by Adele Clee
“You’re right,” she said lifting her chin. “Come, Mr. Stone. You may follow me.”
Miss Linwood took the candlestick from his hand and with a swish of her skirt went out into the hallway.
The shabby corridor felt dark and oppressive as opposed to the feeling of pure decadence created in the drawing room. Gabriel wondered what the decor in her bedchamber would reveal about her character.
As she opened the door, he noticed her hand tremble. Did the room remind her of her nightmares or was it his presence in such an intimate space that affected her most?
Gabriel followed her inside, watched her light the candelabra at her bedside and despite all his pious protestations, thoughts of seduction swamped his mind.
The decor in the room did not help matters: the red walls, the deep-red hangings on the canopy bed, the soft muted light, all excited his senses and fed his ravenous appetite.
What the hell was wrong with him?
As she brushed past him to lock the door, he covered her hand with his own, trying his best to dismiss the fire coursing through his veins.
“You do not need to lock the door tonight,” he said, quickly dropping his hand before he did something he would later regret.
“If you’re sure.”
He simply nodded, fearing his voice would reveal the depth of his desire and so feigned interest in the oak furnishings, in the view from the window, in anything to help cool his heated blood.
“These are an unusual choice,” he finally said, pulling the black shutters closed. They felt cold to the touch, the wood moist, and he could smell a faint hint of soil.
“They were not my choice,” she replied. “The wind rattles the window at night, and they only serve to enhance the sound.”
“I imagine the noise is rather like an echo.” He turned to face her, pulling his watch from his pocket. “It’s eleven thirty. Perhaps we should take our positions.”
The corners of her mouth curved slightly, the weak smile revealing nerves, apprehension, he was not sure. “Where do you want me?” she whispered.
Oh, he could answer that question. He wanted her everywhere and every way he possibly could. “Follow your usual routine,” he said bringing his fist to his mouth to cough, resisting the urge to bite down on his knuckles. “As I said, you do not need to get undressed. I shall pull the chair up to the bed and sit here.”
Picking up the chair from the corner of the room, he positioned it in such a way as to offer a perfect view of the door, before hanging his coat over the back and taking a seat.
“Normally, I undress and then wash here,” she said, pouring water from a pitcher into a floral bowl. She set about washing her hands, rolling the soap between her elegant fingers, and a waft of lavender drifted through the air just to tease him. She was still wearing her muslin dress, but that was not the vision he saw. “Then I lock the door,” she continued as she dried her hands, “fasten the key around my neck and climb into bed.”
“And the candles?”
Dipping the tips of her fingers into the water, she extinguished the single candle, the wick sizzling in protest as she tiptoed over to the bed.
Noticing his questioning brow, she added, “Usually, I would have bare feet.”
“I see,” he said, turning to inspect the sudden draft breezing in through the shutters. Thankfully, it had no effect on him as his body was about ready to combust.
After dousing all the candles they were plunged into darkness, and his other senses soon sprang to attention.
As she lay on the bed, her breathing became short, strained, perhaps from the anticipation of what the next hour would bring. His nose twitched causing him to inhale deeply, the smell of lavender swamping him now, obliterating the sterile smell that always accompanied the cold.
Even in the dark, he was aware of the rise and fall of her chest. The movement roused thoughts of gentle waves drifting back and forth upon the shore, and he found the image calming, soothing.
They remained silent for a few minutes, maybe more.
Alert to all sounds, Gabriel heard a distinct shuffling noise coming from the room beneath them. Not the shuffling of feet, more like an object being pushed along a bare floor.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
He raised his hand, although doubted she could see it. “Yes, but I need you to be quiet.”
The noise continued for a few minutes and then stopped, replaced by a scratching — nails against hollow wood — the sound of someone or something trying to claw its way out of a box.
As the noise grew louder, he was aware of Miss Linwood’s hand gripping the counterpane, gathering the material into a tight fist. Guilt delivered a single stab to his chest, a punishment for thinking her foolish and delusional. The terrifying image of her lying night after night alone in her bed delivered the second blow.
How on earth had she coped with this for more than a week?
It was while he was straining to listen that the wind rattled the shutters, the shock causing him to jump. “Is that a coincidence?” he whispered.
“No. Listen for the weeping.”
The sound of squeaking rats could easily be mistaken for whimpering. He closed his eyes in a bid to focus his attention, hearing the faint mumble, deeper in tone than a whisper. As the noise grew louder, it sounded more like a sorrowful wail, yet it struck him that it had a distinct pattern, a rhythmical beat, like the chanting of a spell or a curse.
Miss Linwood sat up. “Do you hear it, Mr. Stone?”
“I do,” he said, taking a firm hold of his boot before yanking it off and placing it gently on the floor next to him.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh. Taking off my boots,” he said, removing the other article in question.
She shuffled closer. “Why?”
“Because I’m going to go down there.”
Her hand flew out and grabbed his arm, gripping his skin through the fine lawn shirt. “No. You mustn’t.”
