by Mary Brendan
‘Or you could sing for me,’ Randolph suggested. Pivoting about, he sent a frustrated look up at the ceiling. ‘Your mother said you have a sweet voice. A bedtime lullaby might be nice. God knows I could use a little soothing from you, Deborah.’
She knew the savage mockery in his tone had been directed more at himself than at her. She sensed, too, that he was suffering from an exasperation that equalled her own inner writhing. He had questions he wanted to launch at her just as she had some she wanted to fire his way. But it had been a frantic day and she knew she needed to refresh her mind with rest before embarking on a conversation that was sure to be punctuated by bitterness. She didn’t want to regret her impatience, or her ineptitude, tomorrow when accusations were aired—as surely they would be—that begged answers and apologies. She understood that he was restricting himself to barbed hints for the same reason. They both were unwilling to yet attack the thorny subject of their past. Seven years, interspersed for them both, Deborah supposed, with episodes of happiness and heartache, now distanced the young people who once had ardently kissed on their friends’ blissful wedding day from the people they were now.
‘As you don’t want diversion then I shall go to bed.’ Deborah sighed in defeat and sank back on to her heels in readiness to get up.
‘I didn’t decline everything,’ he drawled, an amused glitter far back in his eyes. ‘But I’ll forgo the game of cards.’
It was not hard to guess his meaning. Deborah’s small, pearly teeth sank into her lower lip, as much to stifle a retort that he seemed to quickly have forgotten his promise to curb his lechery as to stop its quiver. She knew that, in part, she’d invited such a remark in not choosing her words more carefully; she knew, too, it was his intention to try to provoke her with his innuendos. She might be a genteel spinster, but she could counter his ironic sug-gestiveness. ‘If you’re asking for a performance, sir, I think you should reconsider. My mother tends to greatly overstate my talents.’ She gave him a tight little smile. ‘Far from soothing you, my lack of skill might have an unnerving effect.’
‘I’ll risk it to have you stay a while longer with me. I’m sure eventually we’ll find something mutually enjoyable to do.’
‘I’d sooner retire at once than risk disappointing you, sir,’ Deborah returned with faux sweetness, but a twitch of her lips betrayed her incipient smile. Years ago they would banter like this. She could tell from his subtle smile he, too, was recalling those arousing contests whilst dancing, walking, as though quite alone, despite their accompanying friends. Then she had been a debutante, an heiress protected from a serious seduction by her youthful innocence. Of course, he’d held her in respect and affection too. By his own admission it was only later he’d realised he’d misjudged his feelings for her. Now it was different. No misconceptions or mitigations remained and that brutal kiss earlier was an indication that he’d deal quite ruthlessly with her in any sensual game.
Their eyes locked across the few yards of heady atmosphere separating them. She’d stopped him leaving, but what now? Deborah knew, despite his promise, that with just a tiny encouragement he’d breach the space and touch her again. Perhaps he might find that soothing, but she knew she would not. The thought of enduring another callous assault made her tongue tip moisten her lips as though she anticipated such balm being soon needed.
Randolph’s eyes tracked the circling movement on her full pink lips. A tug at the corner of his mouth acknowledged that he understood her anxiety and the reason for the solid wall of tension building between them.
‘Go to bed,’ he said hoarsely as he approached. He passed her chair to snatch up the port bottle from the mantelpiece and pour a measure.
Deborah sat back on her heels to watch him as he slumped down in the chair opposite. Negligently he thrust one long leg out whilst the other foot tapped impatiently against the boards close to the chair. He upended the goblet before twirling the empty vessel idly by its fragile stem. A moment later he was up again and refilling his glass at the mantelpiece.
‘Go to bed Deborah. Sleep well.’
He hadn’t turned about to give his goodnight, but she realised he would know by the sound of the door closing behind her that he was alone.
‘I shall sleep very well, I assure you,’ she responded, but for a reason she could not fathom refused to be dismissed. She stayed exactly where she was.
