Ian knew when Phoebe was over the worst of her scare. Her hand dropped from his arm, and her back straightened. He was relieved to see she’d gained some of the color back in her face. She was also paying close attention to Garioch’s lecture.
“Pardon me,” he said. “But you haven’t been introduced. Lady Phoebe Pennington, may I present the Reverend Peter Garioch.”
“I’m honored, Lady Phoebe.” There was a polite bow and the famous smile that Thornton blamed for ruining every female from Edinburgh to St. Andrews. “I recall hearing you praised so often by the late Miss Bell. She was quite fond of you.” He hesitated, and then continued, “And I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you in such good health after . . . after your adventure yesterday.”
This was as good a time as any to tell the minister the truth, Ian decided.
“One reason for coming in here today was to tell you my mother knows about my sister’s death. She’s known all along, apparently, but preferred to remain silent. Today . . .” He paused and took Phoebe’s hand in his. He still became emotional thinking of his conversation with her in the morning room. “Today, she told Lady Phoebe. Later, she spoke with me about it. The charade is over.”
The minister opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped. Ian guessed this might have been the first time he ever saw the man at a loss for words.
“As you are her spiritual advisor, I’m certain she’ll want to speak to you in more detail sometime soon. But for now, she sends her apologies and begs to withdraw your invitation to dinner tonight.”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. She must be quite overwhelmed by the changes.”
Ian had asked Alice to send a message to Dr. Thornton, as well, canceling his dinner invitation but asking him to stop by the house tomorrow morning. He needed to speak to the doctor before they left for Edinburgh. Using the announcement of their engagement to entice her, Phoebe had convinced his mother to travel back to the city with them. And since Thornton was going to Edinburgh himself this week, Ian wanted him to arrange a consultation with the specialist he knew at the university.
“I was planning to show Lady Phoebe where Sarah’s remains lie,” Ian said, deciding whatever else he needed to say to the minister about his mother’s condition, it could wait until after they returned.
“Of course.” The cleric bowed, picked up the lamp and handed it to Ian. “I shall leave you, then.”
“Thank you. But I would like you to arrange for the stone mason to come and engrave my sister’s name with the others.”
“I’ll see to it,” he said cordially before turning to Phoebe. “And I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit here at Bellhorne.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “But I’m curious, Mr. Garioch. Is it possible that we’ve met before?”
“No, m’lady. I can assure you, we never have.”
“Well, in that case . . .” She shook her head as if trying to clear it.
Ian took her hand and was surprised to find it ice cold. He turned to the minister.
“The good news, Mr. Garioch, is that you’ll be seeing a great deal of Lady Phoebe in the future. She is to be mistress of Bellhorne.”
* * *
Trapped. She had nowhere to go.
She thought she was so clever, coming here. Taunting him in his lair. She had no idea.
He could have had her here. Killed her. Finished it. It was so close. Before the captain came, he’d been about to wrap his fingers around her throat. Squeezing and squeezing until her face grew red and swollen and her eyes bulged from her stupid head.
In an hour, or tomorrow, people would say it was a vagrant. Someone from outside. Others. Intruders, invading our safe little village. Bringing their dirty, violent ways with them.
He could feel her pulsing flesh beneath his thumbs even now.
Afterwards, she looked into the very face of Death, and she didn’t recognize him. She was blind. A fool. He might have let her live if she went away. If she disappeared forever.
But married. Married. Married. She was to stay, here in his lair. Taunting him. Staring at him. Condescending to speak with him. Safe in her castle. In her plush bed. With the litter of brats she’d bring into this world. Mistress of Bellhorne.
No. That would never do.
Phoebe Pennington must die.
Chapter 17
She could live here, Phoebe thought happily as she prepared for bed.
No day of her life compared to this one. Ian’s proposal—or her proposal, whatever way one wanted to look at it—changed everything. It would certainly change both of their lives forever. And their conversations with Mrs. Bell and dinner with her tonight had also served to relieve some of the worry in Ian about his mother and her state of mind. She never mentioned anything of the fantasy world she’d been living in.
Tomorrow. A wave of joyful celebrations was sure to begin when they reached Edinburgh and shared their news with her family.
Regardless of the excitement still coursing through her, once Phoebe climbed into bed, she dropped off to sleep. The dreams began immediately, however. The nightmares were so vivid and real. She was running in the dark. All the faces. But he was after her. She could feel his claws grip her arm. Feel the hot breath of the monster in her ear. Feel his merciless fangs on her neck.
Sweating and gasping for breath, she sat bolt upright in the bed.
“Millie?” she whispered in the direction of her sister’s partially closed door.
Phoebe climbed out of bed and crossed the room. Peering in, she could see her sleeping peacefully, the candle by her bed snuffed out. She had no idea if she’d gone to bed five minutes ago or five hours. Phoebe went to her window and looked out. Clouds covered the moon, and the gardens below were dark.
