by Julia Ross
Dew glistened on white stone, ghostly as half-melted snow in the dawn light, as Sarah walked through an alley of classical statues. Blackbirds had begun a faint twittering. Ahead of her, the lake spread like a silver mirror, empty of life.
Yet a creature rustled somewhere in the undergrowth: a fox, perhaps, or a badger.
Sarah shivered and wrapped her cloak more tightly about her shoulders.
The Deer Hut nestled among a grove of birches on a small mound above the lake. The path was a little slippery beneath her boots. As she climbed uphill, her heart began to pound.
As if night refused to give way to the dawn, the door of the hut gaped open onto darkness. Sarah stopped and glanced back over her shoulder.
“Come,” his voice said softly. “It’s all right.”
A hot wave raced through her blood. She knew what caused it. She knew how very dangerous it was. Yet perhaps it didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t guess how she felt.
Guy Devoran lounged casually in the doorway, tall and solid and secure. Laugh lines furrowed his cheeks. Ebony hair tumbled over his forehead. Yet a much darker fire burned in his eyes, as if he, too, belonged to the night.
Her soul singing like a heavenly chorus, Sarah met that hot midnight gaze and plummeted—like a stone into a lake—straight into love.
Giddy and intoxicating and mad, the air sparkled in her lungs like champagne.
Oh, God! Her improper desires were dangerous enough—to fall in love with him would be fatal!
Yet for that moment, as their eyes met, she didn’t care. With every fiber of her being—however foolish, however destined for heartbreak—she wanted nothing else but the absolute, exclusive attention of this one man.
Like every other female here at Buckleigh.
The thought sobered her instantly.
“Mr. Devoran,” she said with a kind of desperate normalcy. “How extraordinary that we should run into each other like this!”
He laughed and stepped backward into the shadows as he gestured for her to join him.
“This is the strangest little building,” he said. “The roof is built mostly of antlers and deer hide. The floor is tiled entirely with little sections of antler, and the walls appear to be pieced together from bark.”
“Yes,” she said. “I came here on my first day, when I was able to explore by myself. From the window, one may enjoy a stunning view over the lake to the moor.”
“And so may two,” he replied with a grin. “I took the liberty of bringing a little breakfast and a jug of hot coffee. It’s here on the table: a rather painfully rustic contraption, yet serviceable enough. Please, come in! We shan’t be disturbed.”
Sarah walked through the door into his magic kingdom, where Oberon had commanded his sensual pleasures. The aroma of coffee and the yeasty scent of fresh baking spiraled into her nostrils.
Saliva flooded her mouth as if she might devour the world.
Her heart beating like a child’s drum, she swallowed. “You took a detour through the kitchens, Mr. Devoran?”
“Cook appears to have taken a liking to me,” he said lightly. “As has the second dairymaid—thus the fresh buns and the butter and cream.”
Sarah laughed, though a pang of sympathy for Cook, for the dairymaid—and even for Lady Overbridge and Lady Whitely—pierced her heart. For all the sad females, even herself, who had ever wanted to capture this exquisite man for themselves alone, and never would.
“The lake,” she said dryly, “is filled with broken hearts.”
A shadow flickered in his eyes for a moment, but he gave her a quizzical smile. “We may certainly admire the view of the water as we break our fast. The lake was designed to be as picturesque as possible. As are the antler table and chairs: charming, pretty, and only a little uncomfortable.”
Guy pulled out a chair for her and she sat down.
“Thank you, sir. I’d be very glad for some hot coffee.”
He opened a floury white cloth to reveal hot currant buns, dusted with sugar. “And a bun?”
Sarah nodded and they ate breakfast in a companionable silence.
She tried to ignore the vigorous warmth of his presence, radiating comfort into the chill morning. Yet the shape of his hands—strong and square-boned—seared into her consciousness as if she studied a masterpiece of design.
Her nostrils opened on the scent of leaves and leather and clean linen, enticingly masculine scents, mingling with the aroma of coffee and fresh buns.
