place between my thighs. My blood thickened to a honeyed throb. I felt my head being tipped back, and I surrendered willingly.
I opened myself to his silken exploration. The hot sweeps sent thrills down my spine. His tongue nudged against mine, brazen, demanding. Instinctively, I answered back. A shudder ran through him, and the kiss flared: our lips, our tongues, our very selves merging in a reckless inferno. I could not get enough. I could not get close enough. I burrowed ever more deeply, drawing upon his heat, his strength, the need for him more urgent than my next breath.
When his hand settled upon my rib cage, I released a tremulous sigh. His warmth soaked through the damp linen; I felt his knuckles brush the underside of my breast. Yet he made no move to touch the aching swell. Instead, his fingers wove a delicate, maddening web over my mid-section, making me squirm for want of a firmer touch. All the while, my bosoms poised in ripeness, straining beneath their own weight and needing but a breath, the work of a fingertip to release them from torment.
His hand splayed suddenly over that eager flesh; I jolted in bliss. In that motion, my shoulder collided against solid muscle. Pain exploded from the wounded joint, a shower of red-hot spikes down my arm. A cry tore from my throat.
I heard his labored breathing. "Abby, my God—"
I did not hear the rest. Eyes shut, I tried to catch my breath as the aftermath sizzled over my nerves. Even breathing hurt. I heard a ripping sound, dimly aware of my wet shift being removed, then dryness, warmth enveloping me. When at last the pain subsided, I opened my eyes.
"Are you feeling any better?" Hux asked grimly.
"Yes." My voice was hoarsened. I was afraid to nod my head, the effects of the last sudden movement still muddling my mind. I concentrated on taking slow breaths to dissolve the nausea. God help me, but I refused to cast my accounts twice in front of Hux today.
"That should never have happened. Bloody hell, what was I thinking?"
Thick and fuzzy though my head, I registered the anger. I looked at Hux blankly. He was watching me, pale-lipped. With his jaw taut and a dark lock quivering over his brow, he did not look at all like his urbane self. In fact, he looked the very devil.
Rationality prickled my brain, pins and needles of returning awareness. Sweet heavens, what did I just allow to happen? Before I could gather my bewildered thoughts, Hux rose from the chair in a swift motion, one so smooth that my shoulder did not feel the slightest impact. He carried me back into his bedchamber. But instead of exiting through the main door, he took us through to an adjoining suite. My eyes widened as I took in the gilt and peach-tinted interior, the wondrous cupola patterned after the heavens.
The countess' boudoir.
The bed was a spun-gold affair which might have been lifted from some faerie tale. As we approached it, however, I felt a darker enchantment at work.
"I can't sleep here," I protested.
He did not bother to respond. With a care that belied his thunderous expression, he placed me upon the embroidered gold counterpane.
"I won't," I said, bolder this time. Unfortunately, I could bolster my refusal with little else, not without threat to my injury.
"You will do as I say, Abigail." His eyes emitted blue sparks. "You've soiled the sheets in the other bed. I haven't the inclination to play maid to you any more than I have already."
I refused to acknowledge the burning behind my eyelids. 'Twas not difficult; my attention was centered on the smoldering coal beneath my breast-bone. The humiliation was beyond anything I had known in my life. Befuddled, I tried to make sense of what had just happened. One moment he was kissing me, and the next ...
I gulped back tears.
He was reminding me of my place. Of the cardinal rule I had broken, of what Mrs. Beecher and Jack had tried and tried to warn me against. But my prideful self had turned a deaf ear, had rationalized my every foolish action. A bastard maid and an earl. 'Twas laughable; no wonder he was regretting his actions. Oh, how could I have been so stupid?
I held my chin up despite its trembling. "I will change the sheets, my lord. Kindly take me back—"
"How the hell will you manage that, with your arm wrenched and you giddy with pain?" Hux had his hands upon his lean hips, his chest moving in a vigorous motion. "For the last time: you are my employee in my house, Abigail, and I say you sleep here."
"Then I quit." The words left me before I could think twice. Or even once. I was driven beyond logical consideration.
"You ... quit?" His voice was lethal-soft, a blade honed against velvet.
