by Mia Marlowe
Samuel prided himself on extreme self-control where the fair sex was concerned. He had to keep that part of himself under tight rein, so he was unprepared for the rush of lust that washed over him. He wanted things. Desperate, impossible things from the alluring young miss in front of him.
But at that moment, he wanted more than anything to kiss Miss Anthony.
“If, by your long silences, you don’t mean to make me feel unwelcome,” she said, “may I ask just what is your intent, my lord?”
Samuel closed his eyes. If he got the kiss he wanted, it wouldn’t be enough. Once his lips touched hers, he’d want to sweep into her chamber and seduce her thoroughly. A jumble of conflicting desires warred inside him. He could lose himself in her.
And maybe find himself as well.
He opened his eyes to discover her looking up at him, head cocked to one side.
“I mean no disrespect. I simply need long silences to compose my thoughts.”
“Oh! Very wise. Speaking too quickly gets me into trouble more often than not. So please, by all means, go ahead. I shall be happy to wait here in the drafty doorway while you think.”
He suspected she was being sarcastic, but he thanked her in any case and closed his eyes again. Even if there was a bit of snippiness in her tone, something within her still called to him.
When he and Grigori had traveled the capitals of Europe, he’d met countless women, but he’d never teetered on the edge of losing control with one before. There was something different about her. She understood him, at least a little bit. She knew how it felt to be constrained, how hard he tried to hold in secrets and how, even as a boy, he’d had to break free once in a while lest they consume him.
No one else ever had.
Her artless way of saying the unexpected even seemed to keep Grigori a little off balance.
Is Grigori behind this?
Had his father had a hand in putting this temptation before him? If Samuel ruined Miss Anthony, not only would he be betraying the Duke of Camden, a powerful ally who would make an even more powerful enemy, he’d have to make things right by marrying her. And that would condemn her to far more than the loss of innocence.
He opened his eyes. She was gazing up at him, her arms crossed over her chest, her toe tapping. How long had he been standing there, his light side struggling with the dark?
What must she think of me?
“My intent,”—he raised her hand to his lips and settled for a kiss on her knuckles, grateful for how thin those lacy gloves were—“is to bid you goodnight.”
He handed her the candle and stalked away in the dark. It didn’t matter. He could navigate the twists and turns of Faencaern blindfolded. Desperate for a chance to quiet the urges that still raged in him, he decided some time alone on the roof of his tower gazing at the stars would help.
When Samuel reached the roof, he didn’t find the solitude he sought. Grigori was already there. Standing on the edge of the parapet, his father was looking steadily upward. Samuel couldn’t blame him. It was a rare moonless night with no clouds scudding across the sky.
“You’re welcome, son,” Grigori said without glancing his way.
“For what? Telling all those stories and making me seem a buffoon?”
“No, for making you seem human. You’re so stoic and stern and deucedly awkward. I thought if Miss Anthony got a chance to imagine you as a child, she’d be more kindly disposed toward you. So, as I said, you’re welcome.”
For once, it seemed Grigori’s motives were pure even if he wasn’t. Samuel still wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a thank you. It would only encourage him to further meddling.
The heavens were ink-black, as perfect a foil for the spangle of stars as black velvet was for displaying diamonds. The Northern lights danced at the far horizon, wavering greens and splotches of red. The Milky Way spilled across the dark vault.
“‘The heavens declare the glory of God,’” Grigori quoted in a whisper.
And this was only a small part of the heavens, Samuel knew. There was much more than could be seen with the naked eye. Even his telescope could only reach so far, yet the heavens went on and on without end. “If the night sky we can see is this magnificent, it makes one wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Spit it out, son. What do you wonder?”
“It stands to reason the heaven we can’t see is even more glorious than the one we can.”
“It is.” Grigori’s chin dropped to his chest.
Samuel had been very young, even before his naked romp in Milan, when Grigori first instructed him about the War in Heaven, about how Lucifer, the brightest and most beautiful of all God’s angels had rebelled and convinced others to follow him.
“I’ve always wondered about Lucifer’s troops. They knew full well what they might be giving up,” Samuel said. “Why risk losing all that?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” his father said with a sad smile. “We thought we’d win.”
When I was younger, I longed for a way to escape Uncle Rowney and the crowds he drew, by using my unusual ability. I thought I’d be swallowed up by all those pressing bodies, those desperate demands for me to Find their loved ones or their lost heirlooms. Now, in the loneliness of Faencaern Castle, I could do with a bit of a crowd.
Being alone is all it’s cracked down to be.
~ from a letter to Lady Easton that Meg Anthony will never send
Chapter Five
Meg knelt to pull up a cankerwort in the garden just off the castle’s kitchen. After a few rainy days had kept her cooped up in Faencaern Castle, her color starved eyes were desperate for the sight of something besides gray stone. Once the sun peeped from behind the curtain of clouds, she was delighted to find a patch of green within the walls.
It was a small space with an overgrown, crushed gravel path wandering through it and bounded on every side by more gray stone in the form of waist high walls. But it was enough land for the cook to grow herbs for her kitchen. In the absence of a chatelaine, the housekeeper cultivated healing plants to tend the illnesses and injuries of the inhabitants.
