by Eve Silver
Did he dare to linger on her breasts?
She felt the heat of her blood in her cheeks, and that startled her. She had not blushed since her early encounters with the new Baron Sunderley after her parents had died.
“We shall work from that premise, then,” he continued, his gaze meeting hers. “You are not so cold as to ignore Madeline’s pleas. Nor so foolish. I believe you are a woman of intelligence, Miss Weston, one who spies opportunity and leaps upon it like a jaguar upon its prey.”
She allowed neither action nor tenor to betray her fury. Her hands did not tremble as she set her cutlery aside. “Your words are insulting, sir.”
“Are they?” He appeared genuinely startled by her accusation. “I meant them to be complimentary. To have the intelligence to exploit one’s advantages is a wonderful thing.”
She stared at him, both repelled and intrigued to realize that he told nothing but the truth. He did mean these insulting observations as praise. How dreadful. All the more so because he was partially correct. Though she had not developed a mercenary nature by choice, there was a part of her that had—by necessity—grown opportunistic, a part that grabbed hold of any prospect with vastly unladylike tenacity and refused to let go. Madeline’s letter had been just such a chance.
But these were not truths she would share with him.
Catherine glared at St. Aubyn as he continued his breakfast, his table manners impeccable, his attention now on his meal.
“Excuse me,” she said, and pushed her chair back from the table.
He glanced at her, but made no move to rise as common courtesy dictated. “I had not thought you so meek as to flee at the first sign of interesting conversation.”
Interesting conversation? She held her serene expression, refusing to be baited. She could not begin to fathom his reasons, but she did not doubt he was bound and determined to elicit a show of temper.
Reaching over, he nudged her plate back toward her. “Finish your breakfast.” An instruction, not a request. He did not cajole. She could not imagine him even trying.
After studying him for a moment, she decided a head-on approach was best. “If it is interesting conversation you wish, then perhaps we could discuss why you were watching me from the woods this morning. And how you crossed the vast lawn so quickly, managing to join me without exhibiting any effects of the vigorous activity you must have indulged in to arrive here so precipitously. Do you not find it rather juvenile to slink about?”
He swallowed his food, sipped his coffee, and then settled the cup back in the saucer, his movements careful and precise. Finally, he looked directly at her. “I was not in the woods this morning, Miss Weston. I enjoyed no activity more vigorous than descending from my chamber on the second floor.”
“I saw you at the edge of the woods.”
“Did you? You have wonderful visual acuity to recognize me at”—he shot a glance at the window and the distant encroaching trees—“some ten score yards away. Tell me exactly what you saw.”
She pondered that a moment, camouflaging her hesitation behind with the overt action of shifting her chair close to the table once more. Exactly what had she seen? A man, or only a man-shaped shadow? A clear view of St. Aubyn, or someone she mistook for him because she expected it to be him?
“I saw a shape shift between the trees. Then it moved into the light and I saw a dark coat and pale hair. A man watching me.”
At that, his attention sharpened. There was no explicit sign of that. No tension in his frame or change in his demeanor. But she sensed an alteration and she had learned to trust such instincts.
“Offhand, I can think of at least seven employees of this estate who have blond hair. Perhaps you saw a gardener or a groomsman.” He took another sip of coffee. “I have no doubt you saw something, but it was not me.”
“As you say.” She lifted her fork and poked at the remains of her breakfast, loath to allow him to read her disbelief. A part of her meant to rise and walk away. A part of her was lured to stay. She ate another bite of toast and a sliver of ham, lingering over her tea as St. Aubyn finished his meal, apparently perfectly at ease with the silence.
Only once did he break it, saying, “Have you read Frankenstein, the Modern Prometheus?”
Startled by the inquiry, she shook her head. “I have heard of it, but have not had the opportunity to read it.”
“You may borrow my copy.”
“I…” She hesitated, but could think of no reason to decline. “Thank you.”
“I look forward to hearing your thoughts.” And with that, he returned to his meal, the discussion clearly at end. But the sincerity of his words did not escape her. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. He actually meant it. He was interested in her opinion; a man interested in a woman’s opinion, her opinion. The novelty of that was startling.
At length, he set aside his napkin and rose. “Come,” he said, and moved to hold her chair. He was too close, too big, too male. She stared at the tips of his boots. Black. Shiny. Speckled with dry dirt in a fine layer, like dust.
If, as he asserted, he had not been outdoors this morning, then someone in his employ had failed to shine the baronet’s boots last night.
Was he such a lax employer that he did not notice? She could not imagine such negligence. Not from this man.
“Where do we go?” she asked as she rose.
“Walking.” He cast her a sidelong look through his lashes. “The weather is fair, the sun bright.”
“It was my understanding that you disdain the weather as a topic of conversation.”
His lips curved in private humor. “Only when it is conversation without purpose. I mention the perfection of the day to lure you outdoors. Hence, there is purpose to such conversation.”
“Lure me? Like a spider lures the fly?” she murmured.
His smile widened, white teeth, cold eyes. She could read nothing of his true thoughts. “Without a doubt. But which of us is the spider, Miss Weston?”