‘Good…I’ll envy you your rest and your sweet dreams,’ he murmured drily, his eyes on the glass’s balletic dance as it spun between his fingers.
Still she was reluctant to go and scoured her mind for something, anything to say. ‘Our guest chamber is comfortable. Why should you not sleep well?’ She had tilted her head to get a better view of his impassive profile. Suddenly a draught rattled the sashes as though ghostly beings sought entry. Her eyes were drawn to the casement cosily covered by closed curtains. A shiver rippled through her as the timbers trembled again and gave vent to a wordless whispering.
The sinister sound had drawn her mind to danger. That in turn caused a sudden notion to send Deborah’s insides tumbling and her heart hammering. She’d imagined he might have been hinting that his desire for her would keep him restless; perhaps she flattered herself too readily. ‘Do you think you will need to keep alert tonight…in case…of trouble?’
‘I told you there’s nobody out there, Deborah.’ He put down the glass and turned to face her. ‘Go to bed.’
A quiver undulated through Deborah that now had nothing to do with the wind sobbing through the sashes’ cracks and crevices. The numbing effect of her catnap had completely dispersed. She cast her mind back to dissect what he’d said when she’d asked him what he’d found outside. Now that she concentrated on his answer, she concluded that it could have been ambiguous.
‘Did you see someone out there earlier?’ she asked with earnest directness. His silence made her demand, ‘Please tell me! If you will not, then Basham will. I shall go and find him.’
‘And rouse him from his bed for no reason?’
‘You haven’t actually confirmed that nobody was prowling around in the grounds after dark,’ she retorted in exasperation.
Swiftly he came to her chair and squatted in front of it. ‘Do you think me a liar, Deborah?’ He dropped his face towards his clasped hands. ‘I have said I’m going to Kent to buy sheep and I’ve also said that there’s no risk to your safety tonight. Do you believe me?’
‘Say he wasn’t out there.’ With impulsive audacity a small hand spanned his shady chin and jerked it up. ‘You saw Seth Luckhurst, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’ Stormy sapphire eyes scoured his features as though she might read the truth there if he would not utter it.
He held her eyes with a studied lack of expression until hers darted away and her palm, too, sprang away from the skin abrading it. Her gaze suddenly focused on the wet cuff of his jacket. It was positioned on a breeched knee and was discolouring the buff twill beneath it. Her small palm curved over the damp sleeve, feeling its clammy coldness infiltrate her flesh. A blemish on his knuckles, where tiny beads of blood had welled beneath the skin, drew her eyes. Taken together they were suspicious signs of some harm having recently befallen him. The graze looked to be fresh and unattended, and his apparel, apart from his boots and cuffs, looked to be dry.
Randolph stood slowly, but Deborah wasn’t done with him yet. As he moved away a pace she snatched at his dark digits. They were raised so she might inspect the damage to his fingers. It was indeed a new injury and she flung away his hand and clashed questioning eyes on his sidelong, lupine gaze. He returned to the chair opposite and again sat down.
Determined to have her answer, Deborah scrambled to get a foot to the floor and this time go over to him. Immediately she put weight on to those toes, and a soft cry escaped her. Deadened by her having sat curled up for so long, the foot twisted and she stumbled back against the chair arm. Pins and needles shot fierily along her veins, making it feel as though she were attempting to balance on jelly
.
Randolph was out of the chair and had closed the space between them in a single stride. He caught at her arm to give her support and steady her.
‘I fear I have been curled up on this chair for too long,’ she said bashfully. A grimace slanted her lips as she once more tested her weight on her foot. She accepted that staying to interrogate him further would be foolish. At the moment Luckhurst—drat him—seemed the least of her troubles. The throb in her foot was worsening. ‘I will bid you goodnight, sir.’ She made to pass him, but it was as though she trod on air. She hopped a step, wincing as she tried to keep her tender ankle off the floor. A muted gasp of frustration cluttered her throat as she again swayed towards the chair for support. Before her snatching hands could gain purchase on the upholstered wings, she was swept off her feet and was being carried towards the door.