But there were no blossoms. No spots of color. Meg’s young years had been so bereft of the luxury of beauty for its own sake, she was all the more enchanted by flowers now. She stooped to yank up another weed.
“By working in the garden, you are taking someone’s livelihood,” came a rumbling voice from behind her.
Meg recognized it as Lord Badewyn’s without the need to turn around to make sure. His voice had been invading her dreams since she arrived. She never remembered anything he said. Just the shivery way the deep tones made her feel. She didn’t know what that meant exactly, only that she woke with a blush of confused pleasure.
“Surely your gardener won’t care if I pull a weed or two,” she said.
Badewyn chuckled. “I have it on good authority that old Mr. Priddy doesn’t consider cankerworts to be weeds. In fact, he ferments them into something he claims is wine, though I’ve yet to be convinced.”
Meg rose and faced him, still holding the incriminating long stem. She thrust her hands behind her guiltily. “I’m ever so sorry.”
“Don’t be. How could you know? To most of the world, it is a weed.”
Meg sighed. “Lord Westfall is right. Plants are like people. Some are useful and some are merely pretty. Some are neither, but all are part of God’s creation.” She let the cankerwort stem slip from her fingers. “We shouldn’t judge.”
“Who is Lord Westfall?”
“Really?” Meg blinked in surprise. “That’s all you gleaned from what, if I do say so myself, was a remarkably well-spoken sentiment?”
“Who is he?”
As singleminded as he is handsome. “Lord Westfall is a particular friend of the Duke of Camden. And, not that it’s any of your concern, I count him a friend of mine, too.”
“He wouldn’t be the reason you’ve run away from London, would he?”
“What? No. Westfall is newly married
and I’m delighted for the happy couple.” She frowned at him, wishing that while he was irritating her with rude questions he didn’t also make her wonder what it would be like if he were to try to kiss her. Lady Easton would be aghast if she knew how jumbled Meg’s insides were over it. “And besides, what makes you think I’m running away?”
“Aren’t you?”
“I’ve already told you that scandal has not driven me from London.” Then she mumbled under her breath. “I’m not that lucky.”
A scandal would have been child’s play compared to the threat posed by her uncle and cousin. Meg walked over and plopped down on the stone bench at one end of the garden. To her surprise, Badewyn followed her. Granted, she’d not been in many social situations, not many proper ones at any rate, but it was still a source of amazement that someone as striking as this Welsh lord would take any notice of her at all.
“My apologies,” he said with apparent sincerity. “A gentleman should not pry into a lady’s affairs.”
“Especially when the lady has no affairs.” Meg crossed her arms over her chest.
Lady Easton would certainly not sanction this topic of conversation, but it wasn’t Meg’s fault. He started it.
After the awkward beginning, she wondered how he intended to end it.
He ought to leave her to ripping up old Priddy’s plants. He ought to pack her off, put her on the next stage and send her back to His Grace. He certainly ought not to spend a minute more than necessary with her and yet…he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Being with Miss Anthony was the only way he could be sure Grigori was not.
His father had always told him he didn’t have anything to do with his son’s wives until after the wedding, but he wasn’t running to type now. Grigori had set himself to be charming to Miss Anthony. Samuel didn’t trust him not to try to seduce the girl. If she were already fleeing a scandal of some sort, it would mean she was the sort to be easily duped by a man.
But the way she was frowning at him made it seem as if she didn’t particularly trust men. Or even like them.
Or maybe it was just him. Lord knew, he’d had little enough practice with the fair sex.
“May I join you?” he finally asked to fill the yawning silence.
She slid over. “It’s your garden.”
He sat beside her, careful not to be close enough for even their clothing to touch. He wasn’t sure why that was important, but he needed to keep that small bubble of air around himself. He’d allowed so few people inside it, he wasn’t sure how he’d react if he were any closer to Miss Anthony. And now that he was in a position to have a conversation with her, his mind became a blank slate. Finally, Miss Anthony broke the silence.
“I notice no one has called since I arrived. Do you have no near neighbors?”
“Not really. A few, I suppose, but they are more than a day’s ride away. We don’t entertain much here.”
“Cadwallader says you’re expected to go traveling again any day.”
“Who is Cadwallader?”
“The maid you lent me. She is a bubbling caldron of information.”
“Oh.” He really ought to get to know the help better since they undoubtedly knew a good deal about him. “Why does she think I’m leaving?”
“To seek a wife, of course. If you have no near neighbors with marriageable daughters, it would not be surprising for you to go to London next Season.”
“Now you sound like my f—my uncle.”
“Mr. Templeton undoubtedly wants what’s best for you.”
“That’s debateable.” Grigori wanted what was best for himself. Always and only.
Miss Anthony cocked her head at him. “But perhaps you aren’t meant to marry.”
Samuel straightened in surprise. When he’d gone to London years ago, it seemed every matron in town was pushing their darling daughters toward him. And the young ladies themselves had assumed that simply because he danced a quadrille with them or fetched them a cup of punch, he must be working up to a proposal of some sort. There was no question that a gentleman of title and wealth would—and should!—take a wife.
