by Nhys Glover
Phil watched his lips pull back across strong white teeth. He shifted his position against the door, so he was standing at full height, and could look down on her. Her eyes now viewed his throat above the unbuttoned shirt. A tantalizing glimpse of chest hair caught her attention. Brown and curly like his unkempt hair. Her fingers itched to touch it.
'I...I am sorry to have interrupted your... ablutions. When I told Charlotte she could not return to her room, she charged off. I hadn't expected her to do such a thing. But she can be wild and uncontrollable at these times. She will... settle shortly...'
'Where has she been that she was not here last night?' She spoke the words, but wasn't paying attention to them. All that mattered, in that moment, was the pulse beating in the muscular throat, and the tightly clamped jaw that was dark with several day’s growth of beard.
What would it feel like, that stubbled chin? Rough and rasping like sandpaper? Or would it be like tiny pin pricks? She could remember how rough her father's cheeks had felt when he had not shaved. It had been an odd juxtaposition to the soft springiness of his moustaches.
This man before her did not wear moustaches. Nor did he maintain the fashionable sidelevers. His face would be totally devoid of hair, once he found time to shave. She found she liked the way he looked, just as he was.
'She was here,' he replied starkly, and for a moment Phil's thoughts bounced from appreciation of the man's facial hair to his contradictory words. She jerked her head up to look into his eyes.
'I... I don't understand. You just said she wasn't. You said no one but a gardener's son was here.' She watched his eyes, while her mind remained dazed and confused. It felt that something ominous was about to happen. Something she didn't want to have happen.
To stall it, to keep the darkness at bay for just a little longer, she reached out, and touched his lips to stop the words from being said. For, once they were spoken, there would be no going back. Everything would change forever. Intuitively she knew it to be true.
CHAPTER FOUR
Byron felt the light touch of her fingers on his open mouth. He sucked in a deep breath, shocked to the core by her actions. The dream had touched him. The vision, which had filled his eyes since he’d entered the brightly lit room, was real. It must not be a dream. But something as lovely as the girl before him could not be part of the nightmare that he lived every day. She had to be a dream.
When he’d chased Charlotte into the room, intent only on saving the new mistress from an angry attack, he had not expected to find something so perfect awaiting him. Nothing had prepared him for the beauty of the woman caught sponging her perfect alabaster skin with fragrant suds.
Her breasts were full and uplifted, tipped with rose buds erect from the chill of the air that touched them. He had wanted to taste those buds, even as he grabbed the angry harpy who threatened her. How would they taste? Lush, came the answer.
Just like her gently rounded hips and the peach-shaped, delectable derrière. Lush. Just like the dark auburn triangle of maidenhair, saturated by rose-scented suds. And those long, long legs that no statue of a goddess could do justice. Lush!
But, all he could do about the bounty that greeted his eyes was to turn away from it, as he wrestled the crazed creature out of the door. Why did they have to be so unnaturally strong? It took all his strength to get one small woman across and out of that room. And he was no weakling.
Once it was shut, he had rested his back against the door that separated nightmare from dream. Outside, the nightmare went on, screaming obscenities, and banging on the door. Inside, there was only light, beauty, and the smell of roses. He wanted it to stay that way forever.
When she had wrapped herself in the towel, he had felt a moment's disappointment. But then he realised that there was still plenty to feast his eyes on. The towel only just covered her torso. Her long, elegant legs were still totally naked. And with each step, those long legs came closer to him. He could see the gooseflesh rising on that pale flesh. He wanted to cover the cold skin with his warm hands. He wanted to touch her everywhere.
Instead, he kept his distance, and tried to keep from going mad with lust for what he could never have.
But she didn't behave as a dream should. She touched his lips, and turned the dream into reality. He knew she was keeping him from speaking words she didn't want to hear, but all he could think of was that she had touched him. The beautiful vision had touched him.
With a groan of despair, he reached out for her, and pulled her into his arms, replacing her fingertips with soft, moist lips. They were chilled at first, but warmed instantly as he claimed them, his tongue plunged deep into the heat of her mouth. In those moments, there was no nightmare, there was only this: the wonder and joy of touching her; the light-headed ecstasy of tasting her; the joy of pressing her slim, but luscious body, against his; and the thought of driving the cold loneliness away with her eager warmth.
It had been so long since he held a woman in his arms like this, felt her open to him so naturally, as if it was meant to be. But those long ago memories of a young man’s dalliance could not compare to what he experienced now. She was so much more.
His heart raced, as he stroked her soft skin. Each breath was a gasp, as if he had run for miles. Limbs that, only moments before, had been strong and agile, now seemed heavy and drugged. Every action seemed to be in slow motion, intensely felt, moment by exquisite moment. And his fevered brain cried out for more; more of her lush taste, more of her silky texture; and more of the heady scent of rose and earthy woman. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her – wanted to drown in the intensity of her, bury himself deep inside the dark, moist core of her, and become something else. Something more.
Then sanity raised its stark head, as the banging on the door started up again in earnest. He could hear Mary, the little maid, talking feverishly to the hoyden, but her words were making no difference. Charlotte was working herself up into a monstrous tantrum.
