“No, my dear. You stay and have dinner with Graham… I don’t want him alone. His welcome here has been shoddy enough already. But I am so very tired.”
Beatrice nodded. “Of course. I will come check on you before I retire.”
Lady Agatha patted her unmarked cheek and then tenderly pressed a kiss to Graham’s. “My son is returned to me. If my body were not so cursedly frail these days I would shout my joy from the battlements.”
“There will be time enough for that when you are rested,” Graham teased her gently.
Lady Agatha lifted her cheek and he dutifully kissed it, though such a tender gesture seemed out of character for him. When Lady Agatha had gone, he turned to Beatrice and said, “Thank you for that. For helping me with them.”
“You are welcome, of course, though I did nothing but offer the truth,” she answered, uncomfortable with his praise.
“I fear they are more concerned with how my presence affects them than with my actual identity.” He paused then, idly picking up a figurine from the table and examining it. “The maid was very quick to provide that information to Mrs. Blakemore and she, in turn, was eager to offer it to her husband. Am I so distrusted by everyone then?”
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, that is certainly not the way of it, my lord. The servants cannot abide Eloise. She is impossibly demanding and they would never do anything to assist her… as for assisting Edmund, his skinflint ways have resulted in many trusted servants departing Castle Black for greener pastures.”
His frown deepened, harsh lines bracketing a mouth that, were it not for his fierce expression, might have been called too pretty. “Then how did she learn of my scars? She whispered to Edmund and, immediately after, he demanded that I reveal the birthmark which they both clearly believed was not present. How did she know?”
It was Beatrice’s turn to frown. “I cannot say. But it is incredibly odd and certainly bears further looking into.”
He replaced the figurine. “Shall we go into dinner then? Just the two of us?”
Beatrice could only classify her reaction as panic. It would be a horrible mistake to spend more time in his company, to feed her growing fascination with him. “I can’t stay here with you.”
“It’s only for dinner. We will be well chaperoned by the four hundred servants lurking about,” he protested.
“Servants are never an adequate chaperone… and it isn’t wise for us to be so much in one another’s company,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Because I’m a rough-mannered sailor and you are a lady?” he asked. There was a curtness to his tone. She had wounded his pride.
“No,” Beatrice replied. “Because I should treat you as a sister would. That is what we were as children, growing up here like siblings. But that is not how I feel now, and when you look at me—” She stopped, too embarrassed to continue.
“When I look at you?” he prompted.
Beatrice shook her head and walked away from him, moving toward the window to put distance between them. He followed and she realized that she had known he would. It was not in his nature to give up the pursuit.
“When I look at you,” he said softly as he lifted a lock of her hair that had escaped from its pins. He rubbed it between his fingers in a way that made her want to lean into him, to let him touch any part of her he wished if only he would do so with that gentle intensity.
“It is not brotherly,” he continued, his voice pitched low and deep. There was a gruffness to it she had not heard before but it didn’t frighten her. It awakened something inside her, something wanton and wicked. “We are not siblings. We are little more than strangers and, yet, every part of me screams that should be rectified.”
“And that is why we should stay far from one another, my lord. You are Lord Blakemore. It is your duty to marry well—to secure an heiress and ensure the family coffers are plump for generations to come. I am not an heiress. Were it not for the charity of your family, heaven knows where I’d be today.”
“And that is where you think my mind has gone? To marriage?” he demanded.
Beatrice blushed. “No. I do not think it has. And therein lies the crux of the matter. I may be a penniless ward of your family, I may not have anything that belongs solely to me in this world, but I have my honor and I mean to keep it. So you keep your distance, Lord Blakemore, and I will keep mine.”
*
It would shock her to know that marriage had crossed his mind, that it had been tumbling about in the recesses of his brain from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. But he couldn’t say that to her. He would not offer her something that he was not yet free to give. When his identity was thoroughly proven, when the House of Lords dismissed Edmund’s claims for surely he would bring formal suit there to have him declared an imposter and the real Lord Graham Blakemore dead, only then could he offer her more.
Even as he conceded in his mind that she was completely right, that distance between them was the wisest course of action, he found himself reaching for her. One of his hands snaked around her wrist and pulled her closer to him. There was a second of resistance, a slight hesitation, and then she let him have his way.
They were close, their breaths mingling and their lips scant inches apart.
“I don’t care who I am supposed to marry or why. When I marry, it will be because I have chosen to do so and because the woman I make my bride is one I cannot live without,” he vowed softly. “But right now, I think I cannot live another moment without kissing you. I want to kiss you, Beatrice, very badly.”
“And I want to be kissed,” she whispered in reply. “But it isn’t wise.”
“Then wisdom be damned,” he muttered, before claiming her lips.
The taste of her was sweeter than he’d anticipated. Her skin was like velvet against his and her lips were so soft that it could only make him think how soft she would be elsewhere. The delights concealed by her modest gown called to him, but she was not some dockside tavern wench to be tumbled for a coin.
But lady or no, Beatrice was not immune to desire. As his lips moved over hers, testing every curve, mapping the lush contours and memorizing the satiny texture, she began to kiss him back. Shy and untutored, it incited his lust more than any woman ever had.
