by Liz Tyner
She waved a hand his direction. ‘Keep your arrows. I have many of them.’
‘Well, I must be going. You’re not quite as I expected. Thank you for your time. I sincerely regret breaking your arrow.’ He stopped. ‘No, I don’t. However, I will see that more are sent your way. Please be careful with them and do not practise archery on my land.’
She didn’t speak.
He strode to the door. This woman could not reside with his mother. He did not know how he could have imagined such a thing. But he just did not know what to do. He turned back. He could not go out that door.
‘You may visit my land whenever you wish.’ He didn’t recognise his own voice. His words sounded parched to his ears—the same as when he was little more than a youth and requested his first dance from a woman whose eyes glittered with sensual knowledge.
‘I will not shoot near the gamekeeper any more unless he comes too close to me.’ Her tone commanded, but underneath there might have been a waver in it. His thoughts raced ahead.
‘But be aware he is not a nice man,’ she continued. ‘He has killed—he has killed them after taking them from the trap. With his foot.’ Her voice dipped. ‘It is—it is bad. He does not care.’
He turned away so he could concentrate and put his hand on the door frame, sorting his thoughts, listening with his whole body. ‘He said you shot at him.’
‘Yes. I was watching the traps to see if he’d caught anything. I was going to free the animals. But he was early. He knew. He saw me and he walked closer and I thought of the rabbits. The rabbits. What man could do that to another living creature? I could not let him near me. I shot at the ground between us. He stopped.’
‘It is his job to watch for poachers.’ He slid his hand from the wood and moved just enough to hold her in his line of vision.
‘Nothing should be trapped like that.’
He asked the other question again. ‘What did you say to Pottsworth?’
‘The man at the soirée?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was in the gardens because I did not want to be with the people. I heard him speak to another man and say I was ripe for his hands. I only told him what would happen if he touched me, although I did not say it pleasantly. I knew he could understand my language. Warrington had told us that most men at the soirée had been tutored in Greek.’
‘I have heard that your parents are no longer with us,’ Rhys asked, tactfully changing the subject.
She touched a finger to the tip of the arrow. ‘My mana is not alive. I miss her still. I miss her more now than when she died, because she has been gone from me longer.’
He stepped closer, into the whiff of her perfume—until he realised it wasn’t only the exotic scent around her, but that of fresh bread. His eyes snapped to hers.
The arrow tip followed his movement, but he didn’t care about that.
‘Have you been in the…cooking area?’ he asked.
She waved her palm the barest bit. ‘The staff here works hard. They do not need me watching over them.’
He edged forward and she stepped back. ‘You have a dusting of white on your face,’ he said.
She reached up, brushing, but missed it.
A duke simply did not reach out and touch a woman’s face, particularly upon their first proper introduction. But he did. Warm, buttery sensations flowed inside him. His midsection vibrated, but it was with the outward pressure against his waistcoat. If he looked down, he knew he’d see the tip of the arrow pressed there again. But the broken arrow wasn’t so long and it connected their bodies too closely. His blood pounded hot and fast. Blast. This was not good. He’d been too long in the country where he had to take such care because his movements were watched so closely. He needed to get to London soon and find a woman.
She smiled. ‘I use the arrows as my chaperon.’
‘Perhaps a maid would be better instead?’ He reached the slightest bit to nudge the arrow away, but stopped before connecting with the wood. If his hand touched hers, that would be more than he wanted to deal with.
He moved back, freeing himself in more ways than one, and examined his fingers while rubbing the white powder between thumb and forefinger. He was fairly certain it was flour or some such. Something one dusted on the top of cakes or used in producing meals.
‘You have been in a kitchen.’
‘I—’ Her chin jutted. ‘I do not…visit the kitchen. Often.’
He shrugged. ‘I do not mind. It just surprises me.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You shot at my gamekeeper—I don’t see why you’d have a problem with going into the servants’ area.’
He wasn’t in the mood to complain about her at the moment. But he must keep his thoughts straight. She had put a weapon against his waistcoat. She ran through the woods, tormenting a gamekeeper. She’d traipsed in the kitchen with the servants, chased a child with a broom in the sitting room and probably would not be able to respond quietly in the bedchamber as a decent woman should. He clamped his teeth together.
This woman was as untamed as the creatures she freed. She might be a relation of Warrington’s, but one always had an errant relative who did not do as they should.
‘I—’ She stepped back. And now the broken arrow rested against her bodice. ‘I cannot let the rabbits be trapped. I cannot.’
‘I suppose I understand.’ He did understand. More than she thought. She had a weakness for rabbits and right now his weakness was for soft curves and compassionate eyes. He must clear his head. No matter what it took, he must clear his head.
‘I would like to reassure you,’ he said, ‘that the rabbits will soon be holding soirées among the parsnips and their smiling teeth will be green-stained from all the vegetables they harvest. The traps are to be removed. You do not have to check my lands. No more traps.’
‘Thank you.’ She nodded. ‘It is a relief.’
‘In return, I would like very much for you to have tea with my mother tomorrow,’ he said. He heard the youth still in his voice. That strange sound. Too much sincerity for the simple question. ‘Please consider it. My mother is very alone right now,’ he quickly added.
