Dreams of Desire

by Cheryl Holt

“He thought it was John, signaling him?”

  “He wouldn’t go that far. He just heard tapping. That’s all. It could have been anything or nothing.”

  “John could be all right.”

  “He could be,” Phillip cautiously agreed, “if the roof in the grotto hasn’t caved in.”

  She shuddered, and he squeezed her hand; it was his turn to kiss her knuckles.

  “I can’t bear to think,” she said, “that he was buried alive.”

  “Don’t give up hope. Not till we’re sure. Esther can’t have the satisfaction of killing him. I won’t let her.”

  Chuckling morbidly, she stood and shed her robe. Her nightgown went next, and she was naked. She was very beautiful, a gracious and generous lover who was comfortable in her body and utilized it to bestow maximum pleasure.

  “I believe you could use some company,” she said.

  “No, I believe you could use some.”

  “Perhaps.”

  She joined him in the tub, water sloshing over the rim, dampening the floor, but they didn’t notice.

  Their torsos were melded together—she was slippery and wet—and if he hadn’t been so exhausted, he’d have spread her thighs and impaled himself. But he was in no mood to fornicate, and she needed something other than sexual gratification.

  She rested against his chest, her ear over his heart, as he stroked her hair and back. He was growing accustomed to her presence, enjoying the fact that she was with him.

  Was she his future? If so, he hadn’t seen it coming. Nor had Clarinda. Wouldn’t it be the wildest conclusion, after so many flings in so many towns and villages, to wind up with her?

  “What will become of me?” she ultimately asked. “If we can’t save him, what will I do?”

  “We don’t have to worry about it now,” he gently advised. “Trouble will hunt us down without our chasing after it.”

  “Yes, I suppose it will.”

  He snuggled her down, content to smile and nap with her in his arms.

  LILY was sleeping, John spooned to her back, when she awakened with a start. Pulse racing, her eyes flew open, but it was pitch-black.

  They’d survived the quake unharmed, and due to her stock of emergency supplies, as well as John’s picnic basket, they were fine. For the moment.

  They didn’t know how deep the collapse was, how much rubble lay between them and escape, but they were digging and digging. John was positive there’d been comparable thumping and banging on the other side, which was encouraging.

  It was difficult to calculate how much time had passed, but their cache of food and candles was quickly dwindling. Something had to occur—and soon. They had to find their way out, or people had to find their way in.

  Behind the grotto, there were four tunnels that meandered farther into the earth. John had never explored them and couldn’t guess where they led.

  There were portentous decisions to be made. Should they continue to wait for rescue? Or should they venture into the tunnels? What if they wandered in and became lost? If they were to expire anyway, did it matter how the end came?

  Her tension must have roused John, for he whispered, “Are you all right?”

  “I heard a noise.”

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  “It’s hard not to be.”

  “I know.”

  She’d once read that victims in a catastrophe grew tremendously close, that class distinctions faded away. In light of their situation, the theory seemed to be true. They were intimately connected, their bond more powerful by the hour. His feelings for her had moved into an elevated realm she dared call love.

  He loved her. She was sure of it.

  If they died in each other’s arms, she would perish convinced of his regard. But if they managed to emerge unscathed, what would it mean for them? Could they weather a return to society? Would his affection remain?

  “Do you remember,” she murmured, “when you caught me drinking those love potions?”

  “You were trying to make Aiden Bramwell fall in love with you.”

  “No. Dudley told me to stare at the man I was destined to marry.”

  “You wound up staring at me instead.”

  She’d thought comprehension would sink in, that a more personal comment might follow—Dudley’s magic worked! If we get out of here, we’ll be wed at once!—but no declaration was forthcoming.

  Apparently, even when facing death, he couldn’t form so much as a verbal attachment to her. Would he ever grasp that she was important to him? Would he ever be able to ignore their disparate positions and recognize that they could be together?

  The longer he was silent, the more she had to accept that he probably never would.

  She felt foolish—as if she’d been begging for compliments.

  “I’ve always been clumsy,” she said, shooting for levity. “My swallowing those potions at the wrong moment was typical.”

  “Honestly, Lily. Bramwell? He’s such a stuffed shirt. You could never have gotten him to really see you.”

  “I know, but I was humored by Mr. Dudley’s stories. It was amusing to pretend I could change my fate.”

  Another noise sounded, and she jumped. “What was that?” she asked.

  The ground shook, and he grabbed her and rolled them under the rock bench. They braced, expecting the worst, but it wasn’t a second quake. There was a single loud boom, then all was quiet.

  “Dammit,” he muttered.

  “What happened?”

  “I hate to speculate.”

  “Tell me,” she pressed. “Just say it.”

  “I think someone blew up the staircase.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there are several people who would benefit from my early demise.”

  “Are you accusing Edward . . . of . . . of . . . ?” She was too stunned to finish the allegation.

  “Edward or Esther. Or maybe the twins.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “If I’m dead, Edward will be very rich. The twins can carry on however they please. Esther will be shed of my mother. There are numerous unsavory possibilities.”

