Moon Shadows

by Nora Roberts

“To a cheese-paring woman of vulgar origins, with five children—who are, by all accounts, unmitigated hellions. Tell me you enjoyed that!”

  She bit her lip. “I would be lying if I did.”

  Phoebe was in shock, but not enough to lose sight of what was proper. “My relationship to the late Lord Thornwood was remote and to you even more so. I cannot accept your charity.”

  He met her gaze with barely concealed impatience. “You are in no position to refuse. I cannot force you to stay; however, your allowance will continue whether you stay or go. Consider it my way of repaying a debt.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You were too young to know of it at the time, but your father once did me a very great service.”

  She stared at him. If that was true, it was the first she’d heard of it. “What kind of service?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “One, my dear girl, that your father, being a gentleman, would certainly not have discussed with you. My youthful indiscretions would surely have brought a blush to your cheeks!”

  Phoebe didn’t believe his explanation. Her father had been a good man, but completely unworldly, lost in his books and his writings. Certainly not the type to whom a young man in trouble over a woman would turn to for advice.

  “I find your explanation hard to credit, my lord.”

  “Nevertheless, it is true.” Gordon pulled a chair forward. “You’re white as candlewax. Sit down.”

  She lifted her chin. “I wish to stand.”

  “Well, I do not.”

  Phoebe sat.

  He limped his way to the chair opposite her. Phoebe clutched the slim book in her hands and wondered if his peremptory manner was the result of pain. Every line on his face was deeply etched with it.

  She wondered again what tragedy had struck him down, but it was something no lady would ask. A shiver ran up her back.

  Whatever it was, it was terrible!

  While she assessed Gordon, he did the same to her. She didn’t look as if she’d traveled three days and part of one night to reach Thorne Court. Nor as if she’d arrived to find her expectations stood on end, compounded by an uncertain welcome. He saw the shiver that ran through her.

  “You’re cold,” he said. “This will help.”

  He poured two tots of brandy into crystal snifters. The signet on his left ring finger glowed red as a hot coal. He wore no other jewelry, except for a curious bracelet that circled his entire wrist. His hands, she noted, were still beautiful. Strong and masculine.

  Then he turned it palm up, and she saw the rest of his left hand, covered in a purple, ropey scar. It looked as if it had been dipped in molten metal.

  She hid her stab of pity. He has pride, she thought, and it is stronger even than mine. He hates his infirmity. Perhaps that is why he glowers so. Or, she wondered, is it only the puckered scars that distort his features?

  “There,” he said, handing her a cut crystal glass. “Drink that down, my girl, and you’ll soon feel better. And if you’re worried about the proprieties of staying here while you decide what you wish to do, let me put your mind at ease. You’ll have proper chaperonage in the eyes of the world. My uncle’s widow, the dowager viscountess, makes her home here. She’s rather eccentric and prefers to be called Lady Gwynn, as she was in her childhood. She keeps mostly to her own chambers.”

  “I shall look forward to meeting her.”

  His mouth twisted wryly. “I wonder . . .”

  She accepted the glass from him and their fingers brushed. She felt the shock of his touch along the length of her arm. A silence fell, punctuated only by the fire’s crackle, the soft tick of the clock.

  Gordon scrutinized Phoebe. She’d still been a girl at their last parting and now she was a woman in full bloom. The embodiment of the golden future he’d once believed would be theirs together. His jaw tightened and he contemplated his reflection in the brandy glass. It is like a strange fairy tale, he thought. She has become Beauty, and I have become the Beast.

  Phoebe was lulled by the quiet and the brandy. It seemed as if they were suspended in time, touched by neither difficult past nor uncertain future. She looked away and her glance fell on a gilded mirror that captured Gordon’s face in profile. He was watching her, unaware that she could see him, and the expression on his face startled her. There was such longing and loneliness in it. Such aching tenderness.

