“No!” Her voice was a shaky wail as Blackwell easily overtook her. She shoved at his torso with her broken and bandaged left wrist, her breath driven from her by the stab of pain that erupted from her side at the defensive movement.
“Lucy, stop. You’re hurting yourself.” Miles grasped her upper arms. Pulling her close to his side, he began walking toward the lodge, and to her dismay, she felt her knees give way beneath her. She couldn’t draw a decent breath against her bruised and cracked ribs, and she cried out in a swirling mass of fear, anger, and white-hot pain.
Before Lucy knew what he was doing, Miles had scooped her into his arms and carried her across the distance to the lodge. Once on the porch, he opened the door with the hand that braced her legs. He kicked the door closed behind them, and he carried her up the stairs and into her bedchamber.
Lucy was robbed of breath, of sense, of coherent thought. Miles set her gently on the bed and stepped back, watching her as though he expected her to bolt at any moment. She stared at him, trying to reconcile what she’d witnessed with the man who stood before her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she finally asked. She would not cry. Most assuredly, she would not cry.
Miles cursed and bent to remove the galoshes from her feet, moving very carefully with her right ankle. “It isn’t exactly the thing one goes about advertising,” he said as he unbuttoned her cloak and pushed it down off her shoulders.
He left her sitting on the bed and made his way to a sidebar where he retrieved a flask of brandy and a glass. Pouring two fingers’ worth of liquid into it, he handed her the glass. “Drink it,” he said when she hesitated.
“I don’t drink.”
“You do today.”
Perhaps she was dreaming. Nothing seemed real. The world was slightly off-kilter, and she couldn’t reason her way to find the fix. She took a sip and tried not to cough as the liquor burned a path to her stomach. Handing him the glass, she shook her head when he tried to press it back into her hand.
“I want my wits about me,” she said, wiping a hand across her mouth, “when I verbally tear you limb from limb.”
Miles closed his mouth as he studied the woman before him with a fair amount of shock. She was angry? The moment he’d shifted and seen her standing outside, his heart had stuttered alarmingly. He must have carried her into the house and up the stairs by sheer will. His heartclock still worked at a furious pace, and he took a deep breath to calm himself.
“What could you possibly have been thinking to keep such a detail from me?” she asked, eyes narrowed.
“I wasn’t aware you needed to know.” He reached behind him for a chair and sat beside the bed.
“What is it?” Her eyes widened, and she slipped off the bed, her breath escaping in a rush as she wrapped an arm around her midsection. “Are you ill?”
He waved his hand at her. “Now I shall have to put you back into bed.” He caught his breath, relieved to finally feel the heartclock regulate itself.
“You’re quite pale.” Lucy placed her palm alongside his cheek.
He flinched involuntarily, thoroughly and completely baffled. She had run from him in terror but was now angry and apparently no longer afraid of him. “I do not understand you, Lucy Pickett.”
She frowned and turned his face one way and then another, as though she were an examining physician. Finally dropping her hand, she studied him for some time with an expression that gave nothing away.
“How many people know about this?”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“How many? And have you run afoul of anyone on the PSRC?”
He sighed and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Possibly.”
Lucy folded her arms across her chest and leveled him with a stare that was only slightly diminished in its impact by a wince. “Who knows about this?”
“Oliver, Sam, and Daniel. And one other. Possibly two.”
“Aside from me?”
“Yes. Aside from you.”
“And who would these others be?”
He shook his head. “I do not know. Someone has discovered it, however, and has become rather a nuisance about it.”
She cocked a brow. “Someone who is sending you notes?”
He shrugged.
“Blackmail?”
“Not yet.”
She studied him for another moment and then sighed with a brief eye roll. “And you’ve not confided in your brother. Your heir and the one person who likely cares more for you than anyone on earth.”
“What would you suggest I say to him?” He felt his anger rise. “I am an aberration, a flaw in the family gene pool.”
She narrowed her eyes a fraction, and he realized she held his future in her hands. What she chose to do with the information she now had could mean his doom. “I insist you allow me to help you.”
He bit back a quick retort and instead looked away, focusing on the bedside lamp as though it held something of interest. “Why? I saw your initial reaction, your recoil. I am more beast than man.”
“It’s true, I was horrified from the shock. And you would blame me for that? I, who have never once shrunk from your presence? Who have enjoyed your company? You lied to me!”
He whipped his gaze to hers. “I never lied to you.”
“A lie of omission is no less heinous than one of commission. For the love of heaven, I watched as a wolf transformed into . . . you. I’ve never witnessed a complete transformation, and you would judge me harshly for reacting in fear?” She paused, studying him. “How did I come to be in your room after my fall down the ravine?”
“I’m not entirely certain.” He pinched his lips together. The woman would pry for every detail when he was accustomed to sharing with no one.
Lucy put a hand to her throat and traced her finger along a particularly red, angry-looking mark. “You pulled me up the side of the ravine by my cloak. As a wolf.”
