by Lisa Kleypas
“I can do it.” Win gripped the broom handle with both hands as if she sensed Amelia was on the verge of wrenching it away from her. “I won’t overtax myself.”
“Put down the broom.”
“Leave me alone,” Win cried. “Go dust something!”
“Win, if you don’t—” Amelia’s attention was diverted as she saw her sister’s gaze fly to the kitchen threshold.
Merripen stood there, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. Although it was early morning, he was already dusty and perspiring, his shirt clinging to the powerful contours of his chest and waist. He wore an expression they knew well—the implacable one that meant you could move a mountain with a teaspoon sooner than change his mind about something. Approaching Win, he extended a broad hand in a wordless demand.
They were both motionless. But even in their stubborn opposition, Amelia saw a singular connection, as if they were locked in an eternal stalemate from which neither wanted to break free.
Win gave in with a helpless scowl. “I have nothing to do.” It was rare for her to sound so peevish. “I’m sick of sitting and reading and staring out the window. I want to be useful. I want…” Her voice trailed away as she saw Merripen’s stern face. “Fine, then. Take it!” She tossed the broom at him, and he caught it reflexively. “I’ll just find a corner somewhere and quietly go mad. I’ll—”
“Come with me,” Merripen interrupted calmly. Setting the broom aside, he left the room.
Win exchanged a perplexed glance with Amelia, her vehemence fading. “What is he doing?”
“I have no idea.”
The sisters followed him down a hallway to the dining room, which was spattered with rectangles of light from the tall multipaned windows that lined one wall. A scarred table ran down the center of the room, every available inch covered with dusty piles of china … towers of cups and saucers, plates of assorted sizes sandwiched together, bowls wrapped in tattered scraps of gray linen. There were at least three different patterns all jumbled together.
“It needs to be sorted,” Merripen said, gently nudging Win toward the table. “Many pieces are chipped. They must be separated from the rest.”
It was the perfect task for Win, enough to keep her busy but not so strenuous that it would exhaust her. Filled with gratitude, Amelia watched as her sister picked up a teacup and held it upside down. The husk of a tiny dead spider dropped to the floor.
“What a mess,” Win said, beaming. “I’ll have to wash it, too, I suppose.”
“If you’d like Poppy to help—” Amelia began.
“Don’t you dare send for Poppy,” Win said. “This is my project, and I won’t share it.” Sitting at a chair that had been placed beside the table, she began to unwrap pieces of china.
Merripen looked down at Win’s turbaned head, his fingers twitching as if he were sorely tempted to touch a blond tendril that had slipped from beneath the cloth. His face was hard with the patience of a man who knew he would never have what he truly wanted. Using a single fingertip, he pushed a saucer away from the edge of the table. The china rattled subtly across the battered wood.
Amelia followed Merripen back to the kitchen. “Thank you,” she said when they were out of her sister’s hearing. “In my worry over making certain Win didn’t tire herself, it hadn’t occurred to me that she might go mad from boredom.”
Merripen picked up a heavy, clattering box of discarded odds and ends, and hoisted it to his shoulder with ease. A smile crossed his face. “She’s getting better.” He strode to the door and shouldered his way outside.
It was hardly an informed medical opinion, but Amelia was certain he was right. Looking about the dilapidated kitchen, she felt a surge of happiness. It had been the right thing to come here. A new place offering new possibilities. Perhaps the Hathaways’bad luck had finally changed.
Armed with a broom, mop, dustpan, and a stack of rags, Amelia went upstairs to one of the rooms that hadn’t yet been explored. She used her full weight to open the first door, which gave way with a cracking sound and a shriek of unoiled hinges. It appeared to be a private receiving room, with built-in wood bookcases.