He offered his arm. Energy crackled between them, the air fairly shimmering with it. Catherine stared at the tailored sleeve of his dark blue coat, and she wanted to tell him to step back, step away. She had no wish to lay her hand there, to touch him. It was too close a contact.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
She examined his expression. There was no humor there, no deviltry or teasing. Not that she had expected such from him. He was neither a gallant nor a rake. In fact, she had never met anyone at all like him.
She wet her lips, floundering for a reply. Yes, she was afraid, of him, of any man who was larger and stronger than she. But she was far more disturbed by her own reaction to him, the confused eddy of attraction and repulsion that made her common sense war with the arousal she felt in his presence. Arousal of both mind and body; he stoked her ire and snared her curiosity, and perhaps even made her want to hit him.
He made her want to break down the safe wall she had erected. To press her mouth to his. To reach up and touch her fingers to the softness of his hair. To feel the hardness of his body, defined beneath his tailored coat. But she would do none of those things. She would remain calm and poised, and he would be none the wiser.
“Afraid of you? Without a doubt,” she replied, echoing his earlier words.
“Wise of you. You should be.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment of the warning and pondered her options. There was no polite way to decline his less than polite invitation. But that was not the source of her indecision; she was not so very concerned with manners. It was more that he was her host, master of Cairncroft Abbey, and he suffered her presence here at his whim. She could deny him—a dangerous choice, for he might decide then to revoke his acceptance of her in his home—or she could accompany him at his pleasure.
It was a small enough task to walk in the sunshine with him for a few moments and pander to whatever whim made him seek out her company. Besides, it would afford her an opportunity to question him a
bout Mrs. Bell’s earlier insinuations.
She realized that he found both her hesitation and their dialogue amusing. He allowed her to read it in his smile, genuine now, carving a crease in his cheek and fanning fine lines from the corners of his eyes.
“You find my fear entertaining?” she asked.
“No.” His gaze raked her, and were he a different man, she might have imagined the look held interest of a carnal nature. But he was St. Aubyn—cold, controlled—and she decided that any interest sparking in his eyes must surely be analytical. A collector admiring a pinned bug. “But I do find you entertaining, Miss Weston. Proper. Restrained. What do you hide?”
Nothing you will ever discover. She made no audible reply. None was necessary.
Then she changed her mind and said, “Interesting that you pose that question, sir. I could ask the same of you. What do you hide”—she paused long enough to lend her next words additional weight—“besides a dislike of closed spaces?”
She had expected a reaction to her observations. A look of startlement, a blink, a gasp. There was none. He merely inclined his head and asked, “What led you to that conclusion?”
“I noticed the first day, in Madeline’s chamber. When you stepped into the room, you chose to stand as close to the door as possible. And you never fully closed it behind you. When the footman closed it upon his departure, you immediately remedied the situation.
“Similarly, this morning, you left the door to the breakfast room ajar. Finally, you rode to London rather than taking a closed carriage.”
“And from those small observations you deduced that I dislike closed spaces?” His tone derided her assertion, but somehow, she knew it was true. Whether he admitted it or not, Gabriel St. Aubyn did not like to be caged. A sentiment she shared, though she would not reveal it.
“But we were not speaking of me, Miss Weston.” He ran the tip of his finger along the lace trim of her collar, touching only the cloth. Still, it made her shiver as though the contact had been skin to skin. “We were speaking of you and what it is you seek to hide.”
Stepping back, she lifted her chin a notch and sent him the frostiest look she could summon. “Do you intend your inquisition and intimations to unsettle me, perhaps even to terrify me, sir? To send me running from this place at first opportunity? Do you hate your cousin so much that you begrudge her even the barest human companionship and kindness, a friend by her bedside to ease her suffering?”
“My inquisition has nothing to do with her,” he said. And everything to do with you, he didn’t say.
It was the unspoken that made her wary.
He laughed, an unexpected, dark sound of mirth that coiled through her.
“Do you think you know me? That you understand my motivations? You know nothing of me, Miss Weston. Nothing at all.” He caught her hand and drew it up even as he lowered his face, his nose grazing the tender skin on the inside of her wrist. She gasped and jerked away, but he held fast. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs.
His head lifted; his gaze met hers. “You do not wear heavy perfumes.”
She stared at him dumbstruck, her nerves coiled tight. “No,” she replied on a quick exhale.
“I like the way you smell.”
Before she could even begin to formulate a reply to that, he settled her hand in the crook of his arm, holding it there when she again tried to pull away.
“We will walk.”
Her choices fanned out like a hand of cards, but when she examined them for variety, they were all identical and equally foul.
Escape was not worth her effort.
And so walk they did.
7
Outside, in the sunshine, St. Aubyn appeared less threatening. Perhaps it was illusion; his height and breadth filled the confines of the breakfast room, but were rendered less imposing by the vast, blue sky overhead. Catherine thought he was more at ease outdoors, though, in truth, he made no indication of that by action or word. Certainly his expression was as enigmatic as ever.
They skirted the crumbling part of the abbey and walked along a path made dim by an overgrown hedgerow some seven feet high. St. Aubyn offered no conversation as he measured his pace to her comfort, and Catherine was not inclined to mine the depths of her forbearance and search for a topic that might interest him.