When she thought he wasn’t looking, she glanced directly at his face. The tip of his tongue licked a trace of coffee from his lips and fired cravings so profound she felt almost faint.
At last he set down his cup and leaned back to look at her.
Sarah glanced away to suck a little sugar from her fingers, knowing that a telltale warmth crept up her cheeks as if her skin reflected the banked fire in his eyes.
“I cannot blame you,” he said quietly. “If it were my cousin, all the demons in hell couldn’t stop me from pursuing her. Yet I would still rest a great deal easier if you’d leave your quest to me.”
She set her half-eaten bun back on the cloth. “Because there are many kinds of danger?”
“Yes, if you like.” His tone was guarded.
“I promise that you can trust me to be careful, sir. Besides, if we’re looking for a gardener, I can surely be of help? No one will think it odd for a botany teacher to ask questions about orchids.”
His dark gaze fixed on her face. That deep shiver of desire coursed along her bones.
“Then we’re in this together, Mrs. Callaway, come hell, come high water. I’ll do everything in my power to shield you, but if you remain here I can’t guarantee that the consequences won’t be profound. Do you accept that?”
“I embrace it,” she said, though her voice sounded strange in her own ears, as if she promised a fairy king her firstborn child, and didn’t know it. “Rachel is far more naïve than I am, sir. She’s the one we must think of protecting, not me. So, yes, I accept the risks—of every kind—to myself, and I do so willingly. I’m grateful for your help, but the heart of this quest is still mine.”
He pushed away from the table to gaze from the window. The faint light, fey, otherworldly, glimmered along his profile.
Falling in love with a man you could never have was agonizing as well as enthralling.
“Falcorne’s description fits half the men in South Devon: brown-haired, blue-eyed, not too tall, the local accent. No particular distinguishing characteristics, except for the dirt beneath his fingernails and his knowledge of roses and orchids. However, he was in London for about three weeks, from around the middle of May through the first week of June, which narrows the field considerably.”
“Then it can’t be Mr. Pearse. He hasn’t left Buckleigh all summer. That’s how he managed to get the cattleya to bloom.”
Guy Devoran glanced back at her. “Are you sure?”
Her heart thumped. She stared down at the table. “Not sure, no. I suppose one of the under-gardeners could have taken over for a few weeks.”
“The truth of that should be easy enough to discover—unless everyone here is part of some conspiracy. Did Pearse say where he acquired his plants?”
“No, but I can find out.”
“You don’t need to do it alone,” he said gently. “I’ve already arranged outings to the neighborhood hothouses. You’ll be included, of course.”
Sarah looked up. She could not interpret his mood. It was almost as if he surrendered to something inevitable against his better judgment.
“And there’s surely no physical danger,” she said.
He smiled with a dry self-mockery. “If there is, you may rely on my strong right arm and the blood of Ambrose de Verrant to defend your life and your virtue.”
She tried to keep her voice light and knew she would fail. “So you think Daedalus’s gardener may be dangerous, after all?”
He glanced back at the lake. A swan was gl
iding serenely across the gray water.
“Falcorne’s probably not a violent man himself. He hired some local thugs to carry out his orders in London. So in this, at least, the risks should be limited.”
“I’ll be as discreet in my inquiries as a mouse nibbling behind the wainscot,” she said. “No one will even notice me. But you’ve already planned outings? Won’t it seem odd if you show such a sudden interest in orchids?”
“Not sudden.”
An even faster pulse began in Sarah’s blood, as if a new flower opened to reveal unexpected treasures at the heart.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
Still staring out over the water, he propped his hip on the windowsill to swing one booted foot from the knee. “It’s no secret. I first became interested on behalf of my sister, Lucinda. She loves exotic flowers, as does my aunt. Thus, the orchid room at Blackdown House is mostly my doing.”
She felt stunned. “But you gave no indication of that when we were there!”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Then you really did come to Buckleigh to see the orchids?”