There were two volumes on one shelf. Examining the dust-coated books, their aged leather covers shot with spidery cracks, Amelia read the first title: Fine Angling, A Symposium on the Fisherman’s Art With Much on Roach and Pike. No wonder the book had been abandoned by its previous owner, she thought. The second title was far more promising: Amorous Exploits of the Court of England in the Reign of King Charles the Second. Hopefully it would contain some ribald revelations she and Win could giggle over later.
Replacing the books, Amelia went to open the shrouded windows. The draperies’ original color had faded to gray, their velvet nap ragged and moth-eaten.
As Amelia labored to pull one fabric panel to the side, the entire brass rod came loose from the ceiling and clattered heavily to the floor. A cloud of dust enveloped her. She sneezed and coughed in the clotted air. She heard an inquiring shout from downstairs, probably from Merripen.
“I’m all right,” she called back. Picking up a clean rag, she wiped her face and unlatched the filthy window. The casing stuck. She pushed hard against the frame to loosen it. Another push, harder, and then a determined shove with all her weight behind it. The window gave way with astonishing suddenness, unsettling her balance. She pitched forward and caught the edge of the window in an attempt to find purchase, but it swung outward.
In the flash of forward-falling panic, she heard a muffled sound behind her.
Before another heartbeat had passed, she was snatched, pulled back with such force that her bones protested the abrupt reversal of momentum. She staggered, fetching hard against something solid and yet supple. Helplessly she tumbled to the floor in a tangle of limbs, some of them not her own.
Sprawled over a sturdy masculine chest, she saw a dark face below her, and she muttered in confusion, “Merri—”
But these were not Merripen’s sable eyes, they were light, glowing amber. A shot of pleasure went through her stomach.
“You know, if I have to keep rescuing you like this,” Cam Rohan remarked casually, “we really should discuss some kind of reward.”
He reached up to tug off her hair covering, which was askew, and her braids tumbled down. Mortification swept away every other feeling. Amelia knew how she must look, disheveled and dust-stippled. Why did he never miss an opportunity to catch her at a disadvantage?
Gasping out an apology, she struggled to get off him, but the weight of her skirts and the stiffness of her corset made it difficult.
“No … wait…” Rohan inhaled sharply as she squirmed against him, and he rolled them both to their sides.
“Who let you into the house?” Amelia managed to ask.
Rohan gave her an innocent glance. “No one. The door was unlocked and the entrance hall was empty.” He kicked his legs free of her clinging skirts and pulled her to a sitting position. She had never known anyone who possessed such ease of movement.
“Have you had this place inspected?” he asked. “The house is ready to fall off its timbers. I couldn’t risk coming in here without offering a quick prayer to Butyakengo.”
“Who?”
“A Gypsy protective spirit.” He smiled at her. “But now that I’m here, I’ll take my chances. Let me help you up.”
He tugged Amelia to her feet, not letting go until her balance was secured. The grip of his hands sent thrills through her arms, and she gasped a little.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
Rohan shrugged. “Just paying a call. There isn’t much to do at Stony Cross Park. It’s the first day of fox hunting season.”
“You didn’t want to take part?”
He shook his head. “I only hunt for food, not sport. And I tend to sympathize with the fox, having been in his position once or twice.”
He must have been referring to a Gypsy hunt, Amelia thought with concern and curiosity. She wanted to ask about
it—but this conversation could not continue.
“Mr. Rohan,” she said awkwardly, “I wish I could be a proper hostess and show you to the parlor and offer refreshments. But I don’t have refreshments. I really don’t even have a parlor. Please excuse me for sounding rude, but this isn’t a good time to call—”
“I can help you.” He leaned a shoulder against the wall, smiling. “I’m good with my hands.”
There was no innuendo in his tone, but her color deepened nonetheless. “No, thank you. I’m sure Butayenko would disapprove.”
“Butyakengo.”
Anxious to demonstrate her competence, Amelia strode to the other window and began jerking at the closed draperies. “Thank you, Mr. Rohan, but as you can see, I have the situation well in hand.”
“I think I’ll stay. Having stopped you from falling through one window, I’d hate for you to go out the other.”