Lifting one hand to her slightly mussed hair, he let the silken strands slide through his fingers. Without warning, he tightened his fist. Not pulling her hair, but holding her there with firm, commanding pressure. She gasped, and it was the opportunity he had been waiting for.
Sweeping his tongue into the warm recesses of her mouth, tangling it against hers, he felt the precise moment when all resistance fled. She sank against him, her body lax and warm. The crush of her breasts against his chest was sensual torment and, yet, he would not sacrifice that torture for anything. It was a victory and he would claim it as such.
He kissed her thoroughly. It was not the way a man should kiss a woman who was still innocent. He kissed her as he would have a skilled and experienced lover, until they were both breathless and shuddering, clinging to one another.
It was the dinner gong that brought him to his senses. Abruptly, Graham pulled his lips from hers. Her face was flushed, lips parted and swollen, and her eyes were glazed by passion.
“Do not stay for dinner… ask for a tray in your room and, for God’s sake, stay far away from me until I can trust what little decency I have in me not just to take you here,” he implored, his voice roughened by need and his words harsher than necessary.
She straightened abruptly, pulling away from him in shock and horror at what had nearly passed between them. There were no words, but none were needed. Her fleeing form was all the confirmation he needed to be certain that she had been as lost to the moment as he had been.
*
It was after midnight when she came to him, when the rest of the house had finally succumbed to sleep. She slipped into the room he had claimed for his own. Her expression was contrite.
“It didn’t work,
” she said. “Because of Beatrice. She ruined everything.”
Fury washed through him, but he tamped it down. It was not her fault and he would not punish her for the failing, not out of any sense of fairness but because he recognized the need to never let her be certain of his reactions. It was the most effective way to control her. “Do not worry, my darling. I will take care of Beatrice. Our plans will go forward.”
She ran to him then, pressing herself against him. The heaviness of her breasts against his side stirred his lust. “I was so afraid you would be angry with me,” she admitted, her voice nearly childlike.
“My dear, Eloise, I have never had a more worthy and willing ally. Why would I be angry? You could not have known that Beatrice would rush to his rescue or that she would provide such information.”
She drew back from him. “You knew! You heard the entire thing!”
“I did hear it… and I saw it. I also saw them together afterward. Your Beatrice is not nearly as innocent as she claims. Innocents do not allow filthy pirates to kiss them as eagerly as she did!”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! Did they do more than kiss?”
“No, more’s the pity,” he answered. “It would have been quite entertaining to watch them… the lady and her rough-hewn lover. Is she a virgin, do you think? Or has your husband succeeded in ravishing the poor, little, orphaned ward?”
Eloise pushed against him. “Why does it matter? Why on earth would you be so interested in her?”
A jealous, spitting cat, he thought. One hand snaked out, gripping her slender throat. “Because I am. You forget yourself, Eloise.”
“I am sorry,” she gasped, struggling to break his hold and failing. “You’re hurting me!”
He squeezed tighter for just one moment longer, until he could see true fear in her eyes. Only then did he let go. She stumbled backward and stared up at him with a mixture of fear and desire. That was true power, that he could abuse her so and yet still she craved him, he thought. “Remember that. I have the power and the ability to break you if I choose. That I have offered to let you be part of what I mean to achieve here should be all the reassurance you need of my affections!”
She nodded her agreement, rubbing her tender throat and the handprint he had left behind. “What shall we do next?”
“I think it’s time for Beatrice to have an accident. We cannot afford for her to continue muddying the waters… you will alert me if she leaves the castle.”
“Why not here? She could fall down the stairs easily enough,” Eloise suggested.
“And if she does not perish immediately and there are people to rush to her aid? No. It’s better away from here… isolated, where assistance will not be available. Stay close to her and keep me informed.”
Again, she nodded her assent. “Certainly.”
“Now, get on the bed,” he urged softly, “and I will give you what you came here for.”
He saw her hesitate, but it was brief. As always, she complied. Eloise craved attention more than she craved anything else. It didn’t much matter whether it came in the form of pain or pleasure, which only made her easier to manipulate to his own ends.
Chapter Five
The waves crashed against the rocks in an endless rhythm. As wild and ferocious as it was, it soothed her battered senses, but not to the degree it normally did. The Cauldron was a dangerous place, one that children were warned against and where many a reckless youth had ended tragically. The towering, basalt columns formed almost a full circle and when the tide was high, that circle filled with water, each wave bashing against the rock.
Beatrice hissed out a breath as she scraped her hand on a sharp stone. The tide had not yet reached its peak, and she liked to sit atop those rocks from time to time and look out at the sea beyond. It soothed her soul. Perhaps the familiar sights and sounds of the sea she loved would give her the inner peace she craved.
As mighty and wild as the ocean was, it typically made her own problems seem insignificant in comparison. It allowed her to see how minuscule her place in the universe truly was.