He laughed. “And not Annabella Overbridge…or Lottie Whitely…or to find a wife among the eligible girls?”
“But Lady Overbridge believes you’ve arranged these outings for her sake?”
“Probably. I don’t know. But while you’re conversing with the gardeners, I shall enthuse over the latest imports with the master of the house. As delightfully bizarre as it may seem, it would appear that Daedalus is another orchid fancier. Unfortunately, since orchids are the latest craze, so are half of the wealthy gentlemen in Devon.”
“But we’re talking about only five or six, aren’t we? You said Daedalus must own one of the great houses in the area.”
As if driven by restlessness, he strode to the doorway. The sun was breaking through the trees. A shimmer of gold outlined his lean silhouette.
“And if we’re lucky, only one gardener will meet all of our criteria, and we’ll have him identified within the week. After which, you may safely leave Daedalus to me.”
“And Rachel?”
He shrugged. “I trust we’ll soon discover the key to her whereabouts. In the meantime, you and I will need to meet privately again to exchange information. I’ll let you know when and where.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I know that you could still have sent me away, if you’d wished. In spite of the bracelet, you didn’t have to allow me to come here.”
“No,” he said. “Perhaps I did.”
Sarah stared up at him in bewilderment.
Cool sunlight traced his dark hair and broad shoulders and traced lovingly over the perfect lines of his face. The soft cooing of doves echoed through the trees. Blackbirds twittered from hundreds of red throats. Seemingly no longer aware of her, Guy Devoran stood encased in silence, his head tipped and his eyes closed, as if he exalted in the sound.
A deep disquiet trickled up her spine, as if the birdsong called up the ancient spirits of the woods, ready to strike stark awe into any mortal heart.
The pain and ecstasy of unrequited love pierced like a rapier. Sarah stood up and swept the crumbs from the table into one palm, then tipped them from the window.
Three swans, their necks arched, now sailed on the quiet water.
“Do you know, Mrs. Callaway,” Guy Devoran said suddenly, “that you are quite simply balm to my soul?”
Her heart lurched as she spun back to face him, though she tried to laugh. “I am? Why?”
He leaned one shoulder against the jamb and crossed his arms over his chest. His dark eyes were watching her with that burning intensity. Awareness of a new kind of hazard started to hammer beneath her corset, robbing her of breath.
“Because, though I keep reminding you of the perils of this venture,” he said, “I detect no flutter of female hysterics.”
She stepped around the table, her hands busy gathering cups. “I assure you that inside I’m feeling every ounce of womanish trepidation that you could wish, Mr. Devoran.”
“Then don’t,” he said. “There’s no reason for Daedalus to suspect you. I wanted to send you away for my sake, not yours.”
Sarah tied up the cloth and tried to speak lightly. “I can’t think why!”
Yet the pulse was pounding, deep in her gut, making her giddy. The Deer Hut was tiny, the floor uneven. As she hurried, her heel caught on a high piece of antler.
She stumbled. The cloth bundle thumped back onto the table.
He caught her by both arms.
Sarah tried to step back. With the grace of easy strength Guy Devoran set her at arm’s length, but he did not release her.
She looked up and was instantly consumed by his black fire.
Even though it burned with something of bitterness—
Even though she thought that he despised his own desires—
Even though she believed his ardor to be entirely random—not personal, not for her—Sarah knew with every fiber of her being that she wanted him to kiss her.
Hot flames burned over her skin at the certain knowledge that he wanted it, too.
She had never gathered men’s attention for her prettiness—that was Rachel’s gift, not hers—yet that shameful sensuality had always lurked at the core, like the dark, sticky heart of a monk’s head orchid.
For a moment they stood as if locked in mortal combat, then his hands dropped away.
He spun about and seized the tied cloth from the table. His boots struck hard as he strode to the doorway.
He hesitated for only a second on the threshold to glance back at her.
“Yes,” he said. “There are indeed many kinds of danger, Mrs. Callaway.”