He placed his hand over hers, ignoring the intimacy of the moment. “Lock the door when I’m gone.”
With the stealth of a wildcat out on the hunt, Gabriel padded over to the door, picking up the candlestick on his way out and holding it at his side like a club.
The hallway was dark, but his eyes were accustomed to it now and with ease he found himself in the Egyptian museum. Glancing up at the ceiling, he imagined the layout of the upstairs rooms and so followed the walkway, searching for the room beneath her bedchamber.
As he approached Miss Linwood’s office, he could hear the mumbling and followed it to a closed door a few feet away.
This was no curse, he thought, gripping the candlestick tightly, the metal getting hotter in his sweaty palm. This was not an infestation of rats, either.
What he suspected was something far more sinister.
Chapter 6
Rebecca watched him walk through the door, her heart beating so loudly she thought it might burst through her chest.
Her fear had nothing to do with her own predicament. The only thing she feared now was for the safety of Gabriel Stone.
It should have felt awkward having him in her private chamber. It should have felt unnatural and constrained, but it didn’t. For some strange reason, it felt as normal as taking a breath. There was something about his presence that made her feel safe, made her feel the world was full of bright and wonderful things. Now he’d gone, the room felt cold and desolate once more.
She climbed out of bed and tiptoed towards the door, her head telling her to turn the key in the lock, her heart refusing to shut him out.
What if there really was a curse?
What if another bust toppled over the stairs? He would never see it falling in the dark. Mr. Dempsey almost died. Now Gabriel Stone had run off into the night with nothing to aid him but a candlestick.
She knew then what she must do.
Easing the door away from its jamb, she crept out into the hallway, tiptoed along the co
rridor and down the stairs.
“Mr. Stone.”
Rebecca whispered his name, her plea met with nothing but an eerie silence and so she made her way through the Egyptian room, peeking behind the tall display cases as she moved cautiously along. The door at the end of the gallery led out into a hall containing various rooms: her office, the pot room, and the storeroom. It was from there that she heard the commotion.
“What the hell!” Mr. Stone yelled at the top of his voice. “Come here you —”
Rebecca heard bangs, thuds, the sound of shattering glass and tumbling boxes. She hurried over to the door to grab the handle but it flew open, a frantic figure knocking her to the floor as he took flight along the gallery.
Her scream got lost in her throat, and she rolled onto her back to see Gabriel Stone charge at her, his face twisted and contorted, his eyes as cold and as hard as flint. It was as though he didn’t know her, seeing an image of his own creation. He raised the candlestick above his head, and then Rebecca screamed.
“Miss Linwood?” he gasped, his bewildered gaze flitting between her limp body and the figure in the distance. He threw the candlestick to the floor and pulled her back up to her feet. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Wait here a moment.”
He rushed from the room, skidding on the floor as he navigated the door. Barely a minute passed before he returned, his face flushed, his breathing ragged. “He’s gone … gone out through the front door.”
Rebecca watched him catch his breath, fixated by the raw masculine power emanating from him. His muscular arms strained against the constraints of his shirt. His fists were like clenched weapons primed for attack.
“What happened?” she asked. But he ignored her question.
“I told you to lock the door,” he said, marching towards her. “What are you doing down here? I almost hit you with the blasted candlestick.”
Rebecca took a few deep breaths. “I was worried. I thought something might have happened to you.”
He narrowed his gaze and then his expression softened. “You were worried about me?”
When she nodded, he seemed surprised and simply stared at her. “Come,” he finally said. “We need to secure the house, and I do not want to leave you up here alone.”
Although his words were softer now, he took her by the arm, as a parent would a disobedient child.
That was not how she wanted him to see her.
It was not how she wanted him to remember her when he was lying in his bed at night. The thought roused a strange mix of emotions: the need for him to see her as strong and independent and the need for him to see her as a desirable woman.
“I’m quite capable of walking on my own, Mr. Stone,” she said shaking her arm free and striding on ahead.
“You may walk on your own, Miss Linwood,” he said, catching up with her and turning to block her path. “But you’re not spending another night on your own in this house.”
The image of her half-brother, George, flashed through her mind, a man whose need to control outweighed any other good deed. George would have her out of this house, too, if he had his way. He would have her married and settled in the country, away from Society’s prying eyes, hidden away from his real family.
“I’m not leaving this house, Mr. Stone,” she said, squaring her shoulders, as nothing would sway her decision.
He took a step closer, towering above her, his broad chest casting everything else into shadow. “You will do as I say. And stop calling me Mr. Stone.”
Rebecca thrust her hands on her hips, her mind filled with a loathing for all men who sort to rob her of her free will.
“What would you have me call you — papa? My father is dead, Mr. Stone, and I do not need a replacement.”
He muttered a curse. “I am trying to help you, or have you forgotten that a man has been lurking in your storeroom for over a week.” He stabbed his finger towards the offending room as though parrying with a sword, each thrust more menacing than the last.
“And I thank you for your help, sir, but you’ve fulfilled your pledge to me, to my father or to whatever contrived notion of honour you managed to concoct.”
