by Jenna Kernan
His mouth was tight when she stood up and the faint warmth of earlier had gone from his eyes. They were as cold as granite. Was he somehow hurt that she had refused his aid?
‘It is good for me to walk,’ she said, in a feeble attempt to lessen the blow, if indeed she was interpreting his expression correctly. ‘I have been sitting too long.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He bowed. ‘As you wish.’
‘Then I bid you goodnight, my lord. Thank you for a pleasant evening.’
‘I see good manners were also a part of the curriculum,’ he said drily as she passed out of the room.
As she limped back to her chamber, she had the strangest sensation of being followed. A sort of prickling at the back of her neck, but each time she turned around to look, there was no one there. She shivered, thinking of Gerald’s tales of hauntings.
Or was it something much simpler—was his lordship following her to make sure she did not stray? Somehow she felt much more comfortable with the first idea.
Chapter Nine
A wisp of light floated above the uneven floor. The nearby rocks lining the tunnel wall and ceiling were shown in glistening relief, the darkness beyond impenetrable. The ground sloped downwards beneath Mary’s feet. Steep. Rough. And Mary could hear the sea, a roaring grumbling vibration through the rocks.
The figure ahead beckoned. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ it whispered softly.
Sometimes it was right in front of her, sometimes it disappeared around a corner, leaving only a faint glow in its wake, but as long as Mary kept moving forwards, it was always there, just ahead. The White Lady. It could be no one else.
The chill was unearthly. Mary rubbed her bare arms and realised she was dressed only in her nightrail. Her bare feet were numb. She glanced back down the tunnel. She should get her shawl and slippers. Behind her there was only blackness. How far had she come? It seemed better to go on.
A long low moan echoed around her.
Rattling chains.
The glowing figure headed towards her, twisting like smoke. Fear caught at her heart. She turned and ran. Into the black. Ahead she could see a small wedge of light. Her chamber. Her stomach dropped away. She was falling. Into the dark.
A shriek split the air.
Mary jolted. Sat up, shaking.
Where was she? The last of the embers in her fire swam into focus. She shivered and looked around.
She was on her bed, her bedclothes on the floor. The only light in the room was a low red glow from the fire. Shadows clung to the walls. The air was freezing. Was that wretched door to the tunnel open? She shot out of bed. Rummaged for the poker among the sheets.
There. The comforting shape of iron. She grabbed it and held it high above her head. ‘Who is there?’ she
quavered.
Her door burst open.
She screamed, backing away, grasping the poker in two hands, staring at the shadowy figure menacing her from the doorway.
‘Get out,’ she warned, her voice full of panic.
The man, for it was a man and not a ghost, plucked a candle from the sconce outside her door and stepped boldly into the room. The light revealed the earl, dressed in naught but his shirt and breeches.
‘You!’ she said.
‘Miss Wilding. Mary. I heard you scream.’ He drew closer, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘Give me that.’
He could not possibly have heard her from his room in the south tower. She gripped her weapon tighter. ‘Stay away.’
In one swift movement he wrested the poker from her hand and flung it aside.
She pressed her back against the wall.
He stared at her as if shocked, then stepped back, hand held away from his side. ‘Take it easy, Miss Wilding.’ He replaced the unlit stub in the candlestick on her dressing table with the lit one in his hand.
Her body was shaking. Her heart racing. She put a hand on the bedside table for balance. ‘What do you want?’
He recoiled, as if startled by her vehemence, but as he looked at her, his eyes widened, and a sensual longing filled his expression as his gaze drifted down her body. Her insides tightened at the heat of the hunger in his eyes.
She gasped and, glancing down, realised how little she was wearing. She shielded herself with her hands. ‘Please. Leave.’
‘I think not.’ He strode for the chest at the end of her bed and picked up her robe that Betsy had left there, ready for the morning. He threw it at her. ‘Put this on.’
She caught it against her, but couldn’t seem to move. He huffed out an impatient sigh, came around the bed and threw it around her shoulders, wrapping it around her. ‘‘What the devil is going on here?’
He sounded genuinely perplexed. And perhaps even worried.
He had come through the door. Not from the tunnel. She had locked her door. She stared at the fire irons sitting neatly on the hearth. No longer her alarm, but simply fire irons. Someone had moved them since she had fallen asleep. Betsy? The light of the candle also showed the wall was exactly where it should be. How could she explain her fear without giving away her knowledge of what lay behind the wall?
Her breathing slowed. And although her body continued to tremble, she managed to catch her breath. If only she could think. She shuddered.
‘Was it a nightmare?’ he asked.
A nightmare. That would explain the vision of the ghost. The sensation of falling and yet awaking to find herself on her bed. It didn’t explain the freezing temperature.
His eyes shifted to the window, then shot back to her face. His jaw hardened. He crossed the room, closed the casement and spun around to face her. ‘What is going on here, Miss Wilding? A midnight visitor?’
She stared at him in astonishment and then at the window. ‘Certainly not. Fresh air is healthy.’ So healthy her teeth were aching with the urge to chatter—but she did not remember opening it.