Phoebe’s hands were shaking as she shoved them into the sleeves of her robe and tightened the belt. She ran her hand over the place on her neck where she’d felt the monster’s teeth. No marks, no blood . . . other than what remained of the small cut she’d received in her skirmish in the Vaults. Still, her skin tingled, and her heart was racing from the urgency of the nightmare.
A few moments later, as Phoebe was hurrying through the gallery, she noticed she’d forgotten her slippers. But she didn’t care. The household slept, the sounds and lights of Bellhorne had been extinguished for the night.
She knew where to go. Ian’s rooms were located in the attached tower. Years ago, she’d passed by his door many times in Sarah’s company, always imagining herself brave enough to raise a hand and knock.
Tonight, there was no hesitation. She lifted a fist and rapped on the wood.
Silence was her only answer. Where was he? Out roaming the grounds as he stalked killers in the Vaults? She lifted a fist again, knocking harder. Nothing.
“What are you doing out of bed at this hour?”
Phoebe gasped and spun around. One hand went to her hammering heart, the other clutched at the wall. Ian strode down the hall toward her.
He was George, the dragon slayer. Hercules, the hydra killer. Bellerophon, the destroyer of monsters.
Phoebe stretched a hand toward him and he took it, pulling her tightly into his arms.
“You’re cold. And you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”
He caressed her hair, holding her, and she welcomed his warmth, his strength, the silent vow that she wasn’t facing any monster alone.
“Tell me, my love. What happened?”
My love. My love. The words echoed in her mind, and a beam of light dispelled the darkness and the horror that had plagued her sleep.
“I have something I need to tell you,” she whispered, lifting her face off his chest. “It’s important.”
He looked back down the hallway, in the direction he’d come, but she pulled on his hand, opening the door behind her.
“Phoebe.”
“I know you’re a gentleman,” she told him, pulling him inside. “And I promise to tear apart anyone who dares to speak poorly of your reputation.”
Phoebe pressed her back against the door and waited as Ian went around the room. A candle flickered on the mantle, and he used it to light other candles. Moving to the hearth, he lit the fire. It was summer, but she knew he did it to warm her. A large bed took up the far side of the room, and around the fireplace two chairs, a sofa, and a writing desk had been arranged. An open door beyond the bed led to dressing rooms.
It thrilled her to think of a day not far in the future when she’d be sharing these rooms with him. Sharing this bed. Ian was to be her husband. It was a dream she’d had so long ago.
But the nightmarish creatures of her current dreams were interfering with the joy of being here with him now.
“Come.” Ian padded back to her and took her hand, leading her to the chair by the fire.
She decided against a chair and sat on a sofa instead, pulling Ian down beside her.
His arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, and she leaned against him. She breathed in the comforting masculine smell of tobacco and whiskey, and he placed a kiss on her brow.
“Tell me,” he said in a low voice. “Talk to me.”
The nightmare was as alive now as it was the moment she opened her eyes, but she didn’t want to repeat every horrifying step through crypts and through the Vaults’ murky passageways. She didn’t want to try to describe the faces that came out of the dripping walls, their features changing before her eyes. She didn’t want to think about the sharp teeth on her throat.
She took a deep breath. “Have you ever considered that perhaps Sarah knew her killer?”
Phoebe felt every muscle in Ian’s body instantly grow tense.
“I have. I still think it is a strong possibility. But I can imagine no one who knew her who would do such a thing,” he said. “This is what frustrates me. You went down into the Vaults with a purpose. But she had no reason to go, even if she knew the killer. And whoever it was, they couldn’t have dragged her against her will off a busy street in broad daylight. Someone would have noticed it and raised an alarm.”
Phoebe knew many of Sarah’s friends and acquaintances, and she couldn’t imagine any of them being a murderer either. Images from her nightmare continued to parade through her head. Faces appearing . . . and then changing.
Different people.
She sat up straight and shifted her position on the sofa. Tucking one foot under her, she faced him. “What if there were two people?”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Truth. Lies. Bits and pieces of what had taken place that first night in the Vaults. She’d never told him the whole story, and that nagged at her. Young Jock Rokeby was in her dream last night, as well. Phoebe was holding Sarah’s hand, and they were running through the dark after the boy. And then the faces, men changing into monsters. Sarah was gone then, and Phoebe was running. He was after her.
Phoebe didn’t know where to start or end, but she couldn’t help but think there was meaning in the madness of this dream. Perhaps her friend was trying to tell her things.
“What if Sarah saw someone she knew? A young man, an acquaintance, someone within the social circle of the family. A person she considered harmless.” Phoebe decided to say what came to mind. The ideas were vague and disordered, but they needed to be put out in the light if they were ever going to be considered and dismissed. “And let’s assume the man’s purpose was not to hurt her, but to take advantage of a moment in a dark alley for . . . I don’t know . . . something not completely honorable. A kiss, even. But Sarah quickly realized the man’s intent and walked away, leaving him. That’s when she was confronted by the real killer.”
“And the blasted rogue decided to stay quiet about it when Sarah disappeared.”
“Of course. What else he was going to do, knowing you’d kill him if you ever learned any of this?”