“I don’t know.” Miles studied her for a moment. Her dark hair hung around her shoulders and framed her face in curls he knew firsthand to be softer than satin. Her deep, cobalt eyes locked with his, and he felt his mouth go dry. “Do not ask me for things I cannot explain.” His throat ached with longing for absolution and a physical desire that was rendering him short of breath.
Lucy shook her head. “Has the world been so horrible to you, then? Are there none aside from your friends who wish you well?”
His lips twitched. “Perhaps I do not deserve it. And not from one as beautiful as you.”
She flushed and chewed on her lip, likely trying to eliminate the smile that threatened at the corners of her mouth. The light coloring on her cheeks, however, stood in contrast to the pale state of her complexion.
“You must rest,” he murmured, rising from the chair. Forcing his arms to innocently lift her back onto the bed, he restrained himself from taking her face in his hands and kissing her senseless. “Your reputation may be in serious need of rescue when you return. The family all know that Mrs. Romany is in residence here, but . . .” Miles shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “You did say that only Mr. Clancy and Martha Watts know where you are?”
Lucy nodded. “I told everyone else I was going to London. If it becomes necessary, Kate will tell the world I was with her and Jonathan in Bath. I am not concerned.” As she shifted against the bedding and angled to move beneath the fluffy duvet, a small groan escaped her lips.
Miles lifted the blankets as she settled down into the bed. “Lucy, I am so sorry,” he said. “This is my fault.”
“No.” She shook her head against the pillow. “You were exactly where you ought to have been. I intruded.” She yawned. “I apologize that I am still so fatigued. I ought to be up and preparing for the day.”
“You had quite a nasty shock, not to mention the fall. Besides, there’s n
obody about to entertain. Rest for a few hours. I will have Mrs. Romany see to a decent breakfast.”
She leaned up on one elbow, gasping at the movement but looking at him with widened eyes. “You have been awake all night long, and here you are making breakfast plans. You should rest as well.”
He carefully kept his expression blank as he put his hand on her shoulder, gently exerting enough pressure that she settled back down on the pillow. She had seen him shift from a predatory state and now acted as though she’d witnessed nothing out of the ordinary. She was likely the only woman in all of England who could manage it. His hand seemed overly large against her petite frame, and he tightened his jaw. He still wasn’t convinced she would be safe around him. In either form.
Allowing himself one small moment of self-indulgence, he traced his fingertip down her cheek. He desperately wanted to kiss her. “Rest.”
“Miles, I feel awful—”
“Say that again.”
She frowned. “I feel awful that I’ve encroached on your privacy, but it really was necessary to tell you—”
He shook his head. “Not that part. The other part.”
To her credit, she was quick. Her confusion cleared, and she locked the depths of her blue eyes upon his face. “Miles.” She whispered it, the sound traveling like soft fingers down his spine.
“Yes. That part.” He watched her for a moment longer and finally turned and left the room before he did something entirely foolish like brush a kiss across her forehead.
Lucy awoke several hours later to realize that not only had she slept through breakfast, but she’d also missed lunch. It was late afternoon according to her pocket watch, and she was torn between gratitude and mortification that Miles had let her sleep so long.
Glancing around the room, she sat up. With a fair amount of indrawn breaths and grunts of pain, Lucy went about readying herself for the day, largely spent though it was. She managed to give herself a sponge bath at the dry sink with water that had long since gone cold, but she felt marginally better afterward. She brushed through her hair but quickly squelched the idea of attempting a braid. She had the use of only one good hand, and raising the other hurt her side so much she could barely draw a breath.
Rather than trying to manage an entire ensemble, she clumsily struggled into a robe and made her way across the room with the use of the cane. She stood at the top of the stairs for a moment, catching her breath and bracing herself for the long walk down.
It wasn’t until she neared the bottom few steps that she heard a piano echoing faintly through the empty house. She followed the sound across the front entry and down a hallway to the right. Passing several closed doors, she wondered if the lodge was ever fully in use. On the rare occasion that a door happened to be open, the furniture in the room was fully draped in white fabric, the curtains drawn tight. She was saddened that the beautiful building was never filled with the sounds of conversation and laughter, the clink of dinner dishes and gentle music in the drawing room, children chasing each other through the halls until finally scolded by an adult.
Someone was indulging himself at the moment, however, and the sound of the piano grew louder as Lucy approached. A door was open, and she peered inside to see a conservatory with drapes drawn and one lone lantern giving barely enough light to illuminate Miles, who sat at the instrument, his shoulders hunched, his face drawn in what was unquestionable pain.
A tumbler sat atop the beautiful, black grand piano, and Lucy bit her lip, wondering which was more worrying—the fact that Miles looked so incredibly tortured or that he’d placed a glass of liquid on the piano where it could easily have been knocked inside the body of the beautiful instrument.
The melody was unfamiliar. It was haunting and mirrored well the emotion that played upon Blackwell’s face. Lucy winced as she watched the man—proud, powerful, intimidating. Anguished. Making her way across the floor, she wondered how best to approach without startling him.