  The warmth that spread through her had nothing to do with the brandy. He does care for me, she thought with sudden, fierce joy. And she realized that for all her pretence, she had never stopped loving him.

  She thought she understood. It was surely the consequences of his accident that had made him break off the relationship.

  How could he ever think his scars would matter to me?

  She turned to him to speak but his face was rigid again, his eyes as cold and distant as the stars. Had she only imagined that tenderness and longing? Or was his pride too great to let himself be open and vulnerable? Impossible to tell at the moment.

  But hope blossomed in her heart. If he still cared, she would find a way around his pride. It would take time and patience, and she had both in good measure. Meanwhile, she’d start down the path she intended to follow.

  “Forgive me if I seemed rude, my lord . . .”

  “You will, if you persist in my lording me to death. You will call me Gordon, as you used to do.”

  “I do appreciate your generosity, Cousin Gordon, however the promise was made by your uncle, not by you. I fail to understand why you are so willing to take me under your wing.”

  “As I said, I inherited my uncle’s obligations along with his titles.” His voice turned harsh. “As for my being generous, disabuse yourself of that notion—I spend far more on my horses.”

  That was the Gordon she remembered. Phoebe smiled. “That does put it in a different perspective.”

  He set his glass down. “Good. Then say no more of the matter.”

  Phoebe pressed on. “Despite your generosity, I can’t help feeling that I am not entirely welcome at Thorne Court.”

  The flash in his eyes told him her shot had struck true. “I cannot control your thoughts and feelings, Cousin,” he said roughly. “I am having enough trouble dealing with my own.”

  Her spirits rose. Now she was positive. He wasn’t indifferent to her at all—and that, she decided, was at the root of his manner toward her.

  She smiled at him and he stared back, frowing, then rose and took the poker from its place. He moved a log and flames leaped in a shower of sparks. Phoebe noticed how careful he was to keep the worst of his scars hidden in the shadows. Not out of vanity or pride as she’d thought earlier, but to spare her feelings.

  She wondered how she ever could have doubted him. She’d been too young and too hurt at the time to write to him. Too shaken to realize there could have been many reasons why he’d broken off their unofficial engagement besides no longer loving her, as she’d thought at the time.

  “Earlier you said I was not what you’d expected, Cousin Gordon. In what way do I differ from your expectations?”

  His smile was wry.

  “This will perhaps come as a shock to you, Phoebe. In a letter to my uncle, your father described you as having become ‘a quiet, bookish girl, and much disinclined to marriage.’ ”

  Phoebe bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I see! You thought I’d worn the willow for you and turned into a meek little spinster, content to sit in the corner with my nose in a volume of sermons.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid you were completely taken in!”

  “Indeed!” A gleam of amusement flashed in his eyes. “I imagine your father was as well.”

  She had to admit it. “My father lived his life between the pages of books—those he read and those he wrote. They were his world and he didn’t notice much else.”

  Gordon shook his head. “That’s quite evident! My uncle, God rest his soul, was equally wrong in his judgement of you. He thought you would be happy at Thorn
e Court.” His face hardened. “He was wrong, Cousin. This is not the place for you.”

  “Do you wish me to leave?” Phoebe looked up at him, her face a pale oval in the firelight.

  He saw the dismay in her eyes, heard the catch in her voice. All the things he’d intended to say dried up in his mouth. “I have no intentions of sending you away—although I believe it might be better if I did.”

  She lifted her chin. “Why do you say that?”

  His gaze was steady and diamond hard. “There are many reasons. You are young, Phoebe, and very much alive. Thorne Court is ancient. Dying.”

  She pretended to misunderstand him. “Only from lack of care,” she said, looking around. “Nothing a good dusting and polishing wouldn’t set to rights.”

  “It’s difficult to recruit servants in such isolated country.” He watched her carefully. “And Thorne Court has a certain haunted reputation among the locals.”

  “I have no fear of ghosts,” Phoebe said demurely.