  “So one of them is trying to ensure we can’t get out?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But that’s . . . that’s barbaric.”

  “The rescue crews must have been close to breaking through.”

  “And now?”

  “They will come back in the morning and discover there’s been a further collapse. They’ll decide the excavation is too dangerous and there’s no reason to continue.”

  For the first time since the cave-in, she truly lost hope. She started to cry, and John drew her into his arms.

  “I don’t want to die down here,” she wept.

  “Neither do I.”

  “I can’t bear to sit and wait for death to occur.”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  “What shall we do?”

  “We’ll give it a few hours—to see if we hear any digging again on the other side.”

  “If we don’t?”

  “We’ll have to save ourselves.”

  Chapter 19

  “THANK you for coming, thank you for coming ...”

  Esther shook yet another hand; she greeted another mourner, and she forced herself to keep smiling.

  When they had sent word throughout the neighborhood that they would hold a memorial for John in the chapel in the village, she hadn’t realized so many would attend.

  And, of course, the servants—particularly those who’d expended such effort in digging—had all insisted on being present.

  There wasn’t enough room in the small church, and Esther was having to pick and choose who would sit inside and who would stand in the yard.

  To her eternal disgust, vicious rumor was driving much of the interest in the proceedings. People were anxious to catch a glimpse of Esther and Edward, were anxious to congregate so they could bla
ther over their suspicions, but Esther wasn’t about to explain or defend her son’s abrupt shower of good fortune.

  They’d tried to save John, but they hadn’t succeeded. He was dead, and Edward was the earl. She wasn’t sorry, and she wouldn’t apologize. Not to anyone.

  Let the vultures hover! she fumed. Let them stare!

  She had nothing to hide.

  “What time is it?” Edward murmured, as eager as she to get things moving.

  “A few minutes before two,” Esther replied. “We can begin the service shortly.”

  Esther gaped at him, then glanced away, unable to abide his ravaged face. His cheek was swollen, his eye bruised and bloodshot from the thrashing Phillip Dudley had administered. Esther had begged Edward to have Dudley arrested, but with John’s affairs so unsettled, Edward had declined to stir any extra controversy.

  Later, Esther mused. She would deal with the brutal criminal herself, and he would feel her wrath in ways he’d never imagined.

  Edward tugged at his collar. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”

  “As will I.”

  They were in the receiving line on the chapel stairs. The twins and Violet were with them, and Violet looked especially tragic.

  Miranda peeked at Edward, then she whispered to Melanie. Both girls snickered. Esther flashed a glare that could have melted lead, but they simply gazed back with their annoying, cool expressions.

  Esther was delighted that Edward was guardian to the horrid pair. John had been too lenient with them, and Esther’s first order of business would be to have Edward marry them off. Esther didn’t care who he selected as their spouses.

  They could be wed to fishermen or coal miners. It was all the same to her. She just wanted them gone from her home and life.

  Suddenly, a carriage flew around the corner, scattering bystanders as it hurled through the milling crowd and stopped at the front steps.

  The door was flung open, and Barbara leapt out. Esther wasn’t surprised to see her. The woman had never had a lick of sense, had never possessed an ounce of decorum. It would never occur to her that she wasn’t welcome at the sad event.

  She stormed over and raced up to where the family—the legitimate family—was greeting their guests. While everyone was wearing black, she was attired in bright red, as if to deny their bereavement.

  “You couldn’t wait to bury him, could you?” she seethed at Edward.

  “We tried our best, Barbara.” Despite her fury, Edward was very calm. “I don’t know what else you could have asked from us.”

  “He’s not dead!” she railed. “I’m his mother! I would feel it in my heart!” She clasped a dramatic fist over her bosom.

  Edward shrugged. “We understand that you’re grieving, so I’ll politely refrain from answering you.”

  She spun on Violet, looming up over the girl. “You have some gall to loiter here, feigning sorrow, you disloyal little harlot!”

  “I say!” Edward muttered, grabbing for Barbara, but she shoved him away to continue her tirade at Violet.

  “I suppose you’re dancing in your bedchamber, counting the hours till you can marry Edward.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the assembled company. “Did you help to kill him? Was that your ploy from the start?”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” Violet had the temerity to respond.

  “Don’t you?” Barbara sneered. “How convenient that my son has vanished, and now, you’ll wed his brother whom you wanted all along! Does your father know of this charade? Does anyone?”

  “You are insane,” Violet tightly charged.

  “I’ve posted a dozen letters to England, so news of your perfidy will spread far and wide. You’ll never get away with it.”

  Esther blanched, determined to contain the scene, to be shed of Barbara before any further damage was perpetrated.

  Gossip abounded that rescuers had been nearing the grotto, that John was about to be found, but there’d been an unexplained explosion in the tunnel. Excavation conditions had grown too dangerous, so efforts had been halted.

  Some had accepted Edward’s decision to end the salvage attempt, but others had been foolishly willing to keep on forever, regardless of the perils. Edward had done what he thought was right, what any rational person would have done, yet he was being vilified.