He dragged himself away from the dream, and concentrated on drawing in life-sustaining breaths. In his hands, he held the naked beauty, trembling from the intensity of her arousal. With a few stark words, he could turn that arousal into ash, transform those drowsy eyes, drugged with desire, into icy pits of horror. It would take so little to end the dream. But the nightmare would never end.
Byron felt tears of impotent rage sting his eyes. He wanted this. He wanted this glorious being he held in his arms, more than he wanted life. But already the questions were forming in those golden brown eyes. And she would get the answers she sought, no matter what price had to be paid for them.
'What is wrong with her? Is she mad? Is this what I have come to? An insane asylum?' Her voice was no more than a whisper, as she listened to the banging that threatened to bring down the walls around them.
'In a way, that is exactly what this is. An asylum...' he replied, his voice conveying the utter exhaustion he felt.
As suddenly as it had started, the banging stopped. He then heard the two women talking, as they moved away down the hall. He sagged against the door; sure he would fall, if not for its support. Yet his hands never left the naked shoulders of the girl in front of him.
She too seemed suddenly drained of energy. She leaned in, and rested her head against his chest, her arms wrapping around him, seeking comfort.
'I don't understand what is happening,' she mumbled against his shirt, and his arousal throbbed at her closeness.
With all the gentleness he could muster, all the strength he still retained, he drew her away from him, so that he could meet her gaze. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, were like molten gold.
In that moment, all he wanted to do was take her away from all this. He wanted his life back. He wanted to leave Hell behind, and find Heaven in this girl's arms. Surely, after all he had done in the last nine years, surely he deserved some happiness?
But as quickly as the thought had come, he dismissed it. His responsibilities weighed too heavily on him, t
o ever walk away. If he left, what would become of them? These people could as easily be his mother and father, had they lived. Their lives were agony enough already. Without him, it would only become so much worse.
He could not destroy so many, just so he could find a few stolen moments of happiness. He had known what he was agreeing to, all those years ago. It had seemed a valiant charge, back then. But now he was tired of it all. Tired of the weight he carried alone, now that the Captain was gone.
'This is how my father made his fortune. He started a mad house. I cannot believe it.' She was muttering now, as she stared into his eyes, her own thoughts obviously not running in tandem to his own. She was trying to put the puzzle pieces together, not realizing that some major pieces were still missing.
For the moment, it was probably better that she followed that line of thought. It was, in its way, partially true.
‘Is it like this all the time?’ she asked.
‘No. It is only bad during the full moon. That is why I wanted you gone last evening. It was the last night of the full moon.’ He drew her away from him, and directed her toward her clothing. ‘Please, get dressed. I do not think I can retain what little of the gentleman that remains, with you in such a state.’
He left her to go to the window, where he looked down on the garden, in all its morning glory. Trying to ignore the sounds of her dressing, he sought explanations for the Keep in ways she could accept.
‘I have heard that lunatics are worse at the full moon. It must be so hard for you, especially now that my father has gone.’
‘The Captain is sorely missed. He was a great man.’
Moments later, she was standing at his side, undoing the long braid of tawny hair, so it fell in crimped waves around her shoulders. The sight stole his breath away.
Fighting the urge to reach out, and run his fingers through its shining skeins, he knotted his hands together, instead. They shook from the strain.
‘I just don’t understand why he could not tell us about all this. He left us alone, devastated by grief, to live in poverty. Maybe my mother would not have wanted to live here. It would have been too confronting for her. But he could have found her a place nearby. He could have given her the life she should have had. Why would he turn his back on us, so completely?’
‘He had his reasons,’ he ground out between clenched teeth. Would she never get that hair rebraided, so he didn’t have to fight the temptation of those shining waves?
‘That he could set up a woman like that Charlotte in a room like this, and leave his own wife to eke out her pennies in a dank little flat, is unspeakable. Was she his mistress? Is that why he gave her such a fine room? She seems to think she deserves it far more than I.’
‘Charlotte’s parents pay her way here. She had this room because she has been here the longest, and I imagine she feels she is entitled to it, for that reason. But no, she was not your father’s mistress. To my knowledge, there was no woman in his life.’
Phil nodded her head slowly, churning over what he had told her. ‘I am glad to hear that. It would be so much worse, if he had abandoned us for another woman.’
‘Philomena, Miss Davenport, I do not think that he abandoned you…’
‘Please, call me Phil. We seem to have reached a level of intimacy that makes Miss Davenport seem ludicrous. And no one calls me Philomena, unless they are angry with me.’ She smiled mischievously up at him. ‘You aren’t still angry with me, are you, Byron?’
The laughter that broke free from deep within him was so unexpected, and took him so much by surprise, that he almost choked on it. He remembered how furious he had been with her the night before. How she had challenged and taunted him until he wanted to strangle her. And, although he could imagine she could drive him to that place very easily again, in this moment, anger was definitely not what he was feeling toward her.
