“The bags!” she called to him. “Get them out! Parsifal is holding the cart!”
The earl uttered a foul curse and began pulling off the bags. More hands came to help, and the cart finally stopped. Someone pulled it off to the side.
Annabella’s dress was filthy and torn, but she did not care. She looked about for Parsifal, but she could not find him. It was as if he had disappeared, ghostlike, into the crowd. She grew conscious of an odd, niggling feeling, as if there was something she forgot, but it faded, and she shook her head.
“Damn!”
Annabella turned to look at Lord Grafton, who was examining his index finger. He glanced at her, and she raised an eyebrow at him in question.
“Got a splinter in my finger, just where I hold the reins. It’ll ruin my concentration when I drive the carriage,” he explained.
She gazed at him a few moments in astonishment, then found her voice at last. “You are fussing about a splinter in your finger when Parsifal—indeed the villagers—” She closed her mouth, staring at the discontented look on his face, then snapped, “And where were you when Parsifal was holding up the cart?”
Lord Grafton looked affronted. “My brother is fully capable of doing the job without my help—strong as an ox, for all his annoying virtues. I tried to catch the rascally farmer who ran away from his cart—that’s what I was doing! Damned smokey if you ask me, him running off like that. You’d think that—Hallo! What’s this?”
He had been leaning against the cart and bent to pick up a long piece of wood with a leather strap still threaded through a loop. Annabella watched him turn it over in his hands. He looked at her, his mouth grim.
“It’s from the cart. It’s been half sawn, and the traces cut.” He smiled at her, a strange excitement in his eyes. “I do think, my dear Miss Smith, that someone caused the cart to break on purpose. I wonder who the farmer—or whoever was behind this—wanted to kill?”
Chapter 11
Only a handful of guests had lingered for the week after the ball, and for that Parsifal was grateful. The ensuing scandal upon the discovery of Sir Quentin’s body in his garden was bad enough without having to keep a large number of people at his estate, who were too eager to leave upon hearing the news. As it was, Lord Laughton kept his investigation brief and to the point, offending many, but at least allowing the rest of the guests to leave the house quickly afterward.
Except, of course, for Annabella and her mother. Lady Smith was still not well, for a second examination by Doctor Robinson showed that she had indeed broken her ankle, and her dizziness was only a little improved. It would do little good if they returned to their home either, for Sir Robert Smith had been called to France, and they would be wholly unprotected.
Not, of course, that they were out of danger here, Parsifal thought. He clipped off a rosebud that seemed a little bug-eaten and gazed around his garden. Even he did not feel safe in his garden anymore. The body of Sir Quentin had been removed, the gravel path raked so that all signs of disturbance had disappeared, and all had been put in order again. But it was not the same. It had been his place, his solace when he wished to be away from his family or whatever unpleasantness might come his way. Now the outside world had intruded into his sanctuary, and violently, at that.
Anger welled up within him, and he threw down the garden scissors. He could not stop thinking of it as long as he stayed here. He left the garden and strode to the stables. He wanted to be alone, away from the memories of the speculative glances he received from each of the guests as they left. He was an eccentric, reclusive, and it was his garden. How could anyone—including Annabella and certainly Lady Smith—not make the obvious conclusion, that he was somehow involved in Sir Quentin’s death?
He would ride the bay horse to the woods, the only place where he knew he would be alone, where nothing would intrude on his peace. Parsifal led out the horse, not bothering to saddle him, leaped upon his back, and dug in his heels. The bay shot from the stable yard at a gallop, and Parsifal smiled at last. The power of the horse beneath him, the thunder of hooves below, beat down the despair and the anger once again. By the time he reached the woods, thoughts of hurt and memories of the garden would be behind him, and he could be calm again, alone at last.
* * * *
Annabella almost did not recognize Parsifal as he strode past her, unseeing, into the stables. She had changed into her riding dress, having ordered a horse be made ready for a ride about the estate. Parsifal’s expression had been so dark with anger and despair—feelings she had never seen in him—his face so stiff and hard. She hurried to the stables after him, but he was already off in the direction of the woods.