‘Not in the middle of winter,’ he growled. ‘Why do I have the sense you are not telling me the truth?’
‘What reason do I have to lie?’
‘Because you answer a question with a question.’
He was lying, too. There was no earthly way he could have heard her cry out and arrived so quickly unless he was in the tunnel behind the wall.
She tried to keep her gaze away from the chimney. He must not know she was aware of it. He must have entered her room from there, closed it and gone out by the door. That would explain how he had entered when the door was locked. It did not explain the window.
‘Why did you cry out?’
‘I had a bad dream. I was asleep. Something was chasing me. I fell.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I fell. A long way down. But when I opened my eyes, I was here. And you came through the door.’
She started shaking again. It had all seemed so real. Felt real.
‘Then it was your scream I heard.’
‘I suppose it must have been.’ But she’d heard the scream, too. It had come from somewhere else. Above her head. Hadn’t it?
Or had she screamed in her sleep and frightened him off before he could do whatever it was he had intended? Before he could take drastic action. Before she could disappear in the tunnels below the house. Had he then pretended to burst in to allay her suspicions?
She didn’t dare give voice to her thoughts, in case she was right. Or in case she was wrong. She was just so confused. She pressed her hands together, staring at his face, trying to read his expression.
‘Mary,’ he murmured. Then muttered something under his breath. ‘Miss Wilding. Sit down before you fall.’
When she didn’t move he took her hand and led her to the bed. His large warm hands caught her around the waist and he lifted her easily on to the mattress. He looked down at the tangle of covers at his feet and then back at the wi
ndow. His mouth tightened.
‘Someone was here,’ he said. His voice harsh. And it wasn’t a question.
She shivered. You, she wanted to say. ‘I saw no one,’ she forced out. She could not let him know what she suspected. Nor could she accuse him without proof. ‘I saw no one. Only...only the White Lady. In my dream.’ It had to be a dream. She did not believe in ghosts. Would not.
He cursed softly, then took one of her hands in his, clearly intending to reason with her. His hands curled around her fingers. He frowned. ‘You really are freezing.’
He crossed to the fire, stirred up the embers and added a few lumps of coal, then came back to her, taking her hands in his and rubbing them briskly. He rubbed at her upper arms and she could feel the warmth stealing through her body. Not just because his rubbing, but because of his closeness, because of the heat from his body.
He stared into her face. His breathing was also less than steady and there was fear in his eyes, as if she had somehow unnerved him. Fear for her? The very idea of it plucked at her heartstrings, made her want to confide in him. She just didn’t dare.
His hands stopped their warm strokes and one came to her chin, tipping her face up, forcing her to either close her eyes or look at him. She chose to be bold, to return stare for stare. She would not show him how much she feared him, or how much she feared her responses to his touch.
‘Mary,’ he whispered, his rough voice containing a plea, as his warm breath grazed the cold skin on her cheek and his hungry gaze sparked heat low in her belly that seemed to trickle outwards.
‘My lord,’ she replied, shocked at the husky quality of her voice, at the difficulty she had breathing around the panicked beat of her heart.
A soft groan rumble up from his chest. Then his mouth covered hers. The storm of sensation racing through her body could not possibly be a dream. The way his hands roved her back, the way hers felt the muscle beneath the linen of his shirt. Nothing in her experience could lead her to imagine anything so wildly exciting.
Slowly he sank backwards on to the mattress. And heaven help her, she followed, not willing to break the magic of his wonderful kiss. His strong arms held her close against his body and he rolled her on to her back. He kissed her mouth, plying her lips softly at first, then his hunger grew more demanding, until she parted her lips and allowed him entry. He teased her tongue with little flicks and tastes until she dared taste him back. Such a heavenly silken slide. Deliciously wicked.
When his tongue slowly retreated, she followed with her own, exploring the warm dark cavern of his mouth, tasting wine and him, mingled in one heady brew.
A sweet ache, trembling inside her with longing, built slowly—a hot, anxious longing.
A low groan rumbled up from his chest and he rolled over her, one knee pressing between her thighs, one hand steadying her at her nape, the other moving to stroke her ribs, to gently cup her breast.
She gasped at the shock of it, at the unfurling pleasure of it that made her breast tingle. As if that light touch was not enough.
She moaned.
He raised his head, looking down into her face. The fire and the candle gave just enough light to see the silver glitter of his eyes, the sensual cast to his mouth as his gaze searched her face, then skimmed down to where his hand rested on the swell of her breast. Slowly he moved his thumb over her nipple. It tightened beneath the fabric of her night rail. And her insides clenched.
Of their own accord her hips arched into him, seeking relief from the tender ache. He closed his eyes briefly, but there was pleasure in the brief wince of pain. And the hunger in his expression intensified.
Again his head lowered and her lips parted in anticipation of his kiss. Only this time his gentle mouth drifted slowly across her cheek in light brushes that made her want more. Until he found her ear and breathed hot moist air that sent shivers sweeping across her breast, down her back, into the very core of her.
She wriggled and moaned.