  “I’m glad to hear that, as I spend a good deal of time away.” He looked down at his glass. “You may find it lonely at times with only the servants for company.”

  “I’ll be content with your library and your garden.”

  “Will you?” Gordon’s smile was just a little crooked. “Frankly, I shall be amazed if you last a month!”

  Phoebe smiled. “Prepare to be amazed.”

  A light flashed in his eyes, but whether it was surprise or displeasure was hard for her to decide.

  “Time will tell the tale.” He tossed off the last of his brandy. “No doubt you are longing for your bed. I shall take my leave of you.”

  As he rose she leaned forward and touched his sleeve. “You won’t regret your generosity, Gordon. I’ll endeavor to make myself useful.”

  “Mrs. Church will be glad for your direction,” he said curtly. “Meanwhile, make yourself free of the library and the house and gardens.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Thank you.”

  “When you’ve finished your refreshments, Mrs. Church will escort you upstairs.” He crossed to her side. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  She thought for a moment he meant to take her hand. Instead he bowed, turned and made his painful way toward the door where he’d entered. There were remnants of his former grace in his movements, which made it all the more painful for Phoebe to watch.

  He paused on the threshold and turned back. “You haven’t really changed, have you? Inside you’re still the same stubbornly determined little girl I first met almost seven years ago. One who preferred climbing trees and playing with a clumsy wooden sword to holding doll tea parties on the lawn.”

  She arched her brow. “There’s no way I can win by answering. If I agree, I’m a hoyden and if I disagree I’m uncivil. But I admit that little sword became my most cherished childhood toy.”

  “I’ve always wondered why your father let you keep it.”

  Phoebe smiled.

  “I said that I was playing Saint Michael overcoming demons, when I was really pretending to be Grace O’Malley, the pirate queen.” She bit her lip. “It was the only lie I ever told him.”

  He studied her with a cool, appraising look. “And did you feel guilty for deceiving him?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded. “I was sure of it. Welcome to Thorne Court, Phoebe. Sleep well.”

  Phoebe was left alone with her thoughts and a burning curiosity. Beneath the pain of old hurts and disappointments the bonds they’d forged in childhood were still intact.

  Whether there could ever be something more was the question.

  Chapter 4

  “YOUR suite is here, Miss Sutton.”

  Mrs. Church, a plump, efficient woman with snowy hair and rosy cheeks threw open the door at the end of the corridor and Phoebe entered a cozy sitting room. She had a quick impression of gracefully carved furniture and splashes of rich color.

  Even so, Phoebe was aware of the same fog of neglect here that she’d noted below. Odd, when the servants themselves were neat as wax.

  The housekeeper led her through to the bedroom, dominated by an enormous tester bed hung with velvet curtains lined in pale blue silk. The same fabric covered the deep bay window, where a writing desk stood.

  An apple-cheeked maid of middle years closed one of the bureau drawers. “This is Elsie, who will be waiting upon you.”

  The maid smiled and bobbed a curtsy. “I’ve just finished putting your things away, and there’s hot water in the pitcher, miss. If there’s anything else you need, you have only to ask.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.” Phoebe glanced at the open wardrobe. Her few garments looked limp and lost in the cavernous space. Even her forest green riding habit, the best of the lot, looked distinctly shabby against the rich wood grain.

  Phoebe set down her bandbox in the wardrobe and put the green leather book she’d brought up with her on the writing desk in the alcove. Her father had owned the same book among his collection. When she was seven she’d used it to press some violets, incurring a sad smile and gentle lecture on the care and treatment of rare volumes. She’d never been so careless with a book again.

  She opened it at random and her breath hissed out between her teeth. There, on page thirty-five, were the pale brown imprints of five little violets. Her heart raced and her fingers trembled and she opened the book to the inside cover and read the name on the ornate bookplate there: AMBROSE SUTTON, ESQ.

  Tears stung her eyes. So, the late viscount had been her benefactor here, too, buying up her father’s library. It comforted her to hold this little piece of her past, to know her father’s hands had held this book.