“Since the Garden, people have been going through life two by two,” Samuel said. “Why would you think I’m different?”
“It comes back to plants again,” Meg said. “My friend Westfall says some people are like birches and some are like oaks.”
“I don’t understand.” Even if that Westfall chap was married, she still quoted him far too often for Samuel’s liking.
“Birches grow in clumps, so close together even their roots become entangled. They are incomplete if they are alone. An oak on the other hand can only thrive when its roots aren’t crowded. They must be solitary. So which are you, my lord? A birch or an oak?”
Miss Anthony turned toward him. Her changeable eyes were definitely blue today, a clear bracing hue that seemed to welcome him to dive in. Samuel looked away. He was probably an oak. He didn’t need, or want, to become entangled with anyone. And yet…
He stood and extended a hand toward her. “Come with me.”
To his surprise, she rose and took it. “Where are we going?”
“To see something your Lord Westfall hasn’t imagined.”
Samuel led her out a small gate that was nearly hidden by vines. Once beyond the opening, the path was so close to the rocky mountain face, they had to walk single file. It was little more than a goat track leading downward, so he kept hold of her hand as they edged along. When they neared the tree line, Samuel was pleased to see that last winter hadn’t changed anything in the sparse forest since he was there last. On the edge of the wood stood two trees. Each had sturdy trunks and spreading limbs.
“Here in Wales we have sessile oaks. Like your English oaks, the trunk is massive and solitary. But these two trees are different. Their branches have grown so close, over the years they have grafted to each other in places, here and there.” He pointed to several spots where the two entities had grown together. “So you see, one doesn’t have to be a clinging birch. Even an oak can reach out and join with another.”
Even as he said it, he realized he still had her hand in his.
It felt so good, those slim fingers entwined with his. Sort of like the oaks. Both of them still themselves, still unique in their only-ness and yet not alone. It was a new sensation for him.
One that he ought not to have.
He released her hand. “We need to get back.”
“Why? Have you a pressing appointment?”
“No.” He couldn’t explain why. She likely wouldn’t believe him in any case. But every moment he spent with her put her in danger from his father and his plans. So, Samuel took the coward’s way. “I have come to the conclusion that your Lord Westfall is right. Our sessiles are an anomaly. I am an oak. A solitary one.”
The loneliest star is Fomalhaut. Why lonely, some would ask? I believe it’s because the autumn star’s brilliance might be dulled by a brighter companion. It would surely overwhelm a dimmer one.
For some, solitude is the only choice.
~ from the journal of Samuel Templeton, Lord Badewyn
Chapter Six
Meg squinted at the ornate script, trying to make sense of it. The treatise on the stars was an old one, with unusual spellings for a number of words. The scribe seemed to have had a curious disregard for the letter “J,” substituting an “I” for it every time. Mr. Ingfeldt, the odd little keeper of the library who had blinked like a mole in bright sunlight when she first approached him, had recommended this particular codex to her when she asked for something about the heavens. He didn’t often make suggestions to those who visited his library, he explained. His main job in Faencaern was to oversee the library’s upkeep and curate its new acquisitions.
After a quarter hour with the codex, Meg decided Mr. Ingfeldt’s real job was picking books that would most exasperate people.
Still, she bent her head and tackled the next page. After the conversation she’d had w
ith Lord Badewyn about the astrolabe, she knew he was keen on stars. The man was so very taciturn, she reasoned that if she studied about them, she’d be able to use her new knowledge to draw him out in conversation the next time they happened upon each other. Every time she thought of Lord Badewyn, her insides tingled. It was a curious enough sensation when he was nowhere near. Meg wanted to see if the feeling grew stronger in his presence.
However, the likelihood of that happy accident seemed slim. Granted, the castle was a large place, but she had expected that they would stumble across each other with some regularity. Instead, wherever she happened to be over the past week, it seemed his lordship had just left. He even sent his regrets and claimed work kept him from the dinner table. It had been several days since she’d even seen the handsome lord.
He couldn’t have avoided her more thoroughly if he tried.
She had no idea why. She’d been a perfect lady since she arrived. Well, almost. She’d committed a few minor faux pas—the wrong fork used here, an unladylike sprint up the stairs with her hem hiked to mid-calf there—but even Lady Easton would admit her lapses had been small and easy to overlook.
Perhaps that was just what Lord Badewyn thought of her—small and easy to overlook.
“I don’t know why I bother,” Meg muttered to herself as she drew her lap rug more snuggly around herself. Castles might be all the crack for defense, but when it came to warmth, even in the last days of summer, they left a good deal to be desired. Her fingernails had a definite bluish tinge. She blew on her fingertips and then struggled on with the book. The description of how to use an astrolabe almost made her admit defeat. Then she turned the page.
Spread before her was a two-page layout of the night sky. The star chart reminded her of the etchings on the astrolabe. Now that she could see the embellished versions of the constellations, their human and animal images superimposed over the stars, it became easier for her to puzzle out their names. She was so engrossed in the book that she didn’t hear the soft footfalls approaching the curtained alcove where she was reading.