He laughed softly in her ear, sending another spasm through her body. Then his scorching mouth was moving onwards, to her neck where he licked her and her pulse spiralled out of control, to the hollow of her throat, where he breathed deeply, as if to inhale her essence, across the rise of her breast to the nipple he had stroked with his thumb.
She held her breath.
Then his mouth closed over it. Hot. Wet. His tongue flicking and tormenting while she wriggled and squirmed beneath him, seeking to break the ever-tightening cord inside her.
‘No,’ she gasped.
He raised his head, looking into her eyes with that penetrating stare as if he could see right into her mind, as if he knew what was happening inside her body. ‘No? Shall I stop?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, though it took all of her will.
But as he started to move, she couldn’t bear it. ‘I must not. It isn’t right.’
‘It feels right,’ he said in that deep raspy voice. Seductive. Enticing. ‘You feel right.’ He cupped her breast. ‘Perfect, in fact.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘But you are right. This must wait until we are married.’
Married. But she hadn’t agreed they would be married.
He kissed her mouth. Chastely. Sweetly. Preparing to leave.
Hot with desire and hunger, her lips clung to his. Her hands grasped his shoulders, pulling him down to her, as she lifted her body to press her breasts against his wide chest. It felt so good to be close to him. To feel his strength. To feel connected.
Her thighs parted to press her mons against that beautifully heavy and hard-muscled thigh. She rocked her hips. Sweet pleasure, stole her breath and made her want more.
He broke away.
‘You must make up your mind, Mary,’ he said, his voice a low growl. ‘Marry me and finish this, or...not.’
She stared up at him. He was speaking of lust, not love. He was being forced into this by a grandfather he hated. Once they were wed, would he resent her? How could he not? But what was the alternative?
She turned her face away, trying to think, trying to make sense of it all.
The mattress shifted as he stood. The door clicked shut.
He had left without a word, quietly. Like a ghost. Did he assume she’d given her answer?
If so, what did that mean for her future?
The heat of her body slowly returned to normal and she rose from the bed, feeling the damp chill at her breast where he had suckled. The heat of embarrassment washed through her. How could she be so wanton with a man who—who might well prefer her dead?
She limped across the room and turned the key in the lock. She balanced the fire irons on the vase and stepped back. Had she forgotten to set them there last night? Had Betsy moved them? She couldn’t seem to remember.
Could she have moved them herself and wandered down the tunnel? In her sleep? Was she indeed hysterical, her fears getting the better of her once she fell asleep? Could she also have opened the window?
She swallowed the dryness in her throat. Was it her mind playing tricks? Or was she just trying to find an excuse for him, for the earl, because she didn’t want to believe he intended her harm?
Was she foolish enough to want to say yes to his offer of marriage?
She crawled back into her bed, her mind going around and around with questions she couldn’t seem to answer.
* * *
The next morning she felt so listless, so tired, she had asked Betsy to bring her breakfast in bed. She just could not face the Beresford family. Not the earl. Not the cousins. And definitely not Mrs Hampton.
Betsy returned with a tray looking as cheerful as always. ‘Eat up, miss,’ she said. ‘You’ll soon feel more the thing.’
‘Thank you.’ She glanced out of the window at a bright-blue sky. ‘The weather looks fine today.’
‘Sno
w’s on the way,’ Betsy said. ‘The calm before the storm.’
Mary laughed, but said nothing. She was used to local predictions of weather. They invariably turned out wrong. There seemed to be this feeling among country folk that good weather heralded bad. She tucked into the tea and toast she had requested while Betsy set out her gown.
‘His lordship is off to the mine,’ Betsy said, shaking out the creases in the blue muslin. ‘I heard him asking for that there black beast of his. Joe says it’s a vicious animal. The stable lads are all scared of it.’
Mary frowned. ‘The earl never mentioned he was going to the mine.’
‘He arranged it with the manager, Mr Trelawny, yesterday.’
And both men knew she wanted to go, too. Did the earl think she wouldn’t find out, or had he decided that she would be his wife and therefore the mine would soon be under his control? ‘Has his lordship left already?’
‘I wouldn’t know, miss.’
‘Go and find out, would you? And ask him to wait, if he hasn’t gone. Ask him to have the carriage readied for me.’ And if he had left? Might it be an opportunity for escape? ‘Betsy, if I missed him, please ask that the carriage be put to so I can follow on. He must have forgotten I was to go with him.’
Betsy stared at her. ‘But your foot, miss.’
‘It is well enough. Please hurry.’ She’d taken off the bandage before Betsy had come back with the tray and, though her ankle was still discoloured by the bruise, the swelling had quite gone and it only really hurt if she moved carelessly. It was strong enough for a carriage ride and a short walk. She wanted to see the condition of the children at the mine. She’d read a great deal recently by some forward-thinking women about the cruel conditions of such places. She could not bear the thought that those kind of conditions existed at something for which she was responsible.
While Betsy hurried off to do her bidding, Mary dressed. Fortunately for her, she’d been wearing her front-closing stays when the rest of her things had gone over the cliff, so she managed fairly well, and only needed Betsy to fasten the back of her gown when she returned with the news that his lordship was waiting. But not for long.
