by Kelly Bowen
The kitchens were saved from complete blackness by the embers banked in the hearth on the far side. Eli set his pack on the floor and wrenched off his muck-covered boots, aware that he was creating puddles where he stood. A rivulet of water slithered from his hair down his back, and he shivered, suddenly anxious to rid himself of his sodden clothes. He left his boots on the stone floor but retrieved his pack and made his way carefully forward, his memory and the dim light ensuring he didn’t walk into anything. Every once in a while, he would stop and listen, but whatever noise he might have made on his arrival had undoubtedly been covered by the storm.
He crept soundlessly through the kitchens and into the great hall. Here the air was perfumed with a potion of floral elements. Roses, perhaps, and something a little sharper. He skirted the expanse of the polished marble floor to the foot of the wide staircase that led to the upper floors. Lightning illuminated everything for a split second—enough for Eli to register the large arrangement of flowers on a small table in the center of the hall as well as the gilded frames of the portraits that he remembered lining the walls.
He shouldered his pack and slipped up the stairs, turning left into the north wing of the house. The rooms in the far north corner had always been his when he visited, and he was hoping that he would find them as he had left them. At the very least, he hoped there was a hearth, a bed, and something that resembled clean sheets, though he wasn’t terribly picky at this point. His stocking feet made no sound as he advanced down the hallway, running his fingers lightly along the wood panels to keep himself oriented. Another blaze of lightning lit up the hallway through the long window at the far end, and he blinked against the sudden brightness.
There. The last door on the left. It had been left partially ajar, and he gently pushed it open, the hinges protesting quietly, though the sound was swallowed by a crash of thunder that came hard on the heels of another blinding flash. He winced and stepped inside, feeling the smooth, polished floor beneath his feet, his toes coming to rest on the tasseled edges of the massive rug he remembered. This room, like the rest of the house, was dark, though, unlike in the kitchen, there were no embers in the hearth he knew was off to his right somewhere. Against the far wall, the wind rattled the windowpanes, but it was somewhat muffled by the heavy curtains that must be drawn. Eli took a deep breath and froze. Something wasn’t right.
The air around him was redolent with scents he couldn’t immediately identify. Chalk, perhaps? And something pungent, almost acrid in its tone. He frowned into the darkness, slowly moving toward the fireplace. There had always been candles and a small tinderbox on the mantel, and he suddenly needed to see his surroundings. His knee unexpectedly banged into a hard object, and something glanced off his arm before it fell to the floor with a muffled thud. He stopped and bent down on a knee, his hands outstretched. What the hell had he hit? What the hell was in his rooms?
It hadn’t shattered, whatever it had been. Perhaps it—
“Don’t move.”
Eli froze at the voice. He turned his head slightly, only to feel the tip of a knife prick the skin at his neck.
“I asked you not to move.”
Eli clenched his teeth. It was a feminine voice, he thought. Or perhaps that of a very young boy, though the authority it carried suggested the former. A maid, then. Perhaps she had been up, or perhaps he had woken her. He supposed that this was what he deserved for sneaking into a house unannounced and unexpected. It was, in truth, his house now, but nevertheless, the last thing he needed was for her to start shrieking for help and summon the entire household. He wasn’t ready to face that just yet.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said clearly.
“Not on your knees with my knife at your neck, I agree.” The knife tip twisted, though it didn’t break the skin.
“There is a reasonable explanation.” He fought back frustration. Dammit, but he just wanted to be left alone.
“I’m sure. But the silverware is downstairs,” the voice almost sneered. “In case you missed it.”
“I’m not a thief.” He felt his brow crease slightly. Something about that voice was oddly familiar.
“Ah.” The response was measured, though there was as slight waver to it. “I’ll scream this bloody house down before I allow you to touch me or any of the girls.”
“I’m not touching anyone,” he snapped, with far more force than was necessary, before he abruptly stopped. Any of the girls? What the hell did that mean?
The knife tip pressed down a little harder, and Eli winced. He could hear rapid breathing, and a new scent reached him, one unmistakably feminine. Soap, he realized, the fragrance exotic and faintly floral. Something that one wouldn’t expect from a maid.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I might ask the same.”
“Criminals don’t have that privilege.”
Eli bit back another curse. This was ridiculous. His knees were getting sore, he was chilled to the bone and exhausted from travel, and he was in his own damn house. If he had to endure England, it would not be like this.
In a fluid motion, he dropped flat against the floor and rolled immediately to the side, sweeping his arm up to knock that of his attacker. He heard her utter a strangled gasp as the knife fell to the floor and she stumbled forward, caught off balance. Eli was on his knees instantly, his hands catching hers as they flailed at him. He pinned her wrists, twisting her body so it was she who was on the floor, on her back, with Eli hovering over her. She sucked in a breath, and he yanked a hand away to cover her mouth, stopping her scream before it ever escaped.
“Again,” he said between clenched teeth, “I am not going to hurt you.” Beneath his hand her head jerked from side to side. She had fine features, he realized. In fact, all of her felt tiny, from the bones in her wrists to the small frame that was struggling beneath him. It made him feel suddenly protective. As if he held something infinitely fragile that was his to care for.