  Gad! They’d dug for a whole week. What did people expect? Why couldn’t they be satisfied with an honest endeavor? If John had managed to survive the initial disaster, who could presume that he was still alive after so much time had passed?

  In hopes of quelling the uproar, Esther had spoken to a Scottish attorney. He’d stared down his pointed nose and told her there’d been calls to immediately convene the coroner’s inquest. He claimed that—depending on the findings—Edward might have to wait seven years before John would be officially declared as deceased. It might be seven years before Edward would have full control of the money and property.

  The possibility had Esther so angry that she could barely function, and Barbara’s allegations were only fanning the flames of discontent.

  Esther nodded at two footmen. They approached Barbara, ready to physically remove her, but she thwarted them by dashing past Edward and into the chapel.

  The congregants turned in their pews and gaped at her.

  “My son is not dead!” she raged at them. “How dare you mourn him! How dare you let Esther bury him! He is not dead!”

  The footmen seized her, one on each arm, and though she scrapped and fought, they wrestled her out. The entire episode was distasteful, but Esther tarried through it, exhibiting a stoic demeanor.

  With Barbara hurling epithets, the footmen stumbled toward the carriage, as Esther noticed that the violent fiend, Phillip Dudley, stood next to it.

  He ignored Barbara, concentrating on Esther instead. He shot her such a virulent look that—if she’d been a more superstitious sort of woman—she’d have sworn he was giving her the evil eye.

  She shuddered, and even though she wasn’t a Papist, she made a furtive sign of the cross to ward off any malevolent spirits.

  Barbara was running out of steam, her fury waning, as the footmen tossed her into the carriage and shut the door. But the vehicle didn’t drive off and Dudley didn’t move.

  He glared at Esther, and the moment stretched out until the horde in the yard grew restive. Then he walked over so he was directly below where the family was huddled like a flock of black crows.

  “There has been wicked business done here this day.” His voice billowed out like an evangelical preacher’s. “Beware!”

  “Beware!” Esther huffed. “What nonsense are you spewing?”

  “I curse you and your son.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There are no such things as curses.”

  “Aren’t there?” Dudley said. “None of your dreams for your dear Edward will ever come true. I guarantee it.”

  He motioned with his fingers as he mumbled several phrases in a language Esther didn’t recognize. She flinched as if a dire destiny was winging toward her and she couldn’t stave it off.

  The Scots were an illogical lot, and it hadn’t been too long since they’d burned witches at the stake. What would they think of Dudley’s pagan behavior?

  She glanced around at the crowd, but from their stony expressions, they seemed to share Dudley’s opinion of her and Edward. Nary a brow was raised by his remarks, so Esther couldn’t hope they would intercede on her behalf, and she wasn’t about to dawdle on the church steps, debating with a madman.

  “I’ve had enough drama to last a lifetime.” She whirled away from Dudley, ignoring him so others would, too. “Let’s go inside so the service can begin.”

  Though she was trembling, she herded the family into the vestibule.

  “I’ll be watching you, Esther Middleton,” Dudley threatened. “Be careful what you do.”

  “Get out of here,” Edward barked, finally speaking up, “or I’ll set the law on you.”

  �
��Try it,” Dudley taunted. “I dare you.”

  He spun and went to the carriage, and he leapt up into the box. His driver clicked the reins, and with a lurch, they raced away.

  “FRIENDS and neighbors,” the vicar started.

  Violet relaxed in the front pew, with Edward on one side and Esther on the other.

  The twins were in the pew behind, and for some reason, they were angrily studying Violet. She could feel their cold stares on the back of her head. The sensation was so eerie and so thorough that they might have actually been touching her.

  “At this terrible moment,” the vicar intoned, “I know all of you are asking the same question: How could this calamity happen to someone as kind and good as Lord Penworth?”

  Violet struggled to focus, wondering what was wrong with her.

  She wasn’t asking that question at all. In fact, since the accident, she had rarely pondered John, except for when she was fretting over how quickly she could marry Edward without creating a scandal.

  She wanted to be a bride so she could be independent, so she could commence her tenure as a mature, adult woman.

  What she didn’t want was to go back to London, to her father’s house, where he might refuse the match with Edward, where he might launch marital negotiations all over again. She would end up with another John Middleton—another stuffy, imperious boor who was very old and an exact replica of her stuffy, imperious father.

  She yearned to wed flirtatious, charming Edward, who’d always loved her, who’d been smitten enough to woo her even when it was sinful, even when it was impossible for them to be together.

  As Edward had suggested, she’d conferred at length with Esther. Esther had assured her that they should have a fast wedding in Scotland before they returned to England. Violet had agreed it was for the best.

  If she was a tad hesitant, it was only because there’d been such vicious gossip. She wouldn’t do anything precipitous that might stir even more animosity.

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the vicar droned.

  He certainly does! Violet reflected. She’d wanted John gone from her life and—poof!—he’d vanished so she could proceed to claim her heart’s desire.