"As of this moment, I tender my resignation." If I had to drag myself on hands and knees from that bedroom, I would, so potent were my long-restrained sensibilities. "If you require it in writing, be so kind as to provide me with pen and paper."
"What I require," he said, "is for you to speak some bloody sense."
At the blaze of brimstone in his eyes, I recoiled against the pillows. It was too late. He was upon me in the next breath. Looming over me, caging me with his arms, his size. Though he made no physical contact, I could feel the harnessed tension of his muscles as if they were thrust against my flesh. Lord help me, my skin prickled in memory of that sensation. Of his hard, unyielding body next to mine. The space between us filled, heated by our closeness, our mingling breaths.
"Have you forgotten your pledge of loyalty to me? Trust me, you said. Upon your soul, you said. A woman's promise." His words fell in hot strikes against my cheek. "I should have known better. You have made a fool of me, Abigail, when I swore never to be duped again."
"I? Made a fool of you?" I cried, my heart spurred to a reckless sprint. "Did I just embrace you one moment and then the next look at you as if you were not fit to grace the bottom of my shoe? Did I abandon you in a dress shop to humiliate you? Do you think that just because I am your servant, lower than you, that I have no feelings? No cause to feel your disregard? That I know no pain?"
His eyelashes flickered, veiling his gaze. "That is what you think happened."
"It is what did happen," I said bitterly. "Believe me, I regret what ... what we did as much as you do. I can only credit my actions to my pain-addled state, though that excuses nothing. But there's no need to remind me of my station, my lord. I won't forget it again, not here or in my future posts."
"Damn it to hell, you are not going anywhere."
I met his turbulent gaze with a stony one of my own. When he lifted his hand, I refused to cower. To my shock, I felt a touch, light as a butterfly's, skim over my eyebrow and down the curve of my cheek. Despite everything—my rage, my shame—his touch sparked a terrifying yearning over my being. Paralyzed, I lay trapped against feathers as he found the outline of my mouth. For an endless moment, he traced the tremulous line.
"Do you know what I fear most, Abby?"
At first, I could not speak, not even when his hand fell away. I stared up at his eyes; they had gone black, lifeless, the Promethean flame snuffed by some ghostly hand. I had the sensation that he was no longer seeing me, that he had withdrawn to a place beyond worldly reckoning. A chill gripped my nape. I had the desperate impulse to bring him back.
&nbs
p; "What is it that you fear?" I whispered.
His voice was flat and cold, an echo from a distance. "The darkness. It destroys everything that comes close. No matter what I do—I can't stop it."
My throat closed. I had to force myself to utter the words, so great was my sudden dread. "What ... what darkness do you speak of?"
"She won't let me go," he said in that same devoid and ghastly manner. "She corrupts everything I touch, everything I desire. She laughs at me, do you know? I can hear her, taunting me, even in my sleep. Even now."
I thought of the painting, the beautiful creature with her rose gold hair and scornful smile. "Is it ... is it your wife whom you speak of?"
He jerked at my words. I saw life rushing black, the spume of blood in his cheeks and the pain of returning awareness. As he came back to his mortal shell, he was, in that instant, the tormented man from the gallery.
"God, you come too close, Abigail," he said hoarsely. "You with your steady eyes, your innocence. Why do you not keep away? You are not safe. You must leave, of your own accord—you cannot trust me to let you go."
Held spellbound by the dark violence of his gaze, I experienced again that mysterious tug of kinship. Of primal connection. Why did he affect me so? Our worlds were poles apart, our outward differences too great to number. How could I possibly understand this complex, mercurial aristocrat? Yet on some elemental level, I knew him. I knew what it was like to struggle against one's demons and the everlasting chains of loneliness.
However, I could not tell him this. For his demons and mine were undoubtedly different. 'Twas one thing to have regrets about one's past—another entirely to have the freakish ability to inhabit deviant minds. Never could I compromise the secrecy which kept me safe, which allowed him to look at me now as if I was a person, an equal under God, and not some abomination. So with quiet steadiness, I said only, "I'm not afraid. Not of you."
In the silence, I could hear the jagged working of his lungs, the unsteady rhythm of my own. I could feel the shimmering heat of his body above mine. Close, not touching. But there was no need for touch, not with the emotion palpitating between us, raw and strangely unhindered, binding us in breath and spirit.
Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) Page 11