Though a woman who brandished a knife in such a manner couldn’t be that fragile. He tightened his hold. “If you recall, it was you who had me at a disadvantage with a knife at my neck. I will not make any apologies for removing myself from that position. Nor will I make any apologies for my presence at Avondale. I have every right to be here.”
Her struggles stilled.
Eli tried to make out her features in the darkness, but it was impossible. “If I take my hand away, will you scream?”
He felt her shake her head.
“Promise?”
She made a furious noise in the back of her throat in response.
Very slowly Eli removed his hand. She blew out a breath but kept her word and didn’t scream. He released her wrists and pushed himself back on his heels. He heard the rustle of fabric, and the air stirred as she pushed herself away. Her scent swirled around him before fading.
“You’re not a maid,” he said.
“What?” Her confusion was clear. “No.”
“Then who are you?” he demanded. “And why are you in my rooms?”
“Your rooms?” Now there was disbelief. “I don’t know who you think you are or where you think you are, but I can assure you that these are not your rooms.”
Eli swallowed, a sudden thought making his stomach sink unpleasantly. Had Avondale been sold? Had he had broken into a house that, in truth, he no longer owned? It wasn’t impossible. It might even be probable. He had been away a long time.
“Is it my brother you are looking for? Is someone hurt?”
The question caught him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you need a doctor?”
Eli found himself scowling fiercely, completely at a loss. Nothing since he had pushed open that door had made any sort of sense. “Who owns Avondale?”
“What?” Now it was her turn to sound stymied.
“This house—was it sold? Do you own it?”
“No. We’ve leased Avondale from the Earl of Rivers for years. From his esta
te now, I suppose, until they decide what to do with it.” Suspicion seeped from every syllable. “Did you know him? The old earl?”
Eli opened his mouth before closing it. He finally settled on, “Yes.”
“Then you’re what? A friend of the family? Relative?”
“Something like that.”
“Which one?”
Eli drew in a breath that wasn’t wholly steady. He tried to work his tongue around the words that would forever commit him to this place. That would effectively sever any retreat.
He cleared his throat. “I am the Earl of Rivers.”
Chapter 3
Rose laughed.
It was more of a wheeze than a laugh, more like the sound she had made the last time she’d taken a tumble off her horse and found herself flat on her back, stunned and gasping. She shouldn’t be laughing, she knew, given the circumstances. But perhaps it was the release of the terror that had gripped her when she had first seen the intruder silhouetted in the doorway as lightning lit up the hall beyond. Perhaps it was from relief in the knowledge that whoever he might be, if he hadn’t already assaulted her, it was unlikely he would do so now. He sounded quite sane. Or at least he had, until he had made his last, absurd statement.
“Is that supposed to be a joke?” she asked before she could think better of it.
“I’m sorry?” The rough, almost raspy quality of his voice that she had noticed earlier was more pronounced.
She sniffed in what she hoped was his direction but could smell only wet wool, horse, and the scent of a man in need of a bath. “I can’t smell any alcohol.” Or anything else that would make an otherwise rational man believe he was a ghost, for that matter.
“You think I’m drunk?” There was a clear edge to his words now.
“No, I don’t think you are.” She rubbed her wrists where he had held them, knowing they would be reddened. Though he hadn’t hurt her. Merely…restrained her, with a strength that she should mark. Though the fear that ought to have accompanied that thought was oddly missing.
Regardless, Rose pushed herself farther away, sliding soundlessly over the rug. She could still hear the man breathing, felt the wet spots on the rug from the rainwater that must have dripped from his coat.
“And you’re sure you’re not in need of medical attention?” She considered the possibility that this man was confused or insensible from a head wound, though his speech and movements seemed to lack the clumsy quality that usually came with such. But he wouldn’t be the first person to have shown up on Avondale’s doorstep in the middle of the night looking for her brother to patch him up. And it wouldn’t be the first time Rose had been stuck assisting.
The intruder made an indecipherable noise. “I do not require medical attention,” he said, sounding both impatient and confused at once.
“Mmmm.”
“You think I’m lying?”
“I think you might be confused. Because the Earl of Rivers is dead,” Rose said evenly. She groped around her until she found what she was looking for. She grasped the paintbrush she’d dropped, pointy end out. It wasn’t enough, but it was better than nothing if it came to it. Past experience had taught her that trauma to the head could sometimes make Harland’s patients act in unpredictable ways. “His Lordship was old, his health weakened, and he passed away almost a year ago. You, on the other hand, feel neither old, weak, nor dead.”
The intruder was silent, only the sound of the rain against the windows filling the space. “I suppose that’s something,” he finally muttered under his breath.
Rose felt something stir within her. Something peculiar was raising the hairs on the back of her neck and sending gooseflesh rippling over her skin.
I am the Earl of Rivers.
He had said that. Only once, in a simple, unapologetic way. But that was impossible. Because the Earl of Rivers had died without an heir, his only son killed at Waterloo.