She knew what it was that angered him, she was sure. She had seen the half-fearful, speculative looks both Parsifal and Lord Grafton had received as their guests said their farewells—especially the ones Parsifal received. Lady Grafton had retired with her vinaigrette to her room, Caroline was more intrigued and agog with curiosity about the incident than worried about her own or her family’s reputation, and Lord Grafton had merely smiled in a fierce way, almost seeming to enjoy the speculation and possible notoriety. But it was not they who had found Sir Quentin’s body, after all, or who received most of the looks.
Parsifal had seemed unmoved as well, his expression aloof and cool as he said his farewells. But she could see the misery and the clear wish in his eyes that he were not there. It hurt her to see it, and she had wanted to go to him, and snap at the guests who had given her pitying glances. That she continued to stay at Wentworth Abbey, even with the excuse of her mother’s illness, clearly put a tarnish to her own reputation. She did not care.
She allowed the groom to lift her into her saddle, but when he went to select a horse upon which to follow her, she held up her hand.
“There is no need to accompany me. Mr. Wentworth has gone out upon his horse also, and I will be with him.”
“But—but Master Parsifal said you were to be accompanied,” the groom sputtered.
“And I shall be, by Mr. Wentworth himself.” She gathered up her reins and gave the groom a nod and a smile. “Good day to you.”
She rode off at a gallop, ignoring the groom’s further protests, and hoping to catch up with Parsifal. He had not looked at her in the Great Hall as the guests gave their leave, and she wanted him to know she did not think as they did. She could not bear it if he thought she was like the others.
The trees were thick and the light dim within the woods, and she slowed her mare as she came to it. Annabella could not help feeling a little fear at the idea of entering the woods—she had never been in it, even on her father’s side of the property. But the path was clear and wide, and the tracks of horse’s hooves were fresh. They were certainly those of Parsifal’s stallion, for she had seen him ride this way, and no one else. Her hands closed tightly on the reins. She knew now her impulsive ride after Parsifal was a foolish thing, for Sir Quentin’s killer was still at bay. Though Lord Laughton believed the murder had occurred at night right after the masquerade ball, it was no guarantee the killer would not strike during the day.
If she hesitated longer, she would lose Parsifal, she was sure. Annabella urged her horse forward. The dimness grew as she entered the woods so that sometimes the tracks of his horse were obscured at times, and she grew a little more frightened. She pressed on, following the path, nevertheless.
A high, sweet melody came to her then, and at first she almost thought it was bird song. But no, it went on, a light tune she recognized, one she had danced to at the masquerade ball with the Cavalier. Her heart beat faster. Perhaps ... no, it was a silly thought. The Cavalier would not be here; he appeared only close to the house, and at masquerades. No doubt it was Parsifal, though she had never heard he played any musical instrument.
The music brought a smile to her lips, for she could not help remembering the wreck the Cavalier had made of the dance. She looked at the trees around her, and the woods did not look so dark now,
with the branches arching above like the beams of a cathedral, and the leaves like stained glass against the sky’s blue.
Suddenly, there was light. The woods opened to a clearing, a small meadow, with an enormous ancient oak to one side. She did not see him immediately, for there was only the bay stallion beneath the tree. But the music called to her, and she looked up, and there was Parsifal sitting on one large branch of the oak, playing a pennywhistle. He reclined against the trunk of the tree, wearing only his shirt and trousers, his eyes closed in concentration.
The light that filtered through the leaves flickered over his face and body as he played, at once obscuring and revealing the lines of his cheek and chin, shoulder and thigh. A light breeze blew his hair away from his face, outlining his square jaw, but leaving one dark lock upon his forehead. He did not seem quite real—an elemental thing, a creature of the woods, a pagan god who might disappear if she dared glance away for a moment. A robin lighted on a branch next to him, cocking its head at him as if wondering what kind of strange bird Parsifal might be. It was not afraid of him at all, and neither was the squirrel that ventured upon the branch and sniffed at him, then sat upon his foot, apparently deciding it would serve nicely as a chair.