“I won’t. I’ll be fine. I have everything under—” She tugged harder, and the rod clattered to the floor, just as the other had done. But unlike the other curtain, which had been lined with aged velvet, this one was lined with some kind of shimmering rippling fabric, some kind of—
Amelia froze in horror. The underside of the curtain was covered with bees. Bees. Hundreds, no, thousands of them, their iridescent wings beating in an angry relentless hum. They lifted in a mass from the crumpled velvet, while more flew from a crevice in the wall, where an enormous hive simmered. They must have found their way into a hollow space from a decayed spot in the outer wall. The insects swarmed like tongues of flame around Amelia’s paralyzed form.
She felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, God—”
“Don’t move.” Rohan’s voice was astonishingly calm. “Don’t swat at them.”
She had never known such primal fear, welling up from beneath her skin, leaking through every pore. No part of her body seemed to be under her control. The air was boiling with them, bees and more bees.
It was not going to be a pleasant way to die. Closing her eyes tightly, Amelia willed herself to be still, when every muscle strained and screamed for action. Insects moved in sinuous patterns around her, tiny bodies touching her sleeves, hands, shoulders.
“They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,” she heard Rohan say.
Amelia highly doubted that. “These are not f-frightened bees.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “These are f-furious bees.”
“They do seem a bit annoyed,” Rohan conceded, approaching her slowly. “It could be the dress you’re wearing—they tend not to like dark colors.” A short pause. “Or it could be the fact that you just ripped down half their hive.”
“If you h-have the nerve to be amused by this—” She broke off and covered her face with her hands, trembling all over.
His soothing voice undercut the buzzing around them. “Be still. Everything’s fine. I’m right here with you.”
“Take me away,” she whispered desperately. Her heart was pounding too hard, making her bones shake, driving every coherent thought from her head. She felt him brush a few inquisitive insects from her hair and back. His arms went around her, his shoulder sturdy beneath her cheek.
“I will, sweetheart. Put your arms around my neck.”
She groped for him blindly, feeling sick and weak and disoriented. The flat muscles at the back of his neck shifted as he bent toward her, gathering her up as easily as if she were a child. “There,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.” Her feet left the floor, and she was floating and cradled at the same time. None of it seemed real: the swirling, droning bees that poured through the air, the hard chest and arms that enclosed her in a safe, secure grip. The thought came to her that she might have died if he hadn’t been there. But he was so steady and deliberate, so utterly lacking in fear. The clamp of terror eased from around her throat. Turning her face into his shoulder, she relaxed as he carried her.
His breath fell in a warm, even rhythm on the curve of her cheek. “Some people think of the bee as a sacred insect,” he said. “It’s a symbol of reincarnation.”
“I don’t believe in reincarnation,” she muttered.
There was a smile in his voice. “What a surprise. At the very least, the bees’ presence in your home is a sign of good things to come.”
Her voice was buried in the fine wool of his coat. “Wh-what does it mean if there are thousands of bees in one’s home?”
He shifted her higher in his arms, his lips curving gently against the cold rim of her ear. “Probably that we’ll have plenty of honey for teatime. We’re going through the doorway now. In a moment I’m going to set you on your feet.”
Amelia kept her face against him, her fingertips digging into the layers of his clothes. “Are they following?”
“No. They want to stay near the hive. Their main concern is to protect the queen from predators.”
“She has nothing to fear from me!”
Laughter rustled in his throat. With extreme care, he lowered Amelia’s feet to the floor. Keeping one arm around her, he reached with the other to close the door. “There. We’re out of the room. You’re safe.” His hand passed over her hair. “You can open your eyes now.”
Clutching the lapels of his coat, Amelia stood and waited for a feeling of relief that didn’t come. Her heart was racing too hard, too fast. Her chest ached from the strain of her breathing. Her lashes lifted, but all she could see was a shower of sparks.