Not killed, a voice whispered from deep within her memory. Missing and presumed dead. There had never been a body to bury.
Rose swallowed with difficulty and shook her head.
No. Eli Dawes could not have survived. He must be dead. There was no other reasonable explanation for a six-year absence, no other reason Dawes wouldn’t have returned to London a triumphant war hero, ready to be lauded and admired, feted by fawning friends and worshipped by willing women. The Eli Dawes she had known would never have missed out on that sort of opportunity. Certainly not by choice.
“Who are you?” The question was out again before she could reconsider.
“I already told you.”
“Say it again.”
Another silence. Then, “Eli Dawes, fourteenth Earl of Rivers.”
A sound she didn’t recognize escaped from her. “Eli Dawes is dead.” She was hot and cold all at once, her heart banging against her ribs almost painfully.
“I had truly intended to remain so, trust me. But it would seem that I severely underestimated my father’s resolve and his resources. Or, more accurately, his solicitors’.” She thought he might have been trying to inject some levity, but it fell flat.
“I don’t believe you,” she lied. Because a storm of old betrayals and bitterness was starting to brew. The instincts that were pricking at her scalp and sending shivers across her skin weren’t wrong. The man in this room with her was exactly who he said he was.
The intruder said nothing, and thunder rumbled again, though it was more distant this time, signaling the departure of the storm.
“Eli Dawes would not have crept like a thief into a house on the very edge of England in the dead of night,” she whispered defiantly. “Eli Dawes would have had a parade along Rotten Row to herald his return from the dead.”
The man in the room with her still said nothing, though she heard a slight exhalation.
Rose suddenly needed to see. Needed to see the truth of his terrifying disclosure uttered in almost total blackness. Needed to set reality to light so that suspicion could be confirmed. Because if Dawes was alive, then perhaps—
Rose left that thought unfinished and lurched to her feet, untangling the soft fabric of her robe from around her legs. She staggered toward the hearth.
“What are you doing?” The question was abrupt, and she knew he’d heard her move.
“Lighting a damn candle,” she hissed. “So if you are not truly who you say you are, I would suggest that you leave this house now, quickly and quietly, and we can pretend that this entire episode never happened.”
“Don’t.” It was harsh.
“Don’t what?” Rose had reached the hearth, and her fingers found what they were looking for with a faint clatter.
“Don’t light that. Not yet.”
Rose paused, unsure of what stilled her hand.
“Who are you?” The question was directed at her now.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does.”
“Why?”
“Because you know me. Or at least who…” He trailed off.
“Finish what you were going to say.” Rose wasn’t sure if it was the bitterness that was making her so bold, but a recklessness such as she had never experienced was coursing through her.
“Who I used to be,” he finished quietly.
Rose forced her fingers to relax on the handle of the paintbrush she was still holding in one hand, realizing the wood was biting into her flesh. “I know exactly who you are.” She stared into the blackness before she rested her forehead against the mantel, trying to rein in her emotions. She would not spend another second of her life reliving what she had left behind so long ago.
Rose tried to fix an objective image of Eli Dawes in her mind, the way she had last seen him. His cocky, inherently smoldering gaze that alternated between green and brown, depending on the light. His golden hair falling over his forehead—artfully styled and deliberately framing a face with sharp lines reminiscent of a Nordic warrior. Or perhaps a fallen angel. He had always dressed impecc
ably, favoring dark colors that had accentuated his gilded perfection. His tailoring had flaunted a lean, lithe body, something he had been inordinately proud of.
He had been only the son of an earl, and one without even the privilege of a courtesy title, but he might as well have been a king. He had been the golden boy, society’s beloved. Everyone had wanted a piece of Eli Dawes. Women had wanted him for their beds or their ballrooms or both, mesmerized by his devastating good looks and legendary charisma. Men had wanted him at their clubs and card tables, to bask in his compelling presence and undeniable wit. Everyone had gravitated toward him like a moth to an open flame, if only to experience, just for a moment, the splendor that was Eli Dawes.
And now he was back to pick up where he had left off.
Outside, the rain had lessened and the wind had died, and a more pronounced silence descended. A silence that became deafening the longer it stretched.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, wondering if she was simply caught up in the web of an improbable nightmare. “Tell me,” she said abruptly, the bitterness suddenly erupting into something more vile as she put words to the earlier thought that she’d refused to acknowledge. “Is Anthony truly dead too? Or was a dramatic homecoming something that the two of you planned together? Some ploy with which to amuse yourselves?”
The quiet that followed was charged with expectant emotion so intense it seemed to become a living thing suspended in the air.
“Rose?” he whispered, almost inaudibly.
She had known it was he, recognized the truth for what it was, but it still felt as if she had been punched in the gut. “Very clever, Dawes.”
His breath was coming in harsh gasps. He moved, and Rose felt the air stir as he reached out. His hands came down awkwardly against her shoulder and her arm, gentling immediately as if he might draw her into an embrace. She stepped back, feeling her way along the mantel, afraid that if she let go of the cool marble, she might lose the only thing that seemed to be anchoring her to this reality.
“Rose—”