‘I should be. You are the most stubborn, pig-headed woman I have ever encountered. But no, I am not angry with you. Phil it is then,’ he managed to get out between gales of laughter.
‘I like hearing you laugh. You should do it more often.’
He sobered immediately, and turned toward the door. ‘I have no reason to laugh. My charge is not a laughing matter. Come, you must be hungry. We can break our fast, and you can meet some of the other residents.’
CHAPTER FIVE
In daylight, the pile of weathered stones looked much more like an ancient castle than she had expected, although it was still in a poor state of repair. As they made their way down the curved staircase to the foyer, Phil saw signs of opulence and comfort, mixed in with the shabbiness. The marble floors were beautifully polished, and inlaid with patterned malachite. But, above their heads was a grotesque wooden chandelier from a bygone age that was covered with wax and cobwebs.
Before she had a chance to take in more of the contrasts, Byron was directing her into the morning room, where a sideboard was set up with an array of cold foods. She followed her host, and picked at the selection with half her concentration. The other half was reserved for the people who surrounded her.
There were five people in the room already, sitting with plates of food in front of them, at the one big table. No one was talking, and except for a cursory glance, no one was paying her any attention. She noticed the hoyden called Charlotte was sitting quietly at one end, eating an apple, while the little maid sat next to her, buttering a slice of bread.
That surprised her. It was not usual for servants to sit with their masters to eat. But that was not the only anomaly. A roughly dressed labourer entered the room, and made for the buffet. He grabbed up a few choice pieces of meat on a chunk of bread, and then hurried out again, without a glance in anyone’s direction.
‘We are an egalitarian house, Phil. Their condition breaks down all false barriers of class and occupation.’ Byron led her over to join the men who were eating cold pork pies.
‘Jasper, this is Miss Davenport, the Captain’s daughter.’
A handsome young gentleman with golden blonde hair looked up at her, and nodded. His eyes were the most startling blue she had ever seen.‘I am sorry for your loss. Your father was much loved, and will be missed.’
Before she could smile her thanks for his kind words, Jasper had dropped his eyes again, and had begun cutting his pie into small pieces, without making any effort to eat any of it.
‘Thank you.’ She replied anyway, just for politeness sake, even though it was clear that the young gentleman had little interest in hearing her response.
‘And this is Will. He is my … right hand man,’ Byron went on, indicating the huge man with a broken nose sitting next to Jasper. ‘He fought in the Crimea, like your father.’
The man looked up, and took her in with grey eyes that were half wild and far too knowing. She drew in closer to Byron’s side, seeking his protection.
‘The Captain was a good man. He deserved better than a daughter who rejected him.’ Will’s angry comment held the burr of a Scotsman in it.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Phil choked out.
The man met her gaze, but said no more.
‘Will, we don’t know why…’ Jasper interceded, obviously trying for fairness. Phil didn’t need his defence. She would not leave such criticism unchallenged.
‘Let me clarify the situation, Mr… Will. Up until a week ago, I did not know my father had survived the Crimea. My mother raised me on a war widow’s pension until she died, in poverty. The only saving grace in all this, to my mind, is that she never had to know that the husband she had loved so dearly was really a wealthy man who had abandoned her.’ Phil let her disapproval be carried by tone, as much as by words, not caring which of her father’s friends she offended.
Will’s expression changed swiftly, closing down completely, so that his face could have been carved in stone. ‘I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion. It is easily done here. Your father did what he thought was best.’
‘For himself…’ she shot bac
k angrily.
‘For you and your mother. He was protecting you.’
‘From what? Answer me that!’
‘Phil, let it go. There is time for…’
‘No. I am tired of the secrets and the mystery. Tell me what kind of asylum my father is running here, that made him a wealthy man. You all look perfectly sane to me. Even you,’ she nodded toward the woman called Charlotte, who was staring at her with barely concealed distain.
‘Lass, you don’t want an answer to that question. Make yourself at home here for a few months, and then get away from this hell hole as fast as you can. And don’t look back.’ Will’s words were cold and expressionless.
‘Don’t tell me what I want, or what I should do. Byron tried that last night, and he soon realised I am not some whimpering ninny to go running at the first sign of a threat.’
She watched as Will and Byron exchanged a look, which was then shared with Jasper and the middle-aged man sitting at his side.
‘She deserves to know. Her father wouldn’t have brought her here, if he hadn’t wanted her to know.’ Jasper met her gaze for a moment, and the raw pain she saw in his eyes filled her with fear. What was going on here?
The air in the room changed abruptly, as one by one, the residents began to leave, their meals unfinished. It would seem that they had less courage than she had, when it came right down to it. The last ones to rise were Jasper and Will.
‘You will understand why we do not want to be present when you get the answers you are looking for. We have all seen the look you will have in your eyes before,’ Jasper said, as a way of excuse, just before he followed Will from the room.
‘I certainly have the ability to clear a room quickly, don’t I?’ She couldn’t help laughing mirthlessly at her own joke. Byron put his flatware on the table, and pulled out a chair for her. Then he sat at her side in stony silence, playing with the fruit on his plate.