Clambering over the stones until she reached the top and settled herself down, Beatrice knew that peace would be in short supply as long as Graham remained at Castle Black. Between Edmund’s demands and suspicions, Christopher’s growing isolation even in their midst, and Lady Agatha’s ever increasing frailty, there was already enough to deal with. When taken into account with her own wanton behavior and the harsh regret that had come in its wake, it was no wonder she felt out of sorts.
She could not imagine what he must have thought of her. Never in her life had she behaved so recklessly and with so little thought for propriety. Despite the evidence of his scar and his clear resemblance to Lord Nicholas, there was still no absolute proof that he was Lord Blakemore. And she had thrown herself at him. She had let him kiss her as if—well, as if she were not a lady at all.
Why did he tempt her so? He was handsome. If she had to categorize it, she would say he was undoubtedly the most handsome man she’d ever seen. But not in the way of a gentleman. His features were rough-hewn and chiseled, all sharp angles and planes with none of the softness to him that marked nobility. It was a point in his favor, truthfully. She’d never been attracted to men who looked softer than she did—men like Edmund.
Then there were his manners. They were fine, but not courtly. It was clear, at times, that he struggled with recalling the rules of how to behave in polite society, when to stand, whom to speak to first. At dinner, she’d noted how cautiously he watched others before choosing the appropriate utensil for each course.
His intelligence, for there was no denying it, was keen and enticing. He had learned to live by his wits, had survived in a world that clearly held him at a disadvantage. It was mesmerizing to think of all that he had done, all that he had learned and seen. While the circumstances that bore these adventures were tragic, she could not deny a small amount of jealousy. Her world was so very small, after all. The village on occasion, but by and large, it was limited solely to the confines of Castle Black and the surrounding grounds.
Was it that longing for adventure, to experience something so far outside the realm of what was normal for her that had driven her to act so imprudently?
A noise, the scuffling sound of feet moving over the sharp rocks and dislodging loose pebbles, brought her quickly out of her reverie of self-castigation.
“Is anyone there?” she called out. No one replied. Had it only been her imagination? The wind sending loose stones tumbling? From her perch, she could see nothing on the far side of the stones and it was impossible to look behind her without losing her balance entirely.
Uneasy and without adequate evidence to support the feeling, Beatrice nonetheless decided that it was time to cut short her self-indulgent melancholy and return home. As she climbed to her feet, she had to battle the wind to keep her skirt from tangling around her feet.
Stooped over, tugging at her skirt, she did not hear them approach. But when the long, black shadow fell over her, she knew instantly that she was not alone after all. The steps she’d thought she heard had, in fact, been real. There was no question that the figure’s intent was ill. Otherwise, the person would have replied when she called out.
Bracing herself for whatever might come, Beatrice rose to her full height. She realized that the intruder was male. The man stood before her, wearing a dark cape and a hat pulled low with a dark cloth tied over his face. Not even his eyes were visible and the rough-looking cloak fit so poorly, it was impossible to discern whether he was thin or heavy beneath it. In short, whoever he was, he’d concealed himself thoroughly.
“I’ve no money,” she said, hoping that robbery was his only motive.
He didn’t speak nor did he acknowledge that she had. Instead, he reached for her.
Beatrice fought him. She kicked and clawed, batting at his grasping hands, but it was all to no avail. His arms closed around her so tightly that she could not even draw breath. Had she
successfully evaded Edmund’s advances for nigh on two years only to have her innocence taken by a masked stranger?
All too quickly, it became evident that his intent was more wicked still. He half-carried and half-dragged her to edge of the rocks. As she peered over the edge, Beatrice let out a sharp scream. The tide was coming in now, frothy water filling the round formation of rocks.
She clutched at him as he let her go. But he shoved her forcefully, sending her tumbling backward over that precipice into the cold water gathering below.
Her last vision before the blackness claimed her was the dark silhouette of her attacker standing on that rocky ledge watching her fall.
*
Graham had slept late, missing breakfast altogether. Plagued by strange dreams throughout the night, he awoke in a foul mood.
Lying back in the bed, reluctant to get up and face the day, those dreams replayed in his mind. They’d been pleasant enough to start with, he reflected. Beatrice had been in them, wearing the same blue dress as the woman in the portrait that hung in his room. Her dark hair had wafted about her as she danced along the corridors, every movement providing flashes of dusky pink nipples through the sheer lace that trimmed the gown. It wasn’t exactly a mystery why he’d dreamed of her that way. Their kiss in the drawing room, brief though it had been, had incited a lust in him that he had never known.
It went far beyond just the basic need to slake his lust with a willing and pretty woman. More primal and insistent than that, he felt drawn to her, compelled to possess her in a way that he never had with any other woman. And yet, he knew she was out of his reach. Who was he to ask for such things from a gently-bred young woman? Title or no, he was still a worthless sea dog—a sometime sailor and sometime pirate. He’d worked on any ship that would pay him and get him closer to England without bothering to ask what might be required of him. She deserved better than that, but he wasn’t an altruist. If she offered, he would not deny himself the pleasure and the cost be damned.
The Lost Lord of Black Castle (The Lost Lords Book 1) Page 6