Contrary, confounding man.
Casting him only the occasional sidelong glance, she otherwise ignored him, and instead memorized the path they took. Experience had taught her to always know the best route of escape.
Finally, they cleared the maze—she could think of no more apt description for the tangle of paths they traversed, walled on either side by the high, overgrown hedge—and came upon a graveyard. Catherine had no doubt it was the exact place Mrs. Bell had directed her to that very morning. Coincidence was unlikely.
“Did you choose this destination with particular purpose?” she asked.
His eyes glittered, polished amber. “Perhaps I eavesdropped on Mrs. Bell offering her dire warnings and directing you to visit this very spot.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps I sent her to speak with you this morning, to set the stage for this encounter. Either way, my actions are suspect.”
His logic was infallible, his motivations questionable— a situation he appeared perfectly comfortable with.
She was befuddled as to exactly what he admitted. Had he overheard the housekeeper’s remarks or had he sent her to act as messenger? Either choice was distasteful. Either way, he could lie.
And that appeared to be exactly his point.
Which brought her full circle back to nowhere.
“You admit that choosing this graveyard as your destination is no coincidence?” She tugged at her hand where he yet held it securely in the crook of his arm.
“Most assuredly.” He did not let her go. His grip was not rough, only firm enough to hold her in place, to exert dominion.
“It appears that I cannot count dishonesty among your flaws.” She changed tactics, leaving her hand limp against his arm.
“Is dishonesty a flaw?” he mused. “I rather think the ability to lie well is an asset. Do you lie well, Miss Weston?”
Exasperated, she stared at him. “If I say yes, then I am a liar. If I say no, then I might be a liar. If I say nothing, I lie by omission.” She shook her head. “What in heaven’s name is your purpose in pursuing such nonsense, sir? I can only wonder at your intent. It appears you seek to cause me distress.”
“I have no wish to distress you, Miss Weston. Merely to walk with you.” St. Aubyn released his grip then, and she drew her hand away without haste, satisfied that she had won this small skirmish. But not the war. She did not delude herself into imagining that he acquiesced and released her as a concession to anyone but himself.
He stepped away, a blessing, for she found his close proximity disturbing. He had asked her earlier if he frightened her. He did. But it was not because she truly believed he would raise a hand to her in physical brutality. No, his was a subtler form of warfare. It was his manner, his words, his hidden thoughts and—unflinching self-awareness made her admit—his physical self that made her pulse beat a little faster and wariness slide through her veins.
“You asked a question,” he continued. “I offered an answer. Then I asked a follow-up question… and so on. Is that not what you wanted? Conversation?”
“This is not conversation. It is an exercise in frustration,” she muttered.
For an instant, she thought she saw him frown, thought she saw a flicker of hurt in his eyes. Then it was gone and she was certain she deluded herself. A trick of the light.
Turning, she looked about curiously. Behind them was the overgrown hedge that extended to cage the entire graveyard, and before them were two stark and barren trees growing close together, branches twisting and mingling. Sparse tufts of grass dotted the bare brown earth. The sun hit only a single headstone in the far corner of the graveyard, leaving the rest wreathed in shadow. All the headstones—save that
solitary one—tilted at precarious inclines, leaving Catherine with the feeling that a simple push with a fingertip would topple them altogether.
“Most of these are very old,” she murmured, glancing back at St. Aubyn over her shoulder. He, too, was in the shadows, the hollows beneath his cheeks and the masculine line of his jaw made harder in this light, the dimness darkening his hair to the color of ale. She did not wish to notice these things about him. That path was fraught with danger.
“Yes. Some over two hundred years. Perhaps even more than that. My ancestors, and Madeline’s.”
She walked between the graves, aware of St. Aubyn’s interested regard, a predator studying his dinner. The thought made her shiver.
Some of the stones were marked by dark stains, as though fire had roared through this place and left a trail of soot in its wake. Or perhaps it was the grime of centuries, layered on the cold granite.
“It strikes me that you do nothing without purpose, Sir Gabriel.” She turned back to face him. He stood in exactly the place she had left him by the overgrown hedge. “Why did you bring me here?”
“To grant you insight. Some of those buried here died of a similar miasma to what plagues my cousin. Tales passed down from parent to child tell of a ghastly acuity of the senses where even bland food sears the tongue, cloth feels like knives flaying the skin, scents become unbearable. Flowers or aromatic spice or perfume become a torment.” He shrugged, a fluid movement, muscle contracting under perfectly tailored cloth. “Some days, Madeline complains of all these things and more. Other days, she appears to be in perfect health.”
“And did this acuity of the senses kill them?” She made a vague gesture toward the nearest gravestone.
He did not answer her question. Instead he observed, “You are so blunt and forthright, your voice modulated and perfectly cool, lovely even in your irritation.” He paused. “I do not misread, do I, Miss Weston? You are irritated with me.”
She stared at him, at a loss. Given the events of the morning and the bizarre interchange that had passed as dialogue between them, how could he imagine she was anything but irritated?