CHAPTER NINE
IT RAINED STEADILY FOR MOST OF THE NEXT DAY, A WARM summer rain that soaked the gardens and streamed over the glass. Sticky air hung oppressively over the orchids. No one felt like taking an outing in a carriage. Since the gentlemen were also trapped inside, the ladies declared themselves bored with painting flowers. No one needed Mrs. Callaway.
So while the guests played cards and games of dice, or read, or strolled up and down the long gallery, Sarah visited Mr. Pearse in his cottage in the grounds.
Mud tracked from her boots as she came back into the house. Feeling damp and disheveled, she dropped the hood of her cloak and brushed a few wayward strands of hair from her forehead. Frizzy curls always sprang annoyingly about her face whenever the weather was wet.
She turned to go up to her room and stopped dead.
Guy Devoran was lounging against a statue of Minerva. His dark eyes bored into hers for a moment, then his gaze settled on her lips.
As if he held a cool flame to her skin, heat brushed her mouth.
Sarah gathered her wits and glanced away. He stepped back to allow her to pass, but as she did so he leaned down to whisper in her ear.
“Tonight. An hour after midnight. The box room at the north end of the corridor that leads to the schoolroom.”
Her pulse raced, with alarm, with awareness of every kind of danger, as she glanced up at him.
The dark fire burned, leading into unfathomable depths.
Without waiting for her answer, he spun about and strode away.
GUY climbed hand over hand up the wall above his bedroom balcony, swung onto a ledge, then up the slightly more difficult facade above that. Ornamental stonework was useful as well as decorative!
He climbed easily over the roof to the nursery wing. The slates were slippery with moss, but it had stopped raining several hours before, and bright moonlight was shredding the clouds.
As he had ascertained earlier, the latch on the window was broken.
He slipped silently over the sill into the dark box room.
“Good heavens,” Sarah Callaway said. “You came over the rooftops? I’m impressed.”
She was sitting on top of what appeared to be a seaman’s chest from the previous century. Her plain, dark gown disappeared into shadows, b
ut her hair was combed back from her forehead to be confined severely beneath a white lace cap.
The lace glimmered a little in the moonlight. For a moment a vision intruded of the nimbus of copper hair that had encircled her face like a halo when she’d come in from the garden—though his visceral reaction to that had been anything but saintly.
Guy closed the window and propped his hips against the sill, keeping the safety of several feet between himself and Sarah Callaway.
“When I arrange clandestine meetings after midnight,” he said, “I owe it to melodrama not to simply walk along corridors and open doors.”
“You also owe it to discretion,” she replied. “If you were seen in any of those corridors, each lady would only assume that you were visiting the bedroom of her rival. Then everyone would be cross.”
“Except me.”
Her little chuckle floated softly on the night air. “Yet it would still create unfortunate social tensions.”
Guy breathed in the scent of green apples. “No doubt. Especially since tomorrow promises to be fine. We shall take five carriages to visit Mr. Barry Norris, whose orchid collection may be interesting. Meanwhile, I managed to find out from my chambermaid that Lord Uxhampton’s gardener is a doddering old fellow with white hair, and that Uxhampton hates anything exotic. Molly’s not a particularly garrulous girl, but Uxhampton’s man is her grandfather. He grows neither roses, nor orchids. Thus he may be dismissed from our search.”
“And Mr. Norris?”
“I don’t know. Did you discover anything from Mr. Pearse?”
His eyes were adjusting to the dim light. Faintly tawny against her pale skin, her brows drew together in a small frown.
“Not really. He’ll talk freely about how he grows his flowers, but there’s an odd wall of reluctance should one venture into any other topic.”
“A reluctance that seems general,” he said. “None of the servants is eager to talk about anything that goes on in this part of Devon.”
“Mr. Pearse even seemed annoyed when his wife let slip that he’d not left Buckleigh all year, though I’m certain that’s the truth. All I learned in the end is that his new orchids came from Conrad Loddiges and Sons in Hackney.”