‘I can walk, sir,’ Deborah gasped in alarm when she had regained sufficient breath to do so. ‘Please put me down at once.’
‘I think you’ve just shown you can’t walk, let alone climb stairs.’ A sultry amber gaze bathed her face. ‘But it is high time for you to get to bed. Better that than we bicker until dawn light.’ Randolph slid forwards the hand beneath her thighs so he that might grasp the door handle. Ignoring her suffocated plea that he let her go, he’d soon covered half the distance to the stairs, Deborah wriggling for liberation in his grip.
‘No…please…somebody might see,’ she mouthed urgently against his ear as he started up the treads so quickly that she might have been feather-light. Her small hands clutched the solid muscle of his arm, digging in as though she could force him to do her bidding. When she gained nothing by spearing ten nails into the superfine wool covering a powerful bicep, she again hissed, ‘Please…put me down!’
‘Right or left?’ he asked softly.
Her appealing gaze earned her nothing but a ruthless smile.
‘Right or left at the top?’ he repeated, low and vibrant. ‘I’m not going to set you down halfway up, Deborah. You might topple over and crash to the bottom. That would bring your mother running, no doubt about it.’
She knew then that he’d not be deterred from carrying her to her chamber. Her heart was thundering and she was sure he must feel it beneath that warm hand that was nudging the curve of a tender breast. Causing a noise by arguing with him was unthinkable, and he knew it—the sound of raised voices was sure to bring everyone out to investigate. She clamped together her lips in frustration. If they remained quiet they were sure to go unobserved. It was almost midnight. Her mother had gone upstairs hours ago and the draught she’d taken had probably sent her immediately to sleep. Lottie would by now have retired, as would Mrs Field. Basham and Fred would be in their quarters, too, at this time of night.
He’d stopped at the top and she knew he was waiting for her instruction. ‘Right,’ Deborah admitted in an angry mutter. Her mother’s chamber was only yards away. He swung that way with a speed that was unsettling—deliberately so, Debbie imagined, as she found it necessary to snake her arms around his neck. She rammed her face against his shoulder to stifle a hiss of shock at his sudden manoeuvre and pointed to a door halfway along the corridor.
Slowly Randolph removed the arm beneath her thighs, but the other retained its clasp about her waist. Slowly she slid against his body, held fast with her feet just inches from the floor and her back to her chamber door. He let her drop down another inch so that her toes tentatively touched the rug.
‘Does it still hurt?’ a husky voice asked.
The sensation of his hot, hard body pressed intimately against hers stole away her breath. She gulped and set one foot down, then the other. Bravely she tried to ignore a twinge felt in her left foot. It was certainly less painful than previously it had been.
‘Thank you, I can manage now,’ she murmured. She glanced up into a shadowy face and what she read there made one of her hands slip behind her back so she might quickly let herself into her room. Her searching fingers closed over warm flesh and she realised he’d got to the door handle first.
‘You will find your bedchamber is in the opposite direction. It is to the left at the head of stairs.’ The directions were ejected in an unsteady whisper. ‘It is about halfway along the corridor and you will know it by a portrait of a wolfhound hanging by the door. I hope you will use it and not insult us by sleeping in the stables.’
Randolph’s fingers slipped about capturing hers, and he took their entwined hands to the small of her back, forcing her away from the door and against him. She glared up at him. He smiled down at her. He was daring her to make a noise and arouse attention. He had her just where he wanted her, she realised. The throbbing heat of his arousal was against her abdomen, his solid thighs merging with the softness of her curvy hips. He could do whatever he would to her now and she must allow it or cause a scene.
As his face approached Deborah felt mesmerised, unable to avoid or welcome the inexorable touch of his lips on hers. Her eyes closed as silky smooth warmth caressed her lips in a goodnight kiss that was unexpectedly sweet and unexpectedly brief.