“I would kill him. Slowly and painfully. He’d die a thousand deaths before he breathed his last. For every moment of fear or pain she endured, I would make him suffer.”
The time had come when she needed to tell him the rest. Phoebe inched back on the sofa.
“I believe the murderer, the one you told me about, chooses his victims randomly. He wouldn’t have gone up out of the Vaults into the busy shops of the South Bridge to lure Sarah down.”
That is, she finished silently, if Sarah’s killer and the one committing all the other murders were the same man.
“The night you found me in the Vaults.” She paused and waited until she had his full attention. “I haven’t told you everything. I want you to know exactly what happened. The killer didn’t come after me. I went after him.”
If their positions were reversed, Phoebe knew she’d be shouting at him for not being forthright, for not trusting her with the truth. But she was already accustomed to Ian and his menacing silence. He was staring at her, looking like a great cat about to pounce, but taking his time.
There was no point in delaying the inevitable. No point in asking for forgiveness for her omissions. She told him, step-by-step, as clearly as she remembered, everything that occurred in the Vaults that night. She told him about Jock and how she’d come to learn his name when he approached her and Duncan in her carriage at Greyfriars Kirkyard near the Grassmarket. In just a few moments, the facts lay bare before him.
Still he remained silent.
“I don’t know if the man I fought is the same one responsible for Sarah’s murder, but that night I witnessed it with my own eyes. He goes after anyone he happens upon. That’s why I think two people—”
He moved too fast. One moment, she was sitting what she assumed was a safe distance away from him on the sofa, the next she was lying across his lap, looking up into a face inches away from hers. His expression was lethal.
“Reckless. Mad. You could have been killed down there,” he shouted. “Killed!”
She flinched, fearing that everyone in Bellhorne Castle had heard him.
“What made you think you could possibly stop a murderer, unarmed, alone?”
“I didn’t think about it. I acted,” she said, keeping her tone reasonable. “You would have done the same.”
He gaped at her. “We’re not the same! I’m a soldier. And when I go down there, I’m armed. I’m capable of twisting a man’s head off his shoulders if I need to. I’ve been trained to kill. I have killed. How could you possibly think we’re the same?”
“I told you. I admit I didn’t think before I acted,” she repeated softly. Reaching up, she touched the hard lines of his jaw and stroked the coarse growth of beard. She’d never studied him this close—when she wasn’t kissing him, that is. She looked above the stormy black eyes. He had a scar above his temple that she’d never noticed. She reached up to trace it with her fingers.
He caught her wrist and brought her hand down. “Stop distracting me, Phoebe. I’m angry at you, and for good reason.”
She’d done this to him. She’d made him lose his temper. “I know. I can tell. This was why I didn’t tell you any of this sooner.”
There was another scar on his neck, disappearing into the collar above his cravat. Her fingertips longed to touch it, but she was disappointed when he pushed her hand away again.
“What else have you not told me? Let me guess. You’ve been smuggling state secrets to Tsar Alexander. No? Then I’m certain you’re the one who broke the Prince Regent’s carriage window with a rock last year.”
He’d pulled her onto his lap to lecture her, but she was starting to notice his temper wasn’t the only thing being affected.
“Honestly, Ian. You’re being unreasonable. You’re giving me far more credit than I deserve.”
She rolled off the sofa and climbed onto his lap, straddling him. The robe and nightgown rode up on her legs, displaying bare skin in the light of the fire.
“Phoebe, you’re trying to divert this conversation. You’re trying to seduce me.�
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“I’m not doing any such thing. I am all ears.” She raised herself on her knees and undid the belt of her robe. Slowly peeling the garment off one shoulder and then the other, she let it drop onto the floor.
She chanced a look at him. Ian’s eyes were closed, but his face was almost touching the curve of her breast through the nightgown, as if he were breathing her in. Excitement rushed through her as wicked thoughts raced through her mind. Their wedding—five months away or next week or tomorrow—was far too long to wait.
No regrets, she told herself as she eased down on to his lap again. His hardening manhood indicated he was definitely open to the possibility of seduction.
He was gripping the cushion of the sofa. “Phoebe, do you have any relevant response to the issues we’ve been discussing?”
The wanton warmth in her belly was spreading through her. Flushed and determined, she edged closer until their loins were separated only by the fall of his trousers. Her position was completely shameless, and she felt the thick ridge of his sex nestle into the cleft between her thighs.
Even to her own ears, her voice had taken on a husky tone when she replied. “My response is that the woman who acted impulsively and recklessly was the old Phoebe. The new Phoebe would never do such a thing.”
She moved her hips slightly and the intimate pressure of him against her caused a silken ripple of heat to run through her. She tried to edge even closer, but he took hold of her waist.
“Tell me what would the new you do in the same situation?” He tried to sound strict and focused, but his voice was strained and tight and belonged to a stranger.
She began untying the strings holding the neckline of her nightgown closed. He watched the progress of her fingers. “In the same situation? I thought you didn’t want me to return to the Vaults ever again.”
Sleepless in Scotland Page 20