Annabella could not help laughing, partly at the squirrel, and partly from the sheer joy that sprang up within at finding Parsifal. The music stopped in mid-phrase. The robin fluttered away, and the squirrel dashed for the cover of oak leaves.
“What are you doing here?” His words were harsh. He dropped from the branch to his feet, easily and lightly, though it was as high as his shoulder.
Her hand jerked involuntarily on the reins, and her horse moved a few steps away from him. He had never spoken to her in this manner, and she felt dismayed at the anger on his face.
“I... I wanted to ride and saw you coming here, so I followed.”
“It was foolish of you to do so without a groom in attendance. A man has been found dead on the estate. His murderer may still be about, and it is not safe for you—for anyone. Was not a servant available to ride with you?” He stared up at her, his fists resting on his hips. His expression was hard, and his eyes showed clear frustration.
Annabella blushed guiltily. “Yes, there was, but I thought because I followed you as soon as you left it would not matter, for you would be close by.”
“I am flattered you thought yourself safe with me. Or did you not realize you might have followed a murderer?”
He bared his teeth in a brief grimace, and she thought for a moment he looked like his brother, Lord Grafton. She swallowed back tears and looked away from him. It was as she thought: he had felt the scandal and the speculation acutely.
“Of course I do not think you a murderer. You are not a violent man and would never do such a thing,” she said.
“What, is my family’s reputation not enough to convince you? Or my odd ways?” Bitterness was in his voice now, and it struck hard at Annabella’s heart. “I am surprised you wished to be my friend in the first place.”
“I am glad you are my friend,” she replied. “I could not wish for better.”
He stared at her for one moment, the bitterness and despair growing on his face instead of disappearing at her words. He turned from her, letting out a harsh breath. His shoulders tensed, and his back was a wall between them.
He did not want her here, that was clear. She had disturbed his solitude—something that he wished to preserve. How stupid of her to think that he would not mind her presence. The thought occurred to her that she had grown up much pampered and indulged, and it was wholly possible that she had grown arrogant, expecting that she was welcome everywhere. She had thought he might have desired her, when they were in the garden, but perhaps that was her arrogance as well. Regardless, she was sure he had come here to escape the unpleasantness at the estate, and she had intruded.
She summoned up a smile. “I—I am sorry. I see you wish to be alone, and I do not blame you for it. I will return, and not venture forth without a groom or other chaperone in the future.” She gathered her reins, but Parsifal turned and caught them.
“No, wait!”
Annabella gazed down at him, and this time he smiled ruefully and sighed, pushing back the hair on his forehead with his hand.
“You may stay. Or, if you wish to leave, I will need to accompany you. I am sorry I was rude ... I did not expect anyone to be here—no one ever comes here except me— and you startled me.”
Annabella bit her lower lip, hesitating. She did wish to stay, but not if he did not want her here. “Would you mind ... do you wish me to stay? I hope ... I would like to stay for a little and listen to you play your music.”
Parsifal smiled and held out his hands to her, and she drew in her breath, for it was one of his clear, bright smiles that she so loved. Annabella could not help smiling in return and unhooked her leg from the saddle. He put his hands about her waist and lifted her down, as if she were feather-light. His hands remained around her waist for a moment, and she was conscious of the heat and strength of them through the cloth of her riding dress. She gazed up at him and found him staring at her, his smile slowly fading.
He released her and stepped back.
“I am afraid there is nothing much to entertain you here,” he said, his voice sounding a little strained. “Or many places to sit, if that’s what you wish.” He gestured at the tree. “It is soft and mossy at the foot of the tree, but you might get your skirt stained.”