  Phoebe blinked away her tears and stepped up to the bay window while she composed herself. The wind sang beyond the mullioned panes, rattling the glass. She parted the draperies and looked out.

  Below lay a wide terrace and formal gardens but beyond the great hills rose up, primitive and untamed. She reached up to undo the talisman necklace her father had given her and turned to look the other way.

  Such a startling and beautiful sight met her gaze that Phoebe didn’t even feel her unclasped necklace slip from her throat. Lights blazed atop the crest of the nearest hill, so brilliant against the darkness that she was dazzled.

  She looked over her shoulder. “What is that place lit up so brightly, Mrs. Church?”

  The housekeeper straightened a collar box on the chest of drawers. “What place would that be, miss?”

  “It looks to be a lovely castle.” She could make out arched windows and a host of soaring towers, slender turrets and airy buttresses.

  “There are no castles hereabouts, miss,” Mrs. Church said discouragingly. “Not even ruins.”

  “Well, there is certainly something there,” Phoebe said crisply. “Come and see for yourself.” She realized her necklace was gone and knelt to retrieve it. The silvery stone felt cool as ice against her palm.

  Mrs. Church came to Phoebe’s side rather reluctantly. Her look out the window was brief. She shook her head.

  “Begging your pardon, miss, I see naught of any lights.”

  “But . . .” Phoebe began—and stopped in surprise as she turned back toward the glass.

  Darkness had swallowed the moon and the moor was only an ebony curve against the lighter sky. Phoebe frowned. “Nor do I see them now. How curious! I suppose it must have been a reflection of the lamplight in the window glass.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “ ’Tis been a long and tiring day. Elsie will help you get ready for bed, and in the morning I’ll show you round the manor.”

  Phoebe thanked her but refused the maid’s assistance. “Please, go and seek your own beds and sleep for what is left of the night. I shall do the same.”

  Elsie hurried gratefully up to her room beneath the eaves, but Mrs. Church didn’t take Phoebe’s advice. She went in search of Lord Thornwood and found him with Holloway, down in the drawing room. It startled her to see th
em there: the room hadn’t been used in years.

  Holloway held a taper to a branch of candles and flickering light danced over the shrouded furniture and chandelier.

  Mrs. Church hurried to Gordon’s side. “I must speak with you, my lord.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Church. Holloway and I were just discussing the need to take off the holland covers and prepare the parlor for Miss Sutton’s use.”

  “Of course, my lord. I’ll set things forward tomorrow.” She shook her head. “But ’tis not of that we need to speak, my lord.”

  Gordon scrutinized her keenly. “Something has upset you, Mrs. Church. What is wrong?”

  “Oh, my lord! She’s seen it!”

  “Seen what?”

  “The castle on the hill!”

  “The devil you say!” Gordon was rocked. He certainly hadn’t expected that.

  “Oh, my lord, whatever are we to do?”

  Gordon rubbed his hand over the twisted scars along his jaw. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “This changes everything.”

  Mrs. Church nodded and burst into tears.

  Chapter 5

  AS Phoebe undressed and bathed she was unaware of the drama she’d brought into the household. She hung her traveling clothes in the other side of the wardrobe, to be brushed and pressed in the morning, then took the pins from her chignon. Her hair tumbled down her back, bright as flame as she gave it a hundred strokes with her brush.

  As she snuffed out the lamp, her thoughts circled back to the strange illusion she’d seen from the window. It seemed so real, that glowing castle on the moor!

  She frowned, staring at the closed draperies and suddenly realized her conclusion was wrong. The bright light she’d seen at the window couldn’t have been the lamp’s reflection: the velvet bed hangings would have blocked it.

  Phoebe tried to puzzle out what would have caused the illusion. There seemed to be no rational explanation. She was about to climb the three steps up into the bed when the wind died down abruptly. In the sudden silence of the room, she heard the sound of hoofbeats from beyond her window.