In the end, he seemed to know she was there. He lifted his head and met her eyes, his own bright. His fingers slowed on the keys, and as she neared, he reached for his glass with one hand and took a drink, still watching her. He placed the glass back on the piano, but she was too entranced to care. The look on his face had her eyes burning. She wanted to lift the world off his shoulders and send it flying.
She stood by his side and placed the backs of her fingers on his cheek.
“God has sent you to torture me.” He closed his eyes and clasped her hand, a light shudder vibrating through his shoulders. “To tease me with what can never be.”
Lucy braced the cane against the side of the piano bench and slid between Miles and the keyboard. He looked up at her as she stood between his knees and took his face in her hands, the thumb of her right hand lightly stroking his scar. “Why will you not allow it?” she whispered.
On a shuddering breath, he slowly, gently wrapped both of his arms around her waist and rested his head against her. His hot tears melted into the fabric of her robe and nightgown, and she held his head and shoulders in her arms, feeling a tear of her own escape and trail down her cheek. His quiet sobs broke her heart and hurt far worse than the pressure of his arms against her injured ribs.
“What is it?” she murmured against his hair and stroked his shoulder and down his back. “Why do you fight so terribly hard?”
“There is no hope for me.” His eyes remained closed. “I will always be a danger to those close to me.”
“That isn’t true.” Lucy gently ran her fingers through his thick, black hair. “Why do you torture yourself so?”
“I killed Marie,” he said, his voice breaking on a sob. “I killed my sister.”
Lucy lifted her head and stared down at him. “Miles,” she said gently, “there is no way on God’s green earth that you killed Marie.”
“You believe the best in me, but you would believe the best in everyone. I must face the truth, turn myself in. The estate would be in better hands with Jonathan anyway.”
At that, Lucy felt a measure of alarm and nudged his head up until he met her eyes. Her heart twisted at the sight of him, broken and defeated. “First of all,” she said, “Jonathan is a wonderful man, but he makes a far better poet than earl. And secondly—” Lucy shifted slightly to sit on the bench next to him. “Secondly, I would wager my life and the lives of my family that you were not responsible for your sister’s death. And that has nothing to do with my optimistic heart and everything to do with proven science.”
He looked at her blankly.
She sighed. “My uncle is a shifter. A fox. I would not consider myself an expert on the subject, but I do know a few things. The strength of character of the person while human determines the nature of the animal. If you wouldn’t have killed your sister as a human, you wouldn’t have done so as a wolf, either.”
Moisture clung to his thick, black lashes, and he looked as vulnerable as a child. “A lovely thought, but one I do not have the luxury of believing.”
“My aunt was determined to learn all there was about the condition, and I was with her when she invited a specialist to dinner who was, of course, discreet and trustworthy. The doctor was a wealth of information and provided my aunt with several periodicals and medical journals with the stipulation she keep the information to herself. There are documented cases, studies done both in laboratories and in the wild, wherein the nature of the person has been compared to the nature of the beast. Aside from some instincts—most relatively harmless—the ‘personalities’ are the same. Even in predators, which is why the Predatory Shifter Regulations Committee is ridiculous. If the general populace was aware of these things—scientifically proven, no less—the Committee’s entire existence as a body would be not only irrelevant but also criminal. They keep the information hidden with threats and blackmail against the scientific community.”
His hands tightened fr
actionally on her waist. “What you’re saying offers me a glimmer of hope that I’m not certain I have a right to claim.”
“What do you remember when you shift back?”
“Impressions, flashes of scenes, images,” he mumbled and then sighed. “When Clara died, Jonathan scribed me from the manor, so I left the lodge with one night still left to shift.”
“What do you remember from the night Marie died?”
Miles closed his eyes, his brows knit. “She was in the gazebo, covered in blood. Her eyes were open. She looked at me . . .” He shook his head. “I should never have gone back to the manor early. I’ve always made certain to be far away from anyone when I shift. Even during the war I would leave, go off on my own.”
“And with Oliver as your captain, you were never reported missing.”
He nodded.
“Did you seek out Marie that night?”
“Yes. She had sent me a note,” he said with a frown. “Wanted to meet me in the garden. It was nearly midnight. I had planned to shift at the graveyard, but she said it was urgent. Something about Clara. I was hoping to find Marie before I changed.”
“Was that an unusual request? Did you make a habit of meeting in her garden late at night?”
Miles shook his head. “No, but then nothing seemed normal that night. The house was in an uproar over Clara’s death. There was talk of an investigation . . .”
Lucy bit her lip and placed her palm on Miles’s chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartclock. “I believe the reason you remember seeing Marie like that is because she was already dead when you arrived. I believe you were framed.”
“Convenient.”
“Do you remember anything else at all about that night? Other people? ’Tons?”
“I am tired, Lucy.” He looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes.
“This is important. Do you remember seeing or hearing anyone else?”
He leaned forward, maintaining eye contact until he finally dipped his face and nuzzled his nose and lips along the side of her neck. “I do not want to talk anymore.”
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 22