Annabella looked at the tree branch he had sat on earlier.
It was long and as broad as a chair, and could easily seat two. She pointed at it. “I would like to sit up there, please.”
Parsifal’s brows rose, and one corner of his mouth quirked up. “I could help you up, but it would not be very dignified.”
“Pooh!” she said. “I don’t care for that.” It was a little lie, for she had never climbed a tree, having been city born and bred, and was a little anxious about the height. She wondered if he could guess it, for he grinned.
“I do not care, really,” she insisted.
“I am sure you don’t,” he replied, and his grin grew wider. He turned to the tree, leaped, and pulled himself up on the branch with seeming effortlessness.
“I do not think I can do that,” Annabella said flatly.
This time Parsifal laughed. “No, perhaps not—it takes practice. Come!” He crouched down upon the branch and held out his hand. She put her hand in his, then she gasped, for he pulled her up, quickly grasping her other hand and then her waist, steadying her as she found her feet. She was up at last, and she dared glance down.
“Oh, heavens!” she gasped again, and her hands clutched the front of his shirt.
“Don’t look down, or you’ll feel dizzy. If you look up, you will become more used to the height, and may look down again later.”
There seemed not to be as much room on the branch as she had thought, and she was afraid to let loose his shirt. If she looked to the left or right, she was sure she would see the ground again. Where else was she to look but at him? Annabella lifted her eyes and found Parsifal staring at her, closer than he had ever been before.
His arm was still around her, and as she loosened her grasp on his shirt, she could feel the beat of his heart through her hands as they flattened on his chest. He seemed almost to have turned to stone, for he scarcely breathed. She gazed at him, watching how the sunlight streaming between the oak leaves flickered across his face, catching the hazel of his eyes and turning them gold. A stray breeze blew a lock of his hair across his forehead. She lifted her hand and stroked it back.
Parsifal closed his eyes for a moment, then sighed and touched her cheek with his fingers. “Annabella,” he whispered, his voice low and despairing, and brought his lips to hers.
The kiss was as wonderful as she had hoped it would be, soft and gentle and strong. He held her tightly against him, and she closed her eyes, feeling the strength of his body against hers, and she was not frig
htened as she had been when other men had tried to kiss her. No, this was a mix of comfort and exhilaration, not uncertainty and fear. She felt as if she had come home after a long journey, welcomed as if she’d been long lost and cherished.
She moved her hands upward to his shoulders, and she could feel the hardness of them. The image of him amongst the flowers, shirtless, came to her. Even the scent of earth and honey came to her, as it had in the garden, heady and wild. She blushed, and the heat of her blush seemed to spread to the pit of her stomach and her legs and made her knees tremble.
“Ahh, sweet... sweet... sweet,” he murmured against her mouth, her cheek, and a sensitive spot just beneath her ear. She shivered and drew in a sharp breath, and suddenly he parted from her.
Parsifal stared at her, his eyes bewildered and lost. His hand came up and touched her cheek with the back of his finger, tenderly, as she had seen him touch the bud of a rare rose.
“Why?” he whispered.
“I love you,” she said and knew it was the right answer. Mixed disbelief and joy flashed across his face, and he let out a deep ragged breath.
“Oh, God.” He buried his face in her neck, almost crushing her in his embrace. “You won’t marry the duke or that other gentleman.”
She smiled. “You are the other gentleman. Did you not even guess?”
Parsifal lifted his head and gazed at her, astonishment clear on his face, and she put her arms around his neck. She shook her head. “You are too good and too modest. It was you, all along, but you never said or did anything, and I did not know if you ever would—or wanted to.”
He gave a halting laugh and kissed her again. “I wanted to. Oh sweet heaven, Bella, I wanted to,” he murmured against her lips. He moved his mouth firmly over hers, and she kissed him eagerly, tiptoeing so that she could reach him. Her foot slipped on the branch, and he steadied her with his arm around her waist.
Karen Harbaugh Page 17