“Amelia … easy. You’re all right.” His hands chased the shivers that ran up and down her back. “Slow down, sweetheart.”
She couldn’t. Her lungs were about to burst. No matter how hard she worked, she couldn’t get enough air. Bees … the sound of buzzing was still in her ears. She heard his voice as if from a great distance, and she felt his arms go around her again as she sank into layers of gray softness.
After what could have been a minute or an hour, pleasant sensations filtered through the haze. A tender pressure moved over her forehead. The gentle brushes touched her eyelids, slid to her cheeks. Strong arms held her against a comfortingly hard surface, while a clean, salt-edged scent filled her nostrils. Her lashes fluttered, and she turned into the warmth with confused pleasure.
“There you are,” came a low murmur.
Opening her eyes, Amelia saw Cam Rohan’s face above her. They were on the hallway floor—he was holding her in his lap. As if the situation weren’t mortifying enough, the front of her bodice was gaping, and her corset was unhooked. Only her crumpled chemise was left to cover her chest.
Amelia stiffened. Until that moment she had never known there was a feeling beyond embarrassment, that made one wish one could crumble into a pile of ashes. “My … my dress…”
“You weren’t breathing well. I thought it best to loosen your corset.”
“I’ve never fainted before,” she said groggily, struggling to sit up.
“You were frightened.” His hand came to the center of her chest, gently pressing her back down. “Rest another minute.” His gaze moved over her wan features. “I think we can conclude you’re not fond of bees.”
“I’ve hated them ever since I was seven.”
“Why?”
“I was playing out-of-doors with Win and Leo, and I stumbled too close to a rosebush. A bee flew at my face and stung right here.” She touched a spot just below her right eye, high on the crest of her cheek. “The side of my face swelled until my eye closed … I couldn’t see from it for almost two weeks—”
His fingertips smoothed over her cheek as if to soothe the long-ago injury.
“—and my brother and sister called me Cyclops.” She watched him struggle not to smile. “They still do, whenever a bee flies too near.”
He regarded her with friendly sympathy. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Ceilings and walls, mostly.”
She stared at him in puzzlement, her thoughts still coursing too slowly. “You mean … you wo
uld rather live outside like a wild creature?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Have you ever slept outside before?”
“On the ground?”
Her bewildered tone made him grin. “On a pallet beside a fire.”
Amelia tried to imagine it, lying undefended on the hard ground, at the mercy of every creature that crawled, crept, or flew. “I don’t think I could fall asleep that way.”
She felt his hand playing slowly in the loose locks of her hair. “You could.” His voice was soft. “I would help you.”
She had no idea what he meant by that. All she knew was that as his fingertips reached her scalp, she felt a sensual shiver run down her spine. Clumsily she reached for her bodice, trying to pull the reinforced fabric together.
“Allow me. You’re still unsteady.” His hands brushed hers aside and he began to hook her corset deftly. Clearly he was familiar with the intricacies of a woman’s undergarments. Amelia didn’t doubt there had been more than a few ladies willing to let him practice.
Flustered, she asked, “Was I stung anywhere?”
“No.” Mischief flickered in his eyes. “I checked thoroughly.”
Amelia suppressed a little moan of distress. She was tempted to push his hands away from her, except that he was restoring her clothing far more efficiently than she would have. She closed her eyes, trying to pretend she wasn’t sprawled in a man’s lap while he fastened her corset.
“You’ll need a local beekeeper to remove the hive,” Rohan said.
Thinking of the enormous colony in the wall, Amelia asked, “How will he kill them all?”
“He may not have to. If possible, he’ll sedate them with smoke and transfer the queen to a movable frame hive. The rest will follow. But if he can’t manage that, he’ll have to kill the colony with soap water. The larger problem is how to remove the comb and the honey. If you don’t take it all out, it will ferment and attract all kinds of vermin.”
Her eyes opened, and she looked up at him in worry. “Will the entire wall have to be removed?”