She moved, still grasping the arrow pieces, but her hand rested on the spine of the sofa. She studied his face. ‘I don’t… The English customs…’
She was going to say no and he couldn’t let her. He had to explain.
‘My mother will not know you are arriving and I will summon her once you are there. Otherwise she may not leave her room.’ His chuckle was dry. ‘She likely will not leave her chamber, unless I insist. But as you understand what it is like to miss a person you care for, I would appreciate your spending a few moments speaking with the duchess. Perhaps she will feel less alone.’
She didn’t speak.
‘My brother has passed recently. My father died almost two years ago, soon after my older sister and her new husband perished in a fire while visiting friends. My mother is becoming less herself with each passing day. She misses her family more with each hour.’ He controlled his voice, removing all emotion. ‘She is trapped—by memories—and only feels anger and self-pity.’
‘I will visit your mana.’ She spoke matter-of-factly. ‘And if she does not wish to leave her chamber, I do not mind at all. I will visit her there.’
He turned, nodding, and with a jerk of his chin indicated the arrow in her hand.
‘Would you really hurt me?’ he asked.
Something flickered behind her eyes. Some memory he could never see.
‘I hope I could,’ she said. ‘I tell myself every day that I will be strong enough.’
‘You wish to kill someone?’
She shook her head, tousled hair falling softly, and for a moment she didn’t look like the woman she was, but reminded him of a lost waif. ‘No. I wish to be strong enough.’
‘Have you ever…hurt anyone?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I know of no woman who has ever killed a man, except my grandmother, Gigia.’
&nbs
p; He waited.
‘A man, from a ploio. A ship. He was not good. He killed one of the women from our island and hurt another one almost to her death. Gigia gave him drink. Much drink, and he fell asleep. He should not have fallen asleep. Gigia said it was no different than killing a goat, except the man was heavier. My mana and uncle were there and they buried him. I do not think the men from the ship cared about losing him. They did not hunt for him long. Gigia gave them wine and we helped them search.’
Rhys took a breath. He’d invited this woman into his home, where his mother would meet her. This woman who seemed no more civilised than the rabbits she wished to protect and yet, he wanted to bury his face against her skin and forget.
‘I see.’ He frowned, repressing his notice of her as a woman. He certainly did not need to be noting the insignificant things about her.
‘From your face, I think you do.’ Instantly, her eyes pinched into a tilted scowl, her nose wrinkled. She mocked him. His mouth opened the barest bit. Yes, she’d jested.
‘Miss Cherroll,’ he spoke, beginning his reprimand, holding himself to the starched demeanour his father had used, one strong enough that even a royal would take notice of it. ‘Perhaps my mother could also be of some guidance to you.’
Lashes fluttered. A dash of sadness tinged her words, but the chin did not soften. ‘I am beyond repair.’
Bits of words fluttered through his mind, but none found their way to his lips. He took a moment appraising her, then caught himself, tamping down the sparking embers.
This would not be acceptable. He had survived his sister’s death. He had survived his father’s death. Geoff was gone. The duchess was failing. Rhys’s vision tunnelled around him, leaving only images from memory. He would take his own heart from his chest and wring it out with his two hands before he let it close to another person.
He turned his body from her with more command than he would ever unleash on the ribbons from a horse’s bridle.
‘I did not mean to anger you so…’ Her voice barely rose above the drumming in his ears.
‘I am merely thinking,’ he said.
‘You must stop, then. It’s not agreeing with you.’
‘I think you are the one not agreeing with me.’
‘So it has never happened before?’
‘Not recently.’
‘An oversight?’ Wide eyes.
‘I can hardly believe you and the countess are sisters.’
‘If you think we are brothers, then I do not know what to say.’
‘You are—’ He gave up. If she could use that same spirit to release his mother’s mind from the memories snaring her, it would be worth the risk. He had no other options.
Chapter Three
Bellona took the carriage to the duke’s house, frowning each time the vehicle jostled her. Darting through the woods would have been so much easier, but when the gamekeeper’s eyes had rested on her the last time, a drop of spittle had escaped his lips when he’d smiled at her. The past had flooded back. She’d thought to put the memories behind her, but they’d returned like a wave, currents underneath tugging at her, trying to pull her to death.
Even now, looking out of the window, she could imagine a face peering at her from behind each tree. The eyes reflecting dark, evil thoughts, or no thoughts at all. Knowledge returned of looking into the pupils and seeing nothing human in a face she’d once seen innocently. Nothing behind those eyes which reasoned or thought, but only the same blankness from the face of an animal intent on devouring its prey.
She’d heard the tales of people being fed to lions. Telling the lion to think about the rightness of not clamping its teeth around her neck would do no good. Reminding the beast that she was merely wishing to live out her life wouldn’t change anything. The lion might appear calm, but it would be thinking of only how to get a straighter lunge.
Bellona had known Stephanos before he killed—watched him dance and laugh and work as he’d grown older. Nothing had indicated how one day he would look at her with the harshness of death seeping from him like muck bubbling over the side of a pot left on the fire too long and too hot to pull away with bare hands.