He reeled from the last remark, the imagined punch weakening his hard stance.
“As you rightly said, there is no curse,” she continued, determined to show him she was in control, “and so now I shall deal with the matter myself.”
He made an odd puffing sound. “Do you think me the sort of man to simply walk away?”
Something sparked and crackled in the air between them: an undefinable force that excited the senses. Her thoughts shifted to those strong arms, to those soft, full lips and she tried to find the strength to condemn her traitorous mind to the gallows.
“You’re the sort of man who leaves a lady to sit outside on your steps. You’re the sort of man who takes pleasure in exerting control, the sort of man happy to call a lady a liar and a thief.” Rebecca regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips, but she could not reclaim them.
His dark brows arched mischievously. “I should be offended,” he said, and his deep voice sent a ripple of awareness right through her. “Indeed, I am offended. If that’s your assessment of my character, perhaps I should add another transgression to the list.”
As soon as he moistened his lips, she knew what he was he was going to do.
“If you’re thinking of kissing me, then do it, Mr. Stone.” Her tone was strong and firm as she laid down the challenge while her mind was a wreck of fragmented thoughts scattered about a desolate shore.
“Gabriel,” he whispered as he lowered his head. “My name is Gabriel.”
Just one taste, he thought, just once, just to satisfy the craving burning inside him.
It took every ounce of control he had not to ravage her mouth. But he wanted to prolong this moment, wanted to see if it was everything he imagined it to be.
He brushed her lips gently at first, a slow melding of mouths that held a wealth of promise. She did not pull away, and although she lacked experience in such matters, she met him with equal curiosity.
When his hand drifted up to caress her nape, the first pretty sigh left her lips and then he was lost. His tongue traced the line where her lips met, and she let him into her mouth, warm and wet, let him coax and tease. The need to taste her, to possess her, to sate this craving, caused his desire to spiral. He almost growled when her untutored tongue met his with a need that matched his own.
His fingers drifted down from her nape, down the curve of her back and he pulled her to his chest. The feel of her soft breasts pressed against him stoked the fire raging within. Then he lost focus, carried along on a wave of lustful passion, their tongues lost in each other mouths, his manhood hard and throbbing with need.
It was as though she had a magical ability to be everywhere all at once. The smell of lavender filled his head, and some other exotic scent specific to her. He could taste claret, mingled with the potent trace of desire. He could hear her little pants and moans, and he wanted to lay her down and drive into her over and over again until she clawed at his shoulders and cried out his name.
“Gabriel.”
It took him a moment to realise she had whispered his name, the sound caressing his needy body like featherlight fingers. His hands moved lower, cupping her as he lifted her off her feet, pushing her back against the display cabinet.
“Mr. Stone. The … the antiquities.”
It was as though she had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over him, forcing him to open his eyes, to drag his mouth from hers. “Miss Linwood,” he panted, as his mind tried to assemble what had just happened. He lowered her down until her feet touched the floor and brushed the loose strands of hair off her face.
They stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, their ragged breathing the only audible sound.
He waited for the lump to form in his throat, for a pang of guilt to stab away at his chest, but it did not come. He wondered if he should ask for forgiveness
, but he was not sorry. Watching her put her fingers to her swollen lips made him want to kiss her again.
“Do you want to pretend that didn’t happen?” he said.
In one respect, it would be easier if she said yes. It would be easier to forget how sweet she tasted, to forget she was able to penetrate the wall he’d erected. But the reality was, he would never forget how good it felt to hold her in his arms.
“Do you?” she asked, her vivid green eyes fixated on his mouth.
A smile threatened to form on his lips. “I believe I asked first.”
She shrugged, and he could sense her inner torment as he suspected it mirrored his own. Perhaps honesty was the best way forward.
“No, I don't want to pretend. And I am not sorry,” he said, his abdomen tightening when he looked at her flushed cheeks and mussed hair. “But it was a moment of madness, Miss Linwood, where I forgot my manners and my sense of honour, even if it is contrived.”
“About that,” she said, looking down at the floor. “I did not mean what I said earlier. I did not mean —”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he interrupted. “Besides, I must make allowances for your fragile state.” When he noticed the muscle in her jaw twitch, he added, “Upon finding an intruder in your home.”
He was wrong to imply that the man hiding in the storeroom had an interest in the house. Whoever he was, he was only interested in frightening Miss Linwood.
“Do you know what he was doing in there?”
Gabriel shook his head. “He was hiding behind some boxes and waited for me to walk inside before darting for the door.”
“I shall speak to Mr. Pearce in the morning. Perhaps he has noticed something untoward.”
“Mr. Pearce?”
“My curator.”
Gabriel resisted the urge to tell her not to talk to anyone, not without him being present. Perhaps she was right. He was starting to think like an over-bearing parent. Why did he even care? He brushed his hand through his hair in an attempt to banish the feeling that, somehow, she had found a way through his barrier. He could still taste her on his lips, still smell the heady scent of her desire and still feel her soft, pliant body pressed against his.