‘Don’t forget to lock your door.’ The dry advice drifted back to her as he shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled away.
Chapter Nine
‘Dawn light was filtering through a chink in her curtains when Deborah finally managed to fall into a doze. But she’d been curled cosily on her side, gratefully sinking into oblivion, for only minutes when she was jerked to wakefulness by a noise from outside. She blinked rapidly at the stripe of colour on her bedroom wall, put there by the blush on the eastern horizon. A moment later she’d rolled on to her back and was staring at the ceiling.
He was leaving, just as she’d guessed he might as soon as the sun began to rise on a new day. He had fulfilled his promise to stay the night and was now free to go on his way.
Last night when finally she had got into bed—having first dragged a brush through her tangled curls and a tepid washing cloth over her face and hands—she had very much hoped sleep would immediately overtake her. But too much excitement had occurred in one day and chaotic thoughts continued to circle in her mind, denying her the rest she craved.
After Randolph had left her by her door she’d gone within and stared at the heavy black iron key in the lock before turning it with trembling fingers. For some moments she had remained there, her eyes closed as she savoured the sensation of his mouth caressing hers far too briefly. She had wanted more, had felt his loss as soon as he’d unsealed their lips. She suspected it had been his intention to deliberately torment her with a little taste of the seductive sweetness he could bestow, if he chose to.
Whilst lying quiet and still in bed, her mouth still pulsing from his kiss, Debbie had listened intently for him to retire. He hadn’t used the guest chamber. There had been no soft click of a door closing along the corridor. But neither had he gone outside to the stables as he’d said he might. She’d been equally convinced of that. He had, she imagined, done his duty by returning to the parlour and the port bottle, to pass five hours by the dying embers of the fire.
There came an unmistakable clop of hooves on cobbles to distract her reflection. She tensed, straining to listen, and heard the heavy snorting breath of a horse. What did she care if he left without saying goodbye? Let him go.
She threw back the covers. In a trice she had darted to the window to peer towards the stable block.
Basham was up and dressed early, too, but it was the tall distinguished figure standing with their manservant who drew Deborah’s gaze. She drew back the curtain a fraction so she might get a better view of him.
He had on the long leather riding coat that he’d worn yesterday when first she’d seen him in Hastings. Something he’d said to Basham made the old retainer grin broadly, then Randolph swung easily into the saddle. The magnificent stallion looked to have spent a peaceful night, even if its master had not. The beast pranced and circled energetically and Deborah pushed the curtain back further, craning her neck to
get a last glimpse of him as the spirited animal took him out of sight. He might have immediately set off along the avenue to take the road east to Rye. But he’d controlled his mount and brought it back to the stables. Whilst patting the bay’s strong, sleek neck he turned his head and quite deliberately took a look up at her window. She knew he’d seen her, and that it would be better to stand still than attempt to scramble aside and confirm her excruciating embarrassment. That would amuse him. When he continued to stare at her she felt her face blazing. She raised her hand a little as though she might wave and brazen it out. Had she not, of course, risen early as a courtesy to see him off? Her fingers clenched at waist height and the fist disappeared behind her back. He smiled then…and it was so slow and sardonic it made her insides squirm. He tipped his head; it was a minimal movement, just for her, and hadn’t alerted Basham to the fact that she was spying on them from her window.
Deborah let the curtain fall back into place and twisted about, her chilly hands springing to her feverish cheeks to soothe them.
* * *
‘You were quite a while outside with Mr Chadwicke yesterday evening. Was there anything suspicious going on in the grounds?’
Basham continued to pour coffee into Deborah’s cup. ‘Took a while, miss, ‘cos we did a thorough search.’
‘And did your thorough search turn up anything?’
‘I saw nobody at all,’ he stoutly replied. He returned the silver pot to the sideboard and made to leave.
‘And Mr Chadwicke? Did he see anybody?’ Deborah asked, halting Basham by the door.