The truth roiled inside her. She’d not escaped to a land where she could let her guard down. Men kept their power within themselves, behind their smiles and their laughter. Like a volcano, the fury could burst forth and take every being in its path.
The day her father had raged at her over a painting she’d accidentally knocked over, she’d known he would have preferred her to be the one broken in the dirt. If he could have traded her to have the painting back on the easel, he would have. He would have rejoiced if she could have been bruised and broken and his painting fresh and new.
Nothing had changed. She’d only lied to herself, hoping she’d be able to forget the past and sleep peacefully again, safe, in this new land.
Even the maid sitting across from her didn’t give her the feeling of security she’d hoped. Moving her foot inside her boot, she felt the dagger sheath, reassuring herself.
She braced her feet as the carriage rolled to a stop. A lock of hair tickled Bellona’s cheek as she opened the door and stepped out. Pushing the strand aside, she looked at the darkened eyes of the Harling House windows. Sunlight reflected off the glass and a bird flitted by, but the house looked no more alive than a crypt.
The entrance door opened before her foot cleared the top step.
The expanse of space between her and the stairway could have swallowed her former home. She could not blame the duchess for not wanting to leave her chamber. This part of the house, with all its shine and perfection, didn’t look as if it allowed anyone to stop for a moment, but to only pass through.
The butler led her to a library which had more personality than she’d seen so far in the house. The pillow on the sofa had been propped perfectly, but one corner had lost its fluff. The scent of coals from the fireplace lingered in the air. The figurines on the mantel had been made at different times by different artists.
One alabaster shape had a translucency she could almost see through. One girl wore clothing Bellona had never seen before. A bird was half in flight. She noted a cracked wing on one angel. The hairline fracture had browned. This hadn’t happened recently and been unnoticed. Someone had wanted to keep the memento even with the imperfection.
Then she studied the spines of the books lining the shelves. Some of the titles she could read, but the English letters her oldest sister, Melina, had taught her years ago were hard to remember. She asked the maid and the woman knew less about the words than Bellona did.
The open-window curtains let much light into the room and the view overlooked where her carriage had stopped. A book lay askew on the desk and another one beside it, plus an uncorked ink bottle. The chair was pulled out and sat slightly sideways. Someone had been sitting there recently, able to see her arrive, and had left a few papers scattered about.
She settled herself to wait, the maid beside her on the sofa. The clock ticked, but other than that nothing sounded. Bellona stood again and noticed the walls. Framed canvases. These were not just paintings, but works of art. When she looked at each piece, she could see something else beyond it—either the thoughts of the person depicted, the way the room had felt that day, or the texture of the object painted.
They were nothing like her father’s paintings. She’d had no idea that such wonderful art existed.
Bellona was seated when the duke stepped into the doorway. She’d not heard him, but the flicker of movement caught her eye.
He stood immobile for a minute, like the figurines, but everything else about him contrasted with the gentle figures on the mantel.
She tightened her fingers on her reticule. When she met his eyes, her senses responded, reminding her of the times she and her sisters had build a fire outside at night on Melos. Sitting, listening to waves and staring at stars. Those nights made her feel alive and secure—the strength of nature reminding her something was bigger
than the island.
Lines at the corners of his eyes took some of the sternness from his face, and even though he looked as immovable as the cliffs, she didn’t fear him. Possibly because he seemed focused on his own thoughts more than her presence. When he spoke, his lips turned up, not in a smile, but in acknowledgment of his own words. ‘I regret to say that my mother informs me she will not be able to join you. She is unwell today.’
Bellona stood, moving nearer to the duke. ‘If she is unwell, then I cannot leave without seeing if I might be able to soothe her spirits as I did for my mother. I must see her. Only for a moment.’
The maid rose, but Bellona put out a halting hand and said, ‘Wait here.’
A quick upwards flick of his head caused his hair to fall across his brow. He brushed it back. ‘I may have erred in inviting you. Perhaps another day… Mother is fretful.’
‘When my mother hurt, my sisters and I would take turns holding her hand or talking to her, even if she could not answer for the pain.’
‘She’s not ill in quite that way, but I think her pain is severe none the less.’ Moving into the hallway, he swept his arm out, palm up, indicating the direction. ‘The duchess is rather in a poor temper today. Please do not consider it a reflection of anything but her health.’
‘My mana was very, very ill many days.’ Bellona clasped the strap of her reticule, forcing away her memories. She raised the bag, bringing it to his attention. ‘I brought some garden scents for Her Grace. I will give them to her. They heal the spirit.’
‘If you could only coax a pleasant word from her, I would be grateful.’
*
Bellona followed Rhys into the room. He gave a quick bow of his head to his mother and the older woman’s eyes showed puzzlement, then narrowed when she saw he was not alone. Her frail skin, along with the black dress and black cap, and her severe hairstyle, gave her an appearance which could have frightened a child. She pulled the spectacles from her face, slinging them on to the table beside her. She dropped a book to her lap. The pallor in her cheeks left, replaced with tinges of red